#he be thinking this shit a joke and it’s not

[rawme-price]

Deaths–head hawkmoth!reader and ghost....

The first time you meet ghost, its out of uniform. A casual meeting after a two-week long op that left everyone too tired to care about formalities. The first thing people think when they see you is God you look scary. Ghost could understand where that sentiment came from.

Large, dark wings with a noxious splash of yellow sprout from your back. Thick and imposing, making an eery beating sound when they fluttered. You had long claws, too. Long enough you could easily tear through someone's gear and flesh. You dont talk to anyone when you move through the base. A silent looming figure that people avoid.

For the most part, you dont talk to ghost either. That is, until you see him in gear. Ghost is in the middle of going over the training plans with gaz when a voice doesnt recognize gasps "oh my god! Lt, look we match!"

Ghost watches, a bit startled, as you unclasp your vest to reveal your bare back. There, between your wings in a pattern of fuzz, is a skull. Ghost looks at for a long moment until you finally turn back to with a smile hes never seen on you before. Snorting, ghost comments "yep. We do match."

It seems that was all you needed to crawl out of your shell, because suddenly you seem very sociable to ghost. Following him around and always eager to talk. Ghost doesnt seem to mind, offering his own jokes and remarks to your bubbly nature.

Thats another thing, you are unexpectedly extremely cheery. You smile often around ghost, to the point that seeing you withdraw around others feels odd to him. Hes long since learned to carry extra sweets on him and stock energy drinks in his office. If he doesnt, there's a near garuantee youll take whatever food was planned for him.

From the outside, you two look like a pair of the meanest, deadliest soldiers on base. Rookies turn the other way when they see you two approaching. What people dont know is that twenty minutes ago you were dying laughing on ghosts floor because he stubbed his two and ate shit on the corner of his bed.

Two of the deadliest soldiers, sure. But the meanest? Only if someone gives you a reason.

[yungistiny]

1-800- HOT- AND - MAD

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which you find out your boyfriend is really hot when he’s pissed off

warning: jealous/possessive/ dom yunho, bratty/sub reader, descriptions of violence (yunho gets into a fight) agonophilia, oral, anal fingering, overstimulation, mentions of blood, slightly toxic behavior, mirror sex, finger fucking, unprotected sex, slight degradation, JUST FILTH YALL

genre: drama, smut

pairing: yunho x afab reader

word count: 9.3k

masterlist:

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The car was quiet. Too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, thick quiet. Choking, humid, argument still lingering in the air like smoke kind of quiet. The kind where the windows should’ve fogged just from the heat of it all, even though no one had touched anyone in hours.

Yunho’s knuckles were tight around the wheel, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he took the left turn toward the club a little faster than necessary. He hadn’t looked at you once since you got in the car, which would’ve bothered you more if you weren’t still fuming yourself.

The tension between you had started this morning when you made the mistake of reading one of his texts over his shoulder. Your mom asked if you’re single again?” you’d said, your voice already edged with something sharp.

He’d tensed up immediately, like he knew what was coming. “She wants me to meet some girl from her church,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not when this wasn’t the first time. Not when you’d been together for three years and she still referred to you as “that girl from the city.”

So naturally, you snapped. And then he snapped. And then came the hours of passive aggressive silence followed by sharp edged comments about your flirting habits, like how you couldn’t possibly go a night out without batting your lashes at some bartender to get free drinks.

“Maybe if you had a better job, I wouldn’t have to,” you’d shot back and immediately felt bad for saying it but too damn stubborn to apologize.

Now you were in his passenger seat, legs crossed, arms tight against your chest in your barely there black dress, because fuck his mom, and fuck being the respectable church girl she wants him with. You were wearing sin like perfume.

The air conditioning was blasting but your skin was hot. From anger, from guilt, from him. From the way he kept shifting in his seat like the veins in his arms were trying to keep him from doing something reckless. Like dragging the car over to the curb and telling you exactly who you belonged to.

“You gonna talk to me at some point,” you asked, eyes trained out the window, “or are we just going to arrive in awkward silence and pretend we haven’t been at each other’s throats all day?”

His hand flexed on the gearshift. “You wanna keep fighting?”

You turned your head slowly. “You’ve barely said ten words since we left.”

He scoffed. “Because if I open my mouth again, I’m gonna say some shit I can’t take back.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Try me.”

His head snapped toward you, his voice low and deadly. “You think it’s cute, don’t you? Playing dumb, dressing like that, laughing at every goddamn joke some guy tells you like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you snapped. “I’ve spent the last three years watching your mom try to set you up with her fantasy nun in training while I’ve bent over backward for you, so yeah, maybe I like it when people treat me like I’m worth something.”

The tires screeched slightly as he pulled into the club lot, slamming the gear into park with a growl deep in his chest. “You think I don’t know your worth?” he asked, finally looking at you. Really looking, like he was seeing you through the fury, the hurt, the weeks of pushing it down and pretending things were fine. “I know exactly how much you’re worth. That’s why I haven’t ripped the head off every asshole who so much as breathes in your direction.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, as his eyes dragged down your body. “But tonight? You so much as smile at the wrong guy… I might just stop holding back.”

Your breath caught. Not fear. No, nothing like that. It was want. Ugly, bitter, bone deep need. For him to snap. To do something reckless. To remind you why no sweet little church girl could ever survive the heat of his hands on her skin.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The music hit first, bass thick enough to rattle your ribs, lights strobing like the club was trying to induce collective blackout. It was already packed inside, bodies pressed together in sweaty celebration, and the second you stepped in, Yunho’s hand brushed yours like he might take it.

But he didn’t.

He just pulled it away, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and set his jaw like he’d rather chew glass than touch you right now.

Mingi spotted him immediately from the upper section, two empty shot glasses in his hands and that stupid birthday grin that could charm the pants off anyone. “Yunhoooo!” he called out over the music, barreling down the steps. “There’s my man!”

You didn’t even get a second to adjust your dress or shake off the frost between you and Yunho before Mingi wrapped a heavy arm around your boyfriend’s neck and tugged him into a hug so aggressive it probably knocked his spine back into alignment.

“Come on,” Mingi grinned. “There’s a bottle with your name on it upstairs. I’m two tequila shots from legally changing my name to Park Seonghwa, so you’re babysitting tonight.”

Yunho opened his mouth like he might say something, to you, maybe, or to protest, but Mingi was already dragging him off by the shoulder, weaving through bodies like a man on a mission. And just like that, Yunho was gone.

You stood there alone for a beat, the throb of the music suddenly too loud in your ears.

“Rough night?” came a voice beside you.

You turned to see Seonghwa standing with a fresh drink in his hand, dressed in all black and already looking faintly amused, like he could read the tension radiating off you like heat waves. Hongjoong was beside him, half a head shorter and smirking like a little gremlin who knew everything.

“Oh, the roughest,” you said, shaking it off and forcing a smile. “Remind me why I didn’t just stay home and drink in my bathrobe?”

“Because I texted you three times that I’d be offended if you didn’t show up,” Hongjoong said, sipping his drink. “And because you knew you’d look hot in that dress and make Yunho insane.”

You raised a brow. “I’m not trying to make him insane.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Seonghwa muttered into his glass, eyes casually dragging down your body. “That dress is weaponized.”

You shrugged one bare shoulder. “He was already mad before I put it on.”

Hongjoong leaned in. “Still mad about his mom?” Him recalling the conversation, well you snapping about everything earlier on the phone.

You didn’t answer at first, just accepted the drink Seonghwa handed you, a dangerously pink thing with way too much vodka and sugar, and downed half of it in one go.

“He won’t say it, but yeah,” you muttered. “She invited him to brunch with that girl from her church. Again. Vanessa, Veronica or whatever.”

Seonghwa made a noise that sounded vaguely like a dying cat. “Does she think he’s gonna marry someone who plays acoustic guitar in the church choir and makes casseroles?”

“She made her own rosary beads,” you said flatly.

Hongjoong choked on his drink.

“I can’t compete with that,” you added. “I’ve said fuck six times since I walked in the building.”

“Seven,” Seonghwa corrected, then winked. “Make it eight and I’ll buy your next round.”

You laughed, finally, genuinely. It felt good. It felt like your ribs weren’t made of stone anymore.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Yunho was watching.

And he was. From the top floor, half a glass of whiskey in hand, pretending to listen to Mingi and San argue about who had better taste in partners. But his eyes?

They hadn’t left you once. Not since the moment you smiled at Seonghwa. Not since you leaned in a little too close to Hongjoong and tossed your hair like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Not since you crossed your legs in that dress and gave someone else the laugh he hadn’t earned all day.

And the way his jaw clenched?

It said you were about to learn what happens when Yunho stops pretending to be calm as he kept watching you now as the three of you grabbed shots.

Three shots in, the burn didn’t hurt anymore.

The first one had seared its way down like punishment, sharp and heavy in your chest, maybe for everything you wanted to say to Yunho but didn’t. The second tasted a little like regret and mango syrup. And the third? That one just made you warm.

You were sitting at the bar now, legs crossed, back arched just enough to be comfortable and just enough to make that slinky dress of yours hug the dangerous parts. Seonghwa had pulled up a second stool beside you, and Hongjoong stood between you both, drink in one hand and your wrist in the other like he was trying to show you how to fold a damn origami crane with a cocktail napkin.

“No, no, you have to crease it like this,” Hongjoong insisted, smirking as he pressed his thumb over yours. “You don’t just fold and hope for the best. It’s not your love life.”

Seonghwa snorted, and you flipped Hongjoong off, but not before laughing, real and unguarded.

It felt good to laugh. You needed it. And if Yunho wanted to stew in his own petty silence all night, that was his choice.

You snuck a glance upward, toward the balcony section. He was still up there. Still with Mingi, still nursing the same whiskey, still watching, but only occasionally. Not like before.

Which annoyed you. Which, you could admit it, hurt a little too. You wanted him to look.

You wanted him to care that you were here, having a good time without him, even if every laugh felt just a little bit hollow.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked, nudging you with his shoulder, sharp eyes reading yours too easily.

“Yup,” you said, and took your fourth shot.

He didn’t believe you. Neither did Hongjoong. But bless them, they didn’t push.

The music was better now, less aggressive, more rhythmic. The kind that made your hips start to sway on instinct, even seated. Around you, the club pulsed with sweat and bodies and light. It felt like the kind of night that could go anywhere. Dangerous. Loose. Free.

You leaned in toward Seonghwa. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?” His mouth twitched. “No. You look like a girl trying not to care about the fact that her boyfriend’s being a dick.”

“Good,” you said, lifting your chin.

Because you were. Trying not to care. Failing miserably, but trying.

And Yunho? He was back at the railing now. Still quiet. Still unreadable. Still stewing. He’d seen your fourth shot. He’d seen the way you smiled after it. The way Seonghwa leaned in to whisper something in your ear and you tilted your head, giggling into your shoulder.

He wasn’t mad at them. Not really. He trusted them, maybe more than anyone. But you? You were his. And watching you fall into that easy charm you always used when you were trying to prove a point���..

It fucking burned.

Mingi, oblivious and a little drunk, slapped his chest and offered him another shot. Yunho waved it off.

“I’m good.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You don’t look good.”

Yunho didn’t respond. Because his fists were clenched again. Because you were smiling again and it wasn’t at him.

And because deep down, somewhere under the bruised ego and unsaid apologies, he knew the longer this night went on, the closer he was to snapping.

You’d just finished twisting your straw into a coil of plastic frustration after Hongjoong and Seonghwa went to talk to Yeosang, when you felt a familiar weight drape dramatically across your back.

“Babe…” Wooyoung’s voice drawled against your ear, theatrical and soaked in tequila. “Why is your man up there glaring at everything like he’s about to set the entire club on fire with his mind?”

You didn’t even turn around. “Because he’s mad at me.”

“I can see that,” Wooyoung said, arms winding loosely around your shoulders as he leaned his chin on your head. “He’s staring like he wants to fight me just for being this close. Which, rude, considering I’m your favorite.”

You snorted, finally twisting in your stool to face him. “You are not my favorite.”

“Your mom thinks I’m your favorite.”

“My mom thinks you’re my gay best friend.”

“Exactly.”

Wooyoung flopped onto the stool beside you, already halfway through someone else’s abandoned drink like it belonged to him. He looked devastating, as always, black mesh shirt clinging to his chest, eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, and those lips already curled into a shit eating grin.

“Did you two fight again?” he asked, voice sing song as he tapped your glass.

You hesitated, then nodded. “It’s been building all day. All week, actually.”

Wooyoung raised a brow, his voice dipping. “And yet here you are. Looking like sex in heels. Drinking without him. Laughing with Seonghwa. Flirting with Joongie. Mm, baby girl… you trying to start a war?”

You arched a brow. “I’m just living.”

“You’re poking the bear,” he said, eyes glittering as he leaned closer. “And the bear is feral. I haven’t seen Yunho look this pissed since that guy asked if you were single at karaoke night after you first started dating and you said….”

“‘Depends who’s asking,’” you finished for him, grinning.

“He didn’t speak to me for three days after that,” Wooyoung huffed, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’m not even the one who said it! I just invited the guy to join!”

You giggled, your chest finally starting to relax. The club felt better now. Lighter. Fuzzy around the edges. Yunho was still up there, sure, but right now he felt like a shadow. A beautiful, brooding statue of rage and repressed emotions.

Until you made the mistake of glancing up again. Because he was watching. Elbows on the railing, drink forgotten, eyes locked straight onto you. He looked darker now. Not jealous. Not possessive.

Just done pretending he was okay.

Wooyoung followed your gaze. “Oh damn.”

“What?” you muttered.

“He just licked his teeth,” Wooyoung whispered, sipping someone else’s drink now. “You are so getting railed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unless he fights me first.”

“Oh, he’ll fight you,” Wooyoung purred. “With his dick.”

You shoved him, laughing, but your gaze flicked back up.

Still Yunho. Still watching. But now? Now he wasn’t just watching. Now he was moving.

Slow. Purposeful. Drink gone, hands flexing as he handed Mingi something and murmured something to San.

The bear had left the cave.

And he was coming straight for you.

You lost him somewhere between the bar and the DJ booth.

One second Yunho was a looming shadow stalking down the stairs, eyes fixed on you like a storm cloud with legs, and the next, he was swallowed by the crowd. A flash of flannel. The glint of his cross necklace. Then gone.

Which, fine.

If he wanted to play emotionally constipated beast, then you were going to be a brat right back.

You set your drink down and turned to Wooyoung, your lipstick stained grin already halfway to dangerous. “Come dance with me.”

He blinked. “Now?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “On my deathbed. Yes, now.”

Wooyoung let out a laugh that turned heads and gave a little bow. “Lead the way, queen of chaos.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor, already packed, already pulsing, the music vibrating up through your heels and into your bloodstream. Lights flickered hot pink and violet overhead, bodies moved in rhythm, and you let it all wash over you. Let yourself be loose. Let yourself forget Yunho’s cold shoulders and sharp words and that pinched, disapproving scowl.

Wooyoung spun you effortlessly, laughing when you bumped into him, hips brushing. He was warm and silly and sweet, your anchor and your weapon, all rolled into one. And unlike your boyfriend currently brooding somewhere in the shadows, Wooyoung danced with you like you deserved to be seen.

You threw your arms around his neck, tilted your head back, and let your hips roll to the music. The tequila shimmered in your bloodstream, making you bold, shameless. It was harmless. Just you and your best friend blowing off steam.

Until he appeared.

Not Yunho.

Some random half drunk guy with no boundaries.

You didn’t even catch his face at first, just the hands. One on your waist. Then another settling lower. Close. Too close.

You tensed, instinct flaring. But before you could even react, Wooyoung turned, “Uh…. hey man….” just as the guy leaned in behind you, his breath too close to your ear.

“You wanna dance, baby?”

You froze.

Baby.

BABY.

That’s what Yunho calls you when his voice drops into his throat and his hands are on your thighs and he’s about to wreck your entire existence.

You turned, slow and unimpressed, swaying slightly from the shots. Your hand rose to brush his arm off as you said, “Can you back the fuck off….”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. Not from the volume, but from the shock.

Because in one heartbeat, Yunho was behind him.

And in the next, his fist was flying, slamming straight into the guy’s cheek so hard his head snapped sideways, body stumbling back.

“Yunho!” you shouted, but he didn’t even blink.

The guy barely regained his balance before throwing a punch back, landing hard into Yunho’s jaw with a sickening thud, and then it was on.

Not a scuffle. Not a push.

A full on, fists flying, tables shifting, club goers screaming BRAWL.

“OH SHIT!” Wooyoung yelped, immediately grabbing your arm and dragging you back as the two of them collided in the middle of the dance floor.

Drinks went flying. A table toppled. Yunho didn’t care.

He was all muscle and fury as he swung again, rage in every movement, pure instinct. You’d never seen him like this. Not even close.

Yunho. Sweet, loving Yunho.

Yunho, who once sobbed when he stepped on a roach and tried to bury it with dignity.

Yunho, who cried watching the last scene of Coco and apologized to a vending machine when he kicked it.

That Yunho was gone.

And in his place?

An unhinged, terrifyingly hot version with blood on his knuckles, fire in his eyes, and only one thing on his mind, protecting what was his.

And oh God, you were shamelessly, absolutely, wildly turned on.

“Holy shit,” Seonghwa breathed behind you, as he, Hongjoong, and Yeosang pushed their way through the crowd to join you and Wooyoung.

“Is that?” Jongho’s voice cut through, followed by the unmistakable bark of San yelling, “YUNHO, STOP!”

But he didn’t. Not until security came rushing in, two thick men grabbing the other guy, one grabbing Yunho by the arm. And still, Yunho fought to get one more punch in, his chest heaving, sweat glistening down his throat, lip split, hair wild across his forehead as he growled, “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking bury you.”

“Yunho!” Mingi was there now too, panting, trying to wrestle his best friend back with an arm across his chest. “You’re done, man! You got him!”

The guy, dazed and bleeding, was being dragged out through the crowd.

Yunho finally stopped fighting.

But he didn’t take his eyes off you.

His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, jaw clenched, fists still flexing at his sides as everyone turned to stare.

You should’ve been mortified. Shocked. Maybe a little horrified.

And sure, you were a little shocked. But mostly? You were wet.

Like ruin your underwear, (if you had any on), legs squeezing together, core clenching WRECKED at the sight of your usually quiet, soft spoken boyfriend losing his mind because someone dared to touch you.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asked beside you, genuinely concerned.

You blinked at him slowly. “I think,” you said, voice dazed, “yeah….. I’m….” Need to climb right now. Make him know that you didn’t want that dude. Show him he was the only thing you wanted.

Yunho brushed past the others, not saying a word as he grabbed your hand, rough, fingers locking with yours like steel, like he needed to feel you to stay grounded. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t thank Mingi. Didn’t acknowledge Seonghwa’s wide eyed “what the fuck was that?”

He just pulled. Out the side door. Through the alley.

And straight to the car.

No words. No hesitation.

Just heat radiating off him like asphalt in the August heat, his grip ironclad and silent until he threw the driver’s door open, got in, and waited until you did the same before slamming it shut.

The engine roared to life. And still not a word.

The only sounds in the car were the pulse of your heart in your ears and the low crunch of his cracked knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

You swallowed thickly, sneaking a glance at him.

His lip was split, the crimson trailing into the corner of his mouth like a slash of warpaint. His knuckles were smeared with drying blood, his or the other guy’s, you didn’t know. His chest was still rising and falling beneath his black tee and flannel like he hadn’t quite come down yet.

And that look, his eyes glued to the road, the tight line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth twitching like he still wasn’t finished.

You clenched your thighs. Hard. Because it was too much. He looked like sin. Like a punishment.

Like a man who’d been holding it together all night and finally snapped, and now didn’t trust himself to speak because if he did, he might pull over and fuck you against the hood.

You watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he shifted gears, the bracelet on his wrist catching the streetlights in flashes of silver. Your thighs pressed tighter, core throbbing with each quiet second that passed.

You wanted him to say something.

You wanted him to do something. But the silence? It was worse. It was foreplay. Hot. Charged. Lethal.

You shifted in your seat, breath shallow.

“Yunho,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just turned the wheel, took the last corner toward your apartment and parked hard, tires squealing a little as the car jerked to a stop.

He finally looked at you then.

And oh God, the look in his eyes…. Still silent.

Still storming.

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The door slammed behind you with a thud, the echo still ringing in the apartment as Yunho strode in like he was trying not to pace. His jaw was still clenched. His shoulders still tight. He was breathing through his nose like every breath might be the one that gets him under control.

You stood there in the entryway, your heels clicking on the wood floor as you watched him pull off his flannel, slow, tense, controlled, then reach behind his head and tug off his shirt.

It stuck to his skin for a second. Bloody, sweaty, soaked in a night that had ruined you both.

And still, he didn’t speak.

He tossed the shirt in the direction of the laundry basket in the hall but didn’t check if it landed.

Just walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, took a sip.

You were still standing there like a fucking Victorian ghost in a slutty dress and smeared lipstick, your thighs pressed together, heat pulsing between them like a warning siren, and he, HE, had the audacity to act like nothing happened.

He ran a hand through his hair, still silent, and finally said, muttering almost to himself, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

You blinked.

Hard.

And then your body moved before your brain did.

“Are you serious?”

He froze.

Slowly turned to face you.

You didn’t even give him time to process it.

“No. No, no, no. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to beat the shit out of someone for touching me, drag me out of the club like I’m about to be claimed in the wild, drive me home in brooding silence, and then, what? Shower? Like this is just a normal fucking Wednesday?!”

He stared at you.

And God help you, he looked even hotter under your kitchen light, busted lip, bruised knuckles, small blood smudged across his forearm, a red fingerprint on his neck where someone tried to pull him off. Bruised jaw. Like war torn sex.

“I am soaked, Yunho,” you snapped shamelessly, stepping toward him. “I’ve been soaked since you threw that guy across the floor like a ragdoll and growled at him like you were about to bite his throat out. And now you’re just gonna rinse off?!”

Yunho blinked once. Twice.

Then he let out a single laugh, dry and sharp, like it had been dragged from his chest against its will.

But it died in his throat almost as soon as it escaped.

Because something shifted in him.

His eyes darkened. His body stilled.

His hand snapped up to grab your jaw, not harsh but firm, fingers curled just beneath your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You want me like this?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, barely more than a growl. “Blood on my knuckles and barely holding it together?”

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, chest brushing yours, the heat of him swallowing you whole. The scent of sweat, blood, his skin, him, was dizzying.

“You want me when I’m this fucked up?” he whispered, words pouring hot against your lips. “When all I can think about is burying myself so deep inside you I forget why I was pissed off in the first place?”

Your knees damn near buckled.

“I almost blacked out on that floor tonight,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your mouth. “Because some asshole touched what’s mine. You think I want to just walk away from that? Go take a fucking shower like I’m not starving for you?”

You whimpered, actually whimpered, and his grip tightened just slightly, dragging your gaze back to his.

“I want you,” he said, voice thick and full of everything he hadn’t said all night. “But you’re gonna say it.”

You blinked up at him, lips trembling.

He tilted his head. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” you breathed.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your voice cracked.

“I want you to fuck me so hard I forget we ever fought.”

His eyes snapped shut like the words hit him between the ribs harder than that guy hitting him in the jaw as he let you go. The words hung between you like smoke. thick, intoxicating, fatal.

He didn’t see you drop.

He only felt it after.

The sound of your knees hitting the floor. The rush of air as you sank down in front of him, fingers trailing down his stomach as you settled between his legs like it was the only place you belonged.

His eyes shot open.

And what he saw?

You.

Looking up at him through your lashes, mouth already parted, pupils blown wide with lust and vengeance and that sick little spark that always lit up when you wanted to ruin him.

“Fuck.” Yunho choked, the word cracked and useless, falling from his lips as he stared down at you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

But you weren’t teasing.

You were starving.

And so was he.

You let your hands drag up his thighs, slow, deliberate, until you reached the waistband of his jeans, already tented, already twitching with how unbelievably hard he was.

His busted lip split wider when he bit down on it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice shaking, hands hovering at his sides. “You don’t have to…”

You looked up at him, lips brushing the fabric of his pants.

“I want to.”

One hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers wrapping around him, hot, heavy, pulsing against your palm. He hissed, hips jerking slightly.

You pulled him out slowly, unzipping him, the way you knew drove him crazy, dragging your hand down his length and watching his body shudder from it.

And when you leaned forward and licked the tip, just the tip, his entire body snapped tight like a livewire.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, one hand flying to the back of your head, not pushing, just there, grounding himself, gripping your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You didn’t take your time.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you were making a point.

You took him into your mouth, deep and filthy, lips slick and cheeks hollowed as your hand followed, twisting at the base. His breath punched out of him in a moan so ragged it almost sounded like your name.

“F… fuck, baby…” he grunted, head falling back as your tongue swirled, as you gagged slightly and kept going, tears pricking your eyes but your grip never faltering.

The blood on his knuckles. The bruise on his jaw. The taste of him on your tongue and the weight of him hitting the back of your throat, everything about him was violent, raw, and so goddamn yours.

He looked back down, his jaw slack, lips parted as he watched you ruin yourself on him, lips stretched and dripping, your eyes fluttering closed like you’d die if he didn’t come undone.

“You want me to forget the fight?” he growled, voice low and rough. “You’re doing a fucking good job of it.”

You moaned around him in response, sending vibrations up his spine and causing his breath to hitch.

Your mouth was wrapped tight and hot around him, cheeks hollowed and lips swollen, spit trailing down your chin like sin in liquid form. Your hand worked the base, slow and tight, just the way he liked it, just enough to keep him teetering on the edge while your tongue licked along the underside like you wanted him twitching from the inside out.

“Fuck…” he groaned, eyes fluttering closed, hips stuttering forward involuntarily. “You’re gonna make me…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he couldn’t.

Instead, he pulled back, not all the way. Just far enough that his dick slipped from your lips and dropped heavy against your mouth, wet and flushed, smearing across your cheek and lips in the filthiest, most possessive display you’d ever felt.

You gasped softly, breath hot against him, tongue darting out instinctively to trace the head, and then slowly, you flattened your tongue along the side of his dick, licking him like a goddamn lollipop.

And when your eyes locked with his? You smiled. “I don’t know why you get so jealous anyways…” His breath stopped as you licked him again. Slower. “your dick’s already ruined me for anyone else.”

Silence. Dead, soul leaving his body silence as Yunho stared down at you like he’d just heard the voice of God and it was moaning his name. His chest heaved, pupils blown wide, chest gleaming with sweat, busted lip dark red and parted in pure shock.

He looked feral. Possessive. His jaw clenched, hand tightening in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you exactly who you were playing with.

“I ruined you?” he asked, voice rasping out like he barely had the air to speak.

You nodded, dragging your tongue up his shaft again before pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss to the head.

“Completely,” you whispered. “You think any other man could make me drop to my knees like this?”

That did it. His hand fisted in your hair. He pulled you up finally but not gently, and not like a man with self control. Like a man who was done holding back.

His mouth crashed into yours, rough, biting, blood smeared, and when he shoved you against the kitchen counter, your back arching and your legs spreading instinctively, you knew exactly what was coming.

“Say it again,” he growled into your mouth, grinding against you through your dress.

“Say you’re mine.”

You barely got the words out between gasps, his mouth devouring yours, the heat of him pressing against you like he was seconds from splitting in two.

“Yours…” you breathed, voice already breaking as his tongue slid hot and hungry against yours. You clung to his shoulders, grinding up against him like your body didn’t care that you were in the kitchen, on the edge, half drunk and half mad.

“All yours.”

Yunho grabbed your waist and lifted you like you, slamming you down on the kitchen counter, the thud echoing through the apartment.

He shoved your knees apart in one motion, his frame crowding yours completely. Then came that dress. That little black fucking dress.

He pushed it up, rough, almost angry, and when his eyes landed on the space between your thighs, everything stopped. His jaw locked. His nostrils flared. “You didn’t wear panties,” he growled.

You met his gaze, all fire and challenge, heart hammering. “Nope.”

A sound left him, low and dark and almost a snarl.

“You went to that fucking club,” he said, voice sharp with disbelief, “after everything today… dressed like that… with nothing on under this fucking dress?”

You didn’t flinch. Just held his stare and whispered, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

His hands gripped your thighs so tight you gasped, bruises incoming, and he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter with a force that nearly knocked the salt shaker over.

His eyes dropped back between your legs, where your pussy glistened under the low light, slick, swollen, already needy just from the weight of his voice. He licked his lips, his busted one splitting slightly again from the pressure. Blood be damned, he needed a taste.

“You walked around all night like this?” he muttered, dragging two fingers up your slit so slowly you saw stars. “With this pussy dripping for me the whole time?”

You moaned, helpless, arching, wrecked from the pressure of just that.

“Answer me,” he snapped, fingers teasing at your entrance but not pushing in, his breath hot against your throat.

“Yes,” you whimpered. “I wanted to mess with you…. to watch you lose your mind.”

He laughed, low and wrecked and dangerous.

“You want to see what that looks like, baby?” he whispered, kissing your neck before his voice dropped darker. “I’ll fucking show you.” He dropped to his knees. Right there, on the tile.

Dragging you to the edge of the counter, spreading you wider, arms locked under your thighs as he dove into you like a starving man, like he was angry, desperate, and starved for the taste of you.

You screamed.

His mouth was brutal, tongue flattening against your clit with every pass, lips sealing around you like he was trying to suck your soul out through your cunt. And when you tried to close your legs, he growled, deep and low, holding you open as his nose brushed your folds and his tongue pushed deep inside you.

You nearly came right there as his tongue fucked into you with a rhythm that felt dangerous, mouth slick and hot as he pinned your thighs wide and buried his face deeper like he wanted to drown in your pussy. And God, he was so good at it.

Every flick. Every suck. Every guttural sound he made as he licked you like a man starving, it hit every nerve, every shaking muscle, until you could barely even breathe. And then you felt it. His fingers.

Two of them, wet from his mouth, slick and long, sliding into your cunt like he owned it. Curling deep and pounding harder, pushing against that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your skull.

You clawed at the counter, heels digging into the drawers, hips jerking helplessly as he tongue fucked your clit and finger fucked your pussy with ruthless, relentless thrusts.

“Oh my God…. Yunho, I’m… fuck, I’m….”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down.

And you were too wrecked to notice that while one hand worked your cunt, the other, wet from your own slick, had slid lower, fingers circling your ass. He pushed one inside. You gasped, the sound jagged, more like a sob than a moan. Not pain. Shock. Pleasure so sharp it made you twitch.

Your pussy clenched wildly around his fingers as his tongue licked harder, and then he added a second finger to your ass. Slow at first, then pushing deeper. The stretch. The fullness. His tongue fucking into you. You shattered.

Screaming. Shaking. Legs trembling so hard your heel knocked over a jar of cinnamon that crashed to the floor unheard. Your orgasm hit like lightning, ripping through you as his tongue kept moving, his fingers kept fucking your ass full, your pussy dripping, your voice gone.

But Yunho didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. He slid his fingers out of your ass and thrust three of them back into your cunt, sticky, soaking wet, so thick it burned deliciously as he shoved them in to the knuckle.

He pulled his mouth away and looked up at you from between your thighs, face soaked, lips swollen, eyes wild as he stood back up.

Then his free hand gripped your chin, hard enough to tilt your head and force your dazed, tear filled gaze to lock with his. “Fuck yourself on them,” he growled.

Your thighs trembled against his forearms, your back arched, sweat clinging to your skin as you tried, really tried, to move. To fuck yourself on his fingers like he told you to. But your body was wrecked.

Still twitching. Still fluttering from your orgasm. Your clit throbbed, your pussy clenched tight around his fingers, still soaking wet and stretched wide, and he hadn’t even really fucked you yet.

“Come on,” Yunho rasped, voice wrecked, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make you look at him. “You said you were mine. Show me.”

You moaned, high and breathless, as you reached down, trembling hands fumbling for his wrist, trying to ground yourself.

Your fingers wrapped around his thick forearm, nails digging in, and you rocked, hips lifting off the counter, pushing yourself down on his hand with a broken cry. But it wasn’t enough.

Your body jolted from overstimulation. Your legs were too weak. Your core too sensitive. You whined in frustration, grinding down again but gasping halfway through the motion, overwhelmed and desperate.

“I…. I can’t….” you choked out. “I want to, I just… fuck, Yunho, I can’t do enough!” Your voice cracked as he stared down at you like a man seeing divinity for the first time.

You. Completely undone. Trying so hard to please him you were shaking. Still soaked. Still needy. Still his as he leaned in slowly, lips brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re trying for me even when you’re falling apart.”

You whimpered. His fingers curled inside you just right and your legs jerked.

“You know how fucking beautiful that is?” he whispered. “You look so sweet when you’re desperate for me.”

You moaned into his mouth, still pushing, still riding the edge of madness as your walls fluttered helplessly around his fingers, so close to the edge again it was embarrassing.

“Let me take over,” he murmured against your lips.

And when you nodded, meek and broken and begging, he growled, low and feral.

“Good girl.”

He pulled his fingers from your pussy with a filthy sound, and you gasped, collapsing against his chest, body shaking. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you like you and you wrapped your arms around his neck, still dazed, lips brushing his throat.

“Bed,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please, Yunho…”

He didn’t answer, just carried you down the hallway and into your bedroom like a man on a mission, and made a hard left.

Straight past the mattress.

Straight to the far wall.

To the floor length mirror.

You blinked, confused, until you met the cool surface of the mirror and Yunho pressed into you, hips grinding against you as his hands slid down to your ass.

Your eyes opened wide.

And you saw it.

You saw everything.

Your ruined dress hiked around your waist.

Your slick thighs trembling.

Your lipstick smeared from moaning into his mouth.

Your chest rising and falling like you were trying not to cry from how badly you needed him again.

Yunho stared into the mirror, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread open against the glass.

His voice was low, rough, and feral.

“I’m not taking you to bed,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Yunho…”

“No.” His eyes burned into yours. “I want you to watch.”

“I want you to see how I fuck you,” he growled. “I want you to look in that mirror and watch me really ruin you for anyone else.”

You were breathless.

Heart pounding.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, still expecting him to slide into you, to lift your leg and finally, finally take what was already his.

But instead? He stepped back. And started taking off the rest of his clothes.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Your breath caught as you watched his busted knuckles.

Dried blood flaking down the side of his ring finger. A smear near his wrist. A dark bruise already blooming on the back of his hand.

And then your eyes dragged upward, over the slope of his jaw to that beautiful mouth. His lips, still swollen. The bottom one split and drying now.

You clenched your thighs so hard it almost hurt.

And the worst part?

You knew his mother would call this blasphemy. She’d throw holy water at you through the phone, clutch her rosary, say three Hail Marys and ask Saint Veronica or whatever the hell that girl’s name is, to shield her baby boy from the succubus in the mirror.

Too late.

Because you weren’t sorry.

You were more turned on than you’d ever been in your entire life.

You couldn’t stop staring, at the bruises, at the blood, at the way he stood before you, naked now except for the weight of his rage and the throb of his dick, hard and leaking.

“Fucking look at you,” Yunho muttered, stepping closer. “Pressed up against that mirror, staring at me like I’m a goddamn drug.”

You whimpered as he stepped behind you again, his dick brushed the swell of your ass. One big hand came up to cup your throat, not tight, just there, possessive and warm and so him.

“That what I am to you?” he whispered against your neck. “Something you can’t quit?”

You moaned.

And in the mirror, your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he growled, hand tightening just a little. “Keep them open. I want you to see exactly what kind of man you’re letting ruin you.”

Yunho’s voice was dark silk, frayed, trembling on the edge of something unholy. His hand was still wrapped loosely around your throat, not choking, just there, a reminder. A claim.

And behind you, you felt him line up.

Thick. Hot. Ready.

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Just slid the head of his dick through your folds, slow and teasing, smearing your slick everywhere as you twitched against the mirror, your breath fogging up the glass.

“You feel this?” he muttered, rubbing the tip against your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp. “You’re soaked. Messy all over me.”

You moaned, pushing back against him, thighs shaking.

“Still begging for more even after I finger fucked your ass and made you come all over my face.”

Your eyes rolled back and he growled, deep, rough, animalistic.

“Eyes on the mirror. Now.”

You obeyed. Because how could you not? The reflection was pure sin.

You, flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and dazed.

Him, bruised, blood streaked, dark and towering behind you, dick thick, big and twitching against your pussy. He pushed in. Just the tip.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, your fingers clawing at the mirror, trying to stay upright as he held you still and slowly, agonizingly slowly, slid in another inch. Then another. Stretching you wide, your body pulsing around him.

“Still so fucking tight,” he rasped against your ear, voice strained like it was costing him everything not to slam into you. “You take me like you were made for me.” And you loved it.

Every possessive word. Every filthy groan. The bruises, the blood, the way his dick made you feel owned. A little toxic. But you didn’t care. You arched your back, pressing your ass against his hips.

“You like this,” he said, tone dark and almost accusing, like he couldn’t believe the shameless, needy moans falling from your lips. “You like knowing you’re mine. That no one else’ll ever get this pussy again.”

You looked right into the mirror. Met his eyes. And grinned. “Your mom would be so disappointed in me,” you panted, voice high and wrecked. “Guess Saint Vanessa, or Veronica, or whatever the hell her name is, doesn’t get off to blood and bruises.”

Yunho snapped.

His hand clamped tighter around your throat, not choking, but claiming, and he slammed into you with one brutal thrust that shook the mirror and knocked every coherent thought from your skull.

You screamed. Loud. Messy. Wrecked. He didn’t stop.

He fucked you hard, each thrust knocking your body forward as he held you up like a doll, his dick driving so deep it punched the air from your lungs. You heard the slap of skin, the creak of the mirror, your own choked moans.

And through it all, you watched in the reflection of the glass.

Watched your body shake. Watched your mouth fall open in silent pleasure. Watched the dark, dangerous man behind you lose himself in you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

He wasn’t coming yet. This wasn’t about that. This was about making you remember exactly who you belonged to.

Your moans cracked apart into sobs. Your hands slipped down the mirror, leaving streaks in the fog from your breath and the heat of your body. He just kept fucking you. Deep. Brutal. Possessive.

One hand gripped your thigh, the other curved tight around your waist like he was afraid to let go. And all you could do was take it, choke on your own cries, mouth falling open with every thrust as your pussy fluttered around his dick, so wet, so swollen, so wrecked.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” Yunho groaned, lips brushing your ear. “Dripping. Shaking. Dumb for my dick.”

Your eyes rolled back. Your hips pushed back on instinct.

“And you love it, don’t you?” he growled. “You love when I’m like this, fucked up, furious, making you take every inch like a good fucking girl.”

“Y…. Yes… yes, fuck, Yunho!”

His grip on your waist tightened as he drove deeper. “You want sweet? That’s for Saint Vanessa. You want me? This is what you get.”

You came again with a scream, your entire body spasming against the glass, legs giving out, completely ruined, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave of sin and surrender.

Yunho kissed your shoulder, soft for just a breath. Then he pulled out.

And you whimpered, the loss unbearable. But before you could collapse completely, he scooped you up, carrying you to the bed like you were made of glass. Only you weren’t. You were made to be broken.

He didn’t throw you down. He placed you, on your hands and knees, your dress bunched around your hips, your body still twitching. But the mirror…

The mirror was still in view.

You caught sight of yourself, face flushed, eyes wide, hair wild, tears dried on your cheeks, and behind you, him. Towering. Silent. Bloody. Bruised. Hard.

Yunho climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your legs wider. His palm came down on your ass, hard, the crack echoing and you yelped, your body jolting forward.

He growled, grabbing your throat from behind, fingers wrapping firm around it, not choking, just owning as he leaned in close to your ear, voice so low it made your spine arch.

“I don’t need church,” he whispered. “Not when I see God every time I fuck you.”

And then he slammed into you from behind. Hard. The bed shook. You screamed.

Yunho set a rhythm that had no mercy, his dick punching deep, every thrust sending shockwaves through your entire body. You could barely hold yourself up on your arms, your thighs shaking, your hands gripping the sheets like lifelines.

And in the mirror, you watched it happen. You. Bent. Spread. Eyes rolled back. Him. Hand on your throat. Blood on his mouth. Possessed.

Wrecking you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Look at you,” he growled. “So fucking beautiful when you’re ruined.” He slipped your dress on off, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Your mouth dropped open as he slapped your ass again, then gripped it to pull you back harder on his dick, fucking into you so deep your arms nearly gave out.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked, panting, voice shaking now.

“You,” you sobbed. “Yunho…. fuck, you!”

And the mirror reflected it all. Your confessional. Your surrender. Your salvation.

“Fucking perfect,” Yunho growled behind you, hips snapping into yours with a rhythm so brutal it made your vision blur. “You’re taking me so deep, baby. You feel that?”

You did. God, you did.

Every inch. Every vein. Every stretch of his dick had you clenching, fluttering, crying around him.

You could barely hold yourself up anymore, arms trembling as your body rocked forward with every thrust. The mirror still showed the wreckage, your open mouth, your glassy eyes, the way his hand on your throat kept you steady even as he unraveled you from behind.

“I can feel you about to come again,” he panted, breath catching in his throat. “This pretty little pussy’s choking me.”

You sobbed something, his name, maybe, or just a plea, and Yunho groaned, hips faltering just once as his hand slid down your belly, curling around your waist.

And he slowed. Not stopped. Not gentle.

But that punishing pace softened, replaced by something deeper. More intimate. More devastating.

His hand left your throat and slid around your front to cup your chest, pulling you up slowly until your back was flush against his chest and you were both kneeling on the bed, still joined, still locked together.

The mirror reflected everything now. Your body, shaking, your mouth, open, your skin, marked. And Yunho? A mess.

His busted lip pressed to your shoulder. His hand trembling where it gripped your breast. His eyes burning as he stared at the reflection of you both, his forehead pressed to your temple, hips grinding slower now, deeper.

Right there. Right on the edge.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice raw and broken. “Look what we are.”

You whimpered, body so close to unraveling again you could barely breathe.

“After everything today,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder, “you’re still mine. Still here. Still letting me love you like this.”

You blinked tears. “Yunho…”

“I’m close,” he groaned. “Fuck, baby, I’m…”

He pulled out of you gently, and you gasped, ready to beg for him back, but he turned you around, guiding you down with such care it made your heart seize.

Your back hit the mattress. Your legs fell open.

And Yunho, bruised, blood stained, beautiful, hovered over you like you were the only thing in the world that could save him.

He looked into your eyes as he pushed back in, deep and slow.

You moaned, hands flying to his shoulders, your body stretching around him again like it was made to.

“I love you,” he whispered. “No one’s ever gonna touch you. Not after this.”

You nodded, tears streaking your cheeks. “Only you. Always you.”

He kissed you then, desperate, open mouthed, sweet and ruined as he started to move again. Slow. Deep. Loving.

You clung to him.

And as your body clenched around him, tight and wet and so incredibly his, you felt him gasp.

“Come with me,” he begged. “One more time, baby. Just once more.”

And you did.

Together. Wrapped in each other. Shaking, crying, kissing between gasps as he spilled into you and you shattered around him, lips whispering love and reverence like prayers as your bodies gave out.

You didn’t need anything else.

Just him.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The sun was pouring through the curtains in soft gold, casting lazy stripes across the bed, the sheets… the clothes still scattered all over the floor like the aftermath of a spiritual and physical exorcism.

You were half sprawled across Yunho’s chest, one thigh tossed over his waist, your mouth slack against his collarbone, his hand still curled around your hip possessively even in sleep.

He was knocked out cold, busted lip healing, but otherwise calm, peaceful.

Which was ironic.

Because last night, this bed had been ground zero for a war zone. And the mirror still across the room bore the faint handprint smudges to prove it.

It was a rare kind of silence. Too rare. The kind that should’ve been a warning. The front door opened. You didn’t stir. Neither did Yunho.

But fate didn’t need your permission today.

“Yunho, sweetheart?” a familiar voice called gently. “Are you home? You didn’t answer my calls.”

The sound of heels on hardwood. A gasp. The kind only a Korean mother with a key she wasn’t supposed to have and a deeply Catholic soul could make.

“Oh… oh sweet Virgin Mary!”

You jerked awake.

Yunho startled hard, blinking groggily, hand tightening on your thigh like he’d just woken up in a battle field. “What the fuck….”

That’s when you heard it.

“JEONG YUNHO!”

He sat up so fast he knocked your arm off his chest, blanket sliding down to reveal your entire very naked, thoroughly marked body.

And standing frozen in the doorway?

His mother.

In slacks. With a handbag. And a face that looked like she’d just seen Lucifer himself and he was balls deep in her son’s girlfriend.

“Mom?”

She raised a hand. “Don’t even, don’t you dare speak right now!”

Her eyes swept the room, his busted lip, the mirror across the room with streaks still fogged up, and the unmistakable smell of sex so thick in the air it could’ve been bottled and sold at Sephora.

You, bless your brave, exhausted, freshly fucked soul, pulled the sheet up just enough to cover your chest and rested your chin on Yunho’s shoulder.

Yunho made a choked noise as his mom’s eyes bugged.

“I… You….” she sputtered, clutching her bag like it might save her. “I came to drop off side dishes! I didn’t come to witness my son’s moral collapse!”

“Too late for that,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What was that?!”

“Nothing,” you said, batting your lashes.

Yunho groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Mom, seriously. Why do you even have a key?”

“Because I thought my son was in need of spiritual nourishment, not….” she gestured wildly between your bodies, “living in debauchery!”

You smiled sweetly, full of pettiness. “Would you like some coffee before you go?”

She backed out of the room like she was escaping a crime scene, muttering to herself about incense and repentance and how many Hail Marys it takes to erase what she just saw.

The door slammed. Silence. And then? Yunho looked at you, utterly deadpan.

“She’s never going to cook for me again.”

You shrugged, curling back into his chest. “That’s fine. I’ll ruin your soul and your cooking standards.”

He laughed, truly laughed and kissed the top of your head.

“Worth it.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess

[coldestduointhenation]

Pressure - Chapter 1

wnba!Paige x wnba!Azzi

Themes: exes-to-lovers, angst

Warnings: language (I think that's it)

Synopsis: Four years after a messy fallout, Azzi gets traded to the Dallas Wings. On the same team for the first time after four years of no contact, they have to navigate what it's like to exist in the same space again. One of them is more willing to reconcile than the other.

A/N: Been working on this for a while. Chapter 2 is already in the works. I promise it's gonna get really good. Let me know what you thinkkk

Word count: 8.6k

Present Day – 2029 Dallas, Texas

Paige

Paige thought it was a prank.

Not a funny one. She sure as hell wasn’t laughing. But still, it had to be a sick joke. Because what twisted fate of the universe could possibly lead to her being on the same team as Azzi Fudd? The ex-love-of-her-life/ex-best-friend who left a hole in her a long time ago.

“You’re joking, right?” Paige said flatly, staring holes through Curt, the Wings’ GM, from across his desk.

Curt just grinned like this was the best thing that had happened to him all year. “I know, right? I’m still trying to believe it myself. I can’t believe they went for it. I mean, how stupid could you be to reunite the best backcourt in the nation?” Curt cackled.

Paige dropped her head into her hands. When she looked back up, he was furrowing his brows.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be excited about this.” Curt pushed his chair back a little bit to get a better look at Paige and folded his arms across his chest.

Still dazed, Paige nodded the best she could. “Yeah, yeah. This is really great for the team.”

Curt hummed. “I thought you two used to be best friends or something.”

Or something, Paige thought to herself. She nodded her head slowly. Like it hurt to admit. “Yeah… used to be,” she mumbled.

“Well,” Curt said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his desk. “There’s no bad blood or anything, right?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Only a half-lie. Azzi Fudd destroyed Paige in a way she didn’t know was possible all those years ago, yet somewhere inside, Paige knew that Azzi was still that gravitational pull she’d never be able to escape. A flame that burned too pretty but burned her every time she tried to touch it. Part of her hated Azzi for that. The rest of her knew she didn’t actually hate Azzi. She never could. 

She excused herself from Curt’s office at the first opportunity she got and headed straight for the practice court, where it was empty and quiet and hers. To shoot. And think.

One shot at a time. Release. Swish. Reset.

Again. Again. Again.

Paige tried to think forward. About how she was well on her way to her third MVP title in a row. About how Dallas was about to go back-to-back for the first time ever. About how she was getting older and needed to make these last seasons of her prime count.

But no matter how hard Paige tried to stay present, her brain kept dragging her back.

Back to the dorms. Back to late-night film sessions. Back to hotel rooms with one bed, one secret, and one pair of hands that always knew where to touch her.

Back to Azzi.

Azzi, who was her everything, could match her fire and feed it at the same time, but never let Paige in all the way.

And now, somehow, Azzi was coming to Dallas. 

Paige could hardly wrap her head around it. The thought made her chest ache in a way that felt old and familiar and fresh all at once. In a way that reminded Paige of what’s hers.

But Azzi wasn’t hers. She kept forgetting that. 

Someone else was now. Zoey.

Zoey wasn’t the first since Azzi, but she was the first to actually make Paige slow down. Not just some pretty face for headlines and good lighting. Zoey had a mind of her own, a mouth that didn’t take shit, and a kind of patience Paige didn’t realize she needed until it was offered.

Paige didn’t do girlfriends in the traditional sense. She was too busy, and they were too suffocating. Instead, she hooked up with pretty women until the high wore off and routine took over. And if Paige liked them enough, they’d go on dates, let themselves get caught by a fan, maybe go on vacation.

But locking it down? Making it official? Paige never got that far. Never wanted to.

With Zoey… she was getting there. Not all the way, but closer than she’d been with anyone since Azzi.

And now Azzi was moving to the same city. Joining the same team. Living on the same block. Paige didn’t know that part yet.

Not until the next day, when she was on her morning run.

The sun was still low enough for the buildings to cover the street with their shadows. It was too early for most of the city. But not for Paige. For her, it was the only time when things were quiet. Slow.

She was rounding the corner near her building when she saw someone standing by the glass doors of the leasing office. From behind, the figure looked familiar enough to slow her steps.

Thick, curly hair pulled back in a loose, low bun. Oversized sweatshirt. Gray leggings. That specific posture. Too casual to be calculated, but somehow always looking like it was.

Paige’s stomach dipped. Her pace faltered.

No fucking way.

The girl turned slightly, shifting her weight onto one hip as she glanced down at her phone. Paige’s heart climbed into her throat.

It was her.

Azzi.

Just… standing there outside her building. Like it was normal. Like it hadn’t been years. Like she hadn’t left Paige stuck in some loop she could never fully escape.

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

12 years ago – 2017 USA U16 Basketball Camp, Colorado Springs

Paige wasn’t scared. Just aware. Of all the talent in the room. Of who the coaches were paying attention to. Of the sheer intensity of it all. 

She had a great morning. Her shots fell, her footwork was there, her timing on defense was close to perfect. There was no reason to stress. She played her game and played it well.

Paige sat on the bench, one leg pulled up, Gatorade bottle balanced on her knee, sweat still drying on her neck. She’d just finished scrimmaging and was catching her breath while the next group rotated in.

Next to her, Aliyah Boston leaned back on her hands, eyes scanning the floor. “Damn. It’s a tight race this year.”

Paige looked around. She was still riding the edge of that post-game high. Loose muscles, steady heart, confidence simmering under her skin. She was about to agree with Aliyah when something caught her eye.

Someone.

Far end of the court. Red jersey, black shorts. Braided bun. The youngest one on the floor by at least a year. Moving like she didn’t know it. Or didn’t care.

Then she caught a pass. And everything else just… dropped out. Paige didn’t even blink. Couldn’t. Because the girl didn’t hesitate. Didn’t gather. Just rose and released like muscle memory. Like it wasn’t even a choice.

Net.

Paige straightened. Just a little. “Who is that?” she asked without looking away.

Aaliyah followed her gaze. “That’s Azzi Fudd.”

Paige blinked once. “That’s Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah. You heard of her?”

She had. The name was familiar. The highlights, the chatter, the headlines. Something about a phenom. A prodigy. One of those kids who had a clear trajectory. Paige had seen a clip or two. Nothing like this.

Because this? This was fucking art. 

Azzi didn’t just play basketball. She moved through it. Like the game bent around her, not the other way around. There was something impossibly smooth about the way she played. Like she already knew what was going to happen three steps ahead. Like the ball just listened to her.

Paige watched her catch another pass. Watched her pivot, fake, draw two defenders, slip it to the post for the easiest bucket of the day. She didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and jogged back like it was routine.

Paige’s throat went dry. Because it wasn’t just the skill. It was everything else. The way Azzi’s face barely changed, calm like a storm with nowhere to go. The way her shoulders stayed relaxed even when the pressure was high. The way she didn’t seem interested in being liked, or noticed. She just was. Steady. Composed. Sharp. She carried herself like someone who already knew what kind of problem she was about to be.

Something nagged at the corner of Paige’s mind. Like Azzi was about to be her problem. Not the kind of problem that would beat her out for a spot on the roster. The kind that would weave itself into her brain like a parasite and sit there like a rock. 

Paige couldn’t stop watching. She leaned forward. Both feet on the ground now, Gatorade bottle forgotten, eyes wide.

Azzi turned on her heel and jogged back. Her eyes scanned the sideline just once. Just briefly. And Paige swore, for half a second, those eyes landed on her.

She looked away too fast. Heat rising in her cheeks. Something flickering in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to call it yet. All she knew was that she’d never seen anything—anyone—like that.

And she was already in trouble.

**************************

The party wasn’t really for them. Technically, it was for the adults. Coaches, scouts, sponsors, the kind of people who wore suits and passed around business cards like it was currency. But the girls who made the team were invited too. Well, told to come. Told to be on their best behavior, smile if someone important started talking to them, and not to touch the champagne.

Paige stuck close to Aliyah. It was less intimidating that way. Aliyah always had something to say and never looked like she was trying too hard, even in a room full of people who would probably own half the league one day.

The ballroom lights were low and gold, the kind that made everything feel fancier than it was. There were high-top tables and white linen napkins and a string quartet playing a pop song Paige couldn’t quite place.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Paige asked, swirling her lemonade around in the glass.

Aliyah grinned. “So they can smile at us and say they knew us before the shoe deals.”

Paige snorted. “Right.”

Her eyes drifted, naturally, toward the far side of the room. Toward her.

Azzi was talking to a group of adults. Two women in blazers and a man holding a clipboard. She stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture straight, nodding along as someone spoke. Her eyes flicked up occasionally, steady, unreadable.

Paige watched the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The way she tilted her head when she was listening. The small smile she gave when someone cracked a joke. Polite, but detached.

She looked… grown. Too composed for someone her age. Too calculated. Like she’d been doing this for years already and wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“God,” Paige muttered, almost to herself.

Aliyah followed her gaze. “You’re still staring at her?”

“I’m not—” Paige sighed. “I just think she’s… interesting.”

Aliyah smirked. “Sure.”

Azzi’s group started to split up, one of the women checking her watch and moving toward the bar. The man peeled off in another direction. Azzi stayed where she was, alone now, adjusting the strap of her dress like it had been bothering her all night.

This was her chance. Paige set her glass down and took a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Be right back.”

She crossed the room like she was walking out on a wire, every step just a little more careful than the one before it.

Azzi didn’t look up until Paige was already in front of her.

“It’s Azzi, right?” Paige said like she wasn’t sure. As if she wasn’t the surest she’d ever been. 

Azzi let out a soft chuckle. “You already knew that.”

Paige couldn’t stop the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Well, I’m Paige—“

“I know who you are, Paige,” Azzi cut her off. 

Paige blinked. “You do?”

Azzi looked her over. Not just her face. All of her. Eyes, posture, the way she was standing too straight like she’d rehearsed the approach.

“I know everyone,” Azzi said, voice even.

“Oh. Right.” Paige fumbled for a second. “You played really well today. You were incredible.”

Azzi shrugged, calm as ever. “Not my best performance.”

Paige shook her head. “Coulda fooled me. I mean, you’re perfect.” The word landed heavier than she meant it to. She felt it the second it hung there.

Azzi cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean—your game is perfect,” Paige corrected quickly. “You’re like the perfect basketball player.”

Azzi didn’t let her off the hook. Her lips curled into a slow, amused smirk. “I make you nervous or something, Bueckers?”

“What? No, I just—I guess I’m just awkward.”

Azzi took a slow sip from her water. Shook her head slightly. “No, you’re not. Not on the court. Not talking to any of these other people.”

Paige met her eyes. “Then I guess you’re different.”

Azzi’s smile widened, just a little. “I know.”

There was a beat. One of those in-between silences that wasn’t awkward, but felt charged. Paige shifted her weight, looking around like she needed somewhere to ground herself.

Azzi tilted her head. “So. What’d you come over here to say?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

Azzi shrugged. “I assume you didn’t cross the room just to tell me I’m a good player.”

Paige felt her throat tighten. “No. I mean—yeah. You know, we’re gonna have to play together, so I wanted to say hi and…” Her voice trailed off like she didn’t plan on saying the last part out loud. 

Azzi was still watching her. Eyes a little harder now. Like she wasn’t going to let Paige off the hook. “And?”

Paige had to mean it. So she did. She felt her pulse in her ears. “And… I don’t know. I think you’re…” Paige hesitated, then pushed it out. “Kind of impossible to ignore.”

Azzi studied her. Really studied her. Like she was trying to decide what to do with what she’d just been handed. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “How so?”

Paige swallowed. Thought about giving her some canned answer. Something light. Surface-level. But the look Azzi was giving her—calm and curious, like she already knew—made that impossible.

So Paige just… said it.

“It’s like,” she started, then paused, eyes flicking down for half a second before finding Azzi’s again, “you already know how everything ends.”

Azzi didn’t react right away.

Paige tried not to shrink under her own words. “You move like you have everyone where you want them. Like you’re just waiting for them to catch up.”

Her voice was softer now. Not shy. Just real. “It’s not about your game. I mean—it is. But it’s also not. It’s… you. The way you carry yourself. Honestly… I can’t stop staring.” 

The way Azzi was staring at her made something burn inside Paige. 

“You just met me,” Azzi said, voice curious. “Why would you say that?”

Paige swallowed. Shrugged. “Because I wanted you to know.”

That was the only answer she could come up with. Because she didn’t know why she would say that. Azzi was right. She had just met her. So, why be so bold? Paige chalked it up to the fact that it wasn’t like she saw this girl every day.

Azzi tilted her head and softened her gaze. Like she was considering something. Then a smirk. A real one this time. Like Azzi had just figured something out and was keeping it for later. She stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving Paige’s. Then she turned.

Paige called after her. “Guess I’ll see you around?”

Azzi didn’t look back. Just kept walking.

“You will,” she said over her shoulder.

And she did. God, she saw Azzi everywhere. 

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

Present Day

Azzi didn’t notice Paige right away, too focused on the screen in her hand. But then her head lifted, and those eyes–sharp, unreadable, familiar in a way that made Paige's chest pull tight—landed on her.

For a beat, they just stared at each other.

Azzi’s expression shifted first, mouth tugging into the smallest smile. Like this was funny. Like she knew exactly what kind of chaos she was walking back into.

Paige cursed quietly under her breath. It was her building. It wasn’t like she could turn around and go somewhere else.

“Paige,” Azzi said softly.

Paige swallowed as she came to a stop a few feet away. “You lost?”

Azzi pointed up at the building. “Touring apartments.”

Paige raised a brow, wiping sweat from her forehead with the hem of her shirt. “In this building?”

Azzi shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Yeah, I’ve got a few planned today before… practice.”

It was weird. The word practice. Because all of a sudden, that meant the same thing to both of them.

Paige didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at her. Trying to take her in and shut her out all at once.

Azzi’s eyes flicked over her, then back up. “You look good,” she said, like she wasn’t ripping Paige open with three simple words.

Paige nodded once. “You, too.”

The air between them thickened. Paige popped her knuckles to distract herself from the fact that even after all these years, Azzi could still make something coil tightly in her chest.

Paige cleared her throat. “You know this is my building, right?”

Azzi smirked. “The possibility crossed my mind that one of these buildings was yours. I just didn’t think I’d get it right on the first try.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “So what? You gonna move in down the hall from me?”

Azzi stepped forward, holding her grin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Paige looked away and scoffed. “Don’t start,” she said, shaking her head without looking at Azzi. 

Azzi's smirk softened into something of innocence. She always played that so well. Paige remembered. “I’m not starting anything.”

“So what are you doing?” Paige said with no hesitation, a little snappier than she intended.

Azzi flinched a little bit like she wasn’t expecting Paige to react like that, but never dropped her smile. “I’m here to play ball.”

Paige sighed. “You could do that anywhere.”

“I just got here. Why are you so pressed already?” Azzi asked, sounding a little annoyed.

“I am not pressed,” Paige said firmly as she took a step forward. They were close enough to reach out and touch each other now. 

“Right, because you just look at everyone like that.”

Azzi stepped forward slightly, like she was testing the air. Not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that Paige’s breath caught anyway. Their eyes were locked. Like neither of them could look away.

“I meant what I said,” Azzi murmured, tone dipping lower now. “You really do look good.” Her eyes traced back down Paige’s body and back up.

Paige broke their gaze. “I’ll see you later,” she said as she turned and headed for the doors of her building.

By the time Paige got back upstairs, her shirt was clinging to her skin with sweat that had nothing to do with the run. Her hands were still shaking as she fumbled her key into the lock. 

Okay, so maybe there was a problem.

Paige wanted to believe she was over it. She wanted to be mature enough and grown enough to say that was a different time with a different Paige. And a week ago, maybe she was. But as soon as Azzi said her name, something in her shifted. She felt the creep of that Paige. 

Azzi’s Paige.

And dear God, she was not coming out without a fight. 

This Paige stepped into her apartment quietly and pressed her forehead against the door.

She told Curt this wasn’t going to be a problem. She prayed that this wasn’t going to be, but somewhere inside, she knew Azzi could never be something to sweep under the rug.

No one gave her any warning. No one gave her the chance to prepare herself for the love of her life to come barrelling through everything she built without her. Everything she built to spite her. 

“P?”

Paige jumped. She forgot that Zoey was sleeping in her bed during all this. 

She hadn’t told Zoey about the trade yesterday. Didn’t want to. Didn’t know how. She knew Zoey knew who Azzi was. Everyone did. Best friends in college, according to the internet, minus a handful of particularly observant fans who no one paid any mind to. Paige never filled in the gaps. Never wanted to open that door. 

With all of the energy Paige had left, she pushed off the door and made her way to her bedroom. Zoey was propped up on one arm, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the other.

“How was your run?” Zoey asked groggily. 

Paige didn’t meet her eye. Couldn’t. “Uh, it was good. Yeah, it was good.”

Zoey looked at her like she could tell there was more. But she didn’t press. Never did. Paige always appreciated that.

Paige stepped forward to the edge of the bed. Zoey sat up on her knees and shuffled to her. She grabbed Paige’s shirt and pulled her closer. “Did you use up all your energy, or are you gonna come back to bed and get another workout in?”

Before Paige could answer, Zoey placed a kiss right under her earlobe. 

Paige tried to lean into it. Give Zoey what she wanted. What she deserved. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was her dorm room. And a random hotel room. And the training room that one time. Azzi’s skin under her hands and her name in Azzi’s mouth like honey.

“Zo,” Paige said, gently removing her hands and taking a step back. 

Zoey searched her face. “What’s wrong?”

Paige ran a hand over her hair. “Nothing,” she said a little too quick. “I’m just not feeling it right now. I want a shower.”

Zoey nodded like she didn’t understand, but that was okay. “You go do that, and I’ll make your breakfast before I have to get to the studio.” She planted a kiss on Paige’s cheek like an apology Paige hadn’t earned. 

Paige flashed her a smile back, even though she could tell it was too forced. She turned and headed for the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Eyes red, lips parted like she’d just been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Maybe she had.

She stripped and stepped into a shower so hot it stung. Pressed her forehead to the tile and squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. She let the scalding water fall over her face, her back, her hair. Like if she scrubbed and rinsed hard enough, the unsettling feeling that clinged to her skin might go away.

It shouldn’t hurt anymore. Azzi shouldn’t get this close, not after everything Paige did to scrape her out like rot.

But Paige knew herself better than anyone. She knew exactly how breakable she still was when it came to Azzi Fudd. How she’d spent four years pretending there was no part of her that would always belong to someone who never asked permission to take it.

The water couldn’t wash that part away. She pressed her palms harder to the wall, chest heaving, every muscle locked tight so she wouldn’t say it out loud.

Don’t let her ruin you again.

It sounded pathetic, even in her head. But she said it anyway. Again. Again. Again.

Azzi

Azzi hadn’t really come to terms with it until she saw her. 

Not when her agent called to tell her about a deal in the works. Not when the Mystics’ GM pulled her in to confirm it. Not even when she stepped off the plane. 

It was only when her heart stopped beating at eight in the morning. There was only one person who could ever have that effect on her. And there she was.

Paige. Drenched with sweat and stunning. She almost looked like nothing had changed. She looked just like how she did when they were still everything to each other. But there was something in her face. Azzi couldn’t quite place it. She just seemed… colder. More guarded. As if she weren’t interested in jumping right back into old times. 

Azzi didn’t go to Dallas for Paige. It’s not like she orchestrated the trade herself. She didn’t have a choice. But she would be lying if she said Paige wasn’t the first thing her mind went to when she heard about the move.

Azzi didn’t care that she was about to be on the same side as the best player in the league. Nor did she care that she had just upended her life and moved halfway across the country. All she really cared about was if Paige would still look at her like she used to. 

She didn’t.

It wasn’t a look of hate. That, Azzi could’ve handled. Hate meant passion. It meant there were still feelings there. Good or bad.

But the look Paige gave her was worse. Empty. Distant. Cordial. Like she wasn’t going to let Azzi back through that door.

Azzi would be damned if she didn’t make sure it was locked for good.

So, she kept it light. Made a couple of jokes. Flirted a little bit. Nothing crazy. Just enough to stir the air between them. 

Azzi didn’t expect it to work. Not really. But after Paige looked away when she made that comment about moving in down the hall, she caught it. 

Paige’s face flickered. It was fast. The tiniest tug at the corner of her lips. The faintest glint in her eyes. 

But Azzi saw it. She always did. She knew that expression like the back of her hand. And it was all she needed to know that the door wasn’t locked like Paige would want her to believe. And that was dangerous. 

Because Azzi wasn’t here to pick a fight or to stir up old drama or try to win someone back who didn’t want to be. But if the wall Paige built had a crack big enough for Azzi to slip through, Azzi was going to find it.

She didn’t care how cold Paige wanted to act. She didn’t care how much distance she tried to put between them. Because Paige still felt something. Azzi saw it.

And if Paige thought she could stare her down with those flat eyes and polite words to make Azzi forget what they were?

She had another thing coming.

Azzi tried to pay attention to her tour. She tried to listen to the building manager, who was rambling about new carpeting and granite countertops. But all Azzi could think about was Paige. On those new carpets. On that countertop. Sweaty and breathless and unashamed.

Out of respect and out of fear of taking it too far too soon, Azzi didn’t sign the lease for Paige’s building. Instead, she went with one just as nice, less than a block away. Maybe down the hall was too much, but down the street was excusable. Dallas is only so big. 

As soon as she got her key, she hurried outside to her Uber, stressing about getting to practice on time. She was staring out the window when her phone buzzed in her lap. 

A call from Caroline, who Azzi still talked to regularly. She “kept her in the divorce” according to Carol. Unlike KK and Ice, who Azzi also still talked to here and there, but it was never the same. She answered Caroline without hesitating, pressing the phone to her ear, bracing for what she knew Carol was going to say.

“Hey, Azzi,” she said gently, like she was trying to feel out how this conversation was going to go.

“Hey, Car,” Azzi said.

Caroline paused. “So… did you… are you… in Dallas?”

Azzi could tell Caroline didn’t want to say it. She sighed. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, stunned. “And when do you see… she who shall not be named?”

Azzi paused and considered how much she should share. “I kind of already did.”

“What?” Caroline exclaimed. “So let me get this straight. Your flight got in at 11 last night, it’s like 10 AM now, you haven’t been to the facilities yet… but you still managed to see Paige?”

Azzi tilted her head. “Well, when you put it like that, it almost sounds like I stalked her.”

“Did you?” Caroline asked.

Azzi rolled her eyes, knowing the thought crossed her mind at least a few times over the last couple of days. “No, I did not stalk her. I ran into her a couple of hours ago while I was touring apartments.”

The line went quiet for a moment. “Azzi, please tell me you are not moving into the same building as Paige.”

Azzi scoffed at the lack of trust her friend had in her. “Car, I’m not stupid. I didn’t even end up touring that one.”

She could hear Caroline breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“I went with one right down the street instead,” Azzi said casually.

Caroline groaned. “Jesus Christ, Az. Now that might be a little stalkery. Do I need to be worried about you?”

Azzi sighed. “I mean… no. I swear I don’t have an agenda.”

Caroline was quick to call her out. “Bullshit. Azzi Fudd always has an agenda.”

Azzi bit her lip. “Okay, maybe when I saw her earlier, she wasn’t very friendly, so maybe I tried to get under her skin a little bit.”

There’s a deep breath on the other end. “What do you mean ‘get under her skin’?”

“I flirted. Just a little bit.”

Caroline sighed. The kind disappointed parents do when their kid does something stupid. “This is not going to end well. For either of you.”

“You should’ve seen her. All jaded and closed off. She was acting like I was a stranger,” Azzi said with a little more passion than she intended. 

Caroline paused. “Can you blame her?” she asked gently. “I’m not saying the fallout was either of y’all’s fault, but I know it was heavy. For both of you.”

“Still is,” Azzi added.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to know where we stood,” Azzi said honestly.

“And where do you stand?” Caroline asked.

Azzi took her time to think. “Right where we left it.”

As the Uber pulled up to the front of the gym, Azzi thanked Caroline for calling and hung up. She stepped out of the car and took a second. Just long enough to gather herself before walking into the storm that only she and Paige could feel.

Azzi didn’t get nervous about basketball. She never had. But walking into that gym? Paige’s gym? It was a different kind of nerves. The kind that have nothing to do with performance and everything to do with emotions. 

She took a deep breath, adjusted her face to hide the buzzing under her skin, and pushed open the doors.

Azzi got her key card and directions to the locker room from the lady at the front desk, and started the walk of shame. That’s what it felt like at least. Like crawling back to something she swore off so long ago. Walking right back into her own imminent destruction. If she had anything to say about it, it would be Paige’s too. 

And maybe that was selfish of her. To do everything in her power to reel Paige back in, knowing how it ended the first time around. But somewhere inside, Azzi didn’t care. Because she knew Paige was missing it. Missing her. And if she wasn’t, if Paige had really sealed up that part of herself… Azzi didn’t really want to think about that. 

The locker room was already loud and boisterous. There were two TikToks being filmed on opposite sides of the room, three different conversations being had in the same group, and one silent, stoic blonde point guard lacing up her shoes on the bench at her locker. 

Paige didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge Azzi in any way. Not that Azzi should be surprised. She made it clear she wasn’t interested in falling back into anything resembling what they were before. 

“Oh my god, look who it is!” a familiar voice called out in an annoyingly high-pitched tone.

Azzi’s gaze shifted from Paige to right next to her. It was KK Arnold with the biggest grin on her face.

“It’s Azzi Fudd!” KK said. 

Azzi smiled. “Hey, KK.” They pulled each other into a deep hug. The kind that says I missed you. 

KK pulled away first. “Okay, so boom. This is the locker room,” KK said, gesturing to the whole room. “I’m sure you know of all your teammates already, but just in case, that’s Dijonai, Lyss, Maddy…”

She tried to pay attention to KK going around the room listing off her new teammates, but Azzi’s mind drifted with her gaze. Back to Paige. There’s that same damn pull.

“... Cameron, Sydney, and–” She stopped herself when she landed on Paige. Almost said her name like she was just another teammate. Her tone dropped. “Well, you know her.” 

Understatement of the year. Because Azzi didn’t just know Paige. She memorized her. Every expression. Every mood. Every scar, visible and not. She could pick Paige’s laugh out of a crowded gym. Could still hear it when she wasn’t trying not to.

“Look,” KK said in a more serious tone. “I don’t know whose idea it was, but that’s your locker right there.” She pointed at the empty space right next to Paige’s.

Azzi laughed to herself. Of course. She looked at KK. “It’s really good to see you, KK. I’ve missed you,” she said with all sincerity.

KK returned the smile and put a hand on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s good to have my parents back together.”

Azzi raised her eyebrows.

“I mean–” KK stumbled. “Not like back together together. But like, back together in the same place. You know what I mean. Let me just shut up.” She jogged back to her own locker and left Azzi alone. 

She took her time settling in. Dropped her bag a little too loud. Peeled off her hoodie like she didn’t know Paige could see every motion in her periphery. Unlaced her sneakers slower than necessary. She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Not really. But if Paige was going to act like she wasn’t there, Azzi was going to make damn sure she felt her.

She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Paige.

The silence between them wasn’t quiet. It was the loudest thing in the room. The kind of silence that’s not absence, but pressure. Weight. Azzi could feel it in her jaw, in her hands, in her chest. It itched at her skin.

She leaned forward to tie her shoes, catching Paige’s posture from the corner of her eye. Tight, shoulders high, back rigid. Tense. Good.

“Not gonna say hi?” Azzi asked without looking at her.

Paige exhaled sharply through her nostrils. “Hi,” she said dryly. 

Azzi sat up, rolled her neck out once, then tilted her head toward her. “It’s that bad, huh?”

Nothing.

Azzi smirked, even though it kind of hurt. “You’re really doing that?”

Paige kept her gaze fixed across the locker room, voice low and even. “Doing what?”

Azzi raised both brows. “This thing where you act like we’ve never met.”

“We haven’t,” Paige said plainly. “Not this version of us.”

Azzi blinked. Okay. That one kind of stung. She laughed under her breath. “Damn. You always this welcoming to new teammates?”

Paige finally turned, just a little. Just enough to meet her eye. “Only the ones who know better.”

Azzi’s chest tightened, but she didn’t let it show. She refused to. “So, what? We’re just gonna be civil and awkward for the rest of the season?”

“I’m gonna hoop,” Paige said. “You do whatever you want.”

Azzi scoffed. “You know, you could be nice. Make this easy for both of us.”

“I don’t owe you easy.”

That one hit. Hard. Paige didn’t even say it with heat. It was calm, too calm. But it landed like a punch. Azzi looked at her for a second, just watched her, like maybe she could still find the Paige she used to know under all that armor.

Then the coach called for them to head to the court. Azzi grabbed her water bottle and stood. Paige moved like she didn’t care if Azzi followed or not. Like she didn’t care, period.

Azzi did. Badly. And that scared her more than anything. 

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

12 years ago – 2017 USA U16 Basketball Camp, Colorado Springs

Azzi didn’t think about much but basketball. Not in the way people expected her to. Not the eat, sleep, breathe type of way. For Azzi, it was much simpler. Show up, put in the work, let your game speak for itself.

And it worked for her. She made the team. Not that she was ever worried. Sure, all of the other girls were talented, but none of them got it. Except for that one girl.

Azzi had heard the name Paige Bueckers a couple of times. Some blonde girl from the Midwest with nasty handles and a mouth that never stopped running. Nothing to write home about. Until she saw her play.

It was day five of camp. Final cut day. It had been drills all week. Now, they were scrimmaging. A final test to see who could handle the pressure and who would choke. Paige seemed to handle the pressure better than anyone.

Azzi didn’t mean to watch the scrimmage before hers. She didn’t want it to get in her head. But when the gym erupted with a collective “Ooooooo,” Azzi had to look up.

Paige had just crossed two defenders at once, snapped the ball behind her back, and pulled up like she didn’t even need to think about it. Net. Then she turned and jogged back on defense with a grin like she already knew what she was about to do the next play.

Azzi sat down slowly, towel still around her neck. She told herself it was to rest. But really, she just... wanted to see what happened next.

And what happened was Paige scored. Again. And again. Five straight possessions. Midrange jumper. Steal and finish. Corner three. Stepback. Hesitation drive with the left.

She wasn’t just good. She took over. Like it was her game and everyone else was lucky to be in it.

Azzi didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. But she watched every move. She could tell a lot from the way someone played ball. It was the easiest way to read someone if you knew what to look for. Paige played loudly. She said something slick after every possession. She celebrated dramatically after every bucket. She was good, and she wanted everyone to know it. 

Azzi could see right through her. Decided it was probably best to stay away. She didn’t want to get involved with that kind of cocky.

But then the party happened.

And Paige walked across the ballroom like she’d been dared to. Said things that didn’t make any sense. Things Azzi couldn’t stop turning over in her head.

Kind of impossible to ignore. You move like you have everyone where you want them. I can’t stop staring. And the one that stuck the most: Because I wanted you to know.

Who says that? 

It was such a strange, unfiltered thing to say. Like Paige wasn’t trying to win points or look cool. Like she didn’t even care how it sounded. She just wanted the words out of her mouth and into Azzi’s hands.

It was audacious. And weird. And… fascinating. Because it wasn’t what Azzi expected. 

She found herself replaying it later, in between exhausting conversations that didn’t feel like they mattered. Just that one sentence, over and over. That look on Paige’s face when she said it. The calm in her voice. The way she wasn’t asking for anything in return.

It wasn’t a pickup line. It wasn’t a play. It was a breadcrumb. And Azzi—against her better judgment—wanted to follow it.

Azzi stood at the bar, eyes fixed on the lineup of sodas and garnishes like she was thinking hard about her options. Really, she was just stalling.

Too many conversations. Too many handshakes. Too many people asking her the same five questions with the same polite smiles, and she was starting to feel like a cardboard cutout of herself.

“Shirley Temple,” she said, finally catching the bartender’s eye.

He gave her a nod and turned to make it.

That’s when Paige slid in beside her.

“Not having fun?” Paige asked, like she already knew the answer.

Azzi didn’t look at her right away. Just exhaled through her nose. “I don’t think we’re supposed to.”

Paige smiled. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Azzi glanced over, finally, and caught the glint in her eye. The same look she had when she called for an iso. That I’ve already decided kind of look.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

They left through the side doors, where the night air was cool and quiet and smelled like the Colorado pines. Neither of them spoke for a minute, the hum of the party fading behind them. Paige walked a little ahead at first, then slowed until their shoulders matched.

“So,” Paige said eventually. “What do you do for fun?”

Azzi gave her a sideways look. “Basketball.”

Paige snorted. “No, I mean outside of basketball.”

“Then… nothing.”

“What? No way. You have to do something. Basketball’s just a game. It can’t be your whole life.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up toward the sky. “Can’t it?”

Paige was quiet.

Azzi kept going. “Basketball’s the one thing that always tells the truth.”

“What truth is there to tell?”

Azzi shrugged. “You can fake a lot of things. Fake being nice. Fake being confident. Fake like you belong. But on the court? You either show up or get exposed. You either have it or you don’t.”

Paige looked over at her. “You definitely have it.”

Azzi smirked. “So do you.” She let a beat pass. “If you could ever learn how to stop running your mouth.”

Paige smiled. “What’s wrong with a little commentary?”

“Nothing,” Azzi said. “It’s just distracting. All that noise. People start listening to you talk instead of watching your game.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “But maybe I want them to hear me.”

Azzi stopped walking. Turned slightly toward her. “That’s your problem.”

“My problem?”

“You’re good,” she said, and it came out steady, like fact. “For our age group? You’re great. But if you want to be one of the greats? I think you need a little ego check.”

Paige gave her a slow blink, like she wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Ouch. You figured all that out after a week?”

Azzi smiled, but there was a bite to it. “Like I said. On the court, everything shows.”

They walked a little farther, past a row of benches where the trees started to thin. The silence this time was different—less empty, more loaded.

“You think I’m dramatic, don’t you?” Azzi asked, not entirely teasing.

Paige tilted her head. “No. I think you’re…” She paused, like she was actually trying to find the word. “Everything.”

Azzi blinked. That one sat in her chest weird.

She turned to face her. “You’re weird, you know that?”

Paige grinned. “Why? ‘Cause I say what I think?”

“No,” Azzi said, “because you keep saying things like that. Things that don’t make sense. Things you’re not supposed to say out loud.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Paige said with a shrug. “I just call things as I see them.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “Is that your thing or something?”

Paige’s grin widened. “It’s like a little game.”

Azzi’s voice dropped slightly. “Well be careful, Bueckers. I don’t play games off the court.”

Paige stopped. Something flickered in her face. Not fear. Something else. Like she’d just lost a round she didn’t even know she was playing.

Azzi smirked and kept walking. It was quiet for a few seconds.

“You know,” Paige called from behind her. “I think we’re gonna be something one day. You and me.”

Azzi slowed her steps. Came to a stop. Turned her head just enough to see Paige in the corner of her eye. “Something?” she echoed.

“Yeah,” Paige nodded. “I don’t know what yet, but… one day, you’ll play my game.”

Paige’s words made Azzi pause. Not in her step, not in her face. But somewhere sharper. Somewhere quieter.

It made her curious. And curiosity was dangerous.

Somewhere inside, Azzi knew that she would play Paige’s game. Somewhere inside, she knew that she wanted to win. 

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

Present Day

Azzi’s first practice with the wings was awkward. Not knowing how her new teammates played, having to learn the staff’s names, trying to ignore the way her ex-everything was on the other side of the court already in it. 

Azzi watched her. Not obviously, but constantly. Paige barked plays with that familiar clipped authority in her voice, pointed teammates to the right spots, called switches before they even developed. She was reading the floor like a language only she understood. It was a painful reminder of who this team belonged to.

Paige had always been a natural leader. Loud. Commanding. But this was different. Paige didn’t play with the energy of a toddler and a slick comment waiting on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t just leading now. She was in full control. Grounded. Sharp.

Azzi had watched her run the floor at least a thousand times before. Never with this level of composure. There was a poise to her now. A maturity Azzi couldn’t quite pin. She had grown up. Grown into this. Traded in the cockiness for confidence. 

It made something twist in Azzi’s chest. Because this version of Paige was dangerous. Not just for their opponents, not just for the league, but for her. Because that composure didn’t make Paige any easier to read. It made her harder to stay away from. 

TWEEEEEET. Coach Leslie blew the whistle to regroup and separated guards from the forwards. She started rattling off pairings for 1-on-1 finishing drills. “Bueckers, Fudd. Over there.”

Azzi couldn’t help but smirk quietly to herself. She turned toward their assigned basket where Paige was already standing at the top of the key, ready to play defense. 

“Bet you’re glad to see me,” Azzi offered sarcastically.

Paige hardly looked at her. “Just check up.”

They didn’t speak for a few reps. Paige was calm. Stoic. It drove Azzi insane the way she had shut down beyond the point of letting Azzi see what was going on inside her head.

Paige finished strong off a spin move and didn’t say a word. 

Azzi caught the rebound, reset at the top. “You’re real quiet,” she said, voice soft now, almost a whisper. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “Is it because I know what you sound like in bed?”

That got her.

Paige’s eyes snapped up. “You’re sick.”

Azzi took a step closer, grinning. “You love it.”

“I really don’t.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well… you were always too gentle to appreciate it.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi went. Drove hard. But Paige was ready this time. She stepped in, planted, and blocked the shot clean.

Their bodies collided.

Azzi lost her balance. She would’ve gone down if Paige hadn’t caught her. One strong arm around her waist, hand gripping her side, steadying her with ridiculous ease.

They froze.

Paige’s breath was warm against her cheek.

Her voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“For the record,” she said, letting Azzi down slowly. “I’m not that gentle anymore.” She let her eyes wander down and back up. “Too bad you’ll never get to learn exactly what that means.”

And then she turned. Walked off like she hadn’t just rearranged Azzi’s entire heart.

Azzi stood there for a beat, still reeling, still catching up. Then she smiled. Because oh yeah.

Now Paige was playing the game. 

After practice, Azzi showered and changed in the locker room. She took her time like she was just soaking it all in, but she was actually just stalling. Waiting for Paige. Because she wanted to see her again. Because she didn’t want to go home without getting some stuff off her chest. 

She had finished getting her things together, and still no Paige. So, Azzi went back to the court. Because of course she stayed later to put up extra free throws. 

Other than the quiet bounce of Paige’s ball, the gym was silent. Paige was alone. She had her back to the door, and didn’t turn around when Azzi walked in. But Azzi could tell she knew she was there. She heard it in Paige’s breath.

Azzi stopped at halfcourt. Close enough to use a normal speaking voice, but not close enough to feel the pull. She thought about saying Hi or You played well today to break the ice. It didn’t exactly go well the first two times she tried, so she got straight to the point. 

“Do you remember when we met?” she asked.

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop shooting. Didn’t turn.

Azzi continued. “At camp. You came up to me at that party, and you told me that I had everyone right where I wanted them. That you couldn’t stop staring–”

“I remember,” Paige snapped, placing the ball on her hip. Like the memory was bitter. Then softer, “I remember everything.” She still didn’t turn around. 

Something inside Azzi ached at that. Because she could tell Paige was hurting. Probably worse than she was. She wanted to stop right there. Run away and leave well enough alone to spare them both the heartache, but she had to see this through.

“Then, you remember when you said that one day, I’d play your game,” Azzi said, matching Paige’s soft tone.

Paige didn’t offer a reaction. Not one that Azzi could see, at least. Just a sharp exhale through her nose.

Azzi swallowed. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything. Not how we left things. Not how I left you. But… it’s all I ever think about. How you were right that night. I did play your game.”

Still nothing.

“And, maybe I don’t have the right to say this either, but… baby, I’m still playing.”

Paige flinched at the word baby. Azzi knew she probably shouldn’t have said that, but she probably shouldn’t have said any of the other stuff either. 

Azzi shrugged. “I don’t even want to win anymore. I just want you to play, too,” she said quietly.

The air remained still. Not a sound or a movement in the entire gym. Azzi turned to leave.

“It’s been four fucking years,” Paige said, finally turning halfway around. Her voice was rough and fiery.

Azzi stopped, turning her head over her shoulder, looking at the ground. “I know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Paige turned around fully. “It’s been four years, two months, eight days, and 16 hours.”

Azzi felt all the air leave her body. She felt the ache. She was frozen. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just stuck staring back at those beautiful blue eyes. Eyes that looked soft and hard all at once. Like the way Paige used to look at her and the way she looked at her now were colliding.

Paige bit her bottom lip. “So, why? Why would you tell me that now?”

Azzi sat with the question for a moment. Let it hang in the air. Looked up to meet Paige’s eyes. Then, she realized she only had one answer.

“Because I wanted you to know.”

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (13)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

You walk back to your room with heavy steps, with your jaw tight, your shoulders tense, and every part of you buzzing with that specific kind of anger that doesn’t burst but simmers, low and constant and consuming.

You can’t stop thinking about him, can’t stop playing it all over in your head... the way he looked at you when it ended, the way he didn’t say anything, the way he just let it happen and walked away like it meant nothing, and no matter how many times you try to talk yourself out of it, no matter how much you try to rationalize it or blame the job or the stress or the timing, it always circles back to the same thing: you thought it meant something.

He made you feel like a fool for it. You tell yourself fuck him again and again, because it’s the only thing that helps, even if it doesn’t last more than a few seconds at a time.

Fuck him for walking away, fuck him for making you carry it alone, fuck him for not having the decency to say it to your face, and fuck him most of all for making you think you mattered to him in a way that no one else ever had.

You weren’t hoping for promises, you never wanted some fairytale ending where it all works out perfectly, you just wanted something said out loud so you could fucking breathe again instead of being stuck in this weird silence that feels worse than if he’d just said he didn’t care.

You were willing to fight for it, whatever it was, but he didn’t even give you the chance, and now all you have left is this bitterness, this loop of regret that keeps clawing at your chest every time you try to let it go. And by the time you reach the door, your hand is already pushing it open harder than necessary, your body moving ahead of your thoughts, and the second you step inside, you freeze because he’s there, standing in the middle of your room.

You don’t even hesitate when you speak, the words already climbing up your throat before your hand has the chance to push the door fully open. “What the fuck are you doing here—”

But he cuts you off, voice calm in that way that makes your chest clench even tighter. “Take the ring off.”

You stop and just stand there. Your mouth’s still half-open like you’re about to keep yelling, but your eyes drop to your hand and you just stare at it, stare at the silver band sitting there on your finger like it belongs. You forgot about it. Honestly, you did.

You’d been wearing it since the beginning of the mission, since the fake couple act, since you were pretending not to give a shit while slipping it on every morning. And now, after everything, it’s still there like some sick little reminder that none of it was real, or maybe worse, that it was.

You rip it off, fast, and without thinking, you throw it at him. “There. That’s all you fucking wanted, right?” you spat. “You can go now. Get out of my room.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

You scoff and laugh without humor. “Oh yeah? What, you wanted to make sure I remembered what a fucking joke the whole thing was?”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going before he can say anything. “You could’ve just talked to me,” you snap. “You could’ve said anything. I didn’t need some dramatic bullshit, but you couldn’t even look me in the eye after everything?”

There’s a flicker in his face then, but before you can place it, he actually fucking chuckles.

“I hate you, Simon,” you say, but your voice breaks in a way that makes you furious all over again.

“Good,” he says, stepping forward just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wouldn’t want our second marriage to start any differently.”

“Whatthefuck,” you snap, the words leaving your mouth in one breath. “You know what? I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you, I want you to get the fuck out of my—”

“You think this was easy for me?” he growls, stepping forward before you can finish.

“Oh, fuck off, Simon,” you bark, voice rising right with your heartbeat. “You don’t get to play victim when you’re the one who—”

“Let me speak, woman,” he snaps, actually raising his voice now, something raw in it, like it’s the first time he’s ever let the leash slip in front of you.

“I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want your fucking excuses—”

And then he’s on you without warning, or time to react. His hand wraps around your arm, and he’s pulling you forward, crashing his mouth onto yours so hard your teeth click together. You make a sound of protest that dies the second his tongue slips past your lips, and then you’re gripping his shirt, clutching at him even as you try to push him away. It’s messy, angry, and perfectly fucked up.

He only pulls back just enough to growl against your mouth, “You stubborn little woman. Let me speak.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, biting his lip before he can kiss you again.

“Oh, I will,” he breathes, voice low and filthy, and before you can say anything else, he’s got you pinned against the wall, his body flush against yours, one hand sliding up your side while the other braces by your head.

“You think I planned this?” he says, breathless between kisses, lips brushing over yours every time he speaks. “You think I wanted to walk away? I was fucking wrecked when they took you into surgery, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t fucking think, I thought you were gonna die and I didn’t even—didn’t even tell you how I felt because I was too much of a fucking coward—”

You shove at his chest, but your hands don’t leave him. “You ruined me,” you breathe, voice shaking. “You ruined me and then left me alone to clean up the fucking mess!”

“I ruined myself the second I let myself love you,” he bites out, mouth back on yours before either of you can say something crueler.

“You scared the living shit out of me, baby,” he continues, voice low and strained, forehead resting against yours as you both try to catch your breath.

You scoff, still breathless from all the yelling and kissing and crying, and shove at his shoulder weakly. “Yeah? Good. You deserved that after the way you treated me. You think you get to break my fucking heart and then come back like nothing happened?”

“I didn’t come back like nothing happened,” he says, still smiling, but it’s that tired kind of smile, the kind you’ve missed, the kind that only shows up when he’s not pretending to be someone colder than he really is. “I came back ready to finally do something about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?”

And then he does it. Just drops down onto one knee like it’s the most normal thing in the world and reaches into his pocket like he’s been planning this for weeks, and suddenly there’s a ring in his hand. A new one. Not the stupid fake one they gave you for the cover story.

“I got this after the medics said you were stable,” he says, eyes on yours, voice soft in a way that makes your chest feel too tight. “After they told me you were gonna pull through, I—I went out and bought it, because I knew if you woke up, I wasn’t gonna waste any more time. I wasn’t gonna let another fucking day go by pretending like we don’t belong together.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, because you didn’t expect this, not here, not like this.

“I think we’ve hated each other long enough,” he goes on, chuckling a little like he can’t believe he’s actually doing this. “I think it’s time we try the other thing. You know… the part where we get our stupid happy ending.”

Then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he looks up at you, and he says it.

“Will you marry me?”

You blink at him, stunned for a second, staring at the ring in his hand and the bruises on his jaw and the stupid way he’s still smiling even after everything you screamed at him.

And then you snort, arms crossing tight over your chest.

“No,” you say flatly. “Absolutely fucking not.”

His smile falters just a bit, but you see the way his eyes narrow, the way his head tilts.

“You’re gonna have to earn my hand in marriage, Riley,” you add, stepping closer and snatching the ring from his fingers, holding it up between you both. “You don’t get to ghost me for days and then waltz back in here with a speech and think that’s enough. Try harder.”

He laughs with that rough kind of laugh that shakes his whole chest, and stays on one knee like he’s not in a hurry to get up.

“Guess I better start groveling then.”

“Oh, you will,” you say, tucking the ring into your pocket like a little menace and turning away before he can even stand.

And behind you, you hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ, I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

Not yet.

But you don’t give the ring back either.

-

You don’t even remember agreeing to this trip. He just showed you the tickets, told you to pack your shit, and next thing you knew, you were sweating in a rental car that smelled a little, driving up a dirt road toward a cabin that apparently had “a view worth not killing each other over.”

You’re still not convinced.

He’s driving with one hand, the other resting lazily on your thigh like he’s trying to win points for being calm and domestic, but you’ve already caught him checking the GPS five times in the last ten minutes.

“We’re lost, aren’t we,” you say, not even bothering to make it sound like a question.

“I’ve got it handled,” he replies, like that means anything when you’ve passed the same crooked tree stump twice and your phone’s had zero signal since the gas station two hours back.

“Mhm. You said that the last time we were being shot at and ended up face-down in mud.”

He laughs through his nose, tapping the brakes as the road gets even rougher. “Yeah, but we lived. That’s a win in my book.”

You roll your eyes, dragging your hand down your face. “So the plan is survive first, figure out directions later?”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” he mutters, and there it is again, that little grin that drives you insane because it means he knows he’s pissing you off on purpose.

You don’t even argue this time. Just lean your head against the window, staring at the trees flying past and muttering, “Next time I plan the vacation.”

He hums. “You’d take us to some overpriced spa and yell at me for snoring during a massage.”

“I’d take us somewhere with actual roads and Wi-Fi.”

“Oh yeah, real romantic. You checking your emails while I die of boredom.”

You flip him off without turning around, and he squeezes your thigh in response, thumb brushing lazily against your skin.

And even though you’re hot, annoyed, possibly lost in the middle of nowhere, you’re still here, still next to him. Still breathing the same air, after everything.

The cabin is small, definitely old, and smells faintly like dust and pine, but the view from the porch is enough to shut you up for once. The trees stretch for miles, the sky is beautifully blue, and there’s not a single radio, rifle, or report in sight. Just the two of you, a half-unpacked bag tossed onto the couch, and the sound of him whistling low under his breath while he fumbles with the damn fireplace.

You stretch your arms over your head, sighing as you lean against the kitchen counter. “You want coffee or tea?” you ask, flipping open the cabinet door and squinting at the faded labels. Someone left a whole collection of mismatched mugs in there, one of them says #1 Dad, and it makes you smirk a little, for reasons you don’t even wanna unpack.

He grunts from the other side of the room, finally getting the fire going with a triumphant little “There we go, you bastard.”

Then he stands. “Tea,” he calls out. “As long as you’re not gonna drown it in sugar like last time.”

You scoff, flicking the kettle on. “Oh, come on. It was one time.”

“You put five sugars in one cup,” he says, walking over and leaning his weight into the counter beside you. “I thought you were trying to end me quietly.”

You shrug, not looking at him as you grab two mugs. “I thought I’d tortured you enough that day. Wanted to give your blood pressure something new to worry about.”

He laughs, and it makes your stomach twist just a little. You hand him his mug a few minutes later, nudging it into his chest until he takes it from you.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, deliberately syrupy.

You narrow your eyes. “Call me that again and I’ll spike yours with vodka next time.”

He sips, eyes locked with yours over the rim. “Worth it.”

You smack his arm lightly, and he just grins, setting the cup down and pulling you in by the waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re still not used to this version of him, the one who doesn’t flinch when you touch him first, the one who kisses your forehead just because, the one who doesn’t look over his shoulder every five seconds like something’s about to be ripped away again.

You wrap your arms around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder as you breathe him in. “We should ruin this vacation.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brow raised. “Ruin it how?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. Break something. Start a fire. Get banned from ever coming back.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Or,” he says, brushing his lips over yours, “we could just… enjoy it.”

You pretend to consider it for half a second. “Boring.”

He kisses you anyway.

The fire’s low now, just a flickering orange glow that casts shadows across the cabin walls, and the only sounds are the creaking of the old wooden floorboards and the soft rustle of sheets as he moves over you, slowly, as if he’s still convincing himself you’re really here.

He’s got one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your thigh, fingertips light over your skin, like even now he’s scared of pushing too hard and shattering whatever this is between you.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs against your neck, voice filled with something between lust and relief. “Every time I touch you, it’s like—I still think I’m gonna wake up and find out you didn’t make it.”

You exhale, hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until your lips brush his jaw. “I did,” you whisper, voice soft but sure. “I’m here, Simon.”

He presses his forehead against yours, his thrusts slow and deep, each one pushing the air out of your lungs in these broken moans. It’s not rushed, he’s not chasing a finish line. He’s savoring you, devouring you, and letting himself feel everything.

“You don’t get it,” he breathes out. “Thought I lost you for good. And now I—fuck, baby—I can’t get enough of fucking my wife.”

You snort softly, breath hitching as his hips roll deeper, lazy and precise. “Technically,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m your ex-wife now.”

He pauses for just a second, chest rising against yours with a short laugh, and then he dips his head, kissing you hard. “Not for long.”

You grip his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as he picks up the pace just a little, but still slow enough that it feels like an apology.

Then he says against your lips. “You wrecked me, you know that?”

“You deserved it,” you whisper, and he groans at that, not angry, just desperate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper now, each stroke more hungry than the last, “and I’d let you ruin me again and again if it means I get to keep you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower down your neck, over your collarbone, anywhere he can reach like he’s making a map out of your body, just in case he ever forgets how it feels to love you like this.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, and this time, it’s not a demand. It’s a promise. A quiet vow in the dark, spoken into your skin as if he’s stitching the words into your bones.

And you don’t say anything this time. You just wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him impossibly closer, and let him say everything else without ever stopping.

-

The next few months aren’t some perfect fairytale, but they feel more real than anything you’ve had in years. You still argue about laundry, about the way he leaves his boots by the door, about how you always forget to turn off the bathroom light, but you also laugh more.

You find comfort in the routine, in the way he always pulls you closer when he thinks you're asleep, in the way he starts keeping sugar in the cupboard now even though he swore he never would. You go grocery shopping together and somehow end up bickering in every aisle, but he always lets you win, even when you're wrong, just because he likes the way you smile when you get your way.

He still looks at you like he can't believe you're real, like he’s memorizing every part of your face in case he loses it again. And sometimes, when you catch him doing it, you roll your eyes and say, “You’re being weird again,” but you don’t really mind. You like it more than you’ll ever admit.

It’s not always smooth, and there are still moments when it hits you, what you went through, what it almost cost you, but then he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth or pull you into his lap while you’re pretending to work, and it reminds you that this, whatever it is, is worth it.

And the proposal doesn’t happen in some dramatic way like the movies would’ve liked. Actually, the kitchen smells faintly like burnt garlic because you forgot the heat was on, and there’s tomato sauce on the floor because he knocked the pan off the counter while trying to pull you in for a kiss.

He’d asked a few more times since that night in your room, and each time was more ridiculous than the last. Once while you were brushing your teeth. Once when he caught you halfway asleep on the couch. And once, half-laughing, half-serious, when you yelled at him for finishing the last of your favorite snack.

Every time, you rolled your eyes and said something like “nope,” or “try harder,” or “marriage sounds like a trap.” He never pushed, never got upset, and just kept looking at you like he already knew the answer would change eventually.

So now, standing barefoot on the sticky tile floor, both of you half-covered in sauce and flour, something just clicks.

You’re laughing, breathless from the mess and the way he keeps wiping his hands on your shirt instead of a towel, and when your eyes meet, he stops. You don’t say anything at first. Just reach into the drawer next to the sink, where you’d kept the ring since that first night.

You press it into his hand without a word, and his eyes go wide. He stares at it, then at you, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Do it,” you say, just barely above a whisper.

His hands shake a little when he drops to one knee, not out of nerves, but because his heart’s in his throat and his eyes are stinging and he’s trying so fucking hard not to let it show.

“Baby,” he says, voice low and shaky, “will you marry me?”

You nod, slow and certain. “Yeah,” you say. “I will.”

And the way he holds you after that, the way his arms wrap tight around your waist like he never wants to let go, the way he buries his face against your stomach and just stays there for a second too long, feels like the beginning of your happy ending.

-

The second time you got married, you did it right.

Without a courthouse or rushed vows. This time, it was real. It was loud and messy and beautiful in all the ways that mattered. You stood outside in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by the people who mattered most—some in suits, some still hungover from the night before. The flowers were crooked in their vases, the playlist glitched halfway through the ceremony, and Soap cried more than anyone else, even though he swore he wouldn’t.

You wore white. A dress that made you feel like yourself. Hair half-up because you couldn’t be bothered with too much fuss. And Simon stood at the end of the aisle, in a dark suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous and even more like home all at once. He didn’t smile, not the way people usually do, but his eyes never left yours, and his hands shook just slightly when he held them out to you.

The vows were short and a little clumsy in places, because neither of you were good with words when it really mattered. But you didn’t need a perfect speech to tell him you’d walk through hell for him, again and again, if it meant ending up back here.

And when it was over, when the rings were on and the kiss was done and the crowd was cheering, you leaned in, close enough that only he could hear you, and whispered, “I love you, Mr. Riley.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand found your waist, his forehead touched yours, and he said it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you, Mrs. Riley.”

You didn’t even make it to the end of the night before dragging him away, laughing as you kicked off your heels and told him he looked better out of that suit anyway.

Your story wasn’t easy, but it was yours, and in the end, that’s what mattered most.

THE END

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[applejuice382]

Listen, I don’t really buy into the effeminate Stiles thing, but I DO buy into the thought that everyone thinks he’s just a little too pretty.

Like he’s a teenage guy that wears plaid shirts and converse literally everyday and clearly has zero interest in any sort of fashion. He’s not the cutesy shy type of nerd who’s quiet and small. He’s canonically a Star Wars, MMORPG, comic book, info-dumping-the-most-random-shit-you’ve-ever-heard sort of nerd, who’s loud and takes up space. He’s not wearing flower crowns, he’s cracking jokes with people he met on the internet over Skype and building a Death Star Lego set while drinking Mountain Dew into god awful hours of the morning.

So I don’t really have much interest in stories where Stiles is super feminine and frolics through meadows in white sundresses. That just doesn’t feel like Stiles to me.

But I do think Stiles is the type of guy that’s sort of pretty — sort of really pretty, actually, and has Stilinski always looked like that in the sunlight? Not in a way that’s immediately show-stopping in the halls, but in the way that the longer you look at him, the prettier you think he is.

The type of pretty where someone will be in the stupidest argument of their life with him, and somewhere in the middle their mind just sort of… trails off. Because has Stiles always looked like this? Has he always had such a slim face with nice angles and good proportions and the definition of doe eyes? And then Stiles will say something stupid and the spell will break, but now they just can’t see his face the same way again.

The type of pretty where a person won’t notice it for years, even when they pass by him daily in the halls, but one day they catch him staring out the window in class and their mouth goes a little dry. Not enough to fall head over heels instantly or something, but enough that they always look at him a little differently after that.

The type of pretty where Stiles is begging classmate for their homework, or a teacher for an extension, or a deputy to not tell his dad about something, and it’s stupid and they’re unimpressed and… then they get a good look at those big brown eyes with lashes that are criminally long for a guy, and they find themselves sort of caving without meaning to.

And Stiles has no idea.

He’s not really into girly stuff so it just doesn’t ever occur to associate himself with the word “pretty.” He just knows he’s kind of lanky and average height and there’s nothing particularly striking about him. He knows he’s uncoordinated on a good day and into hobbies that land him square in loser territory. He knows he’s not what most girls (or guys) picture when they think of their ideal type.

So he’s oblivious when he gets a little too close and someone stares a half-beat too long, or someone shoots him a second glance, or someone makes a begrudging show about it but still hands him their notes.

Feminine isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe Stiles, but I do think he’s subtly pretty until it’s suddenly not subtle anymore.

(((The exception to this, of course, is Derek. Who noticed. Who’s always noticed. Who’s been so fucking hyperfixated on how fucking pretty Stiles is from the very first second he laid eyes on him. Who loses his fucking mind every time Stiles looks up at him with those big brown eyes, and Derek becomes nothing more than a frothing animal in a man’s body who would give him anything and everything Stiles could ever for)))

[beomiracles]

𝖳𝖮𝖳𝖠𝖫𝖫𝖸 𝖳𝖮𝖶𝖤𝖣 태현

When your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, there's nothing you can do but pray someone comes by to save your day. Luckily for you, Kang Taehyun knows a thing our two about cars, and women.

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

mechanic!taehyun x damsel in distress reader (f) 𐔌 💋 𐦯 explicit content, bimbo!reader (kinda), taehyun knows a lot about car and is sexy. dom!taehyung & sub!reader, reader is lowk a lil pervy, fingering, unprotected sex + pullout, kissing, kinda very public sex but no one sees...

彡 wc 3.5k

This was just your luck. 

Your car is broken, no like actually broken. A thick layer of smoke reeks from the front of it, the foul smell making your nose wrinkle in disgust. The vehicle refuses to operate forward and you're left standing on the side of the vacant road like an idiot. With your hand on your hips you peer down at the chunk of metal before you. The shiny red paint glares back at you, and you send it a mocking grimace. 

“Stupid piece of junk!” 

The point of your heel jams into the front bumper in an attempt to relieve your anger. But it only backfires and you hiss in pain as you hobble backward one leg. “Fuck”, you groan whilst clutching your throbbing foot with your hands. 

At this point you’re practically boiling with frustration. At your wits end you walk back toward your still open car door, fishing out the sparkly purse from the passenger seat as you rummage around for your phone. 

“This is going to cost me half a fortune…” You murmur as you tap in your passcode, acrylic nails slamming harshly against the screen. The search for a service firm proves futile as you’re met with a ‘no service’ indicator. — “You have got to be joking?” Fingers curling around the phone, you resist the urge to just throw it right into the forest waiting either side of you. Stranded on the side of the road with no way to call for help, great. 

Then, as if the world could not have made its ill intent toward you any clearer, the sky opens up and rain begins pouring down. It’s cold, the lack of winds making the water fall heavy on your head rather than whipping your face. 

You weren’t one to cry, especially not over things like these, given you were used to shit going south. So today shouldn’t even have come as a surprise, but as you stand all alone — with no service and not as much as a single car in sight, you begin to lose hope. The first tear slides down your cheek, smudging your mascara as you blink away the rain droplets that clung to your lashes. 

With a small shiver you wrap your arms around yourself, and just as you’re about to head back into your car — a noise from down the road catches your attention. You turn on your heel, squinting through the downpour, you can make out headlights in the distance. Oh my god you don’t think you’d ever felt this relieved before. 

Giving a dramatic wave of your hand, you try and grab the attention of whoever was behind the wheel. Thankfully they seem to have noticed you and the large pick-up comes to a stop by the side of the road. You swallow as the door to the driver’s seat opens, arms wrapping a little tighter around yourself as your heart pounds in your chest — for all you knew you could’ve attracted a serial killer just about now. 

But the man who climbs out of the truck doesn’t look at all like a convicted felon, thank god. In fact he might just be the opposite. Weaning baggy navy jeans, held together by a leather belt that sat snug around his waist — your eyes shamelessly trail over his broad chest, the white t-shirt clinging to his frame as the cotton quickly soaks up the rain. 

He approaches you with long and determined strides, and you blink as you realize you would have to explain your downright embarrassing situation to him. 

The sound of his heavy shoes echo against the road, each step drumming in your ears. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a small silver bracelet hanging delicately from his wrist. You swallow, berating yourself for getting so distracted when there was a serious problem before you — but god, the solution might just be even bigger. 

Snap out of it. You shake your head, clearing your throat when he comes to a stop before you. His musky cologne invades your senses, mixing with the fresh rainfall. You inhale, lips parting as you fumble for words. 

“Car trouble?” He asks, his voice a low drawl as his dark eyes flicker over your shoulder and to your car, still stubbornly passing smoke from underneath its hood. You nod, a sheepish expression creeping onto your face, “Yeah… I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

Truth to be told, you knew absolutely nothing about cars, aside from where to fill gas and how to flick on the windshield wipers. So to say that you were lost, would be a grave understatement. 

The man nods, already moving past you to approach the vehicle. “I’ll have a look”, he says, though pausing as he turns to you, “If you’ll let me, of course.” 

Jesus fuck he has got to stop talking to you in that voice, or else that car won’t be the only thing malfunctioning. You stammer at his question, dumbfoundedly nodding, “Please do… I hardly even know how to get the damned thing open”, you say as you motion toward the car hood. 

He chuckles, the laugh refreshing to hear in your bleak predicament. “Don’t worry about it”, he huffs, “There should be a small lever for you to pull just by the door of the driver’s seat.”

You rush to follow his instructions, squatting down by said door, you become acutely aware of the ridiculously short skirt you had thrown on today. Oh screw it, he seemed like a gentleman, was probably too busy mulling over how much of an idiot you were to even pay attention to your choice of outfit. 

Your eyes scan for the lever for a moment, finally finding it as you reach out to wrap your fingers around it. When pulled down, the car makes a small panging noise which makes you panic for a moment. You stand back up just in time to see the man lift the hood of the car. Your eyes might have lingered on the way his arms bulged just slightly under the white t-shirt as he fixed the hood in place. 

Get a grip, you think to yourself as you carefully step beside him.Peering down at the engine compartment, you’re met with a maze of confusion labels, symbols and constructions you had never even seen before. It felt as though you were actively losing brain cells trying to figure out where one thing ended and another began. 

The man to your left, on the other hand, seems completely in his element as he leans forward to get a closer look. “You seem to know your cars”, you murmur in a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood. The man hums, the corner of his lip twitching as his gaze fixes intently on something. 

“I’ve had my fair share of projects”, he then says. 

You nod, rocking back and forth on your heels as you try to ignore the rain that wouldn’t seem to ease up. “So what’s your verdict then?” You ask, glancing down toward a small box where the smoke seemed to be coming from. 

The man pauses for a moment, his attention lingering on the smoke for a moment. “Well you won’t be driving this thing home today, I can tell you that much.” 

“You’re kidding?” You groan, dragging a frustrated hand down your face, not caring for how your makeup looked at this point. The man chuckles as he reads your expression, arms folded across his chest as he regards you for a moment. — “You think it’s funny but there’s no service out here”, you mutter as you straighten out your soaked skirt. 

He glances around the trees surrounding you, the road seeming endless in both directions. “You don’t say”, he muses to which you suppress a groan. 

“Tell you what”, he then says, the low drawl of his voice making you turn your attention back on him, “I’ll see what I can do, why don’t you wait inside the car? You’ll catch a cold out in this weather dressed like that”, he throws a glance down your skimpily dressed body, one eyebrow raising slightly as he does. 

You flush at his remark, swallowing down the embarrassment as you nod. “I… alright.” 

It felt wrong to be seated inside the car, on a comfortable leather seat and with a roof under your head all while the poor stranger you had met a mere twenty minutes ago slaves away by the engine compartment of the vehicle. But he had made it clear that he was alright, and made no complaints as he worked. 

Your fingers tap anxiously against the steering wheel, chewing on your bottom lip as you pray whatever he was doing would somehow magically fix your car. He’d gone to retrieve tools from his pick-up truck, returning with a heavy box effortlessly carried in one hand, something that only made him look all the more appetizing in your eyes. 

By now you were sure at least fifteen minutes had passed, and for every second you spent inside the guilter you felt. 

Poking your head out of the open window, you call out to him. “Hey, you never told me your name?” 

The man looks up from where he’d been so intently meddling with something close to the battery. “Taehyun”, he says, lips pulling into a small grin. Your chest flutters strangely and you hold off on a smile as you lean back against the driver’s seat. 

Another ten minutes go by, and just as you were about to tell him to give it a rest, the hood of your car slammed shut. You jump in your seat, startled by the sudden noise and before you know it, Taehyun appears by your window. “Try starting it”, he says whilst motioning toward the key, still plugged in. 

You nod, fingers carefully reaching out to twist it. The car comes to life with a roar, taking you by sunrise as you gasp. “Oh my god, what did you do?” You turn to him, face painted with bewilderment and admiration. 

Taehyun chuckles, beckoning you to follow him outside. You eagerly comply as you climb out of the car, this time making sure to unlock the hood on your way. — He opens the engine compartment up once more, and you see no difference from how it had looked just half an hour ago, but you still follow the line of Taehyun’s hand intently. 

He begins explaining what had been the issue and how he’d resolved it — though he urged you to take the car in for repair as soon as you got back to town. You nod along to his every word, but the sound of his voice becomes background noise when your eyes fall on his chest. By now his white t-shirt was completely soaked through from the heinous weather, the fabric clinging to his muscular body like a second layer of skin. The material had become practically see through, leaving next to nothing to your wild imagination. 

You swallow, teeth subconsciously pulling your bottom lip between them as you watch the way his arms flex with every move he makes. 

Taehyun lets the hood fall back into place, pushing down on it once to make sure it stays shut before he turns to you. Quickly pulled from your trance, you blink up at him. “I– I can’t even begin to thank you enough for this I… I’ll make sure to compensate you somehow I just need to–” 

You’re cut short by Taehyun promptly shaking his head. “It’s really nothing”, he says whilst dragging his fingers through his wet hair. 

“No seriously, I want to repay you”, you insist. Taking another step forward without thinking twice, you almost miss the way his eyes immediately drop to your chest before darting back to your face. But only almost. 

“There must be something I can do.” The proposal, while not inherently dirty, still makes his throat bob when he swallows — and you’re not late to catch it. The rain is still pouring over the two of you, its sound near deafening as it drowns out the rest of the world. 

Sure you could pay him in cash as soon as you got back to town — but there was something entirely else that had been on your mind since he’d first stepped out of that truck. Your hand is light on the back of his neck, acrylics digging into his skin ever so slightly as you pull him toward you. 

You hesitate for only a moment, but when you see his gaze flicker down to your parted lips — you knew you had him right where you wanted. 

The kiss doesn’t start out slow, no, you go straight for the kill. Taehyun’s mouth crashes against your own, his strong arms immediately wrapping around your body as he pulls you flush against his chest. His tongue slides against your own, saliva mixing with the sweet taste of rain, the sloppy sounds of the kiss echoing in your ears. His body feels contrastingly hard against yours, and your free hand slides down his torso — feeling every crevice of skin through the soaked fabric of his shirt. 

You gasp when he suddenly hoists you into his big arms, practically slamming you down onto the hood of your car. The metal is cool against your naked skin, sending shivers down your spine. Legs parting on their own accord, you make space for him between them — urging him closer. 

His hands are on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he deepens the kiss. You moan against him when his teeth capture your bottom lip, pulling it into his own mouth greedily. No words are exchanged, you’re not sure they’re even needed with the way Taehyun’s hips press against yours, hard cock straining through the damp fabric of his jeans. 

Your hands slip inside his shirt, roaming his chest — nails scraping along his defined abs as you feel him tense under you, a low groan rumbling deep in his throat as he gives your lip an almost bruising bite. 

The short skirt you wear slides up your thighs, Taehyun’s fingers hooked around the fabric as he tugs on it. You squirm under his touch, legs spreading even wider as he brushes against the hem of your panties, pulling on them as he makes them snap back against your skin. You can feel his smirk against you, and it only widens when his middle finger slides over your throbbing cunt through the thin material. 

“More”, you gasp into the kiss, nails clawing at his chest with demand. 

Taehyun, like the gentleman he is, doesn’t deny you what you want. Fingers pushing your panties to the side as his thumb circles your clit softly — every movement of his big hand is slow and deliberate. Two fingers prod at your fluttering hole, teasing you just enough to have you whine onto his tongue before he pushes them inside. 

He mutters out a curse under his breath as he feels your cunt clamp down around him. “You’re greedy”, he pants when he breaks apart from the kiss, his forehead resting against your own. You can only nod, eagerly licking your lips as you grind down onto his hand — desperate to feel more of him, all of him. 

“Not your fingers…” You gasp as your nails move from his chest to his back, digging into his skin harshly, “Want you.” 

Taehyun chuckles, soft breath caressing your hot face as he slows his pace, “Of course you do.” 

You’re about to protest and tell him to hurry the fuck up when his hand suddenly retreats from between your legs. The sound of his belt buckle being undone follows a moment later and your eyes fly straight to his jeans as he unzips them. You swallow down the saliva in your mouth, nearly drooling at the sight of him. 

Clearly not oblivious to your stare, Taehyun languidly strokes himself — hard cock already slick with arousal that makes your stomach twist into knots. “You’ve been staring at me”, he hums, groaning slightly when his hand squeezes around himself, “Bet you’ve been wanting this all along, hm?” 

You stupidly nod, not caring for how desperate you looked as your gaze trains to the flushed tip of his cock. “I do… I do…” You practically whine, pushing your hips forward in an attempt for him to finally act on both of your desires. 

The amused expression on his face only makes your cunt clench with unfulfilled want and you have to physically restrain yourself from grabbing hold of him yourself. 

Taehyun’s hand is firm on your hip as he holds you in place, the other one still wrapped around himself as he slides his cock along your puffy folds. “Patience..” He exhales with a soft grunt as he pushes inside, “Is virtue.” 

His words hardly register when you feel him where you’d been craving all along — cunt fluttering uncontrollably around him. By now you’re almost certain that you’ve left permanent marks on his back, even so, Taehyun didn’t seem to mind as he buries himself as far as your cunt would allow, cock twitching at the way your body pulls him in. 

“No kidding”, he huffs, face buried in the crook of your neck as his hips set a slow pace, “Your pussy’s practically begging for me.” His voice is that same low drawl, the one that had made you feel so utterly stupid when he was explaining car stuff to you — and this time around was no different. 

“F-Faster”, you choke, desperately trying to meet his thrusts in an attempt to satiate the burn between your legs. Sure, he was sexy and all — but you don’t think you’d survive a moment longer like this, you need more. 

Taehyun wordlessly complies, and you yelp when he pushes you down onto the hood of the car. The persistent rain hits you right in the face, making you squint as you try to focus on his face from where he hovers above you. The hand previously on your hip now rests on your stomach, holding you down as the other one keeps himself upright against the car hood. 

“You’re so demanding”, he drawls, but there’s an almost affectionate undertone to the statement — one that makes you clench around him. “That’s alright”, he then adds, “I’m happy to give you what you want.” 

His lips are on your neck, trailing a warm and wet path up your jaw before he reconnects with your own lips. The kiss is just as hungry as the last, if not more. His thrusts go from slow and teasing to fast and determined. The hand on your stomach slides lower, fingers brushing against your clit as he makes you squirm beneath him. 

“Please, please..” You gasp, pawing at his back as you struggle to stay still. You nearly whine when he stops touching you, his calloused palm grazing your naked thigh as he hooks one of your legs around his waist, automatically pulling him deeper. — “Anything you want”, he groans against your lips. 

Once he’s sure your leg will stay locked around his hips, his hand moves back to lavish your needy cunt with attention — thumb brushing over your clit as he feels you clench around his cock. Your orgasm hits less than ten seconds later, eyes screwing shut as your back arches off of the car hood. 

Your weak moans are swallowed by the kiss he gives you, tongue sliding into your mouth as he savors the way you pulsate around him. “That’s perfect”, he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse — strained with the effort of holding back as he twitches inside of you. 

You part from the kiss as he lets you regain your breath, your chest heaving with each shaky inhale and exhale you take. The rain, though still pouring down on you, feels like a distant memory by this point — all you hear and see is Taehyun, his rough yet gentle hands all over your body as he soothes you with kisses to your skin. 

“You’ll lie perfectly still for me, won’t you?” He rasps as he carefully unhooks your leg from his waist. You dumbfoundedly nod, bleary eyes searching his face when you feel him pull out of you. 

Part of you wants to prop yourself up into a sitting position, desperate to see all of him. But your limbs protest against the idea, and you remain on top of the car. — Taehyun still hovers above you, his face inches from your own, dark brows drawn together and his jaw slack as he jerks himself off. 

You watch the way his arms bulge with each stroke of his hand. His breaths come in uneven and ragged pants, eyes screwing shut as he cums all over your thighs with a strangled groan. His head drops to your shoulder, lips leaving soft kisses across your wet skin as the rain above continues to bat against your joint bodies. — After a few moments he speaks up, his voice husky against your neck, “I’ll give you a ride back home.” 

You hum, fingers still trailing along his back as you let your eyes drift closed, “Mhm… Will you stay for dinner?” 

He smirks against your shoulder, “Yeah.” 

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[my-beloved-idol]

K-POP DEMON HUNTERS HEADCANONS ✦ WHEN THEY REALISE THEY ARE IN LOVE WITH YOU

includes: saja boys & huntrix.

✦ JINU

He’s trying to explain something —probably messing it up— and you’re just sitting there with that patient smile, nodding like he’s not an absolute disaster. And when you gently correct him, or make a little joke to ease his embarrassment, he just stares. For longer than usual. Something weird flips in his chest. You’re so you. So much brighter than he ever expected someone could be in his life. And he realizes, all at once, that you could break his heart with one sentence —and he’d let you. That’s when he knows.

✦ ABBY

He’s flirting with you—obviously. Abby’s always been a tease: leaning against doorframes like he’s posing for a photoshoot, saying stuff like “You miss me, babe?” even when you’ve only been apart for an hour. It’s a game to him. A sport. He’s good at keeping it cool. Until one day, you laugh at one of his dumb little lines —not the flirty ones, but something dorky he said under his breath. And you look at him like he matters. That’s what breaks him. For a second, he forgets to smile. His eyes just soften, and something in his chest clenches painfully. He tries to play it off, ruffling your hair and smirking, but inside? He’s spiraling. Shit. I think I actually... like them. No. Worse. I think I’m already theirs.

✦ ROMANCE

He thinks it’s just a crush. A little thing. Something harmless and sweet. But then you do something dumb and domestic—like hand him a napkin before he even realizes his food’s messy, or fix his necklace because it’s slightly off—and his brain just melts. You treat him like he’s yours without even realizing it. Like it’s natural. Like he belongs by your side. And that’s when it clicks: he doesn’t want anyone else doing that for him. He doesn’t want you doing it for anyone else. His heart stutters. His smile falters. And for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s ready to fall this hard. But too late. He already did.

✦ MYSTERY

It happens so quietly he almost misses it. You're sitting beside him, close but not touching, just existing in the same soft silence he’s always found so comforting. And then your head drops on his shoulder. No words. No dramatic moment. Just... trust. And warmth. And peace. He doesn't flinch. He doesn’t breathe. He just closes his eyes and lets it settle in his chest: this heavy, aching feeling that he never wants this to end. Not the silence. Not your presence. Not this quiet kind of love that crept up on him like fog. And he thinks, If this is love, I want it. Just like this.

✦ BABY SAJA

It hits him when you sass him back. Most people either get flustered or annoyed by his constant sarcasm, but not you. You throw it right back, sharper, funnier, better. One night you both end up laughing so hard over something stupid that you’re in tears, and he pauses. Just stares. There’s this slow, creeping warmth crawling up his spine, and for once he can’t think of a single comeback. Is this what it feels like? he wonders. Is this... me catching feelings? Ew. He rolls his eyes at himself, groaning dramatically, but deep down he knows —he’s absolutely, hopelessly gone for you. And worst of all? He kinda loves it.

✦ ZOEY

She’s the one who falls first. Fast and hard. But she doesn’t realize she’s in love until you show up to her dancing session with snacks and a little note that says “don’t forget to eat, champ.” It’s stupid. Small. But it hits her like a freight train. Her cheeks turn pink, her hands shake, and she has to bite her lip to stop the stupid smile. Is this what it feels like to be taken care of? she wonders. To be truly seen? From that moment on, she can’t look at you without her heart doing flips. And even though she’s bubbly and cheerful on the outside, inside she’s screaming: I’m so screwed. I’m in love.

✦ MIRA

Mira doesn’t do feelings. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself. She likes things she can control —routines, plans, strategies. You? You’re chaos. You make her laugh when she’s mad, bring her flowers just because, and hug her like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It infuriates her. Until one day, you say something simple like, “I’m proud of you.” And it breaks her. She swallows hard, looks away, and pretends it didn’t just become the most important thing anyone’s ever said to her. That night, she stares at the ceiling and thinks: Oh. No. I love them. God help me, I really do.

✦ RUMI

She’s chill. Always has been. But being with you brings out this softness she didn’t know she had. One afternoon, you're both lying in the sun, sharing headphones, not saying much. You doze off beside her, completely relaxed, trusting her completely. And she looks at you like you hung the stars. That’s when it hits. Not like a jolt, but like waves against the shore—slow, steady, inevitable. Her fingers hover over yours. She doesn’t even have to say it out loud to know. You’re it. You’re her person. She exhales, slow and quiet, and lets the feeling settle into her bones. She’s never felt more certain.

[yeonayearns]

You thought you wouldn’t get such sweet and intimate aftercare from your roommate, Sukuna, but oh honey how you were very much wrong.

Wrinkled bedsheets, pillows on the floor, the lingering smell of passion and desire, messy hair, the sound of heavy breaths, and his playlist still playing in the background.

You couldn’t believe it, your roommate has almost fucked the soul out of your body. How many rounds did you two take? Two, three, four? Shit, you couldn’t count anymore. How can you even count when you can’t even think well anymore?

Thought what he said about fucking you until you can’t think about anything else anymore was a joke? Fuck no, he was serious, and you underestimated him.

Now you’re stuck in bed, body so fucking sore that you couldn’t move without your muscles aching.

That’s when you realized, where did Sukuna go? Did he leave you alone to deal with the soreness alone?

“Fucking jerk, knew he was a playb—“ You got interrupted as the door opened, revealing a nonchalant Sukuna with a face so casual like he didn’t turn your limbs into jelly!

“What’s with that look on your face, woman? Thought I’d leave you to deal with this?” He said, reaching out for the water jug and poured a glass of water for you.

You didn’t answer, instead, you took the glass of water and chugged the whole glass down. It made him amused by the sight.

“You’re like a feisty cat who’s been provoked.” He smirked, pouring another glass of water and handing it to you. “Here, drink up, you must be dehydrated after getting all creampied inside.”

You spat out your drink after he finished that sentence, why did he have to mention that right now?!

You shot a glare at him, “Of course I’m dehydrated, I nearly blacked out due to your soul crushing thrusts!”

He chuckled, then he suddenly stood up and swiftly held you in his arm. Yes not plural form, he was holding you using just one arm.

“Gah! Let me go! I’m filthy and sweaty and—“

“That’s why I’m taking you to the bathroom to give you a bath, woman.”

You tried to protest, trying to wiggle out of his grasp, but you know him, he wouldn’t even budge.

“I’m gonna take care of you tonight, and that’s final. Got it?” He turned on the water, making sure it was the right temperature that you prefer.

“Ugh fine then..”

“That’s my favorite girl.” He kissed you on the forehead, lathering the shampoo in his hands as he started to massage your scalp.

God Sukuna can be such a brute, but when it comes to you, he’s a complete softie, it’s unbelievable.

All rights reserved, © YeonaYearns 2025-2026

DO NOT STEAL NOR REPOST.

[riki-riks-chick]

N.RK | Boyfriend Head Cannons

these are my head cannons for riki as a boyfriend <3

1. holding hands

he probably doesn't enjoy pda much, but hand holding is okay. like if you go to lunch with friends, he's holding your hand beneath the table or drawing random shapes into your palm while pretending to listen to conversations.

i can also see him enjoying playing with your hands in general. at home if you're both watching a movie together he's holding your hand, twisting your rings, or comparing hand sizes.

2. back hugs

i feel like he's a fiend for both giving and receiving back hugs. if you're doing anything in the kitchen, like baking something or making him food, he's attached to you like a koala the entire time.

he doesn't talk a whole lot when he's not goofing around so i feel like gentle touches and connections like a back hug are his way of showing you he's there emotionally and physically.

3. phone calls

riki will sit silently with you all day, enjoying your presence and gentle interactions, but if you guys are apart? best believe he's calling you or asking you to facetime him.

if you haven't seen each other for awhile he'll tell you how his day went, going into all the little details because he knows you'll ask if he doesn't. and he makes sure to ask you how your day went too, consoling you if your day was long or tiring. and of course you guys talk for hours or until one of you fall asleep. (it's usually him)

4. gifts

riki seems like the type to give gifts to show he cares. just small things like a stuffed animal, a new hoodie, or a cute charm bracelet. anything to let you know he thinks about you all the time.

and if he's not giving you a gift he's asking you about things you're interested or things you want so he knows what to get you next time.

5. getting shy

riki seems like the type to get shy if you tease him and he probably acts way softer with you as opposed to his usual cooler persona around other people.

compliments and praise also make him go quiet with appreciation. if you were to compliment his dancing, unlike how he responds to other people, he'd probably go quiet, nodding awkwardly and smiling.

6. teasing

he's definitely the teasing type. he'll joke with you, tickle you, and basically do anything to make you smile. your happiness is his happiness and anything that makes you laugh is funny to him too. he also likes to mess with you about your height.

he likes to joke about your favorite foods and the different treats you like to eat, but really it's just to make you talk about them more so he can buy them for you later. everything is a love language and he simply wants to see that pretty smile everytime he's with you.

7. asking for kisses

i don't think he's afraid to ask for kisses. since your relationship isn't based on physical intimacy or displays of affection, riki doesn't take kisses so seriously. if you ask him for a kiss he'll give you one, and vice versa.

he also makes you give him a kiss everytime he does you a favor since "he doesn't do anything for free." so if he grabs something off of a high shelf for you, kiss. if he let's you wear his favorite hoodie, kiss. it's a simple trade.

8. height differences

he's clearly a decently tall guy so he doesn't mind your height. if you're way shorter he of course teases you about it. and if you're anywhere near his height he's still bragging about how many inches taller he is.

he'll purposely walk faster occasionally to see you rush to stay beside him, and he definitely talks shit when ever you ask him to get something off of a high shelf.

9. knows no personal space

if you're sitting alone he makes it his mission to make sure he's next to you at all times. he'll cuddle you, rest his head on your lap, anything.

and sleeping beside him during the cold months is great because he loves to hug you, spoon you, and his hands are always warm. but sleeping beside him on a summer day sucks because he loves to be close no matter what. so you have to kick off the covers an make sure the ac is running.

[prrereaults]

SLIPFAST, GET CARRIED AWAY!

in which… frat!luke hughes gets too drunk and carried away, but still manages to swoon you over with ice cream nonetheless

frat!luke masterlist

The party was loud. With the usual unnecessary music thumping that made anybody who walked past the speaker nearly deaf, beer sloshing in red cups, and hundreds of bodies packed too tightly into a house that always smelled like sweat and a hint of disappointment.

It was Rory’s party. Your ex, Rory.

Another dumb mixer thrown at Delta Sig, which basically meant everyone kissed Rory’s ass for three hours while pretending they didn’t know he cheated on you last semester with Kellie Brighton in front of a ring camera. Yes, a fucking ring camera.

You were tipsy. Not blackout like half the frat boys who slumped into any available spot in the sofa. Not miserable either. Just… bored.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping something that tasted like Sprite and was that Vodka? Luke was across the room near the pong table, laughing at something Mark said while two girls you vaguely recognized from Chi Omega were hanging off him like moths to a flame.

You didn’t want to care. You really didn’t.

But the blonde one with just a bit too much of confidence twirled her hair. The other, her giggling friend, was biting her lip.

And Luke, your sweet hockey playing, hoodie stealing, annoyingly cute Luke, didn’t even seem to notice.

Your face must’ve said everything, because a moment later, Luke’s eyes flicked across the room and found yours. And just like that—he pushed the ball toward Mark, said something under his breath, and turned back toward you.

He does a full stop in front of you, his cheeks already flushed, smelling like beer and mint. His hand slid around your waist with a familiarity that made your stomach flip.

“Hi,” he said softly, leaning down, “you okay?”

You shrugged. “This party sucks.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “It’s Rory’s party. It’s supposed to suck.”

You snorted. “I doubt you were bored considering you were getting flirted with by the entire sisterhood of Chi Omega.”

He blinked, then laughed. “I told them I had a girlfriend. You should’ve seen their faces. One of them legit said, ‘You? Seriously?’”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Rude.”

He bumped your hip with his. “Jealous?”

You sipped your drink again. “You wish Hughes.”

Luke leaned in and whispered, “Would you like to sneak out and get some ice cream?”

You looked at him, your mouth spreading into a grin. “Right now?”

“No tomorrow,” he laughs at his own joke. “Yes, right now silly.”

“I’m wearing heels.”

“I’ll carry you.”

You shake your head, grinning, tossing your cup in the trash. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The two of you were drunk. Undeniably, gloriously drunk, by the time you arrived at the ice cream parlor.

You stumbled down the sidewalk outside the frat house, giggling like you were fifteen and skipping curfew. Luke had his hand in yours, swinging it childishly as you crossed the street.

The little late night ice cream parlor in Ann Arbor near the university was still open—one of the only places near campus that stayed open past midnight. It smelled like sugar cones and waffle batter, and a barely lit up neon sign says welcome to paradise!

You almost snort at the irony.

You end up picking two flavors immediately. Luke stood in front of the glass case for six full minutes before going, “Wait, can I mix mint and cookie dough?”

You rolled your eyes. “Luke, you could mix bacon and rocky road and they wouldn’t stop you.”

“Dude.” Luke says, making a disgusted face at you.

The cashier—an extremely bored sophomore who’d clearly seen too many drunk students for one lifetime, rang you both up.

Luke patted his pockets. Then patted them again.

His eyes go full panic mode for a split second. “Wait. Shit. I don’t have my wallet.”

You froze mid lick on your vanilla ice cream. “What?”

“I—” he laughed, a little too loud and anxious for your liking, “—I think my mom didn’t refill my allowance this month because I blacked out at my uncle’s Fourth of July dinner and told my aunt that her potato salad tasted like shit.”

You covered your mouth, choking. “Are you serious?”

“She told me I needed to ‘learn the value of shame.’ But I swear the pina coladas Quinn was making was too good to pass up.”

“Oh my god.”

The cashier raised an eyebrow.

Luke put a hand over his heart. “I swear to God, I’ll come back and pay tomorrow. You have my word. Luke Hughes. Umich hockey player. I swear.”

The cashier only gave him a look.

You tugged his sleeve, laughing. “Luke—”

But he was already walking backward toward the door, cone in one hand, your other hand in his. “Just put it on my tab! I play for the hockey team! I have character references!”

“Sir—” the cashier called out.

Too late.

You were already outside, running down the block like kids who just robbed a candy store. You nearly tripped in your heels, breathless with laughter, clutching your melting ice cream cone as Luke howled next to you.

“Luke!” you squealed. “You’re an actual criminal!”

He doubled over in a parking lot, gasping for air. “My mom is so gonna kill me.”

You end up making it back to your dorm at 1:46am.

Luke crashed face first onto your bed, fingers still sticky with sugar and body faintly smelling of beer. You kicked off your shoes and threw your arms over your eyes, still giggling.

He rolled over to look at you. “Hi.”

You turned your head, your grin softening. “Hey.”

His voice was low. “Thanks for sneaking out with me.”

“No, thank you for almost getting us arrested over a $4 cone.”

He chuckled, scooting closer until your noses nearly touched. “I’d do it again.”

You reached up and brushed a thumb over his cheek. “Even if you end up on the campus police instagram?”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

And then, slowly, he leaned in. The kiss was sticky and sweet. You tasted like vanilla. He tasted like mint and cookie dough and the probably the most dumbest decision of your night.

The two of you kissed again. And again. Until it got lazy and slower.

Until you were curled up on your pillow, his hoodie still hanging off your shoulders, your fingers tangled in his.

“I’m coming back tomorrow to pay that cashier.” He says finally, voice drifting in and out of sleep.

You smiled, eyes closed. “Sure you are.”

“No, seriously,” he murmured. “I will.”

You squeezed his hand. “Goodnight, Hughes.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

[pumpkinnning]

I love Charles also but to be clear saying that he is "ruining Lewis' legacy" is a very ugly loaded way to put it when racist fucks everywhere in the sport have tried to do just that since Lewis started. They didn't manage because he is just that good, the sport turned itself into a joke to break him and they still didn't succeed. But still today the media and the commentators are constantly foaming at the mouth to diminish his achievements.

As a Charles fan I loathe the idea of his wins being used as a way to do that further. As a Lewis fan I think it's fucking stupid. Even if someone, someday, breaks his insane number of records (and that's really unlikely) they still won't destroy his legacy. It's just not possible. He'll always be a legend of the sport, a pioneer, a driver who produced some of the most thrilling and iconic moments in the history of f1, the first Black man to make it to the top of a deeply racist sport, the role model of a whole generation of drivers, who redefined what it meant to be an f1 driver, a fashion icon and a superstar, an incredibly compelling and inspiring person beloved across the world. And it's not bc the F1 world has never given him the respect he deserves any of us should be doing the same - whether you're a fan of his or not.

Also like let's be real I like saying Charles "retired" Seb but he didn't destroy Seb's legacy either and I think Charles himself would hate that way of putting it because even though ofc he wants/wanted to beat these two men, he's made it clear he respects and admires their achievements and what they brought to the sport.

I mean yeah some fans don't give a shit about the sport's history, watch tiktok edits instead of races and get their opinions from clickbaity articles so they go with that whole only the last race matters shit alpha macho aggressive destroy your enemy pee on the track eat rubber bark bark shit but personally I wouldn't be too eager to sound like them

"max eats his teammates" this "max eats his teammates" that when charles' teammate eating ability has singlehandedly ruined the legacy of two multiple WDCs

[sydwritess]

Mutual Emotions

Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader

Summary: You were well known around the paddock, eventually becoming with all of the drivers. Though, one of those drivers eventually had feelings for you.

Second Person POV

Warning: age-gap (10-15 years)

Notes: This was requested! requests are open!

You were walking around the empty Belgium pit lane, looking at all of the garages as you walk by. Max had texted you, telling you to meet him by the sports area.

You cross the small pathway to the sports area to see all of the drivers there. Some playing pickleball, some playing tennis, and some were inside.

You look through small holes in the fences as you walk, trying to find Max but you don't see him. You walk further up the path, opening the door to the inside area. You look over to see Max sitting at a table on his phone.

"Hey."

"Hi." He smiles, standing up and hugging you.

"What's going on?"

"I just texted, seeing if you want to play something with us?" He points over some of the guys who were arguing by the pool table.

"Sure, what are you playing?"

"Uh well." He looks over at the pool table, who was now surrounded by drivers. "We were playing pool but... yeah." He points over to the table. You smile and walk over to the table with him. You and him sit silently at a bar table, watching the guys argue.

"I called the right corner hole for my eight ball." Lando points his cue to the hole. "That's three whole points." He holds three fingers up.

"And you didn't make that hole. So you lost the game." George says.

"But I thought we get another chance?" Charles asks.

"Yeah, your balls aren't in the holes yet. That's not fair." Lando says.

"It is because if you don't get your last ball, the eight ball in, then I win." George says.

"Yeah, it's in the books." Lewis nods his head.

You and Max both giggle at them, trying to hold it in.

"You don't know the rules. What did you write them?" Isack asks.

"It's called playing for years." Oscar says.

"Are we seriously doing this?" George asks.

"You're the ones who started it by cheating." Lando pointed his cue at them.

You and Max laugh a bit louder, capturing their attention.

"Oh... hello." Lando smiles. Charles waves from behind him, still leaned against the table. The others do the same. You look over at Max, who burst out laughing.

"What the hell!" You laugh out.

"Oh my God! You guys are like little kids." Max laughs.

"Says the one who crashed into me." George pouts, walking over to you and Max.

Max straightens right up. "Yeah and who started it first." He points a finger into George's chest.

"Ladies! Let's not." You say.

Isack walks over to the three of you. "Yeah this sexual tension really needs to stop."

You burst out laughing with him.

"Real mature." George commented.

"Unlike you." Max snickered. George rolled his eyes and walked back over to the table, setting the game up again.

"What were you arguing about?" Max asks.

"George thinks he's right all the time." Lando responds.

"It's called knowing the game!" George shouts from behind the guys.

"You want to play?" Lewis asks.

"As long as I don't get hit." You giggle.

Lando stands next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "Awe. We would never hit you!"

You shrug his arm off of you. "Yeah... and don't touch me." You joke.

Isack repeats Lando's actions on your other side. You shrug him off as well. "I will literally hit you."

He backs away quickly. "Why?"

"That's rude." Lando says.

"You're their roll model." You point between Lando and Isack. "What you do." You point to Lando. "They do." You point to Isack.

"I know. I'm a great role model." He says proudly. The guys around you snicker to themselves.

All of you walk over to the table, seeing George still setting up. "Are we doing teams?"

"No shit." Lando says. George glares up at him from the table.

"If I get hit I'm literally going to cry." You comment.

"Such queen energy. I love it." Isack chuckles.

"Do you even know how to break?" George asks, taking the triangle away and setting it on the table.

"Yeah. I'm not clueless."

"Sorry, queen."

You go over to the edge of the table, lining the pool cue with the white ball. You hit it and most of the solids go in.

Lando raises his hand instantly. "I'm on her team!"

"Yeah, because you don't even have to try." Lewis laughs. George walks over to a spot, hitting the white ball against the stripes, not making any in.

"Oo..." Lando tsk's. "That sucks."

George points his cue at him. "Oh, shut up. You haven't even made your turn yet."

"And yet... you missed." Max chimes in.

"He was warming up." Oscar says.

"You all are terrible." Isack pipes in. You roll your eyes as everyone starts bickering at each other.

George slowly starts moving to your teams side, fighting with Lando. All the guys start fighting, getting louder and louder.

George and Lando start pushing each other. You walk in between them to try and stop them, but stop yourself when you feel a hand glide across your face.

Everyone goes silent as you hold your cheek, George looks down at you with wide eyes.

"Oh shit." Isack mutters.

"What... the fuck." You say sharply.

"I- I did not mean that." George says, slightly backing up. "Please don't cry."

"She's not going to cry." Max smirks.

You lunge at George, making him fall on the floor. You fall on top of him, hitting him at least once before grabbing his sweatshirt tightly.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I- I didn't mean it. I swear!" He said worridly.

"This is why Max hates you cause your so fucking annoying!"

"I know! I know! I take all the blame!"

You stand, picking his sweatshirt up and dragging his head up to. "Go crash into a wall!"

"I will just don't kill me!" He says quickly. You let go of him, his head banging against the floor with a thump.

"You have to teach me how to do that!" Isack laughs.

"Ugh, please don't." George says, getting up from the floor.

"You are scary." Oscar says.

George rubs the back of his head. "Yeah. I second that."

"Your lucky I didn't shove that pool cue up your ass bitch."

He pats your shoulder. "Tough older sister vibe." He smiles. You shrug his hand off immediately.

"What the hell is going on in here?" A voice asks from further in the room. You all turn to see Toto, and Fred standing there.

"Your star boy almost got a pool cue shoved up his ass." You say.

"Okay..." Toto trails.

Fred looks at everyone confused.

"Uhm." Charles clears his throat. "We all got into a fight and... well, George went to go hit Lando but hit Y/n instead. And well... she almost... shoved a pool cue up his ass." He scratched the back of his neck and talking slowly.

Toto claps his hands together. "Right well. We are going to leave." He signals for you and George to go over to him.

George does but you stand still. "Let's go y/l/n."

"Better go with the grumpy boss." Lando snickers. You laugh.

Toto sighs. "He's being realistic." You say, walking ahead of Fred, George, and Toto.

They follow you outside as you walk by the tennis courts. "Got your personal security?" Alex yelled over at you.

"You know it!" You yell back.

"I don't know. She hit me!" You hear George say as he walks behind you with Toto.

"Y/n, your in the garage with me for the rest of the day." Fred says.

"In Ferrari? What about Red Bull!"

"Hanging out with Red Bull is how you got into this." Toto adds in. You sigh, walking across the road to the pit lane.

Fred comes up next to you, directing you to the Ferrari garage as Toto and George walk down the lane further.

"You can sit there." He points to a computer station. You sit down, and he sits next to you, logging in to the computer.

"Whose going to win?" You ask.

He chuckles. "We do not know yet."

"I could... drive."

"No. No you are not driving."

You sigh.

"Although you should. You practically know everyone here."

"I know, right?" You say enthusiastically. He laughs and starts typing some stuff into the computer.

You tap your finger against the hard wood desk out of boredom. You look around the garage until you spot Lewis and Charles walk in, heading straight to you.

"Did you get in trouble?" Charles asks, leaning forward to you on the table.

"No, actually... Fred's going to let me drive your car around the track." You smile.

"What!"

Fred raises a low hand. "She's kidding."

Charles grasps his chest. "Oh thank God."

"Afraid she's going to crash?" Lewis chuckles.

"I'm afraid she would kill George!"

You all laugh together. Fred, Charles, and Lewis all went on talking about the race weekend. The two guys asking about the car, the track; mostly everything.

You were looking at each of then as they talk, just listening to the conversation.

And sometimes you caught Lewis staring at you, but didn't think much of it.

"I think race day is going to rain." Fred states, both guys nod their heads. Fred goes back to looking at the computer, working away.

You stand up, Charles immediately looks over at you. "I'm just going out." You say.

"Don't start a fight."

"Hey, I got hit."

"Oh... that's right."

You walk out of the garage, walk back out the pit lane, and go down to the sports area.

You stop at the crosswalk you were once at. Instead of going back to the building and courts, you take the right, walking through the cones and to the side of the garages.

There was a road leading up a small hill, a stone barrier, and trees blocking whatever was behind it. You sit down on the edge of the barrier that connects to the garages.

It wasn't necessarily a hot day out, which was nice considering the whether for the rest of the week.

You turn on the wall, press your back to the outside of the garage, and rest your feet up on the wall. You were zoned out, looking at the nature around you when your trance got broken by footsteps.

You turn your head to the left, seeing Lewis slowly come up beside you.

"Hey." You smile.

"Hey, mind if I sit?" He smiles back.

"No, go ahead."

You were quiet, looking over at him as he sat down. "What's going on?"

"Nothing much. I come here when I need a break." He says gently.

"You've known this spot for years."

He chuckles. "Yeah."

"So... are you excited for this weekend?"

"Yeah, I think it will be interesting. Rain and all too."

"Yeah that really sucks. To bad they don't cancel it."

"I know. I wish they would. But you also get used to it to."

You nod your head as he speaks. "Do you think your going to win?"

"No." He smiles.

"Why not? You're the Lewis Hamilton."

"Yeah... I don't know. I'm just not feeling it this weekend."

"I get that. When your just not ready."

"It's weird. Like I've been doing this my whole life, but there's some points where I don't even feel good enough." He admits.

"Maybe because you've been doing it for so long. You kind of already know what the expectations are."

He smiles lightly. "That's really good. And true."

You sit up more, crossing your legs and leaning forward, clasping your hands and resting your chin on them. The silence overtaking.

"You've been in the paddock for a while. Do you ever think about signing a contract?" He jokes.

"All the time. It's my full-time job trying to get a contract signed." You giggle. He nods his head and laughs. "But that's not why you're here." You add on.

"You know, you are incredibly smart." He comments.

You exhale a laugh. "Thanks."

He takes a minute, thinking silently before, turning to you again. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I'm not sure if you're into stuff like this but... would you want to go on a date this weekend?"

A light smile starts forming on your face. "Why would I say no?"

"Well... I am older than you."

"That's fine... It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you."

"It doesn't bother me one bit."

"Date on Saturday?"

"That works out perfect. Where?"

"Surprise me." You giggle.

"Alright, it's a date." He smiles.

"It's a date."

Hey loves! Hope you like this! Requests are open!

[yeagurt2]

“You Could’ve Knocked” (Gojo Satoru x f!Reader | established relationship, light angst, fluff, smut | new relationship, accidental nudity, embarrassment, soft dom Gojo, flustered reader, aftercare)

Gojo exorcised the curse like it was nothing, because, well, it was.

A minor pest, nothing more than a B-grade larva hiding out in an old school building. The only reason he was even dispatched for it was proximity. But the damn thing had a mouth on it, and it talked. Not the kind of talking curses usually did, not the usual mindless threats and whining.

No, this one knew things.

“Such a pretty little thing, that girl of yours,” it had hissed from the dark corner before Gojo vaporized it with a flick of his fingers. “Bet she screams real nice when she’s scared…”

He didn’t give it a chance to say more.

And it didn’t get to him, not really. Not in the moment. But the second the silence returned and the school felt empty again—he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It wasn’t that he believed it, he knew you weren’t in danger. You were safely at home, probably eating cereal and watching shitty TV in your pajamas.

But what if you weren’t?

What if some curse had followed him, sniffed you out, found some crack in the protection barriers, what if what if what if—

Next thing he knew, he was standing in your living room. No warning. No text. No knock.

Just: bam—teleported straight into your apartment.

It was quiet. Comfortably warm. The scent of your shampoo lingered faintly in the air.

And then—

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You rounded the corner from your bathroom completely naked, towel in your hands and another ruffling over your damp hair. Water still dripped down the curve of your back, your skin glowing under the soft lights. The second you saw him, you froze mid-step, both of you locking eyes like deer in headlights.

There was a beat of silence.

Then chaos.

“GOJO!”

“I—I didn’t mean to—!” His hands shot up defensively, but his eyes were absolutely looking before he even realized it. “Wait, waitwaitwait—shit, I didn’t know you were—!”

You shrieked, scrambling to cover yourself with the nearest towel, one leg bent awkwardly behind the wall. “Are you fucking kidding me?! What the hell are you doing?! Pervert!”

He staggered back like you slapped him. “No! No—I swear I wasn’t trying to peep! I just—God, wait—don’t kill me—!”

You flung a wet loofah at his face, which he expertly dodged with a yelp.

He looked red. Not just blushing, but full-body, secondhand embarrassment red.

And of course, the idiot tried to joke.

“You know… for what it’s worth, you looked really—OW! Okay, okay! I deserved that!”

You had thrown your conditioner bottle this time. He ducked again.

“You teleport into my apartment without knocking, see me butt ass naked, compliment me, and expect to live?!”

“I panicked! I thought you might be in danger!”

“From what, a rogue towel?!”

“No, no, there was this curse—it said your name and I got paranoid, okay?! I needed to see you were okay—”

“You couldn’t have called?!”

“I—yeah, okay, I see that now. That would’ve been smart.”

You glared at him, clutching your towel tightly around you.

“I should kill you,” you muttered.

Gojo pouted like a kicked puppy. “Or, you know… maybe just never let me see you again?”

You sighed, dragging your hand down your face. “You’re lucky we just started dating. I don’t even know if this counts as your first strike or your last.”

He nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

You turned slightly, planning to storm off and get changed, but the shift of your body made the towel slip slightly, and you shrieked, yanking it back up to your chest.

Gojo visibly flinched, spinning on his heel like he’d been caught red-handed again.

“You’re still staring!”

“I’M NOT-I’m not—I swear—!”

You crossed your arms over your chest, still fuming. “Don’t you ever break into my place like that again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He looked thoroughly scolded. Ears pink. Shoulders hunched. You’d never seen him so sheepish.

You stared at him for a second longer, lips pursed… until you realized: you were still dripping, still in a towel, still ridiculously exposed and awkward.

A new wave of heat rushed to your cheeks. “Oh my god,” you mumbled, backing away, “this is humiliating.”

Gojo’s voice softened, gaze flicking back to you, less like he was ogling and more like he just liked looking at you. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said gently.

You paused, glancing up.

He stepped forward, slow, slow enough to give you time to stop him. Your fingers twitched on the towel, but you didn’t move.

“Why are you getting closer?” you whispered.

“I dunno,” he said quietly. “You smell good.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He flushed. “Like… fresh. Like your shampoo or whatever. I sound like a pervert again, don’t I?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are a pervert.”

“Not on purpose.”

You huffed a small laugh, still pink in the cheeks.

Then he took another step forward.

His hand reached up, brushing your damp hair behind your ear.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your heart stuttered. “Now?”

“You can tell me no.”

You hesitated, still holding your towel like a barrier, but after a breath, you nodded.

He leaned in slowly. Soft. Deep. His mouth was warm against yours, tasting like breathless apologies and stupid affection. He tilted his head, nudging you backward a step, one hand finding your hip.

Your breath hitched.

His fingers grazed the top of your towel, and it slipped slightly down your chest.

You gasped, trying to yank it back up, but he caught your wrist gently.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please. You’re perfect.”

Your lips parted. “You’re such a pervert.”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Then you dropped the towel.

And he froze.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You swallowed hard, tugging him back by the collar of his jacket. “Make it worth the embarrassment.”

And he did. NSFW below

He kissed you again, harder this time, like the dam had finally broken. His hands roamed your waist, your hips, memorising every inch of skin now that you’d let him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he walked you backward, gently pressing you up against the cool wall. Your bare chest brushed against his shirt, your nipples pebbling from the contrast, and you whimpered into his mouth.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured between kisses.

“Don’t even think about stopping.”

He grinned, that cocky little lopsided smirk returning as his mouth dipped down to your throat. He licked over your collarbone, bit gently at the curve of your shoulder. Your knees wobbled.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” he said, kissing your stomach. “You said I was a pervert, right? Might as well earn it.”

Your breath caught as he hooked a leg over his shoulder, his tongue dragging up your inner thigh.

“Gojo—fuck—”

He licked over your folds once, twice, teasing, slow, then sucked your clit with just enough pressure to make your whole body arch.

You gasped, hand flying to the back of his head, the soft strands of his hair tangling between your fingers.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered.

“Y-you’re insufferable,” you moaned, thighs trembling.

He licked you until you were shaking. Until your legs almost gave out. Until the embarrassment melted into desire and you couldn’t think of anything except how good his tongue felt and how hot his mouth was against your skin.

When he finally stood back up, his mouth was shiny, his eyes dark.

You pulled him in for another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and whimpered when you felt the hard length of him pressing against your belly.

“You still mad at me?” he whispered, unzipping his pants.

“Ask again after you fuck me.”

[virginmel]

my current hc is that nobody in the hospital knows frank and mel have a Thing

they look at their interactions, always on cases together or taking breaks at the same time or checking in with each other regularly and dont think anything of it. its sweet that he’s so nice to her, that he can be a good teacher after all. even after the divorce, or with the little touches, nobody has any reason to suspect they would ever be romantically involved

mel’s not used to people wanting her like that, and frank surely isnt one of them! in her mind, he’s super out of her league and he was married, he would never go for someone like her! so she keeps her little crush to herself, she doesnt think it would ever happen. especially when her coworkers make cracks about frank dating or hooking-up post divorce, or little comments about how cute and sweet their friendship is. someone even makes a joke about mel being frank’s little sister and she kind of wants to throw up. not even princess or perlah tease them! which means frank certainly would never be interested.

except franks been trying to work up the courage to ask her our for weeks! months! since before the divorce, probably! and after a shift he’s literally sweating his ass off, waiting for mel at her locker so they could walk outside together. she’s a little concerned because he’s unusually silent. its not until they make it to her car that frank blurts out, “did you want to get coffee or dinner sometime? with me?”

and mel is elated! frank wants to spend more time with her :) she has a crush sure but she is also so desperate to make friends. she says yes of course and pulls out her calender so that they can schedule something. and frank is just beaming!!! at her and how could she ever say no to that face!!!

except when he turns to leave and says “its a date!” and mel’s like oh yeah. joke. ha ha funny. but frank is very serious and is like “no seriously im asking you on a date. will you go on a date with me” and mel’s life flashes before her eyes. surely he’s messing with her because he Knows about her crush on him. she actually tells him to cut the shit and stop joking its hurting her feelings but but frank’salso looking at her very seriously and he’s just like “mel for the love of god i would very much like to buy you flowers and hold your hand and kiss you at your door at the end of the night” and oh my goodness he’s asking her out on a date!!!!

[mooncyb3r]

this is why you don't eat popsicles around your boyfriend. (in public) 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

you wanted to tease toji, and suddenly the popsicle wasn’t the only thing getting devoured. public sex / risk of being caught, overstimulation, oral, bathroom setting (hygiene may cry). wc — 3.1k.

you didn’t mean to start a war.

you were just eating a popsicle. being hot. being casual. being a menace in shorts so tiny they could legally be classified as a napkin.

toji was behind you. quiet. too quiet. which, historically? a very bad sign.

because your boyfriend is many things—dangerously hot, emotionally unavailable, built like a greek tragedy—but subtle is not one of them. so when he stops talking, stops touching, stops making some grunted joke about you deepthroating a $3 cherry ice pop? that means you’re in trouble. big. possibly hand-around-your-throat kind of trouble. and honestly?

it’s not even your fault, you didn’t expect consequences. you expected maybe a growl, maybe a grabby thigh squeeze, maybe some muttering under his breath about how “fucking bratty” you are while you cackled in flip-flops and lip gloss.

what you did not expect was to be pressed against a metal stall door in a public beach bathroom with your shorts shoved to your ankles.

but here we are.

and yes—it all started with the fucking popsicle.

the heat’s clinging to your skin like it’s trying to crawl underneath. sticky and salty. your thighs rub with every step, and the cheap wooden slats of the boardwalk are hot enough to burn if you stopped walking barefoot.

you’ve still got your bikini on—barely. the sheer mesh cover-up you threw on after swimming isn’t covering shit. just enough to pretend it’s not intentional.

earlier, your ass looked incredible in the shortest pair of shorts known to science. you’ve got one of those oversized cherry popsicles clutched in your sticky hand, while he’s behind you on the boardwalk, walking silently like a shark that smells blood, and you’re fighting for your life in denim coochie cutters and a wet bikini top.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t mean to be sexy. you meant to make him twitch. just a little. he’s always teasing you— always grabbing your ass in checkout lines and growling filth into your ear during brunch, and frankly? this was payback.

so you licked the tip. you dragged your tongue down the side. you bit off a chunk and moaned just a little—nothing obscene.

and toji? said nothing. did nothing. just looked at you. slowly. he catches up with three steps. his hand slides around your wrist, warm, rough, unhurried. you don’t pull away and he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t say a damn thing. he just starts walking, gently leading you. and you, like the fucking idiot you are, followed him—still eating it.

“are you mad?” you ask, halfway down the path behind the snack hut.

“nope.”

you glance over your shoulder. smile.

he doesn’t smile back.

he stares you down like you’re a meal.

and not in a cute way.

in a 'this stall doesn’t have a lock and i don’t give a fuck' kind of way.

which is exactly how you find yourself being dragged—gently but with a hint of murderous intent—down the boardwalk steps, behind the snow cone cart, past the "out of order” sign you absolutely ignore, and straight into the beach public bathroom.

he kicks open the door to the beach restroom—the bathroom’s barely lit. warm tile gone grey in the hush of early evening, sun pouring sideways through the slatted vents overhead, striping the walls like prison bars.

it smells like bleach and seawater. the kind of place you’d avoid if you were thinking clearly. but you’re not. not when his hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you past the threshold.

the air smells like wet heat, chemical lemon cleaner, and sour chlorine from someone rinsing off earlier. the lights overhead hum and flicker over the concrete walls.

one stall door hangs open, swinging slightly. the other’s closed. no feet under it.

so he walks you in. lets the door slam. and toji looks like he’s about to ruin you.

“open your mouth.”

you blink. “wow- uh, hello? good afternoon? sorry, are you not gonna at least—”

“now.” his hand closes around your jaw and tilts. two fingers press into your mouth like he’s claiming space, and you stare at him like a baby deer staring down an oncoming freight train.

“you wanted attention,” he says calmly. “get on your knees.”

oh.

your brain short-circuits. there’s something about the command—about the way he’s so casual with it, like you’re a snack and he’s already had a long day—that hits you right in the spinal cord.

“toji,” you whisper. “it was just a popsicle—”

“exactly. maybe you want me to start?” he murmurs, thumb pressing your lower lip. “you keep doing that shit on purpose.” his breath goes hot at your nape as he crowds in, one hand palming your ass through the fabric of the swimsuit—then sliding down, under, between. a low sound leaves him when he cups you. “wet already?”

you nod once, wordless. maybe shameful. maybe proud.

he clicks his tongue, breath hissing between his teeth as he presses closer, body already radiating heat against your back.

“of course you are. c’mon, bend over the sink.”

the countertop’s wet. you don’t care. your tits squish against the porcelain, the mirror’s fogged from the humidity and your breath, and you barely register the sound of toji jiggling the stall’s sad excuse for a lock (which doesn’t even catch properly, by the way—congrats, you’re about to get fucked with the threat of an audience).

“take it off,” he says, meaning your bottoms. doesn’t wait. just yanks the strings aside, fabric sticking to your cunt as it peels off, dragging slick with it. he kneels behind you—actually, he drops to his knees on this dirty-ass bathroom floor—and drags his fingers between your legs, lazy and slow, pulling the pads through the mess he already made of you.

“fucking soaked,” he mutters. “all this for me?”

then his hands hit your hips.

and everything in your brain short-circuits.

because this man doesn’t grab. he grips. he molds. he sinks those stupid big hands into your thighs like he’s testing the density of your ass against earthquake regulations.

your thighs tremble when he spreads you open with both hands and breathes in. just breathes. like he’s trying to memorize it. you feel his tongue before you hear it—one long stripe, base to tip, slow and deliberate. you jerk forward, a gasp catching in your throat before you can bite it down.

“shh,” he hums, nose nudging the crease of your thigh, lips hot and slick as they drag against your cunt. “someone could walk in.”

you nod. that’s the worst part. that’s also the best part for him.

you’ve had head from him before. you’ve had glorious, life-altering, spinal-realigning head from this man.

but this?

this is a performance.

he eats you like it’s a goddamn meal. no rush. no rhythm. just worship, slow and filthy, tongue curling into you with a purpose that borders on cruel. every drag of it pulls another shiver out of you. his hands keep you open, spread wide, grinding your hips back when you try to move away—like you’re not allowed to, like this is what you came here for.

he moans into you, loud. because for him, you taste better than that damn popsicle ever could. like he’s trying to teach you a lesson in oral history.

you’re loud too, your moans echo in the emptiness. his hand shoots up—two fingers in your mouth. “bite,” he whispers lowly. you bite down on his fingers, thighs trembling while he groans into your pussy.

your soul exits your body and leaves a yelp review.

you’re close in minutes. he knows. pulls back just enough to watch you clench around nothing, the air cold on your soaked skin.

“you’re shaking,” he says, breathless as he wipes his mouth on your thigh. “that for me too?”

you whine when he stands, too desperate to be embarrassed. you hear the rustle of fabric, the harsh tug of a waistband pulled low.

“alright, doll—your turn,” he whispers, pulling you down on your knees. “open your mouth like the slut you were born to be.”

he pulls his cock out like this is his goddamn home. thick. heavy. already hard. slaps it against your cheek once, enough to make you flinch. his hand stays in your hair but he doesn’t thrust—yet. just slides the tip over your tongue, slow, watching your eyes. watching your face.

“you know what that popsicle reminded me of?” he mutters, dragging his thumb through precum that gleams brighter than your gloss.

you blink. he slides in deeper.

“...this.”

and then he fucks your mouth like it wronged him.

it’s hot. it’s mean. you’re gagging, spit pooling on your tongue, tears in your lashes, and the stall door is still cracked open just a little.

he hasn’t even locked it. somewhere outside, you hear footsteps; someone walks in. the sound of flip-flops. teenagers, probably.

you freeze.

toji? doesn’t. he grabs the back of your head and pushes deeper, slow. a warning.

you choke, eyes wide. someone turns on a faucet.

he grins. “you’re gonna make a mess on this floor.”

you try to say “you already are” but your mouth is full and your brain is in crisis and holy fuck he tastes good.

he thrusts a few more times—shallow, controlled—and then pulls out, wiping your spit across your lips with his thumb.

“up.”

you scramble.

he spins you. presses you against the sink. your shorts hit the ground, panties with them. he lifts you up—one-handed, like you’re a fucking plushie—and sets you on the edge of the sink like you’re part of the plumbing, ass-first onto the sink counter.

the faucet drips.

your pussy does, too.

“toji—someone’s still—”

“i know,” he says. he doesn’t care. “still think you’re funny?” he mutters.

you try to sass. you open your mouth to say something devastating and slutty and clever—

your back hits the mirror. your legs spread. his cock’s already out—thick, veiny, disrespectful—and he’s lining up before you can blink.

“toji, wait, you don’t even—!”

“what? i’m still hard from watching you eat that fucking ice pop.”

then he grabs your hips and flips you.

your stomach hits the edge of the sink. cold porcelain under your tits, your arms sprawled awkwardly over it, cheek pressed to the mirror. you catch a glimpse of yourself—smeared lip gloss, sweat-wet skin, eyes glassy—and then toji’s behind you, shoving your thighs apart.

“don’t fucking move,” he grumbles, dragging his cock through your folds once—teasing—and you almost sob.

you grip the faucet like it can save you. you brace for it, but you’re not ready.

not for the first push—slow, unforgiving, inch by thick inch until he bottoms out, pressed deep enough you see stars. not for the hiss he lets out against your shoulder, hands gripping your waist like he wants to leave marks. not for the stretch. the burn. the way your walls flutter around him like your body’s trying to pull him deeper.

just slow thrusts, hips pressed flush to your ass, and it knocks the breath out of you. the sound of it is obscene—slick, deep, dirty. like your body’s sucking him in.

he moves. not fast. not yet. each thrust hits deep and cruel, grinding against your cervix with filthy intent. you gasp, quickly trying to muffle it. his hand claps over your mouth before you can try again.

“shh, c’mon baby,” he whispers, voice harsh in your ear. “don’t let ’em hear how good i’m fuckin’ you.”

the stall creaks. your body slaps wet and fast against his, the sound echoing off tile. you should be mortified. you should beg him to stop. but all you do is take it. all you can do is push your hips back into every thrust, greedy and breathless, chasing something dizzying and deep.

he watches your face in the glass, one hand gripping your tit, the other on your hip. his thrusts are deliberate, mean, like he’s punishing you for existing.

“this what you wanted?” he growls. “you wanted someone to walk in and see how fucked-out you get from a little dick?”

“LITTLE?!”

he slaps your ass. “relatively speaking. it’s average. you’re just dramatic.”

you moan like a woman betrayed.

knock knock. the stall door rattles.

you panic. try to pull away. you jerk forward, your head bumping the mirror, breath fogging the glass.

he grabs your hips and slams in hard. “keep. fucking. still.” each word lands with a thrust.

“just a sec!” toji calls cheerfully.

you turn over to look at him over your shoulder, slap his arm and whisper-shout, “what the fuck?!”

a small chuckle leaves his lips. “you started this, brat. you finish it.”

he pulls out slow, then slams back in, and you nearly sob into the mirror. his cock hits everything. you’re trembling, your legs don’t work, and you are seconds from melting into the fucking tile.

he just leans in closer—chest flush to your back, hips still rolling slow and deep—and murmurs in your ear like he’s got all the time in the world. “if you stop now, i will leave you like this.”

your whole body locks, shudders, goes boneless. the orgasm crashes through you fast and ugly, your cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging for more. you cry out into your palm, legs shaking, barely staying upright.

toji doesn’t let you fall.

he holds you steady, still fucking you slow, riding it out like he wants to feel every last tremor.

the guy outside mutters something—“fuckin’ weirdos”—and leaves. toji grins against your neck, pressing a fluttering kiss against your collarbone. “gonna cum inside,” he grits. “gonna fill you up right here where anybody could walk in and see.”

you moan into his hand, and that’s all he needs.

he grabs your hips. slams in deep. one, two brutal thrusts—and he’s groaning, thick heat spilling into you as his cock jerks, pulsing in your cunt like it’s where he belongs. you shudder around him, your own orgasm from seconds ago still sharp and blinding.

he stays there. breathing hard, skin sticky with sweat, chest rising and falling against your back. you’re full. you’re ruined. you’re still braced against a public fucking bathroom stall, legs trembling, breath caught somewhere between euphoria and embarrassment.

then he laughs, a surprisingly warm laugh, despite how breathless his rough voice sounds. your face is flushed, sweaty, ruined. there’s spit drying on your lips, tears clinging to your lashes, and your pussy’s still twitching from aftershocks.

you glare at him with the fury of a woman undone by her own slutty snack choices.

he pats your ass, fingers dragging slow as he walks his palm down to your inner thigh, still sticky where he spilled into you.

“you’re buying me lunch,” he mutters, low and smug, like you’re already halfway through the transaction and don’t know it.

“you just ate me for lunch,” you snap, voice raw and still breathy, the edge of your frustration dulled by how your legs are shaking.

“and now i’m still hungry,” he murmurs, rolling his head against the back of your shoulder like he’s trying to mark you with the heat of his breath alone. the tip of his nose grazes your jaw. his cock, softening but still slick, presses lazily against your thigh like punctuation.

you swear vengeance, breathless and trembling, but it comes out more like a prayer than a threat. you’re too spent to make it stick.

he kisses your temple—slow, deliberate—like it’s the one part of you he hasn’t ruined yet and needs to. his mouth lingers, just long enough to let you feel it. the curve of his smile, the soft exhale that says: i’ll do this again.

and when he pulls back, he does it with one last filthy little palm over your cunt, like he’s checking if you’re still full.

spoiler: you are.

he watches your slick drip down your thigh, and just hums—low, satisfied, like he’s admiring his own work. he grabs a wad of paper towel from the busted dispenser and cleans you up with a kind of efficiency that’s almost tender—except it’s him, so he’s still got that smirk. “you should see your face,” he mutters quietly. “little mouth open like you forgot how to breathe.”

you try to roll your eyes. fail.

he tosses the paper in the trash. then runs a finger through what’s left between your legs.

you slap his arm, weak and mostly for show, your hand landing against warm skin slick with sweat. “you’re—fuck—you’re such a piece of shit.”

he laughs, low and wrecked, still catching his breath. it rumbles through his chest more than his throat.

“you love it,” he says, eyes heavy-lidded, voice raw like gravel dragged across velvet.

you do.

you don’t say it.

you couldn’t, even if you wanted to—not with your lungs still trying to remember how to work and your thighs trembling under the weight of what he just did to you. your knees buckle again.

he watches it happen with something like pride.

“you good?” he asks, casual, tugging his sweatpants back up with one hand while the other smooths your hair, or tries to. he gives up after three strokes, mutters something about “hopeless” under his breath, but there’s fondness in the way his fingers linger at the base of your skull.

“fuck you,” you mutter, voice shredded around the edges.

he leans in. brushes his mouth over yours. doesn’t kiss you—just presses. just lets the heat of him soak into your lips.

“already did,” he says, tone smug but quiet, like the words aren’t a joke so much as a reminder.

you swat at him, breathless. it’s the only form of dignity you have left.

he catches your hips before you can try to hop off the sink, fingers splayed wide across your waist like he likes how small you feel when you’re like this—wrecked, sticky, fucked-out and boneless. he lowers you down with annoying gentleness, but the moment your bare feet hit tile, your legs collapse.

he catches you—easy. like he was waiting for it. his arm goes around your waist, warm and solid, hauling you up against his chest like a man utterly unbothered by what he’s just done.

“told you,” he says, voice low as he adjusts your shirt, tugging the hem down like it’ll somehow cover the fact that your internal organs just got rearranged in a public restroom. “you’re gonna limp all the way back.”

you glare up at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks hot, heart still fucked into disarray. he just tilts his head, eyes sweeping you from head to toe. then he smacks your ass. hard enough to make you yelp without thinking.

he opens the stall door, nods at the exit. “move it, brat.”

you shove your hair out of your face, barely decent, still wrecked—and you walk. sort of.

toji follows behind you, calm as anything. and you know he’s staring at your ass the whole way out.

[cece693]

I CAN READ THOUGHTS, REMEMBER?

pairing: batman x male reader synopsis: You can read minds—among other things—but it often gets overlooked for your more flashier powers. So, imagine your shock, when you accidentally overhear the Bat thinking sexually about you.

You never advertised your powers much. Sure, the League knew you could read minds, technically—it was listed in your official files, alongside your elemental control, teleportation ability, and minor healing. But everyone tended to focus on the flashier talents. Telepathy was something you only used in emergencies, recon, or when J'onn was unavailable and they needed backup on psychic shielding.

So over time, they forgot. They treated you like the teleporting brawler, not the guy who could peel open their skull with a whisper of thought. And you liked it that way.

Until the day you accidentally heard Batman.

You weren’t trying to listen. You never meant to dip into Bruce’s mind—not unless it was life-or-death or you were nudged in by psychic feedback. But it was hard not to hear someone when they were screaming at full volume inside their skull.

You sat across the conference table, elbows on the polished metal surface, legs casually crossed, half-listening to Diana as she gave a report on the clean-up mission in Themyscira. Bruce was beside her, silent. Observing. Classic.

Nothing unusual.

Until your powers—idly roaming the mental static in the room like they always did—locked onto him. And you heard:

“That suit is a crime. He knows exactly what he’s doing wearing that.”

Your head twitched slightly.

“Those arms—those thighs. Christ. If he stretches one more time, I swear to God I’m going to lose it.”

What? You blinked, pretending to check your comms, but the voice in Bruce’s mind continued, relentless, dark, and filthy.

“I want to bend him over that damn table and rip that uniform off piece by piece.”

You choked on your breath. Clark glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you coughed. “Just—dry air.”

But it didn’t stop.

“He’s too damn pretty. Look at that mouth. Those lips could ruin me. And he has the audacity to laugh like that? Around Diana? She’s getting too close. If she touches him again, I swear I’ll break one of her wrists—”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

Nope. Nope. Get out. Abort. Leave the brain, thank you, goodbye—

“Focus, Bruce. You’re Batman. This is a mission briefing, not a wet dream. But God, if he ever—if he ever made the first move, I’d pin him to the wall so hard it would shake the Tower—”

You stood up so fast your chair screeched across the floor. Everyone turned. “Emergency,” you blurted. “Huge. Big. Immediate.”

“Now?” Barry asked, blinking.

“Yes. I’ll call. Or teleport. Or whatever.” You vanished in a blink of light, leaving Bruce to slowly narrow his eyes behind the cowl.

You ghosted him.

Completely.

Every sparring session? Canceled. Every group mission with Batman? Conveniently swapped with Green Lantern. Every time he entered a room? You made a strategic exit like it was a damn war zone.

Bruce noticed.

Oh, he noticed everything. From the sudden stiff body language to the way you wouldn’t look him in the eye, like he’d committed some cardinal sin.

Had he said something wrong? Had he done something?

You used to joke with him. Nudge his arm. Let your fingers brush his when no one else was watching. Now you acted like he was made of acid.

He couldn’t handle it anymore.

You were in the Watchtower's empty locker room, just done rinsing off after a solo mission. Hair wet. Uniform clinging slightly. You were alone—until you weren’t. You looked up in the mirror—and there he was.

Bruce.

Cowl off. Eyes sharp. Jaw set. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asked, voice low.

You gripped the edge of the sink. “I think you know,” you muttered.

“I don’t. Tell me.”

You turned, finally meeting his gaze. “I heard your thoughts, Bruce. During that last meeting.”

His lips parted slightly—just for a moment. “...Shit.”

“I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t trying. But you—you were broadcasting like a broken dam.”

He stepped closer.

“You heard everything?” His voice was rough now. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Every word.”

“Even the part about—”

“Yes!” you snapped. “Every. Single. One. You want to rip off my uniform, bend me over furniture, strangle Diana with jealousy—do you want me to go on?”

Silence.

Then Bruce said, very slowly, “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

You scoffed. “Obviously.”

“But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think it.” You froze.

“I’ve been biting my tongue around you for months. You’re smart. Strong. And don’t even get me started on the way you look in that suit.” His voice was darker now. “You’re a walking distraction. And I can’t afford distractions. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck you every damn time you smirk at me.”

Your brain short-circuited.

You knew Batman could be intense—but this?

You stepped back. “You could’ve just told me.”

Bruce followed. “Would you have believed me?”

“Not if you acted like normal. But that—” You paused, then chuckled breathlessly. “God, Bruce. You really thought about pinning me to the wall during a mission briefing?”

He didn’t even blink. “More than once.”

You stared. And then—you kissed him.

A hard, heated, messy kiss.

His hands immediately went to your waist, gripping you like he’d been holding back for years. The kiss was all tongue and frustration and months of pent-up tension. It wasn’t clean or pretty. It was hot and possessive and everything.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re not going to freak out and start brooding more than usual after this, are you?”

“I’m Batman,” he murmured. “I brood for sport.”

You smacked his shoulder. “Idiot.”

His hand slid down to your hip, grip firm. “Still want me to keep my thoughts PG?”

You hesitated. Then smirked. “Only if you act on them next time.”