#MY LITTLE BRITISH COUNTRY GIRL

[futurejocksgf]

[in a british accent] HOWDY 🤠

[neroushalvaus]

Tumblr in the 60s

☮ monkeewholock follow

🎉🎉CONGRATULATIONS UNITED KINGDOM 🎊🎊🎉🎉🎉🎉BYE BYE GROSS INDECENCY!!!!🌈🌈🌈 62 countries have now legalized sexual activities between men🌈🌈🌈

🐞 homophilespock follow

SPIRK CAN FINALLY FUCK

🚀 starrfleet follow

They are American, not British... But I'm pretty sure spirk has always been able to fuck since the show is set in the future.

📻 lesbianbobdylan follow

Christ, this is not about your cutesy uwu yaoi otp, go outside and smoke some grass

10,8 t. notes

🌻 flowerpower follow

Politicians are not your friends but damn Kennedy is fine, I look at one (1) picture of him and my head literally explodes

🌻 flowerpower follow

...i just woke up, why is my askbox full

🌻 flowerpower follow

WHY IS HE TRENDING I'M SCARED

🌻 flowerpower follow

guys stop reblogging this it's been like five years i've changed

290,9 t. notes

🎹 nixonsafascist follow

do you think they call him little richard because he has a little. Richard

🎹 nixonsafascist follow

easy website

58,1 t. notes

🇻🇳 shirellesofficial follow

Being the only lesbian in your friend group sucks so bad. "beatles or stones??" i will kill you

🗣 lavendermenaceisreal-deactivated72537262

Disrespecting female social groups for male validation? Typical lesbian behaviour.

🇻🇳 shirellesofficial follow

Mike Jacker isnt gonna fuck you

🇻🇳 shirellesofficial follow

Oh no I think she couldn't handle that

77 notes

✌ draftdodgerdyke

DM me for the addresses of my Swedish and Canadian friends. Do not put your personal information in the reblogs.

🙍‍♀️ silvermilk follow

You should be ashamed of yourself.

✌ draftdodgerdyke

huh??

🙍‍♀️ silvermilk follow

I said, you should be ashamed of yourself. You disgust me. I assure you, when the commies attack us, you will not find your silly little post "groovy" anymore.

✌ draftdodgerdyke

Jesus, don't flip your wig

🙍‍♀️ silvermilk follow

My father fought in ww2 for you ungrateful degenerate.

✌ draftdodgerdyke

Don't see what your daddy's unsexiness has to do with me and my lads taking a sexy sexy trip to Sweden.

#anyway only hot guys dodge the draft

587 notes

🪕 prostitutesandlesbians follow

in every interview i watch of the beatles they are so DONE and trolling everybody, these fucking annoying BITCHES, i need them inside me so badly

🪕 prostitutesandlesbians follow

#this but not john lennon #i just can't forget the heinous things he said about jesus

idk I actually think it was very sexy of him, stop trying to cancel john in my post

✝️ jesusrevolution follow

The reading comprehension on this website is piss poor. John literally didn't mean he was greater than Jesus or better than Jesus, he was just trying to make a point about the world becoming more secular. Cancel culture has gone too far.

🚷 to-hell-with-the-beatles follow

How dare you say we piss on the poor?? Jesus died for Mr Lennon's sins and it's not "cancelling" to send him a few respectably worded death threats to remind him of that. He cancelled our Lord first!

✝️ jesusrevolution follow

Girl Jesus literally said it's cool, I dropped acid yesterday and saw Him and He told me.

🪕 prostitutesandlesbians follow

help the girls (christians) are fighting in my beatles thirst post

6,008 notes

🛼 donovandyke follow

I will be glued to the tv today. If you don't want to hear about it, just blacklist #moonlanding !!

0 notes

🗣 claudeberger4ever-deactivated98975287

Hi I'm new to the Hair musical fandom so I'm not super invested in the whole discourse, but I just felt like this needed to be said: Friendly reminder that not being against the war in Vietnam does not make you a bad person!

🥁 ringoforpresident follow

it literally does tho

✌ draftdodgerdyke

Another win for us hot guys

17,2 t. notes

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ GOOD TIME

a/n: i caved and wrote a bob fic, 2022 me is alive and well. i’m a british girlie so things may be a little inaccurate. americans, feel free to educate me in the replies!

summary: bob takes you line dancing

warnings: mentions of parental death/grief

word count: 1.5k

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

When your boyfriend had told you to keep Friday night free, you assumed dinner, maybe a movie. What you definitely hadn’t expected was a country bar.

“Line dancing?” you asked, your voice a mix of horror and curiosity as you stared up at the building’s entrance.

A bright neon sign flickered above the door, blinking the word, ‘Honky-Tonk’. Immediately, you knew you were out of your element.

Bob smiled, clearly amused, reading the dread all over your face, “I thought… maybe we’d try something a little different tonight.”

“This is why you bought me the boots?” you asked, glancing down at the fancy pair of Ariats he’d made you spend the last two weeks breaking in.

“That’s why I bought you the boots.” he nodded, biting his lip to hide his smile.

He’d always dreamed of the day he’d have matching boots with his girl - and today was finally that day, even if he’d tricked you into it.

Your gaze lifted to stare at the couples spinning and stomping on the polished wood, “Bobby, I can barely walk in a straight line. How am I supposed to memorise all that?”

He held out his hand, palm up, “Lucky for you, I’ve already got it memorised for the both of us.”

His faded jeans and scuffed boots made it clear that he belonged here. In your fresh Ariats, you felt like an imposter. Bob adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, before offering you his hand again.

Reluctantly, you slid your hand into his, “I really don’t think I’m right for this kind of thing.”

“I’ll make you right for it, darlin’. Come on,” he squeezed your hand and tugged you onto the dancefloor.

He taught you slowly. One step at a time, his hand steady at your waist, voice low in your ear, “Right, left, back, tap. Just like that… Yeah, you’re doing fine.”

You stumbled. He caught you.

“Still fine,” he replied, smirking.

“Oh, you’re real funny.” you replied, rolling your eyes with a smile as he spun you into his arms.

“I know,” he smiled proudly, twirling you back out again.

After a few more songs, you finally started to catch onto the rhythm. You were still clumsy, maybe a beat or two behind, but you were moving.

Eyes no longer glued to your boots. Tension no longer seizing up your shoulders.

And Bob? Bob’s eyes were locked on you, as if you’d hung the moon and the stars.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” he murmured, guiding you through the routine with practised ease.

“There you go!” he laughed, watching as, bit-by-bit, your mimicking of him became more accurate.

“You’re a natural, city girl.” he teased you with a smile, pushing his glasses up his nose with one hand and guiding you with his other.

You scoffed, smiling wide, “Mm, a natural disaster… maybe.”

“No way, you’re doing great, darlin’.” he leaned in slightly, voice dipping into that soft, Southern drawl, reserved only for you, “Pretty sure you kept up with me the whole chorus.”

You shook your head, smiling coyly, “I’m not so convinced. Just wait till I trip over and fall in front of everyone.”

Bob smirked, his eyes sparkling mischievously, “I wouldn’t let that happen, believe me. No falling on my watch.”

He pulled you in closer, his grip tight and steady. You knew he meant his word when he said, “Don’t you worry about a thing, I got you.”

Before long, the music shifted again, fading into something softer and slower. The crowd thinned around you as people cleared the floor for couples.

Bob’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back. He pulled you closer, “No steps for this one. You just have to feel it.”

You started swaying gently under the low glow of the string lights overhead and Bobby smiled contentedly.

He leaned closer, rested his chin lightly against your temple and breathed out, “I used to watch from the railing right over there.”

He nodded toward a faded wooden balcony overlooking the floor, “My parents would come here when I was a kid, dance all night long. I always hoped I’d be doing the same someday.”

You glanced up at him, surprised to hear the quiet vulnerability in his voice. He hadn’t spoken much about what his parents had been like together - not since his father had passed last June.

You didn’t say anything right away, just leaned into his touch.

You’d missed out on that part of things - meeting Bob’s father. You and Bob had only been together a couple of months when he’d fallen ill, and everything had happened so fast.

Between treatments and resting, there was never really time for introductions. His father was still a piece of him you were trying to figure out.

Bob exhaled slowly, like he wasn’t quite sure how to continue, then took a steadying breath.

“They were good together,” he said after a beat, “Simple. Didn’t need much or a whole lot of fuss to show their love. Just music and each other was enough.”

You felt his fingers press lightly into the small of your back, seeking out your grounding comfort.

“I think… I always wanted that,” he continued, “Someone who wouldn’t mind taking things slow and steady.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were soft, but you raised your eyebrows at him.

“I’m hardly steady,” you joked with a crooked smile, “You’ve seen me walk.”

He huffed out a low laugh, mumbling against your hair, “You’re steady in the ways that matter.”

“I’ll take it,” you hummed, smile softening into something fonder.

The music played on, a slow hum surrounding you both. You rocked gently on your heels as Bob walked you in a small circle, holding you close.

“Do you think he would’ve liked me?” you asked quietly, your hands resting at the nape of his neck.

Bob paused for a moment, his breath warm against the top of your head. Then he smiled softly, almost sadly.

“I think he would’ve liked you,” he confessed quietly, “Hell, I… I know he would’ve liked you.”

His fingers traced slow circles on the small of your back, steady and sure.

“Anyone who makes me this happy would’ve been good enough for him. He only ever wanted me happy.“

You looked up, caught in the sincerity of his gaze, reaching a hand up to his face, “And are you happy?”

“Yeah…” Bob nodded, tilting his head to the side to look at you, “Course I am. You make me the happiest man alive, baby.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread down to your toes at his words.

You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek - a little reassurance that you were there, and you were his. Bob’s smile grew wider, if not a little shy.

“I love you,” you whispered, eyes tracing every inch of his face, lovingly. You were completely and utterly enamoured with your Bobby.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him - especially, not as he replied, “I love you too, darlin’.”

Bob kissed your forehead, belt buckle knocking gently against yours as he held you closed. You breathed in the cedarwood scent of his cologne, nearly drifting off in his arms.

Just as the slow song ended, Bob tapped your foot with his to get your attention, “Alright, city girl, you ready for the real challenge?”

You cocked an eyebrow, lifting your head, “We didn’t already have that?”

“Not yet,” Bob chuckled teasingly, “This number’s different. Faster. More steps. And a little showing off.”

“Oh, dear Lord, save me,” you pleaded, laughing as you shook your head at the sky.

Bob grinned, squeezing your hand, taking your hands, “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m right here with you.”

He led you to the edge of the floor, ready to teach you some more. The faster rhythm had you biting your lip in concentration.

“Okay, watch my feet,” he said, tapping his boot against the polished wood, “Right, left, shuffle, step, spin, got it?”

You nodded, trying to lock onto his movements, your boots clicking nervously against the floor as you clumsily replicated his moves.

“Hey, hey, keep your chin up! You’re doing great,” Bob encouraged, his voice warm as he took your hand, dancing with you.

The crowd around you blurred into a soft haze as you were absorbed by Bob and his focus on you.

When you stumbled a little, his hand caught yours tighter, “I got you, darlin’. You’re getting it.”

By the end of the song, you were breathless, both from the dance and Bob’s smile, that made you feel as though your chest were about to burst.

“You did it,” he grinned, pulling you close, “Was that so hard?”

“I guess not…” you smiled fondly at Bob as he led you off of the dance floor.

He perched on the first empty chair he came across, pulling you down onto his lap, “Lucky you had such an amazing teacher, I guess.”

“I guess so,” you smirked, cupping his face with one hand and giving him a well-earned kiss.

You leaned into his touch, already thinking about what next Friday had in store for you.

[historicity-was-already-taken]

I feel like JK Rowling’s decision to use her money to start an anti-trans hate group is emblematic of everything that is wrong and terrifying and fucked up these days.

She wrote an anti-fascist allegory that helped me, a little Jewish girl, understand the Holocaust in a safe, comfortable way that none of the adults in my life were truly capable of.

And now she’s a violent bigot pushing fascist ideology.

I don’t understand how we got from the optimism of the Obama years and the heights of #metoo to this….state of things in the 2020s.

Was I skipping around NYC in a millennial haze while the rest of the country was being radicalized? Was I dreamily walking home along Central Park while the rest of the country lost its mind over 8 years of a black President?

I want so badly to understand how not just the US, but the “Western” world got here. Or maybe it’s not supposed to be understood. Maybe the answer is that Putin saw a moment of reckoning, leapt on it, and has done a rly good job fulfilling Krushchev’s vision.

It’s the inability to understand, that scares me. Beyond morals and ethics and winning online debates, I’m a historian and it frightens that I can’t fully grasp the moment I’m living in.

NOTE: I’m not interested in having any debates about Joanne or her boy wizard books. This is an emotional reflection post, not an invitation to fight over her pre-radicalization White British Lady nonsense or whatever the fuck.

[ellysdreamworldd]

dr ideas 𝜗𝜚

❥︎ 70s/80s/90s/2000s highschool (or any year these the ones i want to go to) to finally experience being a teenager without social media

❥︎a dr where you're in a haunted house but you're the ghost- i saw this on tiktok and it's so good i feel ashamed for not thinking of it myself. like it would be so fun to scare random people

❥︎a dr where you're the karma. like you're invisible and you can follow people and then give them what they deserve

❥︎ 90s high fashion model dr

❥︎2000s victoria's secret angel dr

❥︎ h20 dr/ mermaid dr in general (childhood dream)

❥︎rich british boarding school dr

❥︎a dr where you travel the world. like you're rich and unemployed and your biggest worry is which flight to book next or if the 5 star hotel is going to be comfortable enough

❥︎dead poets society dr (they let girls in the school too)

❥︎history drs- ancient egypt(i was lowkey thinking about shifting as a cat to be worshipped) ancient rome ecc. (maybe in these drs it's better to shift as a man yk)

❥︎a dr where you're a bird. idk i always wanted to fly (i mean you don't necessarily need to be a bird to fly but)

❥︎winx (the cartoon not the show)

❥︎pretty little liars (the 6th liar starting when ali is still alive and assembling her group)

❥︎zombie apocalypse dr

❥︎an equestrian dr where you live in the countryside and your parents have a horse ranch (i want to live like those girls in the 72728 horse movies my sister made me watch where they are city girls who have never seen a horse before and can randomly be able to ride the most wild and aggressive horse ever)

❥︎a dr where you are the actor of all your characters in your previous drs (also saw this on tiktok and omg mind blowing i can't wait to watch edits of my characters and what people would say about me)

❥︎1800 jane austen worthy romance dr

❥︎80s slasher movie (just script you're the final girl and we're good)

❥︎a dr for every country in the world (maybe leave out some where it wouldn't exactly be fun to live). it's such a nice way to see the world from the eyes of a local and learn about other cultures

❥︎pirate dr

❥︎vampire dr

❥︎ rockstar dr where you're in a popular band

❥︎a dr in which you can shrink yourself and live in dollhouses and stuff like that. I always wanted to do that as a child and having a life-sized dollhouse would just not be the same

❥︎a dr where you have a child and you're a parent (i fear i would probably get too attached to the kid to ever leave)

❥︎different drs for every single job that interests you so when you come back (if you're planning to) you already know what you like so you won't risk being stuck with a job you don't like in this cr (for example being an astronaut or a fashion designer would be so cool)

❥︎royalty dr

❥︎a dr where you are Santa's elf (saw it on tiktok too and omg so fun but what do they even do for the rest of the year?)

❥︎summer camp dr

❥︎outer banks dr (basic i know but rafe)

❥︎dragon academy dr (like riding dragons and stuff😍)

[norrisjpg]

─── ★ prologue

════════════════════════

series: my kind of woman, LN⁴

content: max being overprotective, mentions of unhealthy relationships, coffee dates 

pairing: lando norris x fem!oc

rora's thoughts: hi hi hi lovlies! i decided to keep the prologue short and sweet, just so you can get the idea of lily's dynamic with everyone (excluding lando, of course, that's for next time), and understand her personality and all. i really hope you enjoy reading this, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

════════════════════════

THE BRITISH SUMMER time wasn’t usually the warmest. typically, it was filled with chilly breezes and cloudy days pretending to be a heatwave for the country. the atmosphere was brimming with floating pollen and the promise of a clear sky that never seemed to be fully fulfilled. but the best time of the day was arguably six o’clock, morning or evening. 

lily was on the balcony of her london apartment, the quadrant hoodie that max had gifted her for christmas last year wrapped around her torso. her legs were tucked up to her chest, chin resting on her knees as she watched the sunrise flood in over the city. the book she’d been reading for the past half an hour or so was carefully placed on the minuscule wooden table next to the beanbag she resided on. stray hairs cascaded out of the low bun her hair was squeezed into, tickling the back of her neck every time she moved, but she didn’t mind, lily was too engrossed in the orange and red hues painted on the horizon. 

there was a second beanbag next to her. it was empty. the only other person who had ever sat on that seat was pietra, she was the only person who’d watch the sun rise or set with her, usually with an orange juice or glass of wine in her grasp. 

“good morning,” max mumbled as he leant against the frame of the sliding doors, rubbing his eyes as he spoke to his sister. “what are you doing up so early?”

“watching the sunrise, as usual.” she said quietly to her older brother, glancing at him briefly. “sorry if i woke you.”

“woke me? you’re as quiet as a mouse, el.” the older fewtrell laughed softly, running a hand through his dishevelled mullet.

“what are your plans for today?” she rolled her eyes, with a laugh.

“i’m heading out for lunch with some of the quadrant lot, if you want to join us?”

“sorry, i’ve got plans with harry today, max.” lily pursed her lips, a slightly guilty expression present on her features. “i’ll try and come next time though, yeah?”

“harry?” max furrowed his eyebrows, perking up a little at the mention of the man. “you’re still going out with him?”

“oh, give it a rest.” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she now looked at her older brother, his overprotective side clearly engaging at the mention of the boy from cambridge. “he’s lovely, you’re just too protective of me.”

“and i have a right to be.” he nodded, reaching forward and ruffling lily’s hair. “you’re still my baby sister, i don’t want you getting hurt by some knob who thinks he knows what’s best for you.”

“well it’s a good job that he’s not a knob then, isn’t it?” lily replied, slapping his hand away with no real force. “anyway, how long are you planning on staying for?”

“lando gets back on thursday, so i’ll probably head back up on friday.” the boy nodded. “you can come with me if you want?”

“i can’t, book launch event on saturday evening, sorry.”

“it’s fine, at least i won’t have to watch lando drool over you again.” max laughed, referring to the holiday they went on last year, where the mclaren driver was thirsting over the woman in secret, max only finding out after ed accidentally let it slip to his best friend. 

“get a life, max.” the girl rolled her eyes, grabbing her book and standing up. “and even if he was, which he wasn’t, you wouldn’t let the poor lad near me anyway.”

“because i know lando, and that boy is not ready to settle down, and i don’t want him breaking your heart.” max pursed his lips, sighing softly. 

“i can handle myself, you know? i’m not a kid anymore, max.”

“yeah, and i’m going to be back racing next month.”

• • • •

AT AROUND lunch time, the sun was blaring down in london, casting picturesque shadows on the pavement as she walked through the city streets. harry and lily had arranged to meet at this adorable cafe, cozy and a relief from the humidity of the outdoor atmosphere. and he was there, waiting in a little booth tucked away in the corner of the establishment, aimlessly scrolling through his socials as he waited for lily to arrive.

“hi,” she smiled softly, sliding into the seats opposite him, placing her bag down next to her.

“ah, hey lils.” harry smiled, putting his phone down as she sat down in front of him. “how are you?”

“yeah, all good, thankyou.” she nodded politely, “and you?”

“i’m good, mhm.” he hummed, nodding his head as the waiter approached their table, placing the coffee he had ordered a few minutes ago down in front of him. “drink?”

“oh, yes please.” lily nodded. “could i just get a white coffee please?”

the waiter nodded, smiling before turning on her heel and heading off toward the till. harry’s eyes followed her, before darting back to lily. 

conversations between the two were pleasant, lily planning out responses in her head, overthinking a couple moments but overall it was nice. 

harry attended the university of london, studying medical science to become a doctor. the pair had met a few months ago, after lily had practically thrown her to-go cup of coffee all over him, down the light beige slacks he was wearing, and staining the crisp, white shirt on his torso. he’d insisted on buying her another coffee, and said that a date with her would make up for it. the two of them had been out together six times since then, but something just wasn’t quite right.

lily hadn’t ever really had a proper boyfriend. yes, she’d had the fling here and there, lost her virginity to a friend from secondary school, made out with one or two guys over the course of a few years - but never anything serious. harry did make her feel a little insecure - it wasn’t like he was a manwhore, but the boy was definitely experienced and a tiny bit too keen for her liking. the way his hand would linger on her thigh, the way he kissed her was a little too deeply for her liking, the way his palm somehow found her ass every time they hugged - it was all just a little too much for her.

not to mention, when the two of them did kiss, he made her feel a little insecure about her inexperience. was this what relationships were supposed to be like? she wasn’t sure, but her love life had been missing-in-action for so long, lily was going to take whatever she could get.

meanwhile, max fewtrell had just returned to his sister’s apartment, and was putting his shoes back into the white rack on the floor, when his phone starting buzzing in his pocket.

“‘sup bob?” the man said after swiping to answer the call from his best friend.

“alright, max?” lando replied. “wanna come to miami in a few weeks? bring p if you want, mate, all the other girlfriends are here.”

“oh, sweet, we’ll be there, thanks mate.” max nodded. “i’ll check with her, but yeah, should be fine.”

“cool, that was all, gotta go, see you on friday, yeah?” the british driver responded, the sound of someone calling his name in the background of the call.

“yeah, see you friday, bob.”

════════════════════════

taglist: @verogonewild @tvdtw4ever @shawnscurlz @f1fantasys

i do not give permission for my works to be re-written, re-published, or published on any other platform.

© norrisjpg 2025

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Par for the Heart: Part 16

paige x azzi

a/n: do not come for me and the ending I have the next part planned but not written just trust it's worth the wait... contains sexual content minors DNI this one was for the anon who asked for a little more dom Paige

word count: 4.8k

"What Haven't You Done?"

It started with a whiteboard.

A massive, ridiculous whiteboard that Paige had dragged in from the garage, propped against the kitchen wall like it belonged there. It all started with one of those late-night, slightly drowsy, deeply honest conversations on the floor, tangled in blankets and limbs, where dreams felt both too heavy and too far away. Azzi had listened, really listened, and then decided to make those dreams lighter. Tangible. Visual. Even silly.

The board was now filled with goals in different colored markers: some serious, some downright absurd.

Run a basketball camp for girls in underserved communities was right above Eat a mango in every tropical country.

Rebuild trust with family.

Get Paige to do karaoke sober.

Take a pasta-making class.

And that was where they started.

The studio was tucked on a quiet street in Silver Lake, all reclaimed wood and Edison bulbs and the faint, buttery scent of fresh dough in the air. Paige had found the class online and booked it before she could second-guess herself. Azzi had been stunned when she found out where they were going.

“Wait… we’re cooking?”

Paige gave her a look as they parked. “We are crafting, chef. From flour and eggs like our ancestors.”

“We’re not Italian.”

“Still counts.”

Inside, they were given matching aprons, red and navy. Azzi tied hers with unnecessary flourish, already throwing side-eyes at Paige as they took their spot at the table covered in flour, eggs, water bowls, and rolling pins.

“You’re gonna get competitive, aren’t you?”

“Don’t act like you’re not already plotting how to beat me at tagliatelle.”

Azzi laughed, nudging her with a hip. “Okay, yeah. I absolutely am.”

They cracked eggs into flour wells and mixed with their hands, messier than they needed to be, on purpose. Paige tried to be neat. Azzi flicked flour onto her nose the second she got too precise.

“You look like a stressed-out baker from a holiday rom-com,” Azzi said.

“You look like a chaotic contestant on The Great British Bake-Off,” Paige shot back.

“Flour me once, shame on you. Flour me twice—”

Paige reached over and swiped her cheek. “Then you get kissed.”

And she did. A soft, flour-smudged kiss that had the instructor sighing dramatically from the other side of the room.

“Young love,” he muttered. “They’ll burn the ravioli.”

Two hours in, they had somehow made fettuccine, ravioli (Paige’s looked like tiny sandbags, Azzi’s were pristine), and a decent red sauce. The class ended with everyone sharing a meal, wine poured generously, candles flickering.

Azzi fed Paige a bite of her ravioli and grinned. “I didn’t think I could love you more than I did yesterday, and yet here we are.”

Paige leaned back in her chair, watching her like she was sunlight. “That line was smoother than this pasta.”

“You’re welcome.”

They lingered at the table long after the others left, fingers laced on the table, trading little stories and laughing until the staff gently herded them out.

—-

The next morning, Azzi stood at the whiteboard in her pajama shorts and one of Paige’s crewnecks, uncapping a marker with the kind of ceremony that made Paige raise an eyebrow.

She carefully checked off “Take a pasta-making class” with a dramatic flourish, then added a smiley face beside it.

“Okay,” Azzi announced, turning toward the kitchen where Paige stood with coffee in hand. “Your turn. Something new. My pick.”

Paige leaned against the counter, still in sleep-mussed hair and one sock, sipping from a mug that said Coach Mode: Activated. “Define new.”

Azzi tapped the cap of the marker against her chin. “Let’s find out. Have you ever gone skydiving?”

“No,” Paige said easily. “Absolutely not.”

“Flown first class?”

“Yes. Once. College booster thing.”

“Snuck into a movie?”

Paige shrugged. “More than once. You gotta do what you gotta do when you’re broke in high school.”

“Gone skinny-dipping?”

A pause. Then a smirk. “Is that your way of asking to?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Noted for later. But yes or no?”

“Yes,” Paige replied. “At a lake in Minnesota. It was freezing. Regret is eternal.”

Azzi grinned, getting into it now. “Stolen something?”

“Technically, yes. I stole a plastic spoon from Menchie’s once because it was pink and I liked the shape.”

“That is… adorable. Okay, next—have you ever been to a sex shop?”

The mug paused halfway to Paige’s lips. Her entire face twitched like her software was buffering.

“Excuse me?”

Azzi tilted her head. “A real one. In person. Not just ordering online with discreet packaging and fake names.”

“That is… very specific.”

“So that’s a no?”

Paige shifted on her heel, visibly uncomfortable but trying to play it cool. “I mean… no. I haven’t. But not because I’m scared or anything.”

Azzi crossed her arms. “Oh? Then what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” Paige muttered. “What if someone sees us?”

Azzi broke into a slow grin. “Then they’ll know we have excellent taste and a thriving relationship.”

“Azzi.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared. I’m just… selective about public exposure.”

Azzi took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Paige Bueckers,” she said, mock-serious. “Are you telling me you’ve faced down championship pressure, Golf Channel mics in your face, and twelve-foot putts for birdie with the whole crowd holding their breath— but a neon-lit boutique of vibrators and flavored lube rattles you?”

Paige groaned into her coffee. “God help me.”

Azzi beamed, victorious. “I’m dragging you by your hoodie if I have to.”

Paige sighed but couldn’t stop the tiny smile breaking through. “This is what I get for letting you add ‘silly dreams’ to the whiteboard.”

Azzi came closer, kissing the tip of her nose. “And yet… you love me.”

Paige’s grin widened, warm and full of something quieter. “I do.”

This was their life now. Silly questions. New memories. Each other—always.

Cue the reluctant girlfriend montage.

Paige had faced down major tournament pressure, post-round interviews under the blazing sun. But apparently, nothing could prepare her for this.

“This is… a lot of neon,” Paige muttered as she hesitated outside the glass door of the sex shop, arms crossed over her chest, hat pulled low over her eyes like she was a D-list celebrity trying to avoid paparazzi.

Azzi, on the other hand, looked like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Neon, toys, empowerment, education—this is our Disneyland, babe.”

“I don’t think Disneyland sells vibrating anything.”

Azzi smirked, pulled the door open with a dramatic flourish, and gave Paige a pointed look. “In we go.”

The little bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside. Paige stayed glued to the front corner of the store, hovering awkwardly near the lube samples, pretending to read the back of a bottle like it was a golf playbook.

Azzi wandered in deeper, greeting the flirty, pierced staff member at the counter like she was catching up with an old friend.

The staffer did a double take. “Wait… you’re Azzi Fudd, right? From the Sparks?”

Azzi grinned. “Guilty.”

Paige whipped around so fast she nearly knocked over a rotating display. Her cheeks turned a shade of pink so deep it could rival the fuchsia latex bodysuit hanging behind her.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, tugging her hoodie up like it could make her invisible.

The staffer laughed gently. “Don’t worry, this place is basically Vegas rules. What happens here, stays here.”

Azzi turned toward Paige, eyes twinkling. “Baby, you okay over there? Wanna try a flavored one?”

“I’m reading ingredients,” Paige said, absolutely not reading ingredients.

“Oh, I’m sure. Just making sure it’s USDA approved and everything.”

Paige gave her a glare that had no heat, cheeks still flushed. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

Azzi drifted back over, sliding her hand into Paige’s and tugging her gently toward the toy wall. “C’mon. You made me try homemade pasta. This is only fair.”

“Those are not the same,” Paige hissed under her breath, glancing around like another fan might leap out from behind the restraints aisle.

“But they’re both forms of art.”

Paige groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re into it.”

Azzi pulled her in closer, arms wrapping around her from behind as they stood in front of a rainbow display of vibrators. “Okay, serious question,” she whispered into Paige’s ear. “What color screams ‘golf pro exploring her soft dom era’?”

Paige choked on her laugh, head dropping forward in defeat. “Why are you like this?”

Azzi just kissed the back of her neck. “Because you love me.”

Eventually, Paige relaxed. Or at least loosened up enough to laugh as Azzi picked up a feather tickler and dramatically fanned her like royalty. They played with silk blindfolds. Paige actually asked a question about one of the toys—her voice so low it barely counted as audible—but Azzi caught it and beamed at her like she’d just won gold.

They made it to checkout with a few items in a discreet brown paper bag, giggling like teens who had just snuck out past curfew.

Outside, Paige yanked her hoodie tighter around her and made a mad dash to the car.

“Don’t run!” Azzi shouted between fits of laughter, jogging after her. “You’re only drawing more attention!”

“I cannot believe we got recognized in there.”

“I can. You’re hot. And flustered. And people love hot, flustered women.”

Paige buckled her seatbelt and threw her head back on the headrest with a dramatic sigh. “I’m never recovering from this.”

Azzi reached across the console, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles. “You were perfect.”

Paige turned her head, eyes meeting hers. Still flushed. Still smiling. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it.”

That night, with laughter still bubbling between them, a brown paper bag waiting on the dresser, and their legs tangled under the covers, Paige leaned over and whispered, “Maybe next time, we go to your Disneyland again.”

Azzi grinned, eyes already dark with knowing. “Oh, we will. But don’t think I’ve forgotten—you still blushed harder than I’ve ever seen.”

“And you still kissed me like it was your favorite color.”

Azzi’s smile was slow, lazy, already darkened with want. But there was no surprise in her voice—just certainty. Just hunger.

“I want you to use what we bought.”

Paige’s breath hitched, and she knew Azzi felt it. She always felt it. Still, Paige tilted her head, arching a brow. “Yeah?”

Azzi’s fingers ghosted over the top of Paige’s thigh beneath the covers, teasing but insistent. “I want you to tell me what to do. Take your time with me. Be in control tonight.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just looked at her. And Azzi looked right back—unflinching, unwavering, lit up from the inside out with trust and anticipation.

It wasn’t about surprise anymore. Azzi had seen this version of her before.

But this time… she wanted more of her.

“You sure?” Paige asked, low and steady.

Azzi’s voice was a whisper, but her eyes were on fire. “So fucking sure.”

Paige kissed her—softly, then not so softly—and murmured against her lips, “Then get the candles. And bring the bag.”

Azzi grinned, eyes sparkling like she’d just been handed her favorite kind of dare. She slid out of bed completely bare beneath the hoodie and padded across the room, lighting candles one by one until the space glowed with flickering warmth. Paige sat up against the headboard, muscles taut, gaze fixed like she was already undressing her with her eyes.

Azzi returned, handing her the brown paper bag, the weight of it familiar now, and somehow still thrilling.

Paige opened it slowly. Pulled out the harness. The double-ended toy. The lube. The cuffs Azzi had tossed in at the last second weeks ago with a sly grin and a “just in case.”

Tonight was the case.

“Strip,” Paige said, voice sharper now, more sure of itself.

Azzi obeyed instantly, the hoodie hitting the floor.

Paige’s eyes moved over her with intention. Like Azzi was hers. Like she’d earned this moment, this control, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do with it.

As Paige fastened the straps low around her hips, Azzi stepped closer, biting back a smirk. “You’re really committing to the role tonight.”

Paige didn’t look up. “Keep running your mouth and I’ll have you gagged before you even get a taste.”

Azzi moaned—loud and unfiltered. “Jesus, okay. Don’t not threaten me like that.”

“I’m not threatening,” Paige said, rising to full height, now in the harness, the toy sleek and already slick. “I’m promising.”

Azzi was grinning, cheeks flushed, practically vibrating with anticipation as Paige nudged her toward the bed.

“Hands above your head.”

Azzi crawled onto the mattress, stretched out, offering her wrists like a gift. Paige clicked the cuffs into place, one side then the other, locking her in. Azzi tested them once, just enough to feel the give—and the thrill of the lack of it.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Paige said, climbing over her slowly. “Laid out. Open. Waiting for me.”

Azzi tilted her chin. “Took you long enough.”

“Oh, baby,” Paige cooed, lining herself up with a firm hand on Azzi’s thigh. “You’re gonna regret that.”

The first thrust was slow—teasing—just the tip.

The second? Deeper. Fuller.

Azzi gasped. “Oh my—fuck.”

Paige sank in inch by inch, the inner shaft pressing into her own core with delicious tension. Both of them moaned, heads tipping back at the same time.

Paige stilled when she bottomed out.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “Taking it so well. Like you were made for it.”

Azzi writhed, hips bucking. “Please move. Please—fuck—I need—”

“You’ll get it,” Paige said, beginning to move. “But you’re gonna work for it.”

She set a pace—slow, grinding thrusts that dragged against all the right spots, her hands gripping Azzi’s thighs tight, forcing her open.

Azzi’s wrists strained in the cuffs, her moans already breathy and broken. “You feel so good—fuck, Paige—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Paige reached down, fingers finding Azzi’s clit, rubbing in firm, steady circles that matched her thrusts. The toy inside them both vibrated on low, creating a perfect storm of sensation—pressure and pleasure and heat blooming fast.

Azzi was shaking now, toes curling, moans rising with every grind of Paige’s hips.

“Come for me,” Paige whispered, voice fierce and reverent all at once.

Azzi shattered—eyes wide and wild, mouth open in a silent scream, body clenching around the toy as the orgasm ripped through her like it had been waiting all damn day.

Paige didn’t stop.

She slowed, softened, let her ride it out—then pulled out gently, toy glistening, her thighs already slick and aching.

Azzi was wrecked. Beautiful and breathless and still cuffed to the bed, her eyes dazed but hungry.

“You good?” Paige asked.

Azzi blinked up at her. “So good. But—your turn.”

Paige exhaled, chest rising, need written all over her face.

“Think you can handle that mouth?”

Azzi smirked. “Test me.”

Paige removed the harness, climbed up, straddled her chest slowly. Azzi didn’t even flinch—just opened her mouth, tongue out, wrists still bound.

Paige lowered herself, a groan catching in her throat when Azzi’s tongue met her, confident and greedy.

She rocked her hips with purpose, grinding slow against Azzi’s face, gripping the headboard for balance. Her moans filled the space, raw and unraveling.

“You’re so fucking good,” she panted. “God, Azzi—don’t stop—fuck—right there—”

She came hard, thighs trembling around Azzi’s face, crying out as her orgasm took over—full-bodied, messy, grounding.

She collapsed forward, pressing kisses to Azzi’s mouth, her cheeks, her collarbone, as she unlocked the cuffs one at a time.

Azzi pulled her in, lips bruised, voice rough. “I need you to know something.”

Paige looked at her, still catching her breath. “What?”

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced. Ever.”

Paige laughed, breathless and flushed. “You didn’t make it easy.”

Azzi smirked. “Didn’t plan to. But I’d let you wreck me like that again. Anytime.”

Paige kissed her—slow and deep, all tongue and affection. “Yeah?”

Azzi hummed, still a little drunk on the high of it. “You have no idea what that did to me. Seeing you take control like that.”

Paige rested her forehead against hers, voice softer now. “I meant every second of it.”

Azzi grinned. “I know. That’s what made it so good.”

They laid there tangled up, skin on skin, candlelight flickering around them. The cuffs lay discarded on the nightstand, the toy long forgotten under the sheets.

Paige traced circles along Azzi’s arm. “Might not be my usual lane… but for you?”

Azzi didn’t even hesitate. “Baby, stay in that lane.”

They both laughed, and kissed again, sweeter now—less heat, more everything else.

And as the silence stretched out, warm and close and full of something that felt like forever, neither of them moved to end it.

—-

Morning came slow.

Soft light spilled through the curtains, warming the messy sheets tangled around them. Birdie was sprawled across the foot of the bed, one ear flopped over her eyes, totally unaware—or maybe politely ignoring—whatever had happened between her moms the night before.

Paige blinked awake to the weight of Azzi half on top of her, an arm slung over her waist and a thigh wedged possessively between hers. Her face was buried in Paige’s neck, her curls wild and her breath warm.

Paige smiled to herself, then ran her fingers lightly down Azzi’s spine. “You alive, or did I kill you?”

Azzi groaned into her skin. “I’m alive. Barely. My legs don’t work and I think I had a dream about you bossing me around in a grocery store.”

Paige grinned. “Was I still wearing the harness?”

Azzi tilted her head just enough to smirk. “You were, actually. You made me beg for oat milk.”

Paige burst out laughing. “I mean, to be fair, that’s pretty on brand.”

Azzi shifted, lifting herself up just enough to meet Paige’s eyes. Her voice softened, teasing giving way to something real. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You were amazing last night,” Azzi said, brushing her fingers across Paige’s cheek. “Like… hot and thoughtful and confident and still so you.”

Paige’s cheeks flushed. “It was a little new. But I liked it. You made it easy.”

Azzi smiled. “You make me feel safe. That’s why it worked.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel it settle between them.

Then Paige grinned again, eyes flicking down Azzi’s bare body. “Still safe if I say I kinda want a round-two remix this morning?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Remix, huh? What’s the vibe? Acoustic? Slow jam? Or like, club remix with eye contact and emotional damage?”

Paige laughed into her shoulder. “Definitely the last one.”

Azzi shifted her weight, sliding a thigh between Paige’s legs. “Okay, but if we go again, you’re making breakfast after.”

Paige sighed dramatically. “Fine. But only if you admit I rocked your world last night.”

Azzi leaned in close, lips brushing hers. “You did.”

Their kiss was slow. Familiar. The kind you sink into like a favorite hoodie and a playlist you never skip. Paige’s hand drifted to Azzi’s waist, pulling her in tighter, and Azzi melted into her, smiling against her mouth.

No rush.

No noise.

Just them.

Softer, but somehow even more in love than before.

—-

The next few days passed like sunlight through half-drawn curtains—slow and warm, filled with small, golden things. Mornings tangled in each other’s arms. Shared playlists over morning coffee. Birdie curling between them during movie nights. Groceries done hand-in-hand, fingers laced down every aisle.

The sex had been incredible.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The emotions had started to settle in—not heavy, but rooted. Love didn’t feel like something either of them was falling into anymore. It felt like something built. Layered. Lived in.

And Azzi felt it in everything.

The way Paige pulled her hoodie tighter around Azzi’s shoulders when she wasn’t looking. The way she always remembered exactly how much oat milk to leave in her espresso. The way she’d reach for Azzi’s pinky under the table during meetings, just to keep her grounded.

They hadn’t said anything about the future. Not directly. But it was everywhere. In the way they rearranged their space now. In the way Paige had started saving Pinterest boards titled things like ‘Dog Corner Upgrade’ and ‘Backyard But Make It Queer. In the way she’d gone oddly quiet while holding a tiny box at the vintage jewelry stand last weekend before putting it back like it burned her hand.

Azzi was no fool.

She knew what this was.

She could feel it coming.

She’s planning something, Azzi thought as she lay in bed the next morning, watching Paige sleep. I know it.

Paige stirred and mumbled something incoherent about cold feet and leftover risotto. Azzi smiled, brushed a curl off her cheek, and slipped quietly out of bed.

In the kitchen, while the kettle heated and Birdie clumsily headbutted her leg for breakfast, Azzi opened the Notes app on her phone and created a new entry.

Title: Operation Beat Paige to the Proposal

She stared at it for a moment, then added:

Ring (not too flashy. but her)

Location (somewhere quiet. somewhere us)

When she’s least expecting it

No backup plan. Go with gut.

Say it the way you always mean it: like a promise, not a performance

A playful grin spread across her face.

She was in.

Let Paige plan.

Azzi was going to win this.

And if it meant spending every second paying attention to the little things Paige loved—just so she could catch her off-guard in the exact right moment?

Even better.

Game on.

—-

The shop didn’t have a name out front—just a sun-bleached curtain in the window and a faint chime when Azzi pushed the door open. It smelled like sandalwood, cedar, and old books, and the walls were lined with tiny glass cases, each one holding less bling and more story.

It felt like the kind of place you found by accident. Or fate. Or brunch gossip whispered over mimosas.

Azzi lingered by a tray of bands etched with constellations when the woman behind the counter finally looked up.

She was older—silver hair twisted into a low bun, glasses on a chain around her neck, a nose ring glinting in the light. Her voice was low and kind when she said, “You’re not looking for big. You’re looking for right.”

Azzi swallowed. “Exactly.”

The woman nodded, then pulled open a velvet drawer with practiced care.

Inside: a small collection. All unique. All imperfect in the best ways. Azzi scanned them—and then she saw it.

It wasn’t flashy. No diamond. Just a slim gold band, softly hammered and uneven, like it had been worn through generations. A single tiny sapphire sat slightly off-center—barely noticeable until the light hit it.

Azzi’s breath caught. She leaned forward, heart stammering.

“That one.”

The woman didn’t even look up. “She’s gonna say yes.”

Azzi smiled, lips trembling just a little. “Yeah. I know.”

She didn’t ask for a box. Just had it wrapped in a soft cloth, slid it into her pocket like it was something sacred. Her hand stayed there the whole walk back to the car, like she was afraid it might vanish if she let go.

She drove home slow. Both hands on the wheel. One prayer looping in her chest the whole way:

Let me get this right.

—-

Paige was in the bedroom, folding laundry the way she always did—badly. Sleeves twisted, socks balled with unmatched chaos, humming under her breath and halfway distracted when Azzi walked in.

Birdie trotted in beside her, leash still dragging from their walk. Azzi had the small white ring cloth still tucked in her palm, but the second she bent to unclip Birdie’s collar, it slipped into view.

“Hey babe, can you grab—” Paige turned. Froze. “What’s that?”

Azzi blinked.

Shit.

The cloth was small. Square. Suspiciously ring box-shaped.

“Oh—uh—lip balm?” she said too quickly.

Paige squinted. “That is the most aggressively square lip balm I’ve ever seen.”

Azzi laughed too loud and tossed it straight into the junk drawer. “It’s new! Influencer brand. Minimalist. Don’t worry about it.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

Azzi crossed the room and kissed her fast. “And you love it.”

Paige sighed, folding a hoodie with absolutely no technique. “Unfortunately.”

—-

It started slow—just notes on her phone at first. A sentence here, a line there. Things she didn’t want to forget.

She puts her cold hands on my back when we sleep but pretends it’s not on purpose.

I’d marry her just to hear her laugh at her own bad jokes forever.

She’s not home. She is home.

Then came the notebook—the one Azzi hadn’t touched in months. She wrote in it late at night, sometimes with music low and Birdie snoring by her feet. Sometimes with the door cracked and Paige laughing to herself in the other room, unknowingly giving her more material.

One evening, Paige caught her scribbling on the balcony, curled into a blanket with her brow furrowed.

“Poetry again?” Paige asked from behind the sliding door, wine glass in hand.

Azzi tucked the page against her chest. “Maybe.”

Paige smiled. “You better be writing about me.”

Azzi looked at her, soft. “Always.”

—-

They were in a little vintage store downtown, the kind of place that smelled like old leather and dried lavender. Paige was wandering the back section, running her fingers along the spines of worn paperbacks, while Azzi froze in front of a cracked wooden sign leaning against a dusty credenza.

It read:

Tell me when you know, and I’ll say yes before you finish the question.

Her breath caught. Her heart thudded. It felt like a message made for them.

She reached for her phone—just to capture it. A reminder.

And that’s exactly when Paige came around the corner.

“What’s that?”

Azzi flinched. “Nothing!” She turned her screen face-down, fumbling. “Just texting KK.”

Paige crossed her arms. “You are always ‘just texting KK’ lately. You two starting a secret podcast or something?”

Azzi smiled, too wide. “She’s emotionally clingy.”

Paige laughed and kept walking.

Azzi exhaled, quietly dying inside.

That night, Paige stood barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing out their coffee mugs, hair piled messily on top of her head. She looked up and found Azzi leaning in the doorway, quiet. Watching.

Her arms were folded. Her expression unreadable.

“You okay?” Paige asked, flicking water off her fingers.

Azzi blinked, like she hadn’t realized she was staring. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Paige dried her hands slowly. “About?”

Azzi shrugged. “Nothing bad.”

But Paige felt the tug in her chest—gentle, but insistent.

Azzi had been softer lately. Thoughtful. Distracted in this strange, glowing way. She wasn’t pulling away—but something was brewing.

Paige didn’t know what it was.

But it made her stomach flip.

—-

It was a Tuesday night. Paige got home from swing practice a little later than usual, keys jangling as she kicked off her shoes by the door.

The house was dim.

Soft jazz played low from the speaker.

And Birdie… was wearing a bowtie.

Paige stood still, one brow raised.

“Azzi?”

No answer.

She glanced toward the kitchen.

There, on the counter, was a handwritten note in Azzi’s familiar scrawl.

Be ready in ten. Wear something that makes you feel like you.

Paige stared at it.

Her pulse jumped.

She looked down at her own phone still in hand—the tab open to her Notes app. A half-written entry stared back at her:

Proposal Ideas (Don’t Open, Fudd!!!)

Her eyes darted back to the note. Then the hallway.

Her mouth parted.

“Wait,” she whispered. “No way.”

And then—

She smiled.

[lorarri]

★ . . . 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 , 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

summary , a language barrier never stop them when they met and it evidently isn't stopping them now

pairing , lewis hamilton x fem! tukish! actress! reader

main masterlist | f1 masterlist | lewis hamilton masterlist

lewishamilton . 17hrs ago

seen by yourinstagram landonorris 56,278,478 others

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liked by lewishamilton charles_leclerc 68,862,623 others

yourinstagram bir yıl daha seninle çok daha fazla anılarımız olacak

another year so many more memories with you

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user my parents

lewishamilton Aşkım ❤️ my love ❤️

lewishamilton Umarım seni sonsuza dek parçalanana kadar severim I hope to love you till forever falls apart

user god I don't know if I wanna be their child or their little bitch

user step on me 😩

user mommy daddy? sorry mommy daddy? sorry mommy daddy? sorry

user god really does have favourites 😭

user iconic.

user my Roman Empire 🫡

user THE f1 it couple

user turkish people 🤝 british people

user the fact that lewis is rizzing my girl up in turkish has me so jealous WHEN WILL IT BE ME 😔

user god I have seen what you have done for others

user hot people stan Y/N and Lewis 😌

user the healthiest realtionship ever ✊🏼

user the fact that mercedes has 3 power couples is kinda iconic 💅

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─ requested by . . .

anon ─ Hello, could you please place an order? I would like something where Lewis H. and his partner are talked about on the internet about how they like physical contact and how loving they are towards each other. If you do, thank you very much. P.s. Your Lewis and the Princess imagine is my favorite. ❤❤

anon ─ ooohh imagine one of the drivers meeting someone in one of the countries they go to and immediately being smitten but readers english isn’t great and them using google translate and gestures to help communicate with eachother

[bishiedoll]

Western literature & shoujo manga.

If you're, like me, someone whose passion is old shoujo manga, you may have noticed that at least one or more of your favorite mangaka has written manga adaptations of famous American and European novels. But why ?

According to this essay by Kawabata Ariko and Murakami Riko, in the early 20th century, because there was no Internet, people had no choice but to rely on big bookstores to learn more about and to purchase foreign novels. It was therefore not common to read them. The Iena bookstore, located in Ginza, was a rare indie bookstore that sold art-related foreign books and, while unfortunately, the store has closed today, many shoujo mangaka remember going there often to look for reference material amongst foreign works.

This other essay by Oogushi Hisayo states that foreign novels were only broadly introduced in Japan for young girls in the 30s. Famous girls' magazines (which are to be differentiated with shoujo magazines) such as Shoujokai (created in 1902), Shoujo no Sekai (created in 1906) and Shoujo no Tomo (created in 1908) started introducing Western literature in their issues from the 1930s to the 1940s. Works such as "The Little Princess", "Heidi", "Little Women", "Daddy Long Legs" and more were published in these girls' magazines, making them more known to the Japanese audience and resulting in shoujo manga adaptations in the following years.

Little Women illustrated by Nakahara Junichi in the Girls' magazine Shoujo no Sekai.

Three works in particular seem to have gained a lot of popularity in the 40s: "Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott, "Heidi" by Johanna Spyri and "Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maud Montgomery. All three are coming of age stories of young girls, and all three have one theme that seems to stand out: family. In the aftermath of WW2, many Japanese lost their families and many young children became orphans. In such times, novels that showcased happy families comforted Japanese readers. The popularity of these three works did not end in the 40s though, since in the 70s and 80s, all three got their 50 episodes anime adaptation in the Calpis Gekijou series (also known as World Masterpiece Theater), which, by the way, I highly recommend watching.

It is to be noted that these three works also became popular because they showcased independent and developed female leads, which has since then become a staple of shoujo manga itself, regardless of genre.

Heidi by Macoto Takahashi, Anne of Green Gables by Sakamoto Midori (1977) and Heidi by Watanabe Masako (1966).

In the 70s, a few mangaka published works that reminded critics of the "Bildungsroman". The Bildungsroman is a literary genre born in the 1800s in Germany, and it is a sub-category of the coming-of-age story. The Bildungsroman stands out from regular coming-of-age stories by focusing on the psychological and moral growth of its protagonist. Examples of that would be Moto Hagio with The Heart of Thomas in 1974 and Takemiya Keiko with Kaze to Ki no Uta in 1976 (though she never intended to write a Bildungsroman). The West was still shown in a more traditional version in these works, as both stories take place in old catholic boarding schools.

Similarly to how Audrey Hepburn, a Hollywood actress, was seen as a fashion leader in Japan (more about that on my other post about her influence on shoujo), Japanese people at the time had an idealized view of the West and anything from the Western world seemed fashionable and trendy. A great example of that is Sanrio. If you look at early Sanrio characters, a lot of them are from the West: Hello Kitty is British, the Little Twin Stars were inspired by Christmas, My Melody by the little red riding hood, Jimmy & Patty are American etc.

This view of the West began to shift in the 80s and the western literature that inspired shoujo mangaka started to change as well. Instead of comforting, idyllic stories about family life in a traditional American or European country side or stories taking place in traditional European catholic schools, manga inspired by more realistic and contemporary works started publishing. For example, Banana Fish by Akimi Yoshida (1985) draws inspiration from "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" by J.D. Salinger and two of Hemingway's works: "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" and "Islands in the Streams". All three of these focus on either modern issues like overconsumption or darker themes like death and loneliness. The change can also be seen in the gender and age of the protagonists. Instead of being about young teen girls that shoujo readers could identify with, Banana Fish is about adult men. The inspiration is also a lot more loose, and instead of an adaptation, there are only references to J.D. Salinger and Hemingway's works throughout the manga.

The Heart of Thomas by Moto Hagio (1974), Banana Fish by Akimi Yoshida (1985) and Alice in Wonderland by Mutsu A-ko (1983).

To conclude my post, I really wanted to include this line from the essay by Oogushi Hisayo: If America (can apply to the West as a whole) was once the backdrop of stories for those who yearned to read about "somewhere that is not here", it has, from the 80s onward, become the backdrop of stories for those who yearned to read about "the now and here".

[j2hoes]

Foreign Exchanges. (Anthony Vaughn x Reader.)

Summary: Moving school in the middle of the year is never easy. Let alone from an entirely different country. Despite Y/N trying to garner the least amount of attention possible, she still manages to catch the eye of a certain brunette.

Word Count: 1.5k

Gif Not Mine . Requests are open!

Warnings: Mature language.

A/N: My first Ant fic and I’m debating making this a series but you’ll have to let me know what you think! Anyway just a short one to start us off but there’ll be more soon. Don’t forget requests are open!

“I’d like you all to offer a warm welcome to our new student Y/N Y/L/N, she’s moved here all the way from the UK! So let’s show her some of that Hartley spirit.” The teacher, who introduced herself as Jojo, announces to the class. All of them staring at me with blank stares. “Go ahead and say a few words.”

She nudges my shoulder gently before I can decline the offer. Encouraging smile on her face. There are no smiles from my classmates however, only bored faces who couldn’t be less interested in my arrival. For which I’m grateful. I’d seen this school on the news prior to my enrolment, I know these students are brutal. I mean, a sex map? Dad wasn’t too happy about sending me here though he didn’t really have a choice, no other schools were admitting students this late into the term.

“Um hi, I’m Y/N. It’s good to be here I guess.”

“Does anybody have any questions for Y/N?” Jojo offers, attempting to find a way for the class to get to me.

Numerous hands raise and I let out a groan internally. It’s bad enough that I’m stood at the front of the classroom like a new shiny toy but to now be subject to whatever ridiculous questions these teens can come up with is a new form of torture. One that I am really not looking forward to.

Jojo points to her first student, allowing them to be the first to ask. “Why don’t you have a proper British accent?” The girl seems genuinely curious, eyes focused on me as she combs her fingers through her orange hair. Stickers adorn her face along with colourful eyeshadow to match her bright outfit. She has a gentle aura surrounding her, which makes me relieved as I realise her question wasn’t meant in malice and more so pure interest. Maybe these kids won’t be so bad?

“Um, I think the accent you’re think of is the Queen’s English. There isn’t many people that talk like that really, maybe a few down south but I grew up in the North East. None of us talk posh.” I tell her, watching as she seems to take notes as I speak.

“Thank you Quinni, Spider what about you?” Jojo asks, pointing to the tall blonde that is hunched over at the back of the class.

His eyes flicker up to me, giving me the once over though he doesn’t seem too impressed by my presence.

“Yeah, what is it with you and all the other poms having bad teeth?” The boy pipes up, I notice the two boys next to him laugh. Though the one in the baggy outfit makes eye contact with me and a flash of guilt appears on his face.

“I don’t have bad teeth actually. Nobody I know does and to be perfectly honest, that stereotype is deeply rooted in classism and while the UK faces a major cost of living and wealth gap crisis, I don’t think it’s funny to joke about things like that. Do you?” I retort, causing h the pink haired girl and her friend to applaud my mini speech. Both offering cheers.

“Okay any more questions that aren’t going to cause arguments?” Jojo asks, a few hands lowering as they don’t want to get in trouble. “Yes, Amerie?”

“Do you miss home?”

“Yeah, yeah I really miss it.” I start, thinking of everything that I had to leave behind. I know this was the best decision for my family, but I do hold a slight resentment towards being here. “Don’t get me wrong, Sydney’s great and all, but I miss my friends, my house, my pets, I even miss the shitty pub from down the street.”

“Thank you Y/N, I feel like we’ve got to know you a little bit more now, so feel free to take a seat and we’ll get started.”

The only open seat is next to the girl that Jojo called Amerie. Smiling as I take my place, I open my notebook and begin to doodle swirls and other patterns across the page. Focusing on that rather than the subject being taught. It’s some form of sex education by the sounds of it. However, it seems very outdated and heteronormative. Nothing worth listening to anyway.

Upon hearing the bell ring, I begin to pack away my things and watch as a few students mutter things towards Amerie. “Map bitch.” “Cunt.” and “Crazy bitch.” Just to name a few. I realise that may be the reason she had nobody sat next to her and figure it may be best to avoid her if I want to stay under everybody’s radar.

Finding my locker, I begin to turn the lock with great difficulty. Back home, the numbers simply connect and the door clicks open, that doesn’t seem to be the case here though. Fiddling with the dial, I hear the bell signal the beginning of the next class and I huff, annoyed that I’m having this much trouble with a stupid locker.

As the hallways clears out, I continue to twist and pull at the lock. Bag dumped on the floor as I try with all my strength to pry the door open. With no such luck, I throw a quick kick to the locker beneath mine, leaving a dent in the door slightly. Slumping with my back again the metal, I find myself face to face with the boy in the baggy outfit.

Not previously noticing how cute he was, dark hair hidden beneath a beanie, a couple of curls escaping. Boyish grin plastered across his face and piercing brown eyes staring directly at me. I won’t even try to deny that Australia has one up on the Uk in terms of boys, they’re just so much cuter over here.

“What did the locker do to you?” He jokes, taking the slip of paper with the locker code out of my hand.

“Bloody thing won’t open.” I mumble, stepping out of the way as he demonstrates how to open it with ease. My cheeks tinged pink as I fear my outburst may have been unnecessary.

“I thought you Brits were supposed to be good at containing your emotions anyway.” He leans against the locker beside mine, watching me as I stuff countless books into the small space. Normally this would make me uncomfortable, yet there’s there’s something about him that makes me feel warm and calm.

“Nah we love our fair share of violence.” I tell him, smiling as I do so, remembering the amount of fights that used to take place on my estate daily. Providing free entertainment for all the neighbours. “We’re polite, but piss us off and we’ll knock you into next week.”

He laughs, folding his arms across his chest as I close the locker door. His eyes gaze over me as I turn to face him properly. Noticing the small cross necklace hanging from his neck, I can’t help but imagine what it would look like against his bare skin.

“You religious?” I ask, nodding towards the chain.

“Nah, I’m Ant.” He brushes off my question and tucks the necklace beneath his shirt. Clearly a touchy subject that perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up. So instead I attempt to lighten the mood.

“Ant?” The word escapes my mouth as a slight giggle, unable to hide the amusement his name brings. “And your mate’s called Spider?”

“Yeah, stupid right?” He chuckles, playing with the straps of his bag. Almost as if he’s nervous. “We’ve been best mates our entire lives. My real name’s Anthony but nobody calls me that. Same with Spider, his name’s Spencer. Kids started to call us Ant and Spider when we were like six, guess it just stuck.”

“That’s cute.”

Picking up my bag, I throw it over my shoulder. Figuring I should probably head to my next class despite being extremely late already.

“Hey, about Spider.” Ant reaches for my arm, clearly sensing that I’m about to leave. “I just wanted to apologise, he can be a bit of a dick but he’s a nice guy deep down.”

My arm tingles where he’s touching it, feeling the slightest of move of his fingers. As though my nerves are on fire. Suddenly hypersensitive to any little movement he makes. I know I shouldn’t be feeling things this intensely, hell, I’ve just met the guy. Yet he sparks an excitement in me that I haven’t felt in a while.

“Honestly it’s sound. You don’t need to apologise.” I assure him, offering a smile, I see his shoulders relax. “I can handle a prick like him any day.”

“Yeah you certainly shot him down quick.”

As he removes his hand from my arm, I’m quick to begin walking away. Cheesy grin on my face as I recall the interaction in my head despite it only happening seconds ago. I feel dizzy with excitement, my feet feel like they’re walking on clouds and I almost miss the shout from behind me as I go to turn the corner.

“Hey, do you wanna get high?”

[asnowperson]

I recently got this book, 少女漫画家「家」の履歴書, which has interviews of 12 shoujo manga artists who debuted in the 1970s where they talk about their homes and families. The book's pretty interesting. They were originally published in a Japanese magazine over a span of time, Shuukan Bunshun.

I wanted to share this little bit from Aoike Yasuko's feature (first published on January 16, 2020). It gives a nice insight about the shoujo scene of the time (and what a queen she is).

Sons of Eve, which started its serialization in January 1976 issue of Akita Shoten’s Viva Princess magazine when I was 27 was the turning point for me. My interest in world history, familiarity with Christian culture, glam rock, ballet, movies, literature, humor… I poured all the things I loved, I was knowledgeable about and the curiosity which I had kept bottled up inside of me to The Van Roses, the band of homosexuals, and let it all out into the wild. Before becoming a freelancer*, things have been really harsh for me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t draw the kind of manga the editors and the readers wanted to see for the life of me. If I hadn’t start freelancing, it would have been the end of me. But Sons of Eve even made me ask to myself: “Is it okay to put all this stuff into a shoujo manga?” The response of my editor at Akita Shoten was “More. MORE!” That really encouraged me (laughs). *She used to have an exclusivity contract with Kodansha, which stipulated that she only drew for their magazines.” I did From Eroica with Love with the same editor. The first chapter was released in the winter (December) issue of Princess in 1976, then it got a regular serialization. I adopted ideas from what was happening in the real world, and started drawing how fate brought a British master thief (Earl) and a German who works at the intelligence bureau of NATO (Major) together. The shoujo manga tradition at the time was to set the story in a foreign country, which young girls admired so much. At the beginning, From Eroica with Love was one of those stories too. Which is why the Earl who got introduced in the first chapter has the image of a stereotypical shoujo manga character, with flowers in the background. However, Major who got introduced in the second chapter is someone who is miles away from what comes to mind when you think of shoujo manga. Drawing a straight-laced character like Major who says what he’s thinking with no filter whatsoever was extremely fun. With how international affairs escalated, I got a very positive response which allowed me to draw what like even more freely.

[girlactionfigure]

The British fought the re-establishment of the Jewish State. They prevented Jews from rescuing Jews from the Nazi inferno, closing the borders to our ancestral homeland and turning away refugees who managed to escape and reach these shores.

The British said they were keeping the peace, instilling law and order but it was their soldiers laughed and betted on my grandmother’s life when they saw her, a little girl running for her life, desperate to escape a lynch mob of Arab men with knives. Who would run faster? The men or the little Jewish girl?

They didn’t expect proud Jewish freedom fighters, men and women who refused to accept foreign occupation in the land of their ancestors. New, defiant Jews, very different from the Jews of the Galut.

These Jews were real freedom fighters, not terrorists. They did fight, blow things up and some people were killed – but it is crucial to understand that their targets were military installations and infrastructure, not babies, women, and elderly. They targeted buildings, bridges and railroads, not people. The point was to make it uncomfortable and impractical to be an occupying power, not to hurt individuals.

And they succeeded – but not without a terrible price.

Today, I stood in the room where the British executed Jewish freedom fighters. Their names are written on the wall.

Also written are the words some of them sang to their killers. The words others imprisoned sang to their British jailers, knowing their friends were being hanged.

Hatikvah. The 2000-year-old hope to be a free nation, in Israel, in Jerusalem.

They sang the national anthem of the Jewish State, not yet re-established.

And this is what the terrorists of today and their supporters in Britain and other Western countries do not understand – an occupier can be scared and incentivized to leave land that is not theirs.

This land is ours. We are hers.

We dreamed, taught our children, sacrificed and fought 2000 years to come home – and neither murderers nor the “civilized savages” of the Hague, the UN or the BBC will ever make us leave.

We are #ZionHomeToStay.

The 2000 year old dream is real.

The children of the Maccabees LIVE.

[yourstrulyrani]

reader x ghost except reader is middle eastern and kinda self conscious of how her arms are lowkey as hairy as his and thinks shes “less feminine” for it (im projecting)

simon riley x sergeant/woc!reader summary: you hate your arm hair amongst other things, but simon couldn't care less. & a little banter about colonizing w/ simon bc he's a british babe LMAO a/n: OMG YES PLEASE I'M PAKISTANI AND I HAVE ARM HAIR SO THIS SPOKE TO ME OMGGGG YESSSSSSSS PLEASEEEE i love your mind. i had so much fun writing this btw.

If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. You thought otherwise, however.

"I mean look at this, LT. I have as much arm hair as you at this point." You huffed in frustration. You were in the fitness center on the treadmill, trousers and short-sleeved shirt showcasing your arms. You knew you had hair. You didn't have to use eyebrow pencil because your eyebrows were already thick enough. You didn't have to use mascara all the time because your eyelashes were long enough. You barely even used any hair products because thank goodness the hair on your head was healthy enough.

You loved your hair until it came down to your arms. You extend your arms out in front of you, showing your lieutenant the hair growth on them. He was on the treadmill beside you running. While you huffed in frustration at your physical appearance, he was huffing because of physical exertion.

He slows down the speed to a brisk walk before talking to you. "It's just hair, you know." He shrugs his shoulders, "Normal."

You squint at the tall man in annoyance. Why is he so nonchalant about this? "Easy for you to say." You bite back. "As a woman I shouldn't have this much hair on my arms. It's weird and not even feminine."

"Said who?" He tilts his head. If he had the courage. (which he still has yet to build up even after working with you for several years) he would take you by the arms, pin them over your head, and make out with every inch of your body until he gets in between your legs. Hopefully then, you would feel like a woman. tell you how beautiful you were. That you were, to him, the epitome of being a woman. You were strong-willed yet kind, fierce yet ethical, and had a job that most men would rather scurry away from than ever think of pursuing.

"Said the models on social media." You let out a breathless exhale. "Said the girls on Youtube who give you 'tips and tricks' on how to get a guy."

"The only thing that isn't feminine are the women telling you that you aren't feminine because of some hair, Sarge. Hair is hair. Never hurt anyone." You give him a glance. Most men wouldn't say that. They'd tell you to shave or wax it off. But not Ghost, you can see the truth in his eyes. He truly doesn't mind.

He continues on, "Also, it's normal because of your genetics. People in the Middle East, Asia, and generally warmer areas are genetically designed to have more body hair because it provides thermal protection. Your ancestors had it so it was just something that has passed on." Ghost continued on his reassurance that your hair was perfectly normal.

You never thought about it that way. You never saw it in that light, that it was simply for your protection. You then thought about the other things you thought were weird, like your nose. You knew that a nose job wouldn't hurt, but some of your ancestors had this same nose.

What would you gain if you altered a piece of their history that you literally, physically, had on you? You wouldn't be any better than the colonizers who stole from them.

You decided to banter, "That's rich coming from a Brit you know. The only reason so many countries have an independence day is because of Britain."

Ghost lets out a throaty chuckle, "I'll take care of the reparations then, Sarge." Ghost takes a look at your arms. Something human and feminine. "I meant what I said though, about the whole arm hair thing. Hair is normal. Don't be ashamed of something you have because someone told you otherwise." He paused, taking a look at your sweat-glistened body. "You're perfect the way you were made." The sentence came out in a mutter, fearing that it was too intimate for a man like him. He hoped you didn't hear it either, which was a success.

You gave Simon a warm smile, "I know you mean it, LT."

"Simon works too you know," he offers you his name.

"I know you mean it, Simon." His name escaped your lips in a pant because of your current cardio session on the treadmill and immediately Simon felt his shorts grow tighter in the middle. He tried to sneakily adjust himself by tugging at the ends of them, his body lowering and knees pointing outwards for a moment to adjust.

If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. There would be feminine. Amongst dangerous, sweet, desirable, lovable, cherished, and so close to ruin yet so far to even have.

Sometimes as a white guy, specifically British guy, Simon would never think of pursuing a woman like you. Not in the sense that you were unworthy, but that you needed a man who was worthy of you. Your culture was rich and he was one of many witnesses of it. He saw the flag on the right shoulder of your uniform that wasn't the American or the Union Flag. He saw the way your lips would curl to speak your language that wasn't English. He saw you in the kitchen on base in the middle of the night cooking alongside little steel tins of various spices. He heard the way your accent coated your tongue when you spoke English. You were a woman to be respected. A woman of so much history. A woman whose ancestors fought his own people in resilience. Simon, because of this, saw himself to be a man with such little potential.

The professionalism between a sergeant and their lieutenant was a dynamic Simon never thought about sabotaging until you became that special sergeant.

(i need me a british man so he can pay his reparations by going down on me and licking my cl— OMG WHO SAID THAT)

[pradapussy]

Don’t Hide Behind Your Rage

part 2

tags: dead dove do not eat , bloodplay , sub!remmick , dom!reader , smut , drug use maybe , lmk if im missing any.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, and also for possibly double posting. I haven’t written in a very long time, and I worry I sound corny and overindulgent. But WHO GAF!! My horoscope says i should treat myself more anyway.

SUMMARY:

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

The walk to your cottage is brief. You follow a narrow path through the woods, its trodden soil barely visible beneath the intense moonlight. You know every turn, every root, but Remmick still clings to you. His hands settle on your hips, guiding you as if you might get lost. You scoff, but he mistakes it for a sigh—and lets his hands wander, slow and possessive.

"Remmick, slow down. It’s too dark, and you’re going too fast." You let a whine slip into your voice.

He pulls you closer. "Don’t worry, duck, I got you."

Duck. The vowel drags—rounder than it should be. Almost an o. It snags in your mind like a thread pulling loose. His accent has been slipping all evening, somewhere between a Southern drawl and something that lilts. British, maybe?

He’s more of a talker than you initially thought. At the bar, he seemed to keep to himself, nursing a barely touched drink and observing the other patrons like a vulture eyeing a carcass. When he joined you on the patio, he offered nothing more than pleasantries and a light for your cigarette. Now he’s laying it on thick with compliments and charming stories. His hands finding unholy places doesn’t help your concentration. You’d be smitten if your mind weren’t clouded by a desire for violence.

That desire makes you grabby, too. You grope his built bicep and plant kisses all over his hands and face, avoiding those needy lips. You know that pair of lips is a death sentence.

The sounds of two lovers kissing down a trail are interrupted by a question. "Do you always walk girls home you barely know? Or am I special?"

"So special," he murmurs. Long fingers trace up your neck, the prickle of talons extending from their beds sending anticipation through your body.

The outline of your cabin begins to peek through the trees. You refocus. "So, Remmick... where are you from?"

Your question gives him pause. His body tenses, punctuating the moment. He breathes into your neck, hot and wet. Is he drooling?

"Oh, you know, around?" The end of the statement curls upward like a question.

"That’s not an answer," you say flatly, pulling away. His hands reach after your body, the heat you gave him dissipating like he's cold-blooded. "You’ve got all these stories about traveling the country, yet you don’t look like you’ve aged a day."

The cabin draws closer. The packed path turns loose, softer, blending with the forest floor.

"I’m blushing," he says with mock modesty. "I’m from everywhere nowadays. My home is the earth, and I am tasked to wander it for all time."

His arms lift wide, as if praising some god you don't recognize. The delivery unnerves you, like the ramblings of a zealot. You walk backward, almost at your cottage, taking his hands.

"Well, take a break from wandering tonight. I’m sure my place has room for both of us." The shakiness in your voice is barely masked by flirtation. Whether he notices or not is unclear. Your stiff shoulders shift awkwardly as he spins you, pulling you close. It’s almost romantic. Bodies pressed together in an impromptu dance. You allow yourself to swoon, just a little.

"That’s kind of you." You shuffle up to your porch, arms tangled together, Remmick in tow, lips brushing the nape of your neck. His chest siphons the warmth radiating from your skin. You spin away from him as you unlock your door, movements graceful and calculated. You step squarely into your cottage.

His face tightens as he stops at the threshold.

Your faces are dangerously close as he leans over, careful not to cross inside. "Darlin’, what gives?" He smirks. A small vein under his eye twitches.

"What do you mean, Remmick?" you ask, your voice sweet, teasing. "Something you need?" You pull off your coat, letting the cool air hit your neck. You crane it just slightly as you watch the smile drop from his face.

"Well, Con," he says, the name just as artificial on his tongue as it feels to you. "It’d be impolite to barge into a lady’s home."

"What a gentleman." Your sarcasm bounces off him. He peers past you. The cabin is tidy, well-furnished, but the scent of dust lingers. A tweed couch and a mounted bobcat head clash with your otherwise bookish and naive presentation. He cocks a brow.

"Do a lot of hunting?" he asks.

You close the door slightly, left arm hidden behind it as you lean on the frame. "Sometimes. But that," you nod to the taxidermy, "That was all my uncle. I just keep the place warm in the off-season."

A corner of his mouth quirks up. The silence stretches. "It’s October," he says slowly. His accent has shifted entirely. "Hunting season’s well underway."

His vowels are rounder, longer now. His r's linger like echoes. And his eyes are alight with fascination. "Where’s your uncle now?"

Damn.

He reaches for you. His hand stops just short of your face, once manicured digits now sharper and more dangerous. "I’d like to meet the man of the house before I come in."

"How gentlemanly. Guys like you are rare nowadays." You lean out from the doorframe, right hand bunching his collar. "You’re not from around here, are you?"

"You got me," he says, head dipping down to kiss your arm. "But I get the feeling you’re not local either."

His teeth graze your skin, leaving a trail of wet, hungry kisses. He stops just where your arm meets the doorframe. Burning red eyes meet yours, eggshell fangs just brushing the line of threat.

"We’ve got each other figured out," you muse, cupping his drooling face. "Why don’t you come in?"

SLAM.

Bodies tumble into the abandoned cottage and the door slams shut.The quiet of the cabin is disrupted by a ringing click. Except, to Remmick’s surprise, it's your form straddling his. His chest is pressed into the floor as your shin depresses his upper back. Claws fight to find flesh to tear into, but are given no purchase, bound behind him. A pair of silk wrapped manacles glints in the light of the moon. You’ve caught yourself a vampire.

“Naughty boy, you could have cut me up.” Your own voice has changed. In fact, you don’t seem like the shy and flighty Connie that Remmick has been toying with all night. Your voice is steadier now, strong, sultry, hateful.

You rise, and on your way up you grab the back of his shirt and throw him back against the wall. He sits on the floor, looking at you as the door mysteriously slams shut.

“What are you?” He asks, eyes half-lidded reeling from the impact.

The feeling of dark thick blood spatters on his lips as you bleed onto him. A bronze dagger bites into your palm. It stings like a kiss.

“Lots of things, lover. A whore, a murderer, a poacher…” Remmick’s pupils obscure his irises, his vision going blurry as your blood slides down his throat. “A witch.” Your eyes, distinctly human, glint with dark intentions. Whispered words fill his head, the language hard to decipher. Greek? Latin? Something farther away? All he knows is that it’s casting a spell. He’s bound, struggling, and most importantly, he’s hard.

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

A/N: I pinkie prommie that part 3 will be smutty and be up soon. There will be some dubcon elements and drug use this is a dead dove fic, at least to me lol.

[i9messi]

Silly smiles — Lando Norris

Lando loses his senses every time you are interviewing him, and keeping it professional is hard for him.

Word count — 412

a/n: a shortie one for all my lando girls

lando's masterlist

The race was over and your boyfriend Lando got P2 at the British Grand Prix. You were so happy for him. You knew how hard he worked and he had finally been lucky enough to lead the race. It was a very good result and you waited to be alone with him so you would congratulate him as he deserved. However, it was your time to work and you had to keep things professional.

Lando stopped in front of you, smiling as never before and you could see the happiness that overflowed after his victory. He had won in his country and that brought him twice as much happiness. And it cost you everything not to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. You just wanted to be there for him and tell him you were proud.

"Hi."

"Hi, Lando. Congratulations on today’s result. What a start. How did it feel to be leading the British Grand Prix?"

"Wow, insane. It was insane to lead. I'm very happy with the result." Lando did not stop smiling.

"How was your heart after that?" you joked.

Lando, however, wasn't thinking straight. He forgot everything, except that he had a good race and you were his girlfriend.

"It was beating as frantic as every time I see you."

You swallowed saliva and looked at it with a little seriousness, but at the same time, you were pleased. The thing was, he promised to keep it professional. As much as your relationship was no secret and you used to post photos together, at the time you worked you tried to keep your paths separate. Still, between the happiness that your boyfriend had of ending the race in a good position, and seeing you there, it was hard for him to not to lose his senses.

"Okay, Lando. So, my next question is..."

Lando was able to answer some questions, but he got easily distracted and you had to repeat your questions again. It was common for him to be easily distracted when you were the one asking him questions.

"Sorry— what? Can you repeat the question, love?"

Lando realized what he had said and laughed. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you love here."

"It’s fine."

"So I can call you love whenever I want? Even in front of the cameras?"

"Lando!"

"I’m joking, sorry. You make me lose my senses every time you’re here."

Well, Lando wasn’t good at keeping things professional.

[illiterateaffairs]

anything can happen | stiles x reader the holiday au

pairing: stiles stilinski x female!reader

word count: 13,365

warnings: language, smooching, parenental death mentioned, the reader being british but just for the sake of the plot,

summary: inspired by the nancy meyers film "the holiday", you swap homes with someone in beacon hills for the christmas season where you get to know your neighbor the sheriff, and his very cute son.

author's note: happy new year my friends!! this is my little gift for everyone, an idea i've wanted to do in some way for so many years based on the what i think is the best holiday film ever made. as mentioned, the reader is british for the plot because iykyk. this is also a "companion" fic with a jamie x reader story i'm working on thats the reverse. so you don't have to read that if you're just more of a stiles fan BUT it is meant to overlap slightly like the movie. so the reader may or may not know the richmond greyhounds ;) PLS LIKE REBLOG AND COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS <3

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ low point ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

You weren’t one for spontaneity or going outside your comfort zone.

No. You stuck to what you knew. 

The same town. The same job. The same wardrobe. 

The same guy.

That one was your biggest problem. Despite nearly a decade of back and forth with the boy you’ve loved since high school, and the fact he cheated on you not once, but twice, you couldn’t shake him.

Hell, you even stayed friends with him for some reason you chalked up to nostalgia and for old time’s sake. 

All that did was just lead you into a false sense of security and worse…hope. 

Hope that was once again dashed merely a week before Christmas when you found out he was engaged - to the second girl he cheated on you with less than two years ago. 

You were letting yourself wallow in self pity for the weekend when you got a message on the home exchange website you put your modern Richmond townhome up on after a tipsy dare from your friend (sometimes with benefits when you were at your lowest). It was a woman inquiring if your home would be available for the next 2 weeks over the holidays. 

You glanced around. Your job in journalism allowed you to work from anywhere. You were on your own since you lost your father in college. You definitely had no romantic prospects keeping you here. So, what the hell?

After taking one large sip of Vino, you were agreeing to the exchange without even comprehending where you would be going. 

Lucky for you, when you came to, you were delighted at the prospect of spending the holidays in California, USA. And also terrified at being on your own in a foreign country for the first time in your lonely, sheltered, horrible life. Well…when in Rome, or…Beacon Hills?

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ not the leading lady ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Less than two days later, given the nearly 12 hour flight to San Francisco, you were arriving in California dressed far too warm for December on the American West Coast. Donned in your wool coat and scarf, the Uber driver chuckled at you as you slid in the the back of his car, but you didn’t take it offensively. She even went ahead and lowered the windows for you so you could take in the California air and sights as she drove you out of the city into the quaint and admittedly mysterious town of Beacon Hills. 

Upon your research the night before leaving, Beacon Hills wasn’t known for being the safest town in California. A few years back there were an abundance of articles detailing several animal attacks and other…unexplained deaths. Every journalistic bone in her body shivered at the stories that just didn’t add up. But misfortune seemed to thin out in recent years, so you managed to not talk yourself out of the trip in fear. 

What had made you hesitate was when you told every necessary person about your departure. Given the last minute nature of your holiday trip, you left a handful of messages on your friends voicemails letting them know to not expect you at holiday parties or secret santa or Christmas dinner. However you did have to talk to your boss and get explicit permission to work remotely over the next few weeks. And then, despite every bone in your body telling you not to, you called him. Joel. The boy you couldn’t get over now matter how hard you tried. 

When he answered you managed to give him a forced congratulations on his engagement, which he accepted without missing a beat like it was normal for her to be happy for him despite everything he has put her through over the years. And then he suggested they get together soon, which gave her exactly the opportunity she was looking for, letting him know she wouldn’t be around for the holidays. That was the first time he faltered in their conversation, surprised by the out of character move.

You’ve never left this town let alone the country. Even when I suggested a weekend trip to Scotland you refused.

You rolled her eyes when he threw that in your face. Not only was he referencing their past romantic relationship, which he always seemed to do as if it was no big deal. That very weekend you refused to go away with him back in University was the first time he cheated on you. Which you thought about plenty on your own without a reminder, thank you very much.

You hung up not too long after that. And the next thing you knew you were on a flight across the world. And if you took a Xanax to get on the plane, well that was nobody’s business.

Now here you were, on winding back roads through thick green forests before arriving in front of a quaint, cabin-like cottage in a small neighborhood. You smiled to yourself. It was quieter out here than the bustling football town of Richmond. And not too far from the city if you wanted to experience more touristy things. 

You knew there was still a big chance of you having a mental breakdown if you got too lonely and overwhelmed out here, but at least it was peaceful and safe. After exiting the Uber and collecting your things, you immediately clocked the police car that seemed to belong to the town’s sheriff next door and that gave you a shred of reassurance in your latter assumption. 

You take in the inside of the house. It was just as cozy as it looked from the outside. Wood paneling. An actual fireplace. Warm quilts lining every piece of furniture. The woman you exchanged with told you it was formally her aunt’s home that she inherited and had moved into recently, and you admittedly loved the old fashioned tastes. It felt like being in the home of one of your own long since passed relatives. And honestly, that was exactly what you needed right now. 

You find your way to the master bedroom and make yourself at home, unpacking and storing what you can in the empty drawers, before taking stock of the kitchen. Keys to the cream colored volkswagen bug in the driveway were on display on the breakfast bar, along with a handwritten note explaining the locks, security system, and the wifi. Overly awake from your xanax-induced snooze on the plane ride, you decide to take a small adventure. (Once you figure out how to drive on the other side of the road).

With google maps as your co-pilot, you take the bug, apparently named Betty, into town to raid the supermarket and craft store. You needed something aside from binge watching television to keep you busy all on your own the next couple weeks. You buy ingredients for baking as well as supplies for painting - two of your favorite past times. 

But of course, also shopping on an empty stomach leads to less than strategic choices and you wind up with way more groceries than you would certainly need the next couple weeks. 

You’re doing your best to unload said grocery bags from the trunk and backseat of Betty when you hear a hoarse voice coming from the mailbox next door. 

“Looks like someone’s having a party.” 

You turn, too many bags around your wrists, and see a man, probably about 60 years old, regarding you in amusement while going through his mail. 

You chuckle in spite of yourself, “Oh, yeah I’m planning a real rager featuring mostly various flavors of Pringles.” 

His lips quirk up when he picks up on the slight accent, “Guessing you don’t have those wherever you’re from?”

“Not in so many options.”

He takes a few steps closer, “Would you like any help?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” But he’s already at the trunk reaching for some bags.

“It’s no problem I don’t have any plans,” he assures as he follows her up the driveway. “You’re not one of Diane’s nieces too, are you?”

You shake your head, assuming that was the name of said Aunt who used to inhabit this place. “Nah, I’m actually sort of renting it for the holidays.”

He nods, though you suspect he’s probably confused about the arrangement, but he doesn’t press, “I figured with the accent.”

You guide him to set down the bags on the countertop before you both grab the remaining bags and lock up the car.

“Thank you again. Definitely cut that time in half,” You smile at him as you start unpacking the bags in the kitchen, and even though you want to protest the extra help, he begins unbagging as well. 

“No problem at all. I live right next door, so anything you need in the next couple of weeks let me know. A lot of people in this neighborhood keep to themselves but don’t be afraid to holler my way.”

You nod with a smile, sticking your hand out to formally introduce yourself. 

He smiles back as he shakes your hand, “Noah Stilinski.”

“I assume you’re the sheriff?” 

He nods with a huff, “That would be me. But if my son had anything to say about it, I’d be retiring as soon as yesterday.”

You quirk your lips up as you start to put some items in the fridge. “Oh yeah, you seem like you’ve still got a few good years left in you.”

He snorts, and you’re glad he took it as a friendly joke. “That’s what I tell him. He’s become a bit less persistent this last year since I agreed to downsize our house and move next door, but he still makes comments about taking a step back at the station.”

“What does your son do?”

“He’s a detective, working towards joining the FBI.”

You can’t help but laugh, “So, sounds like he has no room to talk.”

“Yeah but then he brings up my age and my health and the stress of it all,” he sighs, shaking his head, “In a way he’s probably right, but I’m not quite ready to give it up yet.”

“I think that's fair,” you smile softly, “Everyone should be in charge of their own destiny. Your son should leave you alone.”

Noah chuckles, “I’m gonna tell him you said that. Do you give your parents a hard time?”

Your smile falters as you focus on the last remaining grocery items. “Not really. Uh, it was just me and my dad most of my life until he passed away a couple years ago.”

He lets out a long breath, “I’m sorry, kid…must be hard during the holidays.”

You shrug, “One of the reasons why I came here.”

“I get it. I lost my wife…well I guess it's been over 15 years now but every Christmas it's still hard. And now with Stiles in DC it's hard to say when he gets time off to visit. Spending it alone makes it worse.”

You nod, “Yeah, every place you go and every TV channel loves to make it their mission to remind you of families and friends that actually get to be together.”

He chuckles dryly, “Right. Well, I don’t want to impose on you too much longer as you get settled in. But like I said, I’m just right next door if you ever need anything.”

I nod and give him an appreciative smile, “Thank you, Noah.”

He gives you a nod and smile of his own before he ducks out of the kitchen and sees himself out the front. 

You take him up on his offer to pop next door almost immediately - though you weren’t going over for help, not consciously at least. 

After organizing the rest of your groceries and putting away your art supplies, you make a quick and easy dinner before focusing on baking the rest of the evening. You start with brownies before making both chocolate chip and snickerdoodle cookies. After taste testing all three, you decide they’re all too delicious to choose from and package half of each batch on a platter under plastic wrap to bring over to the sheriff.

You knew he hadn’t meant to upset you by asking about your parents - it was a common thing to happen to you. But it was weirdly comforting connecting with him on his late wife. It was nice to know you had someone close throughout the holiday season you had anticipated spending completely alone, especially one that seemed to understand you to some degree. 

So you thought he might appreciate some baked goods - even if his son wouldn’t love the idea of you bringing him sweets. But he wasn’t here so he can suck it. 

After knocking on his door, it was opening less than sixty seconds later and Noah greeted you with a surprised smile. 

“Hi,” you say softly, holding out the platter, “I baked you a few things. Cookies, brownies.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, but he grins and is already taking the platter out of your hands.

You shrug, “I was baking anyway. I enjoy doing it, but I definitely don’t need 3 dozen of them to myself.”

He studies the tray for a second before looking back up at you, “Do you want to come in and have some with me?”

Your eyes widen a fraction of a centimeter and you start to shake your head, “You don’t have to-”

“No, I insist,” he side steps into the foyer to make room for you, “I have plenty of milk, and if my son asks, its skim. Definitely not whole milk.”

You laugh softly and despite your earlier protest, you find yourself walking in. 

“Are some of these snickerdoodles?” he asks as he leads you through the house, into his kitchen. At your confirmation, “They’re my son’s favorite.”

From there, he grabs two small plates from the cupboard and selects one of each sweet for each of you, and pours you each a full glass of milk.

“You’re not vegan or lactose intolerant are you?” he asks after pouring.

You shake your head, already accepting the glass, “Nope. And thank God. I couldn’t live without ice cream.”

He chuckles in approval.

From there, the two of you spend the next hour or so chatting about random things. He tells you about the life of being a Beacon Hills Sheriff, and you do your best not to pry about the animal attacks from several years back. Instead, you tell him that you’ve been working in journalism for a paper in London but that one day you hope to write fiction. You also share stories about your father, and he of his wife and son. 

After laughing fondly over a childhood Christmas with your father where he totally meant well but bought you a terrifying off brand Barbie doll, Noah studies you curiously. 

“So, you said your family situation was one of the reasons you decided to spend your holidays abroad and alone but…was there another?” he inquired. 

You should have known the sheriff in the room would figure you out. 

“Uh, yeah,” your finger absentmindedly traces the rim of your now empty glass of milk, “Not to sound super cliche and sad, but it may have also been because of a boy.”

And after that, for some unexplained reason, you confide in this man that could have very well been the same age as your dad at this point over your failed love life. And yes, you divulge both cheating incidents and the fact that you still kept contact with him. 

Noah scoffs as you recount the way he reacted to your spur of the moment vacation plans, “And he still had the nerve to comment on your life choices after getting engaged to the other woman?”

“Yup.”

“What a schmuck.”

Your laughter surprises yourself, having rarely found humor in recounting your situation, “Oh yeah. He’s a total schmuck.”

He nods, “Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely the one at fault and if he ever dared to step foot on American soil I’d have a warrant out for his arrest in an instant. But what I don’t understand is why you still give him even a shred of your time and energy.”

You sigh. That was the age-old question. 

Even you didn’t know how to answer that most of the time. But as you sat here and really thought about it, it was more than just an ounce of hope that maybe one day he’d change his mind. 

“I guess…he’s just comfortable. Familiar. You know…we grew up together and he was my first love…even if he was also my first heartbreak, I know him. My dad knew him. And even when he does things like cheat on me or get engaged, part of me still feels like one day we’ll get our happy ending because that's what's supposed to happen. I was supposed to be a journalist like my mom was and I’m supposed to stay in the town they met and with the boy I’ve always loved. I know it probably doesn’t make sense but-”

Noah shrugs, “I mean it sounds like the plot of a romantic comedy.”

That catches you off guard. “Um…yeah…”

Noah snorts at your confusion, “I’ve been watching a lot of movies since my son left for college, and that was six or seven years ago so I had to start watching something that wasn’t war or action movies. Admittedly most rom-coms aren’t that bad.”

You smile, “No, yeah, they’re pretty good.”

“Amazing even. I mean, When Harry Met Sally?”

“Oh, perfection.”

“And don’t get me started on 13 Going on 30.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Anyway, the vision you're describing is like some fairytale ending from one of those movies.”

“Yeah,” you nod, sinking back into your chair with your arms crossed.

“And you deserve that ending.”

“Oh, thank you-”

“But you’re acting more like the friend that always settles for the bad guy,”

“Oh-”

“Like Kathryn Hahn in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

“Jesus, you really do know your rom-coms.”

“Nobody roots for the leading lady to get with the guy that's always treating her like shit.”

“Thats…fair,” you chew your lip, “But what if I’ve never been the leading lady. I never make bold and interesting main character-esque choices.”

“Well…” he smiles warmly. “You came here didn’t you?”

You squeeze the arms on your chest tighter, “Yeah…”

“Sounds like a leading lady's decision to me.”

You find yourself starting to smile again.

“Like Meg Ryan or Kate Hudson.”

“Okay well now I’m dying to know just how many rom-coms you’ve seen.”

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ don't blow away ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

After readjusting your sleeping schedule and making a conscious choice to stop thinking about Joel and his engagement for the remainder of your trip, you feel a lot lighter and a lot more confident in your decision to get away for the holidays. 

You spend your mornings and afternoons cooking or baking, as well as painting while you get yourself invested in a handful of miniseries you’ve been meaning to binge over the years that you never got around to. And pending his schedule at the station, you find yourself cooking lunch or dinner for Sheriff Stilinski. You indulge him in meals he told you he’s liked, all the well attempting to turn down your offer to do so, but you also make conscious choices to sub in low-cal ingredients when you can, knowing his son probably wouldn’t appreciate you over-feeding his father, even if he wouldn’t be here to witness it. 

When you’re there for dinner, Noah has even convinced you to hang out for a movie. Always a rom-com. The first time, you suggest a modern movie he hadn’t seen yet (Set It Up), and the second night, he shockingly suggests one you’d never seen (While You Were Sleeping). Apparently he was obsessed with Sandra Bullock, and he was right to be. The movie, also starring a young and gorgeous Bill Pullman was in fact a banger. His words.

After getting to know each other that first night over dessert, he had given you his phone number for ease of communication during your stay. And by the second rom-com movie night, he’d given you his extra house key for emergencies. You knew he was being nice and fatherly - you could always sense sympathy for your situation even when he did his best to hide it, which you appreciated. But you also suspected he liked the company and the caretaking you offered, even if he wouldn’t admit it. No one liked to be alone during the holidays, no matter how often they said they were okay with it. 

Having noticed the clutter in his study the previous night, you decide to let yourself in the following afternoon while he’s at the station. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy, but you hoped he’d take it as a gesture that you wanted to help out and tidy up the place. You knew how hard it was to take care of simple things like straightening up around the house when you were dealing with lonely holidays or seasonal depression. And to be frank, you liked taking care of someone. So that’s why after straightening up the study, you also organized the medicine cabinet in the bathroom as well as refrigerator. And while you were in the kitchen, you figured you could meal prep some lunches to take to the office. 

Even though it was California, it was still soup season in your heart so you decided to make a batch of baked potato soup - minus bacon, you’re welcome Stiles - and put on music to make the time go by.

That must be why you didn’t hear the sound of the front door open. Or the call of an unfamiliar voice looking for his father. 

It wasn’t until the owner of the voice was almost right behind you, scaring the living daylights out of you. 

“Who the hell are you?”

You jump, the ladle in your hand flying up causing hot soup to splash on your skin, “Ah, shit!”

As you quickly wipe the warm liquid off your skin with a towel, you glance over and recognize the brown-eyed brunette man from the pictures around the house as Noah’s son. 

“Oh, my God, you scared me.”

“Uh, yeah. You scared me, too. Who are you and where is my dad?” he asks, looking you up and down suspiciously, but also mildly concerned for the potential of third degree burns on your skin. 

“Oh, sorry.” You laugh softly, putting the towel down on the counter and going back to stirring the soup intermittently. “Your dad probably didn’t tell you about me - but to be fair he didn’t tell me you’d be here so...”

“Um,” Stiles frowns, putting his hands on his hips, “Should my dad have told me about you?”

You laugh softly to yourself, “I mean we’ve only been spending time together a few days so not-”

“Aren’t you a little young to be dating my dad?”

You nearly choke on your own breath at the accusation, “I’m sorry? What gave you the impression I’m dating your dad?”

Stiles sputters, his face flushing a bit. “I mean, I didn’t- you..but he-” Stiles shakes his head and points a finger at you, “Hey, I’m not the one under interrogation here. You’re still the one trespassing in my house!”

You laugh in disbelief at the entire situation, rubbing your face, “Okay, now Mr. Prospective FBI Agent is interrogating me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “Okay, who are you?”

“I’m your neighbor,” You let out a deep breath, telling him your name finally, “At least for the next week or so. I’m staying next door for the holidays.”

“Oh,” Stiles juts his bottom lip out, taking in the information while staring at seemingly nothing.

“And because I’m alone and he was alone for the time being, we’ve just been keeping each other company. And I’ve been trying to help him out with stuff around the house while he’s working. You know, home cooked meals are always nice this time of year.”

“Oh,” Stiles voice and expression softens this time, as he looks back at you stirring the soup. 

You glance over at him, taking him in completely for the first time since he walked into the kitchen. He was just in sweats and a hoodie, but it looked…exceptionally good on him. 

“Well, I’m sorry for getting so…defensive. Seeing a stranger making soup in your kitchen is sort of alarming, especially with all the shit that's happened in this town.”

He says that last part off hand, as if not thinking about it. You just raise an eyebrow, a part of you secretly curious if it has to do with the past mysterious attacks and disappearances. 

Stiles must realize what he said and that it sounded ominous, so he plastered an awkward smile on his face, “I just mean…my dads the sheriff, and now I’m a detective in DC so…always on edge about something, you know?”

You nod, accepting his answer. “Well, I’m sorry for scaring you, truly. Like I said, I knew your dad wouldn’t be home for another couple hours and he had said you likely weren’t making it for the holidays this year.”

Stiles' lips quirk up, “Yeah, I managed to get the time off and I wanted to surprise him.” 

You find yourself smiling at him, too. “I’m sure he’ll be very excited.”

Stiles' grin grows for reasons unbeknownst to him, so he quickly finds a reason to keep talking. “So, uh…soup?”

“Oh, uh, yeah! Wanted something easy your dad could bring to work for a few days.”

“What kind?”

“Baked potato.”

“A nice choice.”

“Yeah,” you shrug one shoulder, “I’ve recently been favoring lasagna soup since it's everywhere on TikTok, but I thought that might be a little too intense. Not that baked potato is any healthier, but I’m forgoing the bacon and I figured if I tried to force feed your dad chicken noodle he’d put me behind bars.”

Stiles snorts, finding himself smiling again at your understanding of his dad and that he must have spoken about his concerns for him…as well as your thoughtfulness. “Yeah, well, thanks for that. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” 

You smile and hold his gaze too long again. But instead of pulling yourself out of it, a hot splattering of potato soup catches you off guard, with one drop landing right in your eye. “Shit.” You curse under your breath, rubbing your eye.

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters, heading for the paper towels, “Let the record show that time it wasn’t my fault.”

You chuckle despite the irritation in your eye, “No, it was mine. Probably had the burner on too high.” You reach out to turn it off, “It’s probably done anyhow at this point.”

Just as you turn to find something to wipe your eye, Stiles is turning away from the sink with a damp paper towel and stepping closer to you. 

“Here let me see,” he whispers. You obey instantly, moving your hand away so he can see your eye and gently dab the paper towel against it, “Yeah, a little red but you should be fine.”

You watch him study you intently, and carefully wipe at your face. As soon as his eyes drift from your eyes to your lips he clears his throat and steps back, placing the paper towel in your hand, “Or, uh, I guess you could do that.”

You can’t help but chuckle at his awkwardness. Despite knowing him for all of five minutes, he feels familiar and very in character to what his dad had told you about him. “Thanks.” You say softly, dabbing your own eye. “Well, I just wanted to prep this for your dad. I can get it into some tupperware and be on my way. I’m sure you just want to rest and wait for your dad to get here.”

“You’re not gonna eat any of it?” he asks without thinking as you find two tall tupperware cups to fill up.

You shake your head, starting to ladle the soup into one. “Nah, I already ate lunch.” You glance up at him as he watches the soup pour into the plastic tub. “But if you want some…?”

Stiles shakes his head quickly, “No, you made that for my dad, I wouldn’t want to-”

“Psh, it's fine. I can always make more if it's such a hit. And it's your house, help yourself.”

You can tell Stiles thinks about protesting for about three seconds, before he gives in and goes for a bowl from the cupboards. You laugh softly to yourself as he pours himself a portion and then you proceed to put the rest away in the fridge for whoever wants it later. 

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Stiles murmurs, his mouth already full as he takes a seat at the kitchen table, before you even have a chance to announce your departure. 

You also briefly think about protesting, but you can’t deny the part of you that wants to stay. And not because you think he’s cute. No, that would be inappropriate. But it would be nice to talk to someone your own age.

You help yourself to a glass of water and join Stiles at the table who is already done with half of his soup. 

“So, you said you live next door?” 

“Sort of,” you decide he’d understand the situation better than his father, “About a year ago I drunkenly listed my home in London on this home exchange website. Where you and whoever in the world trade houses, cars, et cetera for however long…”

Stiles nods, “I’ve heard of that.”

“And a few nights ago, I got my first ever request. So I’m here for about two weeks while your dad’s actual neighbor is in Richmond.”

“Why would anyone want to do that alone this time of year?” He murmurs.

“Well, I think she made an impulsive decision to get out of the country. She seemed very impatient over our messages.”

“And what about you?” 

You study him. He seemed genuinely interested. But you also made that promise not to bring up Joel- he who shall not be named. 

So instead, you shrug, and lean back in your chair. “I don’t really have any family. And a holiday get away sounded new and intriguing. So I thought, why not?”

Stiles instantly understands and gives you a sympathetic but not at all pitying smile. “I’m sorry. About your family.”

You nod, “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if my dad mentioned but-”

You nod again with your own comforting smile, “I know. I get it.”

Stiles nods too. It feels good to be understood. 

Knowing neither of you want to linger in these feelings though, you change the subject with a deep breath. 

“So your dad mentioned you have a girlfriend.” A pretty one too, from the pictures you’ve seen of him and the redhead on the mantle, “Did she travel here with you?”

Stiles sits up straighter and smiles softly, “Lydia. Yeah. Well, no. She actually lives in Massachusetts. She went to MIT so we’ve been long distance since college. But she grew up here, too, she just couldn’t get away from her job long enough for the trip this year.”

You hum, “High school sweethearts?”

Stiles snorts, scraping the last remnants of soup before giving it up and bringing it to his lips to sip. “Yeah, is that dumb?”

You shake your head quickly, “No not all. That’s…romantic. I’m sure a lot of people long for a relationship that clicks so early. You’re lucky.”

Stiles licks his lips and stares at his now empty bowl. “Yeah. That’s us.” 

After a few beats of silence, you glance between him and the bowl. “Do you want me to take that for you?”

Stiles looks up at you quickly, before shuffling to his feet, “Uh, no! No, you've done enough. I mean- sorry, that sounded dismissive. I just meant-”

You cut him off with your laugh, “I know what you meant Stiles.” You follow his lead and stand. “I think I’m gonna head back next door.”

“You don’t have-”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. You should rest from your trip and have some time with your dad when he gets home.”

“I don’t mind that you’re here,” he states earnestly. “I know he wouldn’t mind either.”

You give him a warm smile, “I know. I’m sure I’ll find my way back over soon.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” He says before overthinking how that could be taken again, “I just meant, it's always been just me and my dad for the holidays. That is, when I make it home. It's nice having more company.” 

You nod, “I agree. I’ll see you soon, Stiles.” 

You turn before he can sense the eagerness you feel to do so.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ square peg round hole ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

You do see Stiles, quite often in fact. Over the next few days leading up to Christmas, you continue visiting the Stilinski household, making meals and watching movies. But when you do, Stiles offers what he can do to help in the kitchen, which is more often than not cleaning up after you're done with certain items. But you do manage to teach him a few things. 

The first movie night, you and your dad double team him and convince him to watch Miss Congeniality with them. Apparently something Noah’s been trying to get him to watch the last few years. A comment which he makes, after murmuring something about Stiles giving in so quickly this time to which Stiles protests without making eye contact with either of you. You try not to read into it. 

When his dad’s busy being sheriff, Stiles also pops over and hangs out with you. Even if you’re just working on a writing assignment he keeps you company. He also assists you in baking when you tell him you want to bring some goods to the local shelter. After trying some of your both equally tasty and adorable gingerbread cookies, he insists on helping you make another batch to bring to his friend Scott’s house. 

You off hand make a comment about dying to meet his friend Scott, after his dad’s repeated stories that co-star the two of them. And Stiles finds it pertinent that you know that Scott has a girlfriend. Which is great for him, but you’re not sure why Stiles needed you to be aware of it. Again, you try not to read into it. 

Maybe it's not exactly the perfect, rom-com scenario since Stiles lived a world away and had a girlfriend himself, but you enjoyed spending time with him and the way he made you feel while you did. It was just a hopeful reminder you had the ability to feel this way about someone other than you-know-who.

Which speaking of. 

It was as if Joel had a censor for when you were spending time with another guy. For the past few days, he’d been texting you or calling you throughout the day. The calls you did your best to ignore, and you placated his texts that were “just checking in” or “this meme reminded me of you” with half hearted responses. You were too nice to cut him off cold turkey, but every day you had half a mind to block his number. 

You can tell Stiles wants to ask who you’re ignoring when you hit the decline call button for the third time in his vicinity, but he respects your privacy. Even though every time your phone lights up, you can tell he’s dying to say something. 

With all the time you’ve been spending with the Stilinskis, they invite you to spend Christmas day with them. And at that point you didn’t even bother to protest. You’re looking forward to eating Christmas ham with them (which Noah had to fight for) and end the night watching Love Actually. And the two of them assure you they’ll have enough father-son time on Christmas Eve. 

Which gives you the perfect time to do the lastest-last minute Christmas shopping for them on that very Eve.

You’re at the Beacon Hills mall and by the grace of God, you find a white cable knit sweater in a department store reminiscent of Billy Crystal’s in When Harry Met Sally you Noah would love and laugh over. 

You found it harder to shop for Stiles. You think it's just because you’ve known him for a few days less, but really you felt more pressured to impress him. You couldn’t imagine why. 

Speak of the devil. 

Just as you were hopelessly pursuing a rack of flannels you’re sure he already had, the man himself was calling you. 

“Hey-”

“Oh, my God you have to help me.”

Your heart rate picks up at his panicked tone, “What’s wrong? Is everything okay? Is your dad-?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. He’s fine, I promise. He just got called into work.”

“Oh.” You let out a relieved breath but still frown, “On Christmas Eve? That sucks.”

“I know. Especially for me.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, being the amazing son I am, I told him I’d have dinner ready for him when he got home.”

“That’s nice.”

“But I have no idea what to make him.”

“Ah.”

“That’s where you come in.” 

“I figured.”

“I thought I could literally just make pasta, but believe it or not we’re out. And now I’m at the grocery store and everything is like sold out.”

“Well you are shopping on Christmas Eve.”

“I didn’t see your car next door. What are you doing?”

“...Shopping.”

“Nice.”

“Would you be up for taking a trip to the city? I’m sure they’ve got at least one supermarket that hasn’t been picked over. I can meet you there and help you throw something together.”

“Really? I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

“As previously mentioned, I’m already out. It's not a problem.”

“Okay…if you’re sure.”

“I am one hundred percent sure.”

And that’s how you end up participating in a supermarket scavenger hunt in San Francisco for the afternoon. You split up at the first two grocery stores, and with your head start you have an epiphany that your Christmas gift to Stiles could be snickerdoodles, as his dad said those were his favorite. So you grab some extra ingredients before heading to a very barren pasta aisle. Damn what was everyone in California making?

You meet Stiles, after he had similar luck, at a third grocery store. This time you get lucky and find a box of fettuccine which had been your goal.

“Okay so you’re envisioning alfredo? Nice. I can grab a jar-”

“No, no, no.” You literally force stop him in his tracks, “Everyone knows premade alfredo sauce is never good.”

“Yeah, I agree with you. But you expect me to make it from scratch?”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t want to keep putting you out on Christmas Eve.”

“Stiles, it's literally fine. Who else am I gonna hang out with?” You say with a smirk so he knows you’re teasing.

He still feels a pit in his stomach as he follows you to the refrigerated section where your sights are set on heavy cream and cheese. 

“I guess I’ve just been curious…you didn’t have any friends to spend the holidays with?”

You shrug nonchalantly, “I have great friends. But honestly, a lot of them have families or significant others and it's not always fun being around that this time of year.”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, I get that. I hate when I get stuck in DC by myself and I get a pity invite to something from one of my friends.”

“Yeah, it's nice but it's also tortuous.”

“Exactly,” He chuckles softly, but still feels something nagging at him, “I’m just surprised that you’re single…”

Your stomach churns uncomfortably but you don’t let it show, as you lead him determinedly to pick up an extra pack of butter. “Guess I haven’t found ‘the one’ yet.”

Stiles once again scoffs and mutters to himself, “How does one even know when they’ve found that.” 

You try not to read into that and focus on making sure you get unsalted butter over salted, “I guess I’ll let you know when I find him.” Satisfied with your selection, you turn to him and stand up straight. “Do you guys have garlic powder?”

Stiles scrunches his face to think briefly and then shrugs, “No clue.”

You chuckle softly, turning to lead him toward the spice aisle, “Follow me.”

Wordlessly he trails behind you, and you’re thankful he’s dropped the topic of romance. For your sake and his, he’s the last person you should be talking to about relationships and dating when, fine, you’ll admit it, you’ve developed a very tiny and innocent crush on him. It was harmless but should he even get a single hint you had any sliver of feelings for him while he had a very long-term and serious girlfriend, then you’d lose his friendship. And worse. Your friendship with his dad. And you didn’t want to lose either. 

“Can you explain to me the difference between garlic salt and garlic powder?” he asks inquisitively as you pick up the former. 

You give him an amused look, “Uhhh, just general vibes I guess?”

Stiles nods and glances back at the array of spices, “And can you explain to me why nutmeg isn’t a nut?”

“Well, I’m not-”

“Or what the hell cardamom even is?” He asks with an incredulous look on his face as he takes a step back and takes in the whole aisle. “But seriously I’ve never heard of half of these spices.”

“Well that's because you don’t cook or bake.” You scoff.

“Hey, I thought I’ve been an excellent sous chef. Your words, not mine.” he crosses his arms, giving you a faux offended look.

“Yeah, thanks to my guidance.” You shrug, crossing your own arms.

“Okay then explain cumin to me.” He takes a step closer. 

“Hey, I don’t question the ingredients, I just use them.” You hold your hands up in surrender. 

Stiles scoffs, “Sounds like negligence in the kitchen to me.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, officer, suspend me from my post? In your hour of need?” You tease back, taking a challenging step closer. 

A smirk starts to creep up on Stiles face, liking you in this close proximity to him. “Well, I think…”

Just as he’s forming a witty retort, his eyes drift just past your head to further down the aisle where a familiar strawberry blonde is standing. He almost calls out to her…until he processes the fact that she is not alone. Technically he isn’t either. But Lydia’s hand is intertwined with her counterpart, and said man is leaning down to kiss her. Right there in the spice aisle. 

You squint at Stiles curiously just as the color drains from his face. You anxiously turn around in the direction he’s staring at and you instantly understand his expression. In fact, your heart breaks for him. You turn back to him quickly, his name escaping your lips in a quiet whisper. But before you can find any other words to console him, he’s side stepping around you and approaching his should-be girlfriend. You can barely stomach watching the scene unfold. In fact, you last the fraction of a second it takes for Lydia to realize she’d been caught red-haired and handed before you turn right around to give them privacy and vacate the aisle altogether. 

You make yourself busy by checking out the items you’ve gathered and waiting in the parking lot where the bug is parked next to his blue jeep. Lydia and her companion exit the store first, and you avert your eyes as if she’d know who you were at all. Then two minutes later, Stiles exits and walks slowly over to you. 

You’re once again at loss for words as he pulls his keys from his pocket and fumbles with them for a second. 

“Can we talk at the house?” he mutters softly, his wounded eyes flashing to yours briefly before turning back to his keys.

You nod, hoping the drive back to Beacon Hills would help relax him as much as was even possible. You don’t say a word. You just squeeze his arm before getting into your own car to follow him out of the parking lot. 

After a half hour, you’re both pulling into your respective driveways before you jog over to his front door. He waits on the porch for you before leading you both into the house you’ve become oh so comfortable in. 

The air feels different though, a sense of tension looming. You take it upon yourself to unpack the groceries, getting the necessary items in the fridge while he flops on the couch with a loud breath you can hear from the kitchen. You also take it upon yourself to pour some alcohol. You decide on one glass of wine and one glass of whiskey. When you sit beside Stiles on the couch, he chooses the whiskey. And then you wait for him to talk. 

“Is it bad that I’m not…surprised?” Is what he finally says.

You turn to him with narrowed eyes, “What?”

He groans and rubs his temple, “I just mean…I’ve had this feeling in my gut for a long time that the other shoe was going to drop for us at some point.”

“Why would you think that? I thought you two were…inseparable?” 

He nods, “We were. When we…got together in high school…it's a long story but we went through a lot together that sort of…bonded us. And I’d had a crush on her since elementary school, long before she even knew I existed. So when we finally got together, I just thought, wow I can’t believe this is finally happening. Can’t believe a girl like her would even want to be with a guy like me. But even that first summer after high school it felt…forced? Like we were just together because it made sense that we were? And then the distance thing…it was hard but it also…wasn’t? Like I didn’t…miss her as much as I thought I would. Or at least…I didn’t long for her the way you’re supposed to. Like…aren’t you supposed to ache when you’re away from the person you love?”

He turns to you after that, and it catches her off guard, as you’d been studying his face as he tried to explain his complicated feelings. 

Your voice is hoarse when you finally swallow and respond, “Yeah, I suppose…I mean, I guess I’ve never felt that either.”

Stiles nods slightly and studies her this time, “I guess what I’m trying to say is it felt like we were going through the motions for a while now and it was just a matter of time before one of us said it out loud.”

You frown, “But Stiles…even if it wasn’t working out or if she was unhappy, she shouldn’t have cheated on you. Or lied to you.”

Stiles closes his eyes and groans, “That's what pisses me off. All the times we’ve texted this week, which admittedly wasn’t much, she kept talking about the weather in fucking Massachusettes, when she’s been in San Francisco the whole time. Hell, I sent her Christmas present there last week!”

You close your own eyes at this. You had never been more sure someone deserves something less than the way Stiles deserved this. On Christmas Eve nonetheless.

He lets out another long breath and shakes his head, “But honestly it's still my fault.”

You make a face, “How in the world is it your fault?”

“For letting it get this far,” He shrugs, “I’ve known for years that our relationship was…off. And I never said anything. Or at the very least tried to do something to make it better. She probably felt me pulling away and jumped at the chance with someone else that actually gave her something. I think I just…held onto the idea of us. Or the idea I had of us when I was a teenager, pining over the popular girl in school. Like a part of me thought it had to work out and that whatever emptiness I felt was just how relationships were supposed to be because…what I always thought I wanted was her. And I had it.”

After a few beats of silence, Stiles glances at you again, “Did any part of that make any sense to you?”

You swallow thickly again and nod, “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean. I felt the same way about my high school boyfriend, too.”

His eyebrows raise, shocked to be getting a nugget of information regarding your romantic life. 

You take a deep breath and turn away from him, figuring it would be easier to say this way. 

“I’ve stuck by him longer than I should have too, because I always figured we’d end up together. Except…I’ve made the stupid decision to stick by him after he cheated on me. Twice.” You can sense Stiles eyes widen and shoulders tense beside you at this admission, but you force yourself to keep going, “And even after the second time, I’m still fucking friends with him. In fact, I called him before I came here. And he still reaches out to me almost daily even though he just got engaged to the girl he left me for. All because some twisted part of me thinks our stories still intertwine at the end.”

“He’s the guy that's been calling and texting you all week?” Stiles murmurs, almost not as a question. “Joel.”

The name sounds bitter coming out of Stiles mouth. You almost laugh as you nod. “Yeah. A huge reason I came on this trip was to forget about him, but it's like he knows and he doesn’t want me to.”

“No, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Stringing along while he gets to do whatever and whoever he wants. He’s an asshole.”

You snort, “Your dad called him a schmuck.”

“God, the biggest fucking schmuck.” 

You smile to yourself, “You already seem so much more self aware of your situation than me. Maybe you can avoid my fate and not be destined to love someone who’d hurt you like that.”

“I don’t think you’re destined for that…” Stiles whispers, “I think you were right earlier. You just haven’t found ‘the one’ yet.”

You manage a tiny smile as you and Stiles stare at one another with your heads leaning against the couch cushions. Instead of getting lost in his eyes while he looks at you like that, you lift up your wine glass in a silent request to clink it against his. “To both of us finding the one.”

The corners of Stiles' mouth twitch as he clinks. After another beat, Stiles forces himself off the couch with a surprising spring in his step. He turns to you and offers you a hand, “Okay no more wallowing. It's the holidays. We’re festive. We’re merry. We’re bright. Now let's go make some Christmas fettuccine.” 

Your smile grows and you take his hand, and you don’t miss the squeeze he gives you and the way he doesn’t let your hand drop until you’re well into the kitchen.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ only the good notes ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Your Christmas Eve took a sharp turn in a positive direction that night. The alcohol kept flowing, and maybe it was your brain under the influence of it, but you’re pretty sure the homemade alfredo you taught Stiles how to make was better than anything you’ve ever made in your whole life.

By the time Stiles’ dad arrives home that evening, he finds you both on your second bottle of wine, sprawled out in the living room, playing a very serious game of battleship. Noah doesn’t question it, and just heats up a plate of fettuccine and joins you when you switch to Clue. 

Of course you finish out the night with a movie, and Stiles lobbies for sci-fi this time, and you allow it - definitely because of the alcohol. 

However, you also definitely pass out within thirty minutes. But somehow, you still awake in your bed next door on Christmas morning. But you don’t dwell on it. 

You take a shower - after you’ve popped three advil and down a glass of water - and make the snickerdoodles for Stiles. Once they’re done you put them in a festive tupperware container and a gift bag, before wrapping the sweater for Noah in a gift box. 

After doing yourself up a little nicer than you normally would for a drop in at the Stilinskis, you head next door midafternoon, more excited for Christmas than you had been in recent years. Noah greets you at the door with a Merry Christmas and sweet kiss on the cheek before taking your bags and putting them by the tree in the living room. Stiles is already pouring you a glass of wine when you both meet him in the kitchen to get started on your grand meal for the evening. 

The sheriff took charge of the ham while you and Stiles were responsible for sides. Meaning, you made the mac and cheese while Stiles prepared the salad and rolls. 

You eat at the table and as always, enjoy lively conversation with the men who are quickly becoming two of your favorite people on the planet for welcoming you into their home for the holiday you otherwise would have spent alone. Your heart nearly grows three sizes when they announce they found Christmas Crackers to order online - a British holiday tradition - because they thought it would make you feel more at home. You really have to hold back from tearing up. 

The three of you tag team cleaning up the meal before retiring to the living room for the night, where you exchange presents. Just as you predicted, Noah loves the sweater and you equally love the vinyl record of the original soundtrack for 13 Going on 30. Stiles chastises you both for being too obsessed with rom-coms but there’s a fond smile on his face as he does it. 

That’s when you give Stiles his present and he’s both touched and confused that you were aware of his affinity for snickerdoodles. As he thanks you, he shares a wistful look with his dad. At your questioning stare, he smiles at you softly and explains, “My mom used to make these all the time.”

Your heart aches briefly, glancing at Noah who had left that detail out he told you that information. The man just shrugs, “Well, hers came out burnt half the time.”

Stiles and you both laugh, you in shock at the fond critique. 

“They were still incredible,” Stiles insists.

Still laughing, you look back at Stiles, “Alright, noted, I’ll bake them a tad longer next time.” 

Stiles’ stomach flips. Next time. 

Finally, since Stiles and his dad exchanged their gifts in the morning, the last gift of the evening was Stiles’ gift to you. He handed you a haphazardly wrapped rectangle you pretended to shake to hear something as if it were hollow, but you were already pretty sure it was a book. 

Stiles shrugs as you eye him while tearing the paper off, “It’s nothing really. You probably already have it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “Stop it, you didn’t have it get me anything at all. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

You stare down at the book in your hands as you finally get the paper off. It’s one of those special edition books, with the shiny colored pages and gorgeously redesigned covers. The ones you always see in bookstores but never end up buying because you can never settle with picking just one. 

“Emma by Jane Austen?”

“Yeah, it's your favorite isn’t it?”

“Did I tell you that?”

Stiles nods, his fingers intertwined together, one of his nervous ticks you’ve picked up on. “Yeah, when we were watching Clueless. You said it's the book the movie’s based off of.”

You stare at the book in awe, before transferring that look to him, “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

He shrugs again, “Of course. Well. Sort of ordered the book on the spot. Amazon. Capitalism. The true meaning of Christmas.”

You huff a soft laugh, still shaking your head at his thoughtfulness despite playing it off. “Thank you. I love it.”

His lips curve up, “Good. I’m glad.” 

For his part, Noah watches the scene unfold hiding a smile behind his whiskey glass. As far as he knew, Stiles was still hanging onto his relationship with Lydia by a thread. But he had a feeling that thread was about to snap if it hadn’t already. 

At that moment, you seem to remember that the two of you weren’t the only people in the room and you clear your throat. “Well, speaking of rom-coms, is it time for Love, Actually?”

Stiles snaps out of it himself and jumps up, picking up discarded pieces of wrapping paper on the way. “Yeah, let’s do it!”

Two days after Christmas you find yourself alone with Stiles for the first time since the supermarket incident turned one of your favorite Christmas Eve-Christmas’s of your life. On the 26th Stiles went to Scott’s for their friend group Secret Santa. He had mentioned being stressed about it, having had picked Isaac who he for some reason had a love-beef relationship with. But during one of his pop ups at your place, you helped him order something simple for the other guy. 

You were excited to hear how it all went down the next day. On the morning of the 27th, Stiles texted you to inform you his dad was working all day and he’d order Chinese for them tonight if she was up for it. And she definitely was. He comes over around five, and they call the restaurant together, ordering way too much food for either of them to consume. 

As you sip wine in the living room and wait for your dinner, you ask about Secret Santa. Isaac, unsurprisingly, loved his gift. And then Stiles received his from his other friend Liam who got him a Batman crewneck. You quip it would have been better if it was a Ten Things I Hate About You crewneck, Heath Ledger’s finer work, and he rolls his eyes. Affectionately. 

Stiles also admits he had to tell his friends about him and Lydia. They were both shocked and appalled and glad she didn’t RSVP for the party this year. 

“It must be hard…sharing a friend group with her. I’d imagine they’re not just going to cast her out.” You comment softly. 

Stiles nods, “Yeah. And I wouldn’t want them to. It’ll just take some…adjusting.” 

You hum, “Take it from me…it's hard staying in close proximity. I mean, I know you’ve been long distance anyway but even mutual friends' instagram stories are a hard place to run into them.”

Stiles cringes, “Yeah like I said…an adjustment.”

You hesitate before asking one question lingering on your mind, “Do you think..there’s a part of you considering taking her back?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise but he doesn’t immediately deny it. “I mean…it's definitely crossed my mind. Like I said, I always just assumed we’d stay together but…at the end of the day I think both of us deserve better than a relationship we’re only in half way.” 

You nod, “Even if one day you both find yourself in the same place, or city?”

Stiles sighs, “I guess you can’t really plan for that.”

Still not a firm denial. You couldn’t really fault him for that. The breakup was still fresh. 

Once your Chinese food arrives, you set everything out on your coffee table and you dig in, while throwing a sitcom on the TV you’ve both seen a dozen times so you can talk over it. Ten minutes into your feast, Stiles glances at the vacant arm chair across the room, that wasn’t really vacant, because your stack of art supplies filled it.

“Wait, do you paint? Or draw?” Stiles asks, squinting at the items across from him.

You flush slightly, but it wasn’t like it was a secret. “Uh, yeah. A little bit of both.” 

Stiles sputters, “You’ve been here a week and I didn’t know that?”

“You say that like it's been a lifetime.”

As he stands he mutters, “That's what it feels like.” 

You choose not to linger on whatever that means.

Stiles hovers over the chair and then turns to you. “Oh, um..may I?”

Your stomach flips anxiously but you find yourself nodding. “Sure.”

Stiles smiles gleefully and picks up your sketchbook before plopping back down on the couch beside you. You watch anxiously as he starts flipping through. Like you had said, it contained sketches and some of which you painted. 

He gives you a sideways glance after he looks at a few, “You seriously drew these? Free hand?”

You laugh softly, shifting into a semi-fetal position. You can count on one hand the number of people that have seen your drawings, outside of classes you took at university. “Yup.”

“They’re incredible,” he murmurs, continuing to flip through. Then he lingers on one and you figure he’d found the drawing you’d been anxiously anticipating his reaction to. You lean over slightly to confirm your theory and you were correct. It was a detailed drawing of the exterior of Stiles and his dad’s home, complete with the patrol car and blue jeep in the driveway. You’d gone over it with watercolors, feeling particularly inspired that day. For some reason. 

He glances at you for a split second before reverting back to the painting. “That’s Roscoe.” 

“I’m sorry, who?” 

“Oh right. That's my Jeep’s name.”

“Does everyone name their cars?”

“What you don’t?”

“I don’t have a car right now. I live in a very walkable city.” 

“Don’t rub it in,” Stiles snorts, and doesn’t even take his eyes off of the painting. “Seriously, this is amazing.”

You feel your cheeks warm, “It's okay if you think it's dumb.” 

Stiles vehemently shakes his head. “Not dumb at all. You’re so talented. And this one’s my favorite, not even a little biased.” 

You smile as he grins back at you teasingly. 

“Seriously, would you ever consider doing something with this?” he inquires.

You shrug, “I don’t know. I think my real passion is writing. But I kind of want to get out of journalism and do more with fiction. I’ve sometimes thought it could be cool to write a children’s book and illustrate it myself.”

“That would be so cool,” Stiles says all soft and earnestly. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, glancing back down at the page again, “Would it be too much if I asked to keep this?”

Your cheeks warm again, “You want to?”

“Yeah, I told you it's my favorite. And then I’d be the first person to have one of your originals.” He glances at you, “Unless you give these out willy nilly.”

You laugh, “Nope. You’d be the first.”

He grins again, “Thank you.” After a beat, another thought crosses his mind, “Could you draw me?”

“Are you asking me if I can? Or if I will?”

He shrugs, “Can you? Would you?”

You scoff, “Are you asking me to draw you like one of my French girls?”

“Depends. Would I have to be topless?”

“If you want it to be authentic.”

“Well, fine if it's for the sanctity of art, I shall.”

As you both laugh together, you finally register how close you’ve been next to him. In fact, you lean closer as you laugh. And for the first time, you don’t feel the urge to cut the moment short or pull away. Stiles seems to register the same thing as his laughter dies down. His eyes linger on your eyes for one, two, three more seconds…before they venture to your lips. 

As if by gravitational pull, you both lean closer until your lips brush against one anothers. Stiles reaches out and tenderly cups your face, pulling you closer to fully commit to the kiss, which you eagerly reciprocate. 

You’d admittedly thought about what this would feel like since pretty much every day since you met him. But you never seriously considered it actually happening. Not with the limited time you were spending here. Not with his dad is such close proximity at all times. Not with-

The girl he had broken up with merely 48 hours ago. 

Despite the kiss being better than your fantasies could have conjured up, you jerk back once you regain awareness of the situation. 

Stiles’ eyes shoot open as you sink back into the couch, away from his touch. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, as worry and guilt build in his chest.

“Shit, was that not okay?”

You move your head somewhere between a nod and shake back and forth. “It was okay, I just think…you’re fresh off of a breakup with your long-term girlfriend and I don’t want to take advantage of all the things you're feeling right now.”

Stiles nods but the frown stays on his face, “Admittedly yes there are a lot of feelings swirling through me right now, but most if not all are for you.” 

You swallow and close your eyes tightly, because if you keep looking at him you won’t have the strength to say or do the right thing. “I know what you mean but…I also think you’ve had a lot to think about in so little time and I don’t want to factor in and affect anything.”

“But-”

“And I won’t be here for very much longer and if anything, that should be what factors in the most.”

Anything Stiles was going to stay dies on his tongue in that moment, feeling the wind get knocked out of him. Yes, subconsciously he’d always been aware your time in Beacon Hills was limited. But after the last couple of days, after that kiss, the reality hit him twice as hard. Despite having known you for just about a week, he’d still had some of the most incredible days of his life getting to know you, cooking with you, laughing with you, watching you bond and look after his father in ways he hadn’t been able to do in recent years. He couldn’t stomach the idea of all of that coming to an end, before they could even start…something. Anything. 

“It doesn’t have to be…” Stiles manages to whisper, but it's a weak argument without anything to back it up. 

You give him a watery smile, “I’ve had a really amazing holiday with you. And your dad. But…I think for now you should just…sit with your breakup and think about what you really want. Hell, I’ve been sitting with mine for years and I still have yet to figure that out.”

Stiles’ face contorts at the mention of your ex, “But this is different.” 

“This is…fleeting.” You sigh with a tired shrug, “And not worth more than what you have here.”

Stiles wants to argue, say that what he’s had here for years pales in comparison to what he’s had the past few days with you. But he knows how crazy it sounds. And he knows his relationship with Lydia meant enough to him to at least think about for a little longer. 

He takes a deep breath and finally nods. But he can’t leave it like this. “I don’t want this to be our goodbye.”

You force a smile again, “It’s not. I’m still here for a little while longer. I’ll see you before I go. Just take a couple days.”

He nods again, comforted by the idea of seeing you again and that's enough to propel him to his feet and walk towards the door. 

“You’ll still come by if you need anything right? And I mean anything?”

You nod as you open the front door for him slowly. “Of course. I know where to find you guys.”

He nods, grinding his teeth. He brushes his lips against your forehead briefly, before ducking outside without another word.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ gumption ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Admittedly cutting Stiles and subsequently his dad out of your life for even one day was harder than you thought, especially considering they’ve been your only form of real life human connection the past week or so. 

Sure, you’ve spoken to your friends over the phone and FaceTime but when you’ve truly felt whole this holiday season, it's been with one or both of the Stilinskis. Even in such a short amount of time, they’ve become almost sort of…family.

And maybe that's your problem overall. Even without romance complicating your relationship with Stiles, you were still becoming overly attached to these two men who you would likely never see again in just a few days. Gaining and losing two more people in your life was not the goal of this getaway.

So for that whole day without them, you focus on yourself. You take yourself shopping and take advantage of those post-Christmas sales, but most things were well picked over. You treat yourself to a mani-pedi but of course you regret the color choice an hour later. Instead of cooking dinner, you order takeout but they forget two of the things you wanted. Even baking and drawing don’t bring you peace. 

Sighing against the couch, with a heavy poured glass of wine, you rub your head and wonder what else you could possibly be doing to take your mind off of the boy next door.

As if by clockwork, your phone buzzes from where you discarded it on the coffee table. You sit up a little faster than you should have when you consider it could be Stiles who is reaching out. But you face disappointment when you see that it's Joel. 

And for some reason…you pick it up this time.

“Hey,” you breathe out, unsure of your game plane here.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Joel’s thick posh accent glides through the phone. “Wanted to see how your holidays were. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

You sigh, feeling yourself slipping back into the comfort of his familiar voice. He always claimed terms of endearments were how he spoke to everyone. But you’ve never heard him use them for anyone other than his significant other, or you even if you weren’t his. It had begun to bug you over the last couple months, but tonight, you’re falling for it. 

“They were really good. Sorry I’ve been missing your calls, I’ve been pretty busy,” You find yourself apologizing for some reason. 

“That's alright, love. I’m glad to hear you found things to do over there.” He muses and you almost hear the smile on his face over the phone. “You know…I’ve really missed you. Christmas in Richmond isn’t the same without you here.”

For once in your life, you find yourself saying what you’re thinking to him, “I’m sure you’ve got your fiance to keep you company though, right? First Christmas as an engaged couple?”

There’s silence on the other end, briefly. “I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot lately. I’m not quite sure that’s going to work out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, “What? Your engagement?”

“The whole relationship,” he admits softly, “Look, darling I’ve been thinking about you a lot the last couple weeks. Pretty much non-stop since you left. And I realized…maybe I made a mistake.”

Your heart just about stops. This is what you always thought would happen. He’d come to his senses and come back to you. 

But it doesn’t feel the way you thought it would. 

“What do you mean, Joel?” You ask and you hate how shaky your voice sounds.

“I mean…I fucked up when I let you go-”

“Yeah. Twice.”

“I know, darling,” he sighs, “And you know how sorry I was. And I think this time away from you made me really think about everything. And think about what I really want.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, “And you want…me?”

He chuckles, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say, love.”

You’re at loss for words as your brain tries to make sense of this information. Everything in you is screaming not to give into this, but there is still a small piece of you that reminds you how much simpler it would be. He was familiar. He lived in your town. He was a safer choice than a man thousands of miles away. 

Just as you feel your resolve melting, before you have a chance to respond you hear Joel’s voice again, but this time it's distant, accompanied by muffled noises. As if he was talking to someone else. 

“Give me one second, doll…” are the only works you make out…followed by footsteps and a door closing. 

“Darling-”

“I’m sorry,” you scoff, “Are you with her right now?”

“Sweetheart, I’m-”

“Oh, my God you are actually unbelievable,” You shake your head despite him not being there, “You call me to tell me you want me back from the house you still share with your fiance you are still very much with!”

You hear him let out a long, tired breath, “Darling, I wish you could understand how confused all of these feelings have made me.”

“You may be confused, but I’m not anymore. I am so done with this.”

He stutters, “Darling, what do you mean? You can’t be saying-”

“I’m saying I’m done with you, Joel. In every possible way. I’m done waiting around for you. I’m done allowing you into my life even when you don’t deserve to be in any capacity. And I am sure as hell done thinking I’m in love with you.”

“Darling-”

“Goodbye, Joel.” And without another thought, you hang up. And not a part of you feels guilty that that might very well be the last time you ever speak to him.

You start pacing the living room. You could not believe you almost fell for it again, even though he was doing the exact thing he always does. And that’s when you realize, he wasn’t the safe choice because he was a good choice. He was safe because deep down you know what you were getting yourself into with him. There was always a chance he could hurt you but you could prepare for it. With someone else, someone knew, it was unpredictable and that's what made things scary.

But you were tired of that fear holding you back. 

Suddenly coming to your own senses, you realize there’s someone you desperately need to talk to. And soon, while your adrenaline is still pumping.

You glance out of your front window. The patrol car next door was missing from the driveway. But the blue jeep was there. Suddenly remembering something, you grab your sketchbook and dash outside, straight to the neighboring front door, knocking quickly. Nervously, you hug the sketchbook to your chest as you wait.

Moments later, the door swings open and you’re greeted by those warm brown eyes you’ve grown so fond of the last couple weeks. 

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, like you’d been holding your breath since you knocked. Which you had been,

“Hi,” he says, sounding very similar. 

“Can I come in?” You ask quickly before you lose the nerve.

Startled by your assertiveness, he nods quickly and steps out of the way. You hurry inside and into the living room, Stiles following close behind.

“First of all, I realized you forgot this.” You shakily flip through your book before you get to the page with the same blue jeep that was parked outside. And inspite of your shakiness, you carefully tear out the page, thankful for the perforated lines. 

“Oh,” Stiles is surprised when you hand him your artwork, “You’re still okay with me having this?”

You shrug, “You’re the only one who should.”

He blinks at you before allowing a small smile to creep on his face. 

“I forgot something last night, too.” You continue softly. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, still feeling like you were short on breath. “I know I said me and you are fleeting, and that it was complicated with the timing of your breakup but I never told you that…I have feelings for you too. Lots and lots of feelings.”

Stiles’ smile wobbles, “You do?”

“Yes. And the truth was I was afraid of them. Not because of you. You’re probably the nicest guy I’ve ever met. But because the circumstances are hard and you’d have the incredibly anxiety-inducing ability to break my heart if I let you in the way I want to.”

His name escapes your lips breathlessly, taking a step closer as he prepares to deny your fear.

You step in the opposite direction, wanting to finish your thoughts, “No, no, it's true and that’s okay. Because neither of us can promise that everything will go perfectly. That's life. My dad promised he’d always be around and then he got sick, that wasn’t his fault. Things just happen. But I’ve spent the last however many years trying to prevent things from happening, that I’ve also stopped living my life to the fullest. Stop going after things I want. And right now, I really, really want you.” 

Stiles watches you intently, and you let out a deep breath to let him know you’re done. 

“I just wanted you to know that,” you finish quietly. 

Stiles nods and takes a deep breath of his own. “I talked to Lydia today.”

You breath hitches. “Oh? You did?”

He nods again, “Yeah. And we’re officially over.”

Your eyes widen, “You…are?”

Stiles walks closer to you again and this time you don’t move back. His lips start to curve up again. “I want you, too. And I know there’s a lot of variables, and we can’t predict the future, but here today, right here right now, I know that I haven’t felt this way about anyone, especially in such a short amount of time, and I’ll do whatever I can to make this work.”

Your lip quivers as he further invades your space, his forehead pressing against yours. He gently grips your chin.

“Does that sound okay to you?” He whispers.

You nod, swallowing a disbelieving laugh. “That sounds perfect.”

Stiles grins and finally presses his lips to yours, and not a bone in your body ever wants to pull away. In fact, you chase his mouth when he pulls away, and he fights a laugh of his own. 

“Hey,” he whispers, holding your face gently between his hands and looking at you amusedly, “Quick question. Do you want to go out with me on New Year’s Eve?”

Just as you start to beam at him, your smile falters. “I’ll be back in England by New Years Eve.”

He frowns briefly too before fixing a determined look on his face, not breaking eye contact with you. “You know I’ve never been to England. I’ve never even been to another continent.”

You squint, your heart racing as you chuckle softly, “Oh yeah? You sound like me.”

He starts to grin again, “If I come over there…then will you go out with me?”

This time you fully beam, “I’d love to.” 

Stiles kisses you again, more hungrily this time. And you count yourself lucky his dad walked in the house at that point, and not five minutes later when god knows what position you would have been in.

Instead you just pull apart slightly, to laugh after he exclaims, “I knew it!” 

Stiles holds you tightly in his arms, not wanting to let you go for even a second as his dad begins teasing them. You’re pretty sure you’ve never felt happier. Or safer. And even though you still had so much to figure out, you weren’t going to overthink it. You were content living in the moment, as long as many of those moments were spent in Stiles arms as possible.

author's note: can't wait to hear what everyone thinks!! and hope everyone has a wonderful start to 2025 <3