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jazzthatonewriterchick · 2 days ago

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Rent-A-Boyfriend! (Sukuna x F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Fake BF!Ryomen Sukuna x Single!Fem!Reader (Fake Relationship/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: At your sister's wedding, you decide to rent a temporary boyfriend for the evening to avoid the stares and annoying questions about why you're still single a year after your break up. Your fake BF isn't the nicest in the world, but he's hot and knows how to play pretend...though it isn't easy to do so with a guy you despise. You're more than prepared to never see this fool again after the wedding, but when you run into your ex and emotions run high, your fake BF takes it upon himself to make due on his highly-rated "skills" in his occupation.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); No Curse AU; Fake Relationship Trope; Fake Wedding Date Trope; Asshole!Sukuna; Some Angst & Heartbreak; Alcohol Consumption; Drunk Sex; Enemies to Lovers; Mutual Oral (Giving & Receiving); Hotel Sex; Mating Press; Doggystyle; Degradation + Praise; Name-Calling; MDom!Sukuna x Fsub!Reader; Reader Cums 2x; Sloppy Kissing; Sukuna Has Tattoos & Piercings; Creampie

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: I need to write more Sukuna shit fr. This one was HOT. I hope y'all think so too! Art credits above go to aliyartss! Her work is TOO FUCKING GOOD!! 🤭 -Jazz

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"Sukuna, can you please stop picking your teeth?" you exasperatedly whisper.

The pink-haired hunk in his tailored and freshly-ironed suit gives you a glower that could damn well set fire to the pristine, white tablecloth table you sit at with him. "What?" he scoffs. "I had spinach in it. You want me to walk around with shit in my teeth?"

You huff to yourself, shooting a glance from left to right to ensure that no one is watching. Sukuna watches you, chuckling dryly. "What? Afraid you'll attract onlookers."

"No," you snap. "More like you will attract onlookers. Didn't they teach you manners at that fancy boyfriend training school you came from?"

Sukuna squints his ruby-red eyes at you, shoving a piece of shrimp in his mouth that he chews on a little too roughly. You snicker to yourself at your little joke, glad that you can keep up with him in the sassy little bitch department.

You once again look around, checking to see if your parents are watching from the dance floor or maybe a distant cousin is leering. Luckily, everyone is more concerned with your beautiful sister aka the bride and her dashing groom. You don't blame them; they make such a gorgeous couple.

Though the word is flung around too much for your liking, your sister is truly an entrepreneur. As the owner of her own spa and yoga studio, a fitness influencer on the side, and on a billboard for toothpaste, your sister is quite the looker and celebrity among your family and TikTok.

Of course she would end up generating attention from the opposite sex at a breakneck speed. But when she met her manly-man baseball player boyfriend (turned-fiancé-turned-husband) who attended her yoga class after obsessing over her TikToks, that was it for them. It was love at first sight.

You can see how much your new brother-in-law loves your sister. What with the something-thousand dollar summer wedding with its flowers imported from Brazil and wedding cake stacked high with layers of marbled vanilla and chocolate, you would think that he does!

Not to mention the sparkling diamond ring on your sister's finger (and the 24k engagement ring she got just six months before the wedding). You look at them now getting gushed over by your aunties, arms wrapped around each other. Your sister has never looked happier than with her man in her to-die-for white gown.

You feel joy for her...and also a pang of jealousy. You can't help it. Not that you want your sister's new husband; just their relationship. To see them so in love, to see them fit so well together, fills you with envy that you thought you long pushed away and got over.

Apparently not. Not when you're surrounded by couples and fresh off a breakup from a longterm relationship just a year before. Then your sister's engagement happened, so you had a lot to distract yourself with.

But you wouldn't dare to go back to those nights where you drank too much, smoked too much, and cried yourself to sleep in the empty apartment you once shared with your boyfriend...whom you were hoping would become your fiancé one day.

You thought that finally, your mother can stop trying to fix you up with the younger employees at her job.

Finally, your extended family can stop asking you about your relationship status at familial events and gatherings.

Finally, those looks of pity, sympathy, and humor over being single at your age and the black sheep of your family can stop.

No more lines like, "Oh, Y/N, you're so pretty! Why don't you have a boyfriend?" and "A woman as smart as you and you're still single?! There must be something wrong with you, girl!"

But no, that isn't what happened at all.

Hence why you immediately listened to that TikTok video you saw promoting the fairly new company "Rent-A-Boyfriend" and hired a temporary romantic partner for today's festivities.

He sits with you now, chugging down champagne and looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. At least he decided to match your silky, form-fitting dress with his suit and tie. You will admit that the man looks dapper in it.

He is also fine as fuck. Sukuna stands at six-foot something, big, broad, and beefy with spiked, pink hair that looks soft to the touch, pouty, pink lips embedded with a tantalizing lip ring, a thick neck coated in tattoos hidden behind his collar, hypnotizing, crystalline, red irises with a stare that could melt stone, and muscles you've often envisioned feeling up yourself.

Sukuna was rated a 5.0 on the Rent-A-Boyfriend website with a desired hourly fee that you could agree to due to your job's hefty pay. He has proven to be worth it with his dazzling smile, confidence, and ways of coming up with satisfactory answers on the fly when meeting your family.

Questions like: "How did you two meet?" "Where have you been hidin' at, son?" "What do you do for work?" "What are you intentions with my daughter, Sukuna?"

That was your mother asking during the last one. Before the reception and you were called to your duty as a bridesmaid, you walked into the beautiful gardens with Sukuna on your arm, matching smiles plastered on your faces. Your dad was surprisingly welcoming (albeit confused at seeing the random man on his daughter's arm).

But your mother? She was anything but. She wore that pinched expression when she is displeased or skeptical as she gave Sukuna a weak-handed handshake. You couldn't care less if she didn't approve. It was better than constantly being berated for being single.

"Just look at your sister!" she would exclaim. "She's married to an athlete! At this rate, honey, you'll be only be married to that job and that degree you've been chasing after for six years."

Yes, the degree that you had to put off before because your dad got diagnosed with an illness that left him gravelly ill for a year and your boyfriend at the time needed help launching his business. The degree that you put off to help the people you loved.

Sukuna, luckily, handled your mother well; always smiling and being as charming as humanly possible. You were impressed considering that the guy isn't anything close to charming. He is brash, aggressive, cocky, and so fucking annoying.

You wanted to rip your hair out when you met him for the first time at a little coffee shop near his tattoo parlor (he told your parents that he's a cyber security specialist at Amazon). He teased you about your sister. Joked about you being a romantic. Burped at the table. This is the guy who got a 5-star rating on his work website?

Yet he has perfectly incapsulated every little white lie you threaded together with him and every fact, interest, and dislike you told him over the month before the wedding in his conversations with the guests.

"I still can't believe you went for a suit," you chuckle. "I would've sworn you'd go for a leather jacket and biker boots." Sukuna gives you a hot glare as he swallows his shrimp. "Don't mock my skills or my occupation, woman. You know how many sad, single females hire me on a monthly basis?"

You cock your head to the side, eyeing him. “Females?" you parrot. He raises a hand in defense. “My bad; women. To be fair, those are the words of my trainer."

You gap at him, wondering if he’s serious. It’s no wonder his company is so big if it targets vulnerable women…but you suppose in all honesty, you are one. “First of all, I'm not sad," you scoff.

The pink-haired stud scoffingly laughs. “Oh, yeah, like those longin' looks you shot at your sissy and her hubby were just my imagination." He takes a gulp of the last of his champagne, grimacing at the glass. “They got anythin' stronger than this?" he grumbles.

"Drinking on the job?" you tut, sipping your own glass of Brüt to take the edge off. "How you got a five-star rating for your occupation is beyond me."

You would think it’s also because of the sexy ass thirst traps he posts on his profile on the site, in addition to an ovary-bursting photo of him and his baby brother Yuji.

Sukuna looks at you now, his gaze dipping into something that isn’t appropriate as his employer or for a wedding. It’s way too hot and way too suggestive. He leans in a bit, instinctively making you lean away from him despite his pouty lips curling into a smirk. “Wouldn't ya like to know, little one?" he replies.

Blushing, you wave him away as he cackles. It’s bad enough he’s so annoyingly fine. You love tattoos your piercings, and Sukuna is a walking aphrodisiac with his collection of them. “Stop calling me that!" you hiss. "I said no pet names outside of events!"

It is one of the many rules you outlined to him during your first meeting: no pet names, handholding, or PDA outside of events; no blowing up your phone for booty calls; no dates period. 'No sex' is on this list too, but Sukuna told you beforehand that he doesn't sleep with his silents.

Sukuna sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes. "It ain't a pet name; I was bein' facetious."

“Like you know so well," you scoff, drinking some water to ease your hammering heart and twitching pussy. How long has it been since you've actually gotten some dick? You know the answer (a year), but you refuse to utter it aloud. Maybe you're just overly sensitive to everything now due to the fact that you haven't been touched in so long.

"How you get so many women to hire you as their temporary boyfriend is beyond me," you utter, snarky and shady. But you know exactly why: it’s because he’s so goddamn FINE. That stare could make you instantly fold and you've admittedly imagined what he looks like without clothes on.

But when he opens his mouth, all of that flies south. “You act as if you're the prize here, girly," he snorts. "Single for a year and you need to hire a stranger for a wedding date. You're quite a catch."

You don’t miss the sarcastic bite in his tone or the way he smiles at you: so wickedly like he's the damn Omen. "Fuck you, Sukuna," you growl, gripping your champagne flute. You have to grip the edge of the table with your other hand to avoid tossing it in his face.

Sukuna just hums thoughtfully to himself, vibing to the music playing. “That comes with an extra fee, doll face." The molten look in his eyes before he winks at you is not lost on you. You huff, irritated (and annoyingly aroused), abruptly standing from your chair. "Stop that!" you snap.

But as you do, you nearly knock your sister and her plate of shrimp salad down. “Whoa, whoa, darling!" she giggles. "Easy on the dress. I'm scared enough to get dirt on it." You turn, giving your sis an apologetic smile as Sukuna snorts behind you. "Oh, I'm sorry, sis," you sigh. "There was a bee buzzin' around my head. Sukuna swatted it away though." It’s a shit lie, but she seems to buy it.

"Oh, what a gentleman." Your sister smiles jokingly at Sukuna who stands up to be by your side. "Just tryin' to do my job. My baby doesn't deserve to get stung in this outfit." He wraps a tight arm around you that's supposed to come off sweet and romantic, but it only makes you feel uncomfortable.

Mostly because you can feel the strength in his toned arm and have a sudden urge to stroke it up to feel the veins in it. You push the dirty thought away, disgusted with yourself.

"Just came over to tell you two that we'll be cutting the cake soon," your sister announces, "so you may wanna sit closer to the snack table."

"There's a bar over there, right?" Sukuna asks. When your sister nods, he abruptly snatches his glass and heads over. "I'll save us a spot, angel," he sweetly tells you before pressing a chaste kiss on your temple. Your skin screams from the act (and your senses sing from the scent of his cologne).

"Thank you, sweetie," you say as adoringly as you possibly can. He shoots you a fake smile as he walks off, your eyes trailing down to his firm butt in his slacks. Thank God you only have a few hours left with this man until you part ways. You don't know if you'll end up fighting the guy or fucking him.

"Oh, look at you," you coo to your sister, your hands gently trailing over her dress. "You look beautiful, sis. I'm so happy you found your one."

She smiles, shooting a glance at Sukuna at the bar. "And you've seemed to find yours too. After all that pain, you have someone to call your own too."

You smile back, ignoring the pang of guilt you feel at her sweet words. If only she knew that this whole thing was a sham and you only hired Sukuna to act as your date in fear of judgement.

"Not for long," comes a the criticizing voice from behind you. You and your sister turn to find your mother standing there in her wedding best with designer earrings and shoes, a pinched look on her face. "Mom!" you chirp, biting back your annoyance. "You finally got off the dance floor. You want some champagne?"

She ignores your question altogether, glaring at you. "I want to talk to you, Y/N," she pointedly says. "Come with me." You resist the urge to bolt. Does she know that this is fake? Could Sukuna have blabbed?

"M-Mom, maybe now isn't the right time to..." But your mother is walking off before your sister can finish, heading towards the outskirts of the gardens that lead out towards a golf course and gazebos dotting the clean, cut lawn.

Your sister gives you an apologetic look, squeezing your hand. "Call me if you need me," she whispers. You nod, fuming because of your mother's actions. Doing this now at your sister's big event is more than inappropriate.

Yet you drain the rest of your Brüte and trail after your mother. You catch Sukuna's eye at the bar and he gives you a confused scowl. You point at your mother and then make a motion of shooting yourself. The look on his face is nothing short of humored, but he also looks sorry for you.

You are too. If there is anyone who complains about you still being single, and every decision you make, it's your mother. She has always favored your sister more and it has seemed to grow since she found her baseball lover.

Under the rustling trees in the summer sun, you come face to face with that as your mother plants her hands firmly on her hips, fixing you with a star. "You don't like him, do you?" you sigh.

"There's nothing to like, Y/N," she primly replies. "The man is fake as fake can be! I can see through him like glass. Where did you even scoop him up from?"

"I told you how we met," you huff. "At a coffeeshop near his job. He mistook my latte as his." It's the story you and Sukuna cooked up, but it isn't entirely untrue. You did meet at a coffeeshop, albeit he ordered a black coffee while you got a sugary, iced drink that made him cringe.

"Oh, Y/N," she haughtily scoffs. "Do you think I was born just last week? I know that's a lie! You probably met him somewhere, got him in bed, and now-"

"Mom!" you angrily exclaim, flushing in the face. Mostly out of pure anger. Does she think so low of you that you would use a hookup for a wedding date?

"And now you're trying to build a relationship with him that isn't anything but what's between the sheets," she continues. "The same thing happened to-"

"I told you not to bring him up," you say, your voice low and irritated. "You know that still hurts, Mom."

She pauses, her jaw tense, her lipstick bright and red. "I'm just making a point, Y/N. You always pick the wrong men, the wrong job, everything! I worry so much about you!"

You almost laugh at her, all of your anger pouring out in this one millisecond. "Well, I don't feel that worry, Mom," you snap. "You worry about yourself and how you'll look as a mother. No one, not even Dad, has any problem with my job, school, or singleness but YOU."

Your mother blanches, shocked at your outburst. "You always make me feel like the odd one out. Like I'm the ugly duckling next to my sister. It's bad enough people asked me why I was still single after a year every second."

"Not every second," she mutters under her breath. You scoff to yourself, heat curling in your gut. "Oh, yeah, because you're one of 'em," you hiss.

Your mother puckers her lips like she ate something sour and looks away towards the rolling hills of the golf course. You know she knows that she was wrong. "I love you, Mom, but you need to trust me and stop meddling in my life. As my mother, I want your approval, but if I don't get it, I will still do everything I can to make myself proud of ME."

You are firm and true, but your voice still wavers. Out of fear and out of emotion; emotion that you can feel rising to the surface, threatening to push tears past your tear ducts. Quickly, you leave her and escape to the golf course in an effort to avoid blubbering in front of your mother. "Y/N!" she calls after you. "Y/N, come back!"

But you walk on in your heeled sandals, feeling the tears rising up and up like steam. You walk up among the jogging trails on the sidewalk above the gold course, going as far as your shoes will allow you. As you walk, you let one tear drip down your cheek and quickly wipe it away. Can't have your makeup getting fucked up.

But as your luck would have it, your entire outfit is in risk of being fucked up when a stranger suddenly bumps you head on, knocking you clean off your feet. "Oh!" you exclaim, falling backwards onto your ass.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry!" they shout. "Jeez, I didn't ruin your dress, did I?" He quickly reaches out to help you up, still blubbering apologies, but you are completely silent.

Because when you look up and see the sun glinting in the same long hair you used to run your fingers through, the same lean body you used to touch, and the blue Nike shorts he's wearing, you realize who this man is. Your ex.

It's been a year, but he still looks the exact same (though he is growing a beard and his hair is longer). He blinks at you, familiarity registering across his handsome face. "Y/N," he says in shock. "Wow, it's been so long. How are you doing?"

He honestly sounds happy to see you. Realizing your hand is still in his, you quickly release him and tuck your hands behind your back. "I-I'm at a wedding," you stammer. "For my sister. Good. You?"

You cringe at the word salad. It happens when you get nervous. "Oh, your sister got married!" he happily chirps. "Tell her I said congratulations! I'm just here for a jog."

Before you can say anything more or make a fool out of yourself, you are interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps. "Baby, wait!" someone hollers from behind him. "You said you weren't gonna go that fast!" A girl, tall and slender with legs to die for, abs protruding from under her pink shorts, and glossy hair in a ponytail.

She pauses behind your ex and stares at you, the sweat glistening like diamonds on her pretty skin. "Oh, hi!" she chirps. "Have we met before?"

Your ex looks between her and you, obviously stuck. "No," you weakly reply, fighting the urge to flee. "Um...I'm an old friend of his." Your ex pulls the mystery girl close, making your heart clench. "Baby, this is my ex, Y/N. Y/N, this is my girlfriend."

You knew that already, but hearing it is like a stab in the heart over and over again. His girlfriend. Which means he moved on while you're still standing in the same place. "Oh, you're the one in school!" the girlfriend exclaims. "I've heard so much about you from my sweetie here!"

She offers her slender hand and pretty pink nails for a shake. You return it, albeit shaken. "Good things, I hope," you say, offering a wobbly smile. Your ex checks his Apple Watch, cussing. "Shit, we should get goin' before our lunch with your parents, baby."

Baby. The name he used to call you. He turns to you and smiles just as his girlfriend pecks his cheek and jogs back the way she came. His smile hurts you more than anything. "It was nice seeing you again, Y/N. You take care, alright?" As he runs off, you feel like you were just slapped in the face.

You stand there, too stunned to even cry. You feel so numb. So empty. Though you head back to the wedding to take photos with the others and Sukuna, you have no interest in celebrating anymore.

So what do you do? You venture to the bar to drink. And drink. And drink. One champagne glass turns into two. Then three. Finally, when night falls and fireflies make their grand appearance, you sit at the bar and sip on your fourth glass, silent and solemn.

When you suddenly hear a bark of your name, you turn, finding an irritated Sukuna out of his suit jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to show off his veiny forearms and tattoos. "There you are!" he barks. "Where the fuck did you go? Have you been over here the whole time I was callin' you?"

You stare at him, the edges of your vision quite blurry. "You called?" you dumbly ask. Sukuna rolls his eyes. "Yes, about a dozen fuckin' times. Texted ya too. I thought you died or somethin'."

You dig into your clutch and find your phone where, sure enough, you see multiple calls and texts from your fake BF. "Sorry," you hiccup. "I've been here."

You drain the rest of your champagne, the strong, bubbly substance making you feel warm all over. Sukuna pulls up a seat next to you, giving you an unidentifiable look. "I can see that. You drunk, skunk?"

You glare at him, pushing your empty glass aside. "I said quit with the pet names, Sukuna," you growl. "M'not in the mood for this." You're so drunk that your brain can't even focus or catch a hint of sarcasm. "Besides, the wedding's almost over and photos are done, so you'll be able to quit soon," you grumble.

Sukuna eyes you, noticing your attitude and your overly-glowing makeup. You haven't done a touch-up so your foundation is hanging on by a thread underneath the setting powder currently breaking its hold on your skin. Mascara slightly coats underneath your bottom lashes and your gloss is smudged from sipping too much. You're a wreck. "Da hell happened to you?" he asks with a scowl. "What, you see your ex with another girl or somethin'?"

You stare at him, tight-lipped and eyes glazed over, and his smile fades. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah," you dryly agree, a tight smile stretching across his lips. "He was jogging in the Nike shorts I bought him with some other chick that I'm sure he got together with right after we broke up."

You flag the bartender down for another flute even when you know you'll be sick later. But you need this. You harshly laugh to yourself, internally wincing at the sound. "Y'know I thought he was gonna be my fiancé? My Prince Charming? My happy ending? Just like my sissy. But no...he just told me we weren't compatible anymore after five fuckin' years together."

The bartender passes you another glass and you take a much-needed sip of the cool, bubbly liquid. You'll sleep good tonight, that's for sure.

After a pause, Sukuna finally speaks. "Y'know what you need?" he asks. "A real drink. Not this fancy crap." He takes your glass and drains it himself, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his thick throat. "C'mon, we're goin' to the bar."

You gape at him, confused. The alcohol has made it so you have to use more brain cells to ensure that you're not hallucinating. "Huh?! And leave the wedding?!"

Sukuna scowls at you, crossing his arms over his beefy chest. "Would ya rather bitch and mope about here and make yourself feel worse?" You pause, staring up at him in silence. He sighs, rolling his eyes at you. "And before you even think it, no, I ain't tryna fuck you. You're not my type anyway."

Though you blush at his bluntness and the insulting words, you can't resist tossing fire back at him: "That makes two of us," you lie. Sukuna just smirks and rises from his stool, stretching his hand out for yours. You take it, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach and passing it off as alcohol influence.

So ignore the gazes of the other guests as your temporary boyfriend whisks you away to a cocktail bar located inside a hotel. You call your sister to congratulate her and her husband again and tell her that you're leaving. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she giggled over the phone. "Which means you should. He's hot, sis."

The bar is swanky and in full swing when you and Sukuna enter the hotel lobby. Supposedly, Sukuna used to work here before he became a tattoo artist/fake boyfriend and knows the owner. You both sit at the polished bar sometime later with your drinks: you ordered a Negroni while he gets a whiskey on the rocks.

He forces you to try his cocktail, telling you need something stronger. When you do, you scrunch your nose at the laste and gag. He snorts, taking his drink back and sipping on it with no problem. "Can't handle your brown liquor, I see," he teases.

You suck your teeth at him, sipping on your own drink (albeit slowly because of the champagne you had earlier). "Did you drag me here just to make fun of me?" you quip. He sits next to you, his jacket off and tie loosened to expose a sliver of chest that you avoid staring at for too long. "Nah, but it beats seein' ya frown. So shoot."

He says it so casually that you almost believe he doesn't care, but why else would he drag you to a bar and not try to fuck you?

You sigh, tapping your glossy acrylic nails on the bar. You got them done just for the wedding. Sukuna waits patiently for those memories to bubble up and for the truth to spill out of you.

"I was with my ex for five years," you recount. "We were living together for a year and starting our lives together until things started becoming...strained." That's the word: strained. Like a string being pulled too tight.

"We started arguing more, started having sex less. No romance. Barely any affection. When he worked late on Valentine's Day, I knew we were done for...and yet I still had hope that he would be the man I married." You shake your head at yourself, embarrassed. How stupid and naive you were.

"It doesn't help that people always ask me why I'm single and push me to find a man. I get lonely, sure, but being single ain't that bad if it means I don't get hurt." You sip your Negroni, wanting to feel the wash of warmth and liquid confidence that alcohol usually gives you.

Realizing Sukuna is still watching you, you turn to him, ignoring the intensity of his gaze. "So what about you? What hearts did you leave lonely? Or did someone break yours?"

He quirks a pierced brow at you, obviously surprised your interest. "I don't break hearts...intentionally." You scoff at this. The audacity of this man! "And yeah, I got my heart broken 'bout some years back."

He pauses, jiggling the ice around in his glass. He cuts his eyes to you then, anticipation stretching between you. "You wanna know how I got over it though?" You fold a fist under your chin, eyeing him curiously. "How?" you ask.

"Sex." He says it so simply like it should be so obvious. The word nearly makes you blush, especially with how casual he says it. "Sex doesn't work for everything, Sukuna," you argue with an eye roll. "What about therapy or fitness?"

"Maybe not," he says with a passive shrug, "but it sure feels good. Maybe it'll work for you if you try." You guffaw, covering your mouth to avoid disturbing the other bar-goers with your raucous laughter. "And what? Hookup with a random guy and forget all my troubles?"

The next time Sukuna looks at you, it isn't teasing or tinged with mirth or irritation. It is hot, molten, and intense. The suggestion in them is undeniable. "I meant me, idiot," he softly growls. "Unless you want somethin' quick."

You pause, speechless. He can't be serious. "What?" you ask, gobsmacked. "B-But I thought you didn't hook up with clients."

He sips on the rest of his whiskey, his tongue slithering out to lick away the remains. You catch the glint of his tongue ring and clench your thighs together. "I don't," he replies, "but you're an exception. You're sad and I wanna help; simple as that."

You are still in shock, sitting there and slowly processing everything in your sloshy, drunk brain. "But...I thought I wasn't your type," you say, confused.

The pink-haired stud smirks at you, the act unfortunately making your nether regions twitch. "I lied. You, little one, are most certainly my type: short and a little too much to say." He cocks his head at you, his red rises eye fucking you.

"Not a bad face either," he mutters. "Your ex is a fuckin' idiot." He flashes you a big, toothy grin like the Big Bad Wolf himself. "Good thing I'm here though. I can at least take those thoughts away for a few hours."

You try to think of something to say; a rhyme or reason as to how wrong this is when you're practically his employer. But all you can think about is his hand just being an inch for yours as it lays on the bar. How thick his fingers are and how they'd feel stroking your cunt.

"No charge" is all he whispers and it just about sets you on fire. He then leans back, still eating you up with his fiery gaze, his lips looking unbelievably juicy and soft. “So what's it gonna be, doll?" he asks.

He already broke one of your rules. You might as well break his only one too. Somehow, this leads you to having your thighs split wide open as you lay on a hotel bed with Sukuna's face buried in your squelching, wet pussy under your dress several moments later.

You are a gasping, moaning, writhing mess on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the sheets while the other is buried in Sukuna's soft, pink spikes of hair. You shiver every time you feel the cool metal of his tongue melt against your hot, buzzing clit, the sensation making everything in you sensitive.

His tongue and fingers help with that too. His big hands force your thighs far apart from each other while his tongue becomes soaked in your wetness, alternating between your slit and your rosebud. "That's a good girl," he hums. "Open wider fa' me. Let me see you."

You try to do so, getting help from your fake boyfriend until your thighs are pushed down into the bedspread, forced to stay stretched open by Sukuna's strong hands. You whimper slightly at the painful tug in your muscles, becoming paranoid about your dress hiked up over your thighs.

"My dress, Sukuna," you whimper. But Sukuna shakes his head, his red eyes cutting to yours in the dimly-lit bedroom, the only light brightening the room being the silvery moon pouring in through the window. "Don't protest," he grumbles. "The dress'll be fine, but this poor pussy won't be. Look at her...so neglected."

He uses the flat of his tongue to lick up your slit, peeling your pussy lips apart to make room for his slick, pierced tongue. The tip flicks against your clit, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body, before he begins gently sucking on it over the hood. “Ah!” you gasp, the wind knocked out of you.

You press your body against the bed, your back arching from the immense pleasure. Sukuna chuckles into your pussy, the vibrations of his laughter traveling throughout your body. “Bet that loser couldn’t even find your clit.”

No, he could not. It would take multiple times for you to redirect him until he would become upset about it. But with Sukuna, you only had to tell him twice prior to him peeling your panties off and he never forgot. He makes it his mission to make you scream, your voice bouncing off of the walls as he slurps you like his life depends on it.

“Bet he couldn’t make ya loud like this,” he chuckles, pulling away from your wet cunt with a lewd squelch as the lips on his face tear away from your wet pussy lips. “Ain’t that right, baby?”

Teasingly, he gives your pussy lips tiny nibbles that make you flinch, your thighs twitching. He cocks his head to the side, mocking you. “What? No protest over the pet names? I could’ve sworn ya complained about that.”

He continues to nibble at your pussy lips, gently tugging on them the way you told him you like. He interviewed you in the elevator ride up to the hotel room, his lips leaving hickeys on your neck as he pinned you against the elevator wall. His knee was wedged between your thighs and rubbing against your pussy, fogging your mind and making you more susceptible.

He obviously committed each of your kinks and sexual enjoyments to memory, using them as weapons on you now. “No teasing,” you whimper. “Please.” You watch Sukuna's eyes dark to the color of crimson blood, lust blown and hooded. “Fuck, that’s hot. Keep begin’ for me, will ya?”

He then hikes your dress up more, leaving you naked from the chest down. You long since ditched your strapless bra, leaving it somewhere on the floor, leaving you only in your heels dangling around Sukuna's shoulders.

He dives in, immediately indulging in your pussy by slithering his tongue inside of your quivering, sodden hole. Your moans grow loud and high-pitched like you're trying to out-sing Mariah Carey. You didn't even realize you could be so loud and reach such heights until Sukuna is tongue fucking you.

“Oh, ‘Kuna!” you whine. “Fuck, please keep going! Go faster!” Your fingers wrench in his hair, gripping the pink locks and pushing him deeper into your pussy. “Uh-huh,” he moans into your quivering lips. “So tight here. Fuck, baby.”

He says it in a sharp breath like he can hardly believe what he has his tongue stuffed inside. Your eyes graze over the intricate tracings of black lines inked across his muscular back, each marking trailing off in a different place, moving with his body as he laps at your pussy.

You peel your head off of the bed to stare at him, grabbing his broad, inked shoulder to grab his attention. “More,” you moan. “Give me more.” He picks his head up, briefly shocked before a wicked smirk appears on his lips. “More? Such an eager little thing, ain’t you?”

He stands up before you, his hooded, lust-darkened eyes locked on yours as he peels off his dress slacks. Your eyes indulge in his abs, muscular arms, lickable pecs, and toned upper body before ducking down where his hips are. His pants and underwear are off in one swipe, leaving him naked.

Your eyes nearly bug at the big, thick cock stiff and leaking with pre-cum between his tree-trunk thighs and tatted legs. One vein throbs and protrudes from his shaft, leading from his heavy, cum-filled balls up to his pink dick head. Your pussy salivates, wanting so desperately to have him inside of you.

But instead of his dick, Sukuna sucks on his index and middle fingers, coating them in copious amounts of spit, before he sinks them inside of you. He watches as you writhe and lift your hips to rock them into his digits, fucking yourself on them as they curl up to glide against your G-spot.

He is entranced, salivating at the sight of your pussy stretched around his thick fingers, your wetness drizzling down to your asshole. “Yeah, take my fingers, baby," he breathlessly encourages you." You and this pussy are trouble.”

He proceeds to fuck your clit off the bone as he fucks your pussy with his fingers, making your toes curl in your shoes and your lungs struggle to take in air as the man between your thighs forces you to take all the pleasure he is giving you. Lewd, wet sounds penetrate the air as his tongue and fingers fuck your wet pussy in tandem, mingling with your moans increasing in volume with every second.

“Fuck, ‘Kuna!” you wail. “I’m gonna cum!” You can feel it tightening in your core. You feel like a balloon about to burst. Sukuna lifts his head from your cunt, his lips dripping in your juices. “What’s the magic word, doll face?” he roughly asks.

He curls his fingers forward and you nearly squirt in his face from the immense ecstasy. “Please, please, please!” you sob. Tears stick to your lashes, threatening to fall from your eyes.

That must be the 'magic word' Sukuna was referring to because you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. “Ya still want somethin’ more, little one?” he growls. “You want somethin’ thicker in this messy cunt?”

His fingers continue to piston in and out of you, fucking you to the point of your brain turning to mush. You have to force yourself not to cum by squeezing your eyes shut and willing yourself to resist. All self control leaves you and you are begging for him to just make you cum. “Goddammit, Sukuna! Just give it to me please!”

You can hardly hold on anymore; you're about to burst, your clit quivering with need. Suddenly, Sukuna slips his fingers out of you and rises from between your thighs. “I’ll give it to you,” he utters.

He then yanks on your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed closer to him before his cock slips inside of you without a moment's notice. Your mouth falls agape as his thick shaft is burrowed deep inside of you, stretching your walls out to accommodate him. "Fuck!" you wail, your nails digging into his muscles as you grip him. Any part of him.

Sukuna is sweet enough to allow you time to adjust by giving you slow thrusts, but once you're relaxed, he begins to roughly fuck you, moving right into fast, pistoned thrusts that make his pelvis rub against your clit and his balls pound against your asscheeks, the sound of his thighs slapping against yours drifting through the air.

You wiggle and writhe about, the pounding too much, but Sukuna stops you by wrapping a hand around your throat. “Don’t run,” he growls. “Just cum. Cum for me.”

His hips snap forward again and again, drawing you closer to the edge as you babble in pleasure: "Ah, yes, yes, yes, 'Kuna, fuck, I'm gonna...oh, fuck, I'm cumming!" A moan explodes out of you as your cum drips out of your pussy, coating Sukuna's cock in your release.

Sukuna gazes upon you stretched out around his cock, your legs wound around his waist and your dress peeled up around your chest to expose your tits and hard nipples. “That’s a good girl,” he purrs, massaging one of your tits, tweaking the hard peak of your nipple. “Look at all that. So messy.”

With a soft groan, he pulls out, emitting a high-pitched whine from you at the sudden loss. Sure enough, his dick is soaked in your cum, coating his balls. “Clean it up,” he demands.

He straddles your face, his muscular, thick thighs on either side of your head. Hungrily, you lift your head up and begin to suck his cock, slurping all of your cum off of his shaft. You hollow your cheeks and open your throat as if about to yawn, allowing him to sink in deeper.

"Fuck," he groans. "That's a good girl. Gimme that fuckin' throat." He begins to rock his hips, fucking your tight, sloppy throat for a little while, welcoming the sound of your gagging. "Maybe that's why that nerd left you: he couldn't handle such a pretty little slut."

The dirty little insult combined with the sweet compliment is like mixing Bourbon with sweet tea. The combination makes your pussy throb and clench excitedly despite just cumming. That doesn't seem to matter to Sukuna though.

After fucking your throat for a little while, he jumps off of you, spit trailing from your bottom lip as he departs. You sit up to see what's up, but he pushes you back, rough and demanding. You squeak, falling back onto the bed and barely breathing before Sukuna is on you again.

He peels your thighs up and winds them around his waist before fully straddling you and fucking you in mating press. The sounds that escape you are damn near inhuman: squeaking, wailing, and shrill screeches leaving your mouth that only get higher and more frequent as the man above you fucks you absolutely dumb.

Your brain has left the building, leaving you stupid, brainless mush as Sukuna turns your pussy into a puddle. The wetness secreting from your cunt only allows him better lubrication to easily drill your cunt, putting you into the mattress with every thrust like he has every intention of getting you pregnant tonight.

“Wait, Sukuna!” you sob. “I just came!” You grip his neck for dear life as he slams his hips down into yours, pounding his fat dick into your hole over and over again. “And you’ll cum again.” His words match his thrusts, his voice raspy and thick with arousal. “And again and again and again.”

He turns his face to nuzzle your hair, his lips tickling your cheek as his cock turns you from the inside out. "Don't you want that, doll face?" he whispers. "Don't you wanna cum all over this dick again?"

You do. You so very do. The urge to cum rises once more as Sukuna fucks you in mating press, his hips moving like a jackhammer, pounding you into the bed that shakes and creaks with his movements. "Suki," you whine. "M'close. I wanna cum again."

He moves away to stare down at you, his eyes lust-drunk and hooded, his face flushed and glistening in perspiration from the rough fucking session. "Yeah?" he teasingly asks. "You think you deserve it, huh?"

So he pauses and pulls out, leaving you breathless and desperate. He snaps his fingers and points at the bed, stroking his cock with his other hand. "Show me: get on all fours. I'm gonna cum too and I want you to fuckin' take it."

Like fire was just lit under your ass, you move into position with your ass hiked up and arms holding you up. But that doesn't last long when Sukuna mounts you from behind and begins pistoning himself into you again.

You gasp, your mouth falling agape as his cock hits every single part of your pussy that missionary didn't. You can feel all of him stretching and stroking you, that damn bomb ass dick giving you all that you could possibly need. "Ah, fuck!" you wail into the open air of the hotel room. "Oh, fuck, Suki!"

SMACK!

You shriek, the sting of Sukuna's palm hitting your asscheek making your pussy throb. "Shut the fuck up," he grunts. "You're too fuckin' loud. If you wanna scream, you'd better do it in that pillow."

Your arms give out on you, so you have no choice as you tilt forward and your face digs into the pillow below. You moan and scream as much as you want into the cushion, fucking up your makeup even further. "Such a good listener," he groans. "And such a good pussy. Nothin' fake about this, huh, baby?"

SMACK!

He spanks you again, harder this time, as his fingers dig into the flesh of your asscheeks as he fucks you harder. "Gettin' all your money's worth," he huffs. "Make you cum so good that you'll be beggin' me to come back. I'll make this shit real for you."

Loud moans and low grunts leave Sukuna's lips as he thrusts his hips forward over and over again, transfixed by the way your soft, juicy ass claps against his stomach, recoiling every time he thrusts forward. He forces you to fuck him back, your tight hole swallowing him up as you slam against each other, making the bed shake as if there is an earthquake happening.

Your second orgasm finally begins to crest again and you grip the bedsheets until your knuckles turn white, holding on for dear life as Sukuna fucks the shit out of you. "O-O-Oh, sh-shit, Sukuna!" you moan into the pillow. "M'gonna f-f-fucking cum!"

You can feel that Sukuna is close too; he has begun to swell inside of you, his cock throbbing in your tightening walls. "Beg for it, slut," he growls. "Beg for that shit! Beg me to make that pussy cum!"

You would tell him anything he wants to hear if it makes you cum any quicker. "Please!" you wail. "Please make me cum, Daddy! Please!" You move your hand underneath your thighs to rub your clit in an effort to get there faster.

Sukuna wraps an arm around your midsection and forces your head up with his other hand, digging his nose into the crook of your shoulder. He fucks you even faster, making both of you chase your Os head on. "Oh, fuck, pretty girl," he groans. "Cum for me. Cum all over that dick. Give it to me."

With his permission finally uttered, you let yourself release all over him. With a choked moan, you cream all over his cock, soaking him and leaving him dripping. You shiver and shudder in his arms, your orgasm taking you on a journey to the stars. And not once do you think about your ex.

With a few more harsh, rough thrusts that leave you breathless and achy, Sukuna chases his orgasm. "Take it," he groans. "Take my cum, pretty girl!" Finally, with a loud, bellowed shout of release, he sprays his spunk all over the walls of your pussy, filling you up. You gasp at the warm, gushing feeling, feeling it drip down your inner thighs.

As he cums, Sukuna's thrusts soon slow down until he comes to a pause, his body relaxing against yours. "Shit," he hisses, the swear turning into a rasped chuckle as he comes down from his high. "That was reeeeal nice," he draws. "C'mere."

He turns your cheek to face him and his lips envelope yours in a sloppy, slow kiss that leaves you just as breathless as your orgasms did. Slowly, he pulls out and allows you to belly flop onto the bed, exhausted and utterly satisfied.

Sukuna watches, stroking his semi-hard cock still coated in your cum. "Now you can give me a five-star rating," he jokes, his hand pawing your asscheek. "And remember: it's no charge, darlin'."

You hum in appreciation and exhaustion, too tired to even utter a coherent word. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your asscheeks.

"Just lemme make you cum again," he wickedly whispers. "And maybe take ya out on a real date."

THE END.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #my fic shit #jjk smut #my one shots #sukuna ryoumen smut #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna smut

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pbaz7 · 3 days ago

Text

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 14

paige x azzi

word count: 10.6k

a/n: we got a soft spot chapter today and a wings win!?!!? happy tuesday man. in all honesty this chapter's just vibes and relationship progression, nothing too crazy. i'll probably have two more chapters after this one to wrap shit up so let me know if there's any small wishlist things you wanna see lol. like always let me know what you think and leave live reactions if you can 🫶🏼

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The Unrivaled gym was filled with the typical inimitable energy of the space. A specific kind of energy that had become the forefront of the league's reputation. The space wasn’t known to be huge; nothing like the bright WNBA arenas packed with thousands of fans. What the Unrivaled gym lacked in size, it made up for in proximity. Fans leaned over the rails with their phones out and eyes wide. They were always close enough to hear the laughter and conversations between teammates if they spoke loud enough and the sound of their sneakers on the polished floor. What Phee and Stewie built made everything feel more personal and intimate. Like every fan in the crowd was in on something exclusive for that day.

The Florida humidity was present even inside the facility, but the vibe was loose. Nothing like the rigid intensity of the W. The lines at Unrivaled had always blurred between competition and community; and it had only continued to thrive through its first few years. They made sure there were no stiff sideline suits, or endless press obligations if the players weren’t feeling up to it.

Azzi was warming up with Rickea, Aaliyah, and DiJonai, lazily bouncing the ball between her legs.

On the other side of the court, Paige was just settling in her seat on the baseline, with Rae sitting next to her. Rae’s team had the night off and Paige had run into her after coming back from the gym. They planned to meet up after she took a shower. Paige had pulled her hair into a bun to stop the blonde strands from sticking to her neck and she was dressed comfortably in all black. A fitted tank, sweats that were probably more expensive than they should’ve been, and slides. She didn’t want too much attention today but people noticed her anyway.

Paige noticed the extra glances and not so subtle double takes from fans when she walked in. It had been like that for the last two weeks or so since Azzi posted her little ominous picture. Paige had teased her about it when she found out a few days later, but then she logged onto Instagram for the first time in who knows how long and liked Azzi’s picture.

On the arena screens, the broadcast camera was doing a slow sweep across the front row, pausing on a few familiar faces as the commentators comedically ‘introduced’ them. It landed on Rae first, who smiled and waved before booing both teams on the court. The crowd laughed, and one of the commentators laughed through her mic. “There’s Rae Burrell, doing what Rae does.”

The camera drifted to the left of Rae and paused on Paige. “And of course,” the announcer said, trying to hide her amusement in her tone, “we’ve got UFC Bantamweight champion Paige Bueckers in the building tonight. A very familiar face here at Unrivaled this summer...Wonder who she’s here for.”

There was a slight pause, just long enough for the crowd to react with a few cheers and laughs at the joke. Rae couldn’t help but laugh with them and Paige just shook her head and looked past the camera. The screen cut to someone else and Paige relaxed back into her seat, spreading her legs comfortably.

A few minutes later Jon and Jose made their way down the sideline. They both had on Unrivaled hoodies and they nodded to Rae in their awkward trying to be nonchalant way before leaning over the barrier to dap Paige up.

The exchange was brief but it did trigger an aftermath. Paige didn’t offer them much more than the handshake and a nod at them before they went back to their seats. People noticed the interaction and got a little antsy about potentially approaching Paige.

Not even a full minute later, two women — probably college aged, maybe a little older — leaned over the barrier. One of them already had her phone out, screen unlocked with her camera app open. “Hey, are you Paige Bueckers?” she asked confidently, clearly already knowing the answer. She stood naturally with her cleavage slightly pushed forward like she was used to getting attention from whoever she wanted.

Paige didn’t look up from her phone. Whether she hadn’t heard her or was just choosing not to respond wasn’t exactly clear to the women.

Rae noticed them and nudged Paige with her elbow.

Paige turned to look at her, confused as to why she was touching her. Rae tilted her head subtly, barely nodding toward the two women standing a few feet away.

Paige sighed quietly before she turned her head to look in their direction.

The one with the phone grinned with all 32 teeth. “Can we get a picture?”

Paige just stared at her blankly for a second before saying flatly “I don’t do pictures.” After she offered them an answer she looked back toward the court hoping it was the end of the interaction.

The two women were stunned and blinked a few times in surprise. One of the awkwardly said “Oh,” before pulling her phone back and stepping away, clearly not used to hearing no. The other glanced back over her shoulder as they walked off, still looking confused and a little upset.

On the court, Azzi watched the entire interaction as she mindlessly dribbled. She’d seen them approach Paige after she stopped to watch Paige’s interaction with her brothers. As the women went back to their seats, Azzi raised her eyebrow from across the floor.

Paige raised both of hers back at Azzi, as they silently had a conversation about the interaction.

Azzi shook her head, playfully rolling her eyes at the insinuation of the girls approaching Paige before the buzzer echoed overhead, putting an end to their ‘conversation.’ Azzi jogged toward the bench, pulling off her shooting shirt and highfiving her teammates while the announcer’s voice echoed through the gym.

Back on the baseline, Rae had a grin on her face. “You got fan girls now?”

Paige shook her head, clearly exasperated by the interaction but she didn’t say anything.

The game started with fluidity. The smaller court and shortened shot clocked allowed for the tempo to be much faster than what most fans were used to. Some of the players were a little more showy in Unrivaled than they would be in a 5 on 5 game but it only added to the entertainment. This league was Azzi’s element. Most players couldn’t guard her one on one and because of the setup there was really no help defense which made her skillset thrive.

Paige watched her like she always did. Anytime Paige looked at Azzi it was like no one else was in the room; but when it came to watching her play it was always a little different. Paige’s expression didn’t show it but her blue eyes showed just how mesmerized by Azzi she was. She watched her with an awe that genuinely made her eyes sparkle, with an ease that made her chest feel loose.

This time around though, attention wasn’t all one-way and people were noticing the way she was looking at Azzi despite not making outward expressions. Paige had always been a fixture, she was the kind of celebrity that fans would quietly observe, whispering to each other about who she was before going back to their business; but tonight people’s eyes lingered longer than usual.

Glancing between her and Azzi, doing double takes anytime she moved. It wasn’t overwhelming or anything, Paige truly didn’t care about what anyone else had going on but it definitely made her alert system a little more on edge. Stuck between watching Azzi as her natural sense to stay alert to protect herself crept in.

A few people whispered in hushed tones while looking directly at her even while the game was going on. She noticed one woman near the far end that kept turning around every few plays with her phone angled far too obviously in Paige’s direction. A guy sitting two rows behind the announcer had watched her more than the game and two seats over from him someone nudged their friend and pointed straight at her after Azzi hit a step-through layup.

All of this made Paige feel that slight burn in her chest from being seen too closely but she didn’t move. She silently went through the breathing exercises she’d been working on to calm her nervous system as she kept watching the game.

Midway through the second quarter Azzi was heating up from deep and Paige saw movement in her peripheral before the seat next to her shifted a little. She didn’t look to see who it was as she watched Azzi slip behind a screen and catch the ball at the top of the key before drilling another three and backpeddling on defense.

The crowd got loud, making Azzi show her usual smile when she was heating up in a game.

A voice came from the newly occupied seat. “Hey.”

Paige’s jaw flexed before she tore her eyes away from the court to see who was speaking to her. She nodded once before looking right back at the game.

“It’s packed in here tonight,” Lead said casually, scanning the gym. “Didn’t think I’d be able to find a seat before I saw this one.”

Paige didn’t answer and for a few moments her silence held. She watched Azzi hit a quick jab before deciding to just pull up when her defender bit.

“Azzi’s good as hell tonight,” Leah said as her eyes followed her down the court.

Paige nodded once, not giving her any real acknowledgment.

Leah leaned in, lowering her voice so bystanders couldn’t hear her. “Maybe I can finally see what it is ya’ll do all day to get her so relaxed before games.”

Paige clenched her jaw and turned her head slowly. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, flatly.

Leah blinked, then smiled at Paige like she thought it was playful. “Relax Paige. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“During my girlfriend’s game.”

Leah’s lips parted like she might laugh but she decided against that and just said, “Yeah.”

Paige stared, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with her. Ultimately she decided to just say,“I’m not interested,” before she looked back at the court.

On the floor, Azzi hit another jumper from the elbow and was backpedaling down the court, eyes briefly scanning the baseline out of habit. Her gaze snagged on what she saw. Rae on one side, Paige in the middle, and Leah on Paige’s other side.

Azzi didn’t break stride, but the irony of what she was seeing pulled a dry, silent laugh from her chest. She shook her head and turned her focus back to the court, smoothing out her expression as she called out a switch on a screen.

After halftime the rest of the game seemed like it was going by faster than the first two quarters.

During a timeout Rae glanced toward the scoreboard before looking at Paige. “I don’t know how they’re only up four with Azzi playing like this. Seems like she’s the only one that can hit a shot today.”

Paige didn’t look away from the court. “She’ll be ight. Prolly just run her a bath.”

Rae snorted. “Awwww so sweet of you.”

Leah laughed a little from where she was sitting.

Paige didn’t say anything, but her jaw ticked.

A few possessions later after more of a flasher move than usual, Rae spoke to Paige again. “She really out there showing off for you.”

Paige exhaled, her top lip quivering as she stopped the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “She’d be doing this with or without me here.”

“Nah she always puts a lil extra on when you’re in the crowd. We were all in on it when we played the Valks one day.” Rae said.

Paige watched as DiJonai got a quick steal and tapped it up toward Rickea for an easy transition layup. “You bored or something?”

Rae grinned. “Maybe a little.”

Leah cut in, gesturing toward the scoreboard where the score was still close. “Phantom’s putting up a pretty decent fight. Sonia replacing Sab’s kinda tough.”

Paige didn’t respond.

After a few seconds of silence, Leah looked at her again. “Do you not like me?”

Paige blinked a few times debating on what she was going to say before deciding that honesty was the best policy. “Just not in the business of entertaining somebody whose tryna fuck me when I have a girlfriend.”

Rae coughed to hide whatever sound was about to escape her throat without permission before she reached down to grab her water and Leah finally stopped speaking to Paige.

In the final stretch of the game the intensity picked up a little. It got a little more physical on the defensive end and every possession felt like it mattered more considering both teams were in playoff contention.

Phantom made a small run, cutting the Mist lead to one. Azzi hit back to back three’s, then forced a turnover on defense before outletting the ball to Aaliyah.

During a timeout, Azzi walked toward the bench, grabbing a towel from the trainer to wipe her face before slinging it over her shoulder. Her chest was subtly rising and falling, as she controlled her breathing. It was a media timeout so her eyes scanned the crowd, smiling when she saw her family before she drifted toward the baseline toward Paige again.

She was looking down at her phone, thumb tapping across the screen, making her unaware of Azzi’s eyes on her.

Rae caught Azzi’s stare and grinned at her friend, she nudged Paige with her elbow again for the third time that night.

Paige let out a long sigh before looking toward her. “What?”

Rae tilted her chin, nodding toward the court. “Look.”

Paige looked up and saw Azzi already looking at her with a small smile on her lips.

They held eye contact for a few seconds, longer than they should’ve with a crowd around them. Wanting to see if she could get a reaction out of Paige, Azzi cocked her head to the side slightly, her eyelashes fluttering in that way she knew would get under Paige’s skin.

Paige clenched the back of her teeth together and looked down, fighting a smile and the heat rising up her neck, shaking her head to herself. She was so busy trying to control herself that she didn’t see the satisfied smile on Azzi’s face before she got up from the bench when the buzzer went off.

Rae leaned back in her seat and shook her head. “Y’all are so dramatic.”

Paige didn’t respond, but the tips of her ears flushed a little darker and she had to keep looking at her shoes for a few more moments.

The rest of the game wound down a few minutes later with Azzi’s team pulling away with ease after a short run. After a quick interview with the Unrivaled media team Azzi gave fans near the sideline and baseline a few high fives as she drifted toward where Paige was sitting.

Paige was still in her seat waiting for Azzi and when she saw her she stood up automatically, not even realizing she was doing it until she was already completely upright.

Azzi approached with a towel around her neck, sweat still sticking to her collarbones making them glisten from the gym lights. She raised both eyebrows at Paige’s seating arrangements. Silently asking, ‘Really?’

Paige’s lips twitched. “Not my doing.”

Azzi smiled as she stepped into Paige’s space for a hug. She wrapped one hand around Paige’s shoulders and pressed the other one against the side of her neck.

“You had a lot going on over here,” Azzi whispered against her ear.

Paige stopped herself from reacting to the feeling of Azzi’s lips against her skin. “I didn’t miss anything.”

Azzi leaned back to look at her. “Mmm you sure?”

Paige’s eyes dropped briefly to Azzi’s mouth, then back up. “Saw everything I needed to.”

Azzi laughed quietly at the insinuation, reaching down to mess with the string of Paige’s sweatpants. “Is that why you were mean to your little fan club earlier?”

Paige gave her a look, but the edge of her mouth curved. “Don’t start.”

Azzi hummed. “I’m just saying. You know how I get.”

“Mmm so that’s why you walked over here tryna be all over me,” Paige said as she trailed her eyes over Azzi’s stomach when she lifted her jersey slightly to untuck it.

Azzi grinned, not dignifying her a response to that. She grew bored with the string of the sweatpants so she moved on to fixing the edge of Paige’s chain that was twisted, letting her fingers linger at the base of her throat.

“You good?” she asked, her tone changing to that softspoken tone she always used when she was checking on Paige, the question loud enough to slip through the noise but quiet enough that only Paige could hear it.

Paige nodded, reaching out for Azzi’s hand to brush her thumbs over her knuckles.

Azzi looked down at their hands and smiled to herself. She laced their fingers together for a second, then untangled them just as quickly, dragging her fingers up and down Paige’s wrist like she didn’t know which part of her she wanted to touch.

Rae cleared her throat loudly, breaking the two of them out of the bubble they were in, reminding them of where they were. “Y’all got more eyes on you than ESPN right now.”

Paige glanced sideways, and sure enough, a few fans nearby were definitely not being subtle. One girl was holding her phone low trying to pretend like she wasn’t recording the interaction. While someone else had their camera higher up, pretending to film the team on the court warming up while obviously aimed in their direction.

Azzi laughed under her breath, wiping her forehead with the towel as she looked around and noticed just how many people were looking at them.

“Might’ve forgot where we were and overdone it a little,” she said, not really sounding sorry about it.

She gives Rae a quick hug before her eyes drift to the left, to the person Paige had spent most of the game ignoring.

“Leah,” Azzi said flatly, being the bigger person and acknowledging her.

Leah opened her mouth to respond back with something, but Azzi turned back to Paige subtly brushing her hand down the outside of her arm again, making sure she was blocking the cameras.

“Are you coming back with me or…?” Azzi asked, but the way she asked made it seem like she was requesting more than asking.

“Yeah, of course.”

Azzi smiled, then leaned in to give Rae one more quick hug. “Tell your team they’re next.”

Rae laughed. “Ya’ll don’t want no smoke.”

Azzi laughed as she turned around, her and Paige walking next to each other but not touching as they headed for the back. A few fans along the sideline watched them pass, some of them calling out Azzi’s name, some of them just staring, while others recorded them. Paige put her hands in her pockets while Azzi smiled and waved at some of the fans but didn’t stop to sign anything.

When they were a few feet from the tunnel, another group of fans called out Azzi’s name. She turned her head to find a cluster of younger girls and a couple of their parents standing by the rope line. She smiled when she saw their bright eyes from her looking in their direction. “Give me a second baby,” she said quietly before she walked over to greet them with a huge smile and waving both of her hands.

Paige stayed where she was, watching Azzi sign jerseys, shoes, and hats like she’d done a hundred times. Her smile with kids was always genuine and she took her time to talk to them; like she remembered what it felt like to be on the other side of the rope when she was their age.

A little girl who was maybe six shyly held out a poster for Azzi to sign with wide eyes. Azzi smiled at her and took it from her hands gently so she could sign it properly. Azzi handed it back to her and the girl’s mom spoke up, “Can they get a picture with both of you please?” She gestured to a little boy who was maybe two years older than the girl. “He’s a huge UFC and fell in love with Paige when we let him stay up past his bedtime one night to watch her fight.”

Azzi glanced toward Paige who was staring in space and not fully paying attention. She smiled to herself at the slight crease between Paige’s eyebrows at whatever she was thinking about. She looked toward the mother, “One second.”

Paige blinked away from whatever thought she was lost in when she noticed Azzi walked towards her. Her eyes lit up a little naturally, her body's way of smiling at Azzi in public. “You done?”

Azzi stopped directly in front of her. “Can I ask you to do something for me and you not say no?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a fan who wants a picture…” Azzi trailed off.

“Azzi–” Paige started to protest already.

Azzi cut her off with a pout, jutting her bottom lip out. “Please?...For me, baby?”

Paige narrowed her eyes in an attempt to hold her ground, but Azzi tilted her head to the side making Paige’s resolve crack like always. Paige huffed in fake annoyance. “You’re lucky I love you,” she said, before motioning for Azzi to lead the way.

Azzi grinned as she walked back toward the family. “I know.”

The little boy’s eyes lit up when he saw Paige approach them, he looked at her like he couldn’t comprehend that she was real. Paige reached her hand out and dapped him up, her large hand gentler than usual against his smaller one, making Azzi bite her cheek so she didn’t smile.

The mom raised her phone, guiding the kids into position. Azzi bent down slightly, wrapping her arm gently around the little girl’s shoulders. Paige didn’t move much, just rested her hand on Azzi’s lower back where she was bent over.

The mom took a few quick pictures. “Thank you both so much,” she said gratefully.

Azzi nodded and they were about to walk away when she noticed the little boys shirt now that his sister wasn’t in front of him. She grabbed Paige’s hand to stop her. “Give him a signature?”

Paige nodded and took a sharpie from Azzi before leaning down and signing her name across the UFC logo on the front of the boy’s shirt.

Both kids had huge smiles on their faces when Paige and Azzi turned around to leave.

Azzi bumped her shoulder against Paige’s. “Thank you.”

Paige hummed. “You can thank me tonight.”

Azzi laughed, pushing Paige as they walked through the tunnel.

The next few weeks settled into a similar pattern that they easily slipped into.

Azzi had a similar schedule most days: practices, games, or endorsement obligations. Paige made sure she created one for herself too as she got back in the gym. She paid for her trainer to come stay in Miami while she was there, quietly investing in herself, ready to take it seriously again. Most mornings when Azzi left for practice Paige would head to the gym. Sometimes she ran there with her headphones in and her body falling back into familiar patterns her mind was still catching up to. Other times she drove, letting the windows be down, the Florida air running through her hair for a few minutes.

The physical aspect came back fast for her. Combinations, footwork, her weight shifting in her bones each time — all of it was muscle memory. Something that had become some engraved in her bones that if she ever became an ancient artifact the bone carving of her being a fighter would be clear. Everything that wasn’t related to her physicality was a little harder on her mentally. Her reaction times were a little slow to start and getting hit hurt a lot more than she remembered. She had to teach herself to absorb the contact again, to read facial ques and foot work. Then of course there was still the echo of her own thoughts, random bursts of thoughts about how this all affected Azzi, her temper, everything she’d been working on — the emotional bruises that were harder to fully heal.

Still, she kept showing up to the gym. And each day, no matter how drained or wired or quiet she came home, Azzi was there.

Sometimes she was laying across the couch, still with her braids pulled up from her game and a hoodie that definitely belonged to Paige. Sometimes she was in the kitchen, cooking dinner for them, humming a song under her breath.

They talked every night without trying to make it a spectacle, they just eased into it naturally whenever the words came to one of them. Azzi would sit on the floor stretching while Paige sat on the counter with an ice pack on one of her joints. Paige talked about sparring sessions that got in her head a little and Azzi talked through plays where she second guessed something she normally wouldn’t. There was never any judgement in the conversations, just an open space for them to decompress with one another of their days.

Some nights, they simply didn’t use any words. Paige would walk in and Azzi would already be curled in bed with one of Paige’s shirts on, reading a book, silently depicting that she had a long day. Each time it happened Paige couldn’t help the smile on her face when she dropped her bag at the door. She’d watch Azzi for a few moments before walking toward the bed, kissing her head and whispering a compliment into her hair before she went to take a shower. Giving Azzi a little extra time to herself before she came back to bed, pulling Azzi into her chest.

They went on spontaneous dates, making sure they never got in the habit of not dating one another.

Azzi would finish practice early and drive to the gym in Paige’s car to pick her up, texting her to ‘wear something that doesn’t smell like sweat pls’ from the parking lot. They went to late night diners after walking on the beach, hole in the wall taco spots, a midnight movie once where Azzi fell asleep and made Paige carry her to the car.

One afternoon, Paige dragged Azzi to the beach after she watched her do a sparring session. Neither of them had any swimsuits so they sat on a washed up log, watching the tide roll in.

The ocean in front of them shimmered under the sun, light streaking across the surface like a canvas being painted on. The breeze was a warm comfort, brushing over their faces and tugging at the loose curls of hair Azzi hadn’t bothered to fully tie back. Sand stuck to their feet, and their legs were cool in the shadows but hot where the sun kissed it.

“This is weird,” Paige said, squinting at the horizon, the sun making her eyes sensitive.

Azzi looked at her. “What is?”

Paige shrugged.

Azzi reached over and laced their fingers together, rubbing her thumb along Paige’s reddened knuckles.

“Words, baby,” Azzi said lightly.

Paige laughed, bumping her shoulder into Azzi’s. “Everything’s just…good. I don’t know. It feels a little unsettling sometimes.”

“Unsettling is a funny word for that.”

“That’s what it feels like though,” Paige said, looking out at the perfect line where the water met the sky like it might help her organize her thoughts cleanly. “It’s like when you’re used to swimming in cold water, you get used to it and your body naturally adapts. Then suddenly it’s warm all the time. Feels nice at first, it’s relaxing but eventually your body’s like…what is this? When’s the cold water coming back.”

Azzi nodded as she followed along with the perfectly placed metaphor. “You’re allowed to have that warm water though baby.”

Paige exhaled slowly, keeping her eyes on the waves. “I know. I just…”

“You’re not used to it,” Azzi finished for her.

Paige nodded.

A silent moment passed, long enough for the tide to reach a little further up the sand and brush against their ankles.

“I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For the other shoe to drop,” Paige admitted, her voice barely carrying over the water. “Not because I want it to. I just don’t trust it yet.”

Azzi turned to look at her, studying the side of her face. The way the sun caught the curve of her beautiful cheekbone, how her lashes always looked longer when she was tired and her eyes were lower. “You trust me?”

Paige nodded. “Always.”

Azzi smiled, clearly satisfied with the answer. “Then trust what we’re building too.”

Paige turned her head to meet Azzi’s gaze, blushing a little when she noticed the way the sun was hitting her brown eyes. “I do trust what we’re building,” she clarified. “I trust that more than I trust my own body to breathe. I just…” She paused, chewing gently on the inside of her cheek to think before she kept going. “I worry I’ll mess it up. That I’ll get in my own way.”

Azzi nodded as she shifted closer, making their knees press together. “We’re both gonna mess up,” she said simply. One of her favorite parts of being with Paige is knowing she didn’t need to sugar coat things. “We’re going to say the wrong thing. We’ll get frustrated with each other sometimes. We’ll disagree on things that probably won’t even matter the next day. But I think that’s the good thing about us.”

Paige held eye contact with Azzi the entire time she listened. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “We had one of our worst arguments early in our relationship and for some time it made us walk on eggshells before we hashed it out. But we were fine with just surface level conversations just to hear the other person's voice. We didn’t fake deep conversations or rush into trying to be how we were before. We took our time and laid a foundation that’s the root of what we’re building. We talk, we listen, we say the hard stuff even when it’s uncomfortable, and because of that even when we mess up we’ll be ok.”

Paige exhaled slowly, letting those words settle underneath her ribs. “I just get scared sometimes cause I know I can be hard to…stay close to. I retreat and get quiet sometimes. But you’ve–-” She paused to take another heavy breath, to not get emotional. “You’ve never tried to fix me. You just sit with me in it. Let me figure it out for myself before I explain it to you. But then I worry about you getting tired of having to be so patient.”

Azzi used her hand that wasn’t holding Paige’s to grab her jaw and tilt Paige’s face toward her so they were looking at each other. “I love you,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world that would never change. “Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re stuck in your own head. I love every version of you and I promise I’ll always find a way to come with you.”

Paige blinked a few times, then let out a breathy laugh. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You just make everything so damn—Jesus I don’t even know.” She laughs again. “I love you.”

Azzi smiled, the kind of smile that started in her chest and bloomed across her face. Paige’s hand slid up her arm, fingertips grazing the inside of her wrist as she looked down shyly.

“I love you so much it deadass feels like it lives under my ribs,” Paige admitted. “Like, it’s in everything I do now. Every thought, every choice. You’re just always there.”

Azzi knew Paige didn’t like to sit in moments like that after getting them off her chest. Usually Paige just wanted it to be out there, something for Azzi to know but she didn’t want to dwell on it. So Azzi grinned and bumped Paige’s shoulder with her own. “Cam’s wedding got you feeling a lil soft hm.”

Paige laughed, her head falling forward trying not to smile too hard. “Alright bro, shut up.”

Azzi wrapped her arm around Paige’s shoulder and pulled until she was tucked against her side so she could tease her. “Mmm nope, I think I like this version of you. Might keep you around for a little bit.”

“You saying that like you not the reason I act like this now.”

Azzi kissed the top of Paige’s head, letting her lips linger there for a while. “Then I’m doing something right.”

The sun started to dip lower along the horizon, gold washing over the water and clinging to their skin like it didn’t want to let them go. Paige rested her head against Azzi’s shoulder, the weight of her world completely void whenever Azzi was around.

Then, as if the world blinked, the warmth of the sun became the warmth of candlelight.

The sound of the waves faded into the softness of violins and Paige had on a black tux tailed to her as she stepped into the dimly lit ceremony hall.

Her tie was lilac and the color was identical to the satin lapel of her jacket to match the undertones of the wedding theme.

She walked next to Ben’s sister, who had her hand around Paige’s bicep. Paige didn’t have much of an expression besides a slight squint in her eyes from a dry contact that was bothering her.

When she got to the front her the lights from the chandeliers made her earrings sparkle and accentuated the soft colors mixed in with her black tux, highlighting just how well it fit her.

Azzi watched from the very end of the third row. Even though there were hundreds of other people in the room, Paige was the only one she really wanted to pay attention to. It was her first time seeing her in a full tux and the way her wavy blond hair framed her face made Azzi’s stomach flutter.

Paige’s jaw was tense as she stood at the front but when she looked around and found Azzi her features softened.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from grinning like an idiot outright but Paige looked too damn good. Azzi knew with the way Paige was looking at her that she knew exactly what she was thinking. Then Paige’s eyes dropped to the low dip in Azzi’s dress, causing most of her chest to be on display. Paige nodded subtly in approval, making Azzi roll her eyes.

They were broken out of their silent exchange when the melody of the music softened.

Everyone in the room turned around, their eyes moving from the front where Ben was standing to the main doors of the entrance.

Azzi kept her eyes on Paige for a few more seconds, letting Paige take advantage of the fact that no one was looking at her to wink. Azzi’s dimple popped out when she smiled before she looked away and stood with everyone else waiting for Cam to make her entrance.

The ceremony unfolded gently, almost like everyone in attendance was letting out a slow exhale witnessing the sincerity in every detail. The officiant spoke very briefly before Cam turned to Ben pulling a small folded up card from her dress.

“Ben, I didn't know what real love looked like until I met you at Stanford. I thought I knew. I thought I’d felt it before. But there was nothing before I met you that gave me even a fraction of the feelings you give me. From day one you’ve made me feel safe in my own skin. With you, I’ve stopped trying to prove I’m worthy of love, because you make it feel like breathing — like I don’t have to earn it. I just am and being me is enough.”

Cam kept going. “With you, I’ve learned that love isn’t just a fleeting feeling. It’s a choice everyday to make a decision. It’s a promise to stay, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. And I promise, no matter what the world looks like around us, no matter where we end up I’ll keep choosing you.”

Paige turned her head when she felt eyes on her. She found Azzi looking directly at her and their eyes locked, a quiet moment passing between them felt like a thousand words all at once.

Ben’s voice flowed next, deeper than Cam’s but still full of the same emotion as his eyes brimmed. “I didn’t believe in waiting for divine timing until you. I thought it was just an excuse, people’s way to make themselves feel better about all the things that didn’t work out. But then you showed up and suddenly everything made sense; divine timing made sense. Every delay I experienced, every heartbreak, every wrong turn, it all led me to the exact moment I met you.”

Paige and Azzi still hadn’t looked away from one another as Ben continued.

“I never expected love to be like this. It’s not perfect but it’s real. Not loud and boastful, but unshakable. I vow to never take you or this for granted. To listen when it’d be easier to talk. To lean into you when it’s easier to walk away. Cameron I vow to love you in every version of yourself until I take my last breath.”

The last line felt like it cut through Paige’s throat as she swallowed, her blue eyes shimmering as she looked at Azzi like she’d physically offer her heart if she asked. It felt like the moment between them was suspended, like it was day two of earth’s creation and the firmament hadn’t yet been given dry ground to coincide with.

Azzi nodded at Paige, confirming their silent conversation as her lips curled gently. She mouthed the words, ‘I love you,’ the three words drifting smoothly off her tongue like her native language.

Paige had to look away before the smile trying to force its way onto her cheeks got the best of her. She blinked a few times to get the wetness out of her eyes, as she shifted her jaw to give herself something else to focus on as the emotion caught up with her.

After the vows the rest of the ceremony unfolded without any hiccups. The rings were exchanged with shaky hands, every laughing a little when Ben fumbled Cam’s finger, a kiss that earned a burst of cheers from their family. The officiant announced them and the applause that echoed as they walked out hand in hand.

The wedding party followed after them a few moments later. This time Paige passed Azzi’s side of the crowd and when she walked past her she let her fingers subtly graze over her shoulder, tapping three times in quick succession.

When the wedding party dispersed the rest of the crowd rose, the rustle of their movement and soft chatter spreading through the space as people made their way toward the reception area.

Azzi stood up with Rae and Rickea, smoothing out her dress as before she walked out of the aisle and moved with the rest of the flow. When she walked out of the double doors, her peripheral naturally caught movement off to the side. She looked over and saw Paige standing there patiently waiting for her. Azzi veered off to the side, saying a few excuse me’s before she carefully stepped into the grass.

When she got close enough Paige extended her both hands out to help her walk, holding both of Azzi’s hands until she was directly in front of her. Instead of going for a kiss like Azzi thought she would, Paige wrapped her arms around her lower back and pulled her into a long hug, every part of their bodies pressed together.

Azzi was slightly caught off guard by how tight the embrace was before she slipped her arms around Paige’s neck. “Hey,” she said softly against her ear, smiling.

“I missed you,” Paige mumbled into her hair, not letting go yet.

Azzi laughed quietly. “You saw me this morning baby.”

“I know.” Paige said a little sheepishly. “Still missed you though.”

Azzi pulled back to look at her, using her hands to smooth the lapels of Paige’s jacket. “You look handsome.”

Paige smiled at the compliment, both corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying to play it cool, but her cheeks gave her away. Azzi let her fingers drift up the fabric of Paige’s jacket, brushing along her chest until she reached the knot of her tie. It was already perfectly straight, but she adjusted it anyway.

When she stepped back, Paige blew raspberries with her lips, finally having the opportunity to scan Azzi from head to toe. The way the lilac dress draped over her body made her look like a goddess. It clung to her in the right spots, but it was flowy in others, the softness of the fabric, the low v showing off her chest, the slit showing her legs. then the hair. Her curls, were free from the braids she had, pulled up with a few strands framing her face.

Paige reached up and gently tugged one of the curls between her fingers. “When’d you have time to do this?” she asked, silently referring to the washed hair and the braids being gone.

Azzi gave her one of those smiles that showed the depth of her dimple. She followed up with tilting her head playfully. “I might’ve had some help this morning,” she said. “I know you missed my curls.”

Paige hummed letting her tongue graze her bottom lip as she let her eyes move over Azzi again. “Mmm I see,” she whispered.

Azzi raised her eyebrow. “You good?”

“No.” As Paige said this her eyes still weren’t on Azzi’s face.

Azzi laughed, lacing their fingers together to pull Paige out of the grass. “Come on, goofball.” Paige grinned, wrapping herself around Azzi from behind as they walked, her steps a little wide and uncoordinated as they laughed.

As they made their way closer to the reception hall, they could hear the music echoing from a slight distance. But they took their time on the garden path, Azzi’s heels clicking against the pavement as she walked slightly in front of Paige now.

“You’re staring again,” Azzi said without looking over, feeling Paige’s eyes bore into her ass, smiling at how predictable her girlfriend was.

“I can’t help it,” Paige replied, not bothering to look up from the way she was watching Azzi walk. “You got my kryptonite on.”

Azzi glanced over her shoulder. “Lilac?”

“Mhmm, and that dress. The way your skin looks in that dress too. Your shoulders in that dress. You just breathing in that dress.”

Azzi let out a dramatic sigh despite the smile on her face from the compliments. “You weren’t like this earlier when I was brushing my teeth with nothing but a thong on.”

“Yeah cause I was tryna give you a break. Had you tapping out like an hour before that. It’s been a few hours now though so I can act out a little.”

“You literally haven’t given me a break since we started having sex so I don’t know what break you're talking about.”

Paige smirked. “Yeah well, I wake up next to you everyday. Can you really blame me?”

Azzi laughed, swinging their intertwined hands through the air. “You know, most people in relationships ease up on the charm once they get the girl.”

“Yeah, well I’m not trying to lose the girl.”

“That was smooth.”

“I know.” Paige turned her head toward her. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t kill me if I stopped complimenting you.”

Azzi pretended to think about it. “I mean I do appreciate a little daily worship.”

Paige stopped walking long enough to pull her hand free and give an exaggerated bow. “Forgot I was in the presence of the people's princess.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, laughing as she pulled Paige back to her side. “Get up. We have a reception to sneak kisses at.”

Paige leaned in a little closer as they entered the space. “Mmm only kisses?”

Azzi side eyed her. “Paige.”

“I’m just saying,” Paige whispered against her ear. “It’s a long night and alcohol makes you real touchy.”

Azzi covered her laugh with her hand as they approached their assigned table. Paige pulled out Azzi’s chair for her like always. “All of a sudden it feels a little more chivalrous with the tux on.”

Paige winked at her, undoing the button of her tux jacket before getting comfortable next to her.

The rest of the table was already halfway done with their first round of drinks when they got there.

Rickea raised her eyebrow before saying, “Damn y’all was fuckin’ or something? What took so long?”

Azzi blinked, her expression perfectly innocent this time the accusation was thrown. “First of all, we were behind by like three minutes. That’s not even enough time for anything.”

Paige gave her a quick side-eye and mumbled under her breath, “Yeah, okay.”

Azzi’s eyes darted to Paige as she laughed. “Are you serious?”

Rickea caught what Paige mumbled and her eyes went wide. “Wait wait hold up. Wait.”

Rae raised her eyebrows. “See, now I have questions.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” Azzi said as she smiled at Paige. “That’s her version of trying to be funny.”

Paige shrugged. “Wasn’t tryna be nothing.”

Azzi shook her head. “You’re annoying.”

Paige didn’t bother to argue. “Sure I am.”

Azzi smiled into her glass, lowering her voice so only Paige could hear her. “You’re lucky you look good.”

Paige let out a low hum as she took a sip of her champagne too, licking the corner of her mouth. “You tell me that every day mama, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

Rickea pointed between them. “This, right here. This is exactly why y’all can’t be left alone.”

“I didn’t even say anything this time,” Azzi said, holding up her hands in innocence, even as her smile gave her away.

Paige raised her eyebrows.

Rae twisted in her chair toward Rickea. “I don’t even think I told you about a few weeks ago, Kea—”

Azzi cut her off. “No, let’s not.”

“No no, let’s,” Rickea said, leaning in. “Because we been letting y’all get away with way too much lately.”

“It’s nothing,” Azzi insisted. “Just her being a little dramatic.”

Rae snorted. “Dramatic? Girl, it was 3AM and I heard you through the goddamn—”

“RAE!” Azzi’s eyes widened, her cheeks heating up as her voice tinted up a pitch into a half-laugh, half-warning. She didn’t care about Rickea hearing anything but there were a few of their other teammates that she wasn’t that close with sitting at the table too.

Paige chuckled, throwing her arm behind the back of Azzi’s chair. Rickea shook her head looking at them. “Just know y’all nasty,” she muttered, ending the conversation.

Not long after they drifted to another topic, the waitstaff began making their rounds, setting down plates of each person's preference between grilled sea bass, roasted chicken, and vegetarian risottos. All of them were paired with bright seasonal vegetables and bread rolls. Glasses clinked against the tables as servers topped them off with their champagne along with taking orders of new alcohol preferences.

Everyone fell into easy conversation and when dinner was done a few people stood to mingle between tables while others stayed seated, joking, catching up with family, and falling into the evening's warmth.

Once dessert plates were cleared and champagne glasses were refreshed one more time, the lights dimmed and soft amber and gold hues cast over the room. A hush fell naturally through the hall as the DJ’s voice came over the speakers to announce Cam and Ben’s first dance.

As the couple stepped to the center of the floor, applause scattered around the room. The music started slowly, sounds were a blend of old soul and modern r&b as all the eyes turned to watch them.

Paige was sitting straight in her chair until she felt Azzi’s shoulder gently press into her side. Azzi was leaning toward her like it was muscle memory, her body relaxing into Paige’s as she watched Cam and Ben.

Paige dipped her head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Azzi’s curls, brushing her hand along Azzi’s arms.

Paige’s eyebrows furrowed when her fingertips felt how cold Azzi was. She slipped her arm from behind her to pull off her jacket, but her moving made Azzi glance up in silent protest. Azzi pouted at her as her body instinctively leaned to follow Paige’s warmth.

“Relax ma,” Paige whispered, shrugging off the jacket.

Once it was off Paige leaned over and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was still warm from her body heat and the satin lapels rested right on Azzi’s skin, meshing perfectly with her dress color.

Paige slid her arm back around her, tugging her in again until Azzi was pressed against her side.

Azzi sighed into the comfort. “Thank you.”

Paige hummed, resting her cheek against the side of Azzi’s head.

They turned their attention back to the dance floor, both of them silently soaking in the realization that this was their life as they watched Cam and Ben sway slowly together.

Once the first dance was done a mix of different genres drifted through the speakers, the body movement raising the temperature in the room as people filled the dance floor. Voice rose from different corners of the reception hall, loud laughs and yelling mixing together as people got looser with the open bar.

Paige was in her seat, nursing a glass of tequila she picked up a little while earlier. She was relaxed, watching everyone around her settle into a rhythm. This was always Paige’s preference in events like this. Moments when she wasn’t forced into awkward conversations and forced interactions.

In the middle of a random thought process Azzi came back into her view, weaving through a couple of tables before approaching her. She didn’t say anything before she slid into Paige’s lap without asking, crossing her legs as she got comfortable. Paige raised her eyebrow when Azzi took her glass from her hand and took a sip, her lips curving around the rim like it was hers and leaving the remnants of her lip combo.

“That’s mine,” Paige attempted to say flatly, but her voice was too warm.

Azzi licked her lips to get any leftover liquor off. “You weren’t drinking it fast enough.”

Paige reached to take the glass back. “Because I pace myself. Like an adult.”

Azzi moves her hand up to trace light circles at the base of Paige’s neck. “Mmm, that’s boring, baby,” Azzi whispered, the light in her eyes playful as she looked at Paige.

Paige grinned, taking another sip of her tequila before adjusting them both so she could lean back more in her chair. “I’m boring?”

Azzi scrunched her nose like she was pretending to think about it. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you’re gonna dance with me or not,” Azzi said, trailing her fingers down the collar of Paige’s shirt like she was already trying to coax her up.

Paige let out another small laugh. “Of course you wanna dance.”

Azzi leaned her head against Paige’s shoulder. “I like being near you when I’m a little tipsy.”

“You like being near me all the time,” Paige corrected.

“So will you dance with me?”

Paige met her gaze, already putting her glass down on the table as she smiled at Azzi. “Of course, beautiful.”

Azzi grinned and slid off Paige’s lap, reaching for her hand. Paige laced their fingers together, standing up and letting Azzi pull her toward the dance floor, with her jacket still draped over her shoulders.

They didn’t so much dance as sway when they got there. Their bodies moved slowly in the dim lighting as something slow played for some of the couples in attendance. Azzi’s arms were looped around Paige’s neck as she leaned her weight into her knowing Paige would hold her up.

Paige’s hands rested on Azzi’s lower back and every so often she brushed her thumbs back and forth across the fabric of her dress. They didn’t talk for a while. Happy to just exist there with each other.

Eventually Paige whispered against her ear, “You had what like three and a half drinks?”

Azzi lifted her head enough to meet her eyes, the corners of her mouth pulling into an unimpressed smile. “Five,” she corrected. “Don’t disrespect me like that.”

Paige laughed. “My bad,” she said, ducking her head a little. “Usually you a light weight”

Azzi grinned and dragged her fingers along the back of Paige’s neck. “I’m doing great, thank you for asking.”

“You are,” Paige agreed, pulling her closer somehow. “A little clingy, but great.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” Paige easily agreed.

Azzi smiled, eyes drifting up to meet Paige’s like she was about to say something else but before she could, a voice cut in from behind them.

“Well, well. Look who finally got off her ass and came to dance.”

They both turned to find Rickea with a drink in hand. Azzi leaned her forehead against Paige’s shoulder and sighed. Paige just looked at Rickea, holding Azzi a little tighter like she wasn’t trying to let her go yet.

Cam came up looking a little flushed from dancing and smiling like she was on top of the world. “Paigey,” she said, pulling on her arm that was wrapped around Azzi, “you gotta come meet somebody. Come on.”

Paige leaned her head down, pressing a soft kiss to Azzi’s curls. “I’ll find you in a second, alright?”

Azzi nodded, letting her fingers brush Paige’s wrist before letting her step back. Paige followed Cam through the crowd, glancing back once to make sure somebody was with Azzi.

Azzi slipped back toward the table, with Rickea where Rae was already waiting. Rae raised her glass. “You gettin’ enough oxygen away from Paige or you're still acting like you can’t function without her being around?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. The three of them talked for a while, finishing their drinks and people watching as the reception danced on. Eventually, Azzi stood up, her cheeks warm from the alcohol and made her way toward the bar for a refill.

She leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender to make her a drink. She felt someone step a little too close to her side but didn’t bother reacting.

“You’re not dancing anymore?” someone asked. Azzi looked over to see a man who was maybe in his late twenties, with a grin tugging at his mouth.

Azzi thanked the bartender for her drink before she took a long sip. Once she was done her eyes flicked to him very briefly before she looked back ahead. “Taking a break.”

He forced a laugh like they were in on some inside joke. “I’m Ben’s friend from college. Colin.”

Azzi gave a polite nod, lifting her glass again. “Cool.”

His eyes drifted down to the tux jacket draped around her shoulders, noting the details of it belonging to someone from the wedding party. He glanced around the room, not noticing anyone missing their jacket in his line of sight. “You single?”

“Very much taken, actually.”

Colin looked around the room again. “By who? I could probably take ’em. I used to wrestle.”

Azzi had to bite her cheek to stop herself from laughing, her tongue pressing to the inside of her cheek. “Is that right?” she said, once she got her reaction under control. Her lips still twitching as she leaned onto the bar.

“Yeah,” he grinned, clearly missing the amusement in her voice. “Not professionally or anything, but I was pretty good. Can hold my own against anybody in here.”

Azzi swirled the drink in her glass and gave him a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Colin laughed like she’d just flirted with him. “Guess I just didn’t chase it hard enough though. Life kinda pulled me in another direction, you know?”

“Mmm,” Azzi hummed, scanning the room casually over the rim of her glass. “Life has a habit of doing that.”

Colin leaned against the bar, watching her reactions closely like he was trying to read her. “What about you? You from Miami?”

“Nope.”

He waited for more, then chuckled awkwardly when she didn’t offer anything else. “You got a nice smile, you know that?”

“You keep fishing, but I already told you I’m taken.”

Before he could respond, Paige appeared out of nowhere. She patted Colin’s shoulder a little aggressively to make him notice.

Colin turned with a slight wince, rubbing his shoulder. “Yo, wassup Paige?”

Paige gave a quick nod to greet him, before sliding next to Azzi. “Wassup.”

Azzi leaned into her and softened her demeanor. “Hi, baby.”

Colin’s whole posture straightened as soon as he heard her say that. He rubbed the back of his neck as Azzi tilted her head and gave Paige a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Colin was just telling me about how he could probably take whoever I was here with,” Azzi explained, barely containing her grin.

Paige chuckled, resting her hand on Azzi’s lower back as she looked at Colin for confirmation. “Word?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That so?”

Colin held his hands up, trying to laugh it off. “Shit I didn’t know, man…I was just fuckin around.”

Paige took a long sip from her glass, letting the pause linger to make him feel awkward.

“Guess I should be scared then.”

Colin gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck and then scratching his scruffy jaw like he wanted to disappear. “Swear I didn’t know she was with you.”

“You good,” Paige said, keeping her voice calm. She shifted her weight to let Azzi lean on her more comfortably before turning back to him and looking down to see a tan line in place of his ring on his left finger. “So…how’s the wife and kid?”

Colin awkwardly rubbed his bare ring finger. “They’re great. Thanks for asking.”

Usually, Paige would've left it at that. But maybe it was the tequila in her glass or the way he was eyeing Azzi when she walked up. Maybe it was the disrespect of stepping out on his family that rubbed her the wrong way. Whatever it was, she didn’t move on. “Last I saw, Jr. was just learning to walk, right?”

Colin nodded slowly. “Yeah…he’s two now. My wife's amazing too.”

Paige hummed, keeping eye contact as she raised her glass to her lips. The silence that echoed around them didn’t last long, but it was enough to make him shift uncomfortably on his feet.

He tried to recover, gesturing vaguely in the air. “You, uh…you talk to her lately?”

“Nah.” Paige dismissed the question with a shrug. “No reason to. Ain’t got much to say to anybody that’s not my girl.”

Colin nodded quickly, clearly ready to exit the conversation. “Yeah, yeah. Right. Good seeing you, though.”

“You too.”

He backed away after saying, “Y’all have a good night.”

As soon as he was gone, Azzi let out a soft laugh and leaned further into Paige’s side, sliding her arm around her waist. “That was fun.”

Paige shook her head. “You have a weird definition of fun baby.”

Azzi tilted her head and kissed Paige’s neck, slowly right below her jaw.

Paige exhaled, closing her eyes to let herself enjoy the feeling for a second before saying, “You’re drunk “and you’re gonna get your makeup on my shirt.”

“I’m tipsy,” Azzi corrected, dragging her fingers along the seam of Paige’s pants trying to figure out just how much Paige would let her get away with. “And you don’t care about my makeup being on you.”

Paige’s hand dropped lower, fingers barely missing Azzi’s ass.

Azzi felt it and grinned.

“So what now?” Paige said.

“Let me kiss you,” Azzi said, her eyes already on Paige’s lips.

Paige leaned in, closing the small distance until their lips met. Azzi cupped the back of Paige’s neck to deepen the kiss, their tongues easing together slowly. They stayed in that bubble for a few minutes but Azzi melted into it a little too much and Paige felt Azzi nip at her bottom lip before sucking on her tongue. Paige was about to ease back but Azzi had a grip on her tie making Paige chuckle.

Paige squeezed Azzi’s ass signaling she needed some air before she pulled back resting her forehead against Azzi’s. “You tryna get us kicked out?” she whispered.

Azzi bit her bottom lip, eyes a little hazy. “Maybe.”

She wiped at Paige’s mouth with her thumb, clearing the lip gloss and liner from her lips and chin, then rubbed her thumb across the mark on Paige’s jaw. Paige just grinned at her, letting her do it.

Cam’s voice rang through the speakers. “Alright ladies, I’m tossing this bouquet, so if you want that good luck, you better move up!”

Azzi turned toward the area Cam was speaking from before grinning back at Paige. She cradled Paige’s face with both hands, pressing a firm kiss to her lips. “Gotta a bouquet to catch.”

Paige raised her eyebrow. “Word?”

“Mmm,” Azzi hummed as she slid Paige’s jacket from around her shoulders and handed it back to her for a moment. “Hold this for me, baby.” She turned, walking off toward the crowd with a sway in her steps that Paige tracked the entire time.

Paige laughed to herself, shaking her head as she walked over to sink back into her chair. The DJ’s voice came over the mic, hyping the crowd up as some of the women gathered behind Cam near the edge of the dance floor. A few of Cam’s cousins were talking trash to each other like they had this in the bag, while Rae stood at the edge hyping up Azzi. “You better get that shit, Z! I need my royal wedding!”

Cam stood with her back turned to everyone, playfully psyching everyone out with a few fake tosses that had everybody yelling.

When she finally launched it the flowers soared in an arc, drifting higher than expected, almost like she did it on purpose, and just like that, Azzi’s arms were the only ones that could reach up and grab it out of the air.

Her teammates erupted with a chorus of yells as Rae practically tackled her with a hug. Azzi laughed, holding the bouquet up with a huge grin on her face. She glanced across the room already knowing where Paige was sitting and sure enough Paige was leaning back in her chair, with her legs spread out, one arm hanging over the back of another chair. She lifted her glass in the air, not able to control the smile as her warm eyes met Azzi’s.

Azzi raised the bouquet in return, the same smile on her lips as she blew Paige a kiss.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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rex-rambles · 2 days ago

Text

➤ THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WANT AND NEED | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: ancient roman chariot racer!max verstappen x childhood crush!reader

summary: having made a name for himself in the world of chariot racing, max had earned more money and respect than he ever could have imagined. despite his newfound stardom, he does not forget the world where he came from, or who helped him escape it.

wc: 14.6 k

warnings: minors dni!! mature themes: mentions of ancient roman slavery, misogyny (not from max), exploitation and death, and smut: porn WITH plot, unprotected sex, first time, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving) dirty talk, multiple orgasms, aftercare

➤ MASTERLIST

It's a blistering morning in the Circus Maximus, but it was one of the many little details Max had learned to tune out over the years. The hunger, the thirst, the pain, the sweat, the heat, the torture of it all.

He had spent enough time on rough straw beds to sleep anywhere, spent enough hours hauling stone and growing callouses to not feel the pull of the horse's reins in hand. He had, miraculously, been trained to be the perfect chariot racer, without any training at all, and been raised to be a winner despite being born a slave.

It was this upbringing, the gruelling labour and long hours, that had crafted him into the racer he was today. He might be barely above the lowest ranks of Rome, but the trials Rome put him through now saw him earning as much as the senators spectating above.

The others around him, however, were not as fortunate. They were babies, really, he thinks as he still smashes into one of the orange racers. The boy, not even a man, couldn't be older than 20.

The crowd roars at the destruction, egging him on as he makes the corner and pulls into the lead. He was well within his rights to wreak havoc where he went, but it didn't make him feel any nicer about it. That boy, now trampled underfoot by the rest of the chariots, could be dead, broken, or dying. It was a thought that Max was, unfortunately, used to.

It's not that he wanted them dead, though he wasn't exactly on good terms with most of them. Outside of the arena, he'd say he wasn't hostile. He gave them pointers, whether they wanted them or not. He shared a coin or two with the much younger boys, the ones who wouldn't survive the coming weeks, who could use a proper meal. Inside the arena, however, they were all just casualties waiting to happen.

Max refused to die in the dirt he fought so hard to crawl out of.

They could try all they like, battering into his chariot without concern for their own safety, riding on his heels like they were something he could fear, but nothing would stop him from crossing the finish line, and like the last fifteen races, he does exactly that.

It's still a new feeling, respect, when he finally crosses the finish line first. When the crowd roars, the banners fly, his patrons grinning ear to ear, it's easy to forget that this life was once forced upon him, that it was something to abhor. Doing his rounds around the track, he's getting used to soaking up the attention, allowing himself to revel in it for just a moment, to see thousands of people standing and applauding him.

Not an emperor.

Him.

This is the closest he thinks man could ever get to feeling like one of the gods, but that's not a thought anyone should think without dire consequences. His eyes scan the crowd as he finally wipes his brow, taking in the betters yelling profanities, the younger boys chaotic in their appreciation, and somehow, amidst the chaos, he sees a ghost wrapped in blue, a phantom if he's ever known one.

After all, it's about ten years since he's seen you, and that palla, and that knowing gaze, striking him through despite the distance. You shouldn't be here, he finds himself thinking with gripping fear.

Then, even worse, you shouldn't be here alone, and his brain sends him back to the days when seeing you alone was something he craved.

It was a scandalous thing, Max is well aware. To be alone as a slave is one thing; to be alone around someone as pretty and as young as you are, as a slave, is another.

Yet, here you were, as Max aided in clearing out the perimeter of your back garden. He hauls one of the fallen logs onto his shoulder, purposeful in ignoring your presence as you dip your feet into the small pond your father had Max carve out. He was another family's slave, but he was often on loan to others in the community, meaning he could get glimpses of paradise like your bare ankles and the fruit bowl that sat beside you.

Your head raises as he passes, and he tries his best to remain stoic, face emotionless as he moves forward. He was not the kind of boy any girl would want to look at: he was tall and awkward, lean yet appearing weak, his clothes stained from the hours at work, not to mention how much his hair must be a mess.

For most of his life, he was never aware of those things. They were just how life was, the dirt, the grime, the work, but then he saw you talking to one of the village boys, and all Max could think about was everything that boy had that Max didn't. He probably went to the communal baths, was smart, could play instruments, in much better and richer clothes than Max could even fathom.

You were destined for a boy like that. Not Max. "Are you hungry?"

The log hoisted on Max's shoulder nearly teeters off, and he regains his composure without answering. Surely, you were talking to someone he couldn't see. Not asking him if he was hungry.

It just wasn't possible. He keeps moving forward, dropping the log off at the front of your estate, where your father stood, waiting. Neither of them said a word as Max turned to head back to the clearing, where, rather than the dirt-worn path, Max is met with you, standing so close he can make out the soft scent of your soap.

You blink up at him, not in disgust, as he had expected, nor in confusion, but rather with a strange sort of spark in your eye that Max tried desperately not to think of. "I asked you if you were hungry."

"You're just like your mother." Your father answers wistfully, squeezing Max's shoulder. "Never letting anyone leave with an empty stomach. Well, boy? Are you hungry?"

"Not really, sir." He answers politely. "I can manage."

"That is not a no." You answer somewhat smartly, though he imagines everything you say is smart. You extend a green fruit to him, one that he'd never had before, and he lets it rest in his hand.

"Thank you, sir." Then, realizing the mistake, he's quick to correct it. "Uh, miss."

Your father laughs heartily, squeezing his shoulder tight before letting go. "Go enjoy your pear, boy, then get back to work."

"Yes, sir." Max bites into the fruit and savours it, sweeter in a different way than his typical apples or figs. He walks as he eats back toward the edge of the forest, and he can hear you walking behind him, returning to your pond, and he wants to say something, wants to thank you again, because he doesn't know what else to do.

It's not often in this world he's offered kindness or random fruits by pretty girls. He glances up to find you staring intently at him as he wipes the juice from his cheek, having finished the pear in almost a minute flat. He picks up his axe and returns to work, and every time he swings, he catches a glimpse of you still staring at him, and he can feel the heat rise on his cheeks. If anyone asked, he'd say he was just exerting himself, despite the fact that this was light work.

He had never been properly watched before, as a pastime, just for fun. People never looked at him without scrutinizing.

As the tree falls, he finds a new image awaiting him, of you standing atop a bench, arms outstretched as you walk the length of it. He chops the base of the tree into a manageable log and hauls it onto his shoulder again, and tries not to stare as you smile at him as he approaches.

"Thank you," He finally repeats, manners not yet beaten out of him, and his words must startle you as your foot slips. Quicker than he thinks he's ever acted before, Max drops the log to catch you, and you land so perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there. You blink up at him, eyes wide, as he's quick to help you to the ground, putting distance between you.

He was filthy. He must've gotten sweat and grime all over your tunic from his hands, and he doesn't quite know what to do, because he's never touched a girl like that before. You were a light thing, much lighter than the log, yet your touch haunted his arms, the softness of it, how whole it felt. It might have only been a split second, but it was an eternity to touch. For some ridiculous reason, he thinks he might like to hold you again some day as he hauls the log back to his shoulder. "Thank you." You echo, fingertips gently trailing on your arms, likely trying to wipe off the dirt. "How did you do that?"

"It's nothing, miss." You reach out, fingertips grazing his arm, and his whole body jolts.

"How did you react that quickly?" It's not something he's ever really thought of before. He's just needed to his whole life, to be first in line for rations, to avoid being hit, to catch things before they broke. Being quick was just a means of survival, but rather than share that anecdote, he stays silent as he keeps walking, delivering the log wordlessly to your father and returning back to the wood to chop up the same tree.

You should not be conversing. He should not have touched you, though he did save you. You should not have touched him, even if it was perfect and kind and sweet. You watch him wordlessly as he moves the rest of the tree, rooted in the same spot he had left you, now properly examining him.

It was wrong, and you knew that, and he knew that. Plain and simple. You were both young, anyway, in your teenage years, though Max thinks he might be older than you. He had just had to grow up fast, he supposes. Returning to fetch his axe, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and wills the action to also remove the memories of you, lest they haunt him tonight. Much to his horror, however, he seems to have brought you back to life with it, and you approach with a nice cloth.

"I can't." He states instantly, awkwardly pushing your hand away. "That's nice."

"We can get another." Your father is going to kill him. You have a reputation to uphold, and even if Max is just dirtying a cloth, it feels like he's dirtying a lot more.

"For both of our sake," He whispers, so as not to let your father hear. "Do not talk to me. I thank you for your kindness, but this must stop."

He leaves without another word, returning to your father, who commends him for the good work, comments on the weather, and how nice the fruit harvest has been.

That night, Max dreams of pears and girls in soft, blue dresses, and the feeling of something else on his lips that he cannot describe.

So, you were discovering that certain childhood fantasies never seemed to leave. It had been a stupid infatuation to begin with: Max was just some boy, owned by another family, who occasionally helped your father with yard work. You weren't some noble that he couldn't have, but you were in two very different worlds, plain and simple.

That didn't stop him from filling your mind when you could afford it in your youth, fantasizing about the day he was revealed to be some foreign prince and would sweep you off to be a princess in a faraway land. Being a chariot racer wasn't exactly as glamorous as what you had in mind, but he looked like the prince you had imagined.

He had filled out that lanky body, his hair seemed to know what to do, his eyes just as piercing, even with an arena between the two of you. He had to have seen you, as embarrassing as the thought is. Your roles had almost entirely reversed, considering he was now, according to those around you when you had asked, the best chariot racer, the richest and most well-regarded, and you were...nothing.

No father, no husband, no dowry. You had moved to Rome to find work, found a little apartment for yourself with the last of your family's money, and had devoted yourself to the skills you had learned on a whim as a child. The weaving you had rolled your eyes over once was now your livelihood, and you worked hard enough that you, in your time spent here, hadn't even tried to attend any of the spectacles Rome had to offer.

That was, of course, until today.

It was a shameful thing, to be wrapped in the same cloth he had last seen you in, to be some spectator to the world he'd filled. You were proud of him, really, but it wasn't without understanding your own failures in life. Well, not quite your own, but your family's. You had gone from relatively well standing to selling everything you own, from a proper estate to a single room. You had gone from ignoring Max to envying him.

But he was no longer something you could afford to stew over. You weaved your way back through the streets, despite the hours you had wasted around the arena, thinking just maybe you'd get a glimpse of him again.

Instead, you were just making a fool of yourself.

"Little one," Someone drunkenly calls from a doorway as you pass, which you ignore. "Hey, little one!"

You keep walking, head down, and someone's hand ravels itself in your palla and pulls, forcing you backward toward him, and your heart falls into your stomach. Not today, not now, not here. There were rules about these things, after all, but who was really here to enforce them for you? Despite the bustle after the race, in this alley, you were alone. "Please, I-"

"I'm raising rent." You blink up at your landlord, who studies your palla between his fingers. "There are plenty of people who are willing to share rooms for the same price."

"What?" He had promised, when you had explained everything to him, to keep your space alone, the price stable. You were completely defenceless to the world, and he was one of the only men who could have helped. "But you promised."

"You never thought to get a husband?" He rasps, swaying on his feet from the copious amounts of wine he must've consumed at the race. "Pretty little thing."

"You know-" He shushes you, then, stumbling out and forcing you toward the other wall of the alley.

"You need the money? I'll pay you." He looms over you as you try and press yourself as flat as you can against the wall. You'd never take up such an offer, but the look in his eyes didn't seem to allow refusal. "Be your first, won't it?"

Then, before you can answer, your landlord is peeled away from you, tossed back towards the tavern door he emerged from, colliding harshly with the stairs. You let out a deep, shaking breath, taking a step to the side to run, when you finally see your saviour, and find that you can no longer move your feet.

Max.

He stares at you like always, words unspoken as he adjusts your palla to sit properly on your head, having fallen in the confrontation. It's the sort of soft touches you always found so strange from a man who could be so violent, treated so poorly by the world around you, but Max wasn't just any man.

Your landlord shakily rises with a slew of profanities, and Max turns back to him. "Think you're so tough," The man spits, blood hitting at Max's feet, "Being a big racer? You're nothing but fucking dirt-"

Max gets one, clean hit out, punching the man across the face. You gasp, pressing your hand over your mouth at the violence, but it truly doesn't surprise you. Max had always been there to protect you, after all, so it should be no different today, despite the years that have passed.

Your landlord lands in a heap on the road below you, matching your action as he cradles his nose.

Then, without another word, because Max had always preferred silence, because you had always said everything you need to without words, his hand comes to hover over your lower back, waiting for you to move. He would never touch you, grab you, do anything to you without permission. You offer the smallest nod, and he gently places his hand on the small of your back to leave down the alley with Max at your side.

It shouldn't be that surprising of a rescue, really. Max has always been there to protect you, but this time around, it wasn't just gratitude that the action stirred within you.

It was something much, much deeper.

You hadn't meant to scream that loud, really.

But there was a snake in your kitchen, and your father was out doing yard work, and your mother had passed years ago, and with no other siblings, it was either you or the snake.

So, you screamed, and probably alerted half of the empire as you did. You jumped up onto the kitchen counter as it hissed at you, a menacing thing that spiralled in the middle of the floor. You weren't even sure how it got in, but you weren't letting it anywhere near you.

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall, and you expect your father to appear, but instead, it's Max. After his comment about not speaking to each other, you had chosen to admire from a distance, but now he was here, your guardian, though he seemed just as confused as you were scared.

"Are you-" He freezes, taking in the snake, and quickly pulls the knife from his belt. Your father is not far behind him, and watches, impressed, as Max snaps down onto the wretched creature and cuts it in half, each spasming for a moment before rendering still. He's quick to glance up and check on you, and if it weren't for the fact you were already red in the face from the snake, your blush would've given your infatuation with him away. "Did it bite you?"

Max wasn't like the others. The others were...good, by all means, handsome, attainable, perfect potential husbands, but Max had a certain something about him, the fact that he was forbidden making him all the more enticing. He was strong, he was kind, he was even soft, around the edges. You were watching him grow before your eyes, and he seemed to be turning into quite the man. He had also caught you once when you slipped, and his arms were better than any bed you've ever rested in, but that might just been the teenage hormones speaking. "No." You finally answer from your curled-up position, and Max extends a hand to let you back down, and it's calloused and rough yet entirely right in yours. "It just scared me."

"You scared us!" Your father exclaims, pulling you into his arms. "I didn't know you had that sort of sound in you."

"I didn't either." You answer sheepishly. "Sorry."

Max obediently picks up both halves of the snake and carries it outside, and does not return. Your father spends a moment checking you over, the last of his legacy. You'd asked him, once, why he'd chosen to never remarry. Everyone else wanted, seemed to need sons, but he had stopped after you, after your mother passed.

He had explained that sometimes, love overrules what the world wants you to do. He would rather mourn your mother and take care of you than find a lesser woman to give him a baby he doesn't need at his age.

Maybe, you think, someday love would overrule what the world wants you to do, and Max could be yours.

"Perhaps we need to get you a guard," Your father jokes softly. "Save you from any more rogue snakes."

"I'm sure Max would be up to the task." You say, and he laughs, like it's some kind of joke, and you laugh to hide that it isn't. Your father's gaze then turns over to the small tray you were arranging to take out to them and the rest of the workers, and his face softens. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"You know Octavius? The butcher's son?" He asks, and as much as you can daydream about Max, reality hits. "He's working with us today. I'm sure he would enjoy the gesture, if you brought that out to him."

You move to the tray, gathering the last of the grapes and placing them on, before turning and offering a smile. "I'll be out in just a moment, then."

He leaves, and you stare at the trace amount of blood left by the snake on the floor. Octavius would be used to blood, you think, but he hadn't been the one to come running, was he?

Finally, after sitting in a daydream of unattainable men, you decide to focus on the ones waiting for you. You carry the tray out to the few men repairing the road, or more specifically, the men overseeing those actually repairing the road. Octavius's eyes awkwardly skim over you and the tray, likely having been told all about you all morning.

Max holds your gaze as you set down the tray, and you offer him, and then Octavius, a smile. "A little thank-you for coming to my aid," You say first to Max, "And an apology for disrupting the rest of you."

"A thoughtful girl." You father boasts, grabbing the cask of wine and pouring it into one of the cups. He offers it to Octavious first, then the rest of the men, and with the last glass, he drinks it himself. Max and the other workers don't seem to pay any mind, focusing rather on Octavius, who now has worked up the courage to actually look at you. He's not unattractive, but he's also not exactly attractive either, having yet to lose the baby fat around his face. "I'm sure you've met Octavius in your runs to the butcher?"

You nod, shifting your palla up your shoulder. This one is a deep brown, more plain than your other, nicer ones. It would look best wrapped around Max, you think, and your brain supplies an image of him wrapped in it and nothing else. "Yes, we have. I believe your brother is marrying my cousin."

"He is." Octavius answers somewhat squeakily. The cask of wine, seemingly having been drained, is passed back to you, and with little thought, you extend it to Max.

"A thank you," You say, "For my rescue."

Max takes the bottle and presses it to his lips as Octavius continues talking. "Pretty runs in the family." He says, and Max's gaze drifts from Octavius to you, something new in his eyes.

The men laugh as you blush, and Max raises the empty tray and wine bottle to you, which you gladly accept back. You shift the bottle and find the smallest trace amounts left in it, and your father picks up on your examination of the bottle. "What? Sad none's left for you?"

"Max is a kind man," You offer instead, bringing the bottle to your lips to drink the last of it, thinking about what his mouth might taste like left over on it. "Left me the last bit."

"Man?" One of the workers says with a chuckle. "Boy. Look at those arms! At least Octavius has some meat on him."

Max stares at you, as if he knew exactly why you took a drink.

Max's eyes have not left yours since he let you into his apartment, a small yet lavish thing on the ground floor of a nicer building than yours. His eyes have not changed in the years since you've seen each other, but the emotions behind them have. There's something you can't quite trace as he looks you over, ensuring that you aren't hurt.

"Why are you here?" He asks softly as you take in his space. He'd modelled his living room and kitchen, you realize, to look like yours. Everything is laid out exactly the same, from the blanket thrown over the back of the seat by the fireplace to the centrepiece on the kitchen table. He'd made it look like your home. "Where is your father?"

The question brings tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and Max tenses, unsure about the old boundaries that kept the two of you in place. You're both adults, now, but it still feels like you are children, dancing around each other. His hands hover over your arms, terrified to touch, and you make the first move as you step towards him. His arms clutch around you, tight, and you sob into his chestplate. It had been a long, long time since you'd been held like this, and the first time you'd ever been held by Max. He's strong and warm around you, a comfort you'd dreamt of for so many years.

Gently, one hand glides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently threading through your hair, and you wonder if he'd learned, by now, to hold someone like this. "He passed," You finally managed to get out, pulling back just the smallest amount to wipe at your face. "And I could not afford the estate anymore."

"Could not afford-" He looks down at you, concerned, and you shake your head.

"They raised rent prices, I-I had to come to the city to find work." God, you missed your vegetable garden, your walks in the woods, everything. Anything.

"Work?" Max's hands come up to wipe at your face, gently, and you watch the smallest bit of discomfort cross over his face. You pull his hands away to find his one fist bloodied from where he'd beaten your landlord, and you sigh softly.

"You're hurt. Where are your bandages?" You leave his side to move towards his cupboards, and he trails after you, keeping enough distance between the two of you.

"You do not need to worry about me right now." He says, like that's a convincing argument. You're not sure Max has ever had anyone worry about him before. Well, besides you. "I need to worry about you."

You pull open one of the cupboards and find them bare, and Max gestures to the one beside it, where there's a neat shelf of ointments and rolled bandages. "Well, I was fine, until...you know." You turn to look at him and his jaw sets, hands balling into fists again. "Thank you." You try not to think of what might have happened if he hadn't been there. Why he had been there in the first place, you're not quite sure, but you can imagine a fantasy where he followed after you to find you again.

"I don't deserve any thanks," Max states bluntly. "Any man should have protected you in that moment." Then, slowly, he asks, "Is there someone who should be protecting you?"

"No." He should be, but in reality, there had been no one so far from your past who wanted you, and no one from this new life who pitied you enough to ask for your hand. There was nothing you could offer, anyway.

"Why..." Max trails off for a moment as you grab one of the bandages. "Why did you not find someone to marry?" It wasn't your fault, you wanted to say. You could've married anyone, at any time, but you'd delayed, because you wanted something real, wanted to feel like how you did when you looked into Max's eyes, but no other man could offer you that. Then, your father passed, and your money went, and you weren't worth it anymore.

You unwind one of the rolls of bandages and find a cloth dipped in his water basin, and gently begin to wipe down his hand, careful not to drag the skin too much. "I wanted love," You explain softly, "No one seemed interested in that."

"Their loss." He says as his fingers flex under your touch, skin warm. It, somehow, felt more intimate than anything you've ever done before. It felt right. "You always knew how to take care of me." Max breaths out as you set the rag aside to gently begin to wind the bandages over his knuckles. It was a foolish thing for him to do, considering he might have to race again soon, but the thought dies as his words register in your mind. "I never got to thank you for that."

"You have nothing you need to thank me for." You were raised to be kind. That was the virtue that seemed to matter most to your parents, carrying you through life. You always knew how to take care of Max because it was the right, kind thing to do, and because even as a young girl, you knew no one else would take care of him like that.

"Nothing?" Max echoes, his hand beginning to chase after yours once it's out of his grip. Then, thinking better of it, he lets it drop. "You got me out of there."

"I just helped with a lie."

You had awoken to shouting outside. It had to be an ungodly hour of the night, as you stumble from your bed to stare out the window, and you take in the fire consuming one of the estates in the distance. Those awake have begun to leave their homes to rush to aid whoever's home was ablaze, and you watch your father and the neighbours, including Max, join the small stream of people heading toward it.

You're quick to get dressed and follow, piecing together what happened through other people's conversations. They had been away for a few days, a candle left unattended, or maybe the fire from the oven had taken over. It wasn't exactly cohesive, and half asleep, you didn't really care.

Rather, you stood with the crowd, watching people rush for water and things as a few of the men tried to get in to salvage something, to see if people were there, Max included. One of your friends finds you in the crowd, taking in the blaze as you pull back from the heat. "Octavius went in," She whispers in a hush to you. "I heard people say he was one of the first to respond, he had been up late studying."

"No." You breathed out, not because you and Octavius were now on the path to being betrothed, but because you knew he couldn't last that long in any sort of blaze. He was meant for light work, mind work, not...not this. Something snaps and crackles inside the house, and the men stagger out, save for Octavius and Max.

There your two men are, going up in smoke. Neither of them was really yours, and one of them you didn't even want, but it still forces your heart into your throat. You hold your breath, waiting, pleading to any deity that would listen, for them to get out alright, for Max to be okay, when they appear in the doorway, Max all but dragging Octavius's body. He lowers the poor boy to the ground, and Octavius doesn't move.

People rush around to help, calling for doctors, calling for water, and Max scans the crowd until he finds you, something soft and apologetic on his face. Within a few minutes, Octavius is pronounced dead, and your friend takes you into her arms as you try to process it.

"Here, boy." You stare over her shoulder as Max is tossed a roll of bandages, which he awkwardly tries to unwind for himself. "You did your best in there."

The bandages unfurl and land on the ground, and as people move about trying to get Octavius's body away, you realize no one is going to stop and help Max bandage himself.

You part from your friend to pick up the bandages for Max, and he stares, again, like he always does. You both seem to communicate with your eyes more than words, ever, because it's all you're really allowed to do. This time, however, in the chaos of the night, you allow yourself to help him and not feel strange about it. You gently wind the bandage around one long slash on each hand, sharp but not quite thick or deep, which is good. His fingers flex under your touch, soft hisses escaping him, before you gently rub your thumb over his wrist as you work, a soothing touch that renders him completely still. No noise, no twitching, he becomes a statue under your palms.

"Max, was it?" A man says from behind you, and Max's head shoots up to stare at him.

"Yes, sir?" Always so polite. You gently smooth down the last of the bandages on one hand, pinning it in place, and his pinky and ring finger close over yours, as if to hold you there.

"I've never seen anyone move that fast." The man says admiringly, sparing a glance up at the blaze. "You saved a good few men back there."

"Thank you, sir." You move on to the next hand and try to place where you know the man from.

If he were friends with your father, then none of this information should be new to him. Max was fast, a prized possession, really. "Strong, too." The man continues your thought for you. "Catching that beam. Are you used to weight? Pressure?"

"Yes, sir." He caught a burning beam! He's lucky he's leaving with just cuts across his palms and not missing hands. You finish the second bandage, and this time, rather than two fingers, Max lets his whole hand close around yours.

"There you are!" Your father joins, and Max quickly tucks his hands away from you, but for a few seconds, you knew what it was like to be wanted. "I'm so sorry about Octavius, dear." He wraps his arms around you, and you let yourself embrace him. It was back to the drawing board, now, and you let yourself mourn the poor boy who just wanted to help. Your father lets you go to brace a hand on Max's shoulder, squeezing it. "Max, you did...you did a good thing back there, a very good, stupid thing."

"Have you ever worked with horses before, Max?" The other man asks, and there, staring at him in the flickering heat, you realize where you know him from:

He's one of the chariot racing organizers.

Your father had him for dinner more than once, joking about horses, about the men, about how some could even buy their freedom. Staring at Max that night, you came to two conclusions. Max has never worked with horses before, and becoming a chariot racer is his one chance at gaining freedom.

You peer around your father to frantically nod at Max, who takes in your sudden motion with confusion, before trusting your guidance. "Yes, sir. At the, uh, farms."

"I want a word with your master. Come, boy." Max is led away, and your heart aches to see him go, but he needs to. He needs to escape this life, deserves more than his birthright. He turns back to look at you, and you offer a small smile and a wave as he goes.

He doesn't return the gesture.

Of the limited kindness Max has been offered in this life, most of it had been from you, in your youth, choosing to treat him humanely. To anyone else, it would mean nothing - you were just a nice person, but to him, it was everything. It was the first time he'd ever felt normal, ever felt like he was worth something, holding your stare as he worked from across a yard, everything unspoken between you, because there was never a universe where he could.

But then, that night, you had nodded at him so vigorously you'd convinced him he must've worked with horses at some point, and in that lie, you created a world where he was a free man, where he could rise above what he was born to do, where he was now above you. You deserved everything the world could offer, yet everything had been taken from you. Max had not deserved any of your kindness, and yet you had always given it to him.

He lets his hand hold yours, allows himself to feel your skin and not rip the touch away, because you were both grown, and he was in his own home, and you were free to choose him, should you want to. And if you didn't, he'd still shower you with anything you could ever need until you were on your feet again, because you had taught him how to care in a world that didn't bother to.

"That lie changed my life." He continues, and you hum softly.

"You're famous, now. Rome's greatest chariot racer." It feels so strange to hear, but it's true. "You're so grown, too."

"You've grown as well." He reaches up to brush some hair from your face, and even without the make-up you had begun to experiment with back then, you are the sweetest thing he's ever seen. The most perfect being, and so what if it was a youthful infatuation? He had seen enough women, from the highest families to the scantily clad corners of Rome, and none compared. He had waited, and you had come, and he was going to make things right. "More beautiful than the day I left you."

You stare up at him, because words had never been easy between the two of you, and Max stares back. He lets a single bent finger drift up your forearm and stop at your elbow, still well aware of the expectations on both of you, but he has you so close, he just has to touch. It's rare he's granted skin to skin without the expectation of violence to come with it. It's rare for him to be still, to be gentle, and your hand comes up to hold his cheek, and it nearly breaks him.

The years have not been as kind to him as they have to you. He's scarred, sweaty still from the race, clad in his racing gear, but your eyes don't seem to notice any of that as you smile, gently brushing your thumb over his cheek as if he were a warrior gone for years, returning to his wife, and really, that's how it feels. Like he's been gone on some terrible battle to return home to you. This is where you should be, forever, tucked between his arms in your shared house.

His hand glides up your arm to hold your wrist, keeping your palm against his cheek, and he leans into the touch. This must be love, he thinks. This must be how it feels to be loved. Then, because he can't help himself, he turns and presses a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitches.

It's the first time you've been kissed, and Max is happy to steal that from you. It's his first kiss, too. "Max."

"I will only ask once, I promise." He whispers, voice almost hoarse.

"Yes." You answer, staring him down. You hadn't even known what he was going to say, but it was somehow still the correct answer.

Did you feel this way back then?

Did you miss me?

Do you want me?

Will you be my wife? "I can protect you." Gods, he'd do anything for you. There would never be a single thing you should ever want for, ever ask for. "No more landlords, no more work." Max could never really keep anything from you, so he adds, "Unless you want to, of course. I will take care of you as you have taken care of me."

"You could do better." The words hurt more than any wound ever could. This was not an ideal match, Max was well aware. You were the lowest rung of society. You were steps away from poverty, and he steps away from ridicule, but if this were the only outcome that brought you back to him, then Max could only complain about the discomfort it might have brought you, because he would've suffered this fate a hundred times more to have you here.

Really, you could do better. Once, you could have had any great man, and even now, with the conditions you had been dealt. With your kindness and beauty, you could make any man in all of Rome fall for you. Max, luckily, was the first. "There's no such thing." Max steps forward, and you step back, pressing yourself against the counter, and Max looms over you, coming up to cradle your face in his hands. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"Please, Max." It's all the sign he needs before he dips down and kisses you. Kiss, really, isn't perhaps the right word for it, because it's like nothing Max could ever describe. It is every race, every crash, every stare, every touch combined into one heated moment. It is what he's sure the poets were trying to sum up for all these years and failing to; it's like a second nature that Max didn't know he had in him.

Your hands smooth against his chest plate, sliding up to rest on his shoulders to pull him down more to kiss him easier, and he smiles into it, hands slipping from your face to find your waist, and as he'd waited to do for so long, he picks you up and spins you around and you break apart to laugh down at him.

"I will get your things tomorrow morning." He states simply, setting you down. "And we will marry when you wish to."

You find yourself staring at each other at the admission, of having gone from strangers to betrothed in a day, but neither of you were here to argue about it. It was mad, he knew, to anyone who would hear about it, but Max didn't care, unless you did. If you needed, he would prove to you, over and over, whatever you needed for him to be your husband. Though, he supposes in this situation, it's you who really needs this union, needs the protection of a husband, needs the money.

"Do you..." There is a difference between need and want, however. Needing him as a husband and wanting him as a husband are two very different things, and he would never wish to trap you in a marriage if it were something you needed, rather than wanted. "Do you want to marry me? I know this can't be what you imagined."

"I said yes, didn't I?" You say, letting your old personality slip through the cracks, of the petulant girl who'd defiantly try to talk to him and offer him fruit. "And I always imagined you."

"Me?" You always imagined marrying him. Him. Him. "I always imagined you."

You laugh softly up at him, and Max could hear that sound a hundred times over. "The Fates work in mysterious ways, hm? We will marry soon, then." You finally answer, before concern passes over your features. "And until then?"

"You will have my bed, and I will sleep anywhere else."

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Charles glances up from where he's tying his sandals and raises an eyebrow.

Their race today had gone as expected: Max had conquered, and was paid handsomely. However, there was a distinct difference at today's race, that no one knew but him:

That you were waiting for him at home.

"Nothing? What is this, Max? Inviting people somewhere?" Max isn't going to lie, he doesn't always like the people he races with, but currently, they're his only friends, and he's getting married tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you were his, forever and always. It was an adjustment, certainly, but a welcome one.

But, because it was tomorrow, and he hadn't said a word aloud about it, terrified to jinx it, he figures he might want to invite someone, make it a proper ceremony for you.

In the two weeks since he had found you again, you had settled into his apartment, and Max had made the last minute arrangements for your wedding, and he had gotten used to someone filling the seat at the table across from him, laying by his side at night.

He was entirely intoxicated by the fact that he got to return to you in a moment that he didn't even care for the racers teasing. "Wait, we're going somewhere?" George continues with a lopsided smile.

"Not all of you," Max says, drawing the men near. "So be quiet."

"Oh, so this is a special something?" Charles teases, and Max reaches out to smack his shoulder. "Well, come on, get out with it."

"I'm getting married." The whole room comes to a standstill, despite the fact that Max had whispered it to just the two of them.

Charles blinks once, twice, before an incredulous look passes over his face. "You're what?"

"To who?" George continues, which are both fair questions. Max had never once mentioned any romantic interest in anyone, nor any interest in getting married. A thought crosses over George's face before he snaps, tilting his head back to laugh. "The girl!"

"The girl?" Charles repeats, and Max presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"You talk about her when you're drunk." That earns him a few solid punches, and George bats him away. "You found her? And she wants to marry you? Wasn't she rich?"

Max offers a small shrug in response. He isn't sure what to say either, considering you, a goddess among people, wanted to marry him. He'd be in disbelief to hear it too, if it weren't his own life.

"You can't forget he's rich now, too," Charles says, before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations. We'll be there."

"Not all of you." Max insists. After all, he wasn't sure who would be coming for you, though you mentioned talking to some of the girls you'd gotten close to at work. "Just a few. It's small."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando says, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Need any pointers for your wedding night?"

Max would kill him for the comment, if he didn't need the advice.

Nerves were a normal thing before a wedding. It wasn't really about the wedding, or about Max at all, but the fact that you were about to be a wife. That things were finally seeming to go right, and the last thing you wanted was to mess it up.

These past two weeks have felt a bit like a dream, or perhaps waking from one. Everything was a blur until Max appeared, and for the first time, things made sense. It makes sense that he would protect you, that he would hold you, call you beautiful, ask for you. It makes sense for you to say yes, and for you to marry, though it still feels scandalous. It feels like something you could have once lost your reputation for. There was a whole lifetime of lessons before you that no longer applied, about grace and prosperity, about maintaining expectations.

That strange, unknowing feeling was the constant reminder of all that you had lost to get here, and all the people who were not celebrating with you.

Your wedding was not in June, like when all the popular people had theirs. It was not lavish, though you had never pictured it would have been. It was still with the strange, orange veil that didn't quite make sense to you, but it was without any fanfare at all. You were just getting married, like it was any other day.

You and Max had already been living with each other for about two weeks when you managed to get everything settled. Your things first perfectly into his space, the bed you shared just the right size, like he'd been waiting for you to come home. After today, you would properly be man and wife, though it isn't lost on you that years ago, Max would have never been allowed to marry you.

"I came as soon as I heard." You tense in the mirror, staring past your reflection to your childhood friend in the mirror. You knew she had come to Rome and married someone to match her status, and for that exact reason, you had not told her about Max, or about the wedding, or about much in your life. You just happened to see each other in the streets occasionally, and you would pretend like things were fine, that the move out of the estate was a nice change of pace.

Having her here made things feel more real. "How-"

"A friend of a friend of mine works with you, apparently." She's dressed perfectly, as she always has been. She slowly assumes a position behind you, reaching to flip up your veil to reveal your face. The action brings tears to your eyes, and she quickly finds a handkerchief for you to dab them with. "You cannot ruin your makeup, you look beautiful." You laugh softly, dabbing away the tears, and she smiles down on you happily. "I always knew you liked him."

"What? No!" You had kept all infatuations to yourself, despite the many she had shared with you.

"Oh, I saw those heart eyes come out every time he came around." She teases, before lowering the veil and helping adjust it. "Works out that he became a famous chariot racer, didn't it?"

You pause at the words, knowing how lowly most of them were seen. "You're not...put off by it?"

"It's love. I'm not one to judge it." She turns you around to face her, a kind smile plastered on her face that means more than he would likely ever know. "I hope you don't mind, but I did rally the troops."

And there, standing in the doorway, are a few more of your hometown friends and the girls from work. "You didn't have to come."

"And miss this?" One says, gesturing across the hall to where Max is getting ready. "Attractiveness is apparently a requirement for chariot racers."

"Now, let's get you tied into this thing." Another friend takes a position behind you, tying up your tunic in the way you had tied hers at her wedding. It was tradition for the bride's tunic to be tied in a way that only someone else could take it off, being Max. What he'd take it off to do, you'd never been told, but you didn't have much longer to wait to figure out. "You have one lucky, lucky groom."

If asked, Max was entirely present and aware of everything that happened at his own wedding, but really, the second you had flipped your veil up? Max's brain stopped working, and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. You didn't even look that different from your everyday, but there was something about you, something that glowed, something that made his dreams of starting a family, retiring, buying your estate back for you become reality. He wanted you in your garden with his child on your lap as you showed off the place where he and you first met.

So he was not exactly paying attention, but he was well aware of what he had to do. He had gotten rings, got a new tunic, arranged everything. Seeing as you had no family, it made the ending part of the ceremony different, though no one seemed to mind. There was no great dinner, no Max dragging you away from your family to bring you to his house. All he had to do, once the ceremony wrapped up, was carry you home so that you didn't fall.

Someone sniffed from behind him, and Max stole a glance to see the row of chariot racers, most of whom he did not invite, all in varying stages of emotions. Your friends were all so happy for you, some of whom he remembers from his time at your estate. They don't seem to care, however, what Max used to be or who he became, but rather that you were happy.

Your hands squeeze his, and Max squeezes back, smiling down at you. The officiant said something about kissing, and for once, Max wasn't the initiator as you got up on the tips of your toes to kiss him, and Max easily hooked an arm around your waist to dip you, much to the surprise and shouts of those attending.

You laugh as Max lets you back up, grinning ear to ear, and forever, he realizes, starts now. The officiant says something about husband and wife, but Max stopped listening a long time ago, and the small crowd cheers as Max helps you down the stairs and towards the door, where before he steps outside, he sweeps you off your feet.

"What?" He teases as you gasp at him. "I'm supposed to make sure you don't fall."

The wedding party makes a strange little parade as Max carries you to your apartment, exchanging stories, calling out to you and Max. You've twisted to perch your head over his shoulder, saying something to one of your friends, but all falls silent when Max finally gets to his door. Uncaring if it's rude, he opens it and brings you inside before slamming it shut behind him, and he can hear the whistles from outside.

There was a reason he didn't want all the racers there, and as he presses a kiss to your flushed cheek, embarrassment is one of them. This is your night together, after all.

No one else needs to know anything of it. He makes his way through the apartment and drops you onto his bed, and for a moment, you just take in each other.

Married.

His wife. It was a dream that he had had for so long, he wasn't sure how to feel now that it was real. You were wearing a ring he had gotten for you, uncaring about his rank, uncaring that he was now a chariot racer. You were just his, and he was just yours, and you got to spend the rest of your lives together.

You pull off your veil and wreath, kicking off your shoes, and Max waits for some kind of sign that you knew what was going to follow. After all, while he might have heard and learned all about what grooms were expected to do on their wedding night, along with some incredibly personal stories from his fellow racers about pleasing women, you wouldn't have been taught anything at all. It was a virtue to be pure, and as you blink up at Max, he's not sure he's going to be able to do what he wants to you without having to sit you down and explain the repercussions of it.

"Do you..." He awkwardly trails off, trying to think of the best way to ask. "Do you know what we are supposed to do now?"

You flush as Max slowly lowers himself to sit beside you, head ducking to avoid his eyes. He hates it more than he can bear, because if there's one thing you did, even when no one else would, you looked at him. He raises your chin with a bent finger, and your eyes find his as you manage to whisper, "I know some things."

"Like?" You shift closer to him, nearly pressing yourself against him, and Max loops an arm around your waist.

"We are supposed to kiss." His lips capture yours the moment the words leave your mouth, not quite the tender thing you'd been sharing for the past two weeks. Now, it was something heated, something heavy that had Max dragging you into his lap, careful not to overstep or scare you. He pulls back, waiting, and you bite your lip as you stare down at him. "You...you're supposed to take my tunic off."

Oh, fuck. Max reaches around, manhandling the strange knot that keeps you from being able to take off your own tunic, and the fabric falls to pool around you, revealing your skin and undergarments to him, and Max might die before he's able to touch you. It's more than any fantasy he'd come up with before, your perfect, unmarked skin, swathes of it, more than he'd ever dreamt of seeing. His hands come to gently rest on your waist, waiting for the next instruction, but you remain silent. "Beautiful." Is all he can bring himself to say. "Just beautiful."

"I..." Your head disappears into the crook of Max's neck, hiding yourself away. "I don't know what comes next."

"Do you want me to show you?" He asks softly, "Or do you want me to tell you?"

"Show me?" For you, for his own sanity, he knows to take it slow. He bends down, mouthing against your neck, and he'd pay all he has to hear the soft noises that escape your lips again, and again, and again. His lips trail down to your collarbone, and you pull away slightly, enough that Max stops his demonstration to stare up at you.

This was a very new world for both of you. He didn't want to overstep, but at the same time, this was part of what he'd been dreaming of. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life without ever lying with you like this, but he also imagines that getting to do so would be the closest a man could get to heaven without dying.

Rather than giving him some sort of answer, you dip down to match what he did to his neck, and your tongue drags softly against his pulse point, forcing his eyes back into his head at the touch.

"Fuck." He breathes out, before realizing how improper that must sound to you. He had spent too much time around the other racers that his vocabulary was starting to change, but in this situation, it's the only word that sums up how he's feeling.

You pull back with a small, knowing grin, and Max flips you, so that you lie under him. He props himself up on his forearms, just barely hovering, and your arms loop around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. His tunic shifts awkwardly between the two of you, and without much thought, he sits up on his knees to pull it over his head, and your eyes widen as you take him in. It was not the first time you'd seen him shirtless, but every time he was shirtless around you, it garnered the same reaction, which was the greatest ego boost Max had ever known.

Without his tunic in the way, you're now pressed against him, and as he shifts to hover over you once more, the friction between the two of you draws a little noise from both of you. "Do you want me to continue?" He asks, ensuring you're okay, and you nod slowly, the smallest bit of hesitation clinging to you. "I need words, love."

"Please." What man could say no when you ask so nicely? He lets one hand roam down the side of your body, gently tracing idle shapes that draw shivers out of you, before resting at the waistband of your underwear. Your breath hitches as Max gently plays with it, waiting for you to stop him, but the words never come. His fingers finally dip under the band, and he groans softly at the touch.

You're soaked, exactly how he was told you'd feel if you were as into it as he was, and his dick strains against his underwear, hardening at the feeling of you. Your eyes squeeze shut as Max gently runs his fingers through your folds, just letting you get used to the feeling. He had gotten himself off numerous times to the thought of you, but the thought that you'd never been touched down here, that Max was the first, that you'd never experienced this kind of pleasure? It does something to Max that he's never felt before, as if his whole body is on fire, and you're the only thing to put it out.

"Max." You whisper, cheeks flushed. "This isn't-" You cut yourself off as Max pulls his fingers from you and brings them to his mouth, and you're just as sweet as he was told you would taste. "Max!"

"You wanted me to show you." He shifts lower, pulling your undergarments down to replace his hand with his mouth, and the moan it elicits is something he'd expect to hear out of a brothel, not out of you. He's not quite sure if what he is doing is right, considering what the others had told him, but your hands are in his hair, tight as he moves against you, a kind of sting that spurs him on. He must be doing something right, he thinks, savouring the taste and every noise he gets to draw out of you.

"Fuck, Max." He groans into you as you curse, caught off-guard by the vulgarity of it. You were the image of innocence, of perfection, and he'd driven you to such language. Your thighs squeeze around his head, and he wraps his arms around them to keep your legs open for him. You whimper at the lack of movement, and Max finds a strange, deep pleasure in it. "This can't be-it isn't what this-"

He pulls back to look up at you, and just the sight of him has you sighing, head rolling back onto the pillow. It's nice to know that he has the same effect on you as you do on him. "Do you want to stop?"

"N-No," You breathe out, "But are you sure this is right? Have you..."

Ah. It was a stupid thing to confess, but Max had saved himself for a moment like he. Instead of revealing everything he'd done for you, how deep this infatuation went, he presses a series of soft kisses to your thighs, soothing you. "You're the first."

"Good." There's a tone of something possessive in your voice, and it makes Max grind down into the mattress to relieve some pressure.

"And I know this is right." He continues, mouth hovering over you. Even just his breath against you has you shivering. "It feels right, doesn't it?"

You hum an affirmative before he's back on you, and he can feel your legs begin to shake. You're getting close, and glancing up, he can see your face screwed up in pleasure and concern. "Max, it's-it's-"

"Let go for me, love." His lips wrap around your clit, and your back arches up, your orgasm taking over as a soft, high-pitched whine escapes you. He pulls away when your body slackens, careful to not overstimulate you just yet. He's not sure if it would actually hurt, but if this was your first time cumming, then he wanted it to be good. He scoots up to hover over you, expecting you to be exhausted, but you surprise him by leaning up and wiping off his mouth before kissing him, hard. It's Max's turn to moan into it, letting you take the lead for a moment as your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Told you it was right."

"What about you?" You whisper hoarsely, voice somehow already shot, and Max blinks down at you. He gets it, now, why the others boasted about things like this. It was going to take a lot to convince him to get out of this bed. "What do I do to you?"

Slowly, he drags one of your hands from his shoulder down his body, fingers drifting over the plains of his abs before resting at the band of his own underwear. Your breath hitches as your hand slips from under his and dips lower, a sort of confidence he wasn't expecting. Your hand stutters over his dick, hard and outlined by his undergarments, as your eyes widen. Max's head drops to rest on your shoulder, letting out slow breaths to pace himself, but god, it was hard to do when you had reactions like that. "Just like that, love." Your fingers dip under his waistband to touch him, and Max groans softly as you slowly begin palming him. His hand finds yours, helping mould your grip to wrap around him, and he slowly helps you drag your hand up and down.

The touch nearly makes him spill.

Your hand is that much smaller, that much softer, that as you slowly speed up the motion, it punches a moan out of him as he mouths at your neck. His precum acts as the oil he probably should've prepared for this, helping you move more fluidly, hand tightening and loosening to see what can drag a noise out of him.

Your free hand comes up to his cheek, pulling his face towards yours, and the kiss is sloppy, all saliva and tongue, but neither of you really seem to notice. Your hand speeds up, the noise disgraceful as it echoes off the walls, and Max finds himself seeing stars far too quickly. He grabs your wrist with a groan, carefully pulling your hand away, and you jolt. "I'm sorry, did I-"

"Fucking perfect." He grunts out, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay as he squeezes his eyes shut. Tonight, he wanted to last, and he wanted to last for at least a couple more rounds. "Would've cum."

"Cum?" You echo softly, the word dripping from your lips. It's the kind of reminder he needs that you don't know anything about this, or how this works, and he pulls back to stare down at you.

"That pleasure you felt? That was, well, cumming." The words bring a blush to his cheeks, and you nod silently. "If I cum inside you," His voice dips, moving one hand to press against your core again. "I get you pregnant."

Your eyes widen, your own hand coming to rest on your stomach. "Inside?"

"Do you want me to show you," He repeats, "Or tell you?"

"Do you want children?" You ask as you shift up, and Max pauses. He hadn't really thought to ask you that, had he? It was kind of assumed, but he pulls back entirely, terrified he'd overstepped and scared you off by telling you he was about to get you pregnant.

"With you? Of course I do." Then, because he doesn't want to scare you off, "Do you...not?"

"No, no, I do." You soothe quickly. "Just...do you want them now?"

"It takes a couple of tries," Max says softly, fingers gently rubbing at your hip. Maybe he really should've sat you down, explained all this before he began, or maybe even had one of your bridesmaids explain it. "But if you want to wait, I'll wait forever with you."

You hold out a hand, and Max lets you pull him back down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Not exactly where he thought the night would lead, but he's a gentleman. Only when you're ready would he ever do something like that.

Slowly, your hand trails back down his body, and Max pulls away with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to question it when your hand finds his dick again and squeezes, and he moans unabashedly. "Do you want kids now?" You repeat softly, and Max just nods dumbly into your shoulder as your hand moves against him. "Words, love."

"Fuck." He says with a soft laugh, though the words go straight through him. He should be the one in charge, but when you said things like that? Well, he could see himself doing whatever you asked of him. "Using my own words against me?" You hum, hand speeding up, and Max finds himself babbling. "Yes, yes please, please, if you'd let me-"

"Show me." Max raises his head to stare at you, and you easily meet his gaze, something soft twinkling in your eye that has Max groaning and moving over you. His fingers dip back down to your folds, gently parting through them before slowly letting one finger push into you. He's slow, careful with the intrusion, but with how soaked you are, you swallow up one finger easily.

"It's going to be a bit of a stretch," He soothes, slowly pumping his finger in and out of you, easily gliding with the remains of his saliva and your arousal. "But you can do that for me, can't you?" He presses his second finger into you, just as slow, and lets you adjust to it. You clench down around him, flushed before you throw an arm over your face to hide yourself. "No, no." He's not exactly in the position to move your arm for you, but just at his words, you slowly let it move from your face to peek out at him. "I want to see you."

"But it's-" You trail off with a broken moan as Max begins to move his fingers again, this time curling upward. He seems to hit something right inside you as you gasp, hands grasping at the sheets. Max repeats the motion, over and over again, drawing noises out of you that go straight to his dick. "Max, Max-" You say his name like a prayer, babbling as your eyes squeeze shut, and he can feel just how close you are. "I'm going-fuck," Your hand reaches up to grab at his bicep, squeezing tight. "Going to cum."

Despite his original embarrassment at all the advice the other racers had for him, he finds it incredibly useful now as he works you through your second orgasm, nails biting into his arm as you tilt your head back, and Max can't resist nipping at the column of your throat. "That's it," He says, not letting up yet. "Tell me how it feels."

"Max," You moan, chest heaving. "Max, Max-"

"Gods, you're beautiful." He lets up as the last of your orgasm washes over you, though he doesn't pull his fingers out. Once you've settled, he drops his head down to whisper in your ear. "Ready for a third?"

You nod, wordlessly, before catching yourself. "Yes, please."

"Good girl." He can tell it's a lot, his fingers stuffed into you where you've never even thought to touch before, and you mewl softly below him, eyes squeezed shut. "Taking me so well, hm?" He dips down to mouth at your neck again, slowly moving, fingers curling and dragging against your walls, and your head rolls to the side to give him more access to your throat. His thumb roams back up to your clit and you jolt, nearly headbutting him, and he laughs it off as you glare at him from the pillow, breaths coming out in shallow pants. "I need you nice and open for me," He explains, fingers moving frantically as he chases your release. "Want you to cum on my fingers one more time before you cum on my-"

"Max!" It's lewd, his name falling off your lips over and over again, and with little warning, you cum, soaking his fingers as he slows his thrusts. He takes the time to lie with you, fingers still gently rubbing at your entrance as you sigh, leaning to bury your head in his neck.

"Too much?" He whispers, and you shake your head, though you can't seem to find the words to speak yet. "Do you want to continue?"

"Please," You say, hand fumbling with his underwear. Max takes his time, slowly pulling it down, and he watches concern slowly return to your expression. "That's...that's not going-"

"Relax for me?" You let out a slow breath as Max slowly eases his fingers out of you, and you make a small noise at the loss. He uses your slick to prepare himself, loosely fisting his dick as you watch him, a pink flush spreading from your cheeks to your neck to your chest. "Always so good for me," He says, unsure if this is what you'd like to hear. You moan at his words, or maybe his voice, and Max finds himself saying nonsense as he continues. "My girl," He says, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Going to make you feel so good, yeah?" He braces himself overtop of you, dick sliding against your folds to wait at your entrance. "You say the word and I stop, okay? It's going to be a stretch."

Max finally presses into you, and he lets his head fall to your chest as you both moan. Fuck, you're tight and you're hot, and Max is not prepared for it atl all. He knew how tight you were around his fingers, but didn't expect the pleasure that would come from it being around his dick, keeping him so close to the edge. He waits with just the tip in you to let you adjust, and your hands scramble to find purchase on his shoulders again. He slowly lets his head rise to press soft kisses to your breasts, still covered by your undergarments. Right now, he just needs you to relax and focus on him, and his hand slips down to find your clit, and you tighten so quickly around him, you almost force him out.

"Shit," He groans out, and he stops his ministrations to let you relax again, hands coming to rub softly at your hips. "I've got you," He says, and slowly, inch by inch, he bottoms out and leans over your shoulder to bite into the pillow, terrified of hurting you as he tries to contain himself.

He was just a man, he knew he had urges, but god, he just wants to press into you and never come out again, wants to fuck you until all you can say is his name and his name only. Wants to breed you until you can't walk, stuck in his bed for the next week as he fills you up and truly makes you his. "What're you-" Your voice brings him back to reality, and you expose your neck to him again. Somehow, you knew exactly what he wanted, and he finds himself moaning wantonly.

"So perfect for me, shit-" He sucks and bites his way down your neck, still refusing to move, and you experimentally clench around him. The shock of it forces his teeth into you, and he's quick to withdraw, but the look on your face is anything but pain. "Liked that, huh?" He breathes out, pressing soft kisses to the mark. You squeeze again, and Max groans, pulling away to stare down at you. "If you want something, you have to use your words, love."

"Please?"

"Oh, you can do better than that for me." But, mercifully, he slowly drags himself out before pushing back in, and your head falls back to the bed with a heavy thud. "Tell me what you want."

"You," You moan, and Max can't help but speed up, hips easily meeting yours with every thrust. "Want you."

He can't quite reply, too lost in the feeling of you around him, warm and wet and tight, so tight he's terrified that this must hurt, but the way you keep arching your back and moaning is telling him another story. "Got me." He finally manages to grunt out, sucking a spot right under your ear. "Always yours."

His orgasm is chasing him, he knows, can feel it building with every touch, every time your nails bite into his skin, every time he manages to press a kiss to your neck, your mouth, your shoulder. He's lost in the feeling of you, and he knows that he's never going back. He is going to shower you in everything you've ever wanted, going to take such good care of you to keep you under him like this, pliant and perfect.

"Fuck," He breathes out, speeding up as you tense around him. "Feel so good. Dreamt of you like this."

"Want your mouth." Max doesn't have to question where, he just continues his onslaught of kisses and bites up the column of your throat before finding your mouth, never able to keep anything from you. Your hands tangle in his hair, just the smallest tug spurring him forward, and he gasps as he slams into you sloppily, orgasm seconds away.

"I love you." He says, repeating it over and over, the only words that have ever mattered, the words he should've said long ago. He finally let's go, white-hot stars settling over him as he begins to ramble, everything he can think to say spilling off his tongue as he spills into you with a breathy moan. "So good under me, took me so well-"

You tense around him as he realizes you're cumming too, matching his pace, and it's hotter than anything he'd seen before, hotter than however long the two of you just spent tangled together. Max loses all feeling in his body as he slumps on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so as not to crush you, but all that he finds he can do is say your name, over and over, like it's all he's ever meant to say.

Your arms loosely come up to wrap around his neck, holding him down, and it should be uncomfortable, the sweat, the skin, the fluids trapped between the two of you, but he finds that this is the only place he'd ever want to be.

Slowly, when he thinks he might be able to stand, he pulls out of you, your combined fluids slowly spilling out of you. Still not quite able to feel his legs, he pads to the kitchen to grab a cloth, and takes the time to admire you as he comes back.

You haven't changed positions, perfectly laid in his bed with the blankets molded around you, and Max hates to disturb you as he perches himself on the edge, and begins to wipe down your thighs.

You stir momentarily to blink down at him, and Max suddenly feels so sickeningly in love that he can't do anything but stare back. You're his, officially. You'd gotten married today, your ring glinting in the candlelight as you reach out for him, and he happily accepts your hand. You pull him down beside you and you roll into him, curling up and pressing your face back to his neck, and his arms thread around you, tight. Your bare skin under his arms feels like a dream, and he takes just a minute to examine your neck, where a litany of bruises remains.

His fingers ghost over them and you reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. "Did I hurt you?"

You make a strange sort of noise that has Max laughing, pulling away further to look down at you. You're fighting sleep, eyes half-lidded as you shake your head.

"Words?" He teases softly and your head thumps against his chest. He gently places his hand around the back of your neck, positioning you to look back up at him, and even half-asleep, you're more gorgeous than Max could ever describe. He was the speechless one now, despite how much he teased you for it.

"Perfect." You whisper softly, and something deep inside Max breaks, for just a moment. He had never been called perfect before. He'd never had anyone look at him with as much admiration, albeit tired admiration, as you did currently, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. "You were perfect. May I sleep now?" And then, with your old, teasing personality, the moment breaks, and Max rolls his eyes as he presses you to his chest.

He was never going to let you go. Not now, not ever. Even in death, Max thinks, he'd find a way to haunt you. He lets his hands card through your hair, soothing as you finally drift off. There will definitely be a conversation in the morning, he knows, one that will probably be awkward and maybe, he thinks with excitement, lead to something more, but for right now, he's okay to just have you sleep on him as he lets himself soak up the night.

You're his.

It's the only thing that he thinks ever mattered.

"Oh," You breathe softly against him, as if remembering something, and he's quick to glance down at you. "I love you too, Max."

Whatever had broken inside Max had now been reduced to dust, the first time you'd ever said those words to him. If he was honest, it probably wasn't great that the first time he said it to you was in the heat of the moment, but he had meant it, and he had felt it long before he'd ever thought of putting it into words.

"Rest," He finally whispers, and without much fanfare, you fall asleep against him, and Max wills away the tears in the corners of his eyes.

This was all he'd ever need, and all he'd ever want for the rest of his life.

- - -

- - - - -

It was final. Max had retired from chariot racing, despite the protests of his team, and his fans, and, well, everyone. The only person who probably wouldn't complain about Max retiring was waiting for him at home, and was the exact reason he was rushing up the steps to your estate.

It was the first big purchase he'd ever made, getting your estate back to you. He might have pulled a few strings to get it, but it was your family's rightful home, and where you belonged. He had never seen you happier than that day, returning to your garden, getting to leave behind the poor working conditions of Rome to tend to your vegetables and flowers. You deserved it, after all.

You deserved everything. He hadn't actually told you he was going to retire today, considering it was just another race, but he'd made his mind up while leaving this morning, for one very good reason.

"See that?" You whisper softly, kneeling by the pond, that same slice of paradise where once, Max had seen your ankles, and now he sees his future. "That's a frog."

His son babbles beside you, your palla extended to wrap around him. His little fists happily pat away at the dirt, scaring away the small frog that was resting at the water's edge. It was his son who made Max finally decide to retire from racing, along with you. He wanted to be here for these silly, random moments, not dead under a horse.

He had made enough money to last you well enough, and the small income you'd get from the farm would help supply anything extra. He sneaks up behind you, stilling just above you to cast a shadow. You glance up, confused, before a soft gasp escapes your lips, and you angrily bat up at him. "Max!"

"Mama!" His son says as Max scoops him up, resting the boy gently on his hip. You rise to scowl at him, though you break to give him a kiss before returning to your pout. He doesn't get why you get to be upset - his own son won't say his name! That was another reason Max had decided to retire.

He wanted his son to remember him, not like the blur of memories Max had of his own father.

"No, dada. Try it? Dada?" He'd had the same debate this morning, jokingly splayed out on the carpet as he desperately tried to teach the boy any other words, but he was always stuck on the same one:

"Mamamamamama." Max can't really blame him, though. You were worthy of obsession.

If he could only ever say your name, he wouldn't miss the others.

"Did I scare you?" Max teases finally, and you roll your eyes as you brush the dirt off the edge of your palla. "I thought you'd enjoy me being home early."

"I do," You say as you take his arm and lead him toward the kitchen. "But not when you sneak up on me."

"I was just standing there! Could've been a cloud, for all you know." His son reaches up to gently tug on Max's armour, and Max happily swings him around the lounge before gently setting him on the carpeted floor. "I retired," He says over his shoulder to you, like a normal, passive thing, and he watches you freeze over the dining table.

It's a mix of emotions, he's well aware, pride, happiness, confusion. You slowly come to join him on the floor, studying him intently, as if gauging his reaction. "You did?"

"I wanted to be home." He answers softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. You all but throw yourself at him and Max laughs, happily holding you in his lap as you press kiss after kiss to his mouth. "See? This was the reaction I was expecting."

"Are you sure?" You say as you pull back, distracted for a moment to grab your son, trying to crawl away, and you pull him into your lap. Right here, in Max's arms, is his whole world, and there's nothing he could ever do to leave it.

"Absolutely." He answers, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before letting his mouth trail down your jaw and neck. "Wouldn't want to miss this for anything."

Your son sneezes, bouncing his head back off of Max's chest and begins to cry, and you're quick to coddle him, rising up to bounce him and gently hold the back of his head. This, this was a dream Max couldn't believe once wasn't supposed to be fulfilled. This was a life that meant so much to him, to just be able to sit on the floor and watch you with your son, with his son. To be your equal, to be home, to be happy. "It's okay," You soothe softly. "I know Dada's chest is hard, but it'll be soft soon, now that he's not a mean old chariot racer."

"Hey!" Max stands, offering a soft glare as your son giggles between the two of you.

"Mhm, I'm going to cook so much, make him nice and fat so you'll never get hurt on his muscles again." You move away, up the stairs to find your son's nursery, and Max follows behind like he still can't quite believe you're his to follow.

The nursery used to be your childhood room, Max is pretty sure, considering the angle of the window. He'd watched your silhouette so many times, he's sure it has to be here. It's odd to be on the inside, despite the years since Max worked for your father. He had to remind himself, often, that he was meant to be here, that when you laid your son to rest in his bassinet, it was Max who carved the wood for it, chose where to place it.

Max was allowed to have this.

He was allowed to have you.

"You like my muscles," Max finally argues, picking up where you left off as you join him in the doorway. He flexes his arm, and you watch him unabashedly. He leans over you, bringing you in for another kiss as his hand roams down to palm your ass. "See?"

"You keep that up, and this little guy is going to have a sibling soon." You say against his lips, and Max bends down to pick you up like on your wedding night, and you laugh as he carries you to the bedroom.

"Anything wrong with that?"

You smack at his chest, and he tosses you back onto your bed, which is to say he lays you as gently as he can, because if there's one thing he could never do, it was touch you without reverence. "We agreed to wait, unless you want to be up with two crying babies at night."

"Then I guess we'll just have to keep my muscles around a little longer then, hm?" He strips out of his armour, and your eyes skip down his chest. "I'll make sure not to wear any more armour around. Make sure they don't hurt themselves."

"That'll be for the best." You nod along, biting your bottom lip in thought. "Probably shouldn't wear a tunic around the house, either. Just in case they get tangled in it."

"Oh?" He crawls up toward you, and you loop your arms around his neck to pull him in for another kiss, and then another, and Max grins into every kiss. "So you just want me nude around the house all day?"

With a matching smile, you pull away, and Max decides that there is no sweeter view to be found anywhere else in the world.

"What else is retirement for?"

a/n: so this is the longest fic i've written yet, and my very first smut, so i hope y'all enjoy! as someone studying history this was such a labour of love, and I'm so proud of how it turned out

p.s if i got anything wrong about ancient rome? no i didn't

#➤ rex works #➤ mv1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen angst #max verstappen smut #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1 imagines #formula one smut #reader insert #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 angst

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norvicensiandoran · 3 days ago

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Tbh I didn't even see that the Good Trouble protests were happening on social media or know that name, and I follow multiple people who *organize for Indivisible.* My first clue anything was happening was seeing not only protestors in my town, but shockingly more than on No Kings day.

I currently live in a very red town of only four thousand people so seeing even 8 people is something, seeing 20-25 is notable, Especially on a weekday, in heat, when all the young folks are elsewhere for the summer. It was mostly Boomers and Gen Xers, in a deep red town with one stoplight, in hardcore Kansas cornfield country. We're talking about a place where I hear more racial slurs in just one year than I did in 33 of living on the east coast's South. A place within an hour or two, for the heathens out there, of where the AFA used to hold one of their largest annual events. A place in driving distance of Westboro Baptist.

And frankly, if you can get that many people pissed off at Trump in a place like that, holy shit that bodes well. (Unless you're Trump, and then frankly fuck you.) And it's not just Epstein - the young blonde MAGA moms actually are shockingly not happy to lose Medicaid, SNAP, Sesame Street, or even the naloxone that saved that one family member that made a mistake that turned nearly fatal.

I have had more and more disillusioned folks ask me questions about policies they didn't understand. I've even had some who dropped out of high school to have kids because their families were pro life come to me and ask how to go about getting their GED or escape an abuser or access vaccinations for kids they hadn't or any number of other things.

The tide is turning, even in the cornfields full of undereducated racists who are slowly starting to realize that hate isn't gonna do shit for them when their arteries clog up without healthcare.

Good US news because I think we all could use some of it:

The Marines are to be withdrawn from LA. The extreme escalation many of us feared did not happen thanks to the people of LA and the soldiers themselves who said "no".

The "Good Trouble Lives On" protests may not have been as big as the previous "Hands Off" and "No Kings" protests (likely due to heat + being planned on a weekday), but still 1.6k protests were held across the USA with thousands joining in with the peaceful protest.

The Trump administration has been ordered to restore $6.2 million in grant funding to nine LGBTQ+ and HIV-related nonprofits. This is fantastic.

Pittsburgh City Council has passed bills to protect its LGBTQ+ citizens.

California has stepped up to partner with and support The Trevor Project. Let's go, Cali!

Another win for California: Reports show that California is powered by two-thirds clean energy. This is a historic first and it keeps getting better!

The ACLU of Louisiana has secured the release of two wrongfully detained Iranian LSU students.

The Republican governor of New Hampshire has defied her party and shot down a book banning bill.

Shareholders have pushed back on corporations' anti-DEI proposals, forcing companies to face the fact that diversity is good for business... And reminds us that the majority does not agree with the removal of DEI, no matter what MAGA wants us to believe.

Since November, 69 of the 110 Supreme Court lawyers tasked with defending the Trump admin's policies have quit.

Don't let anyone tell you that there isn't hope, that there aren't people fighting and working and just as scared and angry as you are. You are not alone. Peaceful protests, contacting reps, and simple non-cooperation is how we sustainably and successfully push back against authoritarianism.

"We're cooked" is the devil talking. Giving up, rolling over, and perpetuating the idea that we've already failed is exactly what MAGA wants. Don't give them the satisfaction. Don't make it easy. Continue to look after each other and support your communities where you can. Keep protesting, keep calling, keep writing, keep loving. The heart is a muscle the size of your fist; we can get through this as long as we continue to stand up and say "no".

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narcjsistx · 3 days ago

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i’ll just say sae itoshi x "what if the current version of you met the future version of you?"

angst start but a happy ending <3 TRUST ME GUYS TRUST

The fights weren’t the end of the world — you knew that perfectly well. You’d been together for almost two years, and you’d argued a million times before, but this time you felt a heavier weight on your heart. Maybe it was because things hadn’t been easy for either of you lately. He had just come back home from a tour in Italy — one that had exhausted him more than usual, dragging him through some of the most remote places in the country for nearly three months — and most importantly, far from you. You, on the other hand, had just failed an university exam. You’d get the chance to retake it in a few weeks, but all the stress had been for nothing

Three months apart, the tension you both carried, and Sae’s return home had sparked one of the biggest arguments you’d had in a long time — all just a few days after he got back

For four days now, the house had been completely silent. You only spoke when necessary: he would go out to train even when he didn’t need to, and you preferred eating at the restaurant downstairs rather than sitting across from him. The words you had thrown at each other had been harsh — definitely not true, but absolutely devastating for both of you

You still shared the same bed, but it wasn’t the same anymore: Sae no longer pulled you close, no longer kissed the back of your neck, no longer showed you affection — and neither did you. It felt like he was still thousands of kilometres away — only this time, you saw him in real life, not through a phone screen. By the second day, you had already planned to talk to him and clear things up, but his stubborn pride, mixed with your own, kept you silent. You knew things would get better eventually — probably in just a few more days — but by now, you felt so overwhelmed that you didn’t know what else to do except cry in silence. You knew he was in pain too like you, but why was it so hard for him to speak about this?

It wasn’t the end of your relationship — and yet, it felt like the beginning of the downfall. What if all of this was actually the beginning of your breakup? Why now, just when you had started talking about more serious things, like marriage?

It’s just around dinnertime when you hear something crash in the living room — like the entire bookshelf had fallen over. There hadn’t been any tremors or earthquakes in the past few minutes… so how could that have happened?

You rush into the living room, noticing Sae stepping out of the bedroom — probably with the same question on his mind. You exchange a brief glance, but you’re the first to look away, turning toward the center of the room, where the bookshelf is, in fact, perfectly intact. Except… lying on the floor are an older version of your boyfriend — is he still your boyfriend? — and an older version of yourself. You take a step back, covering your mouth with both hands as you stare at the scene in front of you. The older version of Sae is the first to stand, reaching out a hand to help the older you to her feet. She rises and steps to his side, and he wraps an arm around her waist — only then seeming to realize where they’ve ended up

"I can’t believe it actually worked. That bastard from Bastard München really is a magician"

"That’s why they call him the Magician! Although, umh… it’s weird seeing you this young"

"Are you saying I’ve aged?"

"Only by, like… ten years"

You stare at both of them in complete shock, while Sae steps forward, placing himself slightly in front of you — shielding you, almost, as if concerned for your safety or simply overwhelmed by the situation unfolding before his eyes. The older versions of yourselves turn in your direction, and the older you walks forward, passing by your Sae and gently taking your hands in hers. You just stare at her, still stunned

"Oh my god, it’s so weird seeing myself this young! My hair looked really good like this, didn’t it, Sae?" the woman says, and both Saes turn to look at her — the older one nodding, while the younger casts a slightly jealous glance at his future self. The scene makes you chuckle a little, but your attention shifts back to the older version of yourself. She’s not that different from how you look now, but it’s clear she’s a few years older, with slightly more defined features. She smiles warmly, gently letting go of your hands and walking over to the couch, where she sits down. She alternates her gaze between you and your present-day Sae, genuinely curious

"What’s wrong? Did you sleep badly last night?" she asks, but her Sae comes closer, sitting beside her and sighing "I think we’ve landed in that phase when we used to fight all the time. Look how awkward they both are" he says, and you take a step forward "We don’t fight every day-" you mutter, embarrassed, but your Sae just shrugs "Almost" he says, and you turn to glare at him. The older you chuckles, curling up closer to her Sae "We haven’t changed at all" she says. You sigh, awkwardly

The more you look at them, the more they seem like the perfect couple — the kind you and your boyfriend aren’t right now. How can the same people be so different in such a short time? They’re just... stronger. You can see it in the way they simply sit next to each other, while you can barely speak to your Sae at all. The older Sae looks at you, slightly puzzled, then gestures for you to sit down. You do as he says — almost as if this weren’t your own home — and your Sae only sits when the older you takes his hand and gently places him beside you. It feels strange to have him this close again after days of silence… and yet, at the same time, it feels so good — like finally being able to breathe after holding your breath underwater for too long. You rest your hands on your lap, hesitant, but Sae doesn’t seem to hesitate at all — he places a hand on your thigh, a gesture he would never normally make unless the situation was something… unusual, like this

The older you chuckles softly while you try to collect yourself, clearing your throat "So… you’re us, but… adults?" you ask uncertainly, still struggling to understand how any of this is even possible. The older you nods "We’re the version of you from ten years in the future" she says, and her Sae nods in agreement "We’re thirty" he says it clearly and concisely — a trait that clearly hasn’t faded over the years. You notice how your Sae is watching them the same way he studies matches, like he’s trying to analyze something impossible "Are you still together?" he asks, and the question tightens something in your throat. If he asked that question, he probably doesn’t believe in your future together — and that just confirms your theory about the start of your decline. You lower your gaze, feeling a bit sad, when you hear the older Sae’s words "Are we still together? We’ve been married for years" he says

Both you and your Sae lift your heads, clearly surprised. You look at each other, and only then do you notice the beautiful ring encircling your ring finger — the same one that the older Sae is wearing. Your cheeks automatically flush as the older you seems to notice your surprise "What’s wrong? Are you surprised to be married?" she asks affectionately. You shake your head "It’s not that I’m surprised by that, it’s just — it’s strange to actually see it, not just imagine it or talk about it" you say awkwardly. The older you nods "It’s normal. It happened three years ago, so seven years from now… but it’s something we both wanted. I definitely didn’t put up with this stubborn head for years just to end up without a ring on my finger" she says, kissing her husband’s hand. You find yourself a little caught up in her playful tone — something that clearly hasn’t changed. Your Sae looks genuinely confused but shrugs "Married? Is that all? Isn’t there anything else to know about our future?" he asks, and his words hit you once again — so cold, somehow. The older Sae seems to notice this, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders "Well, it’s not just that. I’d avoid telling you about having three kids, winning the Champions League, and the Ballon d’Or, but if you want to know…" he says nonchalantly. This time, it’s Sae who’s left speechless, while you find yourself lingering on the part about having children. You instinctively look down at your stomach, shifting your gaze between it and Sae’s face, imagining what mini versions of him and you might hypothetically be like

You see how the smiles on their faces suddenly become more amused — even on adult Sae’s face. You swallow a lump in your throat, noticing that your Sae still hasn’t recovered "Kids?" you ask innocently, and the adult you nods "Three, two boys and a little girl we had recently. You’ll have to work a bit before getting there, but trust me, they’re wonderful" she says affectionately, and your heart warms a little. You’re about to speak when Sae interrupts you "Are they healthy? Are they okay?" he asks, and, surprised, the adult you nods happily "All three are doing well, in excellent health" she says

"There is anything else we should know?” you ask, pressing your lips together. The two of them look at each other for a few seconds, then turn back to you and shake their heads "Probably not. It wouldn’t make sense to tell you more and spoil a story you still have to live through" says the adult you, and you nod, though a bit thoughtfully. Her words are certainly true and reasonable, and yet you find yourself wanting to know the story ahead of time. It’s a bit of a difficult moment, and having some reassurance would help — but asking too much wouldn’t make sense. You know they’re standing here in front of you, but what truly confirms that it will actually turn out this way? That the arguments before won’t become too much, to the point where you can no longer bear each other’s presence? What can truly reassure you that you and your Sae will become the version standing here now?

"Excuse me for a second..." you say, getting up quickly and disappearing as you head toward the kitchen. You enter and close the door behind you, leaning against a cabinet as you hold your head: the doubts have been eating you alive for days — too many words thought but never spoken, slowly piling up in your mind, which is gradually becoming a crowded, overflowing space. You know that Sae loves you, but at the same time, you wonder — how much longer can he keep loving you? How much longer can you keep loving him before you finally break? How much time do you have left before you start to hate each other? You’ll never become those people…

"Hey, am I interrupting?" asks a deeper-than-usual male voice. You look up to see the adult version of your boyfriend standing in the doorway, looking a little embarrassed. Wiping away the few tears that fell, you shake your head "No, go ahead. Sorry for the sorry state I’m in" you say, sounding a bit pathetic, but he closes the door behind him "I only find you pathetic when you doubt yourself. You were the most beautiful woman in the world, even drenched in sweat while giving birth to our son" he says, and though that moment hasn’t come yet, a warm feeling spreads in your heart. He seems aware of the weight of his words and clears his throat "Too much?" he asks, and you offer a small smile "Just surprised. Don’t worry" you say this, sitting down on the chair. He nods, looking around "Do you argue often?" he asks, and you reluctantly nod "Lately, yes. It’s like… like we don’t understand each other anymore, and then I look at you two and wonder how that’s even possible" you say innocently, resting your head on the table. He chuckles, sitting down across from you "I used to wonder the same thing back then, and I still do now. The more I see you, the more I wonder what you saw in me, this bundle of pride and inability to express his feelings" he says, and honestly, it makes you laugh a little

He looks relieved as he gazes at you more seriously "Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I used to think the same every time we argued back then, I was just less able to show it. It hurts me to see you so rarely, especially when the little time we have is spent not talking, but things have gotten better. When two people truly love each other, they find a way together. We’ve found it a million times before, and we still do now. You think we never argue in the future?" he asks, and you shake your head "It’s impossible that you fight, you’re so close. You’re really the opposite of what we are now" you say, despondent, and he shakes his head "We still argue, often more harshly. Everyone has their limits, their struggles, their provocations. We hate each other when we need to, but she, you, are always the woman I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with because I don’t think anyone could give me more than what you give me every day" he says it sincerely

"She saw something in me that no one else ever even tried to see, a version of me off the field, a Sae who loves falling asleep holding his wife whenever he gets the chance. She’s the one I live for, work for, the reason I can just be myself. I’ve probably gotten even worse since she became my wife, if I was protective before, now I even glare at Rin if he looks at her too long during family dinners" he says, and you chuckle "You and Rin… have you gotten better?" you ask, and he nods "We’re still brothers, off the field. Resentment turns into something else once you finally learn how to talk"

You stay silent for a moment, letting his words settle as you think them over. In the past, you always managed to find a way — through all kinds of situations — reaching compromises, but never breaking apart. You know how words can carry double meanings, shifting depending on context, and especially on the person hearing them. You’ve both changed since the day you met — grown as individuals, and as a couple — but the love has never changed. You look at the adult Sae, and in his eyes, you see the hundreds of nights where resentment slowly turned into deeper love after misunderstandings. The more you look at him, the more you realize that he is your Sae — just with more awareness

"The way forward… is it always there?" you ask one last time, and he nods "There hasn’t been a single time we didn’t find it. When it doesn’t exist, we create it. When you exist, I can create anything" he says, and a small tear slips down your cheek. You press your lips together, letting out a sigh "Even when we’re tired?" you ask, and he nods again "Especially when we’re tired" he says, and a weight on your shoulders lifts and fades away. You almost start to breathe again, wiping your face and searching for something to say — though, honestly, you think silence might be the best answer. You clear your throat after some time "Is there something you’ve always wanted to say to the younger me?" you ask, and he smiles at you "There is one thing. Small, but important. Thank you"

You stay in the kitchen for what feels like an eternity. The way is always there — always — and even in the past, you managed to create one when it seemed impossible to find. You found it when the matches took him far from home, you found it when your family wasn’t sure about Sae at first, and you found it in the shared desire to scream at each other as much as needed, but never, ever walk away. Your anxieties are valid — but impossible to truly hold onto, not when you have someone like him by your side. As much as he tries to show the world otherwise, Sae Itoshi would probably throw himself off a cliff if you asked him to. You’d do the same — without hesitation — if he were the one asking. The way was found, is found, and will always be found — even when you’re tired, even when you’re lost in the dark. You’ll always find it if you two are the result

When you lift your gaze, the adult Sae is gone. Your breath catches slightly in your throat as you glance around the room, searching for him — only to find your Sae standing in the doorway. Your breath catches in your throat, but you manage to stay calm, even as you notice the same tightness reflected in his expression "Hey" you say, breaking the silence that’s lingered for days. He walks closer and sits down across from you "You okay?" he asks gently, and you nod "Yeah. You?" you ask back, and he nods too "I’m okay if you are"

You both fall silent again, but his hands slowly reach out across the table until they gently wrap around yours. You let out a sigh of relief — one you’ve probably been holding in for far too many days, as your tense muscles begin to relax, slowly, naturally "I missed you" he says in a near whisper, but just loud enough to reach your heart and pull a smile from you "I missed you too. I hate it when we’re like this" you admit, and he nods "I hate not talking to you at all, especially after we’ve already spent so much time apart. But it’s okay… with you, I always want to find a way. It’s okay, even if we spend days in complete silence, as long as the outcome is what matters to me" he says, but his words echo those of the older Sae, but this time it’s your Sae sitting in front of you. You exhale and nod "Me too. Always. Even when we’re tired" you say, and he kisses your knuckles softly "Especially when we’re tired"

In the quiet of the kitchen, both you and Sae let a few tears slip alongside kisses and soft laughter. After days, the house fills with noise again, but the loudest thing of all is a framed photo in the living room: a young married couple kissing on a soccer field — probably right after a game, maybe the Champions League. Their emotions are raw and genuine like their long photographed kiss, especially like the love they share and that surrounds them, most of all coming from the three children at their feet, holding tightly to their legs

✶ beautiful dividers by @dollywons !!

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

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lay-z · 14 hours ago

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would you think that simon would go out and also cheat on reader to get some relief or tension off his back?? My mind is bubbling with ideas and I can’t write them out 😭😭

-🧘🏽‍♀️

You don't know he's back in the country until he opens the front door to your shared flat—heavy duffel bag slung over his right shoulder, dressed in his fatigues, balaclava securely on his head.

Yet you can still see the tension in his jaw underneath the black cloth and how it spreads through his whole body, buzzing like electricity, keeping him coiled.

It is a different aura about him, not the usual I'm home from a battlefield and still riled up–tension. There is something else going on, and you hesitat in the short hallway to the front door, quietly assessing him before flashing a cautiously gentle smile.

Unsure if you want to know while the voice in the back of your head screams something at you, though you can't make out the words. Or maybe you refuse to listen.

Simon was gone for nine weeks and three days and he barely even looks at you as he goes about his homecoming routine; keeps his tired eyes averted, his hands to himself, nearly flinches when you try to approach him like you're some animal handler, serving him a heart dinner from scratch.

He didn't give you a chance to prepare for his return, after all.

So, you give him space and withdraw, making yourself smaller in your own four walls.

Until he exits the shower and joins you in the bedroom, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweats, almost looking sheepish. But your eyes light up anyway at the sight of him dressed in something cosy and way more casual. Finally home, safe and sound.

You smile at him, more genuine this time, and close the book in your lap.

"Hi, baby—"

"I cheated on you."

He clears his throat swkwardly, shuffling on his bare feet, while your whole face drops along with your heart.

And he has the audacity to continue, "M-More than once."

There is a long pause where you can merely stare at his face, processing, processing, processing.

"I just," he shrugs, like some dumb teenager who is out of excuses, "I had to—" He swallows, unsure if his next words will sound as stupid out loud as they're already sounding in his head.

All while your adrenaline starts pumping through your veins, synapses firing in your brain, giving you a thousand different commands at once.

He tries again, gravelly voice strained, "I was so... so bloody stressed, love—"

The hardcover book flies and smacks against the doorframe before dropping to the floor with a loud thud when Simon manages to duck in the last second.

At least he has the decency to look ashamed.

#🧘🏽‍♀️ anon #cw cheating #call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod angst #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod #cod ask #cod cheating au #simon riley angst

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33-16 · 2 days ago

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i am not a fic writer but i enjoy reading lestappen a lott, and just wanted to pop in and say something regarding the use of AI in fics recently.

It is very discouraging to see how "common" AI use has become. Some of my favorite writers spend months crafting plots, writing drafts and editing only to see the space dominated by people churning out thousands of words in the matter of a few days. If you are also like me, a reader who doesn't write, your duty is to avoid engaging with these works. If you don't give them attention, they will not be able to continue abusing this space in this manner.

and to all the wonderful writers on here, please don't let this disturbing pattern discourage you. keep sharing your magic into the world. your versions of lestappen are what keep our fandom together between long breaks and tough droughts.

tagging some of my favorite writers who put in hard work and strongly discourage AI use, please go show them some love: @xxredwineandambiencexx @ladysomething @fueledbyremembering @sixteenhearts @ferrarisma @fabbyf1 @toppamplemousse @loquarocoeur @adutchlover @chock-and-bates @unlapped @formula-fun @usedtobetam @breathofnyx @drivestraight @amarynas @mvlionheart @reveushe @verstappentime @hitthatapex @autumnapricot (i will keep tagging more as i remember)

you all deserve the world <3

#lestappen #AI use in fics #and fic/author recommendations #3316

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ohnoitstbskyen · 15 hours ago

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Hi Skyen,

Saw a recent repost about MatPat, which as a lappsed fan I feel in my soul, but was wondering if you could expand on calling him a Sophist?

As I understand it, Sophistry is only having confidence in your own thoughts and perceptions, and not those of others (who as far as you know might just be "philosophical zombies") and I'm not quite sure I get how that applies to MatPat/the Theorist Channels. Can you elaborate please?

Regards.

Not quite. A "sophist" was just a kind of teacher in Ancient Greece, usually teaching various subjects to the upper classes. They were often itinerant, wandering from place to place to offer their services, and the most successful of them could command very high prices for their teaching.

For various socio-political and cultural reasons, this created some friction in Ancient Greek society, where "the sophist" was known and understood as a Type Of Guy, and sometimes considered a very annoying Type Of Guy. Aristophanes wrote satirical plays casting sophists as annoying, hair-splitting pedants, for example, but their most famous hater was probably Plato, who derided them as know-nothing blowhards whose only real skill is to argue and persuade with flashy rhetoric, but who have no access to real truth.

It is from Plato that we get the derogatory meaning and negative connotation of the word "sophistry," which is usually defined something along the lines of "incorrect/insincere arguments which only sound plausible through rhetoric."

I call Theory™ videos sophistry because, in my opinion, they are largely much more concerned with constructing a reading of media which is pleasing to an audience than they are concerned with deeply engaging with the media they examine. It's more about the cool-sounding Mind Blowing Conclusion than it is about earnestly engaging with what a piece of media is saying.

And there are good reasons for this, of course! It's fucking YouTube - pleasing the audience is the only way to grow or maintain income on that damned webbed site. I have to do it too, I am not exempt from the criticism I am making here! Doing things in this way is the reason the Theory™ empire grew to such an astonishing size, and it's the reason MatPat has managed to be successful as a consultant helping other channels grow their business. The guy has done extremely well for himself by working extremely hard, and I don't really begrudge him his success, he played the system very efficiently.

What I take issue with isn't specifically either MatPat or the Theory™ channels, I see them as part of a continuum with CinemaSins and some of Red Letter Media's output and literally thousands of other channels and creators who adopt a similar approach to art and media. I take issue with the way they have influenced their audiences to engage with media, and the way that they have become part of the very bones of online media criticism. Even people who have never watched a Theory™ or CinemaSins video adopt these approaches, simply through the cultural osmosis of existing within their spheres of influence.

idk that I have the energy right now to try and chart out the whole thing, but I think there is a deep core of a peculiar form of anti-intellectualism embedded in culture, which infects almost everything, and which finds one way of expression through these channels. It's this idea of art not as a thrumming, shifting spectrum of human expression, but as a series of puzzle-boxes whose purpose is to be solved, and whose solutions had better be satisfying to a certain model of Facts And Logic™ or else they have failed in their task as art.

There's a Film Theory video which I come back to a lot here, it's this one, about Moana.

In the video, MatPat goes through a bunch of genuinely very interesting Polynesian mythology and comes agonizingly close to actually approaching an interesting reading of the movie:

Moana, through her actions and her calling, becomes a demigod / culture hero just like Maui, and achieves that status through love of community and acts of service to it, whereas Maui's selfishness in stealing the Heart of the Ocean is the very thing which disempowers and reduces him from hero to charlatan. He recovers his status at the end only by sacrificing something important to himself as an act of service to another. The movie is trying to say something about what makes a Hero, and it is trying to engage with modes of storytelling indigenous to Polynesian cultures and with their ideas of what a hero or demigod is (how good of a job the movie does at that task, I leave for people in that culture to decide, but I quite liked it).

MatPat approaches that reading... only to swerve DESPERATELY at the last second and declare that wait a minute, the fact that Moana CLEARLY has SUPERPOWERS means she MUST be the SECRET CHILD of MAUI HIMSELF!!!! Puzzle box solved! Mind-Blowing Conclusion™ achieved!!!!

You see what I mean?

The movie at no point raises the idea that people inherit demigod superpowers through biological descent, the movie at no point raises questions about or problematizes Moana's ancestry (in fact, a deep and secure connection to her ancestry is a key point of her fucking character), but in order to achieve a Mind-Blowing Conclusion™, MatPat has to invent this punnet square bullshit as a framework and impose it on the movie. All of his research and reading into Polynesian mythology is not deployed out of an earnest desire to engage with the culture that the movie is about, it's undertaken for the sole purpose of finding rhetorical ammunition to use as covering fire for his Mind-Blowing Conclusion™.

The Mystery Of Moana's Powers are a puzzle box that needs to be solved, and it needs to be solved in a way which is pleasing to the audience. What's pleasing to the audience? "Luke, I am your father!" dramatic twists are pleasing to the audience. Superhero comic logic is pleasing to the audience. So that's the framework he chooses to force the movie into, these are the Facts and Logic™ his approach will allow to be relevant.

Theory™ videos at their best are good, harmless fun. They are a guy playing around with media, squashing and twisting it to arrange it into pleasing and funny shapes, and there's nothing wrong with that.

The trouble begins when you market that playful entertainment with taglines like "The Smartest Show In Gaming!" and adopt a presentation style and rhetoric not of "ha ha, I am playing around and having fun" but "we are uncovering the REAL SECRETS hidden in your FAVOURITE MEDIA using FACTS AND SCIENCE AND RESEARCH to discover the HIDDEN TRUTH."

Because when you do that and you do that with polished rhetoric and production values, draped in the aesthetic of science and research... then that's

#tb answers #polaris-draws

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salem-s · 12 hours ago

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A THOUSAND WAYS TO BREAK A LAPTOP — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS your computer isn't working. again. however, instead of sending the overly-chatty technician that you nearly despise, IT sends their newest recruit: a tall, quiet, yet endearingly charming rafe cameron who cannot seem to meet your eye. now? you're discovering all the creative ways to keep your computer continuously broken, and scheming all the ways to get in his pants.

WARNINGS fluff (more like one sided banter?? where reader has absolutely no filter and rafe doesnt know how to handle it???), suggestive content. this is one of those prompts like the four times you fluster nerd!rafe and the one time he flusters you. having a that's so raven moment, this is my current calling. will def want to write more of them i can already tell. nooooooot edited.

WORD COUNT 14.1k...omfg???? will make a part 2.

When the CPU on your computer skyrockets only after opening it, you know your boss is already sending a member from IT.

Unfortunately, you're no stranger to being your computer's worst enemy. Ever since working here, you've become quite familiar with the members from the technological help desk due to the high influx if issues you seem to attract. WiFi refuses to connect. Disk memory is full despite you knowing damn well it isn't. CPU soaring to one-hundred percent of its usage despite simply logging in to start your work day. And — of course — the guy they normally send has no off-button and asks you to dinner at least three times in the span of however long it takes to fix your tech, and the thought of enduring a masculine dominated conversation seems like a horrible start to your morning.

That is, until IT actually shows up in thin wired glasses, a sheepish smile, with piercing blue eyes you can see across the room.

You try not to stare. Really. But it proves increasingly difficult the closer the IT man gets to you, walking alongside your boss and towering a whole head taller than him, ducking his head just a tad lower to be able to hear your boss better. His dirty blond hair is neatly styled, a few lingering pieces hanging down on his forehead and brushing the lens of his glasses. A thin knit green sweater sits snug over his torso, the button down he wears underneath poking up by the collar with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all tucked prim and proper into khakis adorned with a black leather belt.

He looks so perfect. You bet he looks like sin underneath all those layers.

It isn't until he's right in front of you that you take him all in: smelling like hints of cedar-wood, sharp and crisp yet subtle and subversive.

Blue eyes suddenly meet yours, and his once nonchalant and composed demeanor crumbles in less than a second. They widen slightly when your boss aimlessly introduces you, gestures to you sitting pretty at your desk peering up at him with a newfound sense of pride, especially when you see his perfectly sculpted cheekbones blush the faintest of pinks, a sight so beautiful it makes your stomach do a weird flip, a mixture of excitement and adventure.

There's something so enticing to you about a man who looks like he's never experiences the touch of a woman, haven't experienced contact besides a firm handshake, never been felt below the belt. You're seconds from sinking your talons in, especially with the way his eyes can't seem to leave you, and you internally decide that if this is the guy they're sending to fix up shop, you'll be finding ways to break your laptop a hundred times over.

Your boss — unknowing to the wordless interaction spewing ungodly levels of unchecked hormones — nods curtly.

"As far as we know, it's just the CPU acting up today." Your boss pats the back of your chair once, twice, then eyes the computer wearily. "Let me know if anything else comes up, yeah?"

Your eyes never leave the handsome man standing in front of you. "Will do."

When your boss pats your chair once more and slides away back to his office, a thick silence settles over the two of you, him blinking stupidly down at you almost in disbelief, taking in the way your lashes kiss your skin, how your shirt adorns your torso, how your eyes never leave his. And - you - peering up at him with a cheshire cat smile as you tap your freshly-done nails on top of the reportedly broken computer, and it doesn't divert his attention, as if he's hypnotized to the sight of you.

"Well," you start after a minute of silence, "are you just gonna stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna do your job?"

He blinks once, twice.

Then you tilt your head to the side, not missing the way his eyes briefly stare at the exposed column of your neck when you do so, staring shamelessly before his eyes widen slightly, as if catching himself, returning his gaze back to your eyes. The professional way to look at someone. Not the I'm ready to jump your bones at a sliver of skin kind of glance.

"Not that I'm complaining," you murmur, almost to yourself. "You're nice to look at."

Puffy parted lips open and close, words arriving and escaping as his brows furrow in befuddlement, cheeks rosy. You swear you've never seen a prettier sight.

"Wh—What?"

You've only heard one word from him and it has your heart thrumming.

"You're, by far, the prettiest one they've sent," you say pointedly, as if it's law. "First it was the guy with Cheeto-dust stained fingertips. I always had to keep wet wipes in my bag after he was through. Then there was that older lady, definitely nicer on the eyes but smacked her gum so loud it burst one of my eardrums, once. After she disappeared, they sent that one guy, rude, handsy, mouthy..." You trail off, looking up to the ceiling in faux-contemplation, tapping your finger to your chin as you think. Then, as if you've had an epiphany, you snap your fingers and point at him as if you've just discovered fire. "Cole! Yeah, him. Are you Cole's replacement?" You inquire sweetly.

He blinks.

After a moment of digesting your words, he swallows thickly. "Do...you mean Charlie?"

Shifting your gaze from him to the wall behind him, you shrug quickly before bringing your attention back to his pretty blues. "Sure. Semantics. Same thing, right? Phonetics, and all?"

You almost miss it: his lips twitching at your hurried words in a slight admiring kind of way, as if he's amused by you, enthralled and intrigued, not the kind of cocky grin you've endured from failed situationship after situationship. It's refreshing, even if it is for a split second, and you feel your grin morph into something softer, less forward, as you watch him tap an unsynchronized rhythm against his thighs.

"Not...really," he says eventually, that ghost of a smile still hinting his lips. "But yeah. Him. On maternity leave."

Your brows skyrocket.

And his eyes widen, slightly panicked.

"Well, not him, obviously," he corrects quickly. "But his... You know... His wife, and all. Paternity leave, technically, if you want to be...uh, technical."

The last word is strung out, unsure. You watch his face nearly contort in pain, cringing at himself for his poor extension of vocabulary, and you swear you see the tips of his ears tint pink to match the rosy shade of his cheeks. But you don't think it's embarrassing at all, not even in the slightest, because now you've heard him talk. A full sentence. Sort of. But now you're craving more.

"Paternity leave, got it," you say slowly, not lingering on his nerves and instead breezing right past the moment that make his shoulders release the slight tension they've been carrying for the whole conversation. "And here I thought he was allergic to human connection."

The strangest thing happens.

He laughs.

He fucking laughs.

And it's a beautiful sound, unexpected and boyish and something you could never get used to hearing. It's light yet carries through the office, like the top layer of a fog misting the entire surface. But the laughter is one thing, because the smile that follows? One of the prettiest things you've ever seen, with pearly white teeth and soft dimples adorning the corners of his mouth, nearly missing the light crinkles by the corners of his eyes when he squints. It only lasts a few seconds, but you stretch it to a lifetime, holding onto the cadence of it like a lost tape, replaying it in your head over and over.

"He kinda is," he says quietly after the come down, the laughter dying as soon as it came, and you're wishing it was longer. "But, uh, until he's back, I'm on call."

You grin. "You are?"

A few moments of silence coat the air between you two. Then, he nods gently, almost as a reminder to himself, to affirm it, gaze softening. And you? You take that and run, imagining all the different ways you can break a laptop without pointing fingers at yourself. All the reasons that would be needed to warrant an IT visit. All the ways in which you can have him underneath you, on top of you, sideways, upside down if needed.

"Good," you muse happily. "Because this computer alone is about to fuel half your paycheck."

When you learn his name, you use it as much as you can.

It's always a careful, Rafe, don't kneel so close to the corner, you'll bang your knee to which he'll respond with a curt nod (on top of a raging blush) or a single, quiet noise of affirmation, almost a wordless yes, ma'am. Or a Rafe, has anyone ever told you that blue suits you really well? where he'll stifle a chuckle of disbelief or shake his head gently, as if what you're saying is simply leverage for him to fix your computer well, not because you mean it. Or a can you promise that you'll fix it real nice for me? I hate making you come all this way every week? to which he'll respond that he'll try his best.

Every week, he comes like clockwork.

Granted, by first thing Monday morning, you already know the cause of the issue that'll happen at least by that Thursday. One week it was a virus. The next a memory disk issue (that you studied how to tamper with for hours the previous weekend on a deep Reddit thread). The following a water cooling issue since you may or may not have spilled your water in your bag, which was a total accident but proved worthy in the end. And, finally, this week, a glitching screen from thumping the monitor a little too hard the night before, claiming the screen kept flickering as soon as you opened it to work.

And Rafe is there every single time.

He kneels beside you, and even though you stay perched pretty in your office chair, he's practically eye-level with you. When you slide the laptop in his direction, you absolutely, positively, make sure that your fingers brush every time. Then when he finds the root of the issue, which never takes him too long, he explains it to you quietly, slowly, as if he's dragging out the moment. All you do is stare at his profile, not the screen, and despite his eyes never leaving the laptop when he goes through the problem and how to avoid it, you know he can feel your eyes on him.

And he refuses to meet your gaze when you lean in close next to him. Why?

Because Rafe will lose his mind.

It's already bad enough he's been placed on a technologically influenced witch-hunt, covering for Charlie for his three months of paternity leave instead of holing away in a dark corner, coding in the silence that he prefers away from people. But no, of course his boss had to have him fill in the gaps, claiming his expertise should be shown to the world, not just the backrooms of the building. Unfortunately, Rafe had no say in the matter, and picked up the shift temporary shift change with heavy shoulders.

But when his first ticket was yours, suddenly the task didn't seem so bad.

Granted, Rafe can only look in your eye for about ten seconds maximum before he can feel his cheeks flaming, flustered by the way you're able to hold eye contact so well, and how it feels like you're peering into his soul every time you look eyes. But when you're that close, barely brushing shoulders whereas his fingers stay electrified from your brief touch in the beginning, his focus stays solely on the screen. It has to. In order to save his dignity, to keep his fragile pride where it is, he doesn't let his desire win.

Not at your citrus scented shampoo. Or jingling jewelry. Or the honey cadence of your voice every time you interrupt his nerd-talk to compliment his sweater, or ask him how his day's been, or any question under the sun not pertaining to the reason he's there. Rafe answers every single time, but not without a few ums or the tips of his ears getting pink.

You never comment on it. You wait for him to stutter out his response, and nonchalantly move on. You don't tease, or even entertain the thought, and instead speak. Listen. Wait. Respond. It's the bare minimum, he knows it, but after dealing with assholes all his life about how shy he gets, it's refreshing to have someone willing to listen, willing to take the time and not rush him. Even if you do it to be polite, he's grateful for it.

Although, you catch him off guard. A lot.

"Rafe, have you ever done it in a car?"

He chokes. He literally chokes on his own breath, sucking in a harsh breath at your question - completely unprompted, by the way — as everything he's been trying to teach you about this week's technological problem suddenly flies out the window. Along with his common sense. And brain. Because he nearly catches flies with how wide his jaw dropped.

"Did you—? Have I—? What?"

You seem unfazed, resting an elbow on the table and propping your chin against your knuckle. "I'm trying to test something. All the people I've asked have, and I'm starting to think I'm the outlier here," you practically pout.

Rafe swallows thickly attempting to gather his thoughts in a polite, professional manner and not the direction is dick wants him to think.

"Uh, I— Well, this doesn't seem professional," he weakly argues.

All you do is hum, unnerved.

"Beg to differ," you continue. "Julia's writing a sex column and was asking everyone's input, so now I'm running my own little survey after I humiliatingly discovered my lack of adventurousness. Granted, she's writing about the implications of what the term situationship means in modern day and age and how that changes the intimacy of what sex is supposed to be, but apparently that includes taking office-wide polls on the nuances of semi-public hookups in the back of a Jeep Wrangler." You pause. "Or Grand Cherokee. I can't remember. But the point is, I feel like a...sexual fraud."

Rafe blinks once, twice, finding the bravery to spare you a concerned side eye.

"Sexual...fraud..?" He drawls out, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, as if he's attempting to hear you right.

You nod, pleased he's meeting your gaze. "It's a real phenomenon, you know. Millions of people suffer from its emotional discrepancies."

Despite his heart about to leap through his throat, his subtly shaking hands, and how looking at your pretty face right now is sending him through a whirlwind of emotions he can't comprehend, Rafe's lips twitch into what he thinks is a smile — a nervous one, at that — but with the way you phrase certain things it boggles his mind, as if it shouldn't make phonetic sense, but it does. To him.

"Millions?"

You frown in faux offense at his playfully skeptic tone, nearly bursting with joy that you're slowly cracking through his steel-like layers.

"Rafe Cameron," you say quietly, drawled out with purpose. "Are you doubting the statistics of my scientific research?"

He shakes his head immediately, an involuntary response, but his lips curve up into a smile. A cautious, unnerved, apprehensive smile, but still something to make your tooth rot due to how sweet it makes him look.

“Not…doubting,” Rafe says eventually. “More so amused.”

��Amused?”

His cheeks feel hot at your suggestive tone. “I—Well— Yeah. Seems like you’re very dedicated to your research.”

You grin, and his heart skips. “You’re damn right it’s research, research that you’re stalling to participate in.” You point a knowing finger at him, wiggling it gently just to put some emphasis on your words, raising your brows in addition.

It becomes too much for him, the insinuation behind your words, what you’re really asking him, so he darts his gaze away from your face to stare idly back at the screen — now fixed — but hoping it’ll spontaneously break again just to give him something to do, something to focus on and steer the direction of the conversation into something less…incriminating. Sure, he feels slightly better that you haven’t done it in a car (even if you’re lying to stand in sexual solidarity with him, because it’s probably obvious from a mile away that he hasn’t) but the question still makes him nervous, as if he’s doing something wrong.

Sex has always been a taboo topic for him, growing up with very strict and conservative parents that he was always made to think pleasure and sex were wrong, something scandalous and ugly instead of something that is natural in human nature. His hometown was too small, not geographically but socially. Everyone knew everyone’s business. Everyone knew who slept with who and who cheated on who as if it was written in the daily paper. It scared the shit out of him, the possibility of being exposed like that in front of all of his peers. It took him a long time to realize that sex isn’t wrong, more so to believe it, but because of the long term celibacy, he never really explored this sort of intimacy until his upperclassmen years in college. He’s always felt a bit behind, inexperienced, almost ashamed of his lack of hands on studies (literally).

“Um, no,” he says eventually, quieter than you’ve heard him. “I haven’t.”

But you don’t poke fun. You don’t laugh. You don’t keel over and insult his lack of experience and take his dignity down with it. Instead, you hum, almost happily, and he nearly jolts when he feels your hand on his shoulder, tapping once, twice, before retracting as quickly as you started. Despite the two layers of clothing — a button down underneath a sweater — Rafe swears he can feel the coolness of your skin, the ice of your palm that nearly steams from the warmth of his body.

“Finally,” you sigh pleasantly. “Someone I can relate to.”

You sound pleased, affirmed, despite your tone a little playful but it sounds sincere to him. It makes him let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, hoping you don’t notice the release of tension in his shoulders and letting out the wound up nerves in his lungs.

But — of course — you notice. But you don’t comment on it.

Instead, you take him in, staring at his profile for a little too long before clapping your hands together, a sounds that makes him jump only slightly.

“Okay,” you continue cheerily. “Now that I’ve conducted my research, go on and tell me about your day.”

The next time you see Rafe is in your building’s coffee shop.

It’s quiet, you’re on the dreaded once-a-month evening shift that lasts well into the night. One person from your team has to do it, and of course on one of the nicest summer nights you’ve yet to see this year, you’re stuck in the office. The implication is nearly poetic: gazing longingly out the cafe window (that’s conveniently on the first floor) watching all the people go to and from the bar, going as far as placing your palm on the window as if you’re waiting for your husband to return from the war. All of your friends are out there somewhere, taking advantage of the beautiful night and making your horrendous case of FOMO flare up like a bad allergic reaction.

You nurse a decaf coffee, swirling it in your hands as you peer out the window. There’s only thirty minutes left in your mandatory hour long break (even though you’d rather just skip the break and leave your shift an hour early, but apparently that’s forbidden), debating if you spend the rest of it outside. But that’s almost like dangling a dollar bill on a fish hook. You’ll have to go inside at some point, and you’d rather not know how nice it is just to have to leave it. Protecting your peace, is what you’re calling it.

You hear your name quietly above a gentle silence.

It’s spoken so delicately, as if you’ll snap in half if he says it too loud, and you almost don’t hear it. But you do, and your heart leaps to your throat when you turn to find the culprit, only to be met with your newfound favorite person, adorned in casual jeans and a button down, no sweater in sight and pieces of his hair falling onto his forehead. He looks unpolished, a bit disheveled, and so fucking real that it makes your breath hitch.

You find yourself smiling. It’s really an involuntary act whenever he’s around. “Hi. You’re here late.”

He blinks, confused he’s even seeing you in the first place.

“…You too. Are you—? What is the—?” Rafe stops himself, shaking his head gently as if to tell himself to get it together, then he takes a deep breath. “Overtime or mandatory?”

Groaning, you gaze outside for a split second. “Mandatory, unfortunately.” Then your eyes settle back on him, still shifting his weight between feet, as if he’s deciding whether to walk away, keep standing there, or sit. “Only have to do it a couple times a year, it’s not bad. Are you also here against your will?”

His lips twitch at your words. “Uh, sorta. I’m so busy covering for Charlie that I’ve barely had time to do my own job.”

You quirk a brow.

Rafe’s eyes widen at his mistake, at his insinuation. “Not that— Not that it’s your fault! At all. I’ve had so many tickets, never knew how busy he was, basically running all over the building. I just— I haven’t— It’s been—“

“Easy,” you interrupt softly, a hint of a grin etching your lips. “I’m teasing.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, darting his gaze between your eyes, letting the panic wash away as he takes in your playful smile. You’re joking. It’s a joke. You’re not mad at him. If you actually were, he has no idea what he’d do. Crawl in a hole and die, maybe. That sounds like the plausible answer.

Before he can say anything to dig himself deeper into a hole, you pipe up. “Wanna sit?”

“Yes,” Rafe says immediately, then his face instantly feels hot at the urgency of his response. “If that’s fine?”

Pleased with his answer, you gesture towards the other side of the booth, rather empty and unoccupied, and he’s sliding in quickly, almost savoring your offer before you come to your senses and boot him. He’s expecting it, counting on it, even. Because you’ve been far too nice to him to the point where he feels like he’s being pranked, mocked from a far. It doesn’t seem right: someone as pretty as you voluntarily wanting to hang out with him. It seems like a trap.

But Rafe can’t deny how nice your company is. Even if it is all a ploy, a joke, he has gotten used to the pleasantries of your company, and wants to be a little selfish for a bit longer, elongating the notion of being in your presence for as long as he can, up until you’ll start laughing in his face and saying it was all one big, fat experiment to see how long it’ll take the nerd of the IT department to crack. Spoiler alert: he’s already cracked. Wide open. Like an egg over a pan. So fucking far gone for you that it’s pathetic.

“Do you stay late often?” You ask gently, pulling him from his self deprecating thoughts.

He tries to ignore how pretty you look right now. “Uh, not really. I like being home before sunset.”

Once it comes out of his mouth, he realizes how fucking lame that sounds, like he’s some little kid scared of the dark. The real reason is far more incriminating, that he likes to read in the daylight, getting in all the time he can before the sun goes down and he’s left to use the LED lights that indefinitely give him headaches. Plus, on the nights he doesn’t spend with his sister and her friends, the darkness only reminds him of how fucking lonely he is.

However like the angel you are, you don’t tease.

“I get that,” you agree, taking a sip of your coffee. “I like having my nights. I’m not really a morning person, like at all. I barely function my first hour here, but I’d rather work those in exchange for evenings, you know? More time for having fun.”

The response leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

You quirk a brow, surprised, and he nearly takes it back but you tilt your head to the side, intrigued by his interest, as if he’s been itching to ask you about yourself. Now you’re away from a work setting (sort of) so it doesn’t feel as taboo as it normally does, because it feels wrong asking you questions while he’s supposed to be working, but as you sit across from him and look at him as if he’s has an ounce of worth, Rafe finds himself wanting to learn everything under the sun about you. Sue him.

And you? You practically lean forward with excitement because finally — finally — he’s slowly stepping out of his shell, forgetting the intricacies of workplace professionalism and treating you like a friend (even though you’re literally begging to be more than that) but you figure with a guy like him, someone so guarded and apprehensive about breaking some loose rules, you’ll have to take your time, get to know him which is something you are eager to do anyway, and not scare him off.

“Lots of things,” you start slowly, calculated and thrilled and refraining from jumping his bones. “Hanging out with friends, cooking too much food for one person, reading when I remember it’s something that people normally do to relax, traveling when I actually save my money which never really happens, laying in the sun in parks and doing absolutely nothing. You know. Stuff like that.”

Rafe’s lips twitch. “Definitely sounds fun.”

You watch him for a few seconds. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do for fun? Besides compute binary code in a dark corner?”

He huffs out a laugh, almost self deprecating, as he feels his cheeks burn a bit hotter. Hesitating, he reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck as he searches for an answer, one that is far from the truth and won’t make him sound like a complete loser.

“You basically just summed it up,” he says without thinking.

Rafe curses himself in his head. So much for sounding relatively interesting.

But you roll your eyes, not buying it. “C’mon, I know there’s more to you than that.”

Racking his brain for answers, he pathetically revisits your answer, trying to find some silver linings of comparisons and make it seem like you and him have remotely the same interests, which seems impossible. It’s no secret that you’re cool — way too cool for someone like him — and that your interests definitely match your demeanor, unlike him, who’s as boring as he looks. He’s sure you can tell, right? It terrifies him, not being able to read your expressions.

“I, uh, like reading too,” Rafe starts quietly, picking absentmindedly at the label on his drink to avoid your intense gaze. “Classics, theoretics, stuff like that. I draw sometimes when I’m bored.”

(His cheeks burn at the thought of it, because in his notebook stuffed between his mattress back at his apartment are drawings of you. Your hands adorned with your everyday rings. Your face propped up on a knuckle. Your profile. You sitting straight on. You typing on your computer. It’s fucking pathetic. He’s in deep.)

Rafe clears his throat, shaking the images away. “I like to run. Early in the morning, before the heat settles in. Right along the water and before the city wakes up. It’s like…my time to gather my thoughts, or something. I don’t know.” God, stop fucking rambling.

When you hum with an impressed tone, his blue eyes shoot up to meet your gaze.

“That’s impressive, I admire that.”

If his face wasn’t red before, it definitely is now.

Meanwhile, you have the mental image of him running, preferably shirtless, wondering what his bare chest looks like with sweat glistening it. You’re no idiot, you’ve seen the way his biceps sometimes stretch through the fabric of his button downs and you often wondering what your hand would feel like curled around it. You wonder what it’s like to grip it to steady yourself. You wonder what it’s like to be in a headlock—

“I wish I could motivate like that in the morning,” you say, almost praising to shake away the daydream. “Unfortunately, I’m sleeping in until the last possible minute. Have you always been a morning person?”

And the two of you continue, just like this. Bouncing questions back and forth, sharing similar interests and learning more about the things the other doesn’t really know about. (I.e. he told you offhandedly he’s from a beach town and you started asking him a lot of questions mostly pertaining to the amount of sharks and seals he’s ever seen rather than the town itself, which he is inherently grateful for). Rafe learns fragments of your life, how many siblings you have and the names of your best friends. Your favorite places in town and what kind of things you like to buy. The name of your childhood pet and reason you were fired from your first job as a fresh fifteen year old.

He holds onto every single word, every single anecdote, barely breathing just to make sure he doesn’t miss a thing, doesn’t miss a consonant or vowel. You gaze in his eyes so intently deep that it makes him a little nervous, especially when it’s his turn to answer your very simple question. But you can tell he’s not used to this, talking about himself and introducing himself in such depth. It’s almost refreshing, a bit possessive, because you wonder how many people actually know him like this.

It isn’t until you glance at the time when you curse.

“Fuck.” You shuffle to slide out of the booth. “I was supposed to go back twenty minutes ago.”

Rafe follows your movements only because he’s unsure of how to react. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.” He can’t imagine how long he’s been away from his desk, but for once he can’t find the energy to care, solely focused on you, you, you.

You stand, tossing your long-empty cup away in the trash and snort.

“Are you kidding? This was the most entertaining part of my night. I should thank you.”

His cheeks tint a rosy hue.

“Well,” you continue. “I’ll probably see you next week for another technological mishap?”

Chuckling, Rafe nods a little too eagerly at the thought of continuously seeing you, more important how you seemingly want to keep seeing him.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “See you then.”

You don’t see him then.

Instead, it’s far more incriminating. For you.

To preface: you’re never going out with your cousin ever again. She comes to town a few times a year and the two of you always take it too far. Always agree on a chill night in. Maybe watch a movie and split a bottle of wine or two. But no, that never happens, because before you know it, the two of you are getting ready to go out and you’re clubbing until it’s far too late to surrender. You laugh. Take turns buying each other drinks. Dance to your favorite songs and catch up in the bathroom. It’s refreshing, stupidly fun, something that you never know you need until it’s moments before you leave your apartment, and the jitters are too much to handle.

Everything was fine. The night was going so well.

That is, until you leave the club and the sun is just barely rising.

You’re not that drunk anymore. Just tipsy and tired and high off life. You’re in the phase of laughing a little too hard at everything around you, taking in the simplicity of the world around you instead of being angry at it due to how tired you are. But despite the exhaustion in your bones and the way your eyes are barely staying open, you manage to breathe in the fresh air, grin, take it all in.

Nudging your cousin’s shoulder playfully as you walk down the hauntingly quiet street, you huff.

“Never fucking going out with you ever again. The fucking sun is coming up.”

Isla, your cousin, snorts, and it echoes throughout the emptiness of the world around you. “You’re such a hypocrite. You say that every time, and guess what? Here we are, disappointing our ancestors yet again.”

You laugh loud. Boisterous. Perhaps waking some people up at the volume. But you don’t care, listening to the sound of your heels against the concrete and how that plus the combination of Isla’s heels sound like a herd of horses galloping down the street. For someone who is never awake during sunrise, it sure is beautiful, especially with how peaceful it feels with the barely-there sunlight glistening your skin and the cool air giving you more oxygen than you’re used to.

“We’re degenerates,” you pointedly argue. “It’s our job to—“

You don’t finish, because the words are so harshly knocked out of your lungs as something big collides with you. Hard. Fast. And…wet?

Your body is hitting the concrete before you register it, your tipsy brain a few seconds behind your body and your body way behind your brain. It doesn’t hurt, not really, with the exception of a quick sting on your knees and on the heels of your hands that steady your abhorrently disgraceful fall. Your purse flies out of your grasp, landing somewhere unknown as you can only hear the ringing of your ears for a full five seconds before voices start to come back into range.

Well. One voice is actually speaking. The other noise is the sound of loud, audacious, drunken laughter. Your cousin. Then who—?

“—my god, I’m so sorry! Are you alright? I didn’t— The corner— My headphones, I didn’t hear, couldn’t see—“

Then the voice stops abruptly, inhaling a breath so harsh that you can hear it crack. You blink blearily, letting out a chuckle in disbelief, because it’s a little funny you just got your absolute shit rocked, knocked to the ground to forcibly that it spun your brain in a full circle. Or flip. Whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t hurt, besides a bit of your dignity, but it’s more comical than anything.

Your vision comes back when he says your name, and you’re absolutely mortified to see Rafe Cameron standing over you: shirtless, sweaty, and far more ripped than you ever imagined. His hands hover over you, as if he wants to touch you and help you gather yourself, but afraid of hurting you further. For a moment, you consider your appearance: bleary-eyed and eyes probably going in two different directions, messy and sweaty from dancing, wearing next to nothing that’s probably not covering up everything it needs to.

And — for once — you’re absolutely speechless. You couldn’t make this up, and nearly laugh in his face at the coincidence.

But it’s not funny to Rafe, whose heart just fucking stopped seeing that he hurt you.

“Holy shit,” he curses low, and you’re surprised to hear him swear for the first time. “I just— I totally— Jesus, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the howling laughter coming from your cousin interrupts whatever humiliating thing that was about to come out of your mouth.

“That was—“ She keels over, hysterical. “You just— He just rocked your shit!”

Rafe looks absolutely wrecked, not finding the situation funny at all and completely ignoring your cousin, whose loud reaction continues to bounce off the brick walls on the street, no doubt waking people up at its volume. One hand hovers over your skinned knees, the other just barely touching your bare shoulder, and he nearly retracts when he can nearly feel the heat of your skin against his palm.

You manage to let out a light chuckle. “How fast were you going?”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t paying attention,” he says quickly, hurriedly, eyes scanning your body for injuries. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before you can stop yourself, you place a hand over his knuckles, stopping his incessant ramble of apologies as his blue eyes immediately find yours at the contact he’s desperately been wishing to make, blinking stupidly at your simple gesture. More so at the fact that you’re holding his hand. Holy shit, you’re holding his hand—

“I’m fine,” you assure gently, smiling so sweet that it confuses him. “Besides my ego, of course.”

Rafe sucks in a harsh breath, speechless for a moment as he looks into your eyes, then flicking down to the small spots of blood on your knees. “But the— Oh god— Your knees—“

You wave it off. “Eh, it’s fine. Do you know how many times I’ve banged myself up worse than this?”

“I— Uh— No—?”

“Worse than this, trust me.”

“But I— You…”

“Help me up?”

Rafe blinks, silent for one, two beats, as he takes in your very serious and it’s really, actually, totally fine expression. Then softly, “Okay.”

You grip is hand a little tighter, to which his breath hitches at the contact, and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your other hand as he helps you stand gently, not pulling particularly hard but doing the majority of the work, and this time your breath hitches at just how fucking strong he is, how he essentially picks you up with little to no effort to help you find your footing. For a split second, you concoct the mental image of him throwing you over his shoulder, taking you to the nearest bed, and absolutely—

The stiletto of your heel suddenly dips, caught in a crack in the sidewalk, as you twist uncomfortably and lurch forward.

Riiiiiiight into his chest.

You oof against his bare skin, bracing your hands on his abdomen to find some semblance of balance while his hands grip your biceps out of surprise, holding you steady as much as he can with the short notice as you scramble to find your footing. His chest is sleek, defined, incredibly rock hard and solid that the impact almost hurts, versus the soft contrast of your skin. Your cheek — not that you're complaining — smushes against his torso and you nearly forget how to fucking breathe. Why does he smell good? He just went on a run, how does he feel this nice?

Despite how nice it is to feel his hands, to practically press yourself against his chest as you’ve been dreaming about doing for ages, you can’t help but panic, because this is not how you wanted to make a move: gross and tipsy and totally unprepared. Godforsaken heel, curse the shoemaker and their mother and their mother’s mother—

“Fuck, sorry, the fuckin—“

When you land on two feet again, heel out of the crevice of the earth and back on solid concrete, you sigh as if you’ve completed the hardest task to date, pleased that you’re (seemingly) done embarrassing yourself in front of the guy you’re trying to bag.

And Rafe’s face as never been more red.

“There!” You say, brushing the dirt off your too-short-skirt. “Can’t say I’ve ever been run over before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything, yeah?”

He winces at the blood trickling down your knees. “I’m so sorry. Really, I am. I never wanted to hurt you, of all people—“

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?”

The question makes his jaw slack, forgetting the words of an apology and letting them die in his throat as he blinks, startled by the interruption, peering at you with confusion. How are you not mad at him? Swearing at him? Cursing at him for hurting you? Seeing the blood on your knees, the dishevel of your hair, it’s making him sick, knowing he’s the root cause of it. But he swallows the bile in his throat, taking a deep two-count breath to remind himself that you asked him something, you’re waiting for an answer.

“I— I don’t run with them,” he says breathlessly. “Maybe I should, now that I apparently slam into people.”

His tone is self deprecating, frustrated with himself, meanwhile you’re smiling, no, beaming up at him. Because…was that a joke? A Rafe Cameron exclusive? A sliver of that sense of humor you’ve been dying to catch glimpses at? You’re hungry for more of it, starving, and you nearly jump with glee despite literally getting knocked on your ass a mere few minutes ago.

“Could’ve been worse,” you muse teasingly. “Could’ve been an old woman.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, cringing. “God. Don’t say that.”

You laugh, and at the sound, he peeks his eyes open so he can fully experience the noise, the kind that makes his heart feel like it’s gonna burst out of his chest and his brain feel airy and empty. He nearly curses at himself at how stupid he gets around you. It doesn’t matter that he was top of his class, top of his major, could be on top of the fucking world, for what it’s worth, yet no amount of intelligence makes up for the behavior that he exhibits around you. Dumb. Speechless. All of it.

“Well,” you say quietly, suddenly a bit sheepish now the adrenaline is starting to wear off. “I don’t wanna keep you. Throw you off your game, you know.”

Rafe frowns gently, not really wanting the moment to end. Granted, he was in the middle of a run, an act he rarely gets interrupted on. Truthfully, he has no idea how he’s supposed to continue the workout after this — how could he? When he’s finally held your hands, felt your body against his, close enough to where he could practically lean forward and—

Stop, stop, stop, he thinks immediately. Time and place.

Instead, he peers down at his feet, and in the act of doing so, he notices your purse laying askew a few feet away. Without hesitating, he moves to pick it up, delicately grabbing the strap and dusting off the minuscule pebbles etched into the leather. As he's peering down, he glances at your shoes.

Heels. Pretty, sparkly ones that show off your pink nail polish. It hasn’t even occurred to him as to why you’re out, especially this early, after just lamenting to him on how you wish you were a morning person. He takes in your short skirt (that he absolutely cannot allow his eyes to linger on), then your snug tank, and the pretty jewelry adorning your skin.

“Are you—? Were you out?” He finds himself asking, just to prolong the moment. “I thought you and mornings, you know, didn’t mix?”

You sheepishly smile, nearly cringing at the implication and messing with the rings on your fingers. “Kind of an accident. Didn’t realize what time it was because I was, for once, unplugged. Well, not by choice. My phone died. So. Not much doom scrolling to do there. But totally not my fault, blame her—“

Jabbing a finger aimlessly behind him, Rafe turns to follow your gesture to Isla, leaning up against the brick building with her arms crossed, smirk deep, watching the two of you interact so shamelessly bold that it makes your face feel hot. Sure, she stopped laughing, but her knowing look is arguably worse, especially since he can see it too.

At the sudden attention, Isla throws her hands up in surrender.

“Totally not my fault, by the way." Your cousins pauses. Then, "Was I part of the problem? Absolutely. But not entirely. If anything, you were the one who—“

“Okay!” You interrupt, and Rafe’s attention is suddenly back to you. “That’s enough. Alright. Yeah, fine, you got me. You’ve caught me during the once-in-a-blue-moon kind of outing that has me up with the sun. What about that run?”

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

The question makes you falter, whatever deflection you had cooking has suddenly burned, nonexistent, evaporated. The offer stands in the air idly, nerves pricking his skin but excitement stinging yours. Is he…offering? Doing this because he wants to or because he feels obligated to since he practically ran you over a few minutes ago.

Isla, however, steps in.

“The apartment is right around the corner,” she says to fill the silence, darting her gaze between you and him. “Kind of ran her over in the perfect spot, not gonna lie.”

So Rafe walks you and Isla home…one block away.

The act is nothing short of chivalrous as you walk side by side with Rafe as Isla lingers a few steps behind, no doubt grinning and coming up with a million ways to tease you as soon as the two of you are alone in the apartment. The sun is nearly beaming now, and slowly but surely people are starting to emerge in the daylight, starting their day unknowing to the groundbreaking experience you’re currently having. Not only have you now seen him without his glasses and his hair disheveled, you’ve seen him shirtless. Fucking shirtless. You feel like you’ve won at life even if your pride is devastatingly bruised.

The walk is mainly quiet, but a comforting one, as if there’s no need for forced words to fill the gaps. You just…exist together. Breathe the same air. Walk in step with him (even though his stride is much wider than yours) yet he slows down to ensure you don’t fall behind. Plus, he walks on the outside of the sideway, not that there are any cars around to warrant that kind of protection, but the small insinuation makes your heart flutter.

When you linger idly in front of your apartment, his steps stop with yours, handing your purse back wordlessly to which you gently retrieve from him, fingers brushing for a split second. Rafe retracts his hand, scratching the back of his neck to have something to do with his hands. Blue eyes search yours for a moment, almost sheepish, as a hint of a grimace ghosts his lips.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he apologizes with a wince. “I— It was an accident, I never—“

You wave him off dismissively with a gentle smile. “Please, don’t worry about it. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I only cried for six minutes when I finished Lost, and that was a way bigger deal than a couple of scrapes.”

Rafe laughs boyishly, caught off guard and genuine and so fucking pretty that it physically makes your heart hurt. For a moment, his fingers that rest at his side twitch in your direction, as if he was going to reach forward to you, but stay idly where they are, firmly deciding to keep the space open between your bodies. Half of you wishes he would close the distance, hold you like you’ve been wanting him to do all this time, but the other half of you agrees on his decision for space, partly because your cousin would definitely say some embarrassing shit if any more touching was going on.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Have a nice day. Uh, or night?”

Grinning, you hum. “Enjoy your run. Sorry to interrupt a potential PR.”

When he does end up jogging away — not without a parting glance that lasted a little too long to be considered casual — you watch him slowly get further and further away, studying the way the planes on his back move in tandem with the swinging of his arms, how good his ass looks in the basketball shorts, and how badly you wish you could kiss that beautiful sun kissed skin.

“Girl,” Isla says after a few minutes of shamelessly ogling. “You did not tell me he was that fucking hot.”

The dam breaks when your AC does.

You called every number on planet earth to try and fix the problem, because it's the middle of the summer and not having even an ounce of cool air, especially when you live on the fifth floor of your building, is absolutely horrendous. Apparently, everyone in your apartment complex is also out, which is causing the landlord to scramble, and basically told all the tenants to find temporary housing, perhaps stay with a friend, for the night until the whole building's internal cooling system can be repaired.

Awesome. Yeah. Find a place to crash. Ask a friend.

Well, it doesn't help that the friends you have aren't home this weekend. One is visiting his family. The other is on a business trip that, of course, only happens once a year. Another has pneumonia (not what you need in your life right now). The rest are either unavailable or busy or extremely apologetic. It seems like the planets have aligned, every star in the universe shining down upon you to seize the opportunity, the lone chance that he'd even say yes.

At this point, you've been subtly coming onto him for months now. There is only so much you can take. Only so much time left before you're literally going to jump his bones.

Rafe gave you his number about a month ago, just after the run-in-collision that one incredibly incriminating morning, for emergencies. It was probably completely innocent on his end, wanting to exchange contacts for a legitimate emergency or for work-related purposes, but you took the insinuation and ran with it. He asked you. He gave it to you. Without you even asking. In your book, that's a fucking milestone. A small victory. Plus, now you can extend your flirting to text, and even the occasional phone call when you've over-poured a glass of red wine.

And he answers. Every time.

So it's no surprise that when you send him a message, he's responding within five minutes.

You: is the ac out in your building too or is the universe only playing a sick prank on me?????

When the three dots pop up, you're in the shower. A cold one, at that, but simply on the off chance that he'd let you crash, there's no way you'd head over without polishing up, first. Like a freak, you'd kept your phone propped up on the counter next to the shower, drawing the curtain back every few minutes to check the status of his response. When you hear a faint buzz, you nearly rip the shower curtains off the rungs.

Rafe: No, everything's working here. Did they say when it'll turn back on?

Despite your wet hands and the fact that your phone probably won't work properly for a little while, you answer.

You: tomorrow night. gonna boil to death in the meantime.

The response is immediate.

Rafe: We don't want that. Do you have somewhere you can stay to prevent that from happening?

Hook. Line. Sinker.

You: nope. friends are all conveniently away.

The amount of water you're wasting by standing here and sickly waiting for the three dots to appear is astronomical, because they don't come immediately. It's as if he's debating the offer, teetering between the fear of crossing over the line of professionalism and simply helping a friend in need. That's all it is, right? You can handle that. You can accept that sort of reasoning.

You nearly drop your phone when he answers.

Rafe: I'm not sure if this is weird to offer, but you can stay here for one night. To prevent the boiling.

You: really??? you'd do that for me??? because im not ready to burst into flames just yet in life. maybe next winter solstice.

He solely responds with his address, with the addition of Head over whenever.

So you take your time in the shower. Diligently use your favorite body scrub on every crevice of the surface of your skin. Massage your scalp with your scented shampoo. Exfoliate in the places you want to accentuate. You want to feel good, smell good, solely focus on your words when you're with him and let your body fill in the gaps. You're probably in there for what feels like forever, and it's when your fingers start to prune that that's your cue to get out, to get ready, and go to his fucking apartment.

The jitters are insatiable.

You opt for a more casual approach, ditching the business professional attire he normally sees you in and simply adorning your normal street-wear. The sun begins to dip into the horizon, making the head a little more bearable than before, but it doesn't stop your stride as you hike your bag higher on your shoulder, walking with a pep in your step as the distance between you and him gradually gets smaller. The music blasting in your ears gives you the proper confidence you need, adding to your long, long list of manifestations.

When you end up arriving, you send him a text letting him know. Within minutes, he's letting you in.

Rafe's face is slightly flushed, as if he ran down a flight of stairs to prevent from keeping you waiting, simply wearing a white t-shirt and casual jeans you've seen on him once, that late night at the coffee shop, with his glasses dipped low on the bridge of his nose and hair neatly pulled back. He looks beautiful, especially with the setting sun illuminating his profile to make him appear as a make-shift god. It's unfair, truly, how pretty he is.

"Hey," he says, out of breath. "Sorry, were you waiting long?"

You brush past him as he holds the door open for you. "Two minutes. But it felt like two hours."

"Wh—? Really? I'm sorry, I didn't see your message—"

When you send him a pointed look, he falters, words dying in his throat as he exhales a shaky breath. Rafe gently shakes his head at you, leading the way up the apartment stairs as you trail behind him, smelling hints of the cologne he has on that nearly makes your toes curl. He lets out a low chuckle, one of amusement, because you're not only always finding ways to keep him on his toes, but you told him about a month ago that he apologizes too much, automatically assumes he's in the wrong for everything, and that he needs to stop beating himself up all the time.

"Still not used to that," he murmurs quietly with an edge of playfulness, then after about two flights of stairs, he opens his apartment door. "Did you eat?"

You don't even answer his question. You can't. Because you're standing in his apartment, small yet quaint, simple but personable. He has a wall-length bookshelf full of all sorts of books: small pocket sized ones to textbooks. Journals. Novels. Magazines. Any form of literature under the sun is confined to the mahogany of his book shelf. His couch is simply grey but adorned with leafy green pillows and a patterned blanket. The coffee table has a candle, tv remote, and a bouquet of flowers. The wall decor are cool posters, ranging from movies to magazine covers to simply interesting art. It's very unapologetically him.

When he realizes you're not responding, he spins on his heel in the middle of the kitchen, taking in the way you're examining the decorations on the wall and the fabric of the blanket Sarah knit for him. You haven't even put your bag down, yet (but you slipped your shoes off, like the gracious guest you are), nor have really glanced in his direction as you're distracted by the new environment, learning more about him in a matter of minutes than it took nearly three months.

Rafe suddenly feels shy. "Uh, sorry, I kinda have random stuff, uh, everywhere."

But something in his shoulders relax when you shake your head, eyes still on the printed manuscript paper on his wall. "This is awesome. Where'd you find all this stuff?"

The purely genuine interest in your tone throws him for a loop as he studies you for a moment. Don't you think it's...nerdy? Over the top? A bit strange? Why haven't you laughed at him yet? No, instead your hand is gently skimming over artwork, posters, even small ceramic items he managed to put on the wall, almost with admiration, deliberation, as if you're learning the material and crevices of each item. He watches in awe, nearly holding his breath as you take an interest in all he has to offer, not running, not laughing.

Then, he realizes you've asked him a question.

His eyes widen, forgetting.

"Um, kinda everywhere? Made some, found some at markets that my sister drags me to, was gifted some. I just..." He swallows thickly, hating being put on the spot but wanting to try. For you. "Don't have a style, or anything like that."

You hum, impressed.

"If this is not having a style, then you don't want to see my apartment," you snort, half joking half serious. Then, you turn to him, meeting his bashful gaze and nearly grinning at his flushed cheeks. "I haven't eaten, actually. What's good around here?"

"Oh, I actually was gonna cook," he says instantly, then after a beat or two of stupidly blinking at you, his eyes widen. "I don't— Unless you want take out? There's a couple of good general stores, one sushi place where they know me by name, it's a little humiliating every time I go but—"

"Rafe," you interrupt gently, suppressing a grin. "Breathe. Haven't you ever had anyone in your apartment before?"

His shoulders sag, releasing tension as he does what you command, taking a deep breath as he (attempts) to gather the majority of his thoughts, to fucking relax even though it seems impossible with a pretty girl standing in the middle of his living room right now. By choice. And little by little, his nerves slowly dissipate, especially when you smile so pretty and already look disgustingly endearing in his apartment.

"Not really," Rafe answers after a few seconds. "Is it obvious?"

"No, you're doing great."

"Now you're just lying to my face."

You laugh playfully, finally letting your bag drop to the floor as you saunter into the kitchen. Skimming the metal of the barstool attached to the island, you take a moment to feel the material, simply prolonging the conversation as you know he's watching you. Then, after one, two seconds, you hop onto the stool and prop your elbows on the counter, bracing your chin on your knuckles as you peer at him, your signature look whenever he comes by your desk with yet another IT ticket.

"I'm gonna pretend you didn’t said that," you muse teasingly. "Whatcha cookin'?"

It's almost unfair how good of a cook he is.

You try to find one flaw with him. One. But your brain comes up short. He's chivalrous, incredibly smart, one of the hottest people you've ever laid eyes on in your life, and knows how to cook? Knows how to cook well, at that. You take in his movements, how he nonchalantly adds spices and ingredients while barely paying attention, solely focused on whatever you've been yapping about for the past twenty minutes. It's almost muscle memory for him, maneuvering around the kitchen as if it was what he was born to do.

And he hangs on to every. Single. Word.

When his back is momentarily turned, you're shamelessly staring at his arms, how the muscles flex every time he moves them, or laser-beaming your vision through his t-shirt to try and focus on the planes and ridges of his shoulder blades shifting, or drifting your gaze down, down, down to simply admire the way his jeans snug his ass. It's sin. It really should be. Because it's not fair that he's simply existing like this, completely oblivious to the fact that he's got your insides all twisted up just from the sight of him cooking, for fuck's sake. Plus, he's making one of your favorites (how he knew that is beyond you, or it's a very crazy coincidence).

By the time he's setting the plate in front of you, you're in the middle of a rant about continuity in media (a total, immeasurable, astronomically detrimental way to make a guy lose a hard-on, if you had to guess). But he seems interested, taking your ranting to heart and even offering an appreciative hum or counter question.

"I mean, it's absolutely insulting to the reality of history," you lament as you take a hearty sip of the wine he poured you earlier. "The show was set in the eighteen-hundreds. She had a smokey eye."

Rafe settles into the barstool next to you with his own plate, and you almost let out a pathetic noise when his arm brushes yours.

"Not to discredit the accuracy of historical fashion," he says through a bite of food. "But do you think that was done to appeal to the targeted audience? You know, smokey-eye enthusiasts and chronically online Gen Z-er's?"

You pause for a moment, taking in his half calculated yet half bullying remark.

"Are you..." You start slowly. "Calling me chronically online?"

Rafe freezes his fork midair, full of what would be a delicious bite, and sheepishly side eyes you, and the close proximity automatically makes the tip of his ears go hot, along with the higher part of his cheekbones when you're giving him, another, pointed look that he can never decipher on if it's faux or suggestive or truly insulted. He's been studying you, analyzing your behavior and expressions to the best of his ability, but his results always come up short because you always find a new way to surprise him, new way to keep him on is toes and question everything he's ever been taught before in life.

"Because you'd say the same thing if you saw it," you add accusingly. "You would think it was an abomination. An insult to a historian's lifework. You'd throw up, or something. Don't act like you wouldn't."

He blinks.

"I'm also not a smokey-eye enthusiast," you add pointedly. Then, "Except on Tuesday."

A beat. Two. Then,

"...Really?"

You throw your hand over your heart.

"Rafe Cameron, I am offended."

Again, he simply blinks. "About the smokey-eye or being chronically online?”

“Both. My screen-time has drastically decreased in the past six months, if you even care.”

His lips twitch, and the faintest hint of a dimple appears at the corner of his mouth. You match it, your threatening tone only hanging on by a loose thread, and you’re realizing that with this close proximity that you can really see the blues of his eyes, the beauty marks on his skin, and the way his pupils seem to dilate when you stare at each other for a little too long to be considered casual. The urge to kiss his reddening cheeks nearly skyrockets the longer he stares at you, so much that you have to pinch your thigh under the counter to hold back.

You need to distract yourself. Now.

“Where’d you learn to cook, by the way?” You ask curiously, eyes returning back to your food to eat another big bite. “It’s suspiciously delicious.”

Forks scrape fiesta-ware plates to fill the few moments of silence between you, and you wash the flavorful meal down with another sip of wine, one that’s nearly perfectly paired with the cuisine. For a split second, your eyes dart over to admire his hands, one flexing around the glass and the other loosely holding the fork, taking in the way his nimble fingers navigate movement. How badly you want to reach over and grab them, lace his fingers with yours, smooth over his knuckles, trace every scar.

“My mom,” he responds softly, tone laced with gentleness. “As a kid, I used to sit in front of the television and watch cooking shows, and then go and tell my mom how to make everything I saw.”

You laugh quietly. How fitting.

He matches it, swirling the wine around in his glass while he hums fondly. “She finally got sick of it and let me help. Taught me what food mixes with what drinks, how much spice to actually put into meals, how to eyeball measurements. Stuff like that.”

“That’s so sweet,” you say genuinely, peering over at him. “Like a little, mini sous-chef.”

“Yeah, well,” Rafe muses in faux-frustration, but the small smile hinting his lips gives away his indifference, “my sister now uses it to her advantage. Demands I make her meals in exchange for hanging out with her.”

Taking another bite, you snort, ignoring the way your heart is absolutely lurching with every word he’s revealing about himself.

“That’s not a bad tactic, you know. Forcing proximity in exchange for some company. I might start doing that, put your skills to the test.”

“That so?”

You readjust in your seat, causing your arms to brush casually (absolutely nothing about it is casual to you, especially when the skin to skin contact makes your body nearly jolt with electricity, and double especially when he seems to lean into your touch, only a fraction, but you notice all the same). It’s practically unbearable, because he’s right here, within arms reach, and there’s nothing more you want to do than hold him, have him hold you, run your fingers through his hair and smooth over the hills and ridges of his body as if you’re studying the topography of a map. You want it. You want him. You want it all.

But that’s too forward. Time and place.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue. “Next on the list is arancini. Maybe fried cabbage. You ever tried making French onion soup?”

If you would’ve told yourself two months ago that you’re currently sitting pretty perched on Rafe Cameron’s couch, finishing your third glass of wine and sitting a foot apart watching Arrested Development, you probably would’ve flipped a table. Or shouted from rooftops. Or made a public disturbance. Because it seemed unattainable then, something so far fetched in a way that you could only daydream about.

He looks good like this: unguarded, face a bit flush from the wine, finally feeling comfortable enough to lean into the conversation to not have to calculate every single response. His shoulders aren't as wound up and he stumbles over his words less and less. There's an eased flow to your discussions, topics ranging from ridiculously absurd theories to deeper meanings of life that are often taken for granted.

You sit with your legs tucked underneath you, fully facing Rafe as he sits normally about a foot from you, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him or his glass of win. But every so often he'll tip his head back to rest against the back of the couch, lulling his head to the side to stare at you while you speak about nothing and everything. The act is complete innocent in itself, but something about the casual intimacy of it, the slight domesticity of hanging out with him in his apartment, that makes your stomach do flips.

It isn't until your accidental catalyst, a yawn, interrupts him mid sentence.

You cringe at the involuntary act. "Sorry. You were saying?"

Rafe's gaze flicker to the time, and yours follow. When did that time pass? "I didn't realize how late it was. I set up my room for you if you wanna head to bed."

Being so caught up in the disappointment of the time, you nearly miss what he says, your heart skipping a beat as you double take. His room? You'll be... Christ... You'll be sleeping in his bed? Against his pillow? Under his sheets? Snuggled into his scent? You didn't even expect to see his bedroom, and predicted you'd have to dream of what it looked like as you slept on the couch, or on a pullout, or even on the floor, for fuck's sake. But his room? It seems oddly personal, like you're intruding (technically, you are), but that means he... He'll be—

"You did?" You ask before your mind can take it back.

Whether Rafe sees the gears turning in your brain, he doesn't let on. So innocent. So sweet. So polite giving his room up like that, such a sacred place and he's handing it over to you on a silver platter. As if it was the most obvious decision he could've ever made. He barely flinches, nodding nonchalantly, as he smiles.

"What? You think I'd let you sleep out here?" He jokes shyly, rubbing the nape of his neck.

You blink at him. "Well, yeah."

Blue eyes just blink back at you. "Wh— You're not— You're not sleeping on this excuse of a couch."

"I'm not?"

Despite his flaming cheeks and racing heart, he doesn't back down. He doesn't let up because it's you, your well-being, your comfort. And he's not playing around with that, even if it makes him a little more bossier than usual. God, he'd sleep on brick if it meant you could have a nice, warm bed.

Rafe shakes his head. "No, I am."

When he stands, he misses the way your shoulders sag.

Separate, you think miserably. Of course. He's not the kind of guy to force any sort of insinuation, make you uncomfortable in anyway. Hell, he'd said shut up to you playfully a week ago and apologized after about fifty times. If that rattled him so deep to the core, you can't imagine him ever making the first move, not for an epoch, you fear. Not unless you give a push.

But the words don't come. The urge rises and dies in your throat.

What if you're reading this wrong? Taking advantage of a guy who is simply doing all of this out of the good of his heart? Thinking of you as a friend, not someone he could see something more with? He's been so hesitant to pursue anything further than barely friends, more co-workers than anything. Is he doing this to be nice? Professional? Because he feels like he has to? As a friend? When all you've been doing is practically lusting after him like some sort of prize? Trophy? When he's probably the most emotionally intelligent, walking green flag, perfect archetype kind of guy? When he's so much more than that? When he definitely doesn't see you like that?

The thought makes you sick, all of a sudden, and the wine makes you feel incredibly more tipsy than you originally thought you were. You follow his movements, uncurling your legs from out underneath you as you stand on bone-jelly legs, downing the rest of your wine in one go and grabbing your bag that you left aimlessly in the living room.

Rafe doesn't notice your inner turmoil. "Let me just grab clothes, and then you're all good to set up camp."

You respond with a half amused noise, watching him glide down the hallway and disappear into the first room on the right. In the meantime, you place your and his glass in the sink, cursing yourself in your head as you hear him rummaging through his things for one, two more beats before you hear his footsteps emerge once again.

When you look up, he still has the simple t-shirt on but swapped his jeans with simple plaid pajama pants. Light blue that matches his eyes mixed with whites and navys and greys. God, he looks so fucking good, so pretty and comfortable. In his hand, he's got a charger, book, and water bottle, his night-time essentials, as he sets the items down on the coffee table by the couch and finds your eyes.

Rafe smiles gently when he does. "You okay?"

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you put on your best smile, one that he doesn't seem to look too much into and nod, perhaps a bit too quickly, but regardless, you hike your bag up your shoulder and follow him down the hallway. When he opens the bedroom door for you, you step inside quietly, taking in your surroundings.

There are all sorts of decor adorning his walls. Newspaper cut outs, movie posters, comic posters, music posters, photos of him and a similar looking girl and a younger brunette, cheeks smushed together with a beautiful beach and sunset in the background, professional film photos of beautiful landscapes and architecture from recognizable places like Paris and Milan and Santorini, clippings of manuscripts and ink-dotted parchment paper, a faded map of the eastern hemisphere, and smaller tidbits like movie theater tickets, faded wrist-bands from events, a roll of film not yet developed, and so many other things that nearly make you fall in love with him.

When your eyes settle on a black and white ink artwork from Howl's Moving Castle, you hear him clear his throat behind you.

"Uh," he says a bit hurried, feeling a bit sheepish that you're basically seeing all the parts of him he tries his best to hide, "do you want me to get you anything? Water, toothbrush, I think I have a candle somewhere—"

You wave him off gently. "I'm alright. Thank you."

Rafe lingers for a moment, almost waiting for you to make a comment on his decor. Poke fun at the Batman poster. Compliment the sporadic artwork. Gush about the adorableness of the photos with him and his sisters. You always have something to say, something to fill the silence, ready to speak your mind on things he's always eager to hear about.

But you don't. Instead you take one last fond glance at the walls and sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing your palm over the neatly made comforter as you send him a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You notice his brows furrow for a split second as he stands in the doorway, opening his mouth as if he's gonna say something else.

"Goodnight," Rafe whispers eventually. "I'll be out there if you need anything, okay?"

You nod up at him. "Okay." Then, quieter, "Goodnight, Rafe."

The soft click of the door behind him coats you in a painful silence, and it's as though you feel your heart tear in two.

Here you are: practically surrounded by him, sitting on his bed that he sleeps on every night within the walls he looks at every day, seeing a glimpse of who he really is behind rosy cheeks and nervous laughter. He's everywhere. All you can see. Hear. Smell. Touch. Just not where you physically need him to be, not where you emotionally wish he could be. He's just beyond the door, separated by a thin wall covered with every piece of him, so close yet just out of reach.

You let out a quiet sigh, quite frankly taking the loss as you rummage through your bag, plucking out your pajamas. As you put on the barely there sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, you wonder what it'd be like to sleep next to him, or simply lay against his chest or nuzzle into the crook of his neck. You'd probably feel secure, safe, protected. Especially in the gentle, dim light from his lamp and soft sheets that smell like him.

Rounding the bed (as you like that particular side better), you pull the sheets back gingerly that are neatly tucked into the mattress. Yet, you have to tug a bit, similar to whenever you stay at a hotel and the staff make the bed so damn neat that you have to use all your strength to simple get under the covers.

"Motherfuck—"

You yank particularly harsh, stumbling a bit when the sheets untuck, but something thuds gently on the ground, pulling you from your anger-induced thoughts and guiding your attention to the floor. Sitting on the rug is a notebook, brown worn leather with coffee stained pages, tallied with a random business card as the book-mark. It looks used. Worn. Loved. A journal.

A very private looking journal.

You lean down to pick it up but hesitate mid-bend. This is his private possession, something clearly hidden not for anyone to find, as it was stuffed within the mattress to never see the light of day. You should put it back, forget you ever saw it, and simply go to sleep, dream of something pleasant, and wake up and share a nice morning with him. Perhaps brew a pot of coffee. Be asked how you like your eggs. And you won’t mention it. You’re not even gonna deal with it. Don't touch it. Not gonna...

Fingers are skimming over the sleek leather before you know it, kneeling onto the rug and picking the journal up with two hands, as if it'll break if you mistreat it. This is precious, a prized possession, something deeply intimate that you’d argue is a reflection of the soul. You’d be pissed if someone went through yours, yeah? No, this is wrong, this is so wrong—

Frantically, you try and stuff it back into the mattress, but in your endeavors in doing so, the aged notebook slips out of your grasp and thuds against on the rug. When you curse under your breath and lean down to pick it up again, your breath hitches, air stolen from your lungs when it falls with a page open, seeing the contents of what the fuck is actually in there.

You.

From the first day you met him. You remember the blouse paired with those specific earrings, the way your hair was freshly styled after getting it done the day before. Deep and thin pen lines makeup a beautiful portrait of you, nothing like you’ve quite ever seen before, ink marked deep in the parchment-like paper to resemble that of a portrait. But it’s not lustrous, it doesn’t accentuate your breasts or sexualize you in any way. It’s simply…you…existing. His definition of beautiful, all your beauty marks and each stroke of an eyelash. The texture of your hair down to the slope of your nose.

Shamefully, you flick through more pages.

You sitting across from him at the coffee shop. Another one of you at your desk. You peering at him in front of your apartment that fateful morning. Every feature of yours is down to the minute detail, each pen stroke is done with care, caution, as if he was terrified of messing it up, recollecting you wrong. It’s…beautiful. Slightly twisted. But you now know that your shameful thoughts, images of him writhing underneath you and the sight of him below your thighs and the idea of essentially becoming his second skin, are mutual. He likes you. He adores you. He cares for you. He wouldn’t remember you like this if he didn’t. He wouldn’t sketch hearts in the corner of the paper if he didn’t.

Before you know it, you’re stuffing the journal back between the mattress, just where you found it, and your legs have a mind of their own as they round the bed and head for the door. He doesn’t need to know that you found it. He never needs to know. All you needed to know was that the feeling was mutual. Mutual. More than you thought it could ever be.

A hand twists the doorknob gently, cracking it ajar as you step quietly into the hallway. It’s dim, not dark, with a lamp on in the living room that cascades down the hallway. When you peer into the living room, he’s propped up on the couch, book in hand, eyes narrowed in focus as he hasn’t noticed your entrance yet.

But a faulty plank in the floorboards alerts your presence.

Rafe’s head snaps up. His eyes linger on your practically bare legs for one, two seconds, then search your face. “Hey, you okay?”

Your mouth opens and closes. How exactly do you phrase it? Hey, I saw your drawings of me and I didn’t realize how bad you wanted me, too. Or Is it appropriate to come and join you but preferably on your lap? Or a real kicker, If I lie on your bed naked, will you paint me like one of your French girls?

The words come before you know it. “Do you wanna join me?”

Rafe’s jaw goes slack.

The breath is momentarily knocked from his lungs, because are you asking him what he thinks you’re asking him?

There’s no surprise his cheeks are already reddening, heart thumping, because here you are: standing in the middle of the hallway with a shirt covering you mid thigh with — what appears to be — no pants underneath, asking him if he’s going to stay with you. Be with you. Not sleep in separate rooms. Stay with you. Holy shit. Stay with you.

“I— Wh— Do you want me to?” He asks incredulously, yet his voice is barely a whisper.

But you hear him all the same. And you nod.

You fucking nod.

He blinks for one, two seconds before — yup, okay — his body is moving, throwing the blanket off his lap and tossing his book aimlessly on the couch, not bothering to mark the page, as he switches the lamp off and quietly follows you into the bedroom, stepping in the same places your soles have and shutting the door behind him. His heart is fucking racing, can you hear it? Can you feel the vibration of its rhythm even though you’re not touching him—

Yet, suddenly, you are.

Gripping the collar of his shirt and bringing his lips to yours.

Rafe freezes, his brain only registering the honey taste of your chapstick and your hands lightly bracing on his chest. His mind yells at him, touch her! Do something! But his body remains still, petrified into stone, and he begs his hands to hold your waist and pull you close, for his mouth to respond to yours and find a rhythm, for his instincts to finally fucking kick in and kiss you back. But he can’t. He can’t fucking move.

Yet you pull back as soon as you leaned in, faces inches apart as you peer into his eyes, practically staring into his soul.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whisper breathlessly, “and I’ll drop it. Wipe it from existence. We can pretend it never happened.”

He sucks in a harsh, panicked breath. He doesn’t want that at all, not in the slightest, not by a long shot. How could he ever pretend that never happened? How could he ever pretend you didn’t just incapacitate his motor functions by kissing him for three Mississippi’s? How could he go on casually in life knowing how you taste? There’s no way he’s dropping this. Absolutely no way.

(How many shameful nights has he spent with you on his mind? When his hand is beneath his waistband with your name on his lips like a mantra? A prayer? An incantation? Cursing at himself every single time because it felt dirty, thinking of you so precariously when you’re perhaps the only person who has treated him with respect. How many times has he fantasized your hands, skin, lips, everything against his own hands, skin, lips? How could you even think he couldn’t want this? Want you?)

“I want this,” he responds quickly, blinking ferociously to make sure what’s happening is real. “I just— I don’t— I’m not really experienced. I don’t want to be—”

You’re already shaking your head. “I need you to be you. Okay?”

The words make Rafe falter momentarily, because when has anyone ever said this to him? When has he ever been told to be himself? It’s always a be normal or act more like a man, as if being his own self wasn’t enough. Stop talking so soft. Stop being so shy. Stop hiding away. He’s never been embraced — not like this. So inviting and certain real. Just be himself. Be Rafe Cameron. You said you needed him. Needed. When has he ever been needed before? Especially by someone looking at him so pretty.

Slowly, but surely, Rafe finds his voice. “Okay. Okay.”

For the second time, you’re closing the distance.

And this time, Rafe kisses you back.

notes sorry for the cliffhanger but I LOVE THEM so i will be writing more. maybe a series? dont know. dont care. all i know is that there will be more.

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader #outer banks #outer banks rafe #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #obx

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