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catiuskaa · 11 days ago

Text

head touches pillow.

sum: after a long day without you, finally able to cuddle against you, when his head touches the pillow, Hyunjin can’t help but dream.

wc: 5.1k

cw: dreams and art and philosophy coded fluff, hyunjin talks (in detail) about a sex dream, handjob, blowjob(?), aftercare.

[★★{📕}★★]

Hyunjin is a dreamer.

A dreamer is a curious creature whose head often floats several inches —or miles— above the ground, tethered to reality only by the occasional text message, meal, or heartbreak. They are powered by equal parts hope, caffeine —chocolate, in this writer’s case—, and the kind of delusion that dares to believe love letters still are a thing, that strangers on trains might be soulmates, and that rainstorms were invented for dramatic monologues, and really, really wet kisses.

Hyunjin blames his imaginative mind for all the late assignments, failed exams and dull evenings he’s had. If it weren’t for his active little mind, in a constant need for dopamine and books that can make one curl in bed, kicking their legs as they giggle and read about romance they can only hope they get to live, maybe he would’ve payed more attention —on a general sense, that is. And on a particular one, maybe then he wouldn’t have lost the bus that day.

But that would mean he wouldn’t have met you.

When a dreamer falls for another dreamer, the universe experiences a brief but noticeable glitch—somewhere, a clock forgets how to tick, a soldier writes poetry, and a star goes slightly off course just to watch what happens next.

“Oh, Larry won’t open the door for you, so I wouldn’t run,” you chuckle. “Mean bus driver, the fella.”

And Hyunjin just blinks, watching the red bus turn smaller as it drives away.

Turning to face you, he swears, changed his brain chemistry. Not that he knows much about brains nor chemistry, but somehow, when his eyes meet yours for the first time, it was as if the air paused mid-breath, unsure whether to exhale or hold onto the moment forever. There was no thunderclap, no dramatic swell of music —just a quiet, electric recognition, like two secret worlds brushing against each other at the edges. In that glance, he saw not just a face, but an entire cosmos made out of late-night musings, unfinished poems, and stardust tucked behind eyelashes, shining in the colour of your eyes.

It wasn’t love at first sight, not exactly —it was possibility at first glance.

He doesn’t believe it happens often. When an artist such as him —or that’s how he enjoys calling himself when the blinds are down and no one’s looking— somehow falls in love, it’s like those magical moments that movies can’t help but mention. Finding a muse —to him, only you— is the one thing artists hope for in secret, hiding the fire in their hearts between layers of paint and crumbled ink-stained pieces of paper, hoping to never mix love and whorship in the same person, for one cannot hug someone that stands so far away on a pedestal.

Still, he yearns for the words a writer may reach to in order to make sense to the myriad of feelings that simmer in his paint-soaked heart, unable to express them in a way that could suffice.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hyunjin blinks, lowering his head to face you. He can’t help but smile, his eyes wrinkling at the sides.

“You’d lose all your money, my pearl. I think too much.”

Cuddling more against him as you giggle soothes within the both of you the tension from a long week, days that have passed by without the joy of seeing each other most of the time. But alas, here’s the sweet sweet joy of a long-awaited Friday night.

“C’mon,” you snicker, your hands tracing mindless paterns on his shirtless torso. You make a note to thank the summer weather for that. “Oh, at least tell me about that dream you had a couple nights ago.”

“A… dream?” He frowns in ginger confusion.

“Yeah, remember? I called you… Tuesday morning. You said you had a dream you wanted to tell me,” you grin, resting your chin on his chest.

"Oh, that dream,” his expression turns a little more mischievous. His smile only grows as he watches your expectant eyes. “Fun dream, that was. I remember it alright," he snickers, his tone a little husky. "Every single detail."

You give him a cheeky look, fixing your position to lay down next to him, your head up to face him, resting on your palm.

“Go on. I’m all ears.”

He can’t help but chuckle, his expression playful. "Oh, are you now?" he teases, his tone low. "You want to hear all the dirty little details?"

“You know I do,” you grin, your other hand cheekily fidgeting with his golden chain.

He takes a deep breath, and he can’t help but lick his lips as he remembers the dream in detail. "So, it was just the two of us," he starts, his voice lower than usual, his gaze flickering over your features. "And we were... well, let's say we were in a bed."

“What do you mean, let’s say?” You grin softly. “Where were we?”

He chuckles, a small, charming smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "I don’t really know. I mean… well... you were on top of me, to be specific," his gaze turning a little bit heated. "And I could feel your skin against mine, your hands resting on my chest. And your face was... so close, I could feel your breath on my skin." Pausing, his voice grows huskier. "You looked into my eyes... it was like you were hungry for me."

As your hand couldn’t help but follow a slow path down his chest, your eyes stayed locked to his. There was something dangerously poetic about them, like they’ve been dipped in paint and secrets, and looking into them feels less like making eye contact and more like falling, headfirst, —heart-first—, into a storm you don’t want to escape. He didn’t just look at you—he unravels you. With one glance, he strips away your composure, peels back every practiced word, and leaves you lying there, entirely too aware of how close his mouth is to yours. It almost isn’t fair, the way his gaze lingers—slow, deliberate, like a hand sliding over bare skin —your nails, long, leaving cheeky red streaks over his abs. You could drown in him. You want to. God help you, you want to forget your own name if it mean he’d keep looking at you like that—like you were something he’d dreamt of touching —not just this once, but for lifetimes—, and now that you are here, he has no intention of looking away.

"You leaned in even closer,” he lets out in a short breath, “your lips… against my skin,” he swallows, dry. “I could feel… the heat radiating off your body and... I felt your words as a soft whisper against my ear," he murmured, eyes dark. "You said..." his eyes lock onto yours. "You said, ‘I want you. Now.’” he mumbles, his tone intense.

You licked your lips. God, you could eat him alive. “Then what happened?”

"You started… trailing your lips down my neck, leaving soft, wet kisses. It felt... really, really good."

“Mhh, I like the sound of that,” you smile.

He chuckles softly, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Good. It gets better," he simpers, his voice a little deeper than before.

"You then… started making your way down my body, your fingers trailing slowly over my chest, my stomach... and you stopped at my waist and..." he paused, his voice growing quieter as he remembered the rest of the dream.

Your hand started cheekily playing with the waistband of his pijama pants. “And?”

He swallowed dry, his body growing heated as he continues. "And you started... touching me," he lets out, like a whispered, breathless confession. "Your hands were roaming all over my body, and your touch was soft, but so... possessive." You watch him lick his lips as he stares at you, and it feels like pornography. "Your lips followed your hands. And... you started nibbling on a spot right... here..." he vaguely moves his hand, as if afraid that would crack the heat-tinted atmosphere, and points to a spot just below his collarbone.

Leaning against his neck feels like a meancing act againt his self-restraint, and his heart too. He wants you to do it again. With this newly-found information about himself, Hyunjin can’t wait for you to try and kill him.

“Oh, this one?” You smirk, stroking it with your nose tantalizingly.

He lets out something quite like gasp, a shaky exhale that sounds like "yeah," he breathes out heavily, his voice tinged with a moan that he’s holding back. He’s already hard. "T-that spot."

Only a fool would miss a chance this exquisit, so you quickly start to work.

“Keep talking,” you whisper with a smirk.

Hyunjin’s brain threatens to turn off as he closes his eyes, his breathing heavier as you press kisses on his neck. "T-then, um..." he sighs, trying to focus through the sensation of your lips against his skin. "You started... moving lower, your hands and mouth down my chest... and then my stomach..."

He lets out a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as your hand strokes his abs and your lips leave soft kisses on his neck, dusting his skin with pretty pinky marks. "Mmm, keep doing that," he murmured, his voice a little gruff. "It feels... really, really good."

“Keep talking about the dream, or I’ll stop,” you tease, smirking.

Fuck. Either he’s dreaming again, and today is only Thursday or he’s gotta be the luckiest man on Earth, he thinks, letting out a soft, breathy chuckle —a moan, if you squint your ears—, his eyes opening slightly. "Fine, fine... but keep going," he mumbles weakly, his tone laced with a hint of huskiness. "You were moving lower... and lower... and then... you reached my waist." His throat bobs, and you kiss it. He wants to cry. The thought of you stopping almost makes him, but he keeps talking, just like you asked. "You pulled my pants off, leaving me in my boxers," the dream seems almost tangible in the dark pools of his eyes. He can almost taste it, so he licks his lips again, one of his hand fisting the sheets, the other holding you close by your waist, his fingers quickly settling beneath your shirt where you hope he’ll always stay.

"I remember how… your fingers trailed over my thigh," he murmurs softly. "Gentle, but… firm…”

And so you press wet kisses down his chest, happily following the innocent little words that leave his lips —lips you hadn’t want to kiss this bad since, at least, last Friday, but you refrain just to keep listening to him— until you can reach his thigh with your hand.

Your eyes move to his. Soft, wide, sly. “Like this?”

Yes. No. He’s going to blow in milliseconds. Scratch all that, you have to be a dream. Reality hasn’t felt this good since someone put butter in popcorn. Since he figured out color theory to some extent. He lets out a soft gasp, his breathing quickening.

"Yes,” he almost moans, “exactly like that."

His hand grips the bedsheet like the poor thing could ever keep him tethered to how your mouth lingers on his collarbone. If this is a dream and he wakes up, he’s catching the first bus and knocking your door of its hinges with the only objective of doing very bad things to you. But when your kisses slow down in intensity, and your hands threaten to leave his blushed skin, he keeps talking. This is real, and if you stop, he’ll start begging.

"You started kissing," he pants out, "kissing… down my thigh... and then you… started moving... higher."

He pauses, his breathing growing heavier as the next part of the dream unveils in his mind. Hyunjin needs you to keep touching him. "You were right between my legs, your lips just... barely against my skin,” his eyes flutter open, and he has the cutest blush all over his face. You’re going to eat him.

“T-then you… took me in your mouth," he gasps softly, his eyes closing again. "I remember how your tongue felt, how your lips felt-" He winces, because the memory and your touch alone are making him really hard.

He can’t do this. This feels too good. He’s not going to be able to let you go on Sunday afternoon. But then your hand travels down his chest and beneath his blue-striped pj’s, and he’s dead.

“Keep talking, love,” you grin, kissing his chest as you start stroking him, moving your hand up and down.

He lets out a low moan, his body involuntarily bucking against your touch. "A-ah... I'm... trying..." he whines quietly, his voice growing huskier by the second. "Y-You were... um-" He trails off, now rendered unable to form a coherent thought, the sensation of your touch scrambling his brain.

"You... you were moving... up and down," Hyunjin tries to speak, but his words are cut off by a moan. His breathing is heavy and his chest rieses and falls rapidly. He can’t even look at you anymore; his eyes are shut tight, his head pressed against the pillow, blushing all over as he squirms underneath you.

"I... I don't...don't know how much...longer I can...can keep doing this," he admits in a low, ragged voice. "I... I need..." he attempts to say something, but the words just don’t come out. "Please, I… I need..." he pleads softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand slows down. You have the desperate need to fuck him senseless. Desperate, submissive Hyunjin is a rare sight, and you want to cover him up in pink hickeys.

“The dream, love. Keep talking, mhh?”

He lets out a low, soft whine as your hand slows down, his eyes clenched shut. "Oh…a-ah, okay," he whispers, trying to regain his composure. The feeling of your touch is driving him crazy, but he knows he has to stay focused, because this feels too good to stop now.

"You were... you were moving so... so slowly, and... and it was driving me insane." His eyes are like crescent moons, cheeky drops of sweat shining on his forehead, and on his pink-coloured chest. "I... I wanted more... but you were teasing me so much" he murmurs, his voice growing more desperate by the second. "I wanted to... grab you and... and just-" He groans in frustration, unable to find the words. "I wanted... I needed..." he chokes out, whimpering, struggling through the fog of pleasure. "God... it's so hard to think..."

Teasing him comes off naturally. Just looking at him makes you want to lean and bite his cheek. Instead you snicker, smirking.

“Oh, poor baby. Feel so good, he can’t even think.”

Surely, you weren’t expecting the embarrassingly needy whine he lets out, his face flushed with pleasure. "Y-Yes," he murmurs softly, his arm moving to cover his eyes and how his blush turns deeper in colour, his voice heavy with desire. "A-and... and it's all your fault."

God. Your legs would give out if you were standing. His muscles flex as he tries to hide his face, kind of, and the fact that you know he’s far too gone to be consciously showing off only makes you hornier. Pleasure looks so good on Hyunjin, you can’t help but need more, as you start stroking him slightly faster. “That’s a pity,” you whisper with a smile. “Feels good, yeah?”

He groans, his hips instinctively bucking against your touch. "Y-Yeah," he breathes out weakly, his voice strained. "It feels... so good."

“Wonderful,” you grin, eyes so dark Hyunjin believes they might’ve just turned black. “Keep talking, then, love. What happened next?”

His body dares to tremble with pleasure as you continue, his breathing ragged and uneven. "You..." he trails off, trying to find the words to speak. "You... moved your mo.. a-ah, mouth away... but you... oh, God, y-you replaced it with..." he lets out a moan, his breath hitching as you continue your slow ministrations, “you replaced it with your hand... and..." He swallows hard, trying to find the words through the pleasure, "a-and you were... slow... and gentle..." he manages to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just like this?” you whisper too.

The feeling of your touch is driving him wild.

"Yes," he whimpers, almost sheepishly. "Just... just like that."

He’s struggling to keep his mind clear, the pleasure almost overwhelming him. "Please..." he whines, his voice hoarse and needy. "I need... I need..."

Your eyes look into his, but you only find dark tones of brown that scream at you to keep going. “Focus, love,” you smile. “The dream, mhh?”

He struggles to speak, already feeling like it’s hard to think straight. "Y-You... you started to... speed up..." he whispers, his voice raw with desire. "And... and it felt so... so good,” he breathes heavily, “a-and then, you… ” He groans softly, his whole body trembling as he envisions the scene play out in his mind once more. "Y-You... you lowered yourself onto me..." he blinks slowly, his eyes locking onto yours, his voice heavy with lust. "And... and it felt... so good... so perfect..."

He inhales sharply, his heart feeling like it might just leap out of his chest. "You... you started... moving slowly... and... and I-" He lets out a low, guttural moan, his body arching towards your touch instinctively. "God... it feels... so good... so good... I can't think straight... I-I need you... I need you, flower... please…”

You kiss his thigh, to which he lets out a soft moan at the feel of your kiss, his body trembling with need. You’re going to cave, you know you will, but watching him like this is an addiction you don’t want to let go off just yet. “Does the dream keep going too long?”

"N-Not much longer," he sighs weakly, his voice strained with desire. "I am... I w-was so close... I-" He pants, the memory of the dream playing out in his mind. "I was so... I was so close to..." he confesses, his voice thick with lust. "But just before I could... you... you stopped."

And almost cheekily, your hand stopped, teasing. “I… edged you?”

Hyunjin is pretty sure he’s dead at this point. His body trembles, pliant and undone, eyes glassy with surrender as he floats deeper into that delicious haze —where time blurs and sensation reigns. Every word from you felt like silk and command wrapped in fire, and he clings to it like a lifeline, like prayer. His voice is barely a whisper now, rough with need, as he chokes out, "N-no… please, flower." Not out of pride, but desperation —because in this state, he isn’t thinking, only feeling, and everything he feels is you. Every nerve begs to be touched, praised, claimed—each second without your hands, your voice, your rhythm, feels like air slipping through his lungs. He’s gone, truly gone, and the only thing tethering him to reality is the gravity of your control and the aching, raw hunger to please keep going.

You coo at him, leaning against him to kissing his cheek, “You’re doing so good, love. Keep going, for me?” He nods softly, and you smile, softly pressing your lips against his.

“And then?” You smile, resuming your slow pace with your hand.

His body responds immediately, his back arching as he let out a low moan. "Y-You..." he fails to speak, his words lost in a pool of desire. "You... you kept going... and... and it was so... s’good... but it was... frustrating... to be so... close... but not... not quite there yet..."

His body is shaking with need, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggles to speak. "Please," he begs softly, his voice a mix between a whine and a whisper. "Please... I need you… please… make me-"

Your tongue against his length weakens him in ways he never thought possible before, and when he finds your eyes glued to his, he’s sure his eyes tear up in pleasure.

“Keep talking, love.”

He lets out a strangled moan. "Oh... oh god..." he moans again, his voice broken by pleasure. "T-too good... I… it's so... hard to... to keep… speaking..."

“C’mon, love,” you smirk. “You want me to keep going, don’t you? You just have to keep talking about the dream.”

He’s wrecked—gasping, trembling, eyes glazed as he blinks down at you like he can’t remember how to exist without your touch. "Yes... yes... please... don't stop..." he mumbles, his voice strained with need. "The dream, I'll... I'll keep talking..."

Hyunjin takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose himself as so to keep on talking. "So... you k-kept going... and... and I was so close... so close... but it wasn't enough..." He sweats and blushes with need, his mind blurry as he struggles to focus on the words. "I was… I couldn't... couldn't handle it any longer...”

His toned body arches against you as he feels himself nearing the edge. "Please... please... I need you, flower... I need you so badly..." he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please... please, I can't take it anymore..."

You’re caving. You want to see him come. “How did the dream end, love?”

He lets out a strangled moan as you start kissing him, the touch of your lips sending sparks of pleasure through his body. "I... I don't...I don't remember..." he whines, his voice thick. "It all gets... it gets too hazy... I just remember feeling too... too pent up... too needy..."

“And then you woke up?”

He nods, a low, shaky laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah... I woke up... and I was so... so frustrated," he pants, his voice heavy with the echo of unfulfilled desire.

You blink. The smirk that takes over your lips makes Hyunjin shiver. “Love, did you… relieve yourself… thinking about me that morning?”

His cheeks grow hotter, his expression turning more sheepish. "Yes... I… I did," he confesses in a hushed tone. "I couldn't help it... you were all I could think about." The memory of that morning is still vivid in his mind. "I was thinking about you... your touch... your voice... your body..." he murmurs, his voice growing huskier with every word.

“And you were touching yourself, just like this?”

He can’t help but moan at your words, his body responding instinctively to the mention of what he has done. He feels like he has been caught, and the way you’re looking at him threatens to send him over the edge. "Yes... just like this..." he nods, gulping. "I was... imagining your hands on me... just like this… and I... I couldn't stop thinking about you... thinking about what you would do to me..." he admits, his voice reeling in desire, almost rolling off his tongue.

Mesmerized, you speed up, watching him squirm and gasp, his body arching towardsyour touch as the pleasure intensifies. "Oh... oh god... yes, yes..." he moans, his eyes closing tightly as he feels himself getting closer and closer. "Don't…” He groans softly, his hand gripping the bedsheets again. "Please... please, I can't... I can't hold back any longer..." he pleads, his voice sunken in sheer pleasure.

“Tell me, love. Where you thinking about that when you called me that day?”

He swallows hard, his breath coming in short gasps as he remembered the memory. "Y-Yes," he managed to say, his voice ragged with desire. "I... I couldn't help it... you... your voice… it brought e-everything back... a-and I... I tried to keep my composure... but I couldn't... I couldn't keep it together..."

“What did you want to do to me, mhh?”

His body almost dares to tremble with need as he remembered the thoughts he had. Hyunjin is shaking, flushed and helpless, lost so deep in the haze he barely knows his own name —just yours. His fingers curl like he’s trying to hold onto reality, but all that comes out from his lips isa desperate, wrecked, tone, as he follows your command. "I... I wanted to touch you... to hold you... to feel you against me... to hear you moan..." he whines, his voice rough with need. "I wanted you so badly... so badly, it was driving me insane."

His breathing turns erratic. He’s going to come, but he wants to make you happy. He wants to hear you allow him.

"I couldn't... couldn't get you out of my head... I just wanted to... to do things to you..." he gasps, his words fading into the air as he loses himself in the memories. "I wanted to... to feel you... to taste you... to hear you moan my name..."

His lips part around a soft, broken sound, eyes barely open, glazed with need and devotion. He’s trembling under your hands, breath shallow, voice cracked as he whispers, "I wanted... I wanted you so bad... I couldn't focus on anything else... I could only think about you... about your touch... about how good it felt when you-" He gasped, cutting himself off as the memory flared back up, leaving him breathless. "God... I could barely... barely concentrate on anything else... though I was… going crazy..."

He lets out a low, shaky moan, his body trembling uncontrollably as the waves of pleasure consume him. "That's... that's why it was so hard... so hard..." he whimpers, his words interrupted by soft gasps as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "It was so hard to... to talk... to talk to you... and not... not think about... a-about…!”

His whole body tenses beneath you, a helpless shudder rolling through him as the pressure builds past the point of return. His fingers twist in the sheets —desperate, frantic—, trying to hold onto something solid while the rest of him falls apart. Then he lets out a moan, deep and broken, the kind that seems to rise straight from his soul, and you take him into your mouth fully, slowly, as if savoring the moment just as much as he is unraveling in it. And when he finally comes —spilling over with a cry that sounds half like your name, half like prayer— you don’t flinch. You stay, mouth warm, accepting, steady, anchoring him as he shakes and gasps and loses himself entirely in you. You feel the way he melts, undone and wrecked and utterly yours, and you don’t let go until his body stops trembling, until he’s all quiet panting and reverent touch, eyes dazed, still somewhere between the high and the afterglow.

His mind goes blank for a moment as the intensity of the sensation overwhelms him. As he slowly comes back down to Earth, he looks down at you with a dazed expression on his face, his breathing ragged and labored. "Y-You..." he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Y-You're... God, flower, I missed you.."

You merely swallow, licking your lips and smile. “I missed you too, love.”

His body still trembles with the aftermath of his climax. You cuddle against him, fixing his hair, kissing his temple with a smile.

“Want me to fetch a damp towel, love?” you whisper. “I know you don’t like sleeping all sweaty.”

Watching him nod, soft and dazed, like his whole body has finally let go, you smile and brush a hand over his cheek. He lets out a big, shuddering sigh —the kind that seemed to empty every last bit of tension from his chest— and his eyes flutter shut, peaceful in that quiet, golden moment. You move and lean down to kiss him —slow, lingering. He kisses you back with a hum, too blissed-out to speak, but full of everything he wants to say. With one last stroke of your thumb across his jaw, you slip away for a moment, careful not to wake him from the soft place he’s landed in.

When you come back with the damp towel, he’s still lying there, loose-limbed and beautiful, the rise and fall of his chest steady, calm. You lean beside him, murmuring something gentle as you began to clean him up, slow and careful, like a ritual. He barely moves—just lets you care for him, eyes fluttering open now and then to meet mine with that same look he always gives you in these moments: trust, tenderness, and something so deep you’re not quite sure it has a name. not in any language you know, at least.

We speak of the experience of an encounter as that which can appear before us without our expecting it. It can change our course, it can transform us. It is the novelty that happens to us and then inhabits us. Two paths that cross. Two people that miss the bus at the same time.

What happens when we fall in love? Is it simply a matter of wanting what we don't have, or of wanting it because it seems forbidden? We consider it more interesting to think of it as a set of forces united in a singularity that challenges us, that summons us. One of those things that make us fall in love with someone. In Hyunjin’s case, the colour of your eyes could haunt him in his sleep, and he would forever be grateful for it. Or your smile, and how it lights up the room.

A smile is something that happens between two people. It is a gesture that begins and ends in the gaze of the other, of the person who may feel trapped, invoked, questioned, stolen by that smile. It does not belong to someone. It does not belong to its owner, but is a ‘between’ the two. It takes place in a relationship of one with the other. There is something in that smile that unites, in the same group, everything that has to do with us. Like in that moment when one is frightened and sees one's life flash before one's eyes, only in this case, one sees the life we would have with the person in front of us, reflected in the brightness of their irises.

Who are we afterwards? Are we the same? What happens inside us when we encounter forces, affinities, nuances, tones, and colours that we never expected, but which become everything we desire? It is a question of thinking about the displacement that occurs. When love crosses us, there is a swaying from side to side, a foreshadowing of the transformation to come when these two people collide. This love is only possible because of the tension that makes it unsolvable: a tension between who we are and who we are not, between presence and absence. An encounter from which we emerge changed.

Or not. Maybe the world still spins as usual —but for Hyunjin, with you by his side, it hums in a different key. One composed entirely of music, comfort, and dreams he no longer has to imagine alone.

And as his head touches the pillow —the cold side, after flipping it around—, he passes his arm over your waist and pulls you closer.

Tomorrow, Saturday morning, he will make sure to pay you back, but right now, Hyunjin is sure.

He loves Friday nights.

[★★{📕}★★]

~kats, who’s new vocal stim is from sade’s kiss of life, “there must’ve been an angel by my side.” (and yes, I am aware that today isn't Friday. sue me)

catiuskaa, june 2025 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Tesla's Dieselgate

Elon Musk lies a lot. He lies about being a “utopian socialist.” He lies about being a “free speech absolutist.” He lies about which companies he founded:

https://www.businessinsider.com/tesla-cofounder-martin-eberhard-interview-history-elon-musk-ev-market-2023-2 He lies about being the “chief engineer” of those companies:

https://www.quora.com/Was-Elon-Musk-the-actual-engineer-behind-SpaceX-and-Tesla

He lies about really stupid stuff, like claiming that comsats that share the same spectrum will deliver steady broadband speeds as they add more users who each get a narrower slice of that spectrum:

https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband

The fundamental laws of physics don’t care about this bullshit, but people do. The comsat lie convinced a bunch of people that pulling fiber to all our homes is literally impossible — as though the electrical and phone lines that come to our homes now were installed by an ancient, lost civilization. Pulling new cabling isn’t a mysterious art, like embalming pharaohs. We do it all the time. One of the poorest places in America installed universal fiber with a mule named “Ole Bub”:

https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us

Previous tech barons had “reality distortion fields,” but Musk just blithely contradicts himself and pretends he isn’t doing so, like a budget Steve Jobs. There’s an entire site devoted to cataloging Musk’s public lies:

https://elonmusk.today/

But while Musk lacks the charm of earlier Silicon Valley grifters, he’s much better than they ever were at running a long con. For years, he’s been promising “full self driving…next year.”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

He’s hasn’t delivered, but he keeps claiming he has, making Teslas some of the deadliest cars on the road:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/06/10/tesla-autopilot-crashes-elon-musk/

Tesla is a giant shell-game masquerading as a car company. The important thing about Tesla isn’t its cars, it’s Tesla’s business arrangement, the Tesla-Financial Complex:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

Once you start unpacking Tesla’s balance sheets, you start to realize how much the company depends on government subsidies and tax-breaks, combined with selling carbon credits that make huge, planet-destroying SUVs possible, under the pretense that this is somehow good for the environment:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

But even with all those financial shenanigans, Tesla’s got an absurdly high valuation, soaring at times to 1600x its profitability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/15/hoover-calling/#intangibles

That valuation represents a bet on Tesla’s ability to extract ever-higher rents from its customers. Take Tesla’s batteries: you pay for the battery when you buy your car, but you don’t own that battery. You have to rent the right to use its full capacity, with Tesla reserving the right to reduce how far you go on a charge based on your willingness to pay:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/10/teslas-demon-haunted-cars-in-irmas-path-get-a-temporary-battery-life-boost/

That’s just one of the many rent-a-features that Tesla drivers have to shell out for. You don’t own your car at all: when you sell it as a used vehicle, Tesla strips out these features you paid for and makes the next driver pay again, reducing the value of your used car and transfering it to Tesla’s shareholders:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/6/21127243/tesla-model-s-autopilot-disabled-remotely-used-car-update

To maintain this rent-extraction racket, Tesla uses DRM that makes it a felony to alter your own car’s software without Tesla’s permission. This is the root of all autoenshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

This is technofeudalism. Whereas capitalists seek profits (income from selling things), feudalists seek rents (income from owning the things other people use). If Telsa were a capitalist enterprise, then entrepreneurs could enter the market and sell mods that let you unlock the functionality in your own car:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/11/1-in-3/#boost-50

But because Tesla is a feudal enterprise, capitalists must first secure permission from the fief, Elon Musk, who decides which companies are allowed to compete with him, and how.

Once a company owns the right to decide which software you can run, there’s no limit to the ways it can extract rent from you. Blocking you from changing your device’s software lets a company run overt scams on you. For example, they can block you from getting your car independently repaired with third-party parts.

But they can also screw you in sneaky ways. Once a device has DRM on it, Section 1201 of the DMCA makes it a felony to bypass that DRM, even for legitimate purposes. That means that your DRM-locked device can spy on you, and because no one is allowed to explore how that surveillance works, the manufacturer can be incredibly sloppy with all the personal info they gather:

https://www.cnbc.com/2019/03/29/tesla-model-3-keeps-data-like-crash-videos-location-phone-contacts.html

All kinds of hidden anti-features can lurk in your DRM-locked car, protected from discovery, analysis and criticism by the illegality of bypassing the DRM. For example, Teslas have a hidden feature that lets them lock out their owners and summon a repo man to drive them away if you have a dispute about a late payment:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

DRM is a gun on the mantlepiece in Act I, and by Act III, it goes off, revealing some kind of ugly and often dangerous scam. Remember Dieselgate? Volkswagen created a line of demon-haunted cars: if they thought they were being scrutinized (by regulators measuring their emissions), they switched into a mode that traded performance for low emissions. But when they believed themselves to be unobserved, they reversed this, emitting deadly levels of NOX but delivering superior mileage.

The conversion of the VW diesel fleet into mobile gas-chambers wouldn’t have been possible without DRM. DRM adds a layer of serious criminal jeopardy to anyone attempting to reverse-engineer and study any device, from a phone to a car. DRM let Apple claim to be a champion of its users’ privacy even as it spied on them from asshole to appetite:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Now, Tesla is having its own Dieselgate scandal. A stunning investigation by Steve Stecklow and Norihiko Shirouzu for Reuters reveals how Tesla was able to create its own demon-haunted car, which systematically deceived drivers about its driving range, and the increasingly desperate measures the company turned to as customers discovered the ruse:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/tesla-batteries-range/

The root of the deception is very simple: Tesla mis-sells its cars by falsely claiming ranges that those cars can’t attain. Every person who ever bought a Tesla was defrauded.

But this fraud would be easy to detect. If you bought a Tesla rated for 353 miles on a charge, but the dashboard range predictor told you that your fully charged car could only go 150 miles, you’d immediately figure something was up. So your Telsa tells another lie: the range predictor tells you that you can go 353 miles.

But again, if the car continued to tell you it has 203 miles of range when it was about to run out of charge, you’d figure something was up pretty quick — like, the first time your car ran out of battery while the dashboard cheerily informed you that you had 203 miles of range left.

So Teslas tell a third lie: when the battery charge reached about 50%, the fake range is replaced with the real one. That way, drivers aren’t getting mass-stranded by the roadside, and the scam can continue.

But there’s a new problem: drivers whose cars are rated for 353 miles but can’t go anything like that far on a full charge naturally assume that something is wrong with their cars, so they start calling Tesla service and asking to have the car checked over.

This creates a problem for Tesla: those service calls can cost the company $1,000, and of course, there’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s performing exactly as designed. So Tesla created its boldest fraud yet: a boiler-room full of anti-salespeople charged with convincing people that their cars weren’t broken.

This new unit — the “diversion team” — was headquartered in a Nevada satellite office, which was equipped with a metal xylophone that would be rung in triumph every time a Tesla owner was successfully conned into thinking that their car wasn’t defrauding them.

When a Tesla owner called this boiler room, the diverter would run remote diagnostics on their car, then pronounce it fine, and chide the driver for having energy-hungry driving habits (shades of Steve Jobs’s “You’re holding it wrong”):

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

The drivers who called the Diversion Team weren’t just lied to, they were also punished. The Tesla app was silently altered so that anyone who filed a complaint about their car’s range was no longer able to book a service appointment for any reason. If their car malfunctioned, they’d have to request a callback, which could take several days.

Meanwhile, the diverters on the diversion team were instructed not to inform drivers if the remote diagnostics they performed detected any other defects in the cars.

The diversion team had a 750 complaint/week quota: to juke this stat, diverters would close the case for any driver who failed to answer the phone when they were eventually called back. The center received 2,000+ calls every week. Diverters were ordered to keep calls to five minutes or less.

Eventually, diverters were ordered to cease performing any remote diagnostics on drivers’ cars: a source told Reuters that “Thousands of customers were told there is nothing wrong with their car” without any diagnostics being performed.

Predicting EV range is an inexact science as many factors can affect battery life, notably whether a journey is uphill or downhill. Every EV automaker has to come up with a figure that represents some kind of best guess under a mix of conditions. But while other manufacturers err on the side of caution, Tesla has the most inaccurate mileage estimates in the industry, double the industry average.

Other countries’ regulators have taken note. In Korea, Tesla was fined millions and Elon Musk was personally required to state that he had deceived Tesla buyers. The Korean regulator found that the true range of Teslas under normal winter conditions was less than half of the claimed range.

Now, many companies have been run by malignant narcissists who lied compulsively — think of Thomas Edison, archnemesis of Nikola Tesla himself. The difference here isn’t merely that Musk is a deeply unfit monster of a human being — but rather, that DRM allows him to defraud his customers behind a state-enforced opaque veil. The digital computers at the heart of a Tesla aren’t just demons haunting the car, changing its performance based on whether it believes it is being observed — they also allow Musk to invoke the power of the US government to felonize anyone who tries to peer into the black box where he commits his frauds.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

This Sunday (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.

Image ID [A scene out of an 11th century tome on demon-summoning called 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros. Anno 1057. Noli me tangere.' It depicts a demon tormenting two unlucky would-be demon-summoners who have dug up a grave in a graveyard. One summoner is held aloft by his hair, screaming; the other screams from inside the grave he is digging up. The scene has been altered to remove the demon's prominent, urinating penis, to add in a Tesla supercharger, and a red Tesla Model S nosing into the scene.]

Image: Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

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aurorawritestoescape · 1 year ago

Text

I KNOW BETTER THAN TO CALL YOU MINE

Pre outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader || 7k

Summary: Joel lets himself have a treat. You.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, slight age gap (reader’s in her early 20s, Joel is 30), sex work, idiots in love, soft Joel, praise kink, size kink, f/m oral, cum eating, alcohol consumption, m!masturbation, sex toy usage, bondage, protected/unprotected piv, creampie, light pussy spanking, somno, aftercare, mention of degradation, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey). Reader has hair, wears dresses. Pics are for the mood only, reader has no specific physical descriptions.

A/n: this is for @janaispunk ‘s 1500 kisses challenge. My prompt was ‘first kiss’ with Joel Miller. Congrats again, Jana, and thank you for the fun challenge!😘 The pic in the m/b is from this post by @liminaltourist. Hugs and kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘🫂 dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕 The title is from the lyrics of ‘Let’s fall in love for the night’ by FINNEAS. Hope you will enjoy this story! Love you all!💖

MASTERLIST

Joel met you at Tommy’s birthday party and was instantly attracted to you. You were beautiful, sweet, funny, a little shy which he found charming. You told him that you worked as a waitress, meanwhile looking for a steady job after graduating college. He spent the whole night talking to you. The whole night being a couple of hours when he had a sitter for Sarah. Joel noticed a trace of sadness in your gorgeous eyes while you two were saying your goodbyes and for a second he regretted the way his life turned out. A single father at the age of thirty, working tirelessly to give his daughter the best life he could. But all the regrets vanished into thin air the moment he returned home and saw Sarah, sleeping peacefully in her bed. He planted a gentle kiss on her temple and quietly went to his empty bedroom. She was his life and he was ok with it.

Next time when Joel went out with Tommy for a drink, he asked about you in passing. He tried to make it seem like a simple curiosity but his younger brother still gave him a knowing smirk. Joel really liked you but his life was hectic enough. Work and being a single parent took all his time and he couldn’t squeeze in a relationship. He wouldn’t be a good boyfriend, he thought, and you deserved only the best. But your image— your eyes, your smile, your body, was flashing behind his eyes again and again, reminding him that he had needs and desires.

After a few beers and tequila shots, their conversation circled back to you and Tommy blabbed out that you worked as an escort. Joel was astonished. You seemed shy and sweet. He had never been against sex work but he always imagined a different type of people in that business. He didn’t know what to make of it but he felt his cock twitch, thinking of how sexually liberated you were.

He thought about asking for your number, but Tommy would tease him to death and he decided not to.

The next time you met Joel was at another Tommy’s party. Joel agreed to come, wanting to see you again. You talked and laughed like before but the air was almost electric between you two. The glances were darker, your hand brushing his skin here and there made him want more— touch you, feel you close against his body. He could save up and do all that if you agreed. So he made a decision and offered to drive you home when the party was over.

As soon as Joel parked his car at your driveway, he cleared his throat and asked if he could see you sometime.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Your voice was soft and a shy smile tugged at your lips.

“Ehm… fuck, I —I know what you do,” Joel admitted, turning to you slightly in the driver’s seat, “Tommy told me when he was drunk. Forgive him and me, please, ok? And— I don’t know what you call that, but— can I meet you for an appointment?”

Your face fell and you were blinking at him with a mouth agape. Joel’s heart froze- what if Tommy had been fucking with him and you didn’t sleep with people for money.

After a few longest seconds of his life, you took a deep breath and gave him a little nod. Joel asked you about the details and you explained to him what he needed to do to book a session with you and though you were talking about sex, it sounded cold and dry. You gave him a little smile before getting out of the car and he drove off with the thought that he had made a mistake.

He really didn’t plan to call you, thinking he had killed whatever spark and connection you two had, but his thoughts returned to you again and again. He was hearing your laugh everywhere and your face was behind his eyelids every time he went to sleep.

One night after a few beers he imagined you in his bed and his hand flew to his already stiffening cock. He shut his eyes and saw you next to him, naked and ready for him. Pleasuring himself, Joel imagined your hand wrapped around his length, sliding up and down, then your mouth sucking on his tip and soon he was spurting his load all over his stomach and fist. He could have you, you already agreed to it, and he deserved to feel good, to treat himself once in a while. With those thoughts on his mind he texted you and booked a session.

Joel tried to be on time for your first meeting, but everything seemed to go wrong that day and when he arrived at a hotel, you were already waiting for him at the bar. He showered you with apologies for being late but you assured him that it was ok. He felt the flames of desire, when he took you all in. Your black dress was hugging your body perfectly and he couldn’t wait to take it off you.

You had already got a room for them so Joel followed you to the elevator. He had never been that nervous in his life. You must have noticed it, so you took his hand and gave him a warm smile.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this, Joel.”

“Never done this before,” he admitted when the elevator doors opened and you walked to the room.

“It’s ok, Joel. I’m sure we’re going to have a great time,” you said, smiling to him, and opened the door.

When Joel stepped inside, he saw a typical hotel room with one big bed. You turned to him and asked,

“Before we start, do you have any questions or suggestions about what you want us to do?”

Joel swallowed loudly.

“I want —, he scratched the back of his neck and continued, “just the usual, I guess.”

“The usual?” you repeated with a little smirk.

“Yeah, just sex.”

You pouted your lips in thought, then smiled with mischief in your gaze and slowly came up to him.

His breath hitched when your behavior changed in front of his eyes, like a little kitten turned into a panther in a matter of seconds. You looked the same but there was an allure in your every move, each glance was magnetic, as if you were calling for him to touch you, fuck you. You were irresistible. Your body was inches away from him, your perfume subtle but enticing, enveloping him, and you purred,

“I don’t think we want it to be ‘just’ sex, Joel. How about we make it special.”

Your tongue caressed your lower lip and he slowly leaned down. You swiftly swerved him and instead of tasting your lips, he nuzzled your cheek.

“I’m sorry, Joel— I don’t kiss on the lips during sessions.”

“Oh fuck, sorry.” Joel felt really bad and explained, “I got carried away... I’ve read the rules you sent me… I remember no kissing part, like in “Pretty Woman”,” Joel chuckled, rubbing his scruffy cheek in a nervous gesture.

You giggled, too, probably trying to make him feel more comfortable, “Yes, just like in “Pretty Woman.”

Without noticing it, he tried to memorize the sound of your laugh, how pretty it was. You slightly pulled away from him and tilted your head.

“How about I take the lead at first and then we’ll see how it goes?”

Joel nodded. He wanted to take your dress off, carry you to the bed and fuck you till you screamed his name. But he was afraid to do something wrong, he’d never been in that type of situation. You took his hand and gently caressed it, your fingers dancing over his hardened skin. Then he watched you bring it to your red lips and kiss his palm. You glanced up at him with your big beautiful eyes, not taking his hand away and his whole body reacted to your gentle touch. He was getting hard.

You led Joel to the bed, your fingers intertwined with his, and gently pushed on his shoulders to make him sit down. You slowly took your dress off and he tried not to start drooling like a cartoon wolf, seeing you in front of him in a black lacy set.

You stood between his spread thighs and bent over to tug at the hem of his dark tee. He helped you to take it off and when you kneeled in front of him, he almost moaned. Your beautiful face was so close, he wanted to kiss you so much but he couldn’t and he’d never do anything you didn’t want.

You unbuckled his belt and softly asked him to take his jeans off.

Soon Joel was sitting there in his boxer briefs with you on your knees between his spread thighs.

"You're so hot, Joel," you whispered, as your dark gaze slid over the expense of his broad shoulders and chest, and your nails slightly scratched his muscular thighs.

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. He wanted to tell you how gorgeous you look, wearing your lingerie and your high heel shoes, how much he'd been thinking about you since the day you'd met but his mouth was dry and he felt himself like a teenage boy who was trying to compliment a hot girl.

You weren't aware of his inner torment. As always calm and confident, you leaned closer to his torso and kissed a spot on his chest, right over his heart. Joel took a sharp breath and shut his eyes for a second, trying to calm down. He couldn't believe what just a gentle chest kiss from you was doing to him, but he was already painfully hard.

Your lips glided lower and you started leaving open mouth kisses, tracing a path down to the bulge in his boxers, and he opened his thighs wider to give you more space. When your face was close to his clothed cock, you rested your head on his left thigh and looked up at him.

“Fuck,” Joel cursed and growled at the sight of you so close to his already throbbing manhood. You were so pretty, so obedient but even on your knees he felt that you controlled the situation.

“Joel?”

“Yes, baby?”

You smiled hearing the pet name and asked,

“Can I take you in my mouth?”

His cock visibly twitched when he heard your soft voice and the words you uttered.

“If you want.”

You bit your lower lip and asked, rubbing your cheek on his hairy thigh.

“I do but would you like me to?”

Joel nodded eagerly, maybe too eagerly but he didn’t care. He wanted you so much.

With a content smile, you sat up straight and shifted on your knees, getting comfortable. Then you pulled at the waistband of his boxers and in a second they were on the floor and his cock was bobbing in front of your face. Your breath visibly hitched and you glanced up at him.

“You have a gorgeous cock, Joel Miller,” you whispered and he wanted to kiss you again, hearing the praise. But instead he brought his hand to your face and cupped your cheek. You purred into his touch but parted from his palm in a second when you lowered your face and kitten-licked the fat tip of his cock. Joel sighed and bucked his hips already impatient for more. You didn’t make him wait long.

Your lips soon welcomed his cock between them as you started taking him deeper, covering his length with your warm saliva as your hand was firmly wrapped around his girthy base.

Joel moaned loudly at the sensation, he didn’t care what sounds he was making, completely lost in the pleasure your soft lips and skilful tongue were giving him.

Your mouth was slowly caressing his cock as your curved up lips were sliding over his sensitive skin and your tongue danced around the fat head, now and then stroking the leaking slit. There was so much precum, he saw you swallow it again and again. Your hand was gently massaging his balls and his big palm was lying on your head, not pushing, just showing you how much he needed you at that moment. Joel was in heaven.

Soon you took all of him and your throat contracting around his length was the last straw. He was dangerously close to coming and painting your mouth creamy white. But he had other plans for you.

“Shit, baby,” he cupped your cheek and gently pulled you off his ready-to-explode cock, “you’re too fucking good at it. I won’t last. And I wanna..”

He lost his words as you were looking at him with sparkling eyes, full of understanding and warmth.

“Of course, Joel.” You slowly got up on your feet and took off your high heels. Then you padded to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Joel saw a few toys lying there and his heart started to beat faster when he imagined using them on you. Maybe he could suggest it, he mused inwardly, but when you started sliding your panties and bra off your body, he lost his train of thought.

Now completely naked you came up to him and placed your hands on his broad shoulders. Then you planted your knees on each side of him and got on his lap.

“You’re beautiful,” Joel said in a low voice as his hands found your hips and he rubbed your skin with his calloused thumbs.

You thanked him, smiling, and opened the package with your teeth. You brought the condom to his hard cock, slid it on and then got up on your knees, your pussy hovering over Joel’s tip.

You searched for his eyes and as soon as your eyes locked, you started sinking on his thick length.

Joel watched pleasure twisting your face while his cock was slowly parting your insides. He moaned at the sensation of your wet warm pussy welcoming him, grasped your hips tightly and when you took all of him, your ass was flush with his balls, you both loudly sighed.

“You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.”

“Thank you, Joel. Your cock is so fucking big.”

He took a sharp breath, hearing you curse, and at the back of his mind he wondered if you said it to every client but he drove the thought away. He needed you too much.

Your breasts were right in front of his face and he asked, looking up at you, as if you were a goddess he was praying to.

“Is it ok if I kiss your body?”

“Yes, Joel, please. You can do anything to me.”

“Just not kiss your beautiful lips?”

“Joel,” you whined and he felt you clench around his hard cock.

He scolded himself for those words as soon as they left his stupid mouth. It was the thing you kept for yourself, he understood and accepted it but his desire drove him insatiable.

“I’m sorry, baby, I know it’s a rule. I understand it. It’s jus’ my brain doesn’t work properly, all the blood is down there.”

“Oh, right,” you softly giggled, “Let me shut you up then.”

You lifted your hips, making his cock almost leave the heaven of your cunt, but when the tip was close to slipping out, you sank back down on his manhood inch by inch, gliding your hands over his broad chest.

Joel’s mouth got slack and you both moaned at the ecstatic sensation of him, filling you up again.

With a groan Joel swiftly put his mouth on your breast and you whimpered when he swirled his tongue around your perky nipple. While he was gently sucking and licking your tits, you were languidly riding him, as soft whimpers were leaving your half parted mouth. At one point you nuzzled his forehead and your hot breath on his lips let him imagine you kiss him. His fingers dug into your hips but just for a second. Afraid to hurt you he glided them over your back and arms. He raised his lips to your neck and kissed your skin there.

Joel knew that he was getting close. His hand slithered to your pussy and he slipped his thumb between your folds. He found your clit hardened and throbbing for attention. He began stroking it slowly and you reacted immediately with the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“Joel,” you breathed out and he clenched his jaw, trying not to explode right then and there.

“Want you to come on my cock, baby.”

You stopped bouncing on his member and he saw you furrow your brows in concentration.

He made his thumb dance faster over your bud and soon your pussy was pulsating around his cock. Your contracting walls sent him over the edge and he started coming, filling up the condom inside you. Oh, how he wished to paint your walls with his creamy load but rules are rules.

As you both started descending from your highs, panting heavily, Joel held you in his big arms and you rested on his broad chest. You were breathing into the crease between his neck and shoulder and at one point he thought you’d fallen asleep.

But the next second you sat up straight on his lap with a satisfied smile. You gently kissed his scruffy cheek and he tried not to purr like a happy cat.

You cuddled a little bit more but soon his time was over.

“Can I see you again?” He asked when you got out of the bed.

“I’d love to, Joel,” you replied, putting on your underwear, “Text me when you have a day in mind.”

You looked like you wanted to say something but stopped yourself. You put on your clothes, kissed his cheek again and left.

After the first time with you Joel knew immediately it wasn’t the last. The need to have you, to be with you again squeezed his heart as soon as that hotel door closed behind you. But he wasn’t rich. He couldn’t spend all his money on you. So he started saving up here and there, anything he could, without damaging the level of life of his daughter.

He texted you as soon as he had enough to pay you and you told him that your regulars got a discount which was a nice surprise for him.

Joel invited you to his place. Sarah was at a sleepover and he had the house for himself for a night. He needed just a couple of hours, no way he could afford a whole night with you.

When you arrived at his place, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a tank top, his mouth immediately started watering. He tried to be a gentleman and a good host and gave you a tour of the house, but when you stepped into his bedroom, all his decency came crashing down. Soon your jeans were discarded on the floor while his head was between your trembling thighs. Joel was licking up your juices straight from the source, grunting into your wet cunt and fucking his tongue into your clenching hole. He was fully clothed, grinding his hard cock against the bed and staining his gray sweatpants.

You were singing for him so beautifully when he began plunging his thick fingers in and out of your heat while his mouth was gently sucking on your throbbing clit. Your back was arched and your hands were clutching his dark curls. He curled his fingers, pushing on that soft spot inside your creaming pussy once, twice and you came, crying out his name, while your walls were fluttering around his digits.

When he parted from your puffy glistening cunt, he saw tears in your hazy eyes. Joel was happy he still got it but what filled his chest with pride was that he made you cry and writhe with ecstasy.

"I'm here, baby. You did so good for me," Joel praised you, climbing up the bed and taking you in his arms. You were trying to catch your breath and he gave you a respite, manhandling you so your head would be resting on his broad shoulder.

"Thank you, Joel, you didn't have to," you mumbled.

"Have to? Sweetheart, it was my pleasure."

He heard your giggle, followed by a content sigh. His hard cock was tenting his gray sweatpants but he didn't care. He was happy to hold you, breathe in the fruity scent of your hair, and when a few minutes later he saw you peacefully sleeping in his embrace, his heart almost burst with affection. He closed his eyes for a second and drifted off too.

Joel woke up in the middle of the night when he felt you move in your sleep. He must have woken you up as you started to shuffle next to him and then sat up straight.

“Fuck! I fell asleep?” You asked, eyes widened, covering your naked thighs with a bedspread.

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’m so sorry, Joel. It’s never happened before. Oh my god, it’s so unprofessional.”

He hastily sat up next to you, taking your hands in his.

“Hey, no. It’s ok. I loved sleeping with you— next to you.”

He smiled, leaning closer to you and rubbing your hands with his thumbs, trying to reassure you and it seemed to work because you gave him an apologetic smile but he felt you relax a little.

“I won’t take any money from you today.”

“No, you spent so much time with me. I owe you even more.”

“Joel, you ate me out, made me come, and then I fell asleep. I definitely don’t deserve to get paid,” you giggled. “The way I see it I owe you now.”

“I’ll think about the career change,” Joel chuckled and at the same time he felt his cock get harder when you talked about the oral. The arousal he had felt before falling asleep came back with a renewed force and swept him away.

He wasn’t smiling anymore, his gaze slid up and down your body and the air in the room got heavier.

“What did you like the most?” he asked as his eyes darkened.

Your breath hitched and even in the dim light of the room he saw your pupils dilate. You dropped your gaze for a second and when you raised your eyes, they were filled with need and desire.

“I loved how much you enjoyed it. How good you were. It felt amazing when your mouth was on my clit. When you were sucking it,” you bit your lip almost shyly and your words went straight to his cock.

You whispered, “Should I go or…?”

“I wanna fuck you,” Joel interrupted you, palming his stiffening bulge, and you quickly nodded before throwing away the bedspread and taking off your top. Your tits bounced as you straddled him and he wrapped his big arms around your naked body.

Joel let you take off his shirt and when your lips latched onto his neck he held you closer and flipped you on the bed, covering you with his body.

You gasped at the fast shift but then moaned when Joel pulled his cock out of his sweatpants.

It was already hard as a rock and wet with precum under his fingers. He gave it a few pumps to spread it over his heated skin.

“Shit, condoms.”

He hastily reached to grab a pack from the nightstand. He opened one, while your fingers were caressing him, dancing over his torso and arms. As soon as the protection was on, you pulled him closer and he pushed his length into you without any warning. He had already stretched you with his tongue and fingers so his tip easily slipped into your crying hole.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” Joel breathed out and started rolling his hips. His lips were caressing every spot he could reach and you were kissing his shoulders and neck.

Without pausing he braced his hands on the bed, hovering over you, his dark gaze locked with yours. He wanted to memorize every lip bite, every twitch of your brows when his cock was sliding in and out your needy cunt. You were so wet for him, he felt your juices on his balls and inner thighs and he closed his eyes trying not to come too soon.

“Look at me, Joel,” you purred and he immediately did what you asked. Your gaze slid from his dark eyes to his lips and it took everything from him not to kiss you right now.

He leaned down and instead gently kissed your heated cheek, leaving a wet spot on your soft skin. With a whimper you wrapped your legs around his waist and started grinding your hips, chasing your orgasm by rubbing your little clit against his pubic bone.

“Do ya wanna come, sweetheart?

“Only if you want me to, Joel,” you breathed out and he furrowed his brows, reminded of the nature of your relationship.

“ ‘course I do.”

With that he pulled away from you and sat up on his knees between your sweaty thighs. “Let me…,” he pulled out and you whined.

“Oh, baby, so impatient.”

You bit your lip with a sly smile but Joel quickly wiped it off your face when he took the condom off and asked,

“Can I slap your pretty pussy with my cock, sweetheart?” He gripped his cock at the base, squeezing it a little to postpone his climax and when you whispered a sultry ‘yes’ he slapped your clit with the tip of his throbbing length.

“Oh my god, Joel!” you cried out with a jerk, looking up at him with your brows pulled together and eyes rolling back.

“You like it?” He asked and when you nodded he started slapping your pulsating bud with his cock again and again until he saw some slick, seeping out of your clenching hole. He rubbed his red tip against it, coating his manhood with your juices, and began grinding it between your folds. His tip was bumping into your clit rhythmically and your taut muscles told him that you were close to your climax.

“Come for me, baby, please,” he asked softly and slapped your clit one more time. A jolt of pleasure made you shut your eyes and a loud moan escaped your lips. Wanting to prolong your orgasm and chasing his, Joel pressed his tip to your clit with his hand and started thrusting his cock, rubbing your twitching clit and at the same time massaging his whole length against your soft pussy and his own palm.

The overwhelming sensation, your sweet sounds and the sight of you coming in his bed made him explode and he began spurting creamy ropes of cum on your belly and sternum. He growled when a few drops landed on your bouncing breasts.

When you both stilled and the ecstasy started dissipating he sat down on his heels and watched you for a few seconds.

Joel wanted to remember that image- you, beautiful and satisfied, eyes shut, chest and belly heaving, was splayed on his bed, body glistening with sweat and cum. The happiness soon mixed with regret and the feeling of longing for more, wishing you were really truly his tightened his chest. But the reality was cruel. You didn’t need a single father in your life, you were free and your whole life was ahead of you.

Your curious gaze interrupted his thoughts.

“What are you thinking about, Joel?” You asked with a warm smile.

“I'm thinking my bed has never looked better than now.”

Your smile turned into a grin and you started to sit up but Joel stopped you with a raised hand.

“Let me clean you up, sweetheart.”

He went to the bathroom to get a wet towel and then gently wiped away his cum off your skin.

Before you left, he hugged you, breathing in the scent of your hair one more time and you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

You kept seeing each other for another month. Joel preferred his place to hotels and whenever he had the house for himself and got enough spare money, he would text you. In his own home it was easier to imagine you as his girlfriend, or even wife. He knew that it wasn’t healthy and he was getting a little delusional but it made him happy to think that you were his. If only in his dreams.

Sometimes Joel would literally dream about you. He’d wake up hard, yearning for your touch, your lips on his body, your gentle fingers running through his hair. It was easy to imagine you there with him. His hand would pump his needy cock and the image of you behind his eyelids was enough to make him come, groaning into his pillow.

As time passed Joel got more confident in expressing his desires. The possibilities were endless and you always looked excited whenever he suggested trying something new.

Like the time your eyes glinted with mischief when he asked if he could edge you the next time. Just the idea of making you beg for a climax made him rock hard. So during your next session he had you tied to his bed, as you were whimpering and pleading for a release, a vibrator in his hand pressed to your puffy clit. Though he caved in quite fast and finished you off with his thick fingers massaging your core, his teasing made you squirt and Joel lapped it all up with the wildest eyes and an aching cock. You returned the favor by drinking him till the last drop after he shoved his cock down your throat keeping you in place with his hands clutching your hair.

He loved experimenting with you, loved being rougher. But more often he craved making love to you, wanted you softly purring under his big body, as his cock was buried deep inside your heat, your pussy fluttering around him. He still couldn’t kiss you but your neck, your breasts, your cheeks were enough for him. Yet he couldn’t deny it— he was down bad for you.

“What is it, baby?” Joel asked you, pulling away from your neck that he was peppering with open mouth kisses a moment ago.

You were sitting on his lap, wearing a pretty summer dress and his only thought was to tear it off you but when his hands started roaming your body, you jerked and sniffed.

“Nothing. Everything’s ok, Joel,” you replied softly and nuzzled his neck. He knew something was wrong and you were hiding your pretty face. During the time he had known you, he learnt to read your body language and even feel your mood. So Joel stopped his ministrations immediately and kissed the top of your head.

“You can tell me, sweetheart. If you want.”

For a few minutes, he was holding you in his arms, rubbing your forearm with his thumb. Finally you took a deep breath, not raising your head off his shoulder, and opened up.

“I had a session with a new client yesterday. It was horrible.”

As soon as he heard your soft voice, saying that, his insides burned.

“Who? What did he do to you?”

He took your chin between his fingers and tilted your head up to face him.

When he saw tears in your eyes, he immediately wanted to rip that asshole apart. But your expression told him that you needed him to be gentle, to be there with you and he wanted to give you that.

“He was really degrading. Clients want it sometimes but it hadn’t been discussed and the things he said— made me feel like a cheap hooker. He didn’t hurt me though,” you added hastily but Joel saw that he had. Not physically but that fucker had made you really upset.

“I should talk some sense into the asshole. Can you give me his name?”

“No, no,” you were shaking your head, “I can’t. It’s all confidential. I’ll get over it and won’t see him again of course.”

You took a deep breath before mumbling,

“I’m sorry for ruining the mood.”

Then you reached for his belt buckle but Joel’s hand stopped you and he placed your hands between his big palms.

“No, you’re not in the mood. It’s ok. Can we just cuddle?

“But— I will be in a second. I’m professional, Joel.” You shot him almost a fiery glance and pouted your lips.

“Hey, baby, your client here—,” Joel pointed a thumb at himself with raised eyebrows and a sly smile, “wants to role play a big spoon tonight. Can we do that?”

“You’re so kinky”, you said with a giggle and lay down on the bed. In a second he was holding you, his chest pressed to your back, his strong arms embracing you, giving you comfort.

He was semi hard and surely you noticed it. He felt the warmth of your skin through the thin material of your dress and it drove him insane but the way you flinched at his touch, your tears, your shaky voice told him you wanted him to just hold you. For the second time you fell asleep in his arms and he woke you up with a kiss on your soft cheek the next morning.

Another month passed. As weird as it might have sounded, you became a huge part of his life. He knew every crevice, every curve of your body, knew every hope and dream. He kissed every spot on you, except for your beautiful lips. He tasted them a million times in his imagination but with time it stopped being enough. So he decided to invite you to celebrate his birthday with his family and the closest friends and finally ask you out on a real date.

Joel was nervous when you stepped into his house that day. Tommy raised his eyebrows, surprised to see you there, but fortunately didn’t ask or say anything. You seemed anxious as well at first, but after introducing you to everyone, Joel was happy to notice you chatting with the other guests, giggling with Sarah about something and when his daughter pulled you upstairs to show you her drawings, warmth spread in his chest. He was glad and relieved that you two got along. He wasn’t looking for a mother for his child, he would never ask you to take such a responsibility, but it was important to him that you two could be friends.

Just before dessert you asked him if you could talk privately. Tommy gave Joel a wink, lips twisted in a smirk, when you two headed upstairs, and the older brother just rolled his eyes.

When you stepped into Joel’s bedroom, his cock twitched in his jeans. It was a Pavlovian reflex at this point. He was used to seeing you there naked, your gorgeous body wriggling in his bed, whimpers and moans escaping your mouth.

But Joel told himself to calm down when you came up to him with a serious expression on your pretty face.

“Joel…,” you started and dropped your eyes, fumbling with your fingers.

“Yes, baby?” His heart started pounding in his chest. Always calm and self assured you seemed really nervous and the change scared him. What if you decided to break off whatever weird relationship you two had, what if…

You interrupted his thoughts when you raised your face to him and a little shy smile tugged at your lips.

“I want to give you your birthday present.”

He opened his mouth to say that you hadn’t have to do it, seeing you there was enough but he paused when you inched closer, your big sparkling eyes staring right into his soul. Then your gaze slid down to his lips and Joel seemed to stop breathing. He felt your palms on his forearms and then you slightly pressed your lips to his. They were barely there at first, hesitant, waiting for him to react.

He had been imagining that moment, dreaming of it for so long, so his hands immediately flew to your waist and he pressed his body closer to yours, welcoming your kiss with his whole being.

Joel’s lips started moving against yours, gently and slowly as if he was afraid to scare you away, to ruin the moment. But when he heard you sigh happily against him and your body relaxed into his, Joel wrapped his arms tightly around your torso. He wished that moment to last forever, wanted to never have to let you go.

His tongue brushed your lower lip, asking for permission to breach the last divide between you two, and you graced him by opening your mouth and letting him taste you fully. His tongue was caressing yours while his hands were gliding over your back. Then Joel gently cupped your cheek and tilted his head to give you the best kiss he could. You were so sweet and soft, so warm and lovely on his tongue and he didn’t care that you could probably feel his cock swell against your belly. Your ability to make him hard in seconds was not a secret to the both of you and he bucked his hips against your body with a soft groan.

Joel felt your smile on his lips and playfully squeezed your ass cheeks.

You giggled, your mouth parting from his.

“Happy birthday, Joel,” you whispered, putting your head on his shoulder and nuzzling his neck.

“Thank you for the best birthday present, baby.”

Joel kissed your forehead and you fluttered your eyes shut with a happy smile.

“Sweetheart?” he called.

“Yes.”

“Will you have dinner with me?”

You lifted your head and your eyes locked.

“Like— on a date?”

“Yes.”

Your lips twisted into the widest grin he’d seen on you and you nodded.

“Really?” he asked, making sure that he was really that lucky, “Fuck, I know I’m not a catch. My life is chaotic and I’m a single dad and…”

“Shh,” you placed your finger on his lips and said softly, “I’d love to date you, Joel Miller.”

Joel beamed at you and embraced you in a tight hug.

“I quit escort,” you murmured against his chest and Joel furrowed his brows.

“Is it because of me? Sweetheart, I’d never ask you to quit your job. If you like it I won’t …”

“I don’t. I don’t like it anymore. After that guy I realized I wanna do something else.”

“Ok. Whatever you decide, baby,” he said and then added with a little smile, “I can still pay you though.”

You laughed at him and playfully punched his shoulder. “Shut up, Joel.”

He took your face between his big palms, marveling at your beautiful face, and whispered, “You know how to shut me up, baby.”

You smiled and pressed your lips to his.

Joel opened his eyes to see the early morning sun peeking through the blinds and your face twisted in pleasure just before his. He soon realized that your wet warm pussy was wrapped around his hard cock and you were slowly grinding against him, lying on your side, face to face, your leg thrown over his waist.

He moaned at the sudden pleasure and you noticed that he was up.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, honey. I just— I wanted you so much I couldn’t stop myself.”

You were breathing heavily and he wrapped his arms around your naked body and began rolling his hips, helping you to reach your high and chasing his.

“Never apologize for this, baby. I woke up in heaven thanks to you.”

You smiled and kissed him while his hand slithered between your slightly sweaty bodies and he slid his thumb between your folds to stroke your hardened clit. He was swallowing your moans and tried to get his own ecstatic growling under control, not wishing to wake up Sarah.

Soon you both exploded in each other’s arms and Joel flooded your pussy with his warm cum while you were writhing and trembling with euphoria against him.

When your climax subsided, you rested your head on his shoulder. He was drawing patterns on your back until you lifted your head to give him one more kiss.

“Sarah wanted pancakes for breakfast. I’m gonna go make some batter,” you said, getting out of bed and putting on your robe.

“I’ll help you. Be up in a minute.”

You smiled at him and bent over to give him a peck on the cheek but he swiftly pulled you back into his embrace, searching for your lips. You giggled and soon melted into his arms, while he was kissing you, passion and love in every stroke of his lips and tongue.

You were his, fully and completely, and all the fears evaporated when he realized that you were the final puzzle piece, missing from his life. He would do anything to make you happy.

“I love you,” Joel whispered against your lips.

“I love you too,” you murmured back.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic, it motivates me to write more stories for you, lovelies!❤️

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#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel smut #joel fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #pre outbreak!joel #tw sex work #cw sex work

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yzzyhee · 10 months ago

Text

love bite — sjy

bf!jake x gf! reader

warnings: established relationship, suggestive (minors dni), kissing/making out?, biting, marking, grinding, hair pulling, petnames (baby) , smallcases written work

wc: 930~

synopsis: your boyfriend’s collarbone makes you give dracula a small run for his money

a/n: i actually wrote for a second time. wow. it had to be done… anyway! genuinely don’t know what i did nor do i want to know anymore 😃 but this is mainly for myself bc i can’t either bite his or my wife’s collarbone so @ja3yun, angel, this one is for you. i wish to do to u what yn did to jakey 🙂‍↕️ or i just want jake idk anymore send help but anyway feedbacks are appreciated 🧛

“stop staring.”

“hm?”

“yn.”

you smile innocently at your boyfriend as he gives you a pointed look. to be honest, you have been staring at him — specifically his collarbone that is currently peaking from under his hoodie.

“can you please focus?”

oh, right. jake’s been trying to explain to you the material from the latest physics class but you seem to lose your focus. and how could you not? his pretty, kind of — definitely — suckable collarbone is just sitting there, waiting for you to bite on… you’re just a girl after all.

“let me bite you.” you say suddenly and for a second your eyes widen, surprised that you actually voiced your thoughts.

jake tilts his head and looks at you with a curious look. you’re not usually the dominant one in the relationship, always letting him to take the lead in your intimate moments.

although his focus should remain on the task at hand, your outburst has diverted him into your way of thinking and now his thoughts are filled of your soft lips on his skin and the way you look at him sends a small shiver down his spine as heat courses through his veins.

he leans back against the headboard of his bed, his hoodie somehow slipping a little further down his shoulder, exposing more of that collarbone you’ve been eyeing so intently.

“you want to bite me?” he asks, voice low, almost teasing.

you bite your bottom lip and nod, feeling confident now that you sense the desire in his voice.

“just a little bit.” you murmur, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips as you move closer to him and let your fingers brush against the fabric of his hoodie, tugging it down more to expose that tempting, just so tempting skin of his.

jake’s breath hitches as he watches you. it’s not like you to be so forward and that contrast between your usual shyness, submissive attitude versus this sudden boldness is making his heart race. he doesn’t stop you when you press your lips to his collarbone, slowly kissing the exposed skin. your teeth graze him without notice and he feels a jolt of electricity run through him.

“yn…” he breathes out, his hands instinctively finding your waist, pulling you closer as your lips work their way along his collarbone. the softness of your lips kissing, tongue peaking out to lick at his skin and the nip of your teeth is driving him insane, each touch of yours going straight to his dick as he feels himself getting hard.

you’re so focused on him, lost in the sensation of his warm skin beneath your mouth that you barely notice the way his hands tighten around you, pulling you into his lap and making you straddle him.

you let out a small gasp, feeling his hard on pressing into your core. his hands make their way to your back, lowering you completely on him.

you detach yourself from his collarbone and move to look at him. your breath halts as you see him looking at you with darkened eyes and slightly parted lips. he drops his gaze on your glossy lips, touching them slowly with his thumb. you part them, biting down on his finger.

his eyes seem to darken even more, his lips crashing against yours, hungry and demanding. his hands find the hem of your shirt and he doesn’t even think twice before he pulls it over your head.

he breaks your kiss to look at you and you suddenly feel a bit shy under his gaze as he’s taking you in, staring as if you’re the beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

you take advantage of him staring at you and you take control to reach the zipper of his hoodie, your fingers brushing against his chest as you pull it down, revealing more of the skin you’ve been craving.

you lean in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, revelling in the way his breath comes in short gasps and the way his grip on your waist tightens.

“baby, you’re driving me insane…” he groans, his voice strained and filled with a kind of desperation that feeds into your ego and makes you start rocking back and forth slowly on him.

you smile at his words, enjoying the effect you have on him. “i like driving you insane.” you whisper against his bone and feeling brave, you give him small kitten licks along it.

he swallows thickly as your kisses move slowly higher, settling on a spot just near his pulse, feeling it pounding. you let your lips part against his skin as you begin to suck gently, your tongue flicking against him and teeth biting into as you work on leaving him with your mark.

jake moans again and bucks himself up into you. the sound spurs you on and you suck and bite a little harder, feeling his heartbeat quicken. as you pull back you’re greeted by the sight of a dark mark blossoming on his skin and you smile in satisfaction.

his hands glide up your back, fingers threading into your flowing hair. with a firm grip, he gently tugs, tilting your head back to expose your neck and the curve of your chest, barely covered by your bra. he leans closer, his warm breath hovering over your skin. his lips graze your collarbone, pressing a slow, lingering kiss before his tongue begins to trace along the delicate ridge.

“my turn to bite," he murmurs with a cheshire-cat grin, and you've never been more grateful for giving voice to your desires.

#— 💭 mars ; written work #jake hard thoughts #jake hard hours #jake sim x reader #jake x reader #enhypen jake fic #enhypen scenarios #enhypen smut #jake sim fic #jake smut #enhypen fic #jake imagines #SIM JAEYUN LET ME BITE YOU #— 💭 mars ; jakey thoughts

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bitters-n-sweets · 9 days ago

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clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

“All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You moved away from home at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.

#andrew cody x fem reader #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody #pope cody x fem reader #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew cody x you #andrew pope cody x you #andrew cody angst #pope cody angst

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doggiewoggiez · 2 months ago

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our money all got eaten away by old bills and having to print things and drive to courthouses and post office and mail things trying to get stupid stupid legal stuff done so my sister can get her passport (gender marker change so she's in danger) and even though tax return happened its all gone and we won't make rent and now she's sick and doing really bad and im worried for her and its worse than ive seen her before so she might need to go to the doctor (no insurance) im scared this is all really really really expensive and scary and that's without paying electric yet or water or anything and i need to get her medicine to feel better she's on the coughing part now and i can hear it across the house please im sorry i didn't think id have to do this this month.

even if she wasn't sick and we had money we're going to need to drive to california to update her id because we're trapped in texas she has to change her name and gender marker BACK to her birth info to try and get a passport so we can get out of here and so how how is anything going to ever work when we're this screwed

i can make a better ebeg post ill dance for you please for now if help anyone can please we need like a hundred to make rent and probably more for other bills and then maybe medicine hope not need doctor ubt. im sorry

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practicalsolarpunk · 3 months ago

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Book Club

What is a book related to solarpunk that has made you feel like a different person after reading it? That changed the way you looked at an issue, that made you reevaluate everything you knew about a topic, that made you walk around in a daze as thoughts swirled around your head too fast to make sense of? (That last one might just be me)

Let's talk about them! I'll go first. Walkable Cities: How downtown can save America, one step at a time, by Jeff Speck.

I'm actually not even all the way through it yet, but it's making me want to pack up and move to a city, when I have always been rather adamant that I never want to live in that populated of an area, after having lived rural for so much of my life. The idea of not having to own a car or drive one is incredibly appealing, but the evidence provided about the impacts of so many of us having personal vehicles is damning. The fact that so many cities are intentionally designed for cars, at the literal monetary expense of pedestrians, is absurd. The amount of pollution that is produced, the dependence on gas, the fact that most of the money spent on cars and fuel goes straight out of the community and to line the pockets of the rich is infuriating. Electric and hybrid cars don't solve these problems.

So this book is changing my life. What book should I read next that will change it more?

#books #book recs #solarpunk

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rafeobx · 19 days ago

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THE GHOST BETWEEN US

MASTERLIST

ex!rafe x maybank!reader

plot: it’s been months since you ended things with rafe—ever since jj found out about your secret and gave you an ultimatum. everything’s different now: rafe’s with sofia, jj has kiara… and you? you’re alone. but everyone knows the truth — no matter who he’s with, rafe still loves you.

warnings: lots angst, jealousy, KOOK sofia

he’s with sofia now.

everyone knows it. she’s pretty. polished. safe. she wears white dresses and pearl earrings. she knows how to laugh at the right time, say the right thing, never ask too many questions. she’s from his world. the world that smells like old money and champagne on docks and names whispered like legacies.

she doesn’t come with war in her eyes and rebellion in her veins. she doesn’t come with the name maybank tangled in hers. she doesn’t make his father flinch when she walks into a room.

but everyone also knows that rafe still checks the old dock, still drives by the chateau late at night, lights off, heart clenching, still wears the chain you gave him that he keeps tucked under his shirt, hidden like a wound that never healed.

he moved on the way people do when they’re trying not to die—not because he stopped loving you.

and sofia isn’t blind,—she sees the way he stiffens when someone says your name, she sees how he zones out, staring at nothing, lost in a memory only he knows.

she kisses him, and he kisses her back but not like he kissed you.

never like you. he doesn’t say her name like it’s a prayer because she’s not you.

and no matter how many months pass — no matter how many pictures he lets her post, how many family dinners he shows up for, how many times she whispers i love you into the curve of his neck —his heart still belongs to the girl who walked away for blood, the girl who left to protect her brother, the girl who shattered both of them just to keep her world from burning even if it killed her, too.

the first time you saw him again was by accident.

midsummers. you weren’t even supposed to be there. kie had begged you to get out of your slump and jj promised they’d keep it chill and you thought, maybe, just maybe, if enough time had passed, it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

you were wrong.

he walked in with sofia at his side, tan and polished in his pressed white shirt and baby-blue tux, with that cruel kind of beauty that still made your lungs falter and your breath hitch.

he looked like a dream you weren’t allowed to touch anymore and when his eyes found yours across the crowd, he froze. everything around you blurred. you didn’t see sofia. you didn’t see the others staring between you and him. all you saw was him and the sea of distance between you.

you looked away, the ache in your chest spilled out of your ribs and onto the floor, deciding to leave before you could break. but rafe followed.

he always did.

you were standing out on the club stairs when you heard him behind you. neither of you spoke right away.

the ocean stretched out in front of you, but all you could feel was the air between you two—thick, electric, still alive.

“i tried,” you finally whispered, not turning around. “i tried to forget you.” his voice came slower. raw. honest. “so did i.” then you turned and there he was. the boy who tore through your world like a storm. you looked at each other like the pain had never left. because the truth was—it hadn't.

and in his eyes, you saw it all--the nights he stayed up thinking of you, the chain under his shirt, the truth he couldn’t say with sofia in his arms.

he still loved you and that was the cruelest part of all.

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vamptizm · 26 days ago

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SNOOZE — p. bueckers vi.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: slight angst. nothing else i think.

word count: 6225

note: i know i took my sweet time… so sorry… but hey y’all better actually like and reblog ts since you’ve been asking for me and threatening me like ANIMALS (jk)

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The days that followed the preseason game against the Aces passed like molasses. Thick with tension, unspoken words, and the residue of a night neither of them could erase—no matter how hard Soraya tried.

She hadn’t spoken to Paige since that night. Not really. Not after Paige had shown up at her hotel room, eyes stormy with need and confusion, not after Soraya had pushed her far away. Soraya could still feel the weight of those words sitting heavy in her chest. A mistake. She’d meant them when she said it. Or at least she’d tried to.

The silence after had been brutal.

It wasn’t just awkward now, it was charged. And that charge, that tightrope of volatile energy, was exactly what Soraya didn’t trust herself with. So she pulled back.

Hard.

The first step? Cutting out the most intimate inconvenience. Rides to and from practice.

Her old car had been sitting at the shop for weeks, and after getting a final call about the cost of repairs, she’d barely blinked before deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle. She had the money. NIL deals during her college years, quite a few good endorsements, and smart savings had left her more than stable. She didn’t need to keep driving around an old car out of sentimentality. That was old Soraya, too attached to the familiar, too scared to let go.

The new her needed something that matched the version she wanted to be. Untouchable, sharp and unfazed.

So she walked into a dealership two mornings later and drove out with a sleek, matte dark green Ford Mustang GT5. The engine purred beneath her hands like it belonged to her. Fast. Beautiful. Built to outrun things.

It suited her.

But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to face Paige directly.

Instead, she handed the news off to Dijonai, muttering something about not wanting drama, not wanting to give mixed signals. "Just let her know I don’t need the rides anymore," she said flatly, eyes fixed on the floor of the locker room as she laced up her shoes.

Dijonai raised a brow but didn’t push. “Alright. I’ll tell her.”

When Paige got the message, standing by her locker with her bag slung over one shoulder after Soraya had already left, she went still. The words hit a place inside her that was already sore and raw.

“Oh,” she said, voice tight. “Cool. Makes sense.”

She nodded like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t a slap in the face. Like she hadn’t secretly waited to feel needed again. Like she hadn’t hoped for one more silent drive with Soraya sitting beside her, moody and quiet, maybe, but present.

She doesn’t want to be around you, Paige reminded herself. She made that clear.

Still, the image of Soraya behind the wheel of that gorgeous car, wind teasing her hair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, lips parted around a straw or a smirk. God. It haunted her.

The distance between them only stretched wider in the days after. At practice, Soraya barely looked her way unless it was during drills. On court, they were seamless, electric. Off court? It was like Paige didn’t exist.

And yet, every time she glanced up, she found Soraya already looking. Only for a second. Just long enough to feel it like a spark behind the ribs.

Then she'd turn away. But Paige felt it. Every time. And it was starting to drive her insane.

She didn’t let the disappointment show. Didn’t let it register anywhere but in the pit of her stomach, where it tightened like a cramp she refused to acknowledge.

She was Paige Bueckers. Calm. Composed. A rookie in the W, carrying the weight of expectations with her usual quiet grace. People had always talked about her like she was inevitable. Her game. Her presence. Her poise. She had girls lining up for a chance to be close. She was not supposed to be distracted. Not by someone she barely knew. Not by a teammate. Not by her.

And yet… here she was.

Checking the parking lot before every practice. Watching for the flash of matte green. Wondering what song Soraya was playing. Who she was thinking about. If she ever looked over and thought about that night. The one Paige couldn’t stop replaying, no matter how hard she tried.

It pissed her off. Not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much, when she knew better.

This was supposed to be her season. Her career. Her focus. And yet, all it took was a quiet look, a cold shoulder, a memory that burned hotter than it should’ve—and suddenly Soraya was in her head again, uninvited and immovable.

She hated it.

But she couldn't stop it.

The next days were blurred.

Practice, film, weight room, media, repeat. The second preseason game against the Toyota Antelopes had come and gone—another checkmark on the calendar, a win in the books. The team looked sharp, energized, ready. The coaching staff was optimistic. Reporters were already crafting headlines about the Wings’ potential chemistry, their balance of veterans and fresh legs, the fire humming just beneath the surface, waiting for more fuel until it’d burn down the other teams.

And yet, beneath all that buzz, Soraya felt like she was unraveling.

Not visibly. Not obviously. That was never her way. On court she was still locked in, sharp passes and quick reads, knockdown threes from the corner pocket. The moment the ball was in her hands, she came alive. But once the drills were over, once the lights dimmed and the structure dissolved into silence, something in her dimmed too.

She was quieter than usual. Not that she was ever the loud one, but even her normal, dry one liners had gone missing. She lingered behind at practice, always the last to leave the locker room. Her headphones were in more than out. Even Dijonai couldn’t get much more than a “nah, I’m good” when she offered to hang after practice.

By the time the regular season opener hovered less than 24 hours away, it was becoming noticeable.

She told herself it was nerves. Told the others the same, when anyone asked. Just the usual preseason jitters, nothing to worry about. Everyone got a little on edge before the first official tip. It was believable.

And yet the dread in her chest felt nothing like nerves.

It was heavier. Denser. Less like static and more like pressure, pressing behind her ribs, building with every hour. Not quite fear, not quite sadness. Something tangled in between.

Soraya knew what it was, even if she refused to say it aloud. Even if she’d avoided watching the footage her assistant coach sent her of their first regular season opponent.

And that was the real reason her sleep had been light. Why her palms wouldn’t stop sweating. Why she hadn’t been able to finish a full meal in nearly two days, appetite evaporating as soon as she sat down.

The gym echoed with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers against polished hardwood, the dull thump of basketballs hitting the court, and the low murmur of teammates exchanging morning banter. Soraya moved through it all like a ghost—silent, focused, already dressed down in her black practice shorts and navy Dallas Wings tee. Her braids were pulled back, expression unreadable. She wasn’t there to socialize. Not today. Not ever, really.

She headed straight for Chris, who stood near the scorers' table, clipboard in hand, tracking player rotations before drills officially started.

"Coach," she said, voice low but firm. “What’s the fine looking like?”

Chris barely looked up. “For the T?”

She nodded once.

“Already handled.”

Soraya blinked. “What do you mean, ‘handled’?”

Chris flipped a page on his clipboard, shrugged. “Paid. You're good.”

The answer was too easy. Too vague. Soraya wasn’t the type to let details slip past her. “By who?”

“Don’t know,” he said with a casual whistle between his teeth. “Didn’t come from payroll. Someone paid it directly. Now go warm up, I need you sharp today.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. He blew the whistle, summoning the team into lines. Soraya didn’t move immediately. Her brows drew in as she watched him walk off, a hollow tightening blooming behind her ribs.

Who the hell would pay her fine?

It wasn’t cheap, two hundred, maybe a little more. And she could name on one hand the people with both the spare money and inclination to do something like that for her. Dijonai? Maybe. But even that felt off. Her best friend would've at least mentioned it—or made a joke out of it.

And that left one other possibility.

Soraya didn’t want to give the thought weight, didn’t want to let it curl into something more than passing curiosity, but as the team broke into pairs for drills and she heard Chris call out, “Bueckers, Mensima, you’re up first,” it became impossible to ignore.

Of course.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Practice went on like normal. On the surface, at least. Soraya and Paige moved fluidly through passing sequences, pick-and-roll drills, and shooting reps like they weren’t at odds. Their chemistry on court was undeniable—clean, practiced, electric—but the silence between them was deafening. Every glance was loaded. Every accidental touch burned.

Still, the question gnawed at her, sharper with each drill. Until finally, during a water break, Soraya caught sight of her across the gym.

Paige stood near the far bench, a towel slung over the back of her neck, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world could bother her. Lips wrapped around the mouth of her water bottle, cheeks faintly pink from exertion, strands of blonde hair curling at the edges of her temple. She looked disgustingly at ease.

Soraya’s jaw flexed.

She didn't want to walk over there. She didn’t want to give Paige the satisfaction, didn’t want to seem like she cared. But the question had rooted itself in her brain like a splinter, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go unless she asked.

So she did.

Crossing the gym, ignoring the way her stomach clenched with every step, Soraya stopped just short of her and spoke without preamble. “Did you pay my fine?”

Paige didn’t flinch, didn’t even stop typing. She simply lowered the water bottle, barely glanced up, and replied in the flattest tone imaginable, “Yup.”

That was it.

Yup

Soraya felt her fingers twitch at her sides. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she said, her voice tighter now, less measured. The irritation was starting to bleed through. She hated feeling indebted. Hated more that it was Paige who did it.

This time, Paige did look at her. Just for a second. Cool blue eyes meeting hers, unreadable. “And I didn’t ask you to play the hero for me.”

The words hit harder than Soraya expected.

Her breath caught, but only for a fraction of a second. “Wasn’t for you.”

A small, derisive snort slipped past Paige’s lips. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight it. Just gave a humorless smirk and said, “Sure.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Soraya stayed there, frozen in place. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She should’ve been angry. She was angry—at Paige’s arrogance, at her own stupidity, at how something so simple had already left her off balance again.

And yet, beneath the frustration, that same unbearable warmth lingered. The memory of Paige’s hands, her mouth, the way she looked at her—the same way she used to look at basketballs, at gold medals, like they were everything she ever wanted.

Soraya shut it down.

There was practice to finish.

And feelings had no place here. Not that there were any.

Soraya couldn’t go home.

The silence in that place was too loud. The air too still. The walls too thick, too suffocating when her thoughts started spiraling. It wasn’t even late when practice had ended, but the second she stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her, she felt it creeping in again—that familiar gnawing at her chest, the ache that came with memories she thought she’d already buried.

She didn’t bother changing out of her practice clothes. Just tossed a different shirt over her head, grabbed her keys, and left. She needed movement. Distraction. Chaos. Something to drown out the noise inside her own head.

So she drove. With the windows rolled down, letting the wind whip through the cabin as she sped through the city. First to her favorite café for a cold matcha that she barely tasted. Then to the little gelato place tucked between two shops, ordering a double scoop of pistachio she didn't finish. She stopped by an old bookstore she used to visit during her rookie year and browsed without buying anything. Wandered through a thrift store, then found herself at a trendy axe throwing place, pretending that the loud music and even louder laughter around her didn’t make her feel more alone than she already was.

By the time the sky had begun to fade into hues of lavender and gold, she was in Garland, parked in front of an empty playground she’d unintentionally passed and turned back around for. Something about it felt a little cinematic—quiet, tucked away, untouched.

She sat on one of the swings, her body heavy but her mind racing. The sun was melting into the horizon now, casting streaks of orange and purple across the clouds, bleeding into the blue that darkened with every passing second. Her legs rocked gently, the old swing creaking beneath her as she moved, half lost in the rhythm, half desperate to escape the storm behind her eyes.

She tried not to think of it all. Tried not to think about the game tomorrow. About what it meant. About who she might see again.

It shouldn't be bothering her—not after all this time. Not after all these years. Not when she'd rebuilt herself from the ground up. But it was. God, it was. And she hated herself for it.

She pulled out her phone and took a couple photos of the sky, even though she knew they wouldn’t do it justice. Then, almost instinctively, she opened her messages. Dijonai had texted her again. Something lighthearted, something sweet, trying to make her laugh. Soraya smiled faintly, but didn’t reply.

Instead, she shoved her phone into the back pocket of her sweats, forgetting to lock the screen.

A minute or so passed, the swing shifting in lazy motions beneath her. Then came the faint buzz against her lower back, soft and barely there, but enough to pull her out of her daze. She pulled the phone out, confused, and held it to her ear when she noticed the ongoing call.

“Hello?”

“Finally. What the fuck, Soraya? Why would you call me and not say a word?”

Her heart stopped.

That voice—it struck something deep. Familiar, unmistakable. A voice she hadn’t heard in more than monosyllables all week. A voice she’d almost convinced herself she didn’t miss hearing.

“I didn’t call you,” Soraya replied, a little too quickly. Her tone was flat, carefully neutral, but it carried a tremble if you listened closely. “Must’ve been a butt dial or something.”

There was a pause. Soraya could hear Paige breathing, could feel her hesitation.

Then, “Are you drunk?”

The question caught her off guard. “What? No.” Her brows pinched together. “I’m sober.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Bueckers,” she said, sharper now, exhaling slowly as she rubbed her palm over her chilled forearm. “I’m sure.”

Another long silence. Then Paige again, softer this time, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. “Where are you?”

The question shouldn’t have mattered, but something about the way she asked it made Soraya’s chest tighten. She almost lied. Almost told her to mind her business, hung up, put more distance between them like she’d promised herself she would.

But Paige's voice… there was something unguarded about it. Something tentative. Something that made her stay.

“Some playground in Garland,” Soraya finally answered, her voice low, trying to sound unaffected. “Was just... killing time.”

Another pause. Paige didn’t reply right away, and Soraya could picture her now—lips pressed together, trying to play it cool even though she was probably gripping her phone tighter than she meant to.

“It’s dark out,” Paige said eventually. Still calm, still even toned, but underneath it was something else. Something closer to concern.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“You’re out there alone?”

Soraya shrugged, even though Paige couldn’t see her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is.”

That made Soraya pause. The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have. She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes drifting to the last fading line of sun as it disappeared behind the trees.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just didn’t feel like being at home.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Paige replied gently. “I just… I think you should head back. It’s getting late.”

That tone—so measured, so casual—it nearly fooled Soraya. But not quite.

She hated how that did something to her.

“Yeah. I was about to,” she lied, standing slowly and dusting off her hands, pretending like she hadn’t been planning on staying until the stars came out.

There was another stretch of silence on the line, the air now filled only with the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the distant chatter of cicadas.

Neither of them said what they really wanted to say. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Do you miss me?’ ‘Why does it still feel like this?’

Instead, Paige cleared her throat softly. “Get home safe.”

Soraya let out a quiet breath. “I will.”

And then, for just a moment, she hesitated before ending the call, not wanting to let go of the only warmth she'd felt all day. But she pressed the red button anyway.

The screen went black.

She slid the phone into her pocket and walked toward her car under the darkening sky. For the first time in days, her head was a little quieter.

The drive home was a blur of neon lights, long stretches of highway, and bass-thumping music so loud it rattled her windows. Soraya didn’t care. The volume wasn’t for enjoyment, it was survival. Every beat, every lyric, every thunderous crash of sound was another wall built to keep her own thoughts out.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached, veins standing out across her hands like tension made visible. Her jaw was clenched, brows drawn together, eyes fixed ahead, but not really seeing. She was still stuck back there—on that swing, under the sunset, with Paige’s voice lingering in her ear like a ghost she hadn’t asked for.

She didn’t know why it was affecting her so much. Why this, of all things, had cracked another thing open inside her, as if whatever she was currently fighting against, wasn’t enough. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spoken in weeks. It wasn’t like she cared that much. So what the hell was wrong with her?

“Get over it.” she muttered aloud to herself as she pulled into her spot and cut the engine.

But even as the engine died, the storm didn’t.

The silence that followed was deafening, so she moved quickly. Grabbed her bag, locked the doors, and climbed the stairs to her apartment two at a time, like rushing through it would somehow spare her from the weight pressing into her chest.

The second she got inside, she flicked on the lights, tossed her keys somewhere on the kitchen counter, and kicked her shoes off with little care for where they landed. Her shirt came next, flung over the back of a chair, her body now chilled from the evening air but still overheated from the mental war she’d been losing all day.

When she finally collapsed into bed, the ceiling stared back at her, blank and cold and offering no comfort. She rolled to her side, dragging her comforter over her legs, phone still in her hand.

She didn’t want to check it. Didn’t want to invite anything else into her head tonight.

But the screen lit up anyway. One message.

Bueckers: did u get home safe?

It wasn’t a long text. Wasn’t poetic. No punctuation beyond the question mark. No capitalization. So plainly Paige. So casually worded, like it didn’t mean much at all.

Soraya stared at it for a while, the glow of her phone soft against the shadows of her bedroom. She reread it three, four, five times over, fingers hovering above the screen like she wasn’t sure how to respond—or if she even should.

She considered liking it. Just tapping the little thumbs up and being done with it.

But something inside her moved before she could second guess herself.

pretty ice queen: yes.

Simple and distant, but a reply nonetheless.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t even stay to see if the message would get marked as read. She locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow, rolling onto her back with a long, shaky exhale.

The room was still. Too still. Her thoughts began to creep back in almost immediately, uninvited and relentless. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing, tried to convince herself that everything was fine. That it was just another night before another game.

But she couldn’t shake the tension sitting heavy in her limbs. Couldn’t shake the sound of Paige’s voice from earlier, the concern buried beneath her guarded tone. Couldn’t shake the fact that something about tomorrow felt less like a game and more like a reckoning.

Sleep, when it finally came, didn’t come gently.

And when it did, it came with dreams she wouldn’t remember but would feel like bruises the next morning.

The next morning crept in slower than usual, sunlight slicing through her half open blinds in streaks of pale gold. Soraya stirred beneath the covers, her body aching in that strange way anxiety sometimes left behind, as if dread had settled in her bones overnight and decided to stay.

But she was calmer than the day before. Not okay, not light, but emptied. Like she'd spent the whole previous day wrestling with the weight of her nerves until her body couldn’t carry them anymore. There was nothing left to fight, nothing left to panic about. Just the quiet before the storm.

Acceptance was the only thing that remained. She still didn’t want to face what today held. But she couldn’t undo the schedule. Couldn’t avoid the inevitable.

So she laid in bed for hours, scrolling through her phone, watching the ceiling shift colors as the sun moved across the sky. The stillness didn’t comfort her, but it didn’t scare her like it used to either. It just was.

Eventually, she dragged herself up, moved through her apartment like muscle memory, and got ready. Hair. Light makeup. Her signature jewelry. She didn’t feel like showing up, but she would look like she did.

Dressing for the tunnel walk had always been one of her small joys. One of the few game day traditions she clung to, something that allowed her to feel like herself for a few brief minutes before the noise of the arena swallowed her whole. The cameras, the lights, the crowd—none of it mattered as long as her outfit hit.

Today’s was a little louder than usual. A little more dramatic. A denim halter vest, cropped and hugging her torso just right. A short denim skirt, the waist cinched in with a wide brown belt. Brown heeled cowboy boots that added a good two inches to her already long legs. And, of course, a brown cowboy hat to top it all off.

Texas in a fit. Sharp and soft. Fashionable and dangerous.

And yet, as Soraya stepped out of the car and entered the College Park Center, she felt hollow inside. She heard the sound of cameras clicking before she even reached the mouth of the tunnel. Felt the eyes on her, the quiet murmurs, the usual anticipation that came with her arrival.

She knew she looked good. She knew this outfit would hit every highlight reel, every fashion Instagram and sideline post. But none of it reached her.

She walked, head held high, boots clicking against the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. Her face was stone. No smile, no smirk, no spark in her eyes like usual. She didn’t wave to the staff standing off to the side. Didn’t throw a wink toward the media crew. Just kept walking, shoulders back, chin lifted, as if her armor was stitched into the denim she wore.

She passed the first camera, gave it a small, mechanical nod. A gesture more out of muscle memory than engagement. And then she kept walking, disappearing down the tunnel without another glance, her expression unreadable.

This was her stage, her ritual. But today, it didn’t feel like hers at all.

The locker room hummed with energy, a current of excitement running through the space as the team geared up in their pregame practice clothes. Sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, laughter bounced between walls, and music played softly in the background. A hype playlist looping through the speakers, half drowned by the chorus of voices and half zipped duffle bags. It was a familiar chaos, comforting to most.

But not to Soraya. At least not today.

She sat in her chair, her posture perfectly straight, eyes fixed on her reflection in the long mirror lining one of the locker room walls. She could still hear the music, still hear her teammates hyping each other up, but it all felt far away and muted, like she was listening to everything from underwater.

Her fingers moved with mechanical precision, adjusting her ponytail, tugging it just tight enough to ground herself. Then came the translucent powder, dusting gently over her cheekbones, her forehead, her nose. Lock it in. Set the mask. Don’t let it slip.

Dinonai was beside her, her locker stationed conveniently close, something Soraya was more grateful for now than ever. The older woman kept glancing at her, brow slightly furrowed as she slipped on her practice jersey and tied her own hair up.

“You good?” she finally asked under her breath, low enough not to catch anyone else’s attention.

“Yeah.” The lie was effortless. Practiced. Like brushing her teeth. “Just tired.”

Dijonai didn’t buy it for a second, but didn’t push—she already knew. The blonde just nodded, as if to say ‘okay’, and went back to getting ready. But her eyes didn’t stray far.

As they made their way down the tunnel toward the court, Soraya could feel her heartbeat intensifying with every step. She rolled her shoulders back, cracked her knuckles, tried to center herself.

‘You’re okay. You’re safe. You’ve done the work. You’re not who you were. She can’t touch you now.’

But the mantra felt thin. Like it wasn’t made for this kind of storm.

The moment her foot touched the edge of the court, something in her tightened.

She blinked into the stadium’s lights, the vibrant noise of the arena beginning to swell, and scanned the floor instinctively. Her stomach was already in knots, but it wasn’t until her eyes landed on her that everything inside her dropped.

It was as if time folded in on itself.

Leah Katz.

The name alone hadn’t hurt in a long time. The memory had dulled over the years like old bruises fading from purple to yellow. But seeing her again—seeing the exact line of her jaw, the piercing blue eyes, the unmistakable height and that slicked back blonde ponytail—was like reopening an old wound with a single glance.

Dijonai must’ve seen it. Must’ve felt the way Soraya froze beside her, the subtle flinch in her stance, the way her breath caught too quickly. She reached down without saying a word and took her hand, grounding her. Their fingers linked and she gave it a firm, anchoring squeeze. It didn’t fix it, didn’t erase anything, but it helped keep Soraya on the floor.

And yet, even as Soraya tried to steel herself, tried to return to the composed, unreadable player she’d trained herself to be, the two teams were already gathering near midcourt for their pregame greetings.

It was a ritual, small talk, handshakes, light laughter. A sense of camaraderie before the competition kicked in. Soraya kept her expression flat, her nods minimal, her words nonexistent. Everyone knew she wasn’t the bubbly type. She didn’t hug, didn’t linger, didn’t pretend. They were used to it.

But Leah wasn’t.

She drifted by Soraya at just the right moment, close enough that the scent of her perfume—a faint, expensive floral reached her nose and that alone made Soraya’s feel ill.

“You look good,” Leah murmured, almost offhanded. Then a wink, quick and casual, as if it meant nothing.

Soraya froze, every nerve in her body lighting up like a match had been struck down her spine. She’d forgotten her voice. That smooth, practiced tone. That calculated calm. The trace of a londoner accent curling around each syllable. Hearing it again, so close, so familiar, was like touching a scar that still hadn't faded under her skin.

It brought nausea.

And rage.

She said nothing. Couldn’t. Her body tensed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a spot just over Leah’s shoulder as Dijonai tugged her away, their joined hands still clasped. Just move. Just get away. Just breathe.

But Paige noticed.

Standing on the outskirts of the huddle, stretching and chatting idly with another teammate, her eyes had drifted to Soraya just in time to catch the interaction—what little of it there was. She didn’t catch the words, but she caught the flicker of discomfort, the unnatural stiffness in Soraya’s body. The way her shoulders, usually squared and proud, subtly curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller.

And Leah Katz. That name had floated past Paige's awareness once or twice over the years. Few highlight reels, overseas buzz, a few murmured conversations she never cared enough to finish.

At first, Paige chalked it up to nerves.

It wasn’t exactly unusual. First game of the season, a packed College Park Center, fresh off training camp, with half the team still adjusting to the league’s pace. Everyone had something weighing on them. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was the cuts earlier in the week—Mai and Madison waived last minute. Maybe it was that Soraya didn’t want to be here to begin with.

Or maybe… it was because of her.

She hated that her mind even went there.

But now, watching Soraya from across the court during warmups, Paige knew it wasn’t any of those things. At least, not just those.

There was something different about the way Soraya moved. Jerky, too fast, too sharp. Her body looked like it was trying to outrun something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Paige watched her miss three jumpers in a row. Three. Soraya never missed three in a row. Not in warmups. Not without looking like she was about to throw the ball into the stands out of frustration.

She cursed under her breath after each shot, not caring who heard her. And even from twenty feet away, Paige could see it. The tension in her shoulders, the twitch in her jaw, the way she shook her hand out like it wasn’t just her aim that was off but her entire body.

It wasn’t nerves. It was something else. Something deeper.

Paige grabbed a ball and started her own drille, but her eyes kept drifting. She told herself to stop looking, Soraya had made it very clear where they stood. But concern wasn’t a switch she could flip off, not when it was her. Not when she looked like that.

She went up for a layup and landed hard, barely registering the motion. Her eyes immediately flicked to the other end of the court again, drawn like a magnet.

Then she saw her.

Blonde. Tall. Lynx warmup jacket draped over her. And unmistakably watching Soraya.

Paige froze for a second. She didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but she couldn’t ignore the way that woman’s eyes kept cutting toward Soraya like she had a right to look at her. Like she knew her.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t scouting.

It was something else. Familiar. Intimate. And unwanted.

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her palms burned. She bounced the ball once, twice, too hard, letting it smack the hardwood before catching it again. She knew she shouldn’t care. Not about Soraya. Not after everything. But the blonde kept looking over—subtle but persistent. And Soraya hadn’t even glanced back once.

That told Paige more than she needed to know.

It wasn’t a flirtation. It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was fear.

And suddenly, Paige didn’t want to play anymore. She wanted answers. She wanted that woman off the court. She wanted Soraya to stop pretending she was fine when it was clear she wasn’t.

The Wings were holding their own. Barely.

It was a constant back and forth, each time they clawed up a two point lead, the Lynx would rip it away within a possession or two. It wasn’t a bad game by any means. Just… not enough. Not sharp enough. Not her.

Paige had only seen Soraya play a handful of times, two preseason games, a few scrimmages, on the screen of her iPad. But she already knew enough to know this wasn’t it.

This wasn’t the Soraya Mensima she’d been warned about. The one that had mercilessly snatched a championship away from her. The one who drew defenders like blood in water, the one who never backed down from contact or let herself get outpaced. This version was hesitant, distracted. Her offense was clunky, rushed. Her defense worse.

And then it happened during the second quarter. Soraya was guarding Leah. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

Leah cut baseline, slipped through a screen, and laid the ball in uncontested. Soraya hadn’t even moved to contest it, she’d just watched her. Like her feet had been stuck to the hardwood. Like touching Leah in any way would burn her.

Paige clenched her jaw as the whistle blew and halftime rolled around.

She got roped into a short interview near the tunnel, giving rehearsed lines about adjustments and staying locked in. But all the while, her eyes followed Soraya.

She was trailing behind the team, slower than usual. Unfocused.

So the second the cameras were off, Paige handed the mic back and cut across the tunnel, weaving past staff and players until she caught up.

Paige reached forward and caught her arm.

“What the fuck—let—” Soraya twisted, startled, her voice already defensive, until she saw who it was. Her expression shifted, but not to relief. Just less tight. Less guarded.

Paige tugged her further into a quieter corner of the tunnel, her voice low but sharp. “Why are you playing like you’ve never been on a court before?”

Soraya blinked. The line hit harder than it probably should’ve. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing like a scolded child. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Paige said. “What’s going on with you?”

Her grip was still on Soraya’s arm, though loose enough to break. She didn’t know what she was doing—this wasn’t her. Not the Paige people expected. But she was pissed. Concerned. Both, maybe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Soraya snapped, pulling her arm free. “Sorry I’m not playing to your standards, I guess.”

Paige didn’t flinch. She should’ve. But she didn’t.

“Well you’re selling the game,” she shot back. “So stop eye fucking that Katz girl and fix it.”

Silence.

The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could rewind time. Take them back. Bury them. Anything.

Because the look Soraya gave her—it wasn’t just hurt. It was disgust and betrayal.

Like Paige had peeled back a scar that hadn’t fully healed and poked it for sport.

A sick twist churned in Soraya’s gut. Her shoulders went rigid, lips pressed into a thin line. Eye fucking? She could barely even breathe around Leah, let alone look at her. And now this girl who she’d met less than a month ago was accusing her of shit she had no idea about?

She didn’t speak. Didn’t yell. Didn’t give Paige the satisfaction of a retort.

She just turned and walked.

Down the tunnel, towards the locker room. Shoulders high, spine stiff, but with something undeniably wounded in the way her steps slowed the further she got.

Paige stayed behind, frozen in place, her mouth parted like she wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t.

She ran a hand down her face, then through her hair, dragging her fingers along her scalp like she could scrape the guilt off. Her jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.

She didn’t know if it was worry. Or competitiveness. Or burning jealousy. Or the fact that she hated seeing Soraya let anyone take her power away.

But whatever it was, she’d just made it worse. So much worse.

extended taglist 🐆 — @thelightknight21 @private-but-not-a-secret @angryflowerwitch @jieysiee @angelliicc @paigebaby5 @ttytttt-gndgnvbm @syraxbigfanfr @forward1212 @niya500 @wosolipa @enchantingesme @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @ksimsplayer @hggbiijj @pupbistro

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #snooze ᯓᡣ𐭩 #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers x female oc #paige bueckers x reader #dallas wings #uconn wbb #wnba x oc

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

Ahh I’m so obsessed with stripper!reader and Spencer!! Do you have any more thoughts about them you’d be willing to share, maybe just a snippet of their life together? So so in love with them and your writing in general

i got a different request for them that I lost about reader struggling to afford essentials and so I thought I’d combine them, I hope that’s ok!! <;3 fem, 1.1k

cw food insecurity/ poverty

You attempt to save money, but the ten dollars you don't spend on shampoo and conditioner gets used on painkillers. You hide fifty dollars in a book and try to forget about it, but your shoes split open on the walk to work, and it takes all afternoon to find it again. You try so hard to stretch your paycheck and something new makes it impossible.

So it's a cold night in late December and you spent all your money for food on the gas bill. Your stomach hurts, but at least your nose isn't that horrible stiff cold that distracts.

It's not just that your stomach hurts, though. You feel miserable about everything, and you know you need to ask someone for help. You've thought about selling something, but you already pawned your watch, and everything else is inconsequential.

I could sell my phone… but how would I talk to Spencer?

It's the stupidest thought you could've had. More importantly, how would you communicate with work? How would you call your electric and gas company, or talk to your landlord?

Spencer would be so sad if he knew you’d sold your phone to pay for food. He’d probably be upset knowing you considered it. And you won’t get paid for another three days, so unless you can somehow live off of olives and cherries from the club bar, you have to ask Spencer for money or get a loan. With your credit score, one situation is more likely than the other.

You bring your phone across the pillow and sigh before clicking on his contact. He’s practically the only number you call.

“Hello?” you ask.

“Hi, Y/N.”

“Hello, handsome,” you murmur, staging an affect of someone who couldn’t be more unbothered by the world.

“Yeah, hi. You okay?”

You don’t want to butter him up. It feels dishonest. You should be straight forward. “Spencer. You know I hate asking you for things.”

“Yes, it’s the only bad thing about you.” He sounds like he’s smiling. You can imagine him on his couch reading something obscure, or watching one of his sci-fi shows, curls in his eyes, grey pyjamas too short for him riding up his calves as they tend to do.

“But I need– um. I don’t have any money?” You don’t mean to phrase it like a question. “Like. Okay, so, I promise you I am not an irresponsible person, just, my gas bill went up and I didn’t know, but it’s so cold I paid it anyways, and now I have three dollars. Um. Total. And I haven’t eaten all day and I’m sorry I’m asking, but I just need like twenty dollars until I get paid on Tuesday. Could you let me borrow twenty dollars, please?”

“Do you want to get takeout?”

You cringe. “No, like, twenty dollars for groceries, Spence.”

“No, I understood. That’s fine, I’ll happily give you twenty dollars. But you said you haven’t eaten today? And I miss you, so it’s an excuse?” Now he’s the one making questions out of statements. “I can get us Thai food.”

Your stomach pangs at the thought. No matter how much you hate this, you know he loves you enough to want to bring you dinner, and you really will pay him back, so he might as well. “Yeah, please. I’d love to see you, Dr. Reid.”

“I’ll be quick,” he promises.

He isn’t. You wonder if he’s forgotten you and your rumbling stomach, curled into a c-shape under the sheets. It’s warm, at least, nearly too warm, the blade of your hunger threatening to drive you mad. It’s not a nice feeling, depending on the kindness of a friend to see you through, nor is it very pleasant to be this hungry. You’ve gone hungry a hundred times, and this is the only time you’ve ever had someone you trusted enough to turn to during that time to ask for help. What if Spencer’s decided he isn’t comfortable with your lending after all and he doesn’t come over tonight?

You’d been looking forward to seeing him again. It’s almost worse than the hunger.

Just as you’re thinking he’s decided he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore, he lets himself in.

Your apartment is small, consisting of three rooms. The bedroom, the bathroom, and the living room kitchen combination. He lets himself into the living room with a cacophony of rustling and a called, “Hello!” followed soon by a muttered swear.

You laugh under your breath.

“Are you coming out here, or do you want to eat dinner in bed?” he asks.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

It’s quiet enough besides his arrival that you’ve no need to shout.

“Well, stay there if you want. Have you been drinking anything? I brought iced tea and some stuff for you to have breakfast tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” You force yourself to sit up. One moment you’re looking at the closed door and the next you’re squinting against the light of the kitchen, Spencer in the doorway like a silhouette against it. “Hey, Spence. You’re taller than last time.”

“I’m the same size as always.”

“You’re still wearing your shoes. That must be it.”

Spencer takes off his shoes and crosses the short distance to you. “Hi,” he says, taking your hand as he sits down. His fingers are freezing. “Sorry I took a while.”

“Sorry for asking you for money.”

“It’s okay. It’s not something to worry about. Everyone has to ask a favour sometime.”

His hair is wind blown, his eyes watery. The cold weather has nipped his pert nose a rosy pink and he’s smiling at you with chapped lips, unaware of or uncaring about his own circumstances in the face of yours. “You okay?” he asks, his pretty brown eyes narrowing, eyebrows pinching together at the starts. “You can’t just not eat all day and not tell me.”

You nod tightly. It’s humiliating to be in this position.

He softens. “Did they tell you the rate was rising? It’s illegal in Virginia–”

You take your hand from his. “They sent me a letter I didn’t open. I knew it would be bad news.”

Spencer looks down at your knees. “I know that you’re used to doing things by yourself, but you don’t have to anymore.”

“‘Cos you look after me,” you say quietly.

“I’m trying to.”

You laugh and jog your joined hands to make him look up. “Okay. Look after me some more then and give me a hug. I’m too warm, and you’re freezing.”

He hugs you tightly, quick to rub your shoulder blade with his thumb. “Stay here, okay? I’ll bring you a plate.”

You cling to him for a few seconds, until hunger wins, and you send him off into the kitchen again.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer and stripper!reader

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bunny-jpeg · 9 months ago

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hiii, can i please have powered sugar donuts and a sweet pastry with a side of cider served by george russell? thank you 🩷

bakery menu!!

want to submit your own fic? then hit up the menu, there are tons of requests to be made! i happily accept former drivers and also new drivers coming in! along with other fandoms, so please, hit me up with them! i'd love to see what you come up with!! as for this lovely anon, thank you for the prompt! i hope you love it <3

powdered sugar donuts ("marry me.") + sweet pastry ("i'll make it all better.") + cider (body worship) served by george russell (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, needy!reader, established relationship, phone/virtual sex, praise (kink), masturbation, caring george, mentions of marriage

you hated when you got needy. it was a part of you that you wished you could grow out of. but sometimes in the back of your mind, you got so needy. not only a sexual need, but a need to be held by your boyfriend of the last few years.

even wrapped up in one of his sweatshirts wasn't enough. you only found some relief when you rubbed yourself up against the bed with the collar of his sweatshirt was up against your nose. it made you whine a little and you knew desperate times called for desperate measures.

george loved that you were needy. it was nice to be with someone who needed him. and not for his racing prowess or his status or even his money. you simply needed him, to feel close to him. you wanted to curl your fingers in his hair and snuggle up with him.

and he in turn wanted to snuggle you, he wanted to hold you in his strong arms. feel you close to him. if he was lucky have his head against your chest and feel your heartbeat.

so, it was a bit of a surprise when he heard his phone ring and saw it was from you. but, not just a phone call, but a video call. "hello, my love." he said but his eyes went wide to the sight of you.

naked save for your panties and his sweatshirt. it was a little big on you so you had to pull it up a little to have access to your pussy. you said, "i miss you, honey."

george was thankful he was alone for the evening. only a bit ways away in italy, while you were back home. he shifted himself on the bed to get a better view of you, "aw, you miss me? i miss you. have you been taking care of yourself?"

you shifted a little in bed and showed off more of your body to him. you pushed the sweatshirt over your stomach and he groaned at the sight of you. you replied, "i can't not without you."

"aw, my love. get comfy. i'll make it all better." he said so gently that it made you warm all over. you kept the hoodie on as you positioned the phone upright against some pillows as you got yourself comfortable. in the low light george couldn't see the most, but he could remember your body by memory alone.

"but you're so far away."

"then i'll have to simply watch you. i'll be right here the whole time. i know, being away from each other is hard. but, i promise when i come home. i'll take care of you." his voice was a promise and it made you warm all over. you loved him so much. it could easily drive you made of how much you adored him.

you started to rub your cunt over your underwear, george got a good look at them. a simple checkered pattern across a bikini cut pair. they were cute and watching you rub yourself through them only made them more cute.

george could feel himself grow hard in his sweatpants, but continued to eye you as you pleasured yourself. he could take care of of himself later, for now it was all about you. he licked his lips before he said, "that's it. god, you're beautiful. c'mon move a little faster."

you shuddered from his words. there was something in them that ran electricity through your body as you continued to rub against your clit. even though you were miles away from one another, you felt a little closer to him.

"i wish i was there to touch your body right now. to touch you all over. fuck, you look so beautiful." he shifted a little against the bed and it made him exhale deeply, "that's it, my beautiful girlfriend. i love every inch of you.

"george." you whimpered.

you continued to rub harder against your clit and you felt tension in your legs. you felt your heartbeat deep in your chest as you pleasured yourself. you knew how to make yourself feel good, but george knew all the tricks to make your toes curl. it was almost not as good when you did it yourself now and days. you moaned a little louder, you were alone in your apartment. you could be a little louder.

"i know, i know. fuck, i want to kiss your pussy. i want to drag my tongue across your clit and feel you grip onto my hair." george said, and heard you moan in response. he wished he could have a recording of this, it'll make the weekend go by faster, "i want to kiss you all over. from those soft cheeks down to your thighs. i want to make you feel good all over."

he loved you, he could say he was addicted to you. admiring the shape of your body even under the sweatshirt. he knew that you yearned to be close to him.

"ah! fuck, marry me, please! one day, please." you tensed up more as you continued to rub your hand up against your clit, the feeling flooded your brain.

"i will. but, i don't want to propose during the middle of a season. not fair to you, it should be something special. somewhere special. no racing, no work. just you and i." he smiled. he knew that he had been ring shopping for a few weeks now. casually online and if he walked by stores in places far from home.

you whined, "i love you." you said as you really worked yourself. you could feel a bit of sweat on the back of your neck as you rubbed yourself more. it didn't take much longer before you were breathing heavily and trying to keep your voice at a moderate level.

and george watched you with a careful eye. he could feel the heat in his face as he watched you climax. you whined that you were cumming and george continued to praise you. he said, "so beautiful. so beautiful for me. i can't wait to feel you in my hands once more. the most beautiful woman i had ever seen. i love you. so much."

"i love you too." as you started to relax, the tension in your body replaced was the warmth of post-orgasmic bliss. you cuddled yourself further into the fabric of the sweatshirt and got onto your side facing him.

george saw your nose in the collar of it and smiled, "i'll be home soon. you won't be without me for much longer. do you feel better?"

you nodded, "much better. i do still miss you." you cuddled up to the rest of the pillows and looked at your boyfriend on the screen, "how many days till you come home?"

george smiled, his cock still painfully hard in his sweatpants. that'll be dealt with later, at that moment he wanted to admire you. he said, "well, after tomorrow's race. why don't you come and meet me at the next one? i'll book you a flight, and you can see me in baku. how does that sound?"

you smiled softly and replied, "sounds amazing."

he moved a little on his bed and moved the phone as well, "now, tell me about your day before you fall asleep on me. i want to hear all about it." <3

#bunny writes #the bakery #george russell x you #george russell smut #george russell x reader #george russell #george russell imagine #gr63 smut #gr63 x reader #gr63 #reader insert #formula one imagine #formula one smut #formula 1 #f1 smut #formula one fanfiction #f1 x reader

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yanderedrabbles · 6 months ago

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Yandere sugar daddy made me giggle with him buying me a car 🚗 Cuz I can’t drive…This then led me to think how fucked I am in a relationship with any of your yanderes cuz I’m practically a sitting duck 🦆 What am I going to do if I wanna get away from them? Wait on the side of the road to take a public transport bus? 🚌 Or do I gotta bike my way to freedom? 🚲 😭

Speaking of vehicles though…for the yanderes that this question is appreciable…what’re the cars they drive vs. the dream car or car that you think fits their aesthetic? 🚗

Also who’s ok with me being their cute lil passenger princess? 👑

girl, it's so embarrassing but I can't drive either 😭

Atp, I think we'll need to Uber our way to freedom. Tip the drive 100% in case of damages caused by deranged exes.

Yandere boys and their cars

Yandere! Boyfriend definitely drives a Jeep wrangler. He's a big guy and he needs the extra space. I also see him as the more outdoorsy type, so a Jeep is perfect for all his hiking and climbing gear. He loves his car for the sole reason that you like sitting shotgun in summer, the roof down and your hair blowing in the wind. It makes for a damn pretty sight.

Yandere! State Trooper is assigned one of those State Police Dodge Challengers. All American muscle that thrums up through the seats. If there's ever a car chase or an evading suspect, he's first on the scene. On quiet nights, he'll head to the highway and gun it. V8 engine roaring even louder than the sirens. He's not supposed to, but he likes taking you for a drive now and then. He likes the way you cling to the dash and shake when he blows through the speed limit.

Yandere! Cop is a certified Ford pickup kind of guy. It's got space, it's got power but most importantly, it doesn't stand out. This is Middle America baby, they're everywhere. When he follows you, he knows for a fact you won't notice him. His only customization is the extremely tinted windows. Can't have you seeing his face when he takes all those pictures of you, now can he?

Yandere! Academic Rival has trustfund money to spend and his daddy's whole garage to choose from. For everyday, I can see him driving a BMW or Audi roadster. Sleek, sporty and modern. But on the weekends, when he's driving up the coast to his country house, he's definitely taking something vintage. He has a whole collection of luxury old money convertibles - every single one of them something you expect to see at St. Moritz.

Yandere! Mobster drives a Cadillac Town Sedan. It's got a powerful engine to outrun the pigs and plenty of trunk space to stash smuggled alcohol. He absolutely adores taking you on long drives. Windows open to catch the fresh air, picnic basket on the back seat, your head resting on his shoulder on the way home... What's not to love?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy is new money. And a tech nerd. So I see him mostly driving electric cars, maybe a Porsche Taycan for 'everyday use' (who the hell drives a Porsche like a regular commuter car? Your Croesus rich boyfriend, that's who). And something extra luxurious for weekends and date nights - probably something like the Yangwang U9. He loves messing around with the extra features and plugging the cars into his computer diagnostic system. Surprisingly, he's not that fond of actually driving. He much prefers you do it and let him enjoy the scenery.

Yandere! Werewolf drives a vintage cherry red Mustang. He bought it cheap off an older guy who hated the repairs, and spent all summer working on it. By extension, that meant you spent all summer sprawled across the backseat, thumbing through fashion magazines and listening to golden oldies on the radio. It's got plenty of space and if he was the kinda guy to make a move on a girl at the drive in, this would be the car to do it in.

#The Town Sedan pictured is from 1933 and the fic is set in 1931 but ignore that

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tactidoll · 4 months ago

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help a disabled trans woman finally move into a real house

hi my names eris im a 26 disabled and heavily mentally ill trans woman living in one of the worst places in england, and more than that just over a year ago i was kicked out by my moms transphobic girlfriend, since then to avoid full homelessness and not having anywhere else to really go ive been living in a barely insulated shed on a farm in the middle of nowhere, this has led to me being nearly constantly sick for the entire year, already barely able to take care of myself ive just absolutely fallen apart as a person despite my best efforts and now during winter the shed has been constantly absurdly cold and lead me to deal with regular mild hypothermia thats sometimes hit moderate despite bundling up with both an electric heater and fireplace going and honestly i just dont know how much more i can physically take

ive been wanting to move into a walkable city due to my disability meaning i cannot ever drive, and ideally somewhere progressive so i can start to finally present femininely despite being outted over a decade ago which would also help dramatically, but despite trying to get financially able to afford the move ive made no progress due to having to spend the lil money i have spare each month on solving immediate issue and sadly im way too mentally ill too consider trying to move into a house share/roommates situation

the british housing assistance system id be able to use would need me to get a place before im able to claim assistance on rent so i really just need to get the money to pay for the deposit and first month of rent and the average deposit ive seen for the apartments that would be comfortable and habitable for my disabilities is about £1100 and about £800-900 for first months obviously thats a lot to ask for and im gonna be trying my hardest to put as much as i can aside to cover the rent and seeing if i can borrow money to help make up the rest

thank you so much for reading im sorry this isnt that well written im really struggling mentally and physically and im just so desperate

my paypal is https://paypal.me/tactidoll absolutely anything helps even if its just sharing this post everything will be saved until i can put that deposit down

1200/£1200 funded thank you so much

#im sorry this could be so much better written im just running at such low consciousness at this point #i love you all so much

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moonmunson · 2 years ago

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electric touch - eddie munson x reader

summary: eddie hasn't had much luck with dates - not until you.

warnings: ppl being mean to eddie (only for a little bit!) and some discussion on eddie's penchant for kinda being used by the popular girls but there's so much fluff and some kissing at the end

word count: 2.8k

a/n: i started this when speak now tv came out and then completely abandoned it but she's my little brain child

When Eddie was in eighth grade, he spent a week rehearsing the best way to ask a girl out on a date. He practiced in the mirror every day, making sure to sound hopeful, but not desperate, eager, but not pushy. He’d almost given up and asked his Uncle for advice, but in case it didn’t go the way he wanted it to, he didn’t want Wayne to be waiting for an update.

There was a new horror movie premiering in the theater downtown, and he’d heard that scary movies were the best to bring a girl to - because if she got scared, Eddie could put his arm around her and protect her from the fictional monsters.

He never even got the chance to ask her. He’d tried, to be sure. Monday morning of the next week, when he’d worked up enough nerve, he walked up to the group of cheerleaders she was a part of, and didn’t even open his mouth before the group of girls ganged up on him - asking him what he wanted, calling him a freak, telling him to get away from them. Later, the girl he’d been pining after approached him - sans clique - and apologized on behalf of her friends. She didn’t feel the same as them, but she couldn’t ruin her “reputation.” They saw each other in secret for half a year before she got a boyfriend on the basketball team. Typical. It hurt Eddie more than he was comfortable admitting.

Eddie doesn’t love referring to himself as a cynic, but the repetitive cycle of being used by popular girls for a night of fun - fulfilling their dream of sleeping with the town’s resident bad boy before never speaking to him again, exhausted Eddie to the point of declaring that true love was a capitalistic ruse created to sell laboratory made diamonds. It would never work out for him, and he convinced himself that he was okay with that.

For the remainder of high school, Eddie continued to play the part. Rich kids invited him to ragers and tried to weasel their way out of paying full price for his weed, even though they were buying with daddy’s money, not their own. He hooked up with random popular girl after random popular girl, always leaving immediately and feeling like shit after. But at least he was getting laid, right?

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

Now, Eddie is sitting on the couch in his living room, meticulously arranging and rearranging Wayne’s automobile magazines that live untouched on the coffee table. Has there always been this much dust on them? He wasn’t sure, and the thought only offered a momentary distraction before the nerves swept him back into the electric current of anxiety running through his body.

He’d already spent most of the past hour making sure there was no visible trash laying out in the open for you to see. He’d even gone so far as to make his room slightly presentable in case you wanted to go in. He wasn’t expecting anything - quite the opposite, actually. He was sure that you’d see the place he lives, turn around and walk out without giving him a chance, and never speak to him again.

Logically, he knows that this won’t be the case. He knows that Dustin wouldn’t lie to him about your reciprocated interest. He’d spent the entire drive back to Eddie’s trailer for their Hellfire meeting trying to convince him that he saw how giddy his sister had been when she opened the door and saw him standing there. She’d known Eddie was coming to pick her younger brother up, and she’d put on mascara to greet him - as if Eddie truly knows enough about girls to take that as a surefire sign that you were excited to see him. Dustin hears you talking over the phone to your friends about him all the time, and he only shares with Eddie that what you say is positive - not wanting to disclose the nitty gritty. It’s not your fault that the walls of your adjoined rooms are thin, and your friends are loud.

Still, Eddie is nervous. When he gave you his phone number under the assumption that you might want to call to check up on Dustin, he was shocked that you called days after the Hellfire meeting had ended, and Dustin had returned home. So shocked, in fact, that he wasn’t even the one who had answered the phone - Wayne was. When he’d heard the sweet lilt of your voice on the other side of the line, he’d practically shoved his uncle to grab hold of the phone. You sounded unsure saying hello to him - nervous and breathy and a little bit quiet, but not unenthusiastic - and Eddie knew that Dustin had been telling the truth.

Eddie spoke to you for an hour that night before he worked up the nerve to ask if you might want to come over to watch a movie. “No funny business, just the sweet sight of David Bowie in tights that no other man would ever be able to pull off.” You’d giggled - a sound Eddie was determined to hear again - and asked how he knew that Labyrinth was your favorite movie. The truth was that he’d overheard Dustin complaining about how you chose it every time it was your turn to pick for family movie night, but he brushed off the question and said that he just “Had a feeling.”

The sudden appearance of headlights beaming through the trailer window brings Eddie out of his reverie long enough to remember to wipe the dust from his hands onto his jeans. The sound of your car door opening and closing, and the crunch that your shoes make on the gravel pulls Eddie like a siren song from the couch to his trailer door, and the creaking of the wooden steps leading up to said door, has him pulling it open faster than he means to.

You’re a vision of comfort. Of soft things. Of light wash jeans with no rips in them, of cardigans and sweaters and rose perfume. Your fist is raised in the air like you were about to knock, and for a moment, Eddie thinks this whole thing was a mistake.

“Oh-”

“Sorry, I-”

There’s a beat of silence. The energy between the two of you is almost palpable - eyes wide and palms clammy - before he breaks the connection and moves out of the way for you to come in. He knows he can turn on the charm once you’re settled, but this has been the part he’s been dreading the most.

It doesn’t matter to his friends that he lives in a trailer. It doesn’t matter when there are beer bottles on the coffee table or old socks on the couch, he knows the guys won’t care. But as you step in, and your eyes begin to sweep over the small living room, the reality of his economic status has never felt bigger, or made him feel smaller.

As he looks at you though, he notices the soft smile on your face. Taking stock of the collection of hats and mugs lining the walls, of the throw blanket laid over the top of the recliner.

“The uh, the hats and stuff are my Uncle’s.”

“They’re really cool,” his eyes trace your movements as you walk along the edges of the room, arms at your sides, reading the puns and state names embroidered on them. “has he always collected them?”

Eddie makes his way to the couch, and sits - trying to direct his line of sight to the same ones you’re looking at. Trying to put himself in your shoes and guess what you might be thinking, but coming up short.

“Wayne was a trucker for a few years,” you turn to look at him, to pay attention to what he’s saying. Eddie does a lot of stupid shit to get people to look at him, he knows that. It doesn’t matter that the expressions he receives the most often are sneers or ones of annoyance. Exasperation. But you look genuinely interested in what he has to say, and it throws him for a loop. “And then he got stuck with me, so he doesn’t really get to buy new ones anymore.”

“Stuck with you?”

“I mean, yeah, kind of. It’s a long boring story,” Eddie claps his hands together and launches himself up and off of the couch, and you know to stop pushing. “Want the grand tour?”

“Absolutely,” you nod.

“Well, my lady,” you watch from your position by the recliner as he struts to the middle of the living room, puts his arms out horizontally at his sides, and bows deeply, “welcome to Castle Munson. The maid did actually remember to show up tonight.”

“Oh yeah? She did an excellent job,” you huff out a laugh, and Eddie snaps back up to a vertical, a smile on his face that showcases the lines around his mouth.

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

“Eddie? Can I ask you something?”

After giving you a short but enthusiastic tour of the main parts of the trailer and presenting you with the array of snacks he'd gotten for the movie, you both settled on the small couch in the living room. You'd had to resist the urge to curl up into his side, and instead curled up into the arm of the couch.

“Anything, sweets. Go for it.”

“How did you really know this was my favorite movie?”

“I’m psychic,” He taps his index finger to his temple a few times. “I didn’t tell you that?”

“Eddie.”

“Y/n.”

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I!” He matches your raised pitch - teasing, but not condescending - and you almost raise your hand to hit him on the shoulder, but you don’t know if you’ve reached that level of familiarity yet.

“You don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to. I’m not weirded out or anything - just curious. Honestly, I’m kind of like, flattered, I guess? I don’t know.”

Had you overstepped? Eddie’s eyes flit over different things in the room in rapid succession, and he exhales - you can almost see the cogs turning in his head - like he doesn’t know whether to keep joking or offer a moment of true vulnerability. You don’t think the latter comes naturally to him.

“I heard Dustin complaining to Wheeler that you always pick it for family movie night. It seems like the kind of thing you’d like. Very dreamy and hazy, that kinda thing.” Eddie shrugs and looks off to the side, trying and failing to put on an air of nonchalance, but his tinted cheeks suggest otherwise.

“Is that how you think of me? Dreamy and hazy?” You duck your head to try and meet his gaze, and when he turns to look at you, you think it’s the first time you’ve ever truly seen him. The boyish, innocent version of him that he doesn’t allow to rise to the surface all that often. His charm is still there, and bright as ever, but you can see the uncertainty in the way he struggles to keep his eyes on yours.

“Maybe. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” The smile that graces your features is so easy and genuine that Eddie has no choice but to beam his own right back at you.

You settle into an easier silence for the remainder of the movie, save for the comments the both of you share. You think it’s especially funny when Eddie compares The Fireys playing volleyball with their own heads to a “Muppet snuff film on acid.” When it’s over, he grabs a few Dr. Peppers from the fridge and asks if you want to smoke with him before you head back home. You decline, because driving while high makes you nervous, but you don’t mind sitting with him for a bit longer.

“Plus, there’s one more room I haven’t given you the tour for, if you’re interested…”

“I get to see the King’s quarters?”

“More like the dungeon,” he gestures to himself, still clad in his Hellfire shirt, “but yeah, totally.”

“Lead the way then, dungeon master.”

He looks behind himself to see if you’re following, and extends his hand back so you can hold onto it. It’s not like you’re gonna get lost - the hallway is less than ten feet, but it gives you an excuse to finally touch without overthinking it. Eddie doesn't care to ask whether the jolt of static he feels when your hands meet for the first time is because of your shuffling socks on the carpet or the nervous current running between the two of you. Guessing by the way you suck in a soft breath - one he could barely hear - he doesn’t think you care either.

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

“All I’m saying is Jareth’s a weirdo for wanting a whiny sixteen year old to be his queen.” Eddie is laying on his stomach, legs bent at the knee and ankles crossed in the air. When you’d entered his room, he’d shown you his favorite things before quickly ushering you to get comfortable on the bed. He said that he needed to have an in depth conversation about the movie you’d just watched.

“The age gap is bad for sure, and she is whiny, I totally get what you’re saying, but-” You’re sitting across from him, elbows resting on your criss-crossed legs.

“But? Y/n. Are you about to defend him?”

“Let me finish!” You giggle and Eddie swears that he can feel it in his chest - another spark.

“I cannot let you finish if you’re about to say what I think you’re gonna say. Morally. Ethically. I cannot let you finish.” In true dramatic Munson fashion, he sweeps his hands in front of him, palm facing out for you to see. He’s almost pouting, lips folded in and corners turned down.

“What I’m trying to say,” you look pointedly at him to see if he’s going to interrupt again, “is that I think that his proposition isn’t so bad when you really think about it.”

“Well now I have to hear your reasoning behind this.”

“Think about it. He’s offering her literally anything she could possibly desire, and all she has to do is love him back.”

“Oh that’s all? I think you’re forgetting the part where he says she has to obey his every whim or whatever the fuck.” Eddie fights the urge to change his tone from teasing to serious - his heart twinging at the idea of making you uncomfortable.

“You don’t think that love is enough? Or that maybe all love has a level of devotion attached to it?”

“I think my idea of love is too fucked to give you a real answer.” He’s refusing to look at you - gaze directed towards his ringed hands fiddling with the metal tab of the soda can, eyebrows furrowed.

“I could fix that, if you wanted - make it all dreamy and hazy for you.”

Eddie can feel the wires in his brain short circuit. In the back of his mind somewhere, he knows that he only has a few seconds to respond before you start to think that maybe you said something wrong, but he can’t seem to reconnect in time. All he manages is an out of breath -

“Yeah?”

“If you wanted, yeah,” you nod, like you’ve decided something, and slowly reach to pull his hand from the soda can - taking it with you and setting it down on the crowded bedside table. “I think you deserve it.”

“Really?” He’s looking at your joined hands, but he doesn’t wrap his fingers around yours. Not yet.

“Yeah, Eddie. Really.”

His fingers finally wrap around yours as you pull him from his position on his stomach to lean over you - rising onto his knees and walking on them before planting his arms on either side of your torso. He can feel your breath, soft against his cheeks as he leans in and connects his lips to yours - once, twice, three times.

That same sparky feeling that Eddie has been getting in his chest all night finally rumbles to life. Like a car being hotwired, he can practically feel your hands pulling wires he thought were long dead and breathing life back into them - rubbing them together until the spark catches and the engine starts.

“That was-” You pull away slightly to look up at him, lovesick and dopey.

“Dreamy? Hazy? I think those are two words I would definitely-”

You laugh, already pulling his face back towards yours.

“Shut up and kiss me again, Munson.”

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

a/n: ahh! thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed this story please like and reblog i would appreciate it endlessly !!!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson my beloved #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things imagine

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stevieschrodinger · 1 year ago

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Link to Part One

Link to Part Two

TW mentions of human trafficking, rescue, injury, trauma

Steve locks Eddie in the car which, yeah, okay, it makes Eddie jump a little reflexively at the quiet click of the lock. And it might just be habit, or whatever, because it’s a really nice car.

Or maybe he’s even doing it for Eddie’s safety.

It still feels like he’s been locked in, though, and Eddie finds he’s...really not a fan of how this feels.

Either way, when Steve comes back less than ten minutes later and opens Eddie’s side of the car, Eddie’s still not sure how to feel about it. Suspicion is hard to shake.

Steve kneels right there on the floor of the lot, “swing around,” Eddie does, watching as Steve pulls antiseptic wipes out of the bottom of the bag, opening a packet and lifting Eddie’s foot. Eddie hisses when the wipe makes contact, it’s cold and, even though surely most of the wounds have scabbed by now, it still stings quite a bit, “sorry.” Steve looks up at Eddie earnestly, big eyes and floppy hair and, well, the moles are cute.

And having an Alpha kneel on the floor for him, that’s kind of nice too. Maybe Steve really is that good looking.

He wraps Eddie’s feet in a bandage, some tube bandage over the top, Eddie still slurping on his peanut butter chocolate shake. He’s going to have the absolute worst shit later, he knows it, too much rich food all at once, after a really long time of non at all, but honestly, so worth it.

“When we get home, I’ll set you up in one of the spare rooms, and maybe we can order you some clothes?” Steve pulls the bandage comfortably tight around Eddie’s foot, a nice gauze pad wrapped around the sole for cushioning.

“Errr, I mean, I, before, I was usually a good will kind of shopper, you know? Maybe Target on a good day?”

Steve just blinks at him for a second, before that clearly sinks in, “don’t...don’t think about the money, if that’s what you mean, we can get you some clothes, really, I don’t mind.”

And Eddie’s sure as fuck not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, Steve’s already broke the bank on Eddie, what’s a little more, right?”

Eddie whistles, he can’t help it. Objectively, obviously, he knew Steve was loaded. There’s a difference between knowing that and…seeing it. This is like a fucking mansion. Well, it’s not like a mansion, obviously. It is a mansion.

Automatic electric gates, a drive that’s got to be a half mile long...and lawns. Trees. Land stretching off into the distance.

The house is fucking nice. It’s kind of sprawling...just the garage looks fucking massive on it’s own.

Steve sort of hovers around Eddie as he limps over the threshold, and, yeap, just as nice inside as it is outside. Very sleek and modern, big open spaces, lots of glass. Dark wood and bookcases filled with leather books and big paintings that look impressive but aren’t...well. Eddie’s not a fan, really. Eddie spies a building out the back, also lots of glass...Eddie’s money is on indoor pool.

“Something smells good,” Eddie says, as he limps further into the house, “smells kind of homey.” Which is true, something here smells vaguely relaxing. Kind of...comforting. Safe.

Eddie looks around as he gets further in, and the place is so big it is kind of a walk, it’s...really nice, but also kind of soulless. It doesn’t look lived in at all. And, Eddie frowns, something occurring to him for the very first time. Steve’s a good looking Alpha, and he’s fucking loaded, “will your, erm,” Eddie flounders, “partner, mind me being here?”

Steve laughs, seeing Eddie through to the lounge to sit on the couch, “don’t think I would have been able to play my part today if I were in any kind of serious relationship. Hagan would have known if I was seeing anyone, the press loves that shit.”

And yeah, all of that makes total sense, and Eddie feels kind of stupid for not putting that together. But it...doesn’t really make sense, considering Steve is, still, clearly, very hot and very loaded.

“Okay,” Steve plops a laptop into Eddie’s lap, open to a clothing website. “just open tabs on some stuff you’d like, and then give it back to me when you’re done. You’re going to need some clothes while Hopper tracks down your uncle, okay? I’m going to go and set up a room.”

Eddie’s just sort of rolling with it at this point, so he nods and smiles and then blinks down at a Tom Ford Slim-Fit Button-Down Collar Checked Cotton shirt...that’s nearly seven hundred dollars.

And Eddie would never, in a million fucking years, be caught dead in it. Honestly, he thinks he actually prefers the white nightdress.

Eddie looks at the drop down menu, clicks on ‘cashmere’ for shits and giggles, and then laughs to himself when the very first listing is a black turtle-neck...for over a thousand odd dollars. Fucking rich people are batshit.

Eddie manages to find a drop down that lets him filter out everything over two hundred and fifty dollars, and then he searches by lowest price first. He starts opening tabs, mostly inoffensive lounge wear – a large portion of which is very, very unfortunately beige.

Eddie hears Steve coming before he sees him, “just do it please Carol,” and he sounds...exasperated by whoever Carol is. Steve comes back and takes the laptop. He very very briefly frowns at Eddie over the top of the screen, but it’s over so fast Eddie’s not entirely sure he saw it, “you think you’ll want something more to eat later?”

Eddie did eat his weight in McDonalds a couple of hours ago...but he hasn’t been really full for years, “uhm, yeah, in a bit, maybe?”

“Sure, I’ll see what we have.”

And then Eddie just...sits there. He can’t actually remember the last time he just...sat on a couch. The only place the Omega at the ranch are allowed to sit is either the floor, when they’ve been told to, the table, but only when eating...and probably their beds in the dorm.

Sitting here feels kind of naughty, actually, sitting here, relaxing, comfortable and warm. Eddie touches the lush, velvety feel of the couch, it’s really nice, really soft-“chicken and pasta?” Eddie nearly jumps out of his fucking skin. Like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Logically, he knows that isn’t the case, but his feet are tingling regardless.

Steve can actually cook, who knew? Well, it might only be a simple dish, browned off chicken chunks in something creamy and mushroomy, sitting on some pasta, but it’s absolutely delicious.

“We should probably get someone to look at your feet tomorrow.”

Eddie shrugs, nearly vibrating with excitement at the sight of garlic bread and trying his best to hide it, “always been fine before.”

“Still, I wouldn’t want them getting infected. Do you want me to tell Hopper anything about your uncle? I presume he will be busy for a little bit but…?”

Eddie swallows but...nods, Steve getting his phone and Hoppers card, “he’s called Wayne Munson, he’s my dads brother. He lives in a trailer park in, uhm, Hawkins. Indiana.”

Steve taps at his phone, “that’s not actually that far, we could...probably drive that, maybe in a day, once you feel up to it. I’ll see what Hopper says, see if he gets back to us tomorrow, I figure we've both had a long day.”

And that sounds...well. Eddie's running out of reasons to be suspicious, to question this, to question Steve. He has a little kernel of hope, real, genuine hope, growing inside him now...that this is true. That he's going to be free. That he's going to see Wayne.

Eddie nods, keeps eating, is thrilled when Steve offers him a beer, nodding happily. Steve withdraws it at the last second, “wait, just how old are you?”

“Errr…twenty one?”

Steve laughs, “try again,” but he does hand over the beer.

“Eighteen. I was there for a couple of years, maybe a bit longer, they got me walking home from school. Pretty sure my parents wouldn’t have, you know, noticed, probably best I don’t go back there, anyway. Quite a few Omega came through in the time that I was, you know, there...”

Steve’s staring off into space though, looking somewhere over Eddie’s shoulder, clearly not listening.“-oh.”

“Errr...Steve, you okay?” Steve looks like his brain has just stalled. Like completely shut down, “Steve, man, you’re freaking me out a bit here.”

Steve frowns, finally showing some life, his fork still literally hanging in air, half way to his mouth, “Tommy Hagan is probably being arrested.”

“I, err...I mean, yeah? I fucking hope he is?”

As Eddie watches, a bit of chicken falls off Steve’s fork and splats onto his plate, “right now, other than me, you, and the FBI...no one knows that. That Tommy’s being arrested, arrested for something fucking terrible.”

“Riiight…”

“He’s being arrested for something he can’t come back from. It’ll got public. His names about to be mud. His stocks are going to tank. Every part of everything Tommy owns is about to go up in flames.” Steve’s fork clangs onto the plate, “I’m so sorry, I have to go to work.”

“I...what?”

Steve’s already picking up his phone, his keys, sliding on his jacket, “help yourself to anything you need, I’ll be back...at some point.” Steve’s already calling someone, “I need you in the office, right now. I want Wheeler, from legal, make sure finance is there, actually, make sure Henderson has availability tomorrow,” Steve comes back from the front door, sliding a business card in front of Eddie, “no, right now, I’m on my way, twenty minutes.”

Eddie looks at the card; it’s Steve’s, has his email, office number and mobile on it, presumably so Eddie can get hold of him. Eddie’s pretty sure he just witnessed the first steps of a hostile take over, or something.

And now he’s in this massive house, all alone.

Link to Part Four

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#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #omega eddie munson because he's so pretty #alpha steve harrington #my writing

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