#but first i need to write about it and. well :^)

[em1i2a3]

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,��� You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

[unikhroma]

we need to talk about ramb [analysis/theory]

MASSIVE shoutout to my friend mycringefactory for ripping his sprites

ramb! he's the power strip darkner in chapter 3 that runs the stand in the green room and introduces you to the set of games that leads to the chapter's unusual secret boss.

weird attention to detail with his sprites, telling kris that he knows they want, dismissing their concerns that something might be up, having a page of the sweepstakes ARG named after him instead of the location it's showing, directly introducing kris to a rendition of the weird route and saying that it's "REAL fun".

seems like if it were some other character, these would be ringing more alarm bells. but i knew, i Knew there was something up with him. he is the secret boss, it's just not in a way we're used to. strap in, cause this is long as fuck <- not an exaggeration i've been writing this for the past three days.

ramb is the shadow mantle enemy.

ramb wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games he's provided! no he really wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games. he mentions it a lot, and keeps saying that he knows kris and what they want. in the context of a game about the weird route no less.

and all this is much like the shadow mantle enemy. it says outright that it thinks a part of kris isn't getting the shadow crystals because it'll get what they want, instead it's that they're just enjoying this, like ramb keeps saying is the case for them.

it wasn't there to stop kris: what it wanted was to see kris play, said plain as day. i believe the flickering red comment is about kris' eyes, that it wanted to see them really get into playing the game.

it's hard to believe that this is all just a parallel when it lines up So Closely. i feel like you don't just have two characters speak almost exactly the same and with such an emphasis on the same things, with the only difference being an accent in one of them. not to mention that there's an NPC tells you who ramb parallels.

can't find footage, but m-chromatic says this is from a rudinn NPC

the shadow mantle enemy also further emphasizes its interest in kris having fun with a secret room in one of the games:

"Having fun?"

it feels like such a personalized message to them, and whether kris is having fun is something that ramb is very concerned with.

something particularly notable is what happens the first time you get proper dialogue from the mantle enemy. after the board is cleared, kris asks ramb about someone being backstage, and he denies it and says he's been there on security the whole time.

also i find it odd that the first line is one of the few times that expression of his shows up. in the second line he turns his head away in a smile

another thing:

and this bit might be a stretch but it's worth mentioning: the little creature that the mantle enemy turns into does happen to have floppy ears like ramb does.

once again shoutout to mycringefactory for ripping these sprites

alright, so ramb may have control of this game, probably from the wide variety of controllers in the backstage (though i have a personal theory that he can go into the game himself). but why do i think he has anything to do with the game itself? well, this ties into a sub-theory:

MANTLE/MANHOLE is a dragon blazers romhack made by ramb, and is what tenna unknowingly built his game off of.

in case you're wondering why i'm giving it two names. i personally think it's manhole cause it ties into other things

tenna's game vs the original game. "some big ol' blasted line from A to B" vs "the ORIGINAL game where YOU decide what to do". the parallel of regular route vs weird route is a lil on the nose. in this game, you're made to do a re-imagining of the weird route in chapter two and something beyond that. but the game wasn't always that.

the spamton sweepstakes is how we know this. the d_a_m_n_y_o_u_t_e_n_n_a page and noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog teases MANTLE/MANHOLE and ties it back to ramb. clicking the TV will change the screen to be static-filled (like the game cuts to when the controller isn't plugged in), and the lowest point of the page contains static squares, one leading to a neon blue screen and the other leading to ramb's page.

the neon blue screen (similar to the title screen of MANTLE/MANHOLE) can be scrolled up to show what looks like a representation of the ice area in the old game where you use the ice key. the door on the page leads to noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog, where she describes an oddity in dragon blazers that lines up perfectly with an area in the old game.

this cross area in the old game is accompanied by a track named GLACEIR. on noelle's blog, she writes that she's currently listening to a song from dragon blazers of the same name. it would make sense that if she's writing about that area and feeling nostalgic about it, she'd be listening to the song from it as well.

the choice of word for what her mood is.. i can't help but think of how that one weird ass expression of ramb's is called "nostalgic"

with all that in mind, i feel like it's pretty clear that that "old thing" tenna says he based his game on was intended to be dragon blazers. except that "original game" was clearly tampered with. it's not a coincidence that this game has a rendition of the weird route's beginning, it was put in there by someone. tenna is bothered by MANTLE/MANHOLE's contents as well:

another clue on the game being modified by ramb is, despite it being dragon blazers, the third board isn't a non-specific RPG location and is instead based on cyber world, specifically cyber city and queen's mansion's basement.

ramb originates from cyber world and while tenna may have known things about cyber city due to his connection with spamton, it's highly unlikely that he's seen the mansion basement, so it had to be ramb who modded it. ramb mentions people who live in queen's mansion like he knows them well.

another thing.. think about the names associated with him: his name is ramb. like RAMb. to put it simply, RAM is any data in a computing device that can change or be modified, and it's implied that he modded dragon blazers.

his name is misspelled as ROMb in-game and in the sweepstakes page regarding him and the old game. the track that plays in the S-rank room and thus when you speak to him about the game is called "Dump". to mod a ROM, you'd have to dump it from the hardware first (though i don't think that's necessarily what ramb did since we're in a fantasy world).

the dump thing is interesting to me also cause as mentioned before, the spamton sweepstakes has a page for ramb, but it was first accessed by clicking "[scrap heap]" in one of the prize descriptions. another allusion to him and trash... btw i feel like it's worth stressing: HE'S HAD A PAGE NAMED AFTER HIM THIS WHOLE TIME!!

oh and there's these two lines from him that absolutely implies that he had some kind of hand in the games backstage. the "HIS" would not be emphasized like that if the old game was impersonal to ramb.

so why is ramb like this?

why'd he want kris to play his fucked up snowgrave game so much? what's all this talk about fun? and then after all that, asking them if opening the fountain was that good of an idea... after all, doing so would cause him several darkners to turn to stone.

he's a power strip. like outlets, power strips can have a large variety of things connected to them: fans, chargers, TVs, video game consoles.. the key difference though, is that they can have multiple things connected to them at once and they're portable.

ramb shouldn't turn to stone because, unlike that zapper that turned to stone because its likely to be for catti's TV and isn't compatible with the dreemurr's, he's not bound by that kind of restriction. in fact there's a lot of uses he can have, multiple at once even. he's also directly relevant to TV world as being able to provide power to tenna himself.

but ultimately, in the same vein as tenna, he stopped being used. and getting kris to play these games, when his purpose is "letting you play your games", might've been a way to keep himself alive. "Without play... the knife grows dull." i think this line from him as the shadow mantle is also in reference to how without him being played, he'll turn to stone (grow dull).

i don't think this is just that side of himself being un-petrified because of the light. the light is enveloping him entirely, you can see it go well past him. i think he needed to be as close in proximity to the game as he could since it's tied to his purpose. more on this later.

selfish actions aside, i do think ramb cares about kris. but he was also suffering from being outcasted both socially and by lightners including them, so i think he was preparing for a fountain opening and the opportunity to convince kris into spending time with him again.

he was really done dirty by his fellow darkners man

he projects onto kris so much: he wants to have fun too. he misses those times. an opportunity to meet an old friend in the midst of loneliness and to relive those good memories he holds onto so much? well, he had to do something.

...and the something he did was steal the shadow mantle and create a fucked up game for this kid because he missed seeing them have fun and thought that all that fucked up shit was what they liked. (i think it's implied that kris plays video games in a bit of an aggressive way? unfortunately struggling to find specific scenes about it)

the thing about how he was already stone on the inside makes me wonder if that's a way of saying that he died inside a while ago and the loneliness broke him. part of me thinks he's intended to represent mentally ill people who fall through the cracks cause they don't "seem" like they are. this power strip needs therapy and medication man

the implications of him modifying the game to show the weird route in particular though... is he trying to encourage it? is it a warning? was learning about the weird route the thing that made him spiral and turn to doing this? it's very likely yes, since similar things happened to jevil and spamton.

how does he know about the weird route and what happened to him?

awesome first question: i don't know. it's possible that, because he's meant to parallel tenna, that he too was contacted by the knight, and they told him about it. however, it may not be that one-to-one. since spamton's forbidden knowledge came from someone outside of the in-game universe (we presume gaster), he could've gotten it from that.

and what's up with all the DEVICE_FRIEND appearances in his romhack? ..honestly can't explain it either. but since he depicts queen's mansion in it, i get the feeling that he's been down there and he saw it. maybe it's something that really stuck with him, or he had extended contact with it.

now as for his fate.. after the sword route is complete (meaning all three boards of his game are finished), the rabbick in the S-rank room expresses fear over something that happened with ramb.

so what the hell happened to him to freak this rabbick out so much?

most likely: he parallels tenna, so maybe he was also enlisted by the knight, and his job was to keep the shadow mantle out of kris' hands. because he failed to do so, he got taken or hurt by the knight as punishment.

less likely but more interesting to me: let's address the rabbick saying that kris already went past. we saw the pixel kris leave the backstage, so that seems to be what they saw. the pixel kris escaping the game may mean that the game will technically never be turned off, making it so that ramb is always being "used" and thus not fated to turn to stone while the fountain is still open

so the rabbick might've been frightened by a darkner that shouldn't be alive coming to life again (..thoough i have a theory that he might be able to shapeshift and that freaked them out but that's for another post)

either way, if you completed the sword route, ramb is somewhere else now. isn't that fun?

so! now with all of this information about him in mind: do you see why i'm insane about him. there's more evidence for some of my points (like ramb knowing you missed the ice key and having another creepy message for kris in a secret room) and evidence for potential counterpoints, but this post is so fucking long man.

thinking about exploring other things about him like his beef with tenna but we'll see. because this took a lot out of me LOL. anyway:

THANK YOU FOR READING!

oh and by the way, if there's a little man who doesn't fit with the other darkners telling kris to do some weird out-of-the-way shit and telling them that that's what they really want and he's talking about freedom, you should be asking questions

[dollyswishingwell]

I love your page, aesthetic, and writings! May the wishing well grant all the LADS men when reader argues with them. Reader is feeling petty she gives them the silent treatment and sleeps in the living room. How would they react and coax her softly back to bed with them? Thank you.✨🫶🏻

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Wanna argue?

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, crack, i can’t imagine them seriously arguing with reader lol. they’re just men in love

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your feeling bored, petty even.

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel doesn’t even remember what the argument was about. Something dumb. Something petty. Something you started because you were bored and looking for a little drama to spice up your afternoon.

He’d narrowed his eyes in that usual amused way, tilted his head like, Oh? So we’re doing this now? And you’d flounced away with a dramatic sigh, declared you were “SO done,” and relocated yourself to the guest bedroom.

Which would be funny, if it didn’t kill him.

At first, he thinks you’re joking. A little pout, a little fake mad face. So he humors it. He waits. Hangs around the hallway, fingers tapping against the doorframe.

“…You’re not really mad, right?” he finally calls. “You just wanna see how cute I get when I beg?”

No answer.

Now he’s nervous. This isn’t part of the usual script. There’s no teasing voice behind the door, no exaggerated sighs for attention. Just silence.

Rafayel presses his ear to the door. “You’re not allowed to give me the silent treatment,” he mumbles softly. “That’s cheating. You know I hate it…”

Still nothing.

So.

This is war.

—

Later that night, you’re curled up under the guest sheets with your back to the door, determined to “teach him a lesson.” You’re not even that mad anymore, just sleepy. A little smug. You’re waiting for him to cave.

And he does.

Soft footsteps. A tentative knock. Then… the creak of the door opening.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands there in the dim light of the hall, wearing his loose white shirt, hair a little messy, blue-and-pink eyes glassy with defeat.

Then, gently, he steps over, crouches by your bedside, and lays his cheek on the mattress beside your hip.

“…I can’t sleep without you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and baby-soft. “I keep reaching over and you’re not there. I keep thinking you’ll crawl back in. But you’re being so mean, pretty girl…”

Your lashes flutter. You pretend to ignore him.

He lets out a breath. “Okay. Okay. You win, fine. I’ll say it.” He lifts his head just enough to kiss your arm through the blankets. “I’m sorry for whatever dumb thing I said that made you mad. Even if I’m right. Especially if I’m right.”

You stifle a smile.

“I’ll build you a bigger vanity. I’ll buy you new gowns. I’ll let you pick what I wear tomorrow and sit in my lap when i paint. Just… come back to bed?”

Still, you don’t move.

So he does the unthinkable.

He whines. Soft. Needy. Heartbroken.

“…You’re my pillow princess. My real-life fairytale. I need my bedtime cuddles. I need you to drool on my shirt and trap my legs and complain about my cold feet.”

You turn slowly to face him, raising a brow. “…Cold feet?”

His eyes sparkle, hooked. “Mm. So cold. Miserable, really. I think I’m dying.”

You roll your eyes. “…Maybe you should’ve thought of that before being a brat.”

He beams. There she is.

“Then come punish me, baby,” he whispers, swooping in and nuzzling against your tummy like a kicked puppy. “You can call me names. Make me beg. Just don’t exile yourself like this. My bed feels like a coffin without you.”

Finally, you sigh, dramatic and tired. “Fine.”

He scoops you up bridal-style before you can change your mind. You squeal, swat at him half-heartedly.

“Didn’t say you could carry me—!”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he purrs, already padding barefoot down the hallway with you wrapped in his arms.

When he drops you onto your shared bed and curls tightly around you, he sighs like he’s finally at peace.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair. “Don’t leave me again. Or I’ll cry.”

You smirk sleepily. “No you won’t.”

“…Try me.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You hadn’t even meant to make it a thing. You were just feeling bored. Playful. Maybe even a little bratty. So when Zayne made that dry little comment about your “third outfit change before dinner,” you gasped, scandalized, and declared that you were spending the night elsewhere.

“A true queen,” you announced, silk robe billowing as you stormed off, “does not sleep beside critics.”

He blinked. “…You’re being dramatic.”

“Yes, I am,” you snapped. “And you’ll miss me.”

Now it’s nearly midnight. And you were right.

Because Zayne is pacing down his hallway like a storm in dress pants, no tie, robe hanging open, hair slightly mussed. He’s searched three of the guest bedrooms already.

All of them pristine. All of them empty.

The man is fuming. Not at you, never truly at you, but at the absurdity of this game. The mansion is too damn big. The house too quiet. The silk sheets too cold without your warm body burrowed into them like you always do.

He checks another room. Empty. Again. His jaw tightens.

“…Princess?” he calls softly, more gentle than he means to be. “You done sulking yet?”

No answer. Just silence.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters under his breath. “This is ridiculous.”

Finally, finally, he opens the fifth guest room. And there you are.

Asleep. Curled up like a smug little kitten beneath the expensive throw blankets. Looking all innocent. Angelic. Your robe half-fallen off your shoulder and your cheek smushed against the pillow.

Zayne exhales like he’s just found a missing patient. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then he steps inside. Quietly. Like you’re a wild animal he’s trying not to scare off.

He kneels beside the bed. Brushes his fingers against your temple.

“You win,” he murmurs. “You made your point. Loud and clear.”

You stir slightly. But keep your eyes closed. Just enough to make him keep talking.

He lets out a tired chuckle. “What, do I need to beg now? Give a heartfelt apology at your bedside like I’m auditioning for some palace drama?”

You sniff quietly, still feigning sleep. He sees right through it.

He exhales again and leans down, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

“…Come back to bed, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and warm now. “You don’t belong out here like some pouting exile. I missed you. I always do, even when you’re in the next room.”

You blink your eyes open. Look up at him, half-lidded and smug. “Took you long enough.”

Zayne narrows his eyes. “You were testing me.”

“And you passed,” you hum sweetly. “Barely.”

He sighs through a crooked smile. “You’re impossible.”

And without another word, he lifts you up, bedding and all, into his arms like a surgeon retrieving something very precious. You let out a sleepy giggle as he carries you back to the master bedroom.

“Zaynie—”

“Quiet.” His voice is dry. But there’s a hand on your back, another cradling your thighs. “You’re not allowed to hide from me in my own house again. I’ll install GPS trackers in every blanket if I have to.”

You just hum and curl up against his chest. “Mm. You do love me.”

He presses a kiss into your hair. “God help me, I do.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You didn’t go far. You didn’t even mean to actually upset him. You were just being pouty, petty, maybe feeling a little under-pampered after he dozed off mid-conversation again.

So you decided: Fine. He can nap by himself tonight.

You tiptoed into the guest room next door. Crawled under the covers with your favorite blanket and a dramatic sigh.

You assumed he’d be too asleep to notice.

You were wrong.

—

The softest knock. A pause. Then a barely-there voice:

“…Are you mad at me?”

It’s him.

You don’t answer. Not yet. You want to see what he’ll do.

There’s a beat. Silence. Then:

“…I woke up and you weren’t there.”

Still, you stay quiet, pretending to be asleep.

You hear him step inside anyway. Quietly. He walks like a shadow, barefoot, half-dressed, silver hair slightly rumpled, his loose robe slipping off one shoulder. He stops just beside the bed.

“…I checked every room,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “But I already knew you were here. The pillows still smelled like you. And your side of the bed was cold.”

You crack an eye open, just slightly.

He looks tired. Genuinely tired. Like he’s been drifting between rooms for hours, even though it’s only been twenty minutes.

He lowers himself slowly to his knees beside the bed.

“Don’t go far like that again,” he whispers. “I know it’s just the next room. I know I’m being unreasonable. But…”

His voice catches. His fingers brush the edge of the blanket.

“…When I can’t feel you next to me, it feels like I’ve lost something important. Like I forgot how to sleep.”

You blink fully awake now, staring down at him. “Xavi—”

“I don’t know how to be mad back,” he adds, barely audible. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say when you leave. So I just wait. And hope you come back.”

The silence stretches. Then you lift the blanket wordlessly.

He moves instantly, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind, and climbs in beside you, wrapping himself tightly around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“…You smell like my side of the bed,” he mumbles. “I missed that.”

You hum softly. “You didn’t even give me time to miss you.”

He kisses your collarbone like an apology. “I know.”

A pause. Then quieter:

“Just… if you need space again, take me with you.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were just bored. Petty. Spoiled.

He made some offhanded quip while reviewing blueprints over dinner, and you, feeling particularly princessy, decided that would not stand.

So you stood up. Tossed your napkin onto the table like a socialite.

“I’m sleeping elsewhere tonight.”

Sylus just quirked a brow. “Am I meant to be punished?”

You didn’t answer. You simply turned and sauntered off, hips swaying. A strategic retreat to the east wing guest suite. Lavish, unused, and chilly without him.

You expected him to follow.

He didn’t.

Not immediately.

—

Now it’s nearly midnight. You’re under three blankets, curled up like a tiny sulking princess. And you’re waiting.

Then, finally, the lock clicks.

You don’t move. But your heart flutters.

Sylus steps inside slowly, as if entering enemy territory. His black silk shirt is still half-unbuttoned from earlier. His sleeves are rolled up. His voice is dangerously calm:

“…So this is where my little wife has exiled herself.”

You don’t reply. You just give him your back.

He pauses. Stares. Smiles, very faintly.

“I see,” he murmurs. “A full siege.”

Another moment. Then, his shoes hit the floor with two soft thuds. The bed dips as he sits beside you. His hand brushes your shoulder.

“Princess.”

No response.

“You’re angry.”

Still nothing.

“…Or you’re playing.” His tone turns low. Knowing. “You want me to crack.”

You hear him chuckle under his breath. A sound so warm and dangerous it sends a chill up your spine.

Then, he kneels.

He kneels beside the bed, one hand gripping your blanket, the other sliding gently beneath it to find your waist. His lips press to your bare shoulder.

“…You win, baby,” he murmurs. “I surrender.”

You finally roll over, just enough to look down at him. Eyes half-lidded. “Say it.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Say what?”

“Beg.”

A pause. He licks his teeth. Breathes in slow. And then, so softly, he obeys.

“Please come back to bed,” he says, voice like velvet soaked in wine. “I can’t sleep when you’re gone. I don’t want to sleep without you. I hate it.”

Another kiss to your arm.

“I miss the way you droop over me like a spoiled kitten. I miss your whining. I miss your heat. I miss the way you steal the pillows.”

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. “Mmm… not enough.”

He looks up at you, eyes blood-red and glinting like low flame. And then, so quietly it makes your throat tighten:

“Please, my love. Come back to me.”

The air goes still.

You lift the blanket in silence.

He doesn’t smirk this time. Doesn’t tease. He just slides into bed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms like you’re something sacred.

He exhales shakily against your neck. “You’re cruel when you’re bored.”

You smile. “And you love it.”

He kisses your throat. “I do.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

It starts like usual.

A little playful argument after dinner. Some mock whining. You teasing him about being bossy, him calling you his “loud little gremlin.”

But tonight you don’t stay for the usual kiss-and-cuddle ending.

Nope. You roll your eyes, toss your hair over your shoulder, and waltz off with a lazy, “I’m sleeping alone tonight.”

At first? Caleb grins.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, real dramatic,” he calls after you. “Don’t forget your stuffed bunny, Your Majesty.”

But you don’t respond.

You don’t come back.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

He’s not grinning anymore.

He’s pacing. Hands on his hips, brows furrowed, glancing at the hallway like it insulted him personally.

“…You really left?” he mutters to himself. “Wait. That wasn’t a bit?”

You’re curled up in one of the guest bedrooms, sipping juice like a smug little gremlin, flipping through your tablet and waiting for the inevitable: Caleb’s dramatic reappearance.

It takes exactly 38 minutes.

The door bursts open. He stands in the frame like a man on a mission. Disheveled. Betrayed.

One sock on. One sock off. Shirt untucked. Face full of outrage.

“You abandoned the bit,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, perfectly innocent. “What bit?”

“Our thing!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly. “You brat, I tease, you yell, I chase, you pout, I smother you in kisses, we roll into bed, boom! domestic bliss! And you—” he points an accusing finger, “just walked away! Like you don’t know the rules!”

You sip your juice. “Maybe I’m rewriting them.”

He gasps. Like you slapped him. “You’re rebelling.”

“Maybe.” You roll over, half-buried in the blanket now. “Maybe I’m just bored of you.”

He blinks. Takes a full step back. Looks dramatically wounded. Then:

“Oh, it’s on.”

He strides forward and, without warning, picks you up like a bratty little sack of defiance.

You yelp. “Caleb—!”

“No. You don’t get to declare war and then nap your way through it,” he growls, tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. “You wanna be difficult? Great. I’ll tuck you in my way.”

He storms back down the hallway, muttering the whole time. “Bored of me. Rewriting the rules. What next, you join a rebellion? Start a pillow coup? Marry my second-in-command? Huh?!”

You’re cackling now, absolutely delighted. “You’re so dramatic.”

He kicks the bedroom door open. “You started it.”

Then he drops you gently on the bed, climbs in after you, and traps you in a tight, warm hold like you’re something precious.

You try to wiggle. “You’re clingy.”

He growls against your neck. “You’re mine.”

“…Fine,” you whisper, sinking into him. “But I’m still mad.”

“Good,” he mumbles, kissing your jaw. “I like you mad. Gives me an excuse to hold you hostage.”

You pout. “I’m serious.”

He just hums and starts tracing your waist lazily. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll bribe you in the morning. Right now? You’re staying right here. Try leaving again and I’ll sleep in every doorway until you give in.”

And you believe him.

Because you know he would.

[xiao-come-home]

How they sleep with you - HSR Edition!

✰ Characters: Anaxa, Phainon, Mydei, Sunday, Aventurine, Boothill, Jiaoqiu.

✰ Words: 1,3k.

✰ SFW ; a tiny bit sug/gestive in aven's part.

Warnings: none, gn!reader.

A/N: first time writing for anaxa, phainon, aven and sunday. pls spare me if theyre too ooc :( i tried pensive emoji

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Anaxa:

Religiously sticks to his half of the bed and expects you to do the same as well. Be aware that if you don't behave, he'll poke you intensely with a pointer until you return to your side. It's not that he is uncomfortable with physical contact per se, but he appreciates his personal space; he's not completely heartless though, as he finishes off his day with a kiss that leaves you both breathless. What you may not expect this for the first few times is that when the sun rises ever so slowly, the professor is the one desperately clinging to you, making his lengthy battle the night prior dissipate within mere hours.

"No such things happened," Anaxa answers swiftly, "however, this does not surprise me. This isn't the first time you've devised a ridiculous statement."

You would've believed his words if Anaxa wasn't currently nuzzling into your shoulder blades, searching for your warmth.

Phainon:

If Anaxa at least attempts to keep his distance, Phainon knows nothing of sorts. He's quite shamelessly glued to you as soon as you enter your bedroom, let alone the bed itself. Though, you're not exactly sleeping as soon as you crawl under the covers - Phainon tends to have a cuddle session before finally succumbing to sleep. He wants to talk to you about his day and hear about yours - only then he's satisfied enough. Bedtime might also act as a rare, vulnerable time for Phainon, where no filter exists; he says everything that keeps him restless.

"Will you be there when I wake up?" Phainon only hopes his voice is not as broken as it is inside his head.

"Silly, of course. I'll be by your side every time you wake up." Your tender tone is enough to fade some of the somber clouds above his head.

Phainon laughs, but it comes out as bittersweet; he brings you closer and wraps his arm tightly around your side, hiding his face in your neck. He'll do everything to make it happen - even if it means fighting the fate itself.

Mydei:

The Kremnoan prince insists he doesn't require sleep, but falls victim to your puppy eyes. He makes sure you have the best quality of sheets, pajamas, and pillows; your comfort comes first to him, no matter how many times you insist that he brings you the said comfort the most, and the rest is insignificant. Mydei holds you close to his chest, playing softly with your hair to help you fall asleep - only then he's able to rest, knowing your soul is peacefully in repose. If plagued by nightmares, featherlight kisses on your eyelids wreak the foes away.

"Sleep well, my love," Mydei cradles your cheek for a moment, before adjusting himself; his lips are resting against your forehead, as he himself, begins to doze off.

You, on the other hand, watch Mydei sleep in the morning. A wide smile spreads on your face as you observe his chest fall and rise, a moment of interrupted serenity on his handsome face.

"Looking at me again?" The male questions, his deep voice dripping with honey, watching you with one eye open; perhaps not yet ready for the bright light.

"No...?"

Mydei pinches your nose lightheartedly.

"You're a bad liar."

Sunday:

Poor thing trying to break the habit. Being used to having everything in perfect state, Sunday needs a reminder that it's okay for bedsheets to have a few wrinkles here and there. He'll apologize nervously, but you can't stop him from fluffing up your pillows and readjusting the covers. He tries to stay on his half but desperately wants to stay close to you, so don't hesitate to pull him close - he'll freak out for a bit, and then slowly, but steadily give in to your touch. There's one thing you too, cannot resist - watching his innocent image crumble away in your very hands.

"Quit smushing my face against your—" Sunday's words die in his throat as you push his face further into your chest, the redness of his cheeks so bright, it could rival Himeko's scarlet hair.

"This is— this is inappropriate! How humiliating..."

You only laugh at your boyfriend's despair. Sometimes it's nice to be a villain.

"What, you're not gonna fight me? Are you chickening out?" You poke his side. He groans and bends in half for a second.

"Atrocious joke."

Be prepared for his wing accidentally hitting your face tomorrow when you kiss...

Himeko: lmfaoo robin you wont believe they actually did this *sends a video*

Aventurine:

Gambling who sleeps on the floor. You don't play that game anymore. The blonde finds great pleasure in aggravating you before sleep hits in, gambling with his own life to get a reaction out of you. He cackles mischievously if you try to suffocate him with a pillow for tickling you for at least 15 minutes prior, but even so, it's not enough for him to let you go to the dreamland, yet. By the time you're done, your bed needs to be made again and your shared panting could possibly give bystanders a very different idea...

"Aven, enough, I think my diaphragm might actually explode," a remnant of giggles still exits your mouth, unfortunately, Aventurine does not share your sentiment and snakes his arm against your belly, while kissing your neck a bit too enthusiastically.

"Stopping, now? Where's the fun in that?" His fingers play with the waistband of your pajamas, "Why not raise the stakes a bit more?" Your skin turns into goosebumps as you feel a grin painting itself on Aventurine's face against your neck.

Boothill:

Well, he doesn't sleep really, he has to get recharged with electricity to get the energy back... So there might be a problem. Hopefully, your bed is also able to support some heavy weight, since laying down with a man whose body is almost a full machine, can be quite challenging. Either way, Boothill is actually pretty excited to accompany you, even if he'll spend most of the time watching you sleep instead; he'll hum you a song to help you fall asleep, card through your hair with his hand - it's... Reminding him of the peace he used to have on his home planet. You being the only survivor besides Boothill made him much more protective than before, but seeing you sleep so blissfully curled up to him... You still trust him. That's all it matters, after so many sleepless nights you've had.

"Shh, sleep," Boothill urges you gently, pulling up the bedding to cover you further.

"I wish you could sleep with me."

Boothill chuckles, caressing your cheek with his robotic finger, "I might not sleep with ya anymore, but I'm still here. And will be, until yer sick of me."

Jiaoqiu:

This man. He wraps his whole body around you like a snake and doesn't let go until morning. If it's possible for him to entangle his tail somewhere - expect that too. If you try to escape his grasp, he'll accuse you of not loving him anymore and might bite you (in a teasing way, of course). The sly foxian tends to sneak his hands under your clothes to rest them over your bare skin; sometimes, if need be, instead of teasing you furthermore, he gives you a soothing massage before drifting off. In fact, he'd prefer to sleep bare - skin to skin, but respects it if you're not interested; not that a mere layer will stop him from being a menace.

"Jiaoqiu," you sigh, looking over your shoulder, "your tail is reaching places that the sun cannot."

"Oh, really?" His voice dripping with fake surprise, but he only adjusts his head against the pillow behind you, "A checkup is necessary in order to ensure your health is in good condition."

Despite his silvery voice and elegant words, don't be fooled - mischief is laced through the tiny gaps.

[cheriladycl01]

Hey! Could you write a fic where female reader is an older driver (maybe debuted around the same time as Seb) and just little scenarios of her being a mother figure towards the drivers. Maybe mix of SMAU and written story (if you do that) xxx 😊 big thx

MUM! - Grid x OlderDriver! Reader

Plot: Everyone needs their grid mum, and that’s everyone!

F1 was you’re life.

Not in a oh I love watching the races every week and going to one race a year. No, you were convinced there was fuel in your veins.

You drove for about 16 years in F1 being the first female driver to win a race. You debuted at the same time as Sebastian Vettel, you guys were bestfriends and didn't let racing affect that friendship. And that's all it ever remained. Every bone in your body loved Seb, he was quite literally your platonic soulmate. When you first met, your now husband, he'd become fast friends with Seb and never questioned your friendship with him and never tried to involve himself too much to the point it felt forced and thats why you knew he was the one.

When you left F1, you left the same year that Seb did, it felt right leaving the same year he did and you discussed it with him. For you it was because you wanted to focus on family. You were 17 when you first got into F1 and now 33 years old and you wanted to settle down with your husband and expand the family. Which apparently wasn't as much as a struggle as you thought it would be as you'd gotten pregnant 5 months after retirement. Giving birth in 2023 and now being pregnant again in 2025.

But F1 and half the drivers you grew up with didn't want you to leave the sport. So when Sky Sports reached out you knew you had to go.

But with the growing amount of Rookies you seem to have adopted children as well as having had them as well.

Sebastian Vettel

y/user

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y/user: 25 years of friendship! Happy Birthday to the Grid Dad from the Grid Mum! 🫶🏼

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sebastianvettel: woah, I wish I looked this cool now! Look at that haircut 🫨

-> y/user: a diva once, a diva always

fan1: OMG MOTHER AND FATHER!!

You and your husband always made sure to vist Seb for his birthday, it was like an annual gathering that was held where you both were able to have a massive catch up without being near anything to do with racing.

"Happy birthday!" you crashed him handing him his huge bag of gifts before you went to his wife who you'd become very close to and hugging her handing over a cheeky bottle of wine for the both of you to share.

Your husband stood with Seb while you and Hanna went into the kitchen to unpack the food that you'd got for Seb's birthday dinner.

"Thank you for coming" Seb smiles pulling you into a hug, sighing against you.

"I havent missed one in 25 years, even when i had Tonsillitis i still got here. Wasn't much fun for you guys, but you all had a great time" you grin at the memory making him laugh. He could still see you, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets on his sofa with a box of tissues and a honey and lemon tea.

"Mmmmm good times" he laughs, pulling out of the hug and helping you and Hanna dish up.

"What are you doing?" Hanna cries seeing him doing work.

"Huh?" he asks confused.

"It's your birthday, go sit! Keep out other guests entertained and enjoy yourself!" Hanna exclaims, forcing him out the kitchen where he went to sit with your husband.

Your husband and Seb actually did lots of what you and Hanna called 'guy things' together. They'd go on fishing trips while you and Hanna would go to Italy or Spain and soak up the sun. Or they'd play games while you and Hanna went shopping.

Your husband also found joy in travelling with you and your kids adored seeing their Uncle Seb who despite it being his birthday always had to have something for his favrioute kids.

However, another child always seemed to lurk their way into these parties, that being yours and Seb's first adopted child, Lance Stroll.

You and Seb had been officially made mum and dad of the grid. It started off with Lance being taken under his wing and you just sort of joined in with that.

Lance Stroll

Lance was one of your favrioute people, you could sit with him in a comfortable silence and didn't feel like you needed it to be forced. He was also incredibly funny when he wanted to be.

One time, you'd been talking to him off of camera and he's accidentally called you mom. You'd bursted out laughing before querying him wondering if he really did see you as a mother figure.

"Yeah and what?" he asked and you stopped shocked.

After that it was just sort of known that you and Seb had taken on the roll of parents to all the little drivers across the grid.

You would always make sure to make time for Lance as he always would make the time for you. You werent keen on his dad, as he always gave you strange stare that made you feel like he hated you, no matter how many times Lance told you to 'just ignore it'.

"Lance, that overtake today was incredible!" You praise and he nods in thanks.

“Im glad I managed to get us in the points after Fernando’s crash” he offers and you nod. He’d got himself P6 which was a good score considering how the rest of the season had been going.

“Mmmm you’re leading the Aston Team now” you exclaim happy at the fact.

“Thanks Y/N, you’re always there for me” he says making eye contact with you.

“Can’t get rid of me Lance, I’m your mother” you tease and he laughs looking down.

Charles Leclerc

y/user

Liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and others

y/user: Interviewed my first son today. He asked for a hug :) always such a pleasure interviewing him and getting time to talk. Oh and then theres Lewis ...

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charles_leclerc: Ahhh thank you, ma mère adoptive! You should come see Leo your Grandson!

-> y/user: I have a grandson?! I'm so old!

fan1: argh she's so cute with everyone! We all knew she's be such a good mother (real mother)

-> y/user: I'll have you know I've been a real mother since 2018 when Charles joined the grid.

-> fan1: omg she replies!!!!!

lewishamilton: i'm not ignoring her i swear...

Charles and you first met in 2017. He was very nervous when he came up to you, asking you how you felt you're race had went. You later found out he had a whole script to say to you after your race that you'd started from pole. Little did he know that Lewis was going to turn into you on lap 3 and crash you out for the rest of the race.

"Well, i didn't finish so not great kid" you chuckle at his nervous expression where he'd finally realised what he'd said.

“I erm, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that” he blurts out and you can only laugh at him.

“I know I know. I’m just teasing you” you say placing a light hand in his shoulder trying to ease his nerves.

“You know you’ll be racing with us soon” you grin at him knowing he’s signed for Seb’s old team.

“Yes, I’m excited … and nervous. You’re all so great” he compliments looking down and you sigh.

“I bet you’re gonna be big. Like world champion big. I can see it now. Charles Leclerc WORLD CHAMPION” you say raising your hands in a jazzy manner.

“That should be you. You should have hand a championship but it’s HIS fault” he directs looking at the screen following Lewis in your P1.

“How are you so calm and not angry at him?” He presses and you just laugh.

“I used to get very angry when I first started and I was young. But you learn that you being upset gets you nowhere. I learn from my mistakes, I don’t let them have a hold over me” you explain to him. Knowing that you were a much calmer and level headed driver than you used to be.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good as him?” He asks tone softer than it was before.

“I think anyone can be as good as him, given the circumstances. I’ve know Lewis for years and he’s where he is now because of how committed he is. He works and trains harder than anyone I know. He’s got an incredible team behind him and a car to match, when all of that falls into play you’ve got yourself a winner. He’s one of the greats and will be remembered by everyone” you offer and Charles nods, now seeing the current leader of the championship in a new light. He’d always looked up to him, but now he just seems like a hard worker and Charles wanted to be that.

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis by far was not one of your grid kids, being a similar age to you and having started your careers in the same year you’d know him for an incredibly long time.

Which means you knew his tendency to be a little … childish. And by a little you mean a lot.

Too put it bluntly Lewis is a massive brat.

He doesn’t act angry when races don’t go his way, he’ll pout and be all salty looking like a puppy whose just had his biscuits taken away from him.

He’d been know to throw caps at his teammates when they said something bad about him and would often try play the victim card. You’d know him for so long that you knew the games he played like the back of your hand.

“Lewis!” You chide the man whose currently slumped over on the drivers room. You were both on the podium. Max having taken the win.

“What! He’s taken my win from me!” He points at the empty seat where Max should be.

“That’s racing! You’ll get him next week, this week things didn’t go your way and that’s okay. So stop sulking and put that gorgeous smile on your face” You command sick of him moping when he’s still up on the podium. He looks up to see your famous mum look, and nods on instinct feeling like it’s his mum scolding him when he was a child.

“You’re scarily good at that look Yano? Ever think of having your own?” He asks and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, but I gotta retire first” you smile and he nods.

“We’ll get out of here then, less competition for me” he grins and you shake your head laughing.

That’s the Lewis you knew.

Jamie Chadwick and Bernie Collins

y/user

Liked by bernie.collins.1, jamiechadwick

y/yser: COMMENTATING WITH MY DAUGHTERS!!! Look at how beautiful they are!!! So proud of Jamie for last weekend in Indy Car as well, as a ex-female driver I hope to see her in F1 in the future!

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Jamie and Bernie were a recent development in the F1 World. You couldn’t be more pleased that women were taking more of an interest in the sport than they historically had.

Not only as viewers but working there. You now saw so many female engineers and mechanics. And it made you so happy that women were comfy within the sport.

When Bernie came onto the scene you immedielty took the younger lady under your wing, almost becoming a mentor. But the mum side would slip out at times when people managed to pick up on it.

"Bernie did you put cream on? It awfully sunny and they haven't given you an umbrella!" you exclaimed one day, going into your back and taking out the aerosol can of sunscreen you'd brought with you incase anyone was in need.

"No i was a little rushed this morning leaving! I didn't realise how early they wanted us at the track" she sighed and you offer her the can showing her you can spray it in her cheeks. She closed her eyes letting you spray it on before you wipe it in.

"Don't wanna get greasy hands before you hold your mic hun" you smile at her as she opens her eyes thank you for the coverage.

It was very similar to Jamie, who was much younger but also whenever the girl came to the f1 track would find her way to you.

But the moment you really saw it was when you went to her Indy Car race. Her parents werent able to attend and you had the weekend free so of course you and you're husband came down for the show.

And you couldnt be prouder of her. You were one of the first people there to congratulate her on her amazing race, pulling her into a huge sweaty hug.

"I'm so proud of you darling! You did so well!" you smile kissing the side of her head pulling her in for a second hug.

"Thanks mum" she chuckles with a shake of her head before heading off with her team.

George Russell

y/user

Liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and others

y/user: My son drove me and his girlfriend to work today! Recommended 10/10!

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georgerussell63: yeah you're welcome. Might need you to come to parents evening soon. Professor Wolff isn't happy with me or Kimi!

-> y/user: @ susie_wolff get your husband in check! lol

->susie_wolff: will get on this now, not our sons, not on our watch

-> georgerussell63: thanks mum number 2

kimi.antonelli: Mr Wolff is very scary. PS can i have some help with my homework?

George was one you always watched out for. Being a British driver you felt like you had to mentor him. Which is exactly what you did. The minute he came into Williams despite his awful first year, you knew he was something worth your time and knowledge. So you helped him out, gave him small pointers on the track and he got his first points in F1. The car got better as the year went on and he was driving with more ambition.

George had a special place in his heart for you after all you'd helped him do in his career. He was one of the saddest when you annouced your retiremeant. You had to actually to take him out to dinner and explain to him privately that you were leaving even before it got out in the media.

"So what's this treat of a meal for? Not my birthday!" he says digging into the Carbonara that was in front of him.

"Well, next years going to be a little different in the races!" you start to explain not picking up your own knife and fork, wanting to concentrate on getting everything out in the open.

"What, OMG are you changing teams?" he asks in shock.

"No, i'm retiring" you say and he chokes on the pasta making you look up in shock. He also looked shocked too.

"W-what? No you cant be!" he says looking at you. You were his favrioute person on the grid. He always came to you whenever he had a bad race or an issue with Max, which you always treated as if they were siblings in an argument.

"I'm sorry, but it's my time and i want to be with my husband and ... i wanna start a family" you smile softly looking at him.

"Were you're family. Here racing!" he demands a sour upset sort of look on his face.

"George ... i love you all. But i need to do this. For me, okay. I'll still come and visit. Think i've got a free paddock pass for life ..." you joke.

"But ..." he starts but you just smile.

"Come on, lets not spoil a good meal" you say, tapping his hand.

"You better come visit" he mutters looking up at you with a smile.

"Does that mean i'll get to be a cool Uncle?" he grins and you laugh with a nod.

"Oh absolutely"

Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli wasn't who you expected for Mercedes to replace a 7 time world champion. However, he was for sure the right choice. You saw him as this timid young teenager who was still going through school.

When he'd started in 2025, you were at every race as a commentator or guest. You loved travelling and being with the calendar as it went through the year and being in their to see the wins and talk to your old friends.

But Kimi was interesting. 2025 had brought many rookies who were in a very different age bracket from you. Which meant of course they all flocked to you like sheep.

Kimi was a special case where you met his mum in his F1 debut when he crashed. His mum was incredibly worried and you consoled her as much as you could until Kimi came to meet the both of you.

After that moment she trusted you with her son. You would go with him from the hotel to the track and you'd sit in the Mercedes hospitality with him.

"I don't get this, what does it mean?" he asks you about a question on his English homework that he didn't really understand. This was a typical race weekend now, between practices and interviews you were hauled up with papers both of you having what you called mocktails. It was literally just fancy water with lemons and limes and an umbrella in it but you and Kimi always found it funny ordering them.

"Well, its asking you how the poem makes you feel... its about emotion in literature" you then translate it into Italian, and he nods a thoughtful face appearing across his features before. He writes his answer out in english before showing it to you and you smile.

"I recon if you werent half the driver you are, you'd be a poet!" you grin and he frowns lightly knocking your shoulder.

"No! Shush!" he cries before laughing with you.

"Good thing I'm a good driver then!" he jokes and smiles taking some water.

Isack Hadjar

y/user

Instagram Story Caption: He destroyed the car, but got a hug from me!!!

Yuki Tsunoda

Instagram Story Caption: Mine and @ nicolepiastri child!

Lando Norris

Instagram Story Caption: MY SON WON!!!!!

Taglist:

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[beargyu313]

cliffside

Love is so blind, it feel’s right when it’s wrong

˚.🎀༘⋆ Summary: what was supposed to be a quiet retreat turns into an unforgettable romance with a man almost twice your age (or the story of how your boyfriend’s dad seduces you). ྀ. 𐙚 ̊ Word count: 17.5k

ᵎ!ᵎ⭑.ᐟᵎ!cw: cheating !!! don’t read if uncomfortable !!!! mentions of food throughout the whole thing (they will nawt be hungry), also I do not encourage big age gap relationship irl, this is a fictional and heavily ROMANTICIZED story (ladies don’t let older guys take advantage of you !!)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

⋆˚࿔ Tags: MDNI – smut (it’s basically pwp), soft power dynamics, forced proximity, boyfriend’s dad (meaning cheating – don’t read if u don’t like it), age gap (OC is 27, Sunghoon is in very late 30’s!), one bed trope, doting and dom!Sunghoon,, 𓆝

⋆smut tags: corruption kink, undertones of ddlg (no use of daddy), heavy petting, groping, spanking, possessive and obsessive Sunghoon !! (but he’s not acting like a freak), choking, brat-tamer!Sunghoon, praise kink

⋆˙♪ Playlist: LDR – norman fucking rockwell + Baekhyun – delight

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A/N: was this plot just an excuse to write 17k Sunghoon smut? YES lmfaoo. My reqs are currently OPEN for Niki, Sunghoon and Jake, pleeeease request something (I don’t mind detailed reqs, because I’m not writing anything atm and would love a new project) 𓆝 also I’m opening an AO3 account by the end of the month 🦭ིྀ

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

You’re holding onto your seatbelt as your boyfriend Jihoon speeds over the winding road up the hill.

“Slow down,” you tell him, knowing it’s in vain.

You’d only been together for six months, and this was supposed to be your first real couple’s retreat. The plan had sounded romantic— staying at his dad’s remote cabin, no cell service, time to unwind, just the two of you—but right now, you’re gripping the handle on the door and trying to bite your tongue as the car takes another sharp curve.

He exhales sharply, like your voice is a burden. “We’re literally ten minutes away.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “What is the point, then? That I’m not driving the way you like?”

You glance at him. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.

“I’m trying to talk to you,” you say quietly. “You’ve been on edge since we left.”

“I’ve been on edge?” he laughs, humorless. “You’re the one who quit your job and suddenly needed a ‘healing escape.’”

You go still. The words hit harder than they should.

“I told you why I left.”

“Right. Because it was ‘toxic.’” He throws air quotes around the word with one hand while the other grips the wheel. “Or maybe you just couldn’t the real world.”

Silence drops like a rock between you.

You stare out the window, jaw tight. Trees blur by—dark pines, broken sunlight. The air feels heavier than it should.

He sighs again. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying, not everything is a crisis.”

“I didn’t ask for a crisis,” you murmur. “I asked for support.”

He doesn’t respond.

Not when the road evens out. Not when the trees thin and the sea appears in the distance, glittering like glass. Not even when the outline of the cliffside cabin comes into view—tucked into green and shadow like it was built to disappear.

Jihoon pulls into the gravel clearing with a crunch of tires. The cabin stands just ahead—smaller than you imagined, all warm wood and deep shadows, the ocean visible just beyond the slope. It’s stupidly beautiful here. It almost makes you more angry.

He doesn’t bother to put the car in park before saying, “Well. We made it.”

You sit still. The air between you is thick with things unsaid.

“I guess we did,” you say.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the rearview mirror like he's already thinking about leaving. “Do you want help bringing your stuff in or…”

“No,” you cut in. “I’ve got it.”

That finally gets his attention. He turns toward you, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “It means I think we need space. A break. Just a few days.”

His mouth pulls into that condescending half-smile you’ve grown to hate. “So what, you’re kicking me out?”

“I’m asking you to give me time to think,” you say, voice calm but tight. “I came here to breathe. You don’t want to be here anyway.”

He scoffs. “Wow. Alright then.”

You open the door and step out before he can say anything else. The gravel shifts beneath your shoes as you head to the trunk. He doesn’t move to help you—not a step.

You drag your suitcase out, the wheels catching on rock and dirt.

When you turn back, Jihoon’s already behind the wheel again. Sunglasses on. Expression unreadable.

You pause. Half of you expects him to get out anyway. To walk over. Say something. Fight for this.

But he doesn’t.

He raises one hand in a lazy wave. “Enjoy your break, I guess.”

And then he hits the gas.

The car kicks up dust and pebbles as it speeds off, tires whining slightly on the curve. You watch the taillights shrink and vanish down the hill. Just like that, he’s gone.

Melancholy creeps into you like a shadow, sighing you can’t help but judge yourself. Really, what were you thinking going for a younger guy. And yeah, maybe 5 years wasn’t that much but as your 27th birthday approaches you somehow wish Jihoon could be more mature, less selfish. You shake the thought away and tightly grip your suitcase.

The wind rises a little, brushing your hair into your face. There’s no one around. No sound but the gulls and the faint hush of waves crashing far below.

The sound of your steps crunching down on the gravel is loud compared to the quiet hush of the nature around you.

You look at the cabin again. And someone is standing in the doorway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. White shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows.

You squint against the sun. Then recognize him.

Mr. Park. Jihoon’s father.

He steps out onto the porch, bootsteps slow and deliberate. You’ve met him once before, at a dinner—Jihoon had barely let you talk, but Mr. Park had been polite, distant. Watchful.

Now, he looks at your suitcase. Then at you. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen.

“Did Jihoon just leave you here alone?” he asks and you can tell he’s angry at his son.

You exhale through your nose. “Apparently I needed a break.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then so quietly you think you imagined it, “He’s more like his mother than I thought.”

You blink. You don’t know how to answer that.

Mr. Park glances at the suitcase again, then back to your face.

“You staying the week?”

You nod. “That was the plan.”

He tilts his head toward the open door.

“Then come inside. Wind’s picking up,” he states, as he bends ever so slightly and reaches for your suitcase. His fingers brush against yours as he grabs hold of the suitcase. You let him. But you’re still hesitating, stuck to the same spot on the driveway.

He notices.

“I don’t bite,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a joke.

Then he turns and walks back into the cabin—like he knows you’ll follow.

And you do, eyes lingering on the subtle shift of his shoulders beneath his shirt.

If that dinner months ago was any indication, he’s a man of few words. Quiet, intense. Unreadable.

It didn’t help that you also thought he was very good looking. Long, black hair tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling across sharp cheekbones. Thin silver glasses framing his eyes, drawing attention to the thick brows that make his expression look serious—even when he’s relaxed.

He looks like someone who doesn’t speak unless it matters. Someone who sees more than he lets on.

And now you’re stuck in a cabin with him.

A cabin you thought would be empty. Jihoon never mentioned his dad was here.

Kicking off your shoes on the porch, you follow Mr. Park inside.

The inside of the cabin is warmer than you expected. Not just in temperature, but in tone—like someone curated comfort instead of just decorating it.

The floor is rich in dark wood and worn slightly in the center like it's been walked barefoot a hundred times. A plush sofa stretches across one side of the open-plan living area, upholstered in a deep jade green that catches the light from the tall windows. A few burnt orange cushions are scattered along its length—just enough color to feel intentional.

The kitchen is minimalist but modern. Clean black stone countertops. Matte brown cabinetry. Pans hanging above the stove, catching glints of sunlight through the trees outside. There’s a teapot already out on the burner—old but polished, like it gets used daily.

A single spiral staircase in wrought iron and wood winds upward to the lofted bedroom, perched just above the living space. It has no door—just a wooden railing and a clean sightline to the floor below.

You can see the bed from where you’re standing. It’s large, maybe a queen, with a low frame and linen sheets in soft earth tones. Moss green. Warm gray. A single burnt orange throw draped carelessly across the foot.

There’s no real privacy, not with the open layout. You can already imagine the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, the creak of bedsprings, even the breath of someone turning over in the night.

The whole place smells faintly of cedar, citrus, and coffee.

It’s domestic. Intimate. A little too intimate, maybe.

“Um-“

“So,” you two start speaking at the same time.

You glance at each other. You offer a tight laugh.

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

He shakes his head. “Ladies first.”

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “I was just going to ask… would I be, um, in your way? I mean, I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

His gaze flicks toward your suitcase. “You’re not in my way.”

A beat. You’re not sure what to do with your hands. “Jihoon didn’t mention you’d be staying here.”

He gives the faintest shrug. “I didn’t know he was planning on coming either.”

You nod slowly, not sure how to respond.

“I usually come up for a few weeks every summer,” he adds. “To work, it’s nice and quiet here, no buzz of the city.”

“It is nice,” you say as you glance around again, avoiding looking in Mr. Park’s eyes. But you can feel his gaze on you. It’s making you squirm and you start overthinking everything. From your clothes, to your hair and down to your makeup.

“It grows on you,” he says, finally tearing his eyes off you.

Another pause. You try to find something to say. Something neutral.

“I like the colors,” you say finally. “All the… green. And wood. It feels… warm.”

He almost smiles. “That was my doing. The decorator wanted everything to be white and steel.”

You blink. “Wait. You picked the throw pillows?”

His eyes crinkle just slightly. “I’m not a savage.”

That makes you laugh, even though you try to stifle it. His gaze lingers on the sound. It softens something in his face.

Then he nods toward your bag. “You want tea? Or coffee?”

“Tea would be nice,” you say.

“I’ll get your things upstairs.”

You protest, “Oh, it’s fine, really—”

But he’s already moving.

“I’ll set it by the railing,” he says over his shoulder. “You’ll be able to see everything from up there.”

Including him, you think—but you don’t say it.

He disappears up the steps, feet thudding lightly against the polished wood. You hear the creak of the loft floor above you, and then silence.

You glance around the living room again, unsure what to do with yourself. The couch is a soft, worn leather. A stack of books sits on the coffee table. Nature. Photography. One novel with a cracked spine.

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, sharp and sudden.

You reach for it, but Mr. Park is already coming back down the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

You step back instinctively. He moves past you, not touching you, but close enough that you feel his presence, his warmth.

You silently move into the kitchen with him and watch him as he pours the hot water, slides the mug towards you and then fixes his own tea as well.

Chamomile tea with no sugar, just the way you like it.

“Oh, thank you,” you softly say as you wrap both of your hands around the cup and bring it up to your lips, blowing gently.

Mr. Park doesn’t reply, just continues moving around the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Pulls out vegetables, eggs, a small bundle of herbs wrapped in twine.

You hover for a moment. Then, ask uncertain.

“Do you want help?”

He glances back, his dark locks falling onto his cheekbones. You almost want to fix the bothersome strands, but suppress the itch to have an excuse to touch him. He is your boyfriend’s dad for god’s sake!

“No need. You’ve had a long trip.”

You offer a faint smile, trying to make it casual. “Not exactly the couple’s retreat I imagined.”

That earns you a low, dry sound. Almost a laugh. And against yourself you’re pleased.

He turns back to the cutting board. Begins to chop in precise, even strokes. Everything about him is deliberate. Controlled.

Then, without looking up he asks. “He left you up here alone?” only it wasn’t really a question.

You pause. “…He was upset. We argued.”

Sunghoon hums, neutral, but not quite, “He’s always been impulsive.”

A brief glance your way.

“Didn’t inherit that from me.” The words are clipped. Measured. Sharper than the knife he’s holding.

You hesitate. “You two aren’t close?”

He shrugs.

“Not the way I’d like. He doesn’t… think before he acts.” His voice is calm, but there’s weight behind it. History.

You tuck your hands under your thighs. “I guess I was hoping this trip would… reset things.”

He finally looks at you—really looks.

“You deserve more than hoping.”

Sunghoon continues cooking and you continue drinking tea as you try not to stare at him. You tell yourself to look away. Instead, your eyes trace the flex of his forearms as he works. The slow rhythm of the blade. The subtle tilt of his head as he concentrates.

You’re still staring when he speaks.

“See something you like?”

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t look at you. Just slides chopped zucchini into a pan like he didn’t say anything at all.

You blink. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“Vegetables,” he says smoothly, mouth quirking. “I meant the vegetables.”

You let out a short laugh. Your cheeks are too warm. You take a sip of tea to mask it.

He finally meets your gaze. His expression is unreadable—but something in it lingers, like a touch you weren’t expecting.

“I’m making it for us,” he says. “Hope you’re hungry.”

The food is comforting. Warm rice, sautéed vegetables, the kind of seasoning that makes you pause for just a second, surprised it’s this good. You’re halfway through your bowl when the quiet between you stretches too long, and you feel the need to fill it.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “This is... really good.”

Mr. Park nods once. “Simple’s best up here. No delivery. No distractions.”

You glance at the windows, where the sun’s started to dip lower behind the trees. The silence out here feels different. Like it listens.

You clear your throat. “So… about the sleeping arrangements.”

He looks up at you, expression unreadable.

You add quickly, “I mean, I know you said I could take the bed, but I don’t want to—”

“You won’t, the couch isn’t suitable for sleeping anyway,” he interrupts gently. “Doesn’t stretch out.”

You blink. “Oh. Right. Of course. I didn’t know.”

His gaze lingers. “It’s not a problem. The bed fits two.”

You hesitate. “Mr. Park, I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Sunghoon,” he says, voice low but firm. “Call me Sunghoon.”

You look at him. That subtle edge of command in his tone—not aggressive, not inappropriate. Just... sure. Your stomach flips.

“Okay. Sunghoon,” you softly say, his name heavy on your tongue. Like you’re saying a bad word. Forbidden.

His eyes stay on you a moment too long as if he can feel it too. Feel your unspoken desire. You fidget in your chair, his eyes piercing.

Then, just like that, he stands, collecting the dishes with easy efficiency. You rise to help, but he waves you off.

“I’ve got it. But…” He pauses at the fridge. “Do you want dessert?”

You blink. “You have dessert?”

“Kind of.” He opens the freezer. “One popsicle left.”

You let out a soft laugh. “We can split it.”

He tears the wrapper and hands you the stick. You take it, a bit taken aback that he unwrapped it for you. So far Sunghoon was being really caring towards you and you couldn’t tell if he’s being like this because he’s so much older than you and instinctively wants to take care of you specifically or if he’s always like this and it doesn’t mean anything.

Your lips wrap around the cold stick, the cold sharp and sweet on your tongue. You hear Sunghoon open the tap as he starts washing up. By the time he’s done you’re halfway done with the popsicle.

Sunghoon sits down on the sofa, right next to you as he watches the way your cheeks dip as you suckle and bite on the stick. Eyes dark, lids heavy and legs spread. But you don’t notice as you absent mindedly scroll through TV channels.

“Would you like some?” you innocently ask, “thought we said we’d split it?” only to almost drop the cold stick when you turn to look at him. Heat spreads through you like wildfire.

Sunghoon is sitting down on the couch looking like pure sex. Glasses sliding down his nose, hair a bit messy from brushing it back and heavy-lidded. Without hesitation, he slowly leans in and wraps his lips around the same spot your lips had just touched.

His mouth is slow as he softly bites down on what’s left of the popsicle. Hand wrapped around the same stick you’re holding. Deliberate. The wet sound of his tongue and the quiet sucking goes straight down to your core.

“I don’t mind sharing,” he says, dark eyes on you.

When he pulls back, he licks a faint drip from the corner of his mouth. The slow drag of his tongue as he pulls away makes you forget what you were about to say.

You stare at him. You can’t help it.

The air feels heavier now. Warmer. Intimate in a different way. He takes one last bite, then tosses the stick into the trash like nothing happened.

“You should get some rest,” he murmurs. “You can unpack tomorrow.”

You nod, fingers still cold from holding the popsicle. Mouth still warm from watching him.

And when you finally climb the stairs to the open loft, you know exactly what you’ll be thinking about when you try to sleep.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟

You wake up sweaty and sticky. Annoyed, you try to shake the duvet off but freeze as you feel the warmth behind you. Sunghoon is sprawled out next to you, his glasses on the bedside table. He’s not touching you, but with how closely he’s snuggled to you he might as well be.

You chuck the duvet off yourself, but do your best so it stays as it was on Sunghoon and let yourself fall back asleep.

The next time you wake to a steady rhythmic beat under you. You cuddle into the it, the sound calming you further into a daze. But then you register strong arms draped over you, hugging you protectively. And you realize you’re literally laying down on Sunghoon’s chest.

His arms tighten around you when he feels you waking up.

“Finally up, huh,” he mumbles, but his voice is kind. Sleep still seeping into it.

“Didn’t want to move and wake you, sorry,” he tells you and lets you roll off him.

“Sorry,” you squeal, face turning red, “hope I didn’t droll, I’m not usually the cuddling type.”

“No? S’kay, I didn’t mind it,” Sunghoon tells you as if it was nothing and starts getting ready for the day.

You’re still hiding your face behind the duvet as you listen to his quiet shuffle around the small loft. It is only when you hear the front door shut that you force yourself to get up too.

The morning is spent in quiet solitude that you invite with open arms, enjoying the scenery. You prepare yourself a simple breakfast and a tea to go along with it. As you sip on it you see Sunghoon outside, taking photos. And that’s when you remember Jihoon telling you his dad did photography.

You go back upstairs to unpack and change out of your pajamas. It’s true that it was summer, but the mountain air was a bit chillier so you decide on an oversized sweater, shorts and knee socks.

As you go out, you look around for Sunghoon, slightly jogging up to him when you spot him just off the trail. Near the forest. The sun is high up in the sky and Sunghoon has his camera raised, gaze narrowed like he’s tracking something invisible. A gull wheels overhead. His finger clicks the shutter.

"You're out early," you say, a little breathless from jogging. You brush your hair out of your face.

He turns at the sound of your voice. His eyes take you in—sweater hanging off one shoulder, the soft skin of your thighs above those socks—and there’s a flicker of something there. But just as quick as you notice it, it’s gone.

"Best light doesn’t wait. You want to try?" he asks.

"Really?" you ask, already shuffling closer to him.

Sunghoon watches you as he gruffly tells you, "come here."

He pauses when you leave some polite space between the two of you.

"Closer," he tells you, opening his chest as he indicates he wants you to come directly against his chest. You gulp as you move, his broad stature engulfing you as he put his arms around you and holds the camera in front of you.

"I’ve never held one like this before," you tell him, your heart racing at the proximity.

Sunghoon quietly chuckles, "that much is obvious. Relax your grip—you’re choking it," his hand over your, softly fixing your fingers.

"Sorry—"

"No need to apologize. Just let me guide you," and you do, his fingers guide you, as his breath caresses your neck. And you have to suppress a shiver when he quietly speaks next, his voice right next to your ear, breath tickling your neck.

"Tilt your wrists like this... yeah. Just like that. Feel better?"

"A little," you rasp and you swear his voice sounds deeper than before. You feel a warm buzzing seep from your inner thighs and try your best to will the thoughts away.

"Don’t overthink it. Let the camera rest in your hands. Let it want to be touched," he speaks, his hands moving from your wrists up your arms and settling on your shoulders as he watches you click away.

You softly chuckle in hopes of dissipating tension"you’re making it sound... kind of dirty."

"Is that how you’re hearing it?" he asks, not bothered in the slightest, but his hands on your shoulders start applying pressure – almost in warning.

"I didn’t mean—" you fumble for words, panic shooting through you. How was he always so calm?

"Mm. Focus here. Look through the viewfinder. Keep your hands steady," he cuts you off. His face is right next to your as he looks into the viewfinder.

"Breathe in," he proffers.

A beat passes as you breathe in and you swear heat builds between you. But only his hands touch you, their weight a constant reminder of how close he is.

"Now exhale slowly. Feel that? How everything sharpens when you stop fighting it?"

"Yeah..." you say, your voice coming out in a quiet breath. You shuffle in your spot, your shorts rubbing against your lower lips.

"Good girl," says Sunghoon, his voice like honey to your ears. But still – you momentarily falter, his voice bringing you back to reality.

"Mr. Park..." you hope your voice is at least a little serious, turning slightly to look at him through your lashes.

"If you keep calling me that, I’m going to start thinking you like it," Sunghoon easily replies, his gaze dropping to your lips. It’s back on your eyes just as quickly, so much so that you start to think you imagined it.

"Is that a problem?" flustered, you laugh and take a step forward. His hands drop from your shoulder as he continues watching you. A lip caught between his teeth.

"Not at all. But if we’re going to keep doing this... it’s Sunghoon. Say it."

"Sunghoon," you say, turning to look back at him.

"Better," he smirks and your gaze falls to the grass.

Sunghoon takes over the camera then, and you end up spending the entire day with him. Mostly just listening, letting his quiet confidence settle into the spaces where your thoughts usually race. He explains this and that—aperture, lighting, texture—and you try your best to keep up, even though you mostly just enjoy the sound of his voice. Low and calm, like the tide pulling in.

For lunch, you make sandwiches for the both of you, slicing the bread carefully while he’s still reviewing the shots on his camera. You place the plate beside him with a soft, "Here."

He glances up, genuinely surprised. Then, that soft flicker of something like warmth passes through his eyes.

"You didn’t have to, sweet girl," he says.

Just like that. Casual. Almost lazy. But your face burns for the next hour.

By the time the sun dips behind the trees, painting the cabin in golden light, he mentions putting on a movie in the living room—and you stupidly agree before even thinking to ask which movie.

You only realize your mistake when he dims the lights and presses play on Hereditary.

The couch is wide but low, sunken from use. You curl into yourself immediately, legs folded up beneath you, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands. You retreat into your corner like a cat anticipating a thunderstorm.

Sunghoon claims the other side—sprawled out, knees wide, one arm draped over the backrest. He doesn’t look at you, but his presence takes up all the space anyway. Calm. Heavy.

You’re not touching. But you can feel him.

At first the movie is fine. Almost boring. You’ve seen horror films before, and for a while Hereditary just feels like another cliché movie. A family unraveling. A creeping unease.

But as the minutes tick by, your body starts to betray you. The way the music swells without warning. The shadows that linger a little too long in the corners of the screen. The sudden cuts to faces that shouldn't be there.

Your fingers curl into the blanket. You try to laugh once—force it out like it’s no big deal—but it dies in your throat.

Beside you, Sunghoon doesn’t move. He watches with the same intense stillness he brings to everything. Like he already knows exactly what’s coming.

When the first real scare lands—a sharp cut, a scream, something unnatural jerking into frame—you jump.

Not dramatically. Not even enough to make a sound, but enough that your knee brushes his thigh.

You freeze.

So does he.

Then, slowly, you start to pull away—

“Scared?” His voice is low. Barely a whisper. Almost amused.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, only to find that he's already watching you. Not the screen.

“It’s just a movie,” you say, trying to play it off.

But your voice isn’t steady. Not enough to fool either of you.

He doesn’t call you on it. Just leans a little closer, arm still draped behind you on the couch.

“Come here,” he says simply. Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Just… an offer.

And somehow, that’s even more dangerous.

“It’s fine, really,” you tell him but as the climax of the movie approaches you’re getting progressively more and more scared. Your eyes shifting in paranoia to look outside the windows to make sure no one is looking in, you almost scream when a big hand wraps around your wrist.

But you relax, when you realize it’s just Sunghoon. He pulls you right against himself, his arm falling protectively against your body. He moves your legs so they’re resting in his lap, his other arm placed on your naked thighs.

“You’re too stubborn,” he tells you, but his arms tighten around you whenever you jump.

Once the movie ends, the room is too quiet.

You don’t move at first, staring blankly at the credits. There’s still a weight in your chest—your heartbeat quick, your breath shallow. That last scene… you wish you hadn’t watched it.

Sunghoon stretches, slow and deliberate, his body radiating calm. He looks down at you—really looks—and sees it.

“Too much for you, sweetheart?”

His voice is low. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone much smaller, like he’s already tucking you into safety without moving an inch.

You glance at him, face warming. You nod, just barely.

“It got really scary at the end,” you admit softly, voice small.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t laugh. Instead he softly asks, “Want me to put something else on?”

You nod again, biting your lip. “Can we… watch a cartoon? Something stupid. With animals, or magic. Just something nice.”

That earns the smallest smirk. Not mocking—fond.

“Of course you want animals.”

He reaches for the remote, his hand trailing down your thighs. He pulls your sliding sock back over your knee, smoothing over the goosebumps that appear on your thigh where he touches.

“Any favorites, baby girl?”

The nickname makes your stomach flip, but you don’t correct him. You just sink a little deeper into the couch and mumble something about whatever’s cute.

Sunghoon scrolls quietly until something soft and colorful starts playing. You don’t even register what it is—just the bright lights and silly voices, the kind of show you used to watch on Sunday mornings with cereal in your lap.

He glances at you again.

“Better?”

You scoot deeper into him “mhm,” you whisper. “Thanks… Sunghoonie.”

There’s a pause, and then you feel his hand move, caressing your thigh.

After some time you shuffle against him again – your back hurt after laying sideways. Your legs spread as you sit on Sunghoon’s lap, now chest to chest with him as you let your head rest on his broad shoulder.

You don’t seem to realize you’re straddling him, Sunghoon’s even breathing lulling you into a sleepy haze. You just knew the TV light was starting to bother you and Sunghoon was warm. So you snuggle further into him.

He doesn’t say anything, instead he brings his legs closer and angles his hips upwards, so your core is pressed directly against his. You squirm around a bit, trying to find a comfy position when you feel it.

Something is poking right against your butt, just as you sit fully down and begin to nod off. Bothered by the prodding you subconsciously roll and press your hips against Sunghoon’s warm body.  You quietly groan, as pleasure starts replacing discomfort.

You continue dragging your hips up and down and Sunghoon groans underneath you. You moan, nuzzling your head into his neck as you push your front into his chest. Sunghoon’s hands travel from your thighs to your waist and it’s getting harder to breathe.

You pick up the pace, grinding with more intent when his hands grip your hips, the strength forcing you to stop. You whine at the loss of friction.

“You’re sleepy baby, let me take you upstairs,” Sunghoon groans, his voice hoarse as if he’s holding himself back from saying too much.

You let him lift you up in bridal position and carry you upstairs. He softly lays you down on your side of the bed. You don’t hear him, as he quietly goes into the bathroom. Trying to hold back any sounds as he grips his hard and leaking cock. And maybe that night he furiously tugs at his cock like a teenager, cumming embarrassingly fast before he’s able to come and sleep next to you. But you don’t know that, already asleep.

When you wake the next day you’re tangled with Sunghoon again. You’re calmer this morning compared to the previous one, and that’s when his hand twitches – shifting the mood. You’re spooning, only Sunghoon’s hand isn’t around your waist. No, it’s resting directly on your boob. Almost fondling it. You feel twitching as he starts waking up, the hand on your boob momentarily tightens into a grope, and you feel your nipples stifling, poking up. You mewl, subconsciously pushing your chest further into his hand.

You don’t move more than that, pretending you’re still sleeping as Sunghoon carefully continues touching you.

His fingers pinch your nipple, hips pressing into you. You feel how hard he is, and memories of last night fill your mind. Afarid he will pull away again you continue pretending to sleep. Sunghoon quietly groans into your ear, his hips rutting against your ass. The hand covering your tit less gentle as he roughly massages your boob.

You try really hard not to make any noise, not to push back, even though the ache building between your thighs has you nearly shaking in want. A moan escapes you when his thrusts get more irregular, less controlled and his dick twitches right against your lips.

Not being able to take it anymore you jut your ass out, shifting your thighs so you feel more pressure on your pussy. You quietly moan when Sunghoon’s other hand sneaks underneath your laying figure, resting on your navel.

“My sweet little thing, so good to me,” he breathes, pulling you into a back hug as he lets you feel his hard cock.

He breathes in your hair and you mewl when his hips move, thrusting upwards. Your pussy clenching around nothing and you feel your panties start sticking to you.

You’re a whining mess as Sunghoon lets you rub yourself on his cock and he continues playing with your nipple, pinching and pulling at it. Noting what makes you whine and moan the loudest. Hit other hand drawing comforting circles on your navel and you wish he’d let it slip under your shorts.

“Feel good, baby?” he asks you, nose grazing your neck, hips gently thrusting into yours, “you like when da-“ he coughs, “when I play with you, hm pretty?” he asks, before leaving a soft kiss right where your ear meets your neck.

“You poor thing, can’t even properly do it by yourself” he pouts at you, mocking you. But you don’t realize it, instead pouting as you nod.

“Yeah Hoonie,” you whine “need your help.”

Just then a loud smack ruins the moment, Sunghoon’s hand coming down your thigh in stinging pleasure. You hiss and blink at him, dazed and still needy. But the way he’s looking at you now—stern, jaw tight—makes your stomach knot.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice low and sharp.

You blink again, still catching up. He left you empty, just when you were getting there.

“Wha—?”

“You have a boyfriend,” he says flatly, standing up fully. He adjusts himself in his boxers, then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to wipe the heat off. “What the hell are we doing?”

The words sting more than you want them to.

“You started it,” you shoot back, voice soft but defiant. “You didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”

His head tilts. Slowly.

“And I’m ending it,” he says, firmer now, like you’re testing him. “Before either of us does something we’ll regret.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as you look away. “Maybe you’ll regret it. I won’t.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

“Take a walk.”

You glance up at him, pout deepening as your eyebrows furrow.

“Make me.”

That gets him.

He steps forward, just a little too close—his shadow long over your legs.

“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Go cool off. Before I stop caring that you’re someone else’s problem.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, still warm and buzzing from the way he pulled away. Your thighs press together instinctively, but you refuse to let it show.

“Whatever,” you mumble to yourself, standing to rummage through your suitcase.

You start peeling off yesterday’s clothes—tossing the rumpled sweater and socks into a corner—and Sunghoon pushes past you, down the stairs.

You pull on something softer: a little camisole, barely opaque, and matching shorts that reach barely over your butt. You add a loose cardigan over it, just in case. Not like you're dressing for anyone.

As you start to turn away, something on the nightstand catches your eye.

A book.

You pick it up and see it’s Dracula. Of course, you loudly exhale through your nose in a quiet chuckle. Leather-bound, dog-eared, marked with a single worn slip of paper. You flip through a few pages, thumbing the edge. It smells like cedar and time. Somehow, that feels like him, too.

Curling onto the bed, you prop a pillow behind you and let yourself sink into it. Reading helps. Sort of. The frustration doesn’t really fade—but it settles, coiled and waiting.

Downstairs, you hear the front door open and shut. A car engine stirs to life. Sunghoon’s going somewhere.

Good.

You need space.

By the time the sun has risen higher and warmed the back patio, you’re already downstairs, water bottle in hand. You tug a towel out from the closet, find your sunglasses, and step out into the golden light. The air is warmer today. Still crisp from the mountain wind, but hot enough to sunbathe.

You stretch out on the lounging, sighing as the sun warms your skin. You don’t even hear the car pull back in—until the crunch of gravel in the driveway makes you glance up.

The door shuts.

And then you hear it. The steady, familiar steps rounding toward the back of the house.

Sunghoon. Butterflies erupt in your tummy even though you’re still mad at him.

He stops in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up on his head, one hand full of grocery bags, the other holding something vaguely bottled—wine, maybe. You don’t watch, but you hear him putting groceries away inside the kitchen.

He’s back out after five minutes. You take note of his clothes despite yourself – a tight black tee, accentuating his muscular frame and broad shoulders paired with light washed jorts.

His eyes find you.

“Need help with sunscreen?” he says, voice deceptively casual as his eyes drink you up. Clad in a flimsy pink bikini set that barely covered anything.

You peek at him over your sunglasses, not bothering to sit up.

“I’ve got hands, don’t I?” you say, all mock-innocence. “Pretty sure I can manage rubbing lotion on myself.”

Sunghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just arches a brow like he’s heard this kind of sass before—and knows exactly what to do with it.

“Mm,” he hums, stepping fully onto the patio. “Thought maybe your hands needed a break, since they were so busy earlier.”

Your stomach dips. You shoot him a glare—half mortified, half flustered—and throw an arm over your face dramatically.

“You said we weren’t talking about that.”

“I said we were done,” he corrects. He walks towards you pushing his hair out of his face. “Didn’t say anything about keeping my mouth shut.”

You snort despite yourself, still hiding under your arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re burning,” he says coolly, pointing at the tops of your thighs with the little bottle of sunscreen he grabbed on his way out. “Flip over or sit up, brat. You choose.”

That gets your attention.

You peek up again, pout forming instantly. “You’re so bossy when you don’t get what you want.”

He steps closer, crouching down beside your lounger now, one big hand coming to rest casually on the side of the chair near your hip.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dipping dangerously low, “if I were getting what I want, you wouldn’t be able to lie still right now.”

You blink, heat rising all the way to your ears.

He twists the cap off the sunscreen and holds it up between two fingers. “Well?”

You make a show of sighing. “Fine,” you grumble, rolling onto your stomach with an exaggerated huff, the curve of your ass now fully on display. “But you better not make it weird.”

“Oh, baby,” he says, smoothing lotion into his palms, “I think we’re way past that.”

And then his hands are on you. He starts with your calves, wrapping his big arm around your plush skin, hot after being warmed by the sun now high up in the sky.

You force your breathing to stay even as Sunghoon rubs the sunscreen on your skin. Even though his touch was on your legs, the way his fingers knew where to apply pressure and massage made your skin tingle with raw want.

But Sunghoon smoothly continues, his hands traveling past your knee and on the back of your thighs. Once he reaches your sensitive spot you unknowingly spread your legs slightly and Sunghoon smirks, squeezing the sunscreen directly onto your skin, straight from the bottle.

You shriek, “that’s cold.”

“Serves you right for being a brat,” he lightly scolds. His hands rub the cold cream on the spot right where your thighs meet your butt, eyes glued to the spot between your thighs. He licks his lips, his fingers continuing working on your inner thighs. High. His long digits reach your bikini, grazing your lower lips and you twitch. He smirks, not saying anything.

Your breath is shallow as as his hands grasp your thighs, nails softly digging into your skin as he drags circles into your skin – spreading the sunscreen all over your legs. Sunghoon, ever the detail oriented man, doesn’t miss a single spot.

You butt starts lifting, against your best tries to just lay there and take it.

Sunghoon’s breathing is heavier when he squirts the cream on his hands again and starts spreading the creamy substance over your butt. Your bikini bottoms start to wedge into your ass, turning it more into a thong the longer he plays with you.

You sigh, melting into your chair as Sunghoon’s hand slips under your bottoms.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get burned anywhere,” he explains, his voice dropping an octave and you clench around nothing.

You just hope he doesn’t feel how wet you’ve gotten and scold you again. Sunghoon squeeze your butt and jiggles it, watching the shine from the cream reflect from it. It made your butt look so inviting and he has to bite his lip so an inappropriate comment doesn’t slip past his lips.

You on the other hand are holding your breath in quiet anticipation, but Sunghoon’s hands are already on your back. Hands sticky from the sun block as he carefully finishes his application. Grazing your lower back, then your waist and moving onto your shoulder blades.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart. You want more and you don’t even realize it yet, do you?” Sunghoon quietly murmurs by your ear, his voice telling you everything he isn’t saying.

Your body’s humming. You’re dizzy. You’re about to turn around and do something reckless—

But then he’s telling you to turn around so he can do your front side as well.

You listen, moving the sunglasses so they cover your eyes. But Sunghoon doesn’t miss your blushing cheeks and the bead of sweat right in the middle of your boobs.

“Good girl, see how well we get along when you listen to me?” he teases as he rubs on your stomach. His fingers touching your underboob, pushing your top up and revealing the softness underneath.

You moan a small ‘mhm,’ putty in his hands. You don’t dare to glance at him when he is this close. But his shadow looming over your laying figure and his scent all around you is enough to make you dizzy, all your senses filled with him. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Everywhere around you.

The moment is broken by the shrill of your phone. Sunghoon flinches away from you, as if he was caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t be.

You re-adjust your bathing suit as you reach for your phone.

You check the screen: Jihoon.

You hesitate, and Sunghoon notices. In a low, unreadable voice he matter of fact asks you. “Don’t let it go to voicemail. He’s still your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

You answer. Jihoon’s tone is annoyed and distracted right off the bat. “Hey. You alive or what? I texted you yesterday.”

“I’ve been fine. It’s… it’s peaceful up here,” you reply, lowkey already exhausted from this conversation.

“That’s the whole point. You needed to chill out. You were being weird lately,” he tells you in a clipped voice.

Your stomach twists. Your words feel small.

“Did you know your dad was going to be here?” you ask instead of giving into the fight he was starting.

“So what if he is? He’s never even home, I figured he’d be working like always,” he defensively nags.

“Well, he’s not. He saw everything, Jihoon. When you dropped me off.”

At this point, you hear the rustle of movement—Sunghoon, standing just behind you now.

“Let me talk to him,” he tells you, reaching his hand towards the phone. You’re caught off guard but hand the phone over without thinking. He takes it with fingers still faintly warm from your skin.

“Jihoon,” Sunghoon interrupts him.

A long pause is heard before he speaks again. “You left her alone, without food, without checking in. You didn’t even tell her I’d be here. What exactly were you thinking?”

You don’t hear Jihoon’s reply, but Sunghoon’s answers has you assuming what must’ve been said anyway.

“She said she wanted space, so you dumped her at the edge of a mountain?” “Grow up,” he tells him, visibly annoyed.

“That’s enough, Jihoon.” He pauses, listening before speaking again. “You lost the right to have an opinion the moment you left her here.”

He hands the phone back to you like it burns and goes inside the house, giving you privacy to finish the call.

You hold the phone to your ear and Jihoon’s voice is furious now “what the fuck was that? You seriously told my dad on me?”

“He saw everything, Jihoon. He’s the one who took care of me,” you firmly tell him, refusing to be the bad guy here.

“So now you’re what, flirting with him? Jesus, no wonder you’re acting weird,” he childishly jabs.

“I’m not the one who drove off like a child,” you tell him, trying to keep your tone steady. No matter how much Jihoon wanted to have this fight with you, you wouldn’t let him ruin this vacation for you.

“You really think he cares about you? My dad doesn’t get involved. He watches people fall and doesn’t say a word,” he quickly speaks, his voice panicked.

You pause. The words cut—because Sunghoon has cared. In ways Jihoon never has.

“That’s funny. He’s the only one who has,” you reply and then hang up, fuming.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

You don’t see Sunghoon for hours after the call. The house is too quiet and you assume he went out to take photos, since one of his cameras was absent too.                You try to nap, to read, to scroll aimlessly on your phone, but your thoughts keep circling to the way Jihoon’s voice rang out loud enough for Sunghoon to flinch. The way Sunghoon's jaw clenched so tightly after, like he was grinding back words he didn’t trust himself to say.

When the sun begins to fall behind the ridge, casting the inside of the cabin in deep, amber shadows, you finally venture out of the bedroom.

You find Sunghoon in the kitchen.

His back is to you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, knife in hand as he slices into something soft and green on the cutting board. The overhead light cuts a sharp halo over his shoulders, casting half his face in shadow when he finally turns to glance at you.

Not a word passes for a long second.

You cross your arms loosely, staying near the doorway. “I didn’t know if I should come downstairs.”

He looks back down at what he’s doing. “Didn’t want you to go hungry.” There’s warmth in that sentence, but no softness. It’s clipped. Guarded.

You both sit at the kitchen island. The meal is simple—roasted vegetables, grilled tofu, rice. You push food around your plate. The silence between you is heavy. Borderline unbearable.

And then, finally Sunghoon softly speaks “don’t mistake silence for regret.”

His voice is quiet, but deliberate, “I just don’t trust myself to say something I won’t take back later.”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He sets down his chopsticks, leans back against the chair. His jaw is tight, but his eyes are impossibly clear as they settle on you.

“I knew I shouldn’t have touched you.” A pause. He swallows. “But you looked so small when he drove off. And I guess, I just wanted to protect you, show you the love Jihoon wasn’t giving to you.”

Your chest clenches. The hurt spills before you can reel it back.

“Then why are you treating me like I did something wrong?”

His gaze sharpens.

“You didn’t. But I did. You’re not mine… yet.”

The word clings in the air between you like the taste of smoke. It makes you sit a little straighter. Makes your breath catch.

He watches you intently, but not indulgently. His expression isn’t soft. It’s honest. Bruisingly so.

“You said I’m not yours. Like I’m someone’s. I’m not.”

“It’s not that simple,” Now he looks at you.

“It could be.”

“You still have him.”

“I don’t want him,” you cross your arms, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t speak. You take a step closer, looking down at him as he still sits behind the table.

“I want you.” There it is. You said it plainly.

His gaze drops to the floor for a moment, like the weight of it hits somewhere deep. Then back to you.

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.”

You pause, softer now. “You want me too.”

He exhales once, slowly. Runs a hand through his hair. That veneer of control, cracking.

His eyes flick to yours. “Of course I do,” he says. “Don’t think for a second I haven’t tried to push it down.”

You don’t speak. Just hold his gaze.

He threads your fingers together like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. And when he steps in close, the heat between you rises. The air shifts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, low. “Not unless you mean it.”

You swallow, heart pounding.

“And don’t say my name like it matters,” he adds, “if you’re still planning to go back to him.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you expect. “I’m not going back.”

A beat. “I’m right here.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes the back of your hand, almost unconsciously.

“…Say it again,” he murmurs. Not commanding. Just needing to hear it.

You step closer. Tip your chin up.

“I’m right here, Sunghoon.”

And then he kisses you. His mouth claims yours with a purpose that makes your knees lock. It's not hesitant, not testing. It’s decisive. Like a line is being crossed, and he’s the one drawing it.

You gasp against him, and he swallows it whole.

The kiss is deep, slow, deliberate — not the fumbling of someone new, but the kind of kiss that knows exactly where to linger, how to make your pulse stutter. He tilts your chin just enough to control the angle, to taste you properly. Like he’s waited long enough.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel like relief. But it does. Because this is wrong. Because this is forbidden. And because that only makes it worse. Better, sweeter.

You feel the age between you in the way he moves — in the steadiness of his hands, in the quiet control he keeps even as he presses closer. There’s no rush, the kiss is slow, intimate. And his hold on you is firm, possessive, holding you close to him as if he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go.  

By the time he pulls back — lips parted, breathing uneven — you’re flushed down to your chest. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow, like he’s memorizing the shape of it now that he’s finally tasted it.

His voice is low, warm, and just a little bit patronizing — the kind of tone that curls around your spine and makes you want to misbehave just to hear it again.

“You kissed me back, babygirl,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look away.

He tilts your chin up further, just enough to make you feel small beneath his gaze.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, voice velvet-dark. “Or do you want Mr. Park to take care of you properly this time?”

Your breath catches.

It’s not the words exactly—it’s the way he says them.

Mr. Park.

Your lashes flutter. That word settles somewhere low and hot in your belly, like it had been waiting to be spoken all along.

You chew your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, voice barely above a whisper.

You pause, eyes flickering across his face—testing, teasing. “You wanna take care of me, Mr. Park?” you purr, face close to his. Sunghoon traces your whole face, eyes sparkling and lips curling into an almost proud smile.

“So now you get it,” he says, voice low and rich, eyes scanning your face. “Took you long enough, baby.”

He lifts a hand, fingers brushing under your chin, tilting it up like he’s studying you, admiring his own effect.

“You like being looked after, don’t you?” His thumb grazes your bottom lip, and he hums when you part your mouth, pliant for him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispers, hot and slow. “You’ve got me now.”

And then, quietly, firmly, sure of himself “and Mr. Park is gonna take real good care of his sweet girl.”

And then his lips are on you again, he back walks you into the living room and you let him lead, lips not parting. This kiss is messier, loud squelching sound fills the room and you can’t hold back the little whines escaping past your lips.

Sunghoon doesn’t mind, his hands now unashamedly groping everywhere. Your thighs, your butt, your waist, your boobs and it’s dizzying.

You gasp when your legs hit the sofa, falling back on it. You lay there, breathing uneven and Sunghoon just stands over you. Studying you, his eyes dark and focused, tracing every inch of your body.

He unbuckles his belt, “take your shirt off baby, let Mr. Park see you,” and you comply. The bossy tone turns you on. Your hands pull the fabric off your body.

“Mr. Park,” you breathe, pupils blown as you watch Sunghoon. You need him now, immediately. Your pussy is practically pulsating as you continue watching, waiting. But Sunghoon doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He spreads his belt on the table, carefully.

You whine, “do something already.”

He crouches next to your laying figure on the sofa, your legs dangling over the tiny thing. Caressing your neck in a dark velvety voice, almost as if he’s enjoying seeing you beg he tells you mockingly, “you’ve been whining about this all day and now you can’t even wait five seconds?”

You whimper, softly blowing a raspberry as you move out of his hold. You pull the shorts down your legs, done with the waiting.

“Fine, I’ll just take care of it myself,” you fuss, hand starting to slide down towards your core.

But Sunghoon swiftly grabs your wrist, tightly. His body is on you in a flash and it only excites you more. You moan when he speaks.

“Keep acting like this and you won’t be leaving this room today,” he is breathing hard, eyes softening when he sees the raw desire in yours.

You push your hips up, rubbing your pussy on him as he holds your forearms next to your shoulders, your left side pressing into the sofa cushion. His legs trap yours and you’re completely at his mercy, your strength no match compared to his.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy, but don’t push it” he warns, voice husky, “now say please. Properly”

You almost want to cry, the ache so visceral you can’t even think. His words don’t even properly register before you’re’ already blabbering.

“Please please please, Mr. Park, please,” you beg, unsuccessfully trashing underneath his iron hold.

“I promise I’ll behave, just please touch me, I won’t be impatient anymore,” you whine, tears building behind your eyes out of sheer frustration.

“There she is. That’s better. My good girl knows how to behave,” he murmurs, allowing you to grind your pussy against his muscular thigh, as he caresses your face, a smirk on his face.

“Took you long enough to say it,” a dangerous lilt in his smile. He lowers down, biting in your neck in what should be pain but is instead making you mewl. Your pussy gushing at this point.

“Mr. Park, Hoonie,” you breathe, “f-fuck” you gasp, stumbling over your words as Sunghoon continues biting you, now moving onto your tits, littering small marks, “fuck me please, need you so bad” you whine, legs wrapping around his hips and pulling his lower body into you.

He’s aching you can tell, he pulls his lips from your body with a pop, a string of saliva connecting him to you, his lips red and swollen. And suddenly you’re licking your lips, desperate for just another taste of this older man.

“You love when I make the rules. Don’t pretend you don’t,” he teases, as he finally, finally pulls his cock out. He pumps it two times, licking his hand before bringing it to your face.

“Spit,” he instructs and you comply. You watch as he wraps his fingers around his long and fat cock again, droll pooling in your mouth as you watch, mesmerized.

He notices your gaze, “ah, wanted to taste my sweet girl, see if you taste as good as you look, but” he groans, lining his cockhead to your entrance, “my little one is just too impatient,” he gruffs.

He pushes his dick into you, slowly deliberately. Torturing you once again, and you’re utterly helpless. Whining, moaning, groaning, squeezing your walls together but Sunghoon doesn’t give in to your whining.

He’s barely pushed his cock in halfway when you test his patience once again.

“Hoonie just push it in already,” you whine, “need you so bad, stop teasing.” You pout. His dick twitches and that’s when it clicks. He likes seeing you this needy for him.

You look at him through your lashes, pushing yourself into the sofa, making yourself small under his larger frame, “feels so good, Hoonie,” you quietly moan, “you’re so big,” you mewl and Sunghoon finally sheaths himself fully inside of you, groaning as he does.

He stays like that for a moment, allowing both of you to adjust, his eyes are squeezed shut. Your thighs around his waist twitch, impatient once again.

You bite your lip, just watching him. You know he feels your walls pulsating, purring just for him. begging him to fucking move. You needed it fast, rough but Sunghoon was hellbent on having you slowly. Devouring you whole as you cry for him.

“Now you can wait your turn,” he breathes, almost as if he can read your thoughts. His hand wraps around your throat, his gaze dark and your walls clasp tightly around his dick. Sunghoon smirks as he draws his hips out, slowly, before pushing back into you hard.

You can’t stifle the loud moan that leaves you and that only spurs Sunghoon on. He continues fucking you like this, pace incredibly slow and powerful – as if he had all the time in the world to get lost in your pussy. He watches your every breath, every move, gaze heavy – too heavy. You shut your eyes the intensity overwhelming you.

Your smaller hand cups his bigger one, still on your throat and his voice is husky when he speaks again.

“Look at me,” his voice like honey, the thumb on your neck drawing comforting circles as he continues fucking you, “No hiding. I want to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”

He tells you and when you look you can feel it. The control, the power he has over you, how he could ruin you if he decided to. And how you would probably let him.

Your mouth opens, gasping as he picks up the pace, fast and irregular and you can tell he is close.

You try to claw at his hand that was clasping around your throat. You gasp for air and Sunghoon continues watching you, groaning as his hips work an incredible pace.

His hips stutter, eyes shutting and arm leaving your throat. And you can finally breathe again. Sughoon sheaths his hips into you and he grinds them into you.

Your orgasm starts hitting you in powerful waves, when he starts humping his dick into you, barely pushing out. Your walls tightening impossibly, and Sunghoon can’t do anything else but just take it. Let your pussy squeeze the orgasm out of him, as he stills and spills inside of you.

And you whine, you fucking whine, he flops onto you, carefully not to hurt you as he rides out his orgasm, softly thrusting in you.

You feel incredibly full, can tell that he came so much it’s overflowing out of you while he’s still inside. You two just breathe for a moment, catching you breaths and you swear your soul left you for a moment.

“Hoonie,” you mumble, “feel so full.”

“I know baby, I know,” he wraps his arms around you, turning you two so you’re laying down on him instead.

“Hoonie’s got you,” he tells you, patting down your hair and kissing you on your forehead.

Your breath slows. His doesn’t.

You’re still curled into him, skin sticky and trembling, but there’s a tension still-

“You okay?” you whisper.

Sunghoon chuckles softly, low and wrecked. “You have no idea what you just started.”

And he kisses you again. Slowly and deeply, holding you close. You moan softly as his tongue explores your mouth. You’re squirming, needy again and you can tell Sunghoon is starting to get hard again.

"That wasn’t enough," he tells you, lips not leaving yours, "you’ve been driving me crazy for days. Thought one time would fix it?”

His fingers close around your thigh, hard enough to ground you, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this,” he tells you and then he’s manhandling you, your torso rests on the backrest as you kneel on the couch. Sunghoon’s hands are on your hips, pressing your front over the backrest, your chest pressing into it. Ass up.

He has you bent over the couch and he reaches towards the table. You turn, watching as he picks off his belt and you tremble. Excited. You bit your lip to stop the smile from spreading across your face as you instinctively cross your arms behind your back.

“You’re gonna let me have you like this pretty girl?” Sunghoon asks, almost panting as he fondles your ass.

“Y-yes Hoonie,” you say, voice shaky.

He slaps you, watching in satisfaction as your pussy clenches around nothing. Then he wraps his belt around your wrist – not tight, just enough to stop you from moving. He hums once he’s satisfied.

This time when he lines his dick to your entrance he doesn’t wait. He stretches your walls again and you push your face down, biting on the sofa in hope of silencing any noises from escaping you.

But Sunghoon doesn’t like that, his fingers grip your hair and he gently yanks you by the hair. Your spine against his chest as he continues fucking into you hard.

“Nu-uh princess,” he moans, right next to your ear and you shiver, “let me hear you.”

You’re choked on air, pleasure overwhelming, but still you comply, “you make me feel so full, Hoon… I can’t help it.”

You mewl, rutting yourself back, as Sunghoon continues with the hard and rapid pace, his hips pushing into your ass anytime he fucks into you. Head lulls back, putty in his hands you completely relax, letting him use your body to chase his own pleasure.

“Tell me you feel it too. Tell me it’s not just me going insane over you,” he breathes right by your ear, hands holding you by your waist in position.

“I think about you all the time… even when I shouldn’t,” you confess, drunk on his cock.

“No one else gets to see you like this, you’re mine,” Sunghoon continues, his hold on you tight. Possessive.

“Then don’t let anyone else touch me. Keep me,” you rasp, moaning when he brings his digits to your clit. You shake, from the pleasure and pressure as Sunghoon rubs your clit expertly, as if he had done it a thousand times before.

“Doing so well for Mr. Park,” comes his husky voice, he softly bites down on your ear, “that’s it baby, cream my cock, make a mess little one,” he groans when he feels you clenching down on him.

Your pussy convulses, clenching around him in waves and Sunghoon stutters, pushing his dick impossibly deeper into you and you feel him twitching, filling you up for the second time.

After a moment, after you have both came down you speak, softly. “You make me feel so safe like this…” you murmur, your voice quiet, breathy. Barely there.

Sunghoon gently undoes the belt still loosely hanging around your wrists. His fingers are slow and unhurried, tracing the curve of your hips like he’s calming you through touch alone.

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs against your temple, lips brushing soft and warm. He kisses your cheek next, and you lean into it instinctively, your body boneless, spent.

You don’t fight him as he lifts you—your legs too sore, your mind fogged with the aftermath of everything. He carries you upstairs like you weigh nothing, one hand splayed over your thigh, his chest warm where your cheek rests against him.

He sets you gently on the closed lid of the toilet, crouching beside you to check the tender insides of your thighs with a light touch. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching, but you’re already watching him, lids heavy, lips parted.

“I didn’t mean to…” he starts to say, almost more to himself.

“I liked it,” you whisper, interrupting. Honest.

He exhales slowly, something fierce and protective shadowing his face—but it softens when he turns back to the tub, running the water, checking the temperature with his wrist. You watch the rise of steam, the pour of oil — something herbal and grounding.

He doesn’t speak, but the care in his movements says enough. When he returns to you, he sinks to his knees. His hands are warm on your waist as he coaxes you to stand.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours.

You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “Mhm. Just… floaty.”

He touches your face. “I’ve got you.”

You step into the water, and he follows behind, settling with you between his legs. The heat wraps around you both, and his arms immediately encircle you, pulling you into his chest.

He starts to wash you slowly — his hands gliding over your skin in steady, calming passes. The silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s safe.

“Everything’s warm,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded. “You’re warm.”

“So are you,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “Still glowing, baby.”

Your lips curve into a lazy smile. You hum, nuzzling against his chest. “I don’t want to think. Just stay here.”

“Then we’ll stay,” he replies, wrapping you tighter in his arms. His voice dips low — protective, anchoring. “You don’t have to do anything now. Just let me take care of it.”

You nod again, your breath softening, your heartbeat slow. The water laps around you both as you sink deeper into him.

And just before your eyes fall shut, you hear him say it—quiet, more to himself than to you “so small, so mine.”

You wake up slow. Limbs heavy, thighs sore, skin warm. His hand is already curled around your hip under the blanket, thumb brushing your waist lazily, like he never stopped touching you even in his sleep.

You shift with a sleepy noise, nuzzling into his chest. He murmurs something low.

“Mm. Thought you’d run away,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you softly whine, curling into him even more.

He huffs a laugh, hand tightening around your hip, “that’s not a complaint, is it?”

You pinch his side, and he groans dramatically.

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Only when I’m right,” he laughs, “come downstairs when you’re ready, I’m making pancakes,” he taps you butt as he stands up, leaving you to lounge on the bed a bit longer.

You emerge from the bedroom wrapped in one of his shirts—oversized and hanging low on your thighs. He’s barefoot, shirtless like he does this every day. Your hair melts as you note how fluffy his black hair looked.

He glances over his shoulder. The look he gives you is unfair—equal parts pleased and hungry.

“That mine huh?” he nods towards the shirt, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to at least one shirt last night” you grin.

He chuckles, plate in hand as he slides it in front of you on the counter.

“Careful. You’re getting spoiled.”

You hop up onto the counter, tugging his shirt down on your thighs.

“I don’t mind.”

He stands between your knees without needing to ask, fork in hand. He feeds you the first bite himself, watching your mouth.

“My sweet girl.”

“You’re feeding me like I’m five,” you playfully complain, deflecting.

“Didn’t I tell you, pretty? I plan to spoil you rotten, besidesI like seeing you soft,” Sunghoon says, his eyes sparkling and a soft grin on his lips.

Your eyes flick up to his. “What does that mean?”

“That you let me take care of you,” he easily replies, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You’re breathless as you reply, “you’re not playing fair…”

But Sunghoon just chuckles, “I’m not playing at all.”

His fingers linger a second too long, grazing your cheek before slipping down your jaw. You blink at the weight of his gaze like he’s memorizing you. His thumb taps your bottom lip once, absently.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs. Not teasing. Just quiet, like a truth too heavy for the air.

Your pulse kicks, and when you look away, flustered, he lets you. Doesn’t push just rests his palm on your thigh, warm and grounding.

A moment passes like that. And as you reach for your juice, he tugs the hem of his shirt on you a little lower, eyes scanning your bare thighs.

“Don’t go outside in this.”

“Why? Afraid someone’ll see?” you tease.

“No. I just don’t like sharing,” he firmly replies, voice stern.

Your breath catches.

“Go finish eating. We’ve got all day.” He kisses your forehead.

The sun climbs higher. Warm light spills through the big windows, turning everything golden. You're curled up on the sofa, still wearing his shirt and nothing underneath but cotton panties, your legs stretched across the cushions.

“You look too pretty to waste the light,” Sunghoon says from across the room, holding his camera.

You blink up at him, amused. “Are you seriously about to make this a photoshoot?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t call it that.”

You tilt your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He lifts the camera halfway, gaze steady over the top of it. “Mine.”

Your throat tightens, pulse kicking up. You sit up slowly, legs tucking under you. “Tell me where you want me.”

He gestures toward the floor near the window where the light cuts in strong and clean. “There. Knees up. Just lean back on your hands.”

You settle into the pose, feeling a little silly, a little shy. But then he steps closer, lowering the camera for a moment.

“No, not like that,” he murmurs. “Chin up. That’s it. Now relax your mouth—yeah, like that.”

His fingers brush along your jaw to adjust the angle. Then lower, tracing a line from your throat to your collarbone.

He clicks the shutter.

You try to hide your shiver. “You’re not even looking at the pictures.”

“I’m looking at you,” he says, voice low.

Another shutter click.

He crouches down in front of you now, so close you can feel his breath. The lens barely a foot from your face. “This one’s just for me,” he says. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily.

“Sunghoon…”

He looks over the lens at you again, heat simmering in his gaze. “You like this. Knowing I’m the only one who’ll ever have this version of you.”

You swallow hard, voice quieter. “I do.”

He lowers the camera entirely now. “Good.”

You're still seated where he posed you, but your breathing has shifted — shallow, anticipatory.

Sunghoon sets the camera down on the nearby chair, but doesn’t move away. His fingers skim your jaw again, softer this time, trailing along the column of your throat.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Flushed everywhere.”

You feel it too — the heat that’s crawled up your chest, painted across your cheeks.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, trying to sound annoyed. It comes out breathless.

“Can’t,” he says simply. “You let me have this. You don’t get to complain now.”

Your stomach tightens at the word have.

He brushes your hair back over your shoulder, exposing your collarbone, your bare leg tucked under you. His eyes never stray far from your face — as if every shift of your expression matters.

“Why are you looking at me like I’m going to vanish?” you murmur.

His jaw ticks. “Because you might.”

You blink, thrown by the admission.

He cups your face with both hands now, firm but gentle, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Do you even understand what you’re doing to me?” His voice is velvet-wrapped steel. “You let me take care of you. Let me see you like this. I don’t just want you anymore, sweetheart. I need you.”

Your lips part but you don’t know what to say. The gravity in his voice, in his touch—it hits you low, deep. And the wildest part?

You love it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, but lean into his hands anyway.

“Why not?” he asks, brushing his nose along yours. “You want gentle? I can be gentle. You want rough, you just have to say the word. But don’t ask me to be casual.”

He shifts to sit behind you, legs bracketing your body as he draws you against his chest, palms slowly smoothing over your bare thighs.

“I’m not sharing,” he says quietly against your ear. “Not your body. Not your time. Not your smile.”

You tilt your head back against him, eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re getting worse,” you whisper, teasing, but there’s no real fight in it.

“I know,” he says, dragging his mouth along your shoulder. “And you love it.”

And you do.

God, you do.

You feel him smile against your skin — slow and smug — before he lifts the camera again, his fingers adjusting the lens like it’s second nature.

“Let’s try something,” he murmurs, tone deceptively casual. “Lean forward for me a little. Just rest on your hands.”

You obey, your palms flattening on the hardwood floor in front of you, back arching slightly. He hums in approval behind you, one large hand gliding up your spine to encourage the motion further.

“Good girl. Now—eyes here.”

You glance over your shoulder, and the click of the shutter follows instantly.

“Perfect,” he praises, the warmth in his voice making your stomach flutter. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me like this.”

“You’re the one making me do it,” you mumble, flushed.

“Correction,” he says, lowering the camera slightly. “I’m just helping you play.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out — breathless, soft. “Play, huh?”

He shifts behind you, one hand pressing lightly to the small of your back. “Mm. Sit up again. Just like before. Keep your knees bent, feet tucked close.”

You adjust, trying not to overthink it — but then his hands slide along your inner thighs to reposition them just slightly wider. Your breath catches.

“Yeah, like that,” he says lowly. “That’s the shot.”

You swallow, your skin prickling with awareness as you feel how close he is, how warm his breath is at your neck again.

“Smile for me,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You try — you really do — but it comes out more like a shy smirk.

Click.

He lowers the camera, lips ghosting near your ear. “Now lose the shirt.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes wide.

His voice is gentle, coaxing. “Just turn your back to me. Let me see your skin. Nothing I haven’t already memorized.”

The way he says it makes your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, though his fingers are already curling at the hem of the shirt.

You pause for a second, then slowly unbutton it, letting it fall down your shoulders, your back remaining to him as he asked.

He draws in a slow, audible breath. “You’re so good like this,” he says. “Soft. Obedient. Trusting.”

Your whole body hums.

He sets the camera down now, forgotten. His hands trail up your sides, slow and reverent. You lean back into him without thinking, and he wraps his arms around your middle, drawing you flush against his chest again.

“You really like taking pictures of me,” you whisper, dazed.

“No,” he says into your hair. “I like proof that you’re mine.”

You bite your lip, a warm ache blooming in your chest at the quiet, possessive honesty in his tone.

“Now,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “let’s play a little more.”

Then his phone buzzes. Sunghoon frowns as he checks the screen “it’s Jihoon.”

You freeze. Sunghoon answers. His tone shifts, cool and calm. You hear Jihoon’s muffled apologies to his dad through the phone, “I shouldn't have blown up like that… I can pick her up Sunday, give you both some space.”

You watch Sunghoon, waiting for the guilt to hit you. It never does. You watch the serious look on Sunghoon’s face, the way his jaw clenches. You bring a hand between your thighs, shifting your weight on it for just a second. Just to relieve a bit pressure.

Then you drop on all fours, waiting for him to look at you. When he does you crawl to him, sitting yourself in his lap. Sunghoon wraps an arm around you, thinking you want to cuddle because you feel bad.

But instead you pull his shirt up, hands exploring the strong and toned frame. You shift closer, crotch directly on his half hard dick.

Sunghoon shoots you a look. A warning.

But you continue, pressing your lips on his jaw. Sunghoon hisses when your finger traces his nipple, the hold around you tightens. And you can tell he is getting hard. And mad.

 “You said we had all day,” you seductively whisper in his free ear.

He clears his throat. Tries to keep talking to Jihoon, but his voice shakes slightly. You don’t listen to their conversation until your name is mentioned again.

“Anyway. You’ll bring her back, right?” you hear Jihoon ask Sunghoon. You tentatively roll your hips, pressing your pussy on him.

Sunghoon is deadly calm, as he speaks in a strained voice, his hand griping the phone, knuckles white.

“Yeah. I’ll handle her, I mean I’ll see she comes to the city safely.”

Then he hangs up mid-sentence, tosses the phone onto the sofa, as he grabs your jaw, clearly mad.

“You really don’t care about playing nice, do you?” he scolds, pushing you back and forth on his lap, fully hard now.

“You started it,” you whisper, shameless as you moan. “Please Hoonie, I want more,” you beg, fisting his shirt.

“Yeah? You like it when Mr. Park lets you play?” he asks, voice deep. He lets you hump yourself against him just watching you, gaze serious, brows furrowed slightly. But you don’t notice.  

“Mhm,” you say blissfully. Hugging him to you, your tits press against his chest and he twitches.

Sunghoon sneaks his hands between the two of you, pulling his cock out.

“But you haven’t been playing nice, doll” he tells you and lands a smack against your ass.

You cling to him, position yourself so your clothed pussy is touching his dick. Mewls turn into whimpers as pushes you off of him.

“Come here,” he tells you, seating himself on the sofa, legs spread. His hand is on his dick, lids heavy as he watches you.

“No, not like that” he scolds, “crawl like you did before.”

You clench around nothing as you go on all fours, padding towards him. Eyes on his dick, when he sees your gaze he teases you. Gripping his cock, lip caught between his teeth as he strokes himself.

You stop at his feet and Sunghoon pulls you up by your upper arms, bending you over his lap. He roughly pulls your panties off and you clench when the cold air hits your wet pussy.

“You think it’s funny? Grinding on me while I’m talking to him?” Sunghoon asks, voice low as he rubs your exposed ass, touch deceptively soft.

He spanks you again, a sharp clap of sound that makes you whimper.

“Do you know what you sounded like? Panting into my neck while I’m trying to keep my voice steady?” he continues, fondling your ass as he speaks before he lands another spank on your pink ass. This one harder, the sting makes you hiss upon impact.

“Princess. That wasn’t cute. That was reckless,” he scolds you, hand resting on your lower back.

You wriggle, needy for his touch and he lets out a laughs. He grabs your hips, stilling you.

“Don’t squirm like that unless you want more,” he says, breathing hard. And you feel his dick poking you, can feel the precum leaking onto you where his dick presses into your plush skin.

He runs his hand over the curve of your ass in a brief caress, before another sharp slap lands.

“Making me hard while I’m talking to your boyfriend. Is that what you wanted?” he asks, breathless. Then in three quick succession slap, slap, slap.

But you liked being punished, so you test his patience, teasing “you were already hard before I moved.”

“And now look what you’ve earned. Mr. Park can’t even take one call without his little one acting up,” he growls, spanking you once again and your ass is starting to hurt. But you invite the pain, lean into the sting as your thighs rub together.

He leans close to you, lips brushing your ear, “you think I won’t punish you just because you’re cute? Think again, baby,” he slowly speaks, possessively.

He pulls you up and you cringe, your ass sensitive from the spanking. It hurts to sit down on him and you lift on your feet hovering over him in a crouching position.

Sunghoon just watches you amused, but then. He rubs his dick against your pussy. You sigh, looking down and watch as he wedges it between your lips.

“Such a pretty thing, just for me, for your Hoonie,” he breathes in a daze.

You nod, clenching down around nothing as you watch Sunghoon rub his dick on your pussy, spreading your wetness all over himself.

You softly moan when he pushes past your tight entrance, “want more,” you grind. Pushing down you sit yourself on him and Sunghoon brings you close to him by your hips.

His lips find yours in a surprisingly soft kiss, as you start to grind. Pushing up and down, slowly in an uneven rhythm.

You’re already a whining mess, your eyes shut as you let Sunghoon kiss you. He slips his tongue in your mouth and you’re like putty in his hands.

He plays with you, hands over your boobs, pinching and scratching lightly. You’re numb with pleasure, cock drunk as your Hoonie starts thrusting upwards.

You come undone at the same time, orgasm crashing into you in strong waves. Sunghoon watches you, and you don’t notice when he reaches for his phone, snapping another photo of you looking so small and so sexy on him as you come undone.

You collapse against his chest, body boneless, breath hitching as the aftershocks ripple through you. He’s still buried deep, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring you to earth.

You’re only just coming back to yourself when you hear the shutter click.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide. “Did you just—?”

He smirks, absolutely unapologetic as he shows you the photo: you, flushed and undone, mouth parted, nails dug into his forearm. “Couldn’t help myself. Look at you,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know how good you look when you fall apart.”

You swat weakly at his shoulder, more flustered than angry. “You’re insane.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing your temple. “over you.”

He pulls out slowly, groaning at the mess you’ve both made, and then scoops you up like it’s nothing. You squeak in protest.

“Put me down!”

“No,” he says simply. “You can barely stand. That was the point.”

You hide your face in his neck, skin still burning. He takes you upstairs.

Once inside the bedroom, he lays you gently on your stomach, palms trailing down the backs of your thighs before he pulls away. The bed shifts with his weight, and then you hear him rummaging softly through a drawer.

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just stay right there.”

You glance over your shoulder, lids heavy, and catch the glint of a container in his hand. Vaseline.

Your stomach flips.

You flinch slightly as the cold ointment hits your skin. “Ah—” “I know,” he says softly, stroking it in with care. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

His fingers massage it in slowly, deliberately. Tender, as though undoing the sting of every sharp smack from earlier. “You’re red,” he mutters under his breath, thumb brushing a particularly sore patch. “Should’ve gone easier.”

“No,” you mumble. “You were perfect.”

A beat. His hand pauses.

“You always say the filthiest things, and then turn around and say shit like that.” He leans in, pressing a long kiss to the base of your spine. “Gonna ruin me.”

You hum in response, half asleep already.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟

A Bit Later… You wake to the soft crinkle of blankets on the living room floor.

Sunghoon’s back from the kitchen, a tray in hand — cut fruit, chocolate, a bottle of wine, and a heating pad that he doesn’t say anything about, just plugs in and tucks gently under your thighs when you sit down with a tiny wince.

You’re wrapped in one of his hoodies now. No underwear. He let you keep it.

The music playing is soft and dreamy. Something instrumental. The air smells like strawberries and lavender soap.

Sunghoon sits beside you, legs spread lazily, shirt halfway buttoned and sleeves rolled to the elbow. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but sharp — always watching.

You curl up beside him again. He opens his arm and pulls you in without asking.

“You good, baby?” he asks, brushing a knuckle under your jaw. “Mhm,” you whisper, nuzzling into his chest. “Warm.”

He presses a kiss to your hairline. “You did so well today. My good girl.”

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. The compliment sinks deep — deeper than it should.

“I like it when you take care of me,” you murmur.

He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back. “Yeah. I know you do.”

A few moments pass in comfortable silence.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” you ask, quieter. “Me being like this?”

Sunghoon shifts to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His expression is unreadable at first — then softens.

“No,” he says. “I think it’s perfect.”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long.

Then you speak, even softer.

“You’ll spoil me.”

He smirks faintly. “That’s the plan.”

And spoil you, he does.

You spend the day camped out on the living room floor, a makeshift indoor picnic laid over the throw blankets and couch cushions Sunghoon pulled down with quiet intention. There’s a soft jazz record playing in the background and between bites of fruit and chocolate, he feeds you with his fingers, eyes never straying far from your mouth.

At some point you curl up in his lap with a glass of wine, and he reads to you from whatever book you pulled off his shelf, voice smooth and low in your ear. The sunlight drifts lazily across the floorboards. You don’t notice how much time passes — just that it feels suspended. Like nothing outside this cabin exists.

He’s good at that — creating small, perfect worlds for you to collapse into.

Sunghoon’s fingers stroke idle lines across your lower back. You feel him breathe. Slow. Anchored.

Neither of you says much. There’s no need.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”

You nod against his neck, already half-asleep, letting him guide you. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You wake in his bed again, the morning sunlight streaming in.

Sunghoon’s already dressed, sitting behind you with his legs spread, guiding a comb gently through your hair. You’re settled between his thighs, back to his chest, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You always wake up first,” you mumble.

“I like watching you sleep,” he says, not missing a beat.

The comb glides through another section. “It’s calming,” he adds. “You look like you trust me.”

“I do.”

He pauses at that — just a beat — then keeps combing, slower now.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the hush of the room, the smell of his cologne clinging to the shirt you still haven’t given back, the lazy warmth of early sun.

Then he speaks again, voice low beside your ear. “Finish waking up, sweetheart. We’ve got a place to be.”

You shift slightly, eyes cracking open. “Where are you taking me?”

“The lake.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “We’re leaving in an hour. I packed wine. Fruit. Towels. Blanket.”

You turn in his lap to face him, grinning now, suddenly wide awake. “You planned a date?”

His smile matches yours. “You deserve one. A real one. No interruptions. No guilt. Just you and me.”

You stretch your arms up, still nestled between his thighs. “Guess I better get ready, Mr. Park.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty,” he says, but doesn’t let go just yet — he pulls you in for a slow, warm kiss first.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

Sunlight sparkles off the water. A breeze rolls across the dock. Everything is golden and quiet and slow.

You’re both barefoot on the wooden planks, dripping after a swim, wrapped in towels and each other. Sunghoon hands you a slice of peach. You feed him the next one.

For a while, you just lie there on the blanket, the world held at bay.

Then you speak. “It’s weird to think this ends tomorrow.”

Sunghoon’s quiet for a second, “it doesn’t have to.”

You blink over at him.

“We go back,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we go back to how things were. I don’t want to.”

You trace a finger over his forearm. “Me either.”

He watches you. “This wasn’t a fling for me. You know that, right?”

“I know.” You sit up, eyes on the water now. “It wasn’t for me either. And... I want more.”

There’s a stretch of silence that isn’t uncomfortable — just real.

Then Sunghoon speaks, voice gentle but unwavering. “Jihoon didn’t just leave you here. He left you alone for a long time before that.”

You inhale through your nose. It hurts — but it’s true.

“He didn’t protect you. He didn’t see you,” Sunghoon adds. “But I do.”

You turn to him. “And I see you, too. I don’t want to sneak around or feel guilty. I want to be with you.”

His hand slides around your thigh. “Then be with me.”

You nod. “Okay.”

It’s said so simply. Like it was always going to happen this way.

The air is warm, the late morning sun painting everything golden. You’re both still sticky with fruit juice and the tipsiness of wine-soft smiles when Sunghoon eyes you sideways.

“You’ve got that look,” you say warily.

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”

He grins. “I’m hurt. This is going to be very dignified.”

“You’re literally crouching like a cartoon villain.”

“Princess, I’m just trying to bring balance to the universe.”

“What does that even mean—Sunghoon—!”

But he’s already lunging.

You shriek and take off across the dock, laughing so hard your legs barely move straight. He’s right behind you, water splashing around your ankles as you try to dodge.

“You’re gonna pay for this!”

“For what?! Being charming?!”

“For splattering me with peach juice!”

He grabs you around the waist, and the two of you topple into the lake in a messy, dramatic splash. The water is cold but refreshing, and when you surface, hair plastered to your face, you’re both wheezing with laughter.

“You look like a drowned kitten,” he says, absolutely delighted.

“Rude. And you look like you just lost a shampoo commercial.”

You splash him in the face before he can respond.

“Oh, it’s on now.”

You flail as he comes after you, hands trying to grab your ankles underwater. There’s shrieking. More splashing. You push his head under once — a bold move — and he resurfaces with water dripping down his lashes, mock-offended.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“You love me,” you say smugly, swimming just out of reach.

He lunges. “Not if you keep talking like that—!”

Eventually you give in, breathless, letting him pull you close in the center of the lake. His arms wind around your waist, and you float there together, the water gently rocking your bodies.

Your laughter fades into warm quiet, cheek resting against his damp shoulder.

“I haven’t laughed like that in forever,” you murmur.

Sunghoon presses a kiss to your hair. “Same.”

Later, you walk back to the cabin hand in hand, skin sun-warmed and soft from the lake. He carries the towels; you carry the last of the fruit. Everything about it feels easy. Shared.

The next morning, the day of going back home, you pull your suitcase out from under the bed, still in one of his shirts.

Sunghoon’s already halfway through folding your clothes for you, methodical and quiet, each movement precise. You watch him for a moment—brows furrowed, fingers smoothing fabric—and grin sleepily.

“You always like playing house this much?”

He looks up. “What?”

“You fold clothes like a husband,” you tease, nudging his foot with yours.

He chuckles but doesn’t stop. “And you wear my shirts like my wife.”

You hum, walking over and leaning your head on his shoulder. His hand reaches for your waist, grounding. A soft forehead kiss follows, like it’s instinct now.

As you zip your duffel shut, you notice something nestled inside: his hoodie, a polaroid, and a paperback novel you’d been eyeing on the cabin shelf.

You blink. “You packed these?”

Sunghoon shrugs, brushing your arm as he walks by. “Now you have to come back.”

You look up at him. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice light but sure. “I’m not going anywhere.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

In the car, the playlist is a mix of both your tastes. It’s playing low as the trees blur past outside. You’re curled in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, humming to the music. You catch him looking at you at a red light, when you’ve reached the civilization again.

“What?” you ask.

“Just wondering if you’re gonna pretend you’re too cool to be seen with me after I drop you off.”

You scoff. “We literally live twenty minutes apart.”

He smirks. “Fifteen if I drive like a crazy person, which I am for you,” he says, hand resting on your thigh as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, turning the ignition off.

You share a deep kiss, your hands cupping his jaw, his on the back of your neck. He pulls away first, flushed cheeks and breathing heavy.

He taps your thigh gently. “Come on, let me carry your suitcase up.”

You roll your eyes but smile, as he unlocks the car door. “You just want an excuse to come upstairs.”

“Maybe I just want to make sure you get inside safe,” he says, grabbing the handle of your suitcase with one hand and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder with the other. “Can’t help it. I’m responsible.”

You snort. “Husband behavior.”

Sunghoon smirks. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“You better not be serious,” you deadpan, nudging him with your shoulder as you both head inside.

Once inside your apartment, you toe off your shoes and flick on the lights while Sunghoon sets your suitcase neatly by the couch. Everything looks a little dustier than you remembered. Like your old life is already softening around the edges.

“Wanna eat something before you go?” you ask as you scroll for the takeout app.

“I already ordered,” he says, smug, showing you his phone. “It’s on the way.”

You blink. “You ordered for both of us?”

He shrugs, casually leaning against your counter. “Figured you’d be too tired to cook after all the swimming... and making out.”

“Wow.” You press a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Romantic and cocky.”

He winks.

The food arrives, and the two of you eat cross-legged on the floor, a movie playing low in the background. It’s peaceful. Cozy. But there’s something pressing in the air, unspoken but understood. When the containers are empty and the credits start to roll, Sunghoon doesn’t make a move to linger.

He leans in to kiss your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Call me after.”

You nod, eyes soft.

“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding yours. “Even if it’s late.”

You stand at the door, still barefoot, as he walks out. You watch until the elevator closes.

The apartment feels quieter now. Still carrying the scent of him.

You don’t hesitate as you find his contact in your phone and press call.

The knock at your door comes later than expected. You open it to find Jihoon standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hood pulled up despite the heat. His eyes flick over your body—still wearing one of Sunghoon’s shirts—and narrow.

“Nice shirt,” he mutters, already walking past you into the apartment without being invited. “You two playing house now, or what?”

You don’t react. “There’s a box with your stuff in the hall closet.”

That stops him mid-step.

“What?”

You don’t flinch. “Take it. We’re done.”

He laughs. Sharp, disbelieving. “You’re breaking up with me now? After going off-grid for nearly a week? With my dad?”

“Jihoon.”

“No, seriously,” he says, throwing his arms out. “You disappear, don’t answer your phone, and when I do call, you’re suddenly all buddy-buddy with him? You think I’m an idiot?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” you say, voice still calm but harder now. “You made your choices when you left me there without a second thought. And now I’m making mine.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You’re seriously choosing him? You couldn’t keep it in your pants for five days?”

“I think we both know you stopped loving me long before I ever looked twice at him.”

That hits. His jaw tightens.

“I waited,” you say quietly. “I tried. But you kept treating me like an inconvenience. Like I was always too much or not enough, depending on your mood.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, breathing uneven.

You point toward the closet. “Your stuff’s in there. Take it and go.”

“You’re not even gonna pretend to be sorry about any of this?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m not.”

Jihoon exhales hard, scoffing again, then yanks open the closet door. Grabs the box. He pauses at the threshold, glaring at you like it’ll change something.

“You’ll regret this,” he mutters. “When he gets bored of you.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “I won’t.”

And then—finally—he leaves.

The door closes with a quiet finality.

This time, it stays closed. You go into your bedroom and sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, heart still beating steady and slow — not from nerves, but from clarity.

It’s done.

The apartment is quiet now. His box is gone. The door’s locked. You’re still wearing Sunghoon’s shirt.

You thumb open your messages first, but after a moment’s hesitation, you press call instead. He picks up before the first full ring.

“Hey,” Sunghoon says, voice low and warm.

You let out a soft breath. “It’s done.”

A pause. Then, “You okay?”

You nod, even though he can’t see. “Yeah. I think I’ve been okay for a while, actually.”

Another beat of quiet, and then you hear his exhale — relieved, grounding.

“I wanted to do it face-to-face,” you add. “…didn’t go too well, I might have been too honest.”

“You didn’t owe him anything past your truth,” Sunghoon murmurs. “I’m proud of you.”

Your lips curve into a smile. “You always say the right thing.”

“I try,” he teases gently.

There’s a beat. You hear movement on his end. Maybe he’s in bed. Maybe pacing.

“I can come over,” he offers. “If you want.”

“I do,” you say, no hesitation. “But… no rush. Just knowing you’re there is enough.”

He hums, and you can almost feel his smile through the line.

“You were never too much, you know,” he says. “You’re just the right amount for me.”

That gets you. You blink hard. “Sunghoon…”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t get cocky just because you’re my boyfriend now.”

He chuckles. “Not cocky. Just… grateful.”

You both fall quiet again, but it’s the good kind. The safe kind.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says.

“I might just fall asleep on the phone with you.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed, sweetheart.”

You breathe in slow, gaze drifting to the camera polaroid he left in your bag — the one of you in his shirt, bare-legged, smiling like you already knew this was how it would end.

Or maybe, how it would begin.

“Goodnight, Mr. Park.”

You hear his smile in the dark.

“Goodnight, babygirl.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

🦭ིྀA/N: thank you for reading !!! I struggled so much with the first scene because it’s literally the two things I hate most: fighting and describing interior lmaoo but once I was past that it was super fun, hope everyone enjoyed reading (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

[princesscolumbia]

Scenario: You are a MAGA voter

Last year I was desperately trying to get you to READ Project 2025 and then BELIEVE Trump and every Republican when they said the quiet part out loud and you told me and every other marginalized person that the price of eggs was too high and trannies were trying to corrupt our women and children. I pushed for UBI and free healthcare and ANY woman's right to choose and didn't put any sort of restrictions on my advocacy because when I learned the phrase "Freedom and Justice for All" my parents and teachers didn't put caveats and exemptions on the phrase.

This year I kept pointing out that the price of eggs is higher than ever and you kept asking why I kept bringing up the eggs and I reminded you that you voted to kill the "eggs" (closeted trans people) when you blindly swallowed Trump's lies and voted against your own best interest. I keep pushing for the price of EVERYTHING to drop and that will benefit you as well as me because we all have better things to do with our time than to police eggs. (Either definition of "egg")

Next year I will keep reminding you that we could have continued the trend we'd been following since the end of World War 2 of making Nazis uncomfortable whenever they opened their fucking stupid racist pie holes by reminding everyone that it's always morally correct to punch a Nazi and the only good Nazi is a dead one because being a racist, sexist, homophobic, elitist troglodyte is a choice and choices get to have consequences. I'm going to remind you of this regardless of whether your skin has less melanin than mine because, unlike the average Republican, I don't presume someone's level of worth based on the color of their skin but on the content of their character.

In five years I'm going to remind you that it wasn't the queers that shut down the VA or declared vaccines to be junk science or took food out of the hands of starving children or tried to deport legal citizens and residents based on the color of their skin, that was Trump and his cronies. I'm going to remind you every chance I get because you've proven that you forgot the lessons of history once, but I didn't and you clearly need reminding. I do this because the wheel of history will either propel us all to the future or grind us all under it and nobody is exempt.

In 10 years time I will be pushing 60 and will (hopefully) be known more for my book projects than my ramblings on the Internet and will likely be called to speak at some government hearing or other because I'm apologetically queer and enjoy writing difficult and complicated stuff because that's the kind of thing that forces people out of their comfort zones and gets them to think and grow and, oh, yeah, I wrote THAT fanfic and how dare I, a queer tranny dyke pervert, exist in public with good, decent, god-fearing folk and I'll remind you that Jesus hung out with the prostitutes of his day and declared that a queer foreigner couple showed greater faith than any of his disciples and he'd have cast out any who tried to persecute the already downtrodden. And then I'd rail against ANY form of censorship because if they can shut down my enemies they can shut down me and so we all must be able to speak our minds even if we're objectively wrong. I will do this because good people don't try to silence others just because they disagree.

In 20 years time I'll be an elder queer and (goddess willing) will be still writing and speaking out against fascist and reminding people that the first wave of Nazis went unchecked for too long and dragged the entire world into a war. I'll still be shouting from the rooftops about that time in the 2020s we let a bunch of selfish, bigoted homophobic dickheads set public policy with the promise that they'd make America great again by doing the exact opposite of everything that ever made America great in spite of its history, not because of its history. And I'll do this because the proof that there are segments of humanity that prefer to be sects of insular, evil fucktards that will fight knowledge with every fiber of their being and only by ensuring knowledge is freely available and taught to EVERYONE regardless of race, creed, color, religion, sexuality, gender, or any other identity (including income) will we ensure we never have to face the third wave of Nazis.

I'll do this until the day I die because, unlike the 51% of people who blindly followed the dumb, I remember that I need to stand up for ALL others before there is nobody there to stand up for ME.

I do actually care marginally about the guy in that reddit screenshot who voted for Trump and is now worried that he might lose his medicaid funding because I did not fucking stutter when I said healthcare is a human right but the people losing their internships and job offers to the hiring freeze are straight up hilarious.

[loredrinker]

The story of Lavellan and Solas tickles my Tolkien-influenced love for fantasy. It falls into the category of Beren and Lúthien - a love story that, by all real-world logic, is absolutely batshit insane. And yet, placed within the mythic frame of fantasy, it fits perfectly. It belongs there. These are the kinds of stories that only make sense in a world comfortable with myths, legends, ancient beings, monsters, supernatural war and absurdity - where love doesn’t follow rules, it transcends them.

That’s what I love: the illogical. Because love isn’t logical. For every argument I’ve seen that says it “makes no sense” for Lavellan and Solas to fall in love over the course of Inquisition, or that waiting that many years to be together is unrealistic. I sit back and laugh. Really? Love needs a timeline? In a fantasy?

Beren took one look at Lúthien dancing and fell irrevocably in love - and Lúthien was all in too. They didn’t take three years to build a foundation of trust and talk about boundaries or what they saw in each other. Their version of courtship was joining forces to battle literal evil so they could earn the right to be together. It was reckless, wild, insane, illogical and absolutely delicious. 

Lavellan and Solas hit that same mythic nerve for me. Their story - two people drawn together across time, fate, and existential stakes - feels like something out of The Silmarillion.

I don’t need these stories of love and pain and tragedy and trauma and desire to be logical in the real-world sense. It was never meant to be. Like all mythological love stories, it speaks to something eternal, irrational, and luminous.

There are themes and tropes woven through Lavellan and Solas’ story that utterly captivate me. And it’s partly to do with the fact that their love story isn't a comfortable one. It asks something of you. It asks you to reconcile contradiction: love and betrayal, hope and despair, violence and tenderness, destiny and choice, love as performance vs love as presence.

I’ve uncovered themes and archetypes that fit perfectly in this world of fantasy and discovered new ones in conversations with fellow Solas and Lavellan lovers as well. Here’s my attempt to weave some of those tropes and themes together. 

Their story carries what I like to call the Tolkien Effect: elven atmosphere where immortals and mortals fall in love and brave inconceivable odds just to be together. It’s the story of a man tormented by the choice between duty and love - Solas’ self-imposed responsibility to mend the world demands that he sacrifice his heart, while Lavellan’s bond with him is forged within that very conflict. He stands as the tragic anti-hero: prideful, guilt-ridden, withdrawing into self-destructive isolation because he’s convinced only he can set things right. She, meanwhile, plays Beauty to his Beast - seeing the fractured soul beneath the would-be destroyer and, by loving him, becoming the mirror that reflects his lost humanity. In classic fashion, they are star-crossed lovers - she's a mortal leader of the present, he's an immortal haunted by his past. Their timelines are misaligned, their love a sacrifice in the face of fate.

Their relationship goes from prejudice to passion. At first, Solas sees Lavellan as a biased curiosity - a product of a world he resents. But curiosity gives way to respect, respect deepens into desire, and desire transforms into love overwhelming it's held in restraint. He tries to resist her, but she becomes a gravitational force pulling him into her orbit.

Here, love becomes existential salvation or existential disruption. Lavellan offers Solas something terrifying: a path out of the endless cycle of destruction. It's a chance to choose life and yet instead he chooses to run from it, fleeing the love that might transform his path.

He tries to let her go, believing he must shield her from the darkness he carries. But he's the immortal who can't let go. He visits her dreams. Writes to her. Remembers her. Because this is love across time - a mythic bond that survives years, silence, betrayal, and distance. A love that endures even after everything else has fallen.

He's the lonely immortal whose memories stretch back to betrayals no one else can comprehend. Lavellan is shaped in the mold of Tolkien’s quiet heroes - Frodo’s endurance, Aragorn’s purpose, Éowyn’s resolve - meeting unearthly stakes with a resilience that refuses to break, even when love itself feels like punishment.

In the end, wisdom and mercy override vengeance. Lavellan’s forgiveness doesn’t excuse but provides a path to healing. She has taken on the role of mortal muse of the divine. A single, fleeting human heart - fragile, finite - a key that might yet save an ancient, wounded soul. And so great is this ancient being’s pain, so immense the guilt and fear he carries, that it takes a fellowship to save Thedas, to save him - the mortal and immortal working together. And at the end, the star-crossed lovers are reunited, a bittersweet ending as they experienced so much pain to get there. They ascend together into another world, stepping outside the boundaries of Thedas, likely to inspire new legends in the years to come. 

Should I go on? There are more themes and tropes I’ve pulled from this story - more patterns of myth and meaning that keep drawing me back. And now, with the story of Lavellan and Solas together in the Fade, it begs for new narratives, new archetypes, new emotional terrain.

The story isn’t over. It’s only deepening.

[orellazalonia]

Hey!! I would like to request a Bucky Barnes x reader fic where their daughter shows up from the future. Bucky and Reader aren’t dating or really even know each other that well yet (maybe they share mutual friends on the team or are friends but just dancing around each other a bit??), so this could be a surprise to them. You could have it that she keeps saying she can’t share information about the future but then accidentally drops information like they have a pet cat named alpine and she has three siblings (Bucky deserves a big loving family) without even totally realizing it. Idk if this is even a great idea, but I like your writing and thought this could be a fun request. Thank you for sharing your writings with us!! <3

Hello there, dear! This was such a cute request, thank you for it! I do admit it was a challenge figuring out how to seamlessly combine each element. So, I hope I did well and that you enjoy! Happy reading!!! ♡

Out of Time, Into Our Lives

Summary: A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist

It started like any other morning at the Avengers compound. Quiet, a little too quiet. You were nursing your first real cup of coffee, leaning against the counter in the common room kitchen while chatting lazily with Wanda about her latest attempt at baking banana bread.

Bucky entered halfway through your sentence, nodding politely at you before making a beeline for the fridge. You and he had been doing this little dance for a while now. Friendly, respectful, always a step or two away from crossing into something more. You liked his dry humor, the way his voice softened when he asked how your day was. But neither of you had made a move. Not yet.

Just as you took a sip, FRIDAY’s calm, robotic voice interrupted:

“Alert. Temporal breach detected. Unauthorized presence in the compound.”

You and Bucky both straightened at the same time.

“Temporal breach?” He muttered, already halfway to the hall. You followed.

It wasn’t often something genuinely strange happened anymore, but what you found in the hallway outside one of the research wings made your breath catch in your throat.

A girl stood there, around seventeen. Messy hair pulled into a loose braid. Her clothes didn’t look particularly futuristic, but there was something… off. Like she didn’t belong. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t aggressive. She was just staring at a portrait of the original Avengers lining the corridor wall, head tilted slightly.

When she noticed you, her eyes widened but it wasn’t fear that passed over her face. It was recognition.

Her gaze locked onto Bucky first. Then shifted to you. And something in her face softened.

“Oh,” She breathed. “It’s earlier than I thought.”

You frowned. “Do we know you?”

“I’m… not supposed to say anything,” She said quickly, straightening. “I mean, I can’t. It would mess with… everything. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I didn’t mean to come through. The rift just kind of… swallowed me.”

“Rift?” Bucky echoed, stepping closer.

The girl put her hands up, showing no threat. “I know how this sounds. But I swear, I’m not dangerous. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need help getting back.”

You gave her a once-over; she didn’t seem injured, but she looked like she hadn’t slept in a while. Underneath the brave exterior, she seemed a little lost.

“Okay,” You said gently. “We believe you. Let’s just take this slow. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” She insisted. “If I tell you who I am, it could screw up the timeline. I mean, it already is screwed up if I’m standing here. But I really can’t afford to make it worse.”

Wanda appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “She’s not lying,” She said quietly. “She’s scared. But not of us.”

The girl nodded quickly. “Thank you. I’m just… trying to wait it out. The breach will reverse itself. Probably. Eventually.”

You crossed your arms. “So what are we supposed to call you?”

“Uh. I don’t know. You can give me a fake name?” She offered with a shrug. “That feels safer.”

There was a long pause, awkward. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but she beat you to it:

“Is Alpine here?”

You blinked. “Alpine?”

Bucky looked up sharply. “How do you know about Alpine?”

The girl’s face went pale. “I mean. I—uh—I read about her? In the files. Maybe. Probably.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

She let out a tiny groan and rubbed her face. “I told myself not to say anything specific. Ugh. Okay. Look. I’m just going to sit in a corner, be very quiet, and not ruin anything else, okay?”

You sat beside her, slowly, noting how carefully she avoided looking at Bucky too long. Not out of fear, but something heavier.

She tugged her sleeves down over her hands. “This was easier when you were already married.” The words slipped out of her mouth like a quiet sigh, too casual for how much they weighed.

You and Bucky both stiffened.

He stared at her. You weren’t sure he was even breathing. “What did you just say?”

She blinked, realizing. “Oh. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please ignore that.”

You frowned. “Wait… what do you mean, already married?”

“I’m not answering that.” Her voice sharpened slightly now, trying to backtrack. “Sorry. I really can’t say anything else. Like, actually can’t. This isn’t just me being dramatic, it's literally against every single future protocol. I’ve already said too much.”

Bucky stepped forward slowly, his tone low but steady. “You said you came through a rift. Do you know how that happened?”

She looked grateful for the change in subject, nodding. “I was working with someone back there, on uh, stabilizing temporal energy. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the live field, but things got weird. And loud. And then everything just… cracked.”

“Cracked?” You asked.

“Yeah.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Like a window splintering. I fell through. And now I’m here. Too early. Way too early.”

You tilted your head. “Too early for what?”

She looked at you, then at Bucky, and something softened in her expression. Like she knew the two of you better than you knew yourselves. Like there was something unspoken that pained her to keep secret.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she whispered, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you yet.”

FRIDAY’s voice interrupted gently. “Should I notify Director Fury?”

“No,” Bucky said sharply. Too quickly. Then he glanced at you. “…Not yet.”

The girl looked surprised. “You’re not sending me to a cell?”

You offered a faint smile. “We’re not monsters.”

“And you’re not dangerous,” Bucky added, quieter now. “At least not yet.”

She snorted. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

Wanda stepped closer, watching her closely. “You’re scared,” She murmured. “But you’re also… relieved. Why?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. She just looked back at the wall, where a photo of the original team hung in a dusty frame. After a long silence, she whispered, “Because I missed this. Seeing it again. Seeing you all… before everything changes.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. You saw it, just barely: the tension in her jaw, the sheen in her eyes she was trying to blink away.

“I can’t stay long,” She said, turning her face away like she didn’t want either of you to see the emotion creeping in. “So just… let me be here until the breach resets. Then I’ll be gone, and this’ll be nothing more than a strange footnote in someone’s mission report.”

You looked over at Bucky. His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly open like he had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue but no idea how to ask any of them.

She noticed, smiled a little, sadly. “You always look like that when you’re overwhelmed.”

His lips parted, but she cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Nope. Not answering anything. I’m very good at not answering.”

A long silence settled between the three of you.

Then she yawned. A real one. Unfiltered. She rubbed her eyes like a kid, her exhaustion finally catching up.

“Can I… take a nap somewhere not surrounded by broken lab equipment?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Bucky’s voice was low. “You hungry?”

She paused, like she hadn’t considered that. “Kinda. Do you still make those-“ She caught herself. Froze. “…Never mind.”

But the warmth in her eyes didn’t fade. She didn’t say it. But it was already there, written in every look she gave the two of you:

She knew you. And she loved you both.

Even if she couldn’t say it.

-

The girl slept for twelve hours straight. You'd offered her the spare room near the east wing, technically meant for visiting guests, but it had soft blankets and a window view, which she seemed to appreciate.

You sat outside her door for most of the first hour, just in case she tried to run or vanished the way she arrived. But she didn’t.

Bucky checked in at least three times too, though he pretended he was just “walking by.”

When she finally emerged the next morning, hair sticking out in wild directions and wearing one of your old sweatshirts you’d left folded on the chair, she looked younger. More like a kid playing dress-up than a displaced anomaly from the future.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot and blinked at you, rubbing her eyes. “You’re making eggs.”

“Good morning to you too,” You said with a grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She yawned and flopped down at the counter like she’d done it a hundred times.

Bucky entered a moment later, nodding to you both. “Morning.”

She perked up when she saw him, then quickly forced her face back into something neutral, like she’d caught herself.

You passed her a plate. “Toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns.”

She dug in immediately. “Thank you. Food here’s just as good as I remember- I mean, as I hoped it’d be.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth.”

She glanced at Bucky nervously, but he didn’t press. He just poured himself coffee and sat across from her, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“So,” you said lightly, “What should we call you?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Call me…” She looked around the room, clearly stalling. “Jules?”

You tilted your head. “Is that your real name?”

“Nope.” She smiled a little too innocently. “Which makes it perfect.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her. “Alright, Jules. Mind if we ask a few things?”

“As long as it’s not timeline-altering, catastrophic, or classified by future standards, maybe.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky. “Okay,” You said slowly. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” She answered, mid-bite. “Chronologically. Time-wise… eh. Don’t ask.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a family? In your… original timeline?”

Her chewing slowed just a little. Her expression flickered. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence fell again. After a moment, she added, “It’s… a big family. Messy. Loud. Someone’s always yelling, someone’s always drawing on the walls, and someone’s always pretending they didn’t start it.”

You smiled softly. “Siblings?”

She paused, eyes widening like she just realized what she said. “I didn’t—wait. That wasn’t—I mean—”

Bucky raised a brow. “You have siblings?”

She groaned and put her face in her hands. “Dang it.”

“How many?” You asked, voice careful.

She peeked through her fingers. “Three.” Then flopped back dramatically in her seat. “Ugh. I knew I’d slip up. You two are too nice. It’s disarming.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “You don’t have to tell us anything else.”

“No, it’s fine,” she mumbled. “At this rate I’ll blurt out the entire family tree before lunch.”

“Do you like them?” You asked, curious.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. I love them. They're chaos. But the kind you miss when it's quiet.”

Bucky studied her like she was a riddle. “Are they older than you?”

She looked down at her plate. “Some. Some younger.”

And that was it. She shut down after that, turning her attention fully back to her breakfast. You let her. The moment felt like something private, like she’d tugged back a curtain for just a second and now needed it closed again.

But later, when she wandered into the rec room to find Alpine curled in a sunbeam, she sank to the floor and whispered something to the cat that made Bucky freeze in the doorway.

You didn’t catch the words. But you caught the tone: nostalgic, fond, like she’d said it a thousand times before.

And when Alpine, notoriously selective, climbed into her lap without hesitation, she just stroked her fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged.

-

The days that followed were strangely easy.

She, Jules, settled in like a half-remembered song. Not quite a stranger, not quite someone you knew, but comfortable. Familiar. You found her sitting on the kitchen counter in the mornings, legs swinging as she ate cereal straight from the box. You caught her once talking softly to FRIDAY, as if the AI were an old friend she’d grown up with.

Bucky never said much. But he was there. Quietly hovering, checking if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping okay. They started watching movies in the common room, not speaking much, but it was something. The space between them had stopped feeling like distance. It was anticipation now. Recognition.

And then there was the night Bucky found her on the roof.

You followed the scent of cold air and firewood up the metal stairs and found them sitting side by side, backs against the railing, stars overhead. Jules was hugging her knees, wearing one of Bucky’s jackets now. It was too big for her, sleeves past her fingertips. But she looked warm. Safe.

You stayed back, watching quietly from the door. Listening.

“I didn’t think I’d meet you like this,” She admitted softly. “This early. I wasn’t ready.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, slow and heavy.

“You remind me of her,” She glanced up at the stars. “Not just the way you look at people, but the way you don’t. The way you… hold back. Like you’re always waiting for someone to decide you’re worth staying for.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “And did they?”

She looked at him. “Mmm, maybe.”

He turned toward her. “Did I?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause before she whispered, “You never left.”

Then she flinched, realizing again what she’d said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But Bucky didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was full of things neither of them could say.

You all started tiptoeing around the inevitable after that. Jules hadn’t poofed back yet, but every hour felt borrowed. She stopped sleeping as much. Kept checking corners for changes in the air. Listening for that hum she said she’d felt right before the breach opened.

On the fourth day, it happened.

You were in the kitchen, scrambling eggs again, same as the first day. She was mid-laugh, telling you something vague and harmless about a prank her “friend’s little brother” pulled once involving holograms and Steve’s shield. You didn’t even notice the shimmer at first.

Then Bucky’s face changed.

You turned and saw it. A distortion in the center of the room. Like heat rising off pavement, but colder. The air around it began to swirl. And her smile fell away.

“It’s happening,” She said quietly. Not surprised. Just… resigned.

“No.” You stepped forward. “Wait! We didn’t get to-“

“It’s okay,” She said, standing quickly. “It’s time. I knew I couldn’t stay long.”

Bucky took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You said it would reset eventually. You didn’t say it would be this fast.”

She smiled at him, eyes glassy. “You never like goodbyes.”

You were about to speak, to say something, anything, but the light started pulling at her edges. Dust and static flickering around her limbs.

She looked at you both, eyes shining now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just… I wanted to see you. Before everything.”

“Before what?” You asked, your voice trembling. “What changes?”

But she only gave a tiny, knowing smile. And this time, she didn’t say anything else.

She just looked at Bucky one last time and softly said, “Don’t wait too long.”

And then she was gone. No flash, no thunder, just a breath pulled from the room. One second she was there. The next, empty air.

You stood frozen in place.

The bowl she’d left still sat on the table, cereal soggy in milk. Her mug still half full of cocoa. One of Alpine’s toys, she’d apparently been hoarding them in her pockets, sat on the floor near the couch, a little mouse with a frayed string tail.

Bucky picked it up slowly, didn’t say a word. You looked over at him and could see it in his face now, what she saw in him. The cracks. The strength beneath them.

Later that night, you and Bucky hadn’t said much since she vanished. There wasn’t much that needed saying. But the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of what came next. Neither of you quite knew what the future held. But now, you both knew who it held. And someday sooner, maybe, than either of you thought, you’d meet her again; for the first time.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

this is probably in your no doubt series but imagine Jake asking your parents for this hand in marriage and he's just super nervous and shaky about it 😿💔

OMG this one has been brewing in my inbox for soooo long bc i wanted to finish the series first before i dived into this one bc MARRIAGE . that's such a big kid word omg help but UGH jakeyn needs to live happily ever after forever & forever & forever & forever (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡ i genuinely had to stop writing this one halfway thru bc i was gonna crash out over them . anyways! i switched up the prompt just a littleeeee...i hope you enjoy !!!

──── GONNA MARRY YOU 💍 🥂 🕊️ ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

You're so close.

You're so, so close to falling asleep.

It had been a long, grueling day for both you and Jake—full of exhausting emotional labor.

Like spending five hours on the couch debating which one of you would cry first when your hypothetical child goes to kindergarten.

Jake said you. You said Jake. The fight is ongoing.

Extremely serious business.

Obviously.

And now, finally, you're both tangled up in bed, one of his arms slung naturally around you, the other trapped awkwardly under your neck.

You told him to move it.

He refused.

"It's fine," he murmured casually, even though his arm was definitely already going limp. "I'll lose feeling in my arm for you any day."

You're so, so, so close to falling asleep—your brain is already shutting off and you're mentally somewhere in between counting sheep and officially entering dreamland.

Which is why when you feel Jake shift behind you—closer, somehow, even though you're pretty sure his entire body weight is already squishing you into the mattress—you barely register it.

You don't fully register the way his hand flexes against your waist, or the way his nose nudges against the back of your neck like he'll die if he doesn't breathe your air.

You're far too gone.

Too sleepy. Too warm. Too his.

So when his voice slips out—soft, low, and sleepy—you don't fully process that either—

"M'gonna marry you one day."

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

Your eyes shoot wide open.

Because...what.

You quickly twist your body around to face him and—bless his heart—Jake's face is half-smushed into your pillow, hair sticking up everywhere, blinking at you with the dopiest, dreamiest little smile.

"You—" you croak, sleepiness still tangled in your throat, "—what did you just say?"

Jake blinks at you as if you're the deranged one.

Then, very, very seriously—

"I'm gonna marry you," he repeats. Voice thick with sleep and absolute certainty. "You're it for me, dummy. Thought this was, like...common knowledge."

Your mouth parts slightly. You stare at him.

He doesn't even flinch. Just simply hums before fluttering his eyes shut again.

"Already asked your parents, you know," he mumbles casually.

"Mm—you WHAT?"

Jake peeks a single eye open, his sleepy grin still tugging at his lips—completely smug, completely serious, completely in love.

"Yeah," he says like he's stating the obvious. "Last winter. When we visited for Christmas. You were in the shower and I was in the living room with them probably watching some random cooking show you mom put on and it just...came out."

Your mouth is now fully open.

Catching flies and all.

"Jake."

"I know," he hums, laughing softly as his arm around your waist pulls you in closer into his chest. "I was super awkward about it, too. Like, full-on, 'Hi, can I marry your daughter?' out of nowhere. I honestly don't know what I was thinking. I don't think I was actually. Pretty sure I blacked out."

You crane your head up to gape at him.

You can't believe this ridiculous boy is real.

And that you're definitely going to marry him one day.

"Well?" you demand, your hands softly hitting his chest. "What did they say?"

Jake grins, his smile bright and easy like pure sunshine, even when he's half-asleep.

"They said yes, duh. Something about me already being part of the family or whatever. But it wasn't just whatever. I think I cried honestly. And then I think your mom cried a little. And your dad definitely did the whole 'I'm not crying, it's just allergies' bit. You know the one."

You let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Jake's eyes now fully open to watch you with that look on his face—the one that makes you feel like you created all the stars he's been chasing.

He sighs, completely blissed out, then kisses the side of your head as he shifts again to hold you tighter—one hand cradling the back of your neck to guide you gently back to his chest.

"Just, like...try to act at least a little surprised when I pop the question, alright?"

You smack his chest half-heartedly, still at a loss for words.

He laughs again, sleepy and light—like he's carrying the entire future in his heart and it doesn't even weigh him a single thing.

And you just stay like that—holding onto him like he's already yours.

Because he is.

He always has been.

And now—

You know he always will be.

no doubt m. list

tag list! pt. 1 (open)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[whisperofaflame]

Collision Course

Chapter 15b: Interlude [Part 2]

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: While you wait in the garden, Natasha and Wanda have a conversation about you upstairs, in which their feelings come to the fore.

Word count: 3.7k

Featuring: Sapphic women yearning and second-guessing their actions (basically the theme of the entire fic tbh). Mention of sub-drop and domme-drop.

A/N: This follows on directly from Chapter 15 of Collision Course and Part 1 of Chapter 15b. It's dialogue-heavy and I've been fairly consumed by doubt about it this week, but the writing is now a lot cleaner after the wonderful assistance of @bishovapls , who very kindly beta-read this for me. Her encouragement and corrections have been invaluable in getting me to the position of feeling comfortable to post this ♡ (If you're not already following her you need to do that now; she writes the most incredible WandaNat and Bishova content).

When Natasha heard the click of the front door opening, her first instinct was to move to the window and check on you. But there was no sign of you nor Mayakovsky anymore when she looked out to the garden. Most likely, you were beneath the balcony, sitting on one of the patio chairs as she had instructed. If not, you’d be hiding out in the living room downstairs.

“Hey,” Wanda called out, her cheerful voice ringing through the house. 

“Through here, dorogaya moya,” Natasha replied, prying her eyes from the window and moving to the sink to wash her hands. She could hear Wanda’s footsteps approaching, even through the sound of the flowing water.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda murmured close to her ear, as she propped her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her wife’s waist from behind. Natasha turned off the faucet and twisted round in Wanda’s hold to capture her lips in a kiss.

“Good day?” Natasha enquired, fumbling with her left hand behind her back to try and locate the hand towel which hung beneath the sink.

“Mm. It was okay. How was yours? How is myšička?”

Natasha turned round to dry her hands, and Wanda let her go. Only once her hands were dry and the towel was replaced did she answer.

“It was… interesting. She’s been a bit all over the place, emotionally.” Natasha paused. She knew that she would probably regret voicing the thought which was burning at the tip of her tongue, but she threw caution to the wind and said it anyway. “I think she missed you.”

Wanda’s face wasn’t hard to read. Natasha knew her wife well, and noticed the concerned quirk of her eyebrows, as well as the slightest scrunching of her nose, which was only ever evident when Wanda was truly delighted by something. 

“Where is she?” Wanda asked, obviously eager to reunite and shower you with affection.

“Out on the patio,” Natasha replied, “but we need to talk first, Wanda.”

“Okay. What do we need to talk about?” Wanda queried, looking a little fraught. Natasha nodded towards the dining table, and followed Wanda over once she caught on to the suggestion. Wanda sat down at the end of the table, and Natasha took the seat alongside, turning the chair to face her wife.

“She’s had a difficult day,” Natasha admitted, with a sigh. “I knew it would be, really; she obviously didn’t sleep well last night, but also it was the longest time she’s been without you since the accident. I think that hasn’t helped. I mean, of course I tried, but I’m not the same. She’s attached to you, Wanda.”

Wanda nodded, with a slightly sad smile. 

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Natasha said plainly, leaning to the side slightly to rest her elbow on the table. 

“I do,” Wanda agreed. 

There was a pause then, as they both contemplated the impasse. 

Eventually, Natasha broke the silence with a sigh.

“She came to find me this morning,” Natasha began, feeling it was important to be frank about what had happened that day. Their household had always operated on honesty; there was no need for this to change just because you were currently residing there too. “And she told me she was about to go out for a run.”

Wanda frowned at this, her cheeks paling slightly.

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Natasha protested, only just managing to contain a sigh of indignation. She might not be as all-in with affection as her wife, but that didn’t mean she was apathetic about you, or your safety. “No; I highlighted the risks, and when that didn’t put her off, I made her consider how you would feel if you came home and found out that I’d let her go for a run.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Wanda, unable to restrain a small smirk that tugged at her lips. “It was a little too effective, honestly.”

“How did she react?” Wanda asked, leaning in with concerned curiosity. 

“Well, she sort of surrendered at that point, but she wasn’t happy. I tried to suggest we go for a walk, but she wasn’t having it; she just said she needed to go for a run. I managed to get her to explain a little, though. She said she needs to exercise, Wanda. I think she’s used to doing a lot, and she’s going a little crazy being so stationary.”

“But she has to rest,” Wanda fretted, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “It’s not even been a week and… it was so bad.” She whispered the last part, her voice cracking as she recalled the accident.

“I know,” Natasha soothed, reaching out and stroking Wanda’s forearm. “But she’s a strong little thing, really. And she told me today that it’s not her first broken bone — turns out she’s always been a bit of a liability!” She turned her tone playful at the end, grinning at Wanda until she elicited the desired little huff of laughter that meant she was breaking through the worry. "I think we need to be more careful of her mental health, rather than the physical, lyubov moya. She opened up to me when I asked her about it. Just a little, just enough for me to know that it’s how she copes with things.” Natasha paused, knowing the next part may elicit some dissent. “So we compromised. I let her use the spin bike in the gym, just for half an hour, with my supervision.” She could see Wanda opening her mouth to quibble, but she ploughed on. “And I said I’ll continue to let her, when she needs. But only if she asks, and only if I’m there.”

Wanda closed her mouth again, and Natasha wondered whether her extra detail had quelled some of the arguments in her mind. She was silent for a while, still spinning the rings, but the revolutions were slower now. More contemplative than ruminative in nature. 

“Did it help?” Wanda asked finally, her voice rather small, like it pained her to consider it. 

“It did,” Natasha admitted. “She was a lot brighter after. For a bit, at least. We ate lunch, and she seemed relaxed while eating. And then we went for a walk to get some buns, and she was really chirpy on the way there. That’s when I learned about all her injuries. She was happy, talkative.”

Wanda seemed saddened by this, more than anything. But Natasha understood. Wanda’s protective instincts prioritised rest, and keeping you safe at home. The success of Natasha’s tactics seemed to directly contradict her own approach, making her efforts and affections appear futile in comparison. Natasha kept one hand on Wanda’s forearm, but moved her other to rest upon Wanda’s hand. The next part she needed to share may come as a blow. But it was necessary to explain it all. Wanda needed to understand.

“She was fine until we came out of the bakery, and our discussion moved to college. I asked if she wanted to start going in, and she panicked then. Because she seems to think that you wouldn’t want her to.”

Wanda looked up from her hands, meeting Natasha’s gaze with a rather startled expression. 

“We haven’t even talked about it… I - I don’t know why she would think that.”

“Well… Would you want her to go, if she asked to go in tomorrow?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her tone gentle rather than accusing. Wanda swallowed, then released a small admission.

“No — I’d say it’s too soon.”

“And she knows that, lyubov moya, because she’s practically joined at your hip, and absolutely desperate for your approval.” Natasha’s heart clenched as she saw her wife’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. This was why it was necessary to have this conversation now, just the two of them, before having a discussion with you too. Wanda wasn’t much more enlightened than you were about the nature of your relationship together. Sure, she had her hopes and a history of wanting something specific, but at the same time Natasha was sure that a lot of her behaviour was being enacted on pure instinct. Wanda didn’t even seem to know what she was doing, half the time. She was just feeling, being. And it was up to Natasha to see, to understand on behalf of both of you. 

“Did something happen between the two of you this morning?” Natasha asked, needing to know what she had missed. Something seemed to register and flicker in Wanda’s eyes, and Natasha knew then that her instincts were correct. There had been something.

“I might have got a bit carried away,” Wanda whispered, her face flushing with colour. “Maybe I was too dominant… I don’t know. I just instructed her to tell you if she needed anything, and then I… I asked her to be good for me, while I was away.”

Natasha suspected that some details might be being omitted, but she didn’t press for them. She could assume how it must have happened, how Wanda slipped into her dominance and soothed you into submission. There would no doubt have been copious pet names and physical touch involved too, all of which would have intensified the experience for you. And, inconveniently, this all transpired right before Wanda left for the day. 

“She mentioned that,” Natasha shared. “She’s pretty cut-up about it actually, scared that she’s not been good for you, and that you’ll be disappointed in her.”

“I’m not,” Wanda murmured. “I’m worried.”

“Me too,” Natasha said simply. “I’m worried for the both of you. This whole thing… it seems to be spinning out of control rather quickly.”

“We can make it work,” Wanda asserted, rather desperately. “I know we can. I’m sure about this, about her, Natasha.”

Natasha took a deep breath. She needed to be honest, the voice of reason.

“I know you’re sure, lyubov moya, but I’m not. And I don’t think she’s capable of being sure of anything, at the moment.” She watched as a single tear trickled down Wanda’s cheek. Not able to bear it passing untouched, unrecognised, Natasha reached out and brushed it away with a careful stroke of her finger. 

“Wanda, I love you to the moon and back many times over, but I think you’re losing yourself a little. You can’t just push the poor girl into subspace whenever it takes your fancy. She’s not ours; she’s just our guest. And she’s vulnerable. Even if you do think it could work, we can’t introduce it now — she’d probably freak out and run away, and even if she did agree to it, we couldn’t really characterise it as free consent, could we?”

“I know,” Wanda agreed quietly. “I just… It’s hard to know where the line is. I keep losing sight of it, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Natasha admitted, prompting Wanda to look up in surprise. Natasha gave her a small, rueful smile. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling there. I think I’ve crossed the line a few times too. It is hard.”

They sat in silence for a while then, with Natasha contemplating her mistakes, and Wanda no doubt doing the same. It was so complex, the situation they’d ended up in. A good deed, somewhat corrupted by increasingly complicating feelings.

“I think — and I may be wrong; it’s just a suspicion — but I think she’s been experiencing sub-drop, at times, over the last few days.” Natasha posed her theory lightly, interested to hear Wanda’s take on it. When there was no immediate response, she elaborated. “I mean, it certainly seemed like it this afternoon. She missed you, and she was worried about what you thought of her, and what you had said. And the only thing that seemed to help was just being with her, and holding her, and reassuring her a lot.” Natasha chewed at the inside of her mouth, remembering the times she hugged you, and the way it had felt. That detail was unnecessary, however. She had to keep her own feelings detached, to protect the both of you. She had to remain objective.

“She likes you a lot, you know,” Wanda breathed, looking up into Natasha’s eyes with tearful sincerity. “I see the way she looks to you: always checking how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking about her. And you must see how she relaxes when you smile, and when you’re silly with her. She’s attached to you too, Nat. Just differently.”

Natasha swallowed, trying to contain the emotion that swelled inside her, a rising tide of euphoria that Wanda’s words provoked. Her defences were slightly delayed, but they sprung up then, providing an alternative, protecting her from the feelings.

“It’s just because I’m the gatekeeper to you, really. I think she knows — even if it’s just subconsciously — that I’m the one who will call this, in the end. So she wants to know that I’m still happy with her being here, and happy with the two of you becoming so close. I think she’s scared I’ll put a stop to things, all of a sudden, based on something she has done.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wanda rejected, very quietly. “Because if that were the case, that she only cared about my affection and your permission, then she wouldn’t have admitted any of that to you, today. She’d be holding it inside, scared it would make you end this.” Wanda paused, then leaned forwards and gave Natasha a gentle kiss. “She trusts you, Talia. You just don’t trust yourself.”

Natasha stilled in her seat, letting Wanda’s words seep into her very soul. That nickname — from the real name — had a sacred place in their relationship. Wanda knew the power it held over her, and she used it sparingly, respectfully. She only pulled it out to highlight moments and mark meaning. So her use of it now gave every word extra weight, making them settle heavy inside Natasha’s body, burying the arguments that may otherwise have clawed up through her chest. The name had a way of stripping her down, chipping away her armour and revealing what lay beneath. And today, her armour seemed thin. It simply melted away like salt in the rain, sharp crystals dissolving to nothingness. Without it, her shoulders seemed to narrow and droop — like she had lost her exoskeleton, and now had to face the world more feeble.

“What’s going on with you, my love?” Wanda asked, moving her hands to interlock fingers with Natasha’s own. When Natasha made no move to answer, Wanda gave a further prompt. “I already know what you think, Talia. Right now I want to know how you feel.”

The question tugged at Natasha’s composure, unpicking her at the seams. At some point in this conversation, the power had shifted. She had thought she was in control, but now she felt on the back foot, spinning without direction. She clung to Wanda’s hands, trying to anchor herself, and return to shore.

“Talk to me, láska moja,” Wanda encouraged, “just one word will do.”

And she found it: the feeling sinking deep inside her. 

“I just feel… guilty,” Natasha breathed, and it seemed like the words cut through her last defences like a knife. Wanda was watching her avidly, reading her like a book, and Natasha couldn’t help but continue turning the pages for her, showing her every piece of what she was feeling. “I’ve been trying all this time to find the balance — but if I hold back while you are being soft with her, I feel like I’m being cold. And if I let myself be soft with her too, it feels wrong… like we’re manipulating her somehow. It makes me feel dirty.” The words were spilling out without a plan, tumbling unvetted from her lips. “But then, when I asked you to pull back, it clearly hurt her. And I don’t want that. I care about her too. It’s just… I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Wanda seemed to inflate then, taking account of the slight wobble in Natasha’s voice and seeming to come fully back to herself to address it.

“We do what you’re doing right now,” Wanda said fervently. “We communicate. To each other, and to her.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She hated feeling like this. Unsure. Afraid. It wasn’t like her, and she didn’t want it. She was used to comforting, not being comforted. She was used to being in control.

Wanda slid out a hand and cupped Natasha’s cheek, continuing her soft assurances.

“And I think we just try our best. Not too much, not too little. We can find the sweet spot together, and we can ask her too.” Wanda’s hands moved to capture each of Natasha’s, and she entwined their fingers together. “We’ll figure this out, hm?”

Natasha took a long, shuddering breath in through her nose. And then she released it, in a slow exhale through her mouth, her lips parted into a small O.

“Yes. We will.”

Wanda smiled at her then, her eyes still a little shiny but holding warmth rather than sadness now. It never ceased to amaze Natasha, how her wife could be buoyed by the opportunity to soothe another. She came alive when people were upset, and not in a malevolent way. Wanda just truly lived for others, lived for the chance to help and to heal. 

Sometimes Natasha felt guilty for rarely needing that kind of help from her wife. It felt like something she couldn’t provide, a failure on her part. Your arrival had placed that fact into stark relief. You provided something which Natasha could never give, something which Wanda craved with the deepest part of her soul. And Natasha desperately wanted her wife to have it. But she was scared that it wouldn’t work, scared that Wanda would invest too much, only for her dream to fall apart. Natasha would give Wanda the moon, if she could. But she couldn’t give her you. That decision was yours alone, a choice that couldn’t be meddled with, if it were to be true and free. 

They remained quiet for a while, which was just what Natasha needed. When she felt this way she just needed two things. Time and touch; just enough to decompress. 

“You know,” Wanda said quietly, stroking Natasha’s cheek with her thumb and gazing into her eyes with a steady kind of certainty, “myšička may not be the only one having a drop today.”

Natasha let out a small breath of mirth, half-defensive, half-surrendered. Perhaps Wanda was right. Perhaps it could explain this strange concoction of emotions she was feeling — guilt, confusion, and a little panic too. 

“Maybe,” she admitted, though she didn’t want to linger on this. So she summoned her intentions again, fumbling for the thread of the task at hand. “We really do need to talk to her.”

“Yes,” Wanda agreed, dropping her hand from Natasha’s cheek, and settling it on her lap instead. “What do you propose, my love?”

Natasha was grateful for the way Wanda handed back the reins, grateful for the way her wife knew when to pause, and when to progress. 

“I think you ought to get her, and give her some reassurance first,” Natasha directed, feeling her body recharge with resolve as the emotional discomfort ebbed away to the background. “I told her she’s not in trouble, but I think she needs to hear it from you, too.”

“Okay, I can do that. And then shall I bring her up here?”

Natasha considered the suggestion, then shook her head. 

“The table will feel too formal. Perhaps the sofa downstairs?”

“That sounds good. I’ll chat to her outside, and then bring her in.” Wanda tilted her head then, obviously preparing a new question. “How do we go about this?”

“I think we just have to keep it simple. Reassure her that we want her here, and she can stay until she’s better. Then ask her what she needs from us — college, exercise… we can prompt her, if need be. Whatever it is, we can figure out compromises, together.”

“And what about… everything else?” Wanda asked, and Natasha knew what she was referring to. “Do we explain, even just a little?”

Natasha sighed, overwhelmed by the impossibility of employing perfect ethics in this situation. To be completely honest would mean accosting you with a rather intense premise, at a time when you had no clear alternative. And to withhold it would mean deceiving you, entrapping you in a situation you hadn’t been able to consent to. 

“We tell as much of the truth as we can,” she determined, speaking her decision slowly, checking each word as it came. “Like the truth that we like having her here, and we want her to stay until she’s better. And the truth that we need her to communicate with us if she’s uncomfortable.”

Wanda nodded along, taking it in with a fervent expression. 

“I’ll let you take the lead, my love.” She frowned a little then, obviously considering something else. Natasha gave her a little nod of encouragement to continue. “I know you want me to be careful, to hold back a bit more… but I think she’ll need me tonight. And you too. She’ll need us to be gentle.”

“I know,” Natasha assured her. “And for tonight, I think we give that to her. But don’t lose yourself, lyubov moya. Just be Wanda, with her. Please.”

“Sľubujem,” Wanda committed, her promise quiet but steady, intent. 

They kissed then, long and slow, exchanging breaths, regrets and resolve. When they broke apart, Wanda leaned her forehead to rest against Natasha’s own. They stayed like that a moment, skin touching, Natasha’s eyes dipped and Wanda’s closed. 

“Go now,” Natasha whispered gently, giving her wife a final peck of the lips. “Our little mouse will be growing cold.”

Wanda leaned back, her smile radiant in the slightly fading light of the early evening. And in the warm glow of her wife’s joy, Natasha couldn’t even summon any regret at the slip of her words, at the possessive pronoun that had snuck past her reticence and settled into the secret space between them.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and sorry again that this took so long!! It was a bit scary taking a step back from Tumblr/writing for the last week, but I do feel a lot better now and ready to write and share more. I hope you all have a lovely weekend ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat , @valerie-lexi , @bishovapls , @redheadsinmybed , @electric-guillotines , @naominanuq

[sonofa-dreamer]

religious guilt induces a very specific kind of shame, especially when you’re queer. i think we can all agree that ronan lynch never felt the need to conform to heteronormativity or felt ashamed of being gay (at least, i really don’t). but guilt is etched into religious practice. the reason for that is: believing in god is being forever unable to escape him, it’s surveillance, it’s feeling watched and listened to all the time. would you share every thought you’ve ever had out loud? well, you don’t have to, god’s in your head. the privacy of intimate thought is not a thing for religious people. add that to social injunctions pressuring you, being a Teenager, trying to survive your trauma, and you get yourself a nice, ugly, inescapable spiral to fall into

there’s no guilt involved in that scene, but ronan praying for adam when he sees him for the first time is a good example of that, in my opinion. look, god, you’re seeing what i am seeing, right? you know how i feel already, you are omniscient, please, let me (fill in the blank: have him/keep him/understand myself)

sexuality wise, i always write older ronan as an exhibitionist not only because it’s hot but because i think a lot of us who grew up religious are used to performing for a transcendent gaze. sometimes, there’s solace in turning this into something erotic, because it gives you agency over your own wants, and in a way, frees you from the shame (again, especially if you’re queer, and subversion makes your blood run a lil hotter). i think that’s what ethel cain’s perverts is all about, actually

also, on that guilt thing, i really love the idea of ronan lynch feeling guilty for adoring someone other than god, not just loving but adoring; that ought to create crisis… that’s another root of religious guilt, being met with something, or someone, that makes you question your faith: god or being gay? god or being a sexual being? god or losing control? god or adam parrish? making it to that stage of “why would i chose? both give me happiness” is a tedious, solitary and anxiety-inducing process, but i strongly believe that ronan gets there pretty fast, mainly when he figures out that he is, in fact, a god of his own

[chrlisangels]

𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐅

WARNINGS .ᐟ.. smut, male masterbation, bobs sorta a perv but reader doesn’t mind, fem reader,

LEI LEI’S NOTES .ᐟ.. english isnt my first language, this is set in my new girl au btw!!, im just learning how to write smut so please give me some grace 🙏🏽, i didn’t know where to end this off so😔

since moving in with the boys you’ve learned they all have ‘jobs’ around the house like pete does the dishes, joaquin takes out the trash, and bob does the laundry. you’ve volunteered to do your own laundry but bob declined saying he didn’t mind and he didn’t like he DEFINITELYYYYY didn’t mind cause it means free rain to your panties and i mean he’s not a perv!! well..not really its not like he’s doing anything disgusting with them.

well he wasn’t doing anything disgusting at first but c’mon can you blame a guy? he’s had so much restraint but he just wants your so bad and he’ll take you anyway he can have you even if its just jerking off while your panties are wrapped around his cock, plus its not like you’ll notice a few pairs are gone, you have so many!

he’s pumping his hand up and down as your panties create such a delicious friction that almost has him cumming in seconds. “please lemme cum ..need it.” he whimpers out begging as if your even there to even give him permission, soon enough bob felt the pressure in his stomach snap, coating his lower abdomen in his white, sticky cum which has his movements stilling as he takes a deep breath to calm himself that doesn’t last long though cause suddenly the door handles turning and he unfortunately sees your the one walking in.

“hey bob i was wondering if you’ve seen my unde- OH MY GOD im sorry im so so sorry.” you ramble out and you know your should probably turn around but he looks so pretty i mean his abs, his sweat covered face, and- wait are those your panties? “oh my god..your the reason all of my panties are going missing! you fucking pervert!” you accuse and that has bob internally panicking as he covers himself with the blanket, “no no its not what it looks like i swear!” he rambles out, his voice all panicked i mean besides the fact he probably just ruined any chance of you liking him you could tell pete and joaquin about it than he would lose some of his best friends.

“oh really? well it looks like you have my underwear wrapped around your dick while jerking off like a little perv.” the tone of your voice has bob practically doing a double take, you don’t sound mad at him you almost sound like your teasing him, do you like that he stole your underwear? bob thinks no nuh uh you couldn’t i mean what he did was wrong! but your face is saying a different story as a smile graces your lips.

“is that why you didn’t want me doing my own laundry?” you tease with a small giggle which bob gives a shy nod to, “thought so…mm your pretty like this robert, you know that? all sweaty and fucked out looking.” bobs cheeks redden at your words as if they weren’t already red enough.

he lets out a small laugh “your pretty-“ you cut him off with a kiss, its starts out soft and sweet but it eventually becomes sloppy and heated as the both of you get desperate. after awhile you pulled away from the kiss which causes bob to let out a desperate while, keeping your forehead and nose pressed to his. “you should probably go get cleaned up before pete and joaquin get back.” you mutter which bob just nods to, too dazed to speak.

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | the game of life

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: whoa i can’t stop writing about money problems. what can i say i like realism. also i feel that this is edging into sugar daddy territory? maybe? who cares tho he’s probably happy to do it lol

as always let me know what you think and if there’s anything you want to see!!

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap, language, more talking about money (Jack is rich, reader is not)

< part 10 | part 12 coming soon!

Jack takes perfect care of you while you’re sick. You don’t know what you expected; he’s a doctor, of course he did.

He was your personal medicine reminder, calling you out of work-er, chef, and entertainer.

You spent an idyllic Sunday evening and entire Monday being cared for by him until you reluctantly took yourself home on Monday evening when he had to go to work, and you were feeling well enough to prepare for work on Tuesday.

You had gone straight to sleep, in Jack’s big, plushy bed when you had gotten back from urgent care and the pharmacy.

You had woken up a few hours later to the gentle clanging of pots and dishes, along with low music filtering down the hallway from his kitchen.

You sit up, still feeling stiff and achy, and take a few sips of water, supplied on his bedside table next to your phone.

Jack pokes his head in a second later, his eyes lighting up when they see you awake.

“Good, you’re awake,” he says with a smile. “I made miso soup, it’s the only soup I know you like.” he laughs.

He leaves, walking back down the hallway and quickly returning with a bowl. He helps you sit up, putting another pillow behind you back and handing you the bowl.

“Thank you.” you smile.

“Of course.” he deflects, leaning down slowly and giving you a kiss on the forehead before perching himself on the edge of the bed, watching.

You eat a spoonful of the delicious broth, your throat soothed by the warmth.

“About… what you said at the doctors’” you begin cautiously.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Jack assures you. You bite back a smile.

“I want to, though.” you clarify. Jack nods.

“I um, I love you too.” you rush out and quickly take another spoonful of soup into your mouth.

Deciding you’re not done, you swallow it quickly.

“And, I’m sorry that I- uh,” you choke out a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ve done a pretty awful job showing it lately.”

“No you haven’t.” he denies.

“Yes, I really have, Jack, and I’m sorry.” you say. “You’ve shown me nothing but support, and trust, and love, and I just,” you trail off, embarrassed, “I just return it with skepticism.”

“Honey,” he starts, rubbing a hand over his face. “I get it. I really do. I can’t tell you the amount of women I’ve seen coming into the ED with their kids because there’s no one to watch them. I know all the horror stories. Single mothers and women whose partners hurt them, who feel stuck and need help. I understand your fear, 100%. It’s, unfortunately, not unfounded.” he tells.

“I promise,” he starts seriously, “that that is not what will happen. I’ll be there, and helping, every step of the way.” he promises. “I know it’s scary,” he affirms, “but right now all I can do is show you that I will, and you have to trust that that’s not going to change.”

You nod, taking another bite of your soup.

“I know. And I do.” you tell him seriously. “I’ll do better.”

“You’re doing just fine.” he assures with a smile.

Jack takes away the bowl when you’re finished, and brings you a popsicle that does wonders for your sore throat. Before you fall asleep again, Jack ushers you to the living room for a change of scenery and a puzzle that you work on together, playfully fighting about the right way to approach it. (Sort by edges first, obviously. Who sorts by color?)

After you take a shower, eyelids drooping and into a new set of Jack’s clothes, he sits you down in front of the mirror and blow dries your hair.

“Okay,” he says as he turns off the dryer, “it looks like it’s bedtime.” he laughs, observing your eyes struggling to stay open.

You crawl into his bed and they immediately flutter shut, but you’re vaguely aware of him changing, turning off his lights, and crawling in on the other side. You roll over to face him, tucking you head into his neck and fall asleep quickly.

Monday has the same pace, slow and unhurried. You feel a little more energized, so you and Jack play a few board games and finish your puzzle from the night before.

You’re kicking his ass at Life, just having purchased a house, when he speaks desire it being his turn to spin the spinner and take his turn.

“Can I bring back up the perfect world question I asked you about?” he starts.

“Oh,” you say, not expecting the question.

He takes your word as hesitation, and quickly offers “I can go first, if you want.”

You nod, signaling him to go ahead.

“Okay,” he starts, sitting back slightly, “in my perfect world, we live together when the baby is born. I don’t care if it’s here, in your apartment, or somewhere else, but that’s one thing I want.” he explains.

“Actually, no, so in my perfect world we live somewhere else. A house, probably, with a backyard. And bathtubs.” he corrects.

He plows on, “and you take as much time off of work as you want, without worrying about money because I’ll be there and I get 6 weeks of paid leave.”

“Paid?” you clarify.

“Paid.” he confirms with a smirk.

“Wow, I should have gone to medical school.” you laugh.

Jack chugs along on his perfect world dream.

“And then we have a beautiful baby, and we raise them up right, together, and pay for them to go to college.” he finishes. “Somewhere along the line I’ll ask you to marry me and we’ll have a wedding, and maybe we talk about another kid, so the first one isn’t lonely.” he finishes, looking at you to gauge your reaction.

“That sounds nice.” you tell him.

“Great, glad we’re on the same page.” he says, standing up while slapping his knees.

“Wha- where are you going?” you call after him as he walks away.

“One second!” he returns.

He returns a second later with a stack of papers and slaps them down on top of the Life board.

“What’s this?” you ask him, picking up the papers.

“Houses.” he replies.

“Jack,” you sigh, flipping through the printed listings.

“What!?” he defends, “it’s my dream!”

“These are… really nice.” you say slowly.

“Yeah, I thought so too.” he agrees.

“Jack,” you start hesitantly, “I know we like, just worked this out, but there’s no way I can help with like, any of this.” you say, waving your hand over the papers. “My credit score is trash.”

“That’s okay,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. “Look, like I told you, this is my perfect world. If I can make it happen, which I can, why shouldn’t I?” he asks.

“All by yourself?” you clarify.

“Well, obviously you’ll be there. Both names on the deed but maybe only mine on the mortgage, and if you really want to, I’d even let you contribute to the mortgage.” he says like it’s some big gift.

“Jack,” you sigh, again, resisting the immediate no that wants to bubble out of you. You take a deep breath instead, “Can I think about it?” you ask.

“Of course,” he agrees, “but I might just buy a house anyway. But I want you to be there so you can help choose.” he says.

You sigh, again, getting tired of sighing.

“How long do I have to think?” you ask.

“I’ll give you two weeks.” he says with a smile.

“Deal.” you shake his hand and everything.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal @vinceelser @glamorizethechaos @nerdgirljen @namgification @li22ie2017 @misshoneypaper @gardeniarose13 @peachjellyy @babybatreads

if you want a tag, let me know!!

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 6: Small Bump

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANON!!!! I’m so sorry I hurt so many of you last night. It gets worse today. I cried four times writing this chapter. This is the storm before the rainbow, so stick it out with our girls! I hope that even in the grief, you love this! xx Elle

Warnings: Pregnancy loss, grief, medical trauma, medical procedure, dissociation, depression

Word Count: 4.1k words

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

Paige didn’t know what to do.

She was filming a TikTok with Cam and Rickea when a message from Azzi came through.

“She’s in your phone as ‘Princess?’ Oh, you are horrendously down bad.” Rickea teased.

She ignored the woman with a small smile, picked up her phone, and swiped down to see the message.

Princess 💗👸🏽👩🏽‍🍳: I’m bleeding. A lot

The smile fell from her face instantly.

She didn’t say anything, just ran to find a supervisor. Stewie. DT. Somebody.

She physically ran into the tall, pale brunette.

“Woah, Bueckers. Where’s the fire?” She joked.

Paige couldn’t say anything. She looked at the words again.

I’m bleeding. A lot

“I think Azzi’s having a miscarriage,” She whispered, not even able to believe it herself.

Stewie nudged her towards the front. “Take as much time as you need. Keep me posted.”

The blonde nodded and raced to her car, not answering any of the calls of her name as she blew by everyone.

She replied to Azzi and threw her car in gear.

Fuck.

Not Peanut.

Azzi had been so close to that twelve-week mark.

The point when the risk for miscarriage practically disappeared.

Three days ago, they were laughing about how big Peanut’s head was.

And now?

“Hey, Siri. Call Olivia Nelson-Ododa.”

Her friend picked up on the third ring. “Everything good, Paige?”

“No,” She started. Her eyes blurred with tears and her throat tightened. “Azzi’s having a miscarriage.”

A low gasp sounded over the phone, “I’m so sorry, Paige. Do you want to bring her in? I can be at the hospital in 30.”

“I – ”  Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do, Liv. Tell me what to do.” Tears falling.

“Well, first, you have to stop crying. Her body is flooding her system with hormones, and someone needs to have some control.” She started.

Paige nodded, even though the doctor couldn’t see her. She roughly wiped the tears off her face and cleared her throat. “Okay.”

“Have her take a shower. Nothing crazy or too long. She may not know it now, but she’ll appreciate being clean. And make sure she has something really comfortable to wear. Nothing that has sentimentality though, you don’t want her tying this moment to a comfort item.” Liv continued.

She needed to go to the store then. She would get different soap, shampoo, and conditioner so none of her favorites would be tainted by the loss of Peanut. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Then you’re going to bring her to the hospital. I’ll be there, and I’ll do the rest. You just have to be there with her. Be there for her. That’s all you can do.” Olivia finished. “I’m so, so sorry, Paige.”

“Yeah, me too.” She whispered. “Thanks, Liv. I’ll see you in an hour.”

She disconnected the call the same time she pulled into parking spot. She rushed into the store. She chose a mango scented body wash, jasmine scented shampoo and conditioner, and a soft, red sweatsuit.

She was back in her car within five minutes.

Azzi still hadn’t called, and Paige didn’t know if she should have been worried.

When she got to the house, she didn’t call out. She didn’t make any real noise.

Azzi was sitting on the toilet, shorts around her ankles.

“Azzi?” Paige called, moving towards her quietly.

Azzi heard her name like it was underwater. She couldn’t move her legs. Couldn’t lift her arms. She wasn’t cold, but she shivered anyway.

She didn’t answer or even look like she’d heard Paige.

Paige squatted in front of her. Those perfect brown eyes, usually so expressive, were vacant. She cupped her cheek gently, and her eyes came back to life.

“Hi, Az.”

She blinked at Paige, returning her eyes to the wall behind her best friend.

Paige thought. She needed to do what Liv had told her. She reached over and turned the shower on. Hot. Like Azzi had always liked.

She grabbed the bag from the store and set the body wash in the shower. She tossed the clothes on the shower before remembering. She grabbed a pair of Azzi’s underwear and an overnight pad.

When she went back into the bathroom, she spoke again. “We’re going to take a shower, then we’re gonna go to the hospital, okay?”

Azzi still didn’t reply, but she didn’t fight when Paige pulled her clothes off or when she led them into the shower.

The lively brunette was practically catatonic, and that terrified Paige.

Water slid over Azzi’s skin, but she felt… nothing. Like her body was a story someone else had written and left behind. She didn’t know where she’d gone. Her hands worked, her legs moved, but her mind… it had folded up and left the room. It was easier not to be there. She wanted to ask Paige to lie to her. To say it was all a mistake. But she was afraid she’d believe it.

Paige washed, dried, and dressed her quickly and with no fuss before starting their journey to the hospital.

Olivia was waiting for them, just like she’d promised. The wheelchair she’d brought out didn’t even bother the normally independent Azzi.

After Paige gently placed her on the seat, she moved to push it when there was a grip on her wrist.

Azzi still wasn’t looking at her, but she was holding on, refusing to let go. Paige adjusted the hold, flipping her hand to lace their fingers together.

They are taken to an exam room; one stocked with an ultrasound machine.

“Azzi,” Liv called softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I have to do an ultrasound, so we can all know what’s going on. Can you get on the table?”

She didn’t say anything, just squeezed Paige’s hand tightly.

“Can I put you on the table, Az?” Paige questioned.

At the next squeeze, softer this time, Paige lifted her from the wheelchair and deposited her on the table. She pulled the chair up to the side. Paige held her hand again, free one coming up the brush through her hair gently.

“I’m right here Azzi. I’m always here with you. You’re not alone, I promise. I won’t ever leave you alone.” She muttered the words on repeat until Liv interjected.

“Azzi? There’s no heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”

No one said anything.

Azzi knew already.

Paige knew.

But the confirmation.

Peanut was gone.

Azzi turned to Paige, eyes shining, chin quivering.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Paige brought her forehead to Azzi’s.

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

Azzi hadn’t cried. At all. At the first gush of blood, she’d gone completely silent.

Until now. Until Paige touched her forehead to Azzi’s and wrapped around her like she could shield her from this.

A sob bubbled up, and Azzi couldn’t keep it in. She tried to breathe. Deep inhales to calm herself down, but she couldn’t. Just these big, heavy, heart wrenching sobs poured from her lips. Her hand cradled her stomach. Clenched the skin that would stretch with the fullness of a baby.

Azzi had always been a quiet crier. She always thought those loud crying on tv was fake. But now, now she knew how real those sobs were.

She could hear Liv asking her a question, she just couldn’t bring herself to answer.

She just kept her head where it was. With Paige.

Paige would handle it all. She would handle it all and help Azzi put the pieces of her heart back together.

And she did. Azzi could hear her asking Liv the questions.

“When did the heartbeat stop?” Paige asked.

“Most likely the day after her last appointment a couple of days ago.”

She had just missed it. Maybe if it happened while she was at the doctor, they could’ve done something. Azzi thought to herself.

“Was there anything that could have been done?” Paige paused. “I don’t want her to blame herself.”

“No. Most miscarriages before 13 weeks don’t have a specific cause. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent this.”

“I don’t want her to have to do this alone at home. Is there anything you can do?”

“We’re squeezing her in as an emergency tonight,” Liv said quietly. “The OR’s already been cleared.”

Yes. That’s what Azzi wanted. She just wanted it all to be over.

“I don’t want her to be alone, Liv.”

“I’m sorry Paige. It’s a sterile field. I can let you be there until she’s put under, then I’ll take you to her right after.”

“What if she wants to try again?”

“Remember what I told you?” Liv asked. “If there’s a miscarriage, wait a month or two and switch to IVF.

“My last question is what should we expect after we get back home.”

“Well, in two weeks she needs to be back for her follow up. She should get her cycle five or six times. Then four to six weeks later, she’ll be able to try IVF if she wants.”

Paige pulled away from Azzi a bit.

“Azzi, do you want to do it tonight or tomorrow?” She asked quietly.

The woman just nodded, head hidden in Paige’s neck. “Just want it to be over.” She said between sobs.

“Okay,” Paige nodded, pulling her closer. “Okay, we’ll do it tonight. And then we can go home.”

Liv moved towards the door quietly, “I already had a room set up for her, so she can be a little more comfortable while she’s waiting to be taken back.”

Paige sighed, “Thank you, Liv. Seriously.” She coaxed Azzi’s face out of her neck, heart breaking a bit at the grief written all over her face. “We’re going to get you to a room, okay, Az?”

The brunette nodded, eyes puffy and a little distant.

Olivia got them to a room. “I’ll be around to check in with you guys. The procedure is scheduled for 10 tonight.”

Paige moved around where Azzi laying on the bed until a hand shot out.

“What’s up, Azzi?” Blue eyes were wide with sadness and anxiety.

She tugged the blonde down to the hospital bed. Paige smiled sadly before stretching out and pulling the younger woman closer.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Azzi. I promise.”

Azzi just hummed absently.

“Do you want me to call anyone?” Paige hesitated. “I can call your mom and dad?” The head on her chest shook. “What about Katie and my dad?” A nod. A tiny nod, but a nod nonetheless.

Support Staff (Unpaid)

Paige 💜: at the hospital. azzi had a miscarriage

She exhaled roughly. Typing that made it a little more real, and it hurt a lot more than it should have.

It wasn’t common for Azzi to be feeling something that Paige couldn’t pull her out of, but this? Paige had no idea how to help her.

Her phone lit up with messages.

Katie 🌻🥧: I’m on the way.

Pops 🛠️🏡: We’ll be in the waiting room. Will wait until she wants to see us.

Katie 🌻🥧: Do you guys need anything?

Paige 💜: nah. she can’t eat or anything. they're gonna do a procedure

Katie 🌻🥧: Ok. Let me know if anything changes.

Paige locked her phone, wanting to launch it to the wall.

It wasn’t fair. Azzi didn’t deserve this. Peanut didn’t deserve this. She just pulled Azzi closer, hugged her tighter.

Three days ago, they were excited. Azzi’s smile was so bright as she talked about Peanut. She walked around the house, content to tell the baby everything she was doing.

It seemed like everything was going to be perfect.

And then the world came crashing down.

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

A few hours later, not much had changed.

She still hadn’t spoken to anyone else, only Paige. Even when Katie came in earlier, Azzi had looked at her with broken eyes and cried. Katie held Azzi’s hand with a firm grip.

“This doesn’t have to be the end, Azzi. You are strong and resilient.” Katie said.

She and Bob left after sitting with them for an hour, promising they’d come back tonight when Azzi was having the procedure.

 Katie 🌻🥧: We’ll talk when we come back.

Katie 🌻🥧: You’re being so strong for her. I’m proud of you Paige.

The blonde just liked both messages, dropping her phone to the bed when a nurse came in.

“Hello, Ms. Fudd.” She began gently. “I’m sorry for your loss. I just came by to ask a few questions before your D&C.”

Paige didn’t understand how the woman could ask the questions so calmly, like their entire world wasn’t falling to pieces. She wasn’t being cold or unkind; she was warm, but she moved through everything like this happened every day.

“Have you been under general anesthesia before?” She questioned.

When Azzi buried her face deeper in Paige’s chest, she answered for her. “Yes. She has. We know the drill, how she reacts, and what to expect when she’s coming out of it.”

The nurse nodded, gratefully. “Does she have any allergies?” Paige shook her head.  “Okay, thank you. I’m sorry to ask this last question, but you have the option to have tests run on the fetus if you would like to know what caused the loss.”

Azzi whimpered quietly and Paige’s head shot up. “What?” Her voice cracked.

The nurse rushed to explain herself. “Sometimes it helps the mother. Helps her know, get confirmation, that it wasn’t her fault.”

Paige thought. She knew Azzi would blame herself for this, but maybe it could help if there was some reason about why this happened to Peanut. She cleared her throat, “Yes. We would appreciate that. Thank you.”

She nodded, her smile small, but warm. She set a gown, a pair of socks, and a hair net in a stack on the counter. “Please help her change into this. They will be coming to get her in the next thirty minutes.”

After the nurse left, they rested on the bed, not moving. When Paige scooted bad a little, Azzi’s grip on her hoodie tightened.

“I don’t want to do this.” She mumbled. “If I put the gown on, it’s all gonna be real.”

Paige’s breath hitched, “Oh, Azzi.” She whispered, running her hand over her hair.

“I know what’s happening, but I want it to be a dream. I want to go to sleep and wake up and try again.” Azzi rambled.

Tears were falling again, but slower this time, like she was resigning herself to reality.

“I just wanted to have a baby. I don’t understand.” Her voice cracked at the end.

Paige couldn’t say anything. She had no words of encouragement. She was afraid that anything she said would either minimize the loss or brush over the fact that Peanut ever existed.

So, she just inhaled deeply and spoke from the heart. “I know, Azzi. And I’m so sorry. You and Peanut didn’t deserve this. I know it may not feel like it, but you’re already a mommy, Az. I know you won’t get to hold your baby, but you loved Peanut for their entire life. I wish I could take this pain from you. I’m so so sorry. But I promise you. You will have another baby. You will hold your baby one day. In your arms. Against your chest. I don’t care what I have to do to make it happen..”

This time, Azzi let her pull away. “You won’t leave?” She whispered quietly.

“Never going anywhere, Az.”

Paige pulled off her slides and socks. She tugged the soft hospital socks over Azzi’s feet with care, smoothing the heel until it fit just right. She didn’t say anything — just stayed kneeling in front of her, forehead to shin, wishing she could carry Azzi’s grief for her.

The sweatpants went next; she covered her best friend so she wouldn’t feel exposed. She unzipped the sweatshirt before pulling the gown around her body, tying the ties quickly. She gathered the soft, dark coils and pulled them into a ponytail. The blue hair cap looked silly on the woman, but Paige knew she’d never seen anyone as beautiful as Azzi.

Liv came with a few other people, and they began to wheel Azzi to the operating room. Azzi didn’t let go of Paige’s hand once.

They moved Azzi onto the operating table. She winced as they inserted a needle into her arm. They pushed a medication in, and Azzi felt herself getting drowsy.

Her big brown eyes stayed on Paige. “You won’t leave?” She asked again.

“I’m not going anywhere. When you wake up, I’ll be right here. I promise.”

And she really did stay. She stayed until the mask covered Azzi’s nose and mouth. She stayed next to the love of her life until someone escorted her out.

As she padded to the waiting room, Paige prayed.

She prayed that the operation would go perfectly.

She prayed that Peanut was having fun up there.

She prayed that Azzi would be able to get pregnant again.

She prayed that Azzi would have a healthy, full-term pregnancy.

She prayed that Azzi would have a healthy, happy baby.

She prayed that Azzi could still have a good birthday.

She prayed that Azzi would let her help her.

She prayed that Azzi would be okay, that she would be happy.

“Paige,” She stopped praying and looked to her left.

“Katie,” She said, her voice wavering.

Paige had gone the entire day without letting herself break down the way she needed to. She needed to be strong for Azzi; one of them needed to be in control.

Her dad and step mom pulled her into a tight hug, letting her cry into their small huddle.

“Do you want me to get you anything, kiddo? Water? Dinner?” Bob asked.

Paige shook her head. “If I eat anything, I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s okay, sweet girl. We’re just here.” Katie said, softly.

“She was going to tell you guys this weekend. Got a onesie that said Mimi and Papa. She was so excited.” She let out a small laugh. “We called the baby Peanut.” She paused. “I didn’t know something so tiny, so knew could make me feel like this.”

Katie smiled gently, “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s love, Paige. You love Azzi, and you love Peanut.”

“It’s almost her birthday.” Paige whispered. “There’s only eight days until her birthday.”

It was quiet before her dad spoke, “You don’t think she’s going to be in the mood to celebrate.” It wasn’t even a question.

“I want to do something meaningful for her.” Paige spoke, pacing across the tile.

“Okay, we can think of some things. I’ll send you any ideas I think of.” Bob said.

“Maybe we can make peanut butter cookies? Since you all called the baby Peanut, maybe that will make her feel a little closer, a little more whole.” Katie wondered aloud.

The blonde nodded; that idea may have worked. She needed to pick Azzi’s brain first. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin her birthday with something sad.

Katie sat down, pulling out her crochet hooks and yarn.

Paige smiled, “I thought you only did that when you were mad at Dad.” She plopped down next to the woman.

“Anger or anxiety. That’s when I crochet.” Her smile fell, “I don’t know how to help you girls.”

Paige sighed, leaning back and stretching her legs out. “Azzi’s still not talking. She may have said fifty works since it started.”

Bob cupped her shoulder, grounding her.

“She was just gone, Dad.” She looked up at him, eyes glossy. “When Liv said it, she just…the lights were on, but nobody was home.”

“I think she was just in shock, sweetheart. Her brain was protecting her, but she’ll come back. Just give it some time.” He said, gently.

Paige was quiet for a while. “I still don’t know what to do. How to help her.”

“You just keep showing up. She’s gonna need you after this. Probably for a while. You’re going to be tired but just keep being there for you. She’ll come back to you.” Katie said, rubbing her back.

Paige pulled out her phone, googling things to buy a mom who just had a miscarriage. She cringed at most of the suggestions. They were corny, inauthentic, and nothing that Azzi would appreciate or like.

“Paige,” A familiar voice called.

She was in front of Liv in a heartbeat. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, it went well. She’s in recovery now.” Liv said, gesturing down the hallway.

Paige turned back to her parents.

“We’re gonna head out. Let us know if you need anything.” Bob said, giving Paige a tight hug.

“Bring her home, P.” Katie wrapped her arms around the tall blonde. “I love you both.”

Paige smiled, “Love you too, Katie.” She turned back to Liv. “Can I go see her?” She questioned.

“Follow me.”

Paige and Liv walked side by side in silence. “So, what now?” She murmured.

“She’ll be bleeding for the next week. It shouldn’t be anything too heavy. Same thing with cramps. If either of those are intense, bring her back in. She may want to see a counselor or therapist.”

She couldn’t bring herself to save any of this information on her phone. The note with all the rules, dates, and information about Peanut was still pinned to the top, and Paige couldn’t see that right now.

“I want her to come to my practice, or the hospital if she wants, in two weeks for a follow up. Need to make sure no tissues were retained or anything. She should have her first period in about a month. It’ll be heavier and more painful than normal, but that’s good. It’s the body’s final cleansing before she’d be cleared to try again.” Liv turned to look at Paige. “I know that was a lot of information, but you have my number is you have any questions.”

They stopped outside of Room 251. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The lights were dim – the window shade was almost pulled down completely. There was a constant beeping, showing Azzi’s calm heart rate. She was pale beneath the blanket, blue surgical cap still on her curls.

Paige pulled the chair to the edge of the bead and gently held onto one hand. Her head rested on the edge of the mattress, just watching the beautiful girl.

She knew the moment Azzi was back. Her eyelids fluttered a bit before her eyes opened.

“Hey, pretty girl.” Paige whispered.

A frown tugged at Azzi’s lips. “You stayed?” Paige nodded, bringing her free hand to cup her cheek. “Did it work? Is it over?” She whimpered.

“It’s done,” Paige squeezed her hand tightly. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

The women were quiet before another question. “Do you think Peanut knows I love them?” Azzi’s voice wobbled.

Paige answered without hesitation, “Of course. You gave everything you could to Peanut.”

“I miss my baby,” Her voice was soft and broken. “I feel empty.”

“I know, love. I miss Peanut too.” She brushed a kiss on her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Azzi didn’t say anything for a while. “I know you are going to tell me that I’m wrong, but I feel like it’s my fault. Like maybe I could’ve done something different.” Her eyes were misty with tears.

“They are going to run some tests, see what happened. But they said it wasn’t your fault. And I know that won’t help until you have the results, but I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.” Her voice was soft, but firm.

Azzi just tightened her grip on the pale hand. “I just don’t know what to do now.”

Paige paused, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “Well, for now, you’re going to rest. You’re going to let me handle everything because your body needs you to rest, Azzi. And if you want – maybe if you want, we can try again later.”

When Azzi didn’t reply, Paige didn’t know if she said the wrong thing.

“You don’t have to talk. You can just rest. Sleep. I’m gonna be right here. You don’t need to be brave anymore. It’s just me and you.” Paige rambled quietly.

What would have been annoying to some people was comforting and soothing to Azzi.

“Will you get in with me?” She asked drowsily.

Paige gave her a soft smile, the one that was just for Azzi. “Of course, princess.”

Azzi doesn’t move over. Refuses to create space. She wanted the no space between her and the love of her life.

As they cuddled closely, Paige relaxed. They may not have been okay in this moment, but they would be.

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi hi hi! So I'm new to tumblr and found your account and omigod I love the way you write 😍😍

So can I request a little something thats been rattling around in my brain? So it's Aaron Hotchner x Southern!Reader.... Basically Penelope drags everyone to a country bar to celebrate Reader's anniversary of joining the team... and she blows everyone away with her line dancing skills and her bullriding... Hotch realises that the polite sunshine girl he fell for is also very talented.

Thank you thank you! Kisses, have a great day xxx

Boots, Bulls, and a Bit of Surprise | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Southern!Reader | WC: 1.5k | CW: Fluff, mention of bar and alcohol

A/N: I tried my best, but bear in mind that I'm not american and have no clue at all about southern culture and styles ;)

Also yay, this has been in my inbox for ages and I just finished it as a treat for me being done with school for hopefully the next 3 months.

Garcia had declared it a mandatory outing. And when Penelope made something “mandatory,” it might as well have been written into BAU policy.

“Three years!” she had exclaimed that morning, dramatic as ever. “Three years of grace, sweetness, charm, and accented perfection! You think I’m letting that slide by without a celebration? Absolutely not. You, my dear, are going to put on your boots and let me celebrate you.”

You’d tried to argue, gently. Said you didn’t need anything fancy, that you were just grateful to be part of the team. But Garcia had waved you off with a sparkling hand and muttered something about “honky-tonk happiness.” And that was that.

So here you were, standing outside The Rusty Spur, a weathered but lively country bar tucked just off a back road near Quantico. Warm yellow lights glowed over the porch, and the sounds of fiddles and guitars spilled through the open door into the night air. The faint smell of barbecue and beer made your stomach growl despite your earlier apprehension of going out.

“Feels like home,” you murmured without thinking.

Hotch, standing beside you in his usual dark attire, that made him look extremely out of place in this setting, turned slightly at the sound of your voice.

“Good or bad thing?” he asked quietly.

You gave him a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good. It’s a good thing.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he stepped ahead to follow the others inside.

The interior of the bar was like something plucked straight from your childhood: worn wooden floors, strings of fairy lights draped from wooden beams, a live band already in full swing near the bar. Cowboy hats dotted the crowd. Boots stomped in rhythm across the dance floor. The vibe was warm and loud and just a little chaotic.

Everyone looked vaguely overwhelmed, while Penelope looked like she’d ascended to country-western heaven in her rhinestone-studded jacket and pink boots.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, spinning in a slow circle as she took everything in. “I’ve found my aesthetic soulmate. This bar is me. This is who I am now.”

You laughed softly, slipping off your denim jacket to reveal a button-down tucked into high-waisted jeans and a belt that had your name stitched into it from years ago. Your boots scuffed lightly on the floor as you stepped forward.

Morgan gave a low whistle. “Okay, cowgirl. You been hiding this whole time or what?”

“Not hiding,” you said with a wink. “Just hadn’t had the chance to show y’all yet.”

Hotch didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. You didn’t look at him yet.

Penelope ordered the first round, a mix of drinks in mason jars and bright-colored cocktails with umbrellas, and you all settled into a large booth near the dance floor. The bar had just enough space for the team to spread out but not enough to avoid the rhythm of the music pulsing through the floorboards.

When a new song kicked up, upbeat, classic country, full of claps and kicks and steel twang, your ears perked up.

“Oh, I love this one,” you said, already halfway to your feet.

JJ blinked. “Wait. You dance?”

You paused, halfway through pushing in your chair, and smiled like you were letting them in on a little secret. “Y’all really haven’t been paying attention, huh?”

Without another word, you made your way to the dance floor, hips swaying casually as you joined the growing crowd already in formation. The second the beat dropped, your entire posture changed.

You were electric.

Steps crisp, turns sharp, your body moving with an ease that only came from muscle memory built over years. You glided through the line dance like you’d been born into it, like the rhythm had grown with you, which in reality it had. People around you started to slow down just to watch, and the team definitely did.

“She’s incredible,” JJ said under her breath.

“I thought she was just sweet tea and apologies,” Emily muttered.

Garcia let out a breathy gasp and grabbed Morgan’s arm. “My girl is lighting the place on fire. She’s setting the bar on actual fire.”

Even Spencer looked floored. “Her coordination is… statistically uncommon.”

Hotch was silent.

He didn’t say a word. He just watched, his eyes locked on you like he was trying to decode something he hadn’t realized was right in front of him all along.

He’d always known you were kind. Grounded. The kind of person who remembered birthdays and brought snacks to stakeouts and sent thank-you notes in handwriting that curled like calligraphy. You were soft-spoken and steady.

But this was something different. You weren’t just good at this, you were magnetic. Controlled. Radiant in a way that went bone-deep. He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the table until the song ended.

You curtsied with a grin, breath a little heavy but eyes bright, and made your way back to the table. People clapped as you passed.

“I am… genuinely intimidated,” Emily said, wide-eyed.

“You never told us you could move like that,” JJ added.

You just shrugged, cheeks pink with the rush of the dance and the attention. “It’s just like breathing, where I come from. County fairs, church picnics, Friday night dances. You either learn, or you get left behind.”

Penelope leaned in, dreamily. “I would commit crimes for your kind of footwork.”

Hotch still hadn’t spoken. His gaze hadn’t left you, but his expression was harder to read now. Thoughtful. Quiet.

You were just about to ask him what he was thinking when a voice near the bar yelled over the music.

“Bull time!”

A cheer rose from the crowd. A spotlight flickered toward the far corner, where the mechanical bull sat like a challenge waiting to be accepted.

You perked up instantly.

“Oh no,” Morgan said, eyebrows rising. “Don’t tell me...”

You were already standing again. “Oh, I’m telling you.”

Penelope clapped like a delighted child. “YES. I knew you’d be the one.”

“You’ve done this before?” Emily asked, half-laughing.

You shot her a wink as you handed your jacket to Spencer. “Won my county fair four years runnin’. That bull and I go way back.”

Hotch was still silent, but his eyes followed you with the same intensity as before.

The bull operator gave you a nod like he recognized a fellow pro, and you swung yourself up into the seat without hesitation, adjusting your grip and posture with ease.

The bar quieted a little.

Then the machine jolted to life.

You rode like you were born for it, hips moving in sync with every lurch and twist, one hand high in the air, the other tight on the rope. You didn’t wobble. You didn’t flinch. The crowd whooped louder with every passing second.

And then, with a final spin, you let yourself fall, landing lightly on your feet and giving a little bow, grinning from ear to ear.

The bar exploded.

At the booth, everyone was shouting and laughing.

“You’re actually a menace,” Morgan said, stunned. “An actual bull-riding menace.”

“Your core strength must be off the charts,” Reid muttered.

Penelope looked like she might cry. “You are the most beautiful cowboy goddess I have ever seen.”

But you weren’t really listening to them anymore.

You were looking at him.

Hotch was still seated, still quiet, but something had changed. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed, but not in disapproval. It looked more like… awe. Curiosity maybe?

You walked over slowly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

“Well?” you asked softly. “Still think I’m just polite and sweet?”

He looked at you, gaze steady and intense. “I’ve never thought that,” he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it.

Your stomach fluttered.

“Good,” you murmured.

The music shifted to something slow.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Dance with me?” you asked, holding out your hand.

He hesitated, just a second. Then he stood, his hand sliding into yours. His touch was warm. Steady. Reassuring in the way only he could be.

You led him to the dance floor, placing one hand on his shoulder, the other holding his firmly. He was stiff at first, classic Hotch, like he wasn’t sure how to let go. But you leaned in just enough, your voice soft.

“Relax. Ain’t no performance. Just you and me.”

Something in him loosened at that. Slowly, he matched your rhythm. Not perfectly, but with effort. He was trying. And he was holding you like he didn’t want to stop.

And under the soft lights of a bar that felt like home, with a team that had become just like family, watching from a distance and the music wrapping around you, Aaron Hotchner danced.

Badly.

But you didn’t mind one bit.