#how in over four years was this what you came up with. how is the pacing this insane. how is this character treatment ok.... PLEASE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bueckersleftbraid · 2 days ago

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”— Not For Real

WC: just abt 4.0k (trust it’s good even tho it’s short)

paring: pazzi ofc 🤗

warnings: ummm fluff, fake dating, rom com ass moments, paige lowkey being stupid

authors notes —> hi!! here is this. I sort of love it so I hope you do too! I wrote this quick so my apologies for how short it is but it’s very cutesy

THE PITCH

The coffee shop was nearly empty except for a few students buried in their laptops and an older couple sharing a newspaper by the window. Paige slid into the booth, her cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a takeout cup in one hand and skepticism written all over her face.

Azzi was already there, lounging like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other and an unread book open in front of her like a decoy. Her sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on top of her head, her dark curls pulled back in a loose bun. She didn’t look frantic or upset — not the way her text had sounded— “Emergency. Meet me at Haven. Bring caffeine.”

“Alright,” Paige said, plunking her drink down. “I came. I caffeinated. What’s the ‘emergency’?”

Azzi gave her a look, one brow quirked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was holding back a grin. Paige didn’t trust that expression. Azzi was rarely panicked. Calculated? Yes. Hyper-competitive? Definitely. But desperate?

Something was up.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Paige blinked. “You—what?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “Just for a few weeks.”

Paige sat back, stunned. “This is a joke.”

“I’m completely serious.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that stretched and pulled like taffy. Paige stared, trying to figure out if Azzi had finally lost it.

Azzi’s tone was matter-of-fact. “My sister’s wedding is in three weeks. My parents are hosting half the extended family. And last year—because I was being cornered by four aunties asking why I was single—I might’ve said I was dating someone. Someone serious.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say it was you,” Azzi added quickly. “But now they want to meet her. And I panicked. And I may have shown them a photo from our joint charity game last summer. You looked good.”

“You—what?”

“I didn’t think they’d remember! But now they’re asking if you’re coming. And since I hate lying—”

“You’re literally lying right now,” Paige interrupted.

“—I figured it’s less lying if it’s you,” Azzi said, flashing a smile that could only be described as weaponized charm.

Paige stared at her like she’d grown another head.

She and Azzi had never been friends, not exactly. Their relationship existed in a gray area between reluctant allies and rivals. They knew each other’s weak spots. They pushed each other during games, sparred during interviews, and occasionally made nice at league events. There had always been tension there — a kind that hovered just on the edge of something else.

But this?

“Why me?” Paige asked finally.

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her expression turned serious — sincere in a way that Paige rarely saw from her.

“Because you can handle it,” she said. “My family can be… intense. They’ll ask questions. They’ll pry. I need someone who’s smart, quick, and can improvise. You’re the only person I trust not to crack.”

Paige felt a strange flicker of pride at that, which she quickly smothered. She hated how Azzi’s approval always stirred something in her.

“I don’t know,” Paige said, eyeing her warily. “What’s in it for me?”

Azzi smiled, like she’d been expecting that.

“I’ll owe you. Big time. I’ll even owe you publicly, if you want. You name the favor. I’ll make it happen.”

Paige took a slow sip of her latte, weighing her options. She could walk away. Tell Azzi she was out of her mind and let her deal with the fallout.

But instead, she said, “I want your warm-up playlist.”

Azzi went still.

“…You’re not serious.”

“I am deadly serious,” Paige replied. “The one you play with the wireless earbuds. The one you turn off the second someone gets too close. You give me that playlist, and I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Azzi looked betrayed. “That’s like—sacred. That’s mine.”

Paige smirked. “Then maybe you should’ve asked someone else to fake date you.”

Azzi muttered something under her breath and stared down at her coffee like it had betrayed her too. Then she sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone.

She scrolled, tapped, and then held it out. “You’re the worst.”

“I try,” Paige said, gleefully accepting the transfer.

There was a strange beat of silence after that, as if both of them realized this was no longer hypothetical. Azzi sat back, a little too calm again.

“So,” Paige said cautiously, “how exactly does this work?”

Azzi raised a brow. “We ease into it. Coffee shops, casual photos, a couple of public run-ins. We soft-launch the relationship by next weekend. Then the wedding. A few smiling family photos. Some lingering looks. Maybe even a dance. Two weeks after that, we stage a quiet breakup. Friendly. Mutual. Devastatingly mature.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’ve thought this through.”

Azzi gave her a crooked grin. “You have no idea.”

THE ACT

Fake dating, Paige quickly realized, required a surprising amount of coordination.

There were rules, schedules, contingencies. Texts needed timestamps. Stories had to match. They spent an entire afternoon building a believable relationship history — from their “first coffee after a preseason scrimmage” to their “accidental slow dance at a teammate’s birthday party.” Paige had never spent so much time with Azzi without the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood in the background.

And somehow, being around her without the structure of basketball— just sitting close on a couch, laptops open, occasionally stealing each other’s fries— felt more intimate than anything else they’d ever done.

It was during brunch on the first Saturday of the plan that things started to feel…off.

Not bad off. Just different.

Their table was tucked into the corner of a sunlit café that Paige didn’t usually frequent— the kind of place with overpriced avocado toast and artisanal jam in tiny glass jars. She kept checking the window, half-expecting someone to recognize them.

Azzi, meanwhile, looked utterly unbothered.

She was dressed in a soft brown sweater that brought out the warm undertones in her skin, her hair loose for once, curls brushing her shoulders. She’d insisted on sitting next to Paige instead of across from her — “Couples sit side-by-side. Optics.” — and now, her knee kept brushing Paige’s beneath the table like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

Paige was hyper-aware of every point of contact: the press of Azzi’s shoulder, the occasional light touch on her wrist when Azzi laughed at something she said. And then there was the moment— the one Paige didn’t know how to explain— when Azzi reached across the table and gently, casually, brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“Missed a spot,” she said, voice low, like it was just for her.

Paige stared, momentarily frozen. She barely managed a sarcastic “Thanks, Mom,” just to defuse the tension in her own chest.

Azzi only smirked.

Then— in full view of the table across from them— she reached down and laced her fingers through Paige’s.

Paige’s pulse jumped.

“What are you doing?” she hissed under her breath.

Azzi tilted her head. “Handholding. Basic public display. You want this to be convincing, right?”

“This is—” Paige trailed off, unable to find a word that didn’t sound like denial. Her fingers stayed tangled in Azzi’s for a beat longer than necessary before she forced herself to look away.

Convincing. Right. This was just for show.

But it felt like something else.

____

Later that evening, they found themselves scrolling through Instagram together on Azzi’s couch, reviewing what Azzi referred to as “launch content.” It had been Paige’s idea to soft-launch their relationship through stories and casual posts — enough to stir curiosity without a hard announcement. “Let the public fill in the blanks,” she’d said. “It’ll feel more real if people think they caught it happening.”

Azzi had been disturbingly into that idea.

“Okay,” Paige said, reviewing a photo Azzi had taken earlier — the two of them walking away from the café, arms looped together. It was slightly blurry, clearly taken from behind. “This one looks stolen. Paparazzi vibe.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Tag it or leave it?”

Paige sighed. “Leave it. Keep them guessing.”

Azzi grinned, but her voice was quieter when she added, “You’re good at this.”

Paige didn’t look up. “At lying to the world?”

“At making it believable,” Azzi said. “Too believable, maybe.”

There was a silence between them.

Paige felt it stretch again — like the space between words you want to say but don’t know how to. The room was warm, too warm, and she suddenly became very aware of the fact that they were sitting closer than strictly necessary.

She risked a glance over.

Azzi was already looking at her.

Paige swallowed hard. “You’re kind of good at this, too.”

Azzi arched a brow. “Kind of?”

Paige shook her head, eyes flicking away.“Unfairly good.”

A smirk tugged at Azzi’s lips, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nudged Paige’s knee lightly with her own. “Don’t overthink it, Bueckers. Just follow my lead.”

That sentence echoed in Paige’s head for the rest of the night.

____

The first real test came the following weekend— a casual dinner with some of Azzi’s extended family visiting early for the wedding.

Paige had told herself she was prepared. She’d practiced their story, remembered names, even rehearsed a few go-to anecdotes. But nothing prepared her for the way Azzi introduced her:

“This is Paige,” Azzi had said, voice softening at the edges. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

It shouldn’t have hit Paige in the chest the way it did. But the pride in Azzi’s voice, the way she slipped an arm around her waist like it was second nature, it all felt too natural.

Too easy.

“You’re even prettier in person,” Azzi’s aunt said with a warm smile, making Paige blush hard enough to want to hide under the table.

“She is, isn’t she?” Azzi replied, grinning, and Paige gave her a warning glance that Azzi absolutely ignored.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation, wine, and shared glances that lingered a little too long. At one point, someone brought up future plans — careers, cities, and timelines — and Paige heard herself say something about “we’re figuring things out,” and Azzi didn’t correct her.

She just nodded. Like it was true.

Like it could be.

That night, after the guests had gone and they were back on the couch, Paige kicked off her heels and flopped backward with a groan. “I deserve an Oscar.”

Azzi collapsed next to her, eyes half-lidded from wine and exhaustion. “They love you already.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“You were perfect,” Azzi said quietly, not teasing for once. “Natural.”

Paige turned her head to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Sometimes I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige’s breath caught.

For a moment, the room felt too still. The words hung between them like something fragile — something dangerous.

“Don’t,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t what?” Azzi asked.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

Azzi looked at her. Really looked. Then — just as softly — said, “Maybe I do.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She didn’t move.

She just let the words sit there, tucked between them on the couch, daring her to pick a side.

THE SHIFT

Paige had faced playoff pressure before. She’d stood at the free throw line with a championship on the line, heard arenas scream her name, stared down defenders with everything at stake.

And still, nothing made her feel quite as unsteady as walking into Azzi’s childhood home.

The place was beautiful — all warm wood and framed memories, the scent of something sweet in the air — but it wasn’t the house itself that threw her.

It was the fact that everyone knew who she was.

“Oh my god, the girlfriend!”

“You’re even cuter than the photos!”

“I heard she plays just as well as Azzi — is that true?”

“Do you want to see baby pictures?!”

Azzi watched it all unfold with thinly veiled amusement, her arm a steady presence at Paige’s back. She was too calm. Too smooth. Like she’d always known Paige would say yes. Like she’d planned for this exact moment.

Paige leaned toward her as soon as they had a sliver of privacy in the hallway. “Your family’s intense.”

“I warned you,” Azzi said with a smirk, then added, “You’re handling it like a pro.”

“I’m dying inside.”

Azzi bumped her shoulder. “You look great while doing it.”

The rehearsal dinner was the first real blow.

Paige had worn a soft cream dress that Azzi couldn’t seem to stop staring at — not that she ever said anything outright, just a glance too long when Paige wasn’t looking, or a compliment murmured so low it felt like a secret.

They sat together at the head table, posing for casual couple photos, telling rehearsed stories about “how we met” and “our first date,” laughing too easily, leaning in like magnets.

But it was during the toasts— when the groom’s brother started talking about soulmates— that Paige glanced over and caught Azzi watching her.

Not with amusement. Not with performance.

But with something soft. Bare. Real.

It was the kind of look no one gives unless they mean it.

Paige looked away, heart thudding in her chest, guilt bubbling like carbonation in her ribs. This was fake. This was supposed to stay fake.

But suddenly, she didn’t know if Azzi had ever drawn the line. And worse — she didn’t know if she had either.

____

That night, in the guest room down the hall, Paige lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.

She thought of how Azzi had casually brushed her hair over her shoulder earlier. Of the way she’d poured her wine without asking. Of how she’d reached for Paige’s hand in the dark when no one was watching.

This was the most dangerous part of the lie: the moments that didn’t serve the story. The things that weren’t for anyone else.

And then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

She sat up. “Yeah?”

Azzi peeked through the door. She wasn’t in her dress anymore— just a pair of shorts and an old tee, her curls pulled back loosely, her expression unreadable. “You decent?”

“Depends on your definition,” Paige said, forcing a weak smile.

Azzi stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Paige watched her carefully. “Me either.”

There was a long pause.

Azzi broke it, quietly. “Can I tell you something?”

Paige nodded.

“I didn’t think this would get to me.” Azzi looked down, fiddling with a ring on her finger. “It was supposed to be simple. Clean. Controlled.”

“But it’s not.”

“No,” Azzi said. “It’s not.”

Paige felt her heart tug, just a little. “You’re not the only one.”

Azzi looked up at that— eyes locking onto hers, something raw flickering behind them. “When I look at you, Paige…” She stopped. Swallowed. “I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She just sat there, frozen, every nerve in her body firing at once.

Azzi crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Paige could see the tension in her shoulders. “You can tell me to stop. You can tell me it’s just a role. But I need you to know I’m not pretending anymore.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then, quietly— like a truth Paige had been holding in for days— she said, “I don’t want to pretend either.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You mean that?”

Paige nodded, voice shaking. “Yeah. I do.”

____

The next day was chaos. Wedding prep. Final fittings. Tears and champagne and frantic flower girls. But somehow, through it all, Paige and Azzi found pockets of stillness.

A touch on the back as they passed each other.

A whispered joke during a photo session.

A look— held too long— when no one else was looking.

By the time the dance floor opened and Azzi reached for her hand, Paige didn’t hesitate.

They danced slow. Intimate. Their arms wrapped around each other like second nature.

“Everyone’s watching,” Paige murmured, her cheek brushing Azzi’s.

Azzi’s hand tightened at her waist. “Let them.”

“I feel like we’re supposed to kiss or something.”

Azzi paused. “Do you want to?”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Not because we’re supposed to. Only if it’s real.”

Azzi looked at her like she’d already made that choice.

And then, quietly, deliberately— she kissed her.

Soft at first. Like a question. Then with more certainty, like she already knew the answer.

When they pulled apart, Paige didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispered.

Azzi smiled. “Good.”

____

The kiss didn’t shatter anything.

It settled something. Quiet and unforced, it slipped between them like a puzzle piece finally falling into place. Not a performance, not a statement— just Paige and Azzi, wrapped in music and low light, eyes closed to the world and open only to each other.

And then, slowly, the moment passed.

They pulled apart, breath brushing between them, eyes locked. Paige blinked first.

Someone behind them cheered— not for them, for the newlyweds— and the real world came rushing back.

But nothing about them felt fake anymore.

They didn’t talk about the kiss right away.

Paige needed space to think. She slipped away from the reception after midnight, half-drunk on champagne and adrenaline, and found herself sitting on the venue’s back steps, heels dangling from her hand.

She was running her thumb over the lip of a glass when Azzi found her.

“You always disappear after the good parts,” Azzi said, voice soft as she stepped into the night.

Paige didn’t look over. “Wasn’t sure if it was a good part.”

Azzi sat beside her. Close, but not touching. “It was for me.”

That quiet admission settled in Paige’s chest like warmth in cold hands.

She exhaled. “I don’t know where the line is anymore.”

Azzi didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I think it’s gone.”

Paige finally turned to look at her.

Azzi’s hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from dancing. Her eyes, though, were steady. “This stopped being fake a while ago. We just didn’t want to be the first to say it.”

Paige bit her lip. “And now?”

“Now I want to know what it looks like when it’s not a performance.”

There was no crowd to play to here. No family. No cameras. Just moonlight, soft music from inside, and two people trying to find their footing.

“I’m scared it’s not different enough,” Paige admitted. “That it’ll feel the same, and somehow that’ll make it less real.”

Azzi reached for her hand. “Then we make it different.”

“How?”

“Let’s start with this.” Azzi’s voice was calm but certain. “Tomorrow— no stories. No setups. We go on a real date. Just you and me.”

“No pretending?”

“No pretending.”

Paige nodded slowly, almost like a dare to herself. “Okay.”

Azzi smiled. “Okay.”

____

They danced again before the night ended.

Not for show, not for pictures. Just the two of them, alone near the edge of the floor, slow-swaying to a song no one else was paying attention to. Azzi’s arms were loose around her waist, and Paige let her forehead rest against Azzi’s collarbone.

No eyes on them.

No script.

No lie.

Just a beginning — unspoken, but undeniably real.

THE RAIN

The wedding glow didn’t last.

Maybe it was the travel. Or the shift back to real life. Or the fact that what had started as a joke— a fake relationship to get through a weekend— had suddenly become something far too delicate to joke about.

Whatever it was, by the time they were back home, something between them had changed.

Paige pulled away first.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. It was subtle— fewer texts, fewer “just because” calls, excuses about being tired, busy, overwhelmed. She showed up late to dinner one night and didn’t lean in when Azzi brushed her hand.

Azzi noticed every beat of it. Every flinch. Every pause.

But she didn’t push.

Not yet.

____

“You good?” Azzi asked one night, when they were sitting side by side on Paige’s couch, a game on the TV, untouched.

Paige didn’t look over. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Paige let out a short breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With me?”

“With any of this.”

Azzi paused. “You want out?”

“No. Yes.” Paige rubbed her face, eyes burning. “I don’t know.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

Because what could she say, when Paige was already slipping through her fingers?

____

The next few days were worse.

Paige stopped answering. Not just texts — calls, too. She skipped their usual Sunday shootaround. She didn’t invite Azzi to the fundraiser dinner they’d planned to go to together. She didn’t say anything was wrong.

She just stopped showing up.

____

It was raining when Azzi finally found her.

Not a soft drizzle— a downpour, the kind that soaked through clothes in seconds, that made the whole world feel like it was breaking open.

Azzi didn’t care.

She stood outside Paige’s building, coat already heavy with rain, hair clinging to her face, and poundedon the buzzer until someone let her in.

She didn’t call first.

She didn’t text.

She just knocked on Paige’s door, hard, until it opened.

Paige stared at her, stunned. She was barefoot in a hoodie, face pale and tired, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Azzi didn’t wait.

“You don’t get to ghost me,” she said, soaked and furious. “Not after all of that.”

Paige swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No. You were. And I let you. Because I thought maybe you needed space, but now I’m standing here in a storm, and I’m not leaving until you say whatever it is you’re afraid to say.”

Paige’s voice cracked. “This isn’t going to work.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“This thing. Us.” Paige stepped back like she couldn’t bear her own words. “It was supposed to be fake. We were never meant to be real. It’s too much. It’s too fast. And I’m going to mess it up.”

Azzi took a step inside. “You’re not messing it up. You’re running from it.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just scared.”

Paige’s eyes welled up, but she held her ground. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Azzi. Not with anyone. I don’t know what it looks like to let it be real.”

Azzi stood there, soaked to the skin, heart wide open. “You want to know what it looks like?”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi closed the space between them. “It looks like me, right now, standing here completely drenched, because I love you so much I couldn’t not come. It looks like two people terrified out of their minds choosing each other anyway.”

Paige froze.

Azzi’s voice dropped. “I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Paige stepped forward— one shaky, breathless step— and kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking.

And in the middle of it, she whispered, “I love you too.”

____

Later, they lay tangled on the couch, wrapped in towels and each other, the storm still whispering against the windows.

Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing to explain.

Because for the first time, nothing was pretend.

And neither of them was running.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #wlw fiction #uconn huskies #pazzi crumbs

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rlimagi · 1 day ago

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No Diggity [ Part I ]

Pairings: Paige Bueckers x actress!reader

Genre: one sided enemies to lovers, force proximity, romcom…

Synopsis: in which you are forced to work with the person who’d made it her life mission to get under your skin every single day of the week since you were in Middle School.

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

A laugh rolls of your tongue effortlessly as the host, Jimmy Fallon cracks another one of his jokes, the audience laughed along.

“Okay, okay, enough of that!” Jimmy lets out a chuckle. “Let’s move back to you, oh what a great comeback you had. Coming back after so many years behind the scenes, if I’m correct- you took a huge break after entering High School?”

You nod, leaning against the sofa comfortably. “Yeah, I had a deal with my parents. They didn’t really want me to throw my education away, not to mention that they didn’t even want me acting in the first place…but uh, yeah. I spent all four years getting straight A’s, top of the class, valedictorian, you know just to get my parents to let me go back out.”

Jimmy claps along with the crowd. “That’s only very inspirational, education is definitely important, and valedictorian woah!”

“Yeah, I had to work hard for that one.” You chuckle, reminiscing about your no sleep days when you were cramping for exams.

“Speaking of working hard, your new movie!” Jimmy exclaims, bending down to pick a framed poster. “Earnestly has just grossed over 350 Millions dollars in the box office with a budget of only 15 million, now that is absolutely insane!

How does it feel to have your first movie- since entering adulthood, become such a big deal in the box office, and just a big deal overall?”

You shake your head, a grin spreading. “It’s surreal for sure! Honestly, my manager didn’t even want me to take this role. It was from a small and fairly new production company, the team hadn’t worked on any big names yet, but they sent me in the script and I was hooked.”

You pause to take it all in before continuing. “And I’m so glad I took the risk. I had fun like never before, my coworkers are all so talented and good people, it was just overall a positive environment. I ended up having so much fun filming it, and uh people seemed to really love it as much as I do too. No regrets, definitely.”

Jimmy nods, before leaning against his table. “And what do you think plays in the success of the film? Any specific reason?”

You think for a moment. “I think the world is just deprived of romcoms, I mean sure we’ve had a few romcoms here and there but nothing comparable to the 2000s. I think we’re all now in the reminiscing about the past sort of era, Earnestly definitely fills that void.”

“I agree wholeheartedly and I’m not just saying because you’re here, but no new romcoms have filled that place in my heart but then you came in and did your job. Watching you with your scene parter- Jenna Ortega, was insane, you guys had so much chemistry!”

“Thank you, that means a lot.” You smile, shifting in your seat. “And yeah, Jenna she’s great and is literally best friends with everyone on the set. She definitely made my job a lot more easier.”

“Now, I’m sure roles are rushing to your feet- may we get an idea of what kind of role would you take on next? Another romcom? Or maybe horror, we know you’re a diverse actor.”

“Thank you, but honestly I can’t say anything right now- not because I’m prohibited or anything but uh…I just want it to be a mystery. It’ll be surprising for sure.”

“Awe don’t be such a tease, can’t we get a least a small tiny info on it? I’m sure everyone is dying to know.” Jimmy says and the audience bursts into shouts of agreement with the host.

“Oh wow, the energy.” You laugh before shaking your head. “Alright, I guess I can give you small little hints…umm think, desire, heat, game on.”

“Oh, wow okay. That’s a strong concept, this could go many ways. Romance, thriller, maybe even something like fast and furious- car racing!?”

“Umm, sure…” You give out an unsure smile.

“You don’t look too sure.” Jimmy eyes you suspiciously.

The interview goes on normally and by the end of it, you’re exhausted from all the energy you put into it. You head a great time, but working way too early in the morning makes your body drain out faster than any other time could.

“Please, please, tell me I have nothing left for the day.” You lay your head against the neck rest of the car seat, spreading your legs and arms out like a starfish.

Your manager, also honorary big sister shakes her head. “Nope, you’ve got an WNBA game to attend. Sponsored by the big dog, Nike themselves. Plus, it would benefit you to learn from actual professionals.”

“Please never, ever, say that word ever again.” You groan, cringing at the word she used. Alexandria was such a millennial, it hurts your soul every time she uses phrases cringy phrases unironically.

“You’re such a hater, or should I say an opp?” Alex continues, you are sure she’s just doing it to get a reaction out of you now.

“Oh, so you’re converting to the new gen now? Please, stop. I beg.”

Alex laughs directly at your face before she raises your hands up in surrender. The car ride goes on silently, usually it would be filled with music blasting and you guys would be singing, but whenever you had an early schedule, silent rides is preferred.

You sit on the court side, scanning through the faces of the players as they’re ready to start the match. To be honest, you don’t watch basketball. Not because you don’t respect the game, but more like someone in your past had made you totally avoid it.

So, here you are cluelessly sitting as everyone around you is busying themselves, chattering about the game and what not. Even Alexandrea had left you to talk with the group of girls sitting beside you guys.

“Uh, excuse me?” One of the girls from the group that Alex had been talking to, left her friends and approaches you.

“Hello.” You chuckle, finding the flushing on her face amusing.

“Sorry, to bother you but I’m such a huge fan. You’re literally one of my crushes and gosh, you are so much more beautiful in real life- I’m sorry for rambling on like this but Alex told me to come and say hi.” The teenager rambles on, her face growing more red by the second.

“Awe, thank you! And you’re not bothering me, don’t worry I was getting lonely here. Also, what’s your name?” You grin, gesturing her to sit down with you and the girl almost screeched.

“I’m Angelina, but my friends call me Angie!”

“Well then Angie- can I call you Angie?” You pause, before continuing when the teenager nods her head. “Okay Angie, care to explain how the game works? I don’t really watch basketball.”

"Okay, so this will be a match between the Dallas Wings and the Las Vegas Aces, it's only a preseason game but still is fun to watch.” Angelina pauses to make sure you’re following along, you nod. “Each team starts with five players, but as the game goes on you'll see that some will get benched, so that other players get a chance to play.”

When the game starts, Angelina is still explaining the basics to you and you are grateful. To be frank, you only know they make shots and when it goes in, they score but your knowledge ends there.

You are actively paying attention to the players up until you notices someone familiar, a face that you can’t quite pinpoint to. But then your eyes meet with her, number 5, Bueckers.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

She is blonde now which made it uneasy for you to remember your middle school arch nemesis at first, but she still hold that stupid smug little smirk on her lips that you can recognize anywhere.

Angelina notices your staring and a bigger grin grows on her face. “Ooh, that’s Paige Bueckers you’re looking at- also my wife, but you’re my first wife don’t worry.”

You tear your eyes away from the athlete, your face morphing into a look of disbelief as you look at the younger girl. “You’re like- what 16? How many wives do you have?”

“I’m 17, and too many.” Angelina smiles sheepishly, wavering her hands to brush it off. “Anyways, Paige is from UConn which is literally my dream school-“

“Do you actually want to go there or you just want to because she went there?” You tease, causing the girl to slap your arm.

Angelina glares at you before replying. “I do actually want to, UConn has the best basketball programs and the coaches have been coming to my games. It’s all good.”

“Don’t forget me when you become famous.” You add with a cheeky smile.

Angelina shakes her head, a smile spreading. “Of course not, I’d even make sure to dedicate every single one of my wins to you!”

“You’re too sweet.”

“Thanks! My mother tells me that everyday. Anyway- back to Paige, she’s the most sought after college player in her draft class which is how she got into her team, Dallas got the first pick and Paige was the number one recruit so there’s that.” Angelina rambles on before taking a sip of her drink. “Honestly, I wanted her in the Valkyries but we digress.”

“She sounds like a big deal.” You say, but you are slowly dying inside. You are trying to keep your words to yourself with all the things you have to say about Paige Bueckers.

The same girl who made an enemy out of you in the 6th grade when she threw a basketball at your face and never apologized, the girl who targeted you during dodgeball and made it her life mission to taunt you all through middle school to high school.

Yeah, that Paige Bueckers who you swore you’ll never get to see again after graduation but here you are, five years later sitting in one of her games.

The girl sitting beside you nod in agreement. “She is a big deal, honestly if it weren't for her injury back in college she would've been even bigger. But it's all good because she's going to make history, I'm sure of it."

You watch as the said player gain possession of the ball and dribbles it over to the line, tailed by two other players before she jumps and make the point against the defending of three players.

It was pure art and you can’t even deny it as much as it pains you to.

“That’s my wife!” Angelina jumps out and shouts while you hide your face from the people who looked over.

Fortunately, the Wings lost and the light inside you brightened up a little as you happily sip the last of your drink, getting ready to get home to enjoy the embrace of your bed and your puppy, Jam.

“Awe, I guess this is the end. I’m so glad you allowed me to spend time with you!” Angelina smiles solemnly as she hugs you.

You return the hug and a smile with it. “I had so much fun sitting next to you too and your rambles. Hey, how about we keep contact? I want to make sure you’ll keep your promises.”

“Oh em gee! Yes! Of course, here’s my instagram.” Angelina hands over her phone and after you exchanged contacts, you both went your separate ways.

You are about to leave the court when Alexandrea comes back and pulls you by your shoulder. “Not so fast, kid.”

“You’re like only six years older.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “And why exactly am I not allowed to go and enjoy the comfort of my bed and newborn?”

“Y/n, your dog is not a human child and he is not a newborn. Plus, six years is a lot of years which makes it acceptable for me to call you kid since you act like one, and there’s just someone I’d like you to meet.” Alexandrea snarks back and taps on your shoulder.

“Remember when I told you I arranged for a player to be sort of your mentor since you’ve gotta start learning how to play?”

You eye her suspiciously as you guys start to walk dangerously to close to the players, or more specifically Jersey number 5. “Yeah…?”

“Well, my good friend is on the team- well actually my little sister’s friend but we’re connected so who cares about the details.” Alexandrea waves it off and you start to grow a little on edge as you start to get closer to the player. “You’ll see.”

"Hey, Paige! It's so nice to see you again.” Your manager grins as she and the tall woman dab each other up.

You are completely stone cold, you’re pretty sure your blood had stopped circulating by then. Of course it had to be fucking Paige Bueckers.

"Aye, you too Alex.” Paige grin, before her eyes averted to yours. Instantly there is a spark, a spark of heat igniting that had been lost over the years, a spark of hatred.

You glare at Paige while her lips forms a smirk, a stupid smug smirk that you wish you can punch off.

“Paige, this is Y/n. Y/n, this is Paige. You guys will be working together so I thought it’s better to introduce you guys early on.” Alex informs and you almost want to bang your head on the floor.

No way in hell would you agree if you had known before hand. “What?!?”

Alex’s brows raises at your reaction. “Is there a problem?”

You glare at Alex with a look that says ‘I’ll tell you later.’ And she nods in understanding before looking back at Paige.

“Okay, moving back. Arrangements will be made for you guys to work in the Wing’s court, schedules will be sent to you both in a few days when I and Paige’s manager sort out your free times.”

“Hold on, I just have a question. Why can’t I just work with a coach instead? Wouldn’t it be less of a hassle this way.” You suggest, eyes gleaming in hope that is to be shut down the second your manager slash number one hater opens her mouth.

“Nope, using a coach is not a bad idea but Paige is a good teacher and the whole team is on board with this. Plus, according to the few TikToks I’ve seen, apparently you guys went to the same High School?”

“Yeah, that’s right we shared almost all of our classes together.” Paige says casually as you are trying to ignore her existence.

“Oh, so you guys are friends then. That makes my job much easier.”

“Yeah.”

“Nope.”

You and Paige answers at the same time, causing you both to look at each other but with exact opposite reactions. You glared while she grinned.

Paige waves her hands and sneakingly places her arm on your shoulder, not budging when you try to push her off. “She’s playing, we’re actually the best of friends. Actually, Y/n used to be wild at parties. She was a huge deal in high school, I couldn’t go on a second without hearing her name.”

You roll your eyes, fucking liar. Actually the last bit isn’t a lie, you were popular and threw a bunch of wild parties in High school, but you and Paige were and are not definitely besties. “At least I got straight A’s and became Valedictorian unlike somebody. Paige, have you turned in that assignment from Ms. Bailey from the 6th grade yet?”

Paige scoff, taking her arms off of your shoulder as she places her hand on her chest and faux offense. “Hey, that was years ago and at l passed my classes okay?”

“Yeah, barely.” You say snarkily.

Alex, sensing the animosity gets in between you two. “Okay, ladies I’m sensing some tension here. You both are tired and drained out, how about we call it a day?”

“Hmm, sure.” Paige mumbles, avoiding your eye.

“Finally!” You exclaim, practically flying as you walk away in glee.

Your week went on normally, a few interviews here and there, commercial and magazine shoots, it was all great. Your schedule was packed and you felt happier than ever, well until Friday evening that is.

The day you had to meet up with Paige Bueckers again. You were sick of her face and name already.

“We’re going to work together all month so let’s make a truce, you don’t bother me, I don’t bother you. Deal?”

Paige pretends to think for a moment before shrugging. “Nah, I love watching you getting all worked up over me.”

Your jaw drops. “Wow, somebody’s cocky. I don’t get worked up over you, Bueckers.” You grind your teeth as you walk over the taller woman, placing your finger right into her chest.

Your eye flickers to her lips for a second- since when did she put on lip gloss, and your frown falters for a bit before getting replaced with a softer one. “Your face is just annoying.”

Paige smirks, shaking her head as she dribbles a ball around before shooting it into the net, it goes right through. “Yet, you keep looking at it.”

You hold your tongue back, knowing if not then the words you wanted to say would get you an immediate invite to the cancelled party. “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

You reluctantly accept the ball Paige handed over, tapping it up and down before trying to make a shot. It doesn’t go in, in fact it hit the rims and flies straight over to Paige’s head.

“Shit!” You exclaim, running over Paige who is stumbling her steps trying to keep her balance. “I’m so sorry.”

You keep apologizing even as Paige waves her hands around saying that it’s fine, but it really isn’t because blood is flowing from both of her nose and she looks like she’s about to go into a deep, deep slumber any second now.

You walk her over to a seat, stumbling a few times in the process. She is much taller and stronger than you are so it was definitely a struggle to carry a 6’0 athlete anywhere.

“Hey, Paige? Stay awake for me, okay?” You say softly, using your handkerchief to stop the blood from dripping down. It was your favorite thing from since when you’re a baby, but there are more important things right now. “I have to call for the nurse now.”

“No, no- stay…I’m fine.” Paige grips your wrist tight, trying to look normal.

Your eyes softens and it is filled up with guilt. “No, you’re not and it’s my fault. Just don’t be stubborn and let me help you, okay.”

Paige nods obediently, finding no more energy to argue.

You left Paige to call for medical aid, luckily it wasn’t all too bad and Paige would be fine after a few days of rest but you still felt extremely guilty. She’d gotten hurt and had to miss a game because of you.

#paige bueckers x reader #wlw #UConn x reader #wnba #wnba x reader #Paige x reader #wbb x reader #uconn huskies #fanfic #wnba imagine #Paige Bueckers fanfic #gxg #gxg imagine #lesbian

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anon-188 · 3 days ago

Text

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: smut ❤️‍🔥 | wc: 2.7k

summary: you made the drink. AJ made a mess of you. plain and simple.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), smut with some plot, established relationship, oral (f!receiving), light brat!reader energy, soft dominance, possessive!AJ, brief orgasm denial, semi-public sex/risk of getting caught, light worship through action, jealousy & frustration undertones, alcohol use, rough language. SMUT.

a/n: no thoughts. just AJ. and his mouth.

hope you guys like it!! ♡

→ fluff version 🤍

AJ had convinced you to come with him to Jake’s bar tonight. You were supposed to be having a “night in”—his words—but something about a last-minute heist meeting, and now here you were: upstairs, on the leather couch, surrounded by cigar smoke and half-finished whiskey glasses.

He’d sworn it wouldn’t take long, promised he’d make it up to you.

That was four hours ago.

Back when the bar was still open.

Back when you were still optimistic.

Because even when Jake kicked everyone out, that never meant the crew had to go and they took full advantage of that.

But this was business, right?

Late nights, too many drinks, talking about robbing banks like it was a game. That part didn’t bother you. You’d long since accepted that this world—the chaos, the crimes, the loyalty that ran deeper than blood—came with the man you loved. What did bother you, though, was how hard you had tried to get his attention tonight… and failed.

It started subtle—your fingers tracing his neck, brushing his shoulder. A hand pressed to his chest when you leaned in to ask a question you didn’t care about the answer to. Sliding past him with no real reason, making sure your dress caught on his thigh, your hips grazing his just enough to register.

Then came the more obvious moves—your body bending slightly over the bar to grab a bottle you didn’t need, the hem of your dress riding up higher each time. That should’ve done it. Any other night, he’d already have you in some corner, pushed up against the wall while he whispered things in your ear you’d never be able to repeat.

But not tonight.

You even pouted, just a little, despite yourself. And still—nothing. He was too wrapped up in plans, too deep in strategy mode, pacing and talking and handing out cigars like he hadn’t even noticed the way your legs were crossed, or the way you were watching him—waiting for him.

So when he said he was going to get a drink, you offered to make it for him—just wanting to breathe a little, or whatever the hell you thought might clear your head. You’d suggested an Old Fashioned, something you knew he liked. You’d made it once or twice before—years ago—but figured you could pull it off again.

He accepted, said thank you—but that was it. Honestly, that was probably the most he said to you all night.

You rolled your eyes—not at him, not entirely, but at the situation. Still, you got up and headed downstairs.

Once you were at the empty bar though, you only felt more agitated. Not just because it was late and you wanted to go home, but because you couldn’t remember what came first—ice, sugar, or the bitters. You’d already dumped one glass after realizing you’d poured way too much simple syrup. The cherry on top of your already shitty night.

You started over, slower this time, more focused. But that’s when you saw AJ approaching from the corner of your eye, casually making his way behind the bar. You glanced up for a second before looking back down, zeroing in on the drink like it was the only thing that mattered.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, short, curt.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking—you could hear it in his voice. “You sure?”

“I’m just trying to make your drink, AJ. I already messed up once, so…” you muttered, mixing the sugar and bitters together. Your sentence dropped off like that alone should’ve been enough to send him walking.

But it didn’t. It never did.

AJ hummed, then stepped in closer, stopping right next to you.

“Are you pouting?” he asked, voice softer now, low enough to slide right under your skin.

“I’m not pouting,” you snapped. “I already fucked it up because I couldn’t remember how much syrup to use and now I’m just trying to get it done.”

Your tone was sharper than you meant, but you didn’t take it back.

AJ didn’t respond at first. He just moved behind you, the quiet scrape of his shoes against the floor the only warning before his hand slid over yours, gently but firmly taking the muddler from your grip and setting it aside on the counter.

“Ice comes next,” he said, low—right by your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You sighed, still irritated, still caught in your own head, but you reached for the ice and dropped a few cubes into the glass, the sound sharp and loud in the tense quiet. You waited, jaw tight, expecting him to tell you what came after.

Instead, you felt him. All of him.

His hand slid down your back, catching the hem of your dress and tugging it higher, exposing the backs of your thighs inch by inch until the cool air kissed the edge of your underwear.

“AJ—what are you—” The question barely left your mouth before his hands pulled your hips back, positioning you just enough so that your ass pressed right up against the very obvious shape of him—hard, unrelenting, and definitely not going anywhere.

His grip stayed there, firm on your hips, holding you exactly how he wanted you. Then his mouth found your neck, near your shoulder, no hesitation—just teeth and tongue and intent. Not sweet. Not slow.

A soft moan slipped out before you could stop it, your body leaning back into his without thinking, frustration bleeding out of you one breath at a time, replaced by something warmer, darker, needier.

“I’m trying to make your drink,” you breathed out, voice uneven now, barely holding the edge of focus as AJ’s hands started to move.

First they were just resting on your hips, then they traced the dip of your lower stomach. But that didn’t last. His hands moved faster, more reckless, like he wasn’t even trying to hide the shift.

One hand dragged up over your ribs, fingers catching the underside of your breast as he pressed closer from behind. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t patient either. Then they slipped lower again, stroking the insides of your thighs, teasing up and down like he was feeling for the edge of your restraint just to see how close you were to losing it.

He kissed his way up the curve of your neck, warm and slow, until his mouth hovered near your ear again.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, then kissed just beneath your ear, lips dragging slightly. “Pour slow. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

And then his hand slid up your inner thigh, your legs instinctively parting just enough for him to stroke along your panties. His fingers moved in tight circles, the pressure enough to make your knees weaken.

You moaned louder this time, head tipping back against his shoulder.

“This is what you wanted? My attention?” he asked, voice low and dark, laced with amusement, but still focused.

You didn’t answer. You just let your hips shift slightly, pushing back into him, your body giving him the only answer he needed.

“You have to work with me here,” he said, mouth brushing your skin. Another kiss, hot against your neck. “Gotta finish the drink so we have something to show for us being down here, right?”

You moaned softly, breath catching in your throat, but you nodded—barely.

“Good,” he said, voice rough. “So start pouring.”

Somehow—you did. You reached for the bottle, your fingers barely steady, and poured slow, just like he told you to. His hand never stopped moving. And you only stopped when he said, low against your ear, “That’s enough.”

You set the bourbon aside, jaw tight, doing your best to stay quiet—not wanting the others upstairs to hear what was happening down here. But AJ’s fingers didn’t make it easy. His touch was relentless now, a rhythm that matched the heat building low in your stomach. You picked up the spoon, started stirring the drink, but your focus was gone—your hips rocked back into him, chasing each slow circle of his fingers, your moans coming quicker, closer together.

The orange peel was last. You didn’t care anymore. You grabbed it quickly, twisted it over the glass, let the oil mist the surface, and dropped it in with shaking fingers. The drink was done. So were you.

Your head fell back against AJ’s shoulder again, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as his fingers moved just downright unapologetic now, dragging you closer to the edge with every touch. You felt your body start to tighten, your thighs trembling—

And then he stopped.

Completely.

His hands pulled away like they hadn’t just had you seconds from coming undone. You turned around, breathless, confused, the sting of denial still buzzing under your skin. Your eyes met his, searching his face.

AJ just chuckled. “You teased me all night. Then threw a fit when you couldn’t have your way.” His voice was low, edged with something dangerous, and that infuriating smirk was back on his face.

So he had seen you. Every look. Every shift. Every pout.

Your eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair.”

His smirk deepened, eyes flickering darker. “I’ve been hard the whole time because you couldn’t be patient. That’s not fair.”

“I was annoyed because we’ve been here for hours, AJ. You said it wouldn’t take that long.” Your arms crossed over your chest, jaw tightening again, irritation blooming right where arousal had just been.

You expected him to keep up the game—expected more teasing, more denial, some slow, smirking punishment drawn out just to watch you squirm. But he didn’t.

He stepped in closer, reached for your arms, and gently pulled them apart.

“I know,” he said, voice quieter now, softer. But the heat didn’t leave his tone.

His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leaned in and kissed you—slow at first, but then deeper, firmer, like he had something to make up for.

His mouth moved down to your jaw, then lower, finding your neck again, pressing kisses against your skin as his hands began roaming your body all over, this time with a feverish need.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against your throat, “and I’ll do it. Right here. Right now.”

You swallowed hard, the spark in your core flaring to life again. “AJ, everyone is right upstairs,” you whispered, the words more breath than protest.

He laughed into your neck, the sound low and dark, before pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes burning.

“I’d bend you over this bar and fuck you against it if that’s what you wanted.”

And you knew, without a single doubt—he meant it.

“Whatever you want, it has to be quick—so tell me, baby.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, already threaded with tension.

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you leaned forward, and kissed him hard—a kiss full of urgency, your hands gripping his shoulders like they were your only anchor. He kissed you back, mouth open, matching your need for a second—until you pulled back, eyes locked on his.

Then you pushed him down.

He stumbled a step, then let out a breathless laugh as you guided him down. He went willingly, dropping to his knees like he’d been waiting for the command. That look spread across his face—the one you knew too well—cocky, amused, lit up with hunger.

AJ’s eyes never left yours as he knelt, his hands already sliding up your thighs. He grabbed the hem of your dress and pushed it up even higher, his gaze dropping low. Then he leaned in and kissed your panties—a tease right where you were already aching for more. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged them down, and you stepped out of them—one foot, then the other.

But as your second leg cleared, he caught it—lifting it onto his shoulder, his hand bracing your thigh.

One last look up. One last smirk.

Then—

His mouth was on you like he’d needed it all night, tongue dragging through your folds with a deep, satisfied hum that vibrated against your skin. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as his mouth worked you—licking, sucking, tongue pressing in deep before circling back to your clit, again and again until your knees buckled.

Your hand flew to his hair, and the other to the bar counter behind you—anything to keep yourself upright. Each moan came quick and breathless, one after another—barely contained, soft at first but growing louder with every flick of his tongue, every pull of his lips. He didn’t let up, didn’t need direction—he just knew, tilting his head just enough to catch you perfectly, ruthless in his rhythm.

You could hear the guys upstairs—laughing, glasses clinking—a faint chorus of life above you.

But down here, you didn’t care. Couldn’t.

Not with AJ between your thighs, holding you open and fucking you with his mouth like you were the only thing in the world worth worshiping.

“AJ, fuck,” you gasped, voice breaking as your hand twisted tighter in his hair, hips rolling forward without thought.

He didn’t flinch—he groaned against you. Then you felt it—one finger, then another, sliding inside you with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly what you could take. That deadly combination he always delivered too fucking well. His fingers worked in sync with his mouth—stroking deep, curling just right, tongue moving harder as your body began to fall apart above him.

Your legs shook, body jerking hard enough that your elbow hit the bar, nearly knocking the finished drink over. You felt AJ chuckle against you before—

“Careful,” he drawled. His lips curling into that smug, wicked smirk. The one that said he was enjoying this probably way too much—but he didn’t stop.

If anything, he went harder, mouth devouring you like you were a fucking meal, fingers working faster until all you could do was moan—louder than you meant to, throat raw with it, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto that wasn’t him.

And just as the climax hit—a sharp, blinding wave that pulsed through your entire body—you heard it: voices. Footsteps. The guys were coming downstairs.

“Shit,” you hissed, pushing at AJ’s shoulders in an attempt to make him back up as you scrambled to shove your dress down.

He finally stood, licking his lips, still glowing with satisfaction. He reached down casually and tucked your underwear into his pocket like a trophy, not the least bit rushed.

You spun around, grabbing the drink you’d nearly knocked over, your breathing still uneven, trying to force your heart to settle. You turned back to AJ, shoving the drink toward him like that was enough to erase what just happened.

He took it—unhurried, shameless—and lifted it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours as he drank.

“How is it?” you asked, trying and failing to sound indifferent as the sound of voices drew closer.

AJ set the glass back on the bar. “Good,” he said simply.

Then he leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“But you taste better.”

You didn’t have time to respond. His hand slid around your waist and he kissed you again—deep, slow, and filthy, like no one else was even in the room. Like he wanted them to see. And maybe he did.

Because when the crew reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw exactly what was happening—his hands gripping your body like a claim, his mouth pressed to yours like he had no plans of letting go.

And they knew better than to challenge it.

AJ had made his point.

Tonight, he was done sharing his time with anyone but you.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

tag list: @alealuvshayden @haydenchristensenisbae @sythethecarrot

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, just let me know (comment or message me). i’m happy to do it! :)

links: masterlist

#aj takers #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #aj takers x reader #aj x reader #aj takers smut #hayden christensen smut #takers movie #takers 2010 #aj takers fanfiction #hayden christensen imagine

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maroonshirt81 · 3 days ago

Note

I have a pressing need for frat boys (carcar, landoscar, whatever you want) and thought that might be right up your alley? :3

look, I get an excuse to write a drunk and/or party scene and I'll literally drop everything! So yes, frat boys are right up my alley!

this is mostly carcar, but somehow also carlandoscar if you squint or bother to imagine a continuation of the story.

Fucking Jagerbombs, 4k, rated M, ao3

Oscar sees Lando’s eyes lock on him from across the room and lifts his phone higher, hoping the latest generation of oversized smartphones might just be enough to cover the expanse of his forehead.

Just five more minutes, he had told himself, four and a half minutes ago. Just five more minutes before he could slink off unnoticed, without running the risk of his frat brothers suddenly remembering he exists and breaking down his door to crowd-surf him back down the stairs and force him to participate in the house party they’d been planning for two weeks.

It’s beach-themed. Revolutionary, he knows. Most people didn’t even show up in beachwear like they were supposed to. Lando is literally in a hoodie. Lando is in a hoodie, holding a colorful cocktail, and standing right in front of him, eyes bright with the promise of a bad idea.

“Osco! Thank fuck, I thought you had already bailed!” he says, and because he’s had at least three cocktails before this one already, and two years is apparently the max amount of friendship Lando can maintain a semblance of restraint for, he goes on to spit out the bad idea unfiltered, trusting that Oscar will not throw his phone at his head, no matter what comes out of his mouth.

“Listen. We need to make out a bit, yeah?”

Oscar carefully tucks his phone into his shorts, because he doesn’t trust himself half as much as Lando does, and says, “Um, yeah, no thanks. I’m good.”

“You see those girls over there?” Lando continues, glancing back at where two bikini-clad model-types are observing his every move with eagle eyes, leaning on each other and giggling. Oscar ignores Lando’s clear signal to play it cool and throws them a wave he knows will have Lando whinging and whining about how lame it is.

“They agreed to let me watch them make out and ‘maybe more,’ if I make out with one of you guys first!”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, wondering if he’s supposed to feel honored. “And you came to me? Is Carlos busy, or…”

“Come on, mate, you know I can’t go to Carlos with this!” Lando whines, giving his lower lip a proper workout. Oscar doubts he’d be able to fold his own like that if he tried. “Carlos is actually gay, so if I kiss him he’ll fall in love with me and our friendship will be forever ruined.”

“Pretty sure he’s already in love with you, mate,” Oscar says.

“Osc! Focus! Will you kiss me or no?”

Oscar knows there’s no use in pointing out that he already answered that question and gives a long groan instead. “But why me?”

“Because you’re chill about shit,” Lando says, shrugging. “I mean… uh… obviously because I, uh… I want it to be you? I don’t know, mate, what do you want to hear?”

“That you’ll owe me three favors. Big ones.”

“Deal!” Lando nods eagerly, because he knows he’s single-handedly driven up the empty-promises inflation in this house to a point where three favors means exactly nothing.

Oscar throws the giggling girls another glance. Not exactly his type, but they’re wearing bikinis, so at least they can read. He pats the empty space next to him on the couch with a long-suffering sigh and bounces stoically when Lando throws himself into it.

“With tongue or—” Oscar starts, but Lando has neither the sense nor the patience to approach his bad ideas with a minimum level of forethought, so Oscar finds his face full of Lando before the sentence can even leave his lips. He has half a mind to push him off, just for the audacity of not even listening. But that’s to be expected from Lando, so Oscar decides he doesn’t care, just closes his eyes and takes it in stride. Because Lando was right – he is chill about shit. ‘I just don’t know what the big deal is’ could be classified as his life motto, probably. It’s definitely how he’s always felt about things like kissing, and sex, which is why you normally don’t find him at these parties with his tongue down someone else’s throat.

He passively registers the slight sting of Lando’s stubble, and the artificially sweet taste of strawberry on his lips. Then Lando must decide he wants to put on a show for their audience, because his hand comes up to cradle Oscar’s face, and suddenly, things don’t feel passive at all anymore.

Lando’s hand is warm against his cheek, slightly clammy, but that doesn’t bother him. It’s huge. Huge! Spanning the entirety of his face – base pressed against Oscar’s chin, fingers reaching all the way around to his nape, thumb smoothing out the lines under his eyes. Oscar makes the mistake of gasping in surprise, and Lando’s tongue slips into his mouth, spreading the artificial flavor everywhere.

This, too, Oscar just lets happen. But he’s not the slightest bit chill about it. He wants Lando’s other hand to cover the second half of his face and squeeze until Oscar’s brain turns to mush. Unfortunately, Lando is still balancing his strawberry daiquiri, so there won’t be any brain-squeezing happening. Not that it’s needed, because Lando’s tongue fucks into his mouth as if it’s an entirely different kind of hole, and Oscar’s brain kind of explodes.

He isn’t sure why he’s doing it, or what exactly Lando did to flip him over into active participation, but he finds himself fucking Lando’s tongue back into his own mouth, fingers tangled in the curls of Lando’s stupid mullet, and when a muffled, moan-like sound escapes from Lando’s throat, he gets mortifyingly, overwhelmingly hard.

Now that has certainly never happened to him just from kissing. Lando hasn’t even come close to his dick, for god’s sake. And it’s usually quite a feat to catch that bastard’s interest. Now he’s acting as if all the locker room talk Oscar has been subjected to over the last few years suddenly makes sense.

Jesus. Lando detaches from his lips, wet and loud, and Oscar almost topples forward, because apparently he’d been leaning in so hard. He slinks back against the couch, letting his arm fall from Lando’s shoulder in a way that carefully drapes it across his own crotch.

“Damn, Osc,” Lando breathes, grinning so wide Oscar could count every one of his teeth. “This is why I come to you for favors! You don’t half-ass shit!”

“Uh-hum,” Oscar says, just to test his voice for any weird quirks. It sounds fine, so far. Pitch is okay. He’s not hoarse. Actually, he sounds bored – though he’s glad he left his heart-rate monitor in his room. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the ‘and maybe more’ part.”

“You’re a real bro!”

Lando delivers it like a punch to the gut, fully unintentional. Oscar watches him jump off the couch, spilling some of his daiquiri over his wrist and then licking it off.

Oscar keeps a straight face while his dick is desperately sending Morse code in his pants. He’s not sure who the intended recipient is. He doubts Lando’s own dick is receiving the pulses.

He doesn’t even register when Lando leaves to go back to the girls. One moment he's there, the next there’s a red plastic cup with a dark liquid dangling in front of Oscar’s eyes, where he’s apparently been staring into empty space. Oscar’s gaze follows the hand holding the cup, up the waxed arm, into the hugest armhole a sleeveless shirt could possibly have, at which point he registers who has materialized before him.

Carlos responds to his annoyed groan with a defensive, “You look like you need this!”

The thing is, Oscar does kind of need this, so he takes the cup from Carlos’s hand and downs it in one go, without bothering to smell it first, which turns out to be a mistake.

“A fucking Jagerbomb?” he wheezes, almost spitting the drink back out. “Fuck you, Sainz! I knew you hated me!”

“You hate me!” Carlos corrects him, and Oscar can hardly argue, because Carlos continues, “I don’t really care about you.”

“Why are you here then, exactly?” Oscar asks, already feeling exhausted as he watches Carlos plop down on the couch where Lando had just spilled his strawberry daiquiri and fucked his tongue into Oscar’s mouth.

Carlos raises his eyebrows high over the sunglasses he’s wearing indoors – cringe – and produces a second cup from his other hand. There’s zero reason to assume it’s anything other than another Jagerbomb, but Oscar still grabs it and downs it in one big gulp.

“Let’s say I recognize that look,” Carlos says once Oscar finishes acting like he’s just been poisoned. “So I’m morally obligated to check in on you. Believe me, it’s just as much fun for me as it is for you.”

“Good to know we have a resident Doctor of Pathetics,” Oscar snaps, mean enough that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Whatever – he’s rattled to his bones right now, and the Jagerbombs are kicking in. Also, it’s Carlos. That’s just how their dynamic works. Oscar is 90% sure it’s mostly a joke.

When Carlos doesn’t take the bait, Oscar presses on, “So what then, am I just gay, or am I actually in love with Lando?”

Before Carlos can respond, the realization hits Oscar like a truck. He crushes the red cup in his fist. “Oh God,” he groans. “I’m in love with Lando, aren’t I? Should’ve figured it out way sooner! I mean, I’m never properly annoyed by him, even though he’s the most annoying person on the planet!”

Lando chooses this exact moment to prove Oscar’s point by showing up again, wide-eyed and jittery.

“Um,” he squeaks, glancing between Oscar and Carlos like he’s surprised to find them sitting together, mostly civil. Then his eyes lock on Oscar, thumb jerking over his shoulder at the girls he was trying to impress earlier. “They, uh… they’re inviting you to join us? Upstairs, for… you know.”

Oscar groans even louder.

“Their idea!” Lando emphasizes with a dramatic shrug. “Not mine. I mean – I don’t care either way, you know, it’s not like I’m one of those guys who’s scared it’d be gay or something.”

That last part is clearly aimed at Carlos, but Carlos is too busy waggling his eyebrows at Oscar to acknowledge it.

“Actually, I really think you should do it,” Lando goes on, his words tumbling out too fast to sound casual. “You don’t get laid that much. Could probably teach you a thing or two.”

And the thing is – Oscar’s not actually that opposed to stupid ideas. It’s just that, unlike Lando, he usually gives them a minute of thought before jumping in. That’s probably his saving grace, because before he can give an answer, Carlos rolls his eyes and says, “Come on, Lando! You do realize who you’re asking to join your threesome, right?”

Lando deflates instantly, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Fascinating to think Oscar had just been sucking on that lip five minutes ago. He really wants to do it again.

“Fuck, yes, I know,” Lando mumbles. “Mr. Only-Has-Sex-in-Relationships. But I believe in you, Osc. I know you can be adventurous if you really try!”

Maybe it’s the Jagerbombs talking, but Lando’s logic is really working on him right now. It’s embarrassing that Oscar has to rely on Carlos fucking Sainz to be the voice of reason.

“Lando,” Carlos says. “Are you trying to persuade poor Oscar to join your threesome just because you don’t feel like doing all the work yourself?”

Oscar can immediately read from Lando’s face that Carlos has hit the nail on the head and splutters a laugh.

“Shut up!” Lando squeaks, his tanned face flushing an almost orange shade. “Neither of you would understand! One guy and two girls is actually exhausting! I don’t know what I was thinking, seriously!”

“You don’t, that’s the problem,” Carlos says, gleeful. “Go suffer the consequences of your own actions and leave Pastry out of it.”

“He was part of the actions, at least,” Lando grumbles, shooting Oscar one last pleading look.

“I’ll pass,” Oscar says, because it really does sound exhausting, and he’d rather have his first gay experience without two strangers standing by, waiting their turn.

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan and trudges back toward the girls like they’re a chore waiting to be dealt with. Oscar grins watching him go, then turns to find Carlos staring at him.

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re in love with him, actually.”

“Oh?” Oscar says, defensive for no real reason. “And how would you know?”

He almost answers his own question, almost cuts Carlos off with something like, “Of course! Because you’re the king of being in love with Lando,” but he remembers the check-in, the drinks, and the saving from an ill-advised threesome just in time and holds his tongue.

“Because you’re not the least bit jealous right now.”

“Maybe I’m just not a jealous guy,” Oscar shrugs. “I’ve never been jealous in my past relationships either.”

“Yes, because you are gay!”

“Am I?”

Carlos exhales like he’s talking to the most frustrating man alive, which is unfair, because for once Oscar’s actually being sincere and not just contrary for the fun of it.

“I mean, do you find men attractive?”

“Yes, Carlos, I’m not one of those people who pretend they can’t tell if another guy is good-looking. I have eyes.”

“Oh my God,” Carlos taps Oscar’s knee with his own, exasperated. “I mean sexually attractive. Like, hot. Do you find men hot?”

“Hard to say, when the men I’m usually surrounded by dress like this…” Oscar tugs at one of Carlos’s massive armholes, making Carlos squeak like he just had his bra strap snapped. Oscar ignores it and lets his gaze sweep the room for a better test subject.

Alex is perched on a table, bent over mid-guffaw about something. He’s kinda cute, sure. But hot? Then there’s George, standing on the same table. Must be what Alex is guffawing about, because George has used the beach theme as an excuse to go shirtless, wearing only sunglasses and tiny shorts. There’s a pink inflatable flamingo around his waist, and he’s dancing with it in a pretty suggestive way. In theory, it should be hot, but it’s honestly the dorkiest thing Oscar’s ever seen.

Across the room, he finds Charles and Max, playing their usual racing game on the PlayStation, utterly ignoring the party around them. Charles doesn’t count as a test case – everyone and their mom thinks he’s hot. Everyone and their mom and dad. And grandparents! So he looks at Max instead, who’s racing in deep concentration, looking very, very intense.

Actually, Max kind of terrifies him.

He turns back to Carlos, who’s still looking at him expectantly, and squints his eyes. Maybe Carlos is…

Oscar reaches over and takes off Carlos’s stupid backwards cap, pulling it over his own head instead. The hair underneath falls out like he just left a stylist’s chair – not flat, not weird-looking. So yeah, Carlos probably has the best hair in the frat, but that just makes him more annoying, not hot.

Carlos doesn’t move an inch, not even to protest the theft, so Oscar pulls off his sunglasses next, revealing eyes so huge they look like they belong to some Disney-character. Sure, his lashes are long enough to put mascara to shame, but he just uses them to look stupid. Big, empty stare, no thoughts behind it. It’s not hot, it’s mostly comical. Oscar’s gaze drops towards the lower lip, which, as he expected, is soft, slack, jaw hanging open as if he’s trying to catch flies.

Oscar almost laughs and tells him just that, but – wait – is Carlos leaning in?

In the time it takes Oscar to unfreeze, Carlos’s lips are inches from his own. That should’ve triggered a gut instinct to headbutt him, but somehow… it doesn’t. So yeah, maybe that’s some evidence for the gay theory, then. And, well – it wouldn’t have been Oscar’s first choice, but since Carlos is offering…

Oscar closes the remaining space between them for a quick, testing slide of his lips against Carlos’s – and doesn’t immediately puke into his mouth.

Actually, it’s… interesting. The feel of that plush bottom lip. How soft it is. How it molds around Oscar’s own, easily enveloping them. He pulls back just a bit before changing his mind and going in for another kiss – oddly chaste, especially after what Lando had done with his tongue.

Carlos, though his stubble is a lot rougher, feels softer than Lando had. Oscar half starts to analyze the differences between them, and, more importantly, the difference between kissing them and kissing girls, but the Jagerbombs don’t allow for coherent thinking. Not that it matters. Carlos’s lips are kind of distracting. He leans in more, slots a knee between Oscar’s legs, and instead of his hand finding Oscar’s face like Lando’s had, it finds his waist and pulls him in.

Oscar’s body goes boneless, like it’s never even heard of a spine. Before he knows it, he’s chest-to-chest with Carlos, who now has a whole thigh pressed between his legs. A whole thigh that Oscar is, horrifyingly, starting to grind against as he makes out with his least favorite frat brother, right in the middle of their beach party. Oh well. Not like Oscar particularly cares what people think. He’s too busy having his gay awakening with fucking Carlos Sainz’s tongue finally introducing itself into his mouth – took him long enough, Jesus. He’s so fucking slow and deliberate that Oscar makes a humiliating, impatient noise in the back of his throat. His hips twitch. And yes, factually speaking, he is absolutely dry-humping Carlos’s thigh right now, but he’ll deny it until the day he dies.

Carlos does not fuck his tongue into Oscar’s mouth. He probes, licks gently along the bottom row of teeth, then lightly nudges Oscar’s tongue, like… like he’s knocking on the fucking door, asking it to come out and play.

Yes, Oscar will fucking play! He nudges back, with his tongue and his nose, and Carlos finally cups a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him even closer – close enough that Oscar could probably lick the back of Carlos’s tonsils, if he really tried. But he doesn’t. With Lando, maybe, but filthy tongue-deepthroating is evidently not the vibe here. Carlos kisses like a Jane Austen character – all soft and gentlemanly, despite being a drunk frat boy in a sleeveless shirt with armholes wide enough to fit a damn elephant.

By the time Carlos finally pulls back to let them breathe, Oscar is flushed all the way to the tips of his ears and fully hard. He definitely didn’t plan this far ahead when he first closed the distance between them, and now he’s got no idea what to do next.

“Okay,” he squeaks. His mouth seems to have taken a detour around his brain without consulting him. Quickly taking over the wheel again, he adds in a more normal voice, “So I guess I’m gay.”

Carlos’s eyes aren’t as wide as before. Now they’re hooded, lashes casting shadows, his voice a little rough when it finally comes out, breathless.

“Yeah?”

“I mean…” Oscar nods toward Carlos’s thigh, still right there between his legs. “I clearly liked that,” he says, carefully untangling himself and falling back against the couch, restoring a safer distance. Quickly, he tacks on, “And I’m definitely not in love with you!”

Carlos’s hooded eyes widen in slow motion, until he looks like an owl again. Oscar still doesn’t think he’s hot. Not even a little. Even with that ridiculously loose bottom lip hanging open again, now red and shiny with shared spit.

Holy fuck.

“Actually, this is great!” Oscar says, faux-cheerful. He even throws in a sarcastic little fist-pump. “Now I can finally hate you without feeling like a bigot!”

Carlos blinks slowly, like he’s still running on Windows 95 and needs several years to reboot. Maybe Oscar wouldn’t tease him so much if his reactions weren’t always such pure gold. Take Lando, for example – he just gets sad and quiet. That’s why Oscar actually manages to be nice to him.

Finally, five years later, Carlos scrunches his eyebrows.

“You and I have very different reactions to discovering our sexualities,” he snaps, arms crossed like a sulking kid. “Glad you can joke about it. As you can guess, it wasn’t so fun in high school!”

“See,” Oscar sighs, rolling his eyes. “This is exactly the kind of holier-than-thou attitude that makes me hate you.”

“Can you stop?”

Oscar is surprised to detect an actual hint of hurt in Carlos’s voice, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“With the… with the hate thing,” Carlos says, not quite meeting his eyes. “I can’t do this right now, okay?”

Oscar is silenced, breath catching for a moment before it all rushes out at once. “Jesus, Carlos!” he says. “You do know I don’t actually hate you, right?”

The persistent furrow of Carlos’s brows suggest that he did not, actually, know that.

“It’s a joke!” Oscar goes on, a little frantic. “Like, the whole ‘haha, Carlos and Oscar hate each other’ thing we’ve got going on?”

Carlos is still frowning. Maybe his operating system fully crashed. Oscar flicks his bicep to wake him up.

“We do?”

Oscar pauses to process the fact that Carlos not knowing about their hate-like-dynamic is a hundred times more mortifying than dry-humping him in the middle of the frat house, then moves on to say, “Fuck, you’re an idiot!”

Carlos’s already open mouth drops even further, but Oscar doesn’t give him a chance to argue.

“I may not hate you, but I am heavily annoyed by you!”

“I am heavily annoyed by you too!” Carlos snaps, which makes Oscar raise both hands like, See?!

“And I want my hat back!” Carlos adds, which is so stupid and childish that Oscar just bursts out laughing. His mouth wasn’t ready, and he accidentally spits a bit of saliva, which just makes it even more hysterical.

Holy shit. He just made out with Carlos Sainz. And liked it.

“It’s not supposed to look good on you, you know?” Carlos grumbles. He probably thinks he made Oscar laugh with some clever quip, because his eyebrows finally un-knot a little. “Why don’t you ever wear hats backwards? You’ve got the perfect whooshy thing to pop out in front.”

“Because it’s cringe, Carlos,” Oscar snorts, smirking when Carlos’s brows furrow again.

“Wow!” Carlos huffs. “You know, I almost offered to help you with your little problem,” he says, pointedly glancing at Oscar’s crotch. “But I don’t think I feel like it when you’re acting like an asshole.”

The words hit Oscar like a freight train, but somehow, outwardly, he keeps his cool. He draws out a thoughtful “Hmmmm,” leaning in a bit. “And by help you mean…”

Carlos leans in too, so he doesn’t have to yell the word in a house full of drunk college students. “Handjob?”

Oscar squints at him in silence long enough for Carlos to turn crimson and bark, “What?”

“Nothing,” Oscar shrugs, reclining again. “Just a little stingy, is all.”

“What?”

“I mean, I just discovered that I’m gay, you know? And a handjob is all you have on offer to celebrate?”

“I… um,” Carlos stammers, caught off guard.

“Like, I might as well take care of that by myself, you know?” Oscar says. “Thought enrolling in the Carlos Sainz School of Gay would be a little more exciting, considering you’ve got years of experience on me.”

Carlos shuts his open mouth with a click and taps Oscar’s knee. “So what,” he snorts, “you want me to take you upstairs and just… bend you over?”

Oscar’s dick is sending out Morse code signals again. Well. That’s unexpected.

“You guys were the ones claiming I’m not adventurous,” he says, sounding impressively unbothered, thanks to years of practice in sounding unbothered, not because he actually is. “I never said that about myself.”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God. That’s not even how– You can’t just–” He sighs, lets his hand drop, then gives Oscar a sudden, serious look.

“You really want to enroll in the Carlos Sainz School of Gay?”

Oscar meets his eyes and raises his eyebrows like he’s accepting a dare.

“Okay,” Carlos says. Nods. Then stands and pulls Oscar to his feet.

“Congratulations,” he says, leading him out the door and up the stairs. “You’ve been accepted. First lesson starts – right now.”

#carcar #carlandoscar #oscar piastri #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #f1 rpf #my fics

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ywpd-translations · 16 hours ago

Text

Ride 818: The red bean!!

Pag 1

2: …. they're coming

3: They swallowed Midosuji

4: and tore that Huge-cchbori off

5: Hakone Academy!! Is getting super close!!

Pag 2

1: With his blood redder than anyone's

Pag 3

1: with a heart bigger than anyone's, he runs the fastest and flashily!!

Pag 4

1: 1700m left until the finish line!!

They passed the 2km point!!

They're entering Beppu City!!

2: Everyone in the chasing group swallowed Kyoto Fushimi and they're now chasing Sohoku's Naruko who's running alone!!

3: The distance is shortening so fast!!

It's 100m.... 50m!!

Pag 5

1: It's only a matter of time!! They're gonna catch Sohoku!!

Pag 6

1: Sohoku's Naruko

Going ahead alone was just a brave move...!! Even though I was surprised when you jumped ahead at 5km left...!!

2: Alright, a quiz for you, Yuuto

Huh

Again? Even though I just pointed it out earlier

3: In how many meters do I plan on catching him!?

4: Ugh!! Isn't that just up to you to decide!?

Pag 7

1: It's 300m!!

Pag 8

3: Hakone Academy is accelerating again!!

They're gonna catch Sohoku!!

4: So this time you give the answer so quickly!!

Pag 9

2: I caught you!!

Don't push yourself, I'll make it easy for you!!

3: 1500m left until the finish line!!

Pag 10

1: Sohokuu!!

Do your best, red guy!!

They'll catch him soon...

Pedal..!!

3: Oi oi, just when I thought Kyofushi's wave had calmed down

4: Next is Hakogaku!?

5: Seriously?

6: What is this... I really am popular!!

7: They're getting closer... they really came so far

8: I've pedaled hard to get here, so my legs are becoming numb

You think....

Pag 11

4: you can catch me for sure!! Hakogaku-san!!

You basically caught me already!!

Pag 12

1: Me!!

4: Naruko's

5: aura has changed!!

Pag 13

1: Bikes have to fight against opponents, terrain, and one more thing – the wind!!

2: To fight the wind, you can't just use your strength

3: It's also important to minimize as much as possible the total area of your body that defies the wind!!

4: You think you got me, Hakogaku-san!?

Move up on the saddle as much as possible

5: Bend your elbows and grasp the handles at the top

6: Lower your body until your legs hit your chest

7: Lower your head and only look forward!!

Pag 14

1: And then, fold your body!!

2: Naruko... Naruko, who is already supposed to be small got even smaller!?

3: The careless moment you thought you got me was fatal

Pag 15

3: Look at this Naruko's killer technique!!

Pag 16

1: The compact transform Naruko Origami!!

Pag 17

1: He'a accelerating!?

2: We were alread about to catch him, and in that situation....

He's small but... he's fast!!

3: Jou-san!!

4: This highway is the national route 10, and it goes from north to south

5: and right here it's

6: a headwind from the south!!

In a headwind section....

Pag 18

1: the smaller the section, the fastest you are!!

2: We're being left behind!!

Don't tell me he even took into account this wind!?

3: Haven't you heard? If you don't know, I'll tell you, Four-eyes-Jou....

4: The speedman of Naniwa...

Pag 19

1: is a friend of the wind!!

3: Amazing! Sohoku is slowly leaving them behind again!

What's with that form!! He's small!! He's so small!!

Amazing!

He's small and flashy!!

Pag 20

1: Jou-san, the plan of catching him in 300m is over!!

2: I know!!

My calculations went awry!!

3: You're amazing, Naruko...

4: Last year, you

5: you lost to Hakone Academy because of the difference in your reach

And no matter how hard you try, there are difference that can't be changed

6: It must have been so frustrating

7: Naruko, this year you're on that same first stage

Pag 21

1: but this time, with that small body, you outwit Hakone Academy!!

Pag 22

1: That's Naruko Shoukichi!!

So he kept this special killer technique until now!!

2: Naruko use the fact that he's a “bean”....!!

3: Amazing

4: 1000m left!!

5: Keep going like this, Naruko!!

6: Until the finish line!!

Pag 23

2: I can hear the cheers from the other side's of the park's trees!!

Yeah!!

Naruko-saaaan!!

Narukoooo!!

3: Go, go Naruko!! Keep going like this...!!

That small style is so cool!!

4: Just now Naruko is running on the other side of that goal gate!!

Pag 24

1: The other side of the goal gate!!

3: The park separated the harbor with the gate from the national highway

You have to pass the position of the goal gate and then turn around

4: This year's Inter high's first day's finish line, once they pass the 1km mark it's a technical section

Pag 25

1: The race turns around twice, turns around by 180° and then turns towards the finish line!!

Pag 26

2: Cornering skills, speed, and technique

3: Intuition for the race

Physical

4: And luck!!

Pag 27

1: The one who is superior in all of this will win!!

#yowapeda #yowamushi pedal #yowamushi pedal translations #yowapeda manga #yowamushi pedal spoilers #yowamushi pedal manga #ride 818 #oh i want naruko to win SO BAD #he deserves a win in the inter high!! let him wiiiin

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sanshinely · 3 days ago

Text

CRAZY MINDS OF MBTI | ATEEZ CHOI SAN

CRAZY MINDS (OF MBTI)

ateez choi san x fem!reader

trope » mbti theme, san as intj and reader as estp.

established relationship fic, non-idol fic

genre » fluff, romantic comedy, slice of life, modern au, light angst

word count; 5,126 words estimated reading time » ~20-25 minutes (normal reading speed)

warnings » mild language, suggestive dialogue, MBTI stereotyping, light emotional conflict

Sometimes, one test can change everything.

You were bored when you first took the MBTI test. No deep purpose behind it, just a click out of curiosity during a quiet afternoon. A few questions here, a few unsure choices there, and suddenly... there it was.

ESTP.

You blinked at the screen.

The Entrepreneur. The Doer. Bold. Direct. Energetic. Lives for the thrill of the moment.

That last part? Yeah, that felt painfully accurate. But something about it pulled you in deeper. You weren’t just content with the four letters—you wanted to know why. Why did you make impulsive choices? Why you hated routines. Why do you always run toward chaos instead of away from it?

And the deeper you explored the ESTP personality, the more it felt like finding pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were missing.

That small test? It sparked something way bigger.

A few years later, you're no longer just a girl curious about personality types. You're the founder and CEO of 16Personalities, a personality-based app and consulting platform that skyrocketed in popularity almost overnight. People came for the MBTI quizzes, but stayed for the insights. For the way your team broke down complex ideas and turned them into something deeply human. Even your best friend—an INFJ with a chronic case of emotional repression—gave in and took the test one night after a glass of wine. She burst into your office the next morning, waving her phone. “I’m an INFJ?! What the hell does that even mean?!”

Your friend finally tested her MBTI by the app you made. She wasn’t interested at all in the first because she won’t believe in MBTI as she said MBTIs were the same theory as Zodiacs. Your best friend finally took her chance to test on her MBTI, INFJ as the Advocats.

You laughed. "INFJ, huh?" you said, trying to hold back a laugh. "Well, it means you're kind of like... a walking contradiction."

She rolled her eyes, but you could see the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

"You're a visionary, but also super private. You want to save the world but can’t stand the idea of asking for help. You care deeply about people, but you don’t exactly enjoy big crowds. You’re an idealist, but also someone who struggles with reality. You’re probably freaking out right now, but deep down, you’re a big softie."

She gaped at you, clearly shocked at how accurate that sounded. "That... sounds like me. That’s terrifying."

You laughed. "Yeah, I know. Welcome to the INFJ club. You cry over poetry, right? You want to change the world, but you'll never ask anyone for help." You shook your head. "Honestly, you might as well get a tattoo that says 'emotional repression' and call it a day."

She stared at you in disbelief. "Wait... am I really that bad?"

"No, no," you quickly reassured her. "But you’ve definitely got some layers, INFJ. You’re like... the emotional intellectual who tries to save the world one quiet conversation at a time."

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, her anxiety momentarily forgotten. "I guess that’s... kind of accurate." "Kind of?" You grinned, reaching for your coffee. "Girl, you're all of that. Just embrace it." She sighed, staring at her phone again. "Well, now that I know, I feel like I need to do... something about it." You nodded. "Start by not overthinking it. Trust me, I know. I'm an ESTP. You don’t see me freaking out over who I am."

She raised an eyebrow. "Right, you're the impulsive risk-taker, always up for the next adventure. I swear, you’re basically the opposite of me." You shot her a pointed look. "And you love me for it." She smirked. "True. But now I need to process this INFJ thing. I feel like I’m staring at myself in a mirror and I don’t know what to do with it."

You leaned back in your chair, feeling the weight of her words. "You’ll figure it out. Just don't hide from it, okay? Embrace the weirdness."

She smiled at you, finally feeling like the pieces were coming together. "Thanks for... the reality check."

"Anytime, INFJ," you teased. "Now go ahead and start saving the world, one awkward conversation at a time."

—

It was supposed to be just another normal workday. You were halfway through reviewing the updates for the app when your phone lit up.

[Bestie] “Emergency. Can you take my blind date tonight? I’m literally dying and there’s no refund..”

You blinked. Blind date? You?

You were about to text back a hard “absolutely not” when she sent a second message:

“He’s a psychiatrist. Probably hot. Just go and pretend to be me. Pleaseeeee.”

You stared at the screen. ESTP logic said: screw it. You could use some entertainment.

So you sighed and replied: You : “Fine. But if he’s awkward, I’m making you pay for dessert.”

—

Your best friend stared at you, her jaw practically on the floor. “Wait... you’ve never been on a blind date? Never dated anyone? How have you survived this long? The world is so small, and you’ve been hiding out like this?”You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

“I mean, it’s just never been my thing, y’know?” She gawked at you like you had just revealed you were an alien. “Girl, you’re an entrepreneur who’s running a huge app, but you’ve never even tried to date? That’s... mind-blowing.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s really not that deep.” “Oh, it is,” she said, pulling out her makeup kit with determination. “And it’s time to fix this. You need to look flawless tonight. Trust me, we’re going all out.”

You groaned. “Do we really have to? I just don’t think I’m ready for all of this.”

She grinned, already pulling out brushes. “You are ready. You just don’t know it yet. We’re going to give you a makeover that’ll make you look like you belong in a rom-com. Now sit down and let me work my magic.”

As she got to work, you felt a little bit out of your element. “How long is this going to take?”

“Don’t rush me,” she said, expertly applying foundation. “You want flawless? It takes time. At least an hour. You’ll thank me later, I promise.” You gave her a skeptical look. “Flawless, huh? You’re really setting the bar high here.”

“You’ll see,” she replied with a wink. “Just trust the process.”

Your Best friend stood still for a moment, her eyes slowly scanning you from head to toe. “You… wow,” she breathed out, visibly stunned. “You actually look stunning. Like, it’s so fabulous. Look at yourself, why’d you never really be interested in makeovers?”

You raised an eyebrow, tugging nervously at the hem of your jacket. “You think so?”

“Please, I don’t think—I know,” she said, beginning to circle you like a proud stylist inspecting her masterpiece. “Honestly, if you don’t fall in love tonight, someone else definitely will.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I still can’t believe I’m actually doing this. This was your blind date, remember?”

“Yeah, about that…” she trailed off, biting her lip before locking eyes with you. “So… I kinda already told him I couldn’t make it. Said something came up. And then I—uh—might’ve mentioned I was sending someone else to my place.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You what?”

“I panicked, okay?” she held up both hands in surrender. “But don’t worry—I told him you’re amazing. And guess what? He was surprisingly chill about it.” You gave her a look. “Okay… and what exactly did you tell him about me?”

“Just the basics,” she shrugged, trying to look casual. “That you’re smart, drop-dead gorgeous, a little chaotic—but in the cutest way possible. Oh, and—” she paused for effect, “his name is Choi San.”

You stared. “Choi San?” She nodded. “Yep. And—plot twist—he’s a psychologist.” Your eyes widened. “So you set me up with someone who literally studies people’s minds for a living. Amazing. I’m about to be dissected over dinner, that’s literally my type.”

“Or,” she said, grinning knowingly, “he’s about to fall for you the moment he sees you.”You let out a dramatic sigh and grabbed your purse. “If he starts psychoanalyzing me mid-bite, I’m leaving.”

She laughed, stepping over to open the door. “Just be yourself. You’ve got this. And remember—tonight, you’re the main event.”

You rolled your eyes as you stepped out. “Let’s hope he reads romance, not horror.”

—

You walked into the cozy, upscale restaurant, your heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. The soft clinking of silverware and the warm golden glow from the overhead lights created a calm atmosphere, but your attention was focused solely on the man seated across the table.

Choi San looked up as you approached, a faint smile on his lips. He was dressed in a sharp navy blazer and a simple white shirt that complemented his relaxed yet sophisticated demeanor. He stood up as you neared, offering a nod of acknowledgment.

“Hi,” he greeted, his voice calm and smooth, as if you were already familiar. “You must be Y/N L/N?”

Your eyes met his, and you nodded, taking in a breath to steady yourself. "Yeah, that’s me," you said, your voice a little shaky as you pulled out the chair and sat down. "I guess I’m the one who got... dragged into this blind date."

San smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart skip a beat. “No pressure then,” he said, his gaze soft but confident as he sat back down. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/N. My name is Choi San”

They shake their both hands, and make you freeze. You weren't expecting that THIS is the man on your date. Previously, you didn’t expect that he could be this really handsome through your eyes

You adjusted the hem of your jacket, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. There was something about the way he looked at you that made you feel like you were already on his radar.

“So, uh…” you started, trying to break the silence, “What exactly do you do for a living? Besides... setting up blind dates?” you added with a nervous laugh. San put down his menu, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m a psychologist,” he said casually, his tone thoughtful. “I work in mental health.”

Your eyes widened, and before you could stop yourself, you gasped loudly, the sound escaping in a rush. “Wait, you’re a psychologist?!” The shock was evident in your voice, and you quickly realized you might have startled him. San blinked, clearly surprised by your reaction.

“Yeah... I know, it’s a bit of a shock, huh?” You covered your mouth, feeling a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that... I’ve never met anyone in that field before. Isn’t that kind of intimidating?”

San chuckled softly, clearly amused by your reaction. “I promise, I’m not here to analyze you on our date,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. You relaxed a little at his words, but your curiosity wasn’t satisfied yet. “Still, I can’t imagine what it must be like. You get to read people all day, every day.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It’s not about reading people; it’s about understanding them,” he said, his gaze shifting to you with a more personal intensity. “But don’t worry, I’m not analyzing you right now.”

You laughed, relieved. “Good to know,” you said with a smile, but your mind couldn’t help but race with the realization that you were sitting across from someone who literally analyzed people for a living. “So, what about you?” he asked, breaking your train of thought. “What do you do?”

You cleared your throat, then replied, “I’m actually the founder and owner of 16Personalities. The site you probably took the test on,” you added with a small smile.

San’s eyes lit up, and a genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Wait, really? I’ve taken that test on your app! It’s actually really fascinating,” he said, leaning forward with newfound interest. “I had no idea you were the person behind it.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the way he was looking at you. A proud smile made you glad because he used your app. “Yeah, it’s one of those things that’s more well-known than most people realize,” you replied, feeling a little more confident now that the conversation was flowing easier.

San grinned, clearly impressed. “I have to admit, I’m even more intrigued now. That’s... seriously impressive.” You laughed softly, trying to hide your smile. “Thanks,” you said, feeling a warm flush spread across your cheeks.

He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was thinking. “I don’t know if I should tell you my personality type now. Maybe I’ll leave that as a surprise,” he said, the playful tone in his voice making your heart skip another beat.

You grinned, intrigued. “I like surprises, but I have to warn you... I might guess it before the night’s over.” San chuckled softly. “We’ll see about that,” he said with a wink. “But for now, I think we should enjoy our dinner.”

The waiter arrived at that moment, and for a moment, the two of you paused as your meals were served. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling the conversation shift from nerves to something more comfortable, even with the soft tension still lingering between you.

—

The candlelight flickered between you and Choi San, casting playful shadows as the conversation slowed, leaving behind a quiet tension. The soft background music hummed, almost like a soundtrack to the unfolding moment. You couldn’t help but feel curious about the man across from you—so composed, so intriguing.

"So..." you began, swirling your wine glass lightly, keeping your voice playful, "I have to ask, what’s your MBTI type?" San raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Why do you want to know?" You shrugged, leaning back slightly with a smirk. "I’m just curious. I mean, you already know about my job, so I think it’s only fair. And also you tested on my app, right?"

"Fair enough," he said, leaning forward slightly, a playful twinkle in his eyes. "I’m INTJ."

"INTJ?" You blinked, surprised, trying to hide your amusement. "The mastermind type?" San chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the moment. "I suppose that's one way to put it." You tilted your head, eyeing him closely. "Well, no wonder you’re so... organized. So, you’re all about planning, analyzing everything, huh?"

San leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with an almost stoic air. "That's one way to describe it. What about you?" He paused, raising an eyebrow. "What’s your type?" You leaned forward a little, eyes gleaming with confidence. "ESTP," you said, gesturing with a quick flick of your hand. "The doer, the one who takes action and makes things happen."

San raised both eyebrows, studying you closely, clearly surprised. "Interesting," he murmured, his gaze intense. "So you’re the spontaneous one, huh?" "Yep," you nodded, your eyes sparkling with energy. "I live for the moment, take risks, and embrace whatever comes my way."

San’s expression softened a little, but there was something in his eyes that seemed to admire your extroverted energy. "Well," he said, his voice low, "I think that’s kind of... refreshing. Most people are too cautious for my taste."

Your eyes widened slightly. "You like that?" He chuckled, the hint of a flirtatious smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I wouldn’t call it my style, but... there’s something about how you embrace it. It’s bold."

The conversation paused for a second, both of you caught up in the unexpected chemistry of the moment. But then, the realization hit you. "Wait a second..." You leaned back in your chair, blinking in disbelief. "We’re total opposites!" San gave you a half-smile. "Guess we are. But apparently, opposites attract." You laughed softly, your heart skipping a beat. "I guess we’ll see about that."

His smile softened, but his gaze remained intense as he leaned in just a little closer. "I’m looking forward to finding out." You both sat in silence for a moment, the words hanging in the air, the connection between you undeniable. Then, you decided to push the conversation further, eager to see what else there was to learn about this intriguing man.

"So," you said, pulling out your phone, "let’s take a look at our profiles. I’m curious how accurate these tests are." San raised an eyebrow as you unlocked the 16personalities app and began to scroll through your results. "Alright, let’s see."

You grinned, showing him your profile. "Here it says I’m outgoing, energetic, and spontaneous—basically, I love taking action and always need something new to challenge me." San leaned in slightly to look at the screen, his curiosity growing. "Sounds pretty spot on," he said, eyes never leaving you. "And the weaknesses?"

You tapped the screen again, showing the weaknesses. "It says I can be a little... reckless. And sometimes, I don’t think things through." San’s lips curled into a playful smirk. "Yeah, I can see that. But I think that’s part of your charm."

You felt your cheeks flush a little at his compliment, but you didn’t back down. Instead, you leaned back with a confident grin. "Okay, so what about you?" You tapped the screen to show him his profile. "Let’s see what the mastermind has."

San took his time scrolling, then cleared his throat. "Alright, here’s the rundown: 'Strategic, logical, ambitious, and driven.'" You raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you’re the definition of control." San’s expression softened as he continued reading aloud. "And... ‘can be overly critical, distant, and too focused on long-term goals at the expense of the present.’"

You couldn’t help but chuckle. "Well, I guess I’m glad I’m here for the present, huh?" San’s smile deepened, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Touché." The conversation grew more relaxed as the night went on, both of you enjoying the chance to learn more about each other. But now, with the realization that your MBTI types were the exact opposite, there was a new, unexpected energy between you two.

"So," you said, your eyes twinkling, "I read somewhere that ESTPs and INTJs make a pretty good match." San raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "Really?" You nodded. "Yep, apparently. You bring the structure and the logic, I bring the chaos and the energy." San chuckled, his gaze warming. "I wouldn’t exactly call it chaos... but I think I can appreciate the spontaneity."

You smiled, feeling a little flutter in your chest. "Well, let’s see where this goes, then."

The evening continued, filled with laughter and easy conversation, but now, there was a deeper undercurrent to everything. The differences between you and San only seemed to make the connection stronger, and you couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the night—and the future—held in store.

—

The night seemed to slow down just enough for the two of you to dive deeper into the unexpected connection unfolding between you. The conversation had shifted from light banter to something more... meaningful. The flickering candle between you cast a soft glow over the table as you both took a moment to soak in the revelation of your MBTI types.

As you put your phone away for a second, you tilted your head slightly, your curiosity growing. "You know," you said, eyeing San carefully, "I just realized something. I never pegged you as an introvert."

San blinked, a little surprised by your observation. He shifted in his seat, his gaze a little more intense than before. "I suppose that’s not something people expect," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed softly, taking a sip from your glass, trying to make sense of it all. "I mean, look at you—so composed, so calm. I thought you’d be... more extroverted."

San smirked, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "I might not be the life of the party, but I’m not as shy as you think." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "It’s just that I find more energy in my own thoughts than in big social gatherings." Your eyes widened slightly, realizing just how much you had misjudged him. "So, you’re like... an introvert who’s good at faking extroversion?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn’t call it ‘faking.’ I just know how to interact when I need to. But I much prefer quiet time to think things through." You chuckled, now more intrigued than ever. "Well, that’s... a twist. I think you’re an ambivert, just like me.” San smiled softly, his gaze locking with yours. "Maybe we balance each other out better than I thought."

The revelation lingered between you, but before either of you could say anything more, you decided to dig deeper into the personality profiles on your phones. "Alright, enough of the guessing," you said, unlocking your phone again. "Let’s see what else our profiles have to say. I’m curious if it says anything about us."

San leaned forward slightly, his eyes scanning the screen as you scrolled through your ESTP profile once again. "Alright, let’s see what the fun-loving, action-driven ESTP is all about," he teased, his tone light but his curiosity evident.

You tapped a few times, bringing up a section of your profile. "Okay, here’s something interesting," you said, showing him. "It says I’m highly adaptable, which means I’m good at changing plans on a whim and handling surprises."

San nodded, clearly intrigued. "That makes sense. You’re definitely the type to keep things spontaneous."

You smiled, enjoying the easy rhythm between you. "Yeah, and it also says that I’m a risk-taker. Sometimes, I act before I think—definitely not for everyone."

San chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat. "I can see that. But it’s also what makes you... well, you."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you couldn’t help but feel a little more drawn to him. But you quickly turned the attention back to him. "Alright, your turn. What does it say for an INTJ mastermind?"

He smirked, tapping on his phone as he pulled up his profile. "Let’s see," he muttered, scanning through the sections. "Okay, it says I’m strategic, logical, and have a very clear idea of what I want."

You nodded, impressed. "I can see that. You definitely give off that vibe."

San's gaze softened a little as he continued. "It also mentions that I can sometimes be too focused on long-term goals. That I tend to dismiss the present for the sake of future plans."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Does that mean you’re not a fan of... living in the moment?"

He looked up at you, a brief flicker of a smile crossing his face. "Not necessarily. I just tend to look ahead more often than most. But maybe you could change that." His tone was light but carried a certain weight to it that made your heart flutter a little.

You laughed, leaning in slightly, trying to cover the warmth spreading across your cheeks. "Guess we’ll see about that."

San's eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, and the air between you grew charged. There was something magnetic about the way he looked at you, something you hadn’t expected from someone who’d described himself as an introvert.

"So," you said after a beat, trying to shift the mood, "what’s your take on this whole ESTP-INTJ pairing? Because, let’s face it, we are nothing alike."

San smirked, leaning back in his chair, but his eyes never left you. "Maybe we’re not alike in the conventional sense. But I don’t think that means we can’t complement each other."

You blinked, your thoughts momentarily scattered. "You really think so?"

He nodded, his smirk deepening into something a little more sincere. "I do. I think our differences could be... a good thing."

You stared at him, surprised by his honesty—and how quickly it seemed to spark something in you. The conversation had shifted from playful to something with real depth, and you couldn’t deny that you were starting to enjoy this unexpected connection more than you anticipated.

"So, we’re opposites in all the right ways?" you said, your voice softer now.

San’s gaze softened as he gave a slow nod. "Exactly. And I’m starting to think that’s a good thing."

You smiled, feeling a flutter in your chest that you couldn’t quite explain. The night was far from over, but in this moment, you knew one thing for sure: this blind date was turning into something far more interesting than either of you had expected.

"Guess we’ll just have to see where this goes," you said, your voice a little lighter now, and he nodded, his eyes still on you, his smile a little more genuine than before.

And as the conversation continued, you couldn’t help but feel like you were on the edge of something new—something that might just be worth exploring.

—

An hour had passed since they started their date. San had called the waiter over and casually ordered drinks for them. “Maybe it’s time for another drink,” San said with a playful grin, glancing at you. You raised your eyebrows, a bit surprised at the suggestion. “I’m actually good with just tea,” you replied, giving him a small smile.

San looked at you for a moment, almost as if he were processing your words. Then, with a wink, he spoke up. “Tea? Alright, I’ll take care of the wine then.”

The waiter arrived, and San ordered a bottle of Merlot for himself, while you stuck to your choice of tea. As the waiter left, you couldn’t help but feel a little out of place with San’s relaxed confidence. “You don’t drink much, huh?” San asked as he settled back into his seat. You laughed nervously, lifting your cup of tea. “Not really, but I can handle a glass every now and then,” you said, still unsure about the wine.

San smirked, clearly enjoying teasing you. “It’s just wine. You’re not gonna get drunk off of one glass. Relax, we’re on a date now.”

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling the playful tension between you two. But beneath the surface, you started to wonder if San might be getting bored with all your talk about personality tests and MBTI. You didn’t want him to think you were too much.

The conversation shifted into a more comfortable rhythm, both of you talking about your respective careers and experiences. Even though the night was still young, it felt like you were both starting to connect on a deeper level.

San took a slow sip of his wine, watching you intently as he set the glass down. “So, I’m curious... with your app and the whole 16Personalities thing, how did you end up creating it? I mean, it’s not every day you meet someone who owns such a well-known platform.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of pride at his curiosity. “It all started back in college,” you began, setting your tea down as you leaned forward slightly. “I’ve always been really into psychology too, even before I knew what MBTI was. I’ve always liked understanding how people tick, you know?”

San nodded, clearly interested. “I get that. It’s kind of like my fascination with how people process emotions. It’s amazing how there’s always so much more beneath the surface.”

You continued, “Exactly! So, when I came across MBTI, I thought it was such a cool way to break down personalities in a structured way. I thought to myself, why not create an app that could help people figure themselves out, and even help others understand each other better?”

San raised an eyebrow. “So you basically turned your passion into a business?”

You grinned, a little sheepish. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It wasn’t easy, though. There were times when I wasn’t sure it would work. But once the app gained traction, I knew I was onto something. The feedback from users was everything. People were telling me how much they learned about themselves and their relationships—it felt like I was actually making a difference, you know?”

San's gaze softened, his admiration for you evident. “That’s incredible. You built something that has real impact. I can see why you’re so passionate about it.”

You looked away for a second, a little bashful under his intense stare. “Thanks. It’s definitely a lot of work. But it’s worth it, especially when people reach out to say how much it’s helped them.”

San nodded, then leaned in slightly, his voice lowering a little. “And you’ve clearly done well for yourself. I have to admit, I admire your drive. You’re doing something that not only challenges you, but also helps people in a meaningful way.”

You felt a slight warmth flush through you at his words, unsure if it was the wine or the genuine sincerity in his tone. “I guess I’ve always been the kind of person who wants to make a difference, even if it’s just in small ways.”

San’s smile grew, and for a moment, you could feel the connection between you two grow even stronger. “Well, you’re definitely making an impact, no doubt about that.”

You laughed softly, grateful for the compliment but not wanting to dwell on it too much. “Enough about me. You’ve got to tell me more about your work, San. You mentioned helping people with deep emotional struggles—what’s been one of the most challenging cases for you?”

San paused for a moment, his expression turning more thoughtful. “There have been a few,” he said slowly. “But one that really stuck with me was a young woman I worked with. She came in dealing with trauma from her childhood—she was just barely keeping it together. It took months of therapy, but eventually, we made progress. I can’t explain the feeling when someone like that starts to trust you and take steps forward. It’s humbling.”

You were silent for a moment, processing his words. It was clear that San wasn’t just doing his job—he was genuinely invested in his patients. “That must’ve been an incredible moment. I can’t even imagine the kind of impact that had on her life.”

San nodded, his eyes a little distant as he spoke. “It wasn’t easy, but the small victories are what keep me going. It’s not about fixing people—it's about helping them realize they’re capable of healing themselves.”

You were struck by his humility, and for the first time, you noticed how much thought and care he put into his work. “I really respect that,” you said softly. “It sounds like you’ve found your calling.”

San smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth. “I have. And I think you’ve found yours too, with what you’re doing. We’re both in jobs that help people understand themselves better. That’s a pretty cool thing to have in common.”

You chuckled, feeling a little lighter with the connection you were starting to build. “Yeah, it’s pretty crazy that we’re both so into understanding people’s minds in different ways.”

San leaned back in his chair, his eyes still locked on yours. “Not so crazy when you think about it. I mean, you’re an expert at analyzing personalities, and I’m just doing the same thing—just from a different perspective. We’re both into making sense of how people tick.”

You thought about his words, nodding. “True. It’s kind of funny, actually. We’ve spent this entire date talking about MBTI and psychology, and yet, here we are, still learning about each other.”

San’s lips curled into a small smile, and he reached for his wine glass. “I’d say it’s been a pretty interesting date so far.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering a little. “Definitely interesting.”

The waiter returned, placing a new round of drinks on the table, and as the evening continued, the conversation naturally flowed into other topics. But no matter what they talked about, the spark between you two remained—something deeper, something real.

—

The air was a little chilly when they stepped out of the restaurant. San insisted on walking her home since it wasn’t too far, just a few blocks away. They strolled in silence for a moment, until Reader spoke.

“You know… I didn’t expect we’d have so much in common.”

San turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle smile. “Me neither. I thought this would be just another awkward dinner.” She chuckled. “Same. But finding out we both studied psychology? That was a twist.”

San nodded. “It felt like I was talking to someone who actually gets it. The burnout, the pressure, the way we’re expected to always ‘have it together’ just because we understand the mind.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “It’s comforting, honestly.” They stopped at a crosswalk. The streetlight cast a warm glow on both of them. “You really built your own company,” San said softly. “That’s… impressive.” She shrugged, a little bashful. “You started young too. Becoming a psychologist at twenty-six? That’s wild.”

They exchanged glances—those long, quiet looks that held more than just admiration. Something deeper hummed in the silence. “I didn’t expect to enjoy this night so much,” you admitted. “I was about to say the same,” San replied, taking a slow step closer. “You surprised me.”

“Surprised you how?”

“You’re bold. Direct. But you listen. I think I needed that.” Y/N’s breath caught slightly as he stepped into her space, their hands brushing briefly. Neither of them moved away. When they reached the steps of her apartment building, they stopped.

“Well,” she said, “this is me.”

San nodded, his eyes not leaving hers. “Right.”

They talked about university days, their mutual burnout stories, professors they both coincidentally knew, and the one shared subject they both geeked out about: human behavior.

“You really took psychology because you wanted to understand people better?” you asked, glancing at him. San nodded. “I was tired of guessing what others were feeling. Understanding the mind felt like power. A quiet kind.”

She smiled. “Same. Though I guess I took it more because I wanted people to understand me.”

San looked at her, a thoughtful pause in his steps. “I think people do. You’re… loud in the best way.” That made her laugh. “Loud?” “You fill the space. With energy. With presence. That’s not a bad thing.” She smiled, genuinely touched.

By the time they reached her apartment, the street was quiet—just the hum of distant cars and the soft flicker of the streetlamp above them. She turned to face him at her doorstep.

“Well, this is home,” she said, a little breathless. He stayed where he was for a second, hands in the pockets of his coat. “You said you weren’t sure about blind dates.” “Yeah,” she replied, chuckling. “I stand corrected.” They stared at each other. There was tension—warm, expectant.

“I’d really like to see you again,” San said slowly.

“I’d really like that too.”

A beat passed. San took a small step closer. “Can I—?”

Y/N didn’t move away. She tilted her head slightly, gaze flicking down to his lips and back to his eyes.That was all the permission he needed.

He leaned in slowly, testing the space between them, until his lips brushed hers—gentle at first, hesitant. But when she didn’t pull away, his hand came to the side of her face, and the kiss deepened. Slow, sincere, magnetic.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads rested against each other.

“You’re full of surprises, San.” He smiled. “So are you.”

She reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Text me when you get home?”

“I will,” he said. “Sweet dreams, beautiful.” She went up the steps with one last glance behind her. San stayed there for a moment, watching until the lights in her apartment turned on.

And for the first time in a long while, he smiled on his walk home. He got so much in love with You, at the first sight of their eyes.

Epilogue - "Crazy Minds" 💘✨

Since that night, San and Y/N had become inseparable. They were officially a couple, and all of it was thanks to INFJ Bestie, who had somehow played matchmaker and found them their perfect match.

INFJ Bestie, who had pushed Reader into that blind date in the first place, had always known something special was happening between them. "I knew you two were meant to be," INFJ Bestie often said, grinning at the two of them. "I'm basically a genius at this."

That night, San and Y/N were curled up together on the couch, watching a movie they weren't really paying attention to. It didn’t matter though, because it was just the two of them, talking, laughing, and feeling completely at ease with one another. They weren’t strangers anymore; they were a couple, comfortable in each other’s presence.

San, who had kept his feelings close to his chest, finally opened up. “You know, I didn’t expect us to get this far. I never thought I’d have a relationship like this.”

Y/N smiled, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Well… I didn’t think so either. But look at us now. I’m glad we gave this a chance.”

San squeezed their hand a little tighter. “Me too.”

They exchanged a look that said more than words could. And in the quiet that followed, San took a step closer. Their eyes locked, hearts pounding as the space between them closed. Reader felt their breath hitch as San stepped in even closer, and without a word, their lips met in a kiss. It was slow, soft, but meaningful.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a kiss filled with intimacy, the kind of kiss that said everything they hadn’t been able to say aloud. The kiss deepened, slow and tender, magnetic in a way neither of them had expected. 🌙💕

He had fallen in love with her the moment their eyes met. 💖✨

And that’s how INTJ x ESTP combined through relationships, FOREVER.

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thank u for ur time & for reading this fic!

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sevikasprincesss · 23 hours ago

Text

𐙚 ̊ don't hide from me, you're beautiful ⋆˙⟡

Chapter Two - Princess in her Tower

sevika x reader ← click for my ao3 for all four chapters.

18+ only (minors and men dni) ✮ word count ── 2500ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

content warnings; nsfw, mature content, smut with storyline, vaginal sex, oral, explicit language, angst, 18+ readers only, reader has female anatomy, sevika top/dominant <3

🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺

Sevika smirked at the memory of you, the taste still fresh on her lips. Following Silco into his office, she indulged herself in one last glance of you, now bending over slightly as you stepped into your dress. Sevika bit back a laugh, shutting the door behind her and walking over to the drinks trolley, pouring Silco his usual drink, then hers.

“Care to explain what’s going on between you and my barmaid?” Silco asked, smirking slightly as he sat back in his chair, puffing on his cigar.

“She was getting a bit… over confident, sir,” Sevika says, handing him his drink and sitting in the chair opposite. “She needed to know her place, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” he said, eying her closely. “I trust you saw to that?”

“Thoroughly.” Sevika smirked, taking a swig from her bottle.

“As long as you don’t break her,” he said looking over his papers, “I might need her for the next job.”

✧˖*°✧*°࿐✧˖*°✧*°࿐✧˖*°✧*°࿐✧˖*°✧*°࿐

After slipping my dress on, I quickly began clearing up the bar so I can finish. I absolutely did not want to be here when the pair of them leave his office. In fact, the thought of it was bad enough. I didn’t think I could handle their jokes, taunting, and gods only know what else. All I wanted right now was to collapse into bed and forget about everything—including Sevika.

With all the energy I could muster, I climbed the many stairs to my room, which just happened to be in the attic tower behind the Last Drop. Ever since Silco took over the lanes, this is where I was kept—where I lived. The attic, my home, if you could call it that. This way, I was always close on hand if my services were required, that’s the way he liked it.

My room was originally a dark, dull, and damp room overlooking the lanes through the one window, which had bars on the outside. I could still remember my first night here. Oh how I cried, how I wept, sobbing myself to sleep on the cold hard floor with nothing but the spiders for company.

The memory hung over me like a thick, grey cloud. I shivered, shutting the door behind me and undressing, jumping into the shower.

Over the years, I’d managed to brighten the place up a little bit. I even came to regard it as my little sanctuary… it just happened to be in the same house as the biggest crime lord in Zaun. But I managed to save what little money he gave me for weeks; months, even, just so I could buy two tubs of paint and cover the walls in my favourite colours—pastel pink and yellows.

I painted pink, puffy, rolling clouds on the walls and ceilings, scattered with tiny yellow stars. It wasn’t very good, but it was enough to make me happy. It’s crazy how the small things brighten your days.

Over the years, I’ve collected little pieces and hung them on my walls for decoration. It was mostly leftover bits of scrap that I managed to use, creating something else entirely. Flowers, stars, even a moon sculpture made from old newspapers and cardboard. You could do whatever you wanted, if you put your mind to it.

These little creative musings made my ‘home’ seem a lot less depressing, anyway.

Silco had given me many freedoms, though, so I can’t complain about that. He gave me perhaps more freedom than any other crime-lord would give one of his servants. It could be a lot worse, I knew that. I think he pitied me a little, when he took me from my father. I say took, so not to remind myself that my father sold me. I try my best to forget that little fact.

When I came here, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. No possessions, no photographs, nothing to suggest I’d had a life before this. Perfect, in Silco’s eyes. Nobody would ever come searching for me, nor would anyone fight for my freedom. I was a nobody.

He treated me fairly, considering… well, considering the violence he’s known for. For starters, he didn’t force me to work in the brothel, nor did he send me to the pits—the violent underground fighting establishment that many of his men frequent, betting on those unlucky enough to work there. Silco gave me his bar to run, his people to entertain. A few errands to run here and there. He even paid me a few coins every week for my efforts. Not much, but enough to pay for food and necessities.

It was easy really, just do what he asks and remain loyal to him, which of course I did. Through fear or loyalty, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps both? I’ve seen too many of Silco’s victims to even think about double-crossing him.

I did try to leave once. A long time ago now. I was eighteen, foolishly believing I’d get away with it, that I’d slip under his radar. The idea of freedom lured me from his grips and I chased it, eagerly, desperately, trying to get away from the life I was sold into. I left with a girl I knew from the lanes, Ren. She was my only friend.

But we didn’t even make it to the bridge before being dragged back here, forced to watch as my friend was being beaten to a pulp. They needed me, you see. Needed to maintain appearances, so I got away with only a few bruises. I was locked in my room for a whole month on my own after that little escapade.

When they finally let me out, she’d gone, vanished. They refused to tell me anything, but I never saw my friend again. And I’ve been alone ever since, each night a torment. It was what, nearly ten years ago now? But the thought of her still haunts me even now. The guilt gnawed at me. It was my fault she’d gone, after all.

“No.” I scold myself. Stop thinking about that.

I grip my face in frustration, trying to clear my mind as the nightmares haunt me. I run my fingers through my hair, braiding it absentmindedly as I dried myself off from the shower. I throw my towel over the door and collapse into bed, hiding myself under the covers.

I wrap one arm around myself, slowly rocking from side to side. My other hand cups my cheek softly stroking it for comfort. The loneliness was easier to ignore when I was busy working, surrounded by people. But at night, when I was tucked away in my room, hidden away from the world—that was a different matter. The hollow emptiness inside me was haunting, deafening in such a small, quiet space.

My mind fell upon Sevika. I thought of how soft she felt against my skin, her kisses so tender and loving. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched me like that. I probably shouldn’t find myself wanting her, craving her—not after knowing what she’s like. But I found myself hungry for her touch. I couldn’t help but feel there’s more to her, a softer side perhaps. That’s the side of her I cling to, the side of her I never expected was there.

What had I expected? I wasn’t sure. But I don’t think I’d expected such softness from someone with a hard exterior, someone who was usually anything but gentle. She wasn’t known for being soft, after all. I traced the places she’d kissed me, imagining her there once more. A soft moan left me as my fingers lowered beneath the covers, finding my clit.

I played with myself, imagining it was her fingers instead of mine. I replayed the memories of her over and over in my mind. Good girl, she praised. Cum for me.

It wasn’t long until I did, falling soundly asleep to the thought of the woman I both loathed and desired so desperately.

✧˖*°✧*°࿐

My dreams seemed to be haunted by her; her face, her touch, her kiss. I woke to the sound of my soft moans as I played with myself in my sleep, the memories of her clearly still at the front of my mind.

I heard a soft chuckle, I froze. My eyes flicked open and I realised that I wasn’t alone. Sevika was lying next to me, watching me closely with a smirk. I inched backwards in shock.

“Shit,” I mutter, almost horrified at the intrusion. I was naked, again, and she was fully clothed. What I’d do to see her naked, I thought, pulling the sheets up to my chin.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she muttered, biting her lip and watched me closely. “Carry on.”

I looked away from her, blushing furiously.

“I said, carry on,” she warned, her voice was dark and commanding. She gripped my face and kissed me.

Slowly, I continue, circling my clit and eliciting soft whimpers. I turn my head to look away, her eyes were piercing. She held onto my face, forcing me to look at her.

“I want to see you finish,” she whispered.

My blush deepened, but I continued to play with myself while she watched me. I couldn’t help but close my eyes as I felt the orgasm building. She slapped me hard on the cheek, my eyes flew open as I hissed in pain.

“Eyes on me, princess.” She smirked, pulling the sheets down and playing with my breasts carelessly.

It was hard to keep my eyes open. It felt almost desperate. I recalled last night and how she fucked me. My orgasm nearly reached, but I moaned softly, “Please, can I cum?”

“Good girl.” She smiled, “You’re a fast learner.”

I floated somewhere between ecstasy and obedience, excitement twisting inside me at the praise she was giving me.

“Please,” I beg, not sure if I can hold it back much longer.

“Cum for me,” she growled, nibbling my ear. Her words were enough. I felt my walls crashing down as I came for her, moaning her name softly.

Her eyes were fixed on me almost admiringly as I lay there, breathing deeply. She stroked my hair softly, twirling it beneath her fingers as if lost in thought.

The slight embarrassment of what just happened washed over me. Had I really been playing with myself in my sleep? And she was there, watching, all the while. If you could die of shame, I’d be a goner, I thought, pulling back the sheets and looking away. Was I really going to give in to her, every time?

…probably.

“I need a shower,” I mutter, sitting up.

“Not so fast.” She pulls me back down by my hair, “I’ll see to it.”

She smirked, disappearing under the sheets. I pull myself up a little bit to make room for her, but she pulled my legs down at once, spreading them apart for her benefit. I could feel her breath tickling my skin before she kissed me there… everywhere. She pushed her face into me, licking, sucking, eating the evidence of my orgasm. The sensations built inside me again alongside the excitement. She spread my lips and sucked my clit, swirling her tongue around. The sensitivity overwhelmed me. My back arched. Fuck, fuck, I mutter. She slipped fingers inside me and started fucking me. I inhaled sharply, softly groaning in pleasure.

I was like putty in her hands, every single time. She made me melt, my defences disappearing anytime she was near. My breath hitching as she fucked me hard and I could feel myself building again.

“Cum again, if you can, princess.”

Her dark, smooth voice was enough. I reached my climax for the second time. And she devoured me, the taste sweet on her tongue. She leaned up, pulling her fingers out of me, dripping and sliding them into her mouth as I watched. I felt shy all of a sudden, looking away.

She pushed her fingers back inside me and I gasped, not expecting it. She pulled out and forced them into my mouth. Shocked, I try to pull away, but she pushes them further into my mouth until I gag.

“Suck,” she says, staring at me from above.

I oblige, sucking her fingers clean.

“That’s my girl.” She smirks, pushing them far into my mouth until I gag once more, then pulled out laughing. She sits next to me, kissing me on the head and wrapping her arm around me.

“I think I’m addicted.” She said as my head fell onto her, curling into her body.

“To what?” I laughed softly as I snuggled into her.

“You,” she laughed. “You’ve got me cunt-struck.”

I roll my eyes, nudging her.

“Don’t let the compliment go to your head, though.”

“I wouldn’t say cunt-struck is even among the top ten compliments I’ve ever received,” I say softly, “Though I do like the nickname you’ve given me.”

“Yeah?” she said, “And what’s that?”

“You call me princess quite a lot,” I said quietly, arm around her as we lay there. “It’s nice.”

“Only because you’ve got long golden hair and you’re stuck living in this tower like Rapunzel.” She laughed darkly, sitting up.

I froze, a tight knot forming in my stomach at her words and lack of warmth as she pulled away from me. She stood, walking towards the door and hovering there slightly.

“Silco sent me, he wants a word.” She slammed the door behind her without a second glance, leaving me suffering from whiplash with her being so hot-and-cold.

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nebrasska-alasska · 15 hours ago

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How do you make your writing flow? Its soo good and interesting!! (I lowkey have been struggling on it and ur fics are acc amazing)

Hello there! That is so kind of you to say, thank you! I feel like above all else, when I write, I just type out my inner monologue and how I talk in my head. As in, if I were to read my fics out loud, it would follow the natural cadence and pattern of how I speak. And it is because of this reason that I have been considering making some of my stories into podfics, just because they read so naturally in my voice haha.

As an aside, it's funny you submitted this... I've been busy packing up my apartment the past few days (hence why there haven't been any new chapter uploads) and I actually came across an old notebook of a story I wrote from before I started writing fanfiction. Summer of 2019, 6 years ago. And boy oh boy, was the writing in that notebook rough! Super awkward and stilted, and it certainly had the ghost of what you could call my "voice" is now, but it was way underdeveloped. Since then, I have written so much, and I went and counted how many words of fanfiction I've written, and across all three of my ao3 accounts, the total is around 765,000 words over the course of five years (and more than half of those words have been for Sonadow written over the past four months LMFAO)

So I suppose, and this answer sucks, but practice? The more you write, the more you will develop your flow and voice. Things I wrote on my previous two accounts barely resemble what I'm writing here on Nebrasska. Best of luck to you, and I hope you have a lot of fun writing!!! :D

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iwoulddieforher · 23 hours ago

Text

She Doesn't Get Out Much | Alex Cabot × Casey Novak | Part 4

Alex shows up with passion in her heart, fire in her eyes, and anxiety in her stomach to convince her peculiar and indomitable Uncle to allow her to return to the DA's office. This is chapter four, to read the previous chapters please be directed here

i'm rather proud of this chapter. please bestow upon me your thoughts in the comments pleasee i would greatly appreciate it

warnings for discussions about Alex's shooting, recovery

Patience was something Alex would like to believe she had, but exercising it always proved quite the opposite. She hated waiting. It made her feel powerless, sitting still somewhere and agonizing over the details of what could or could not happen.

As she waited in this ridiculously expensive restaurant, situated on the second highest floor of a ridiculously expensive hotel, Alex could do absolutely nothing other than curse Zapata over and over again.

She was not sure if her hand was shaking, and she did not want to look.

It probably was.

She hated it.

Alex had been making it a point to be as great of an annoyance to her uncle as physically possible without crossing into the line of genuinely irritating. She wanted to make herself a lingering prick on his hand, a splinter he’d be reminded of every day, until he dropped his objection to her returning to work. It wasn't that she needed the money- she just really couldn't stand to sit at home by herself anymore, waiting.

She had prepared herself for the scolding she was about to receive for losing her first case back- that had been far from a good look, even though she wasn't entirely bothered. Firstly, she was pretty sure the perpetrator had been guilty, and secondly, if Casey had lost that trial- Alex had no clue where the redhead would've ended up. Perhaps her anger would've grown to an extent they wouldn't be attempting to reconcile like they were now.

Breathing out and intentionally pausing before breathing in again, Alex calmed herself. She was typically good at stifling anxiety, (at least, since she had started her antidepressants), and although she was out of the loop, she forced herself to be able to do so again. She refused to be stressed when her uncle arrived.

He was revered. A stellar reputation for being the idealized impartial judge, with a background of court victories that made him especially intimidating from when he was a lawyer. Childless and without a wife, he had amassed a notable fortune, even in comparison with their already wealthy family.

But as all affluent men were, he had his peculiarities. He came off as cold and unforgiving, and Alex wasn't entirely sure that appraisal was incorrect. He could be harsh, and he could sometimes be downright cruel. His expectations were high for the people within his inner circle, and she wasn't sure she was included in that. That only meant even more was needed from her to be deemed worthy of his association.

She picked up a menu and thumbed her way through it blankly. It was a pointless activity, as she had already decided what she would order the moment her uncle had agreed to meet her and decided on the location. Still, though, it gave her something to do with her hands, and she’d need that, because when her uncle inevitably wandered in, she wanted him to see her engaged in something.

Alex still remembered the advice he had peppered into her as a child- when she was young, she had been dazzled by her uncle Bill, but now as a woman she was significantly less enthused.

“Alexandra,” he had once told her, “It's important for you to understand how to capitalize on punctuality.”

“What do you mean?”

Her voice had sounded so soft, then, and smaller. Preparatory school had schooled her to be prim and ladylike, not to speak in a manner anyone would find offensive. How to be quiet, be observant, and how to blend into her environment- and when to stand out. Later, years of law school and the hours upon hours of mock debates in her teens and early twenties had taught her to project, be louder, firm and commanding. She hadn't yet entered law school, though, when they had had this conversation.

“Imagine: you’re having an important meeting. You're late,” he answered, “How do you think that would play out?”

She had not needed a moment to ponder that. “It’d be rude. I don't think I’d get whatever I’m requesting. It would be disrespectful, and I’d be wasting their time.”

“Precisely. Now: imagine someone is waiting for you, and *you're* late.”

Alexandra blinked. It was disrespectful to waste someone's time- wouldn't that apply in the vice versa? She wouldn't want to intentionally irk anyone in such a manner.

But if Alexandra had ever been one thing- something she had never been taught, but entirely born with- or, at least, something she had excelled at since she could remember, it was her ability to be clever. Cleverness, in her opinion, was not simply being intelligent. You could be smart without being clever. Cleverness, in the way she defined, was understanding the expectation you were being perceived in, and acting accordingly.

She thought it would be rude to make someone wait for you, but her uncle clearly was not grooming her for that response. He expected her to answer that way, though, and then he’d have the opportunity to correct her.

“Perhaps,” she started, because she knew her brain would be able to process what she decided to continue with before she needed it. She had to decipher the best response- she could either play along with his expectations, or act accordingly to the fact she had already predicted them. For purposes in education, it typically impressed her teachers to answer in the latter way, while often with her peers anything other than the former would prove only to be an irritant.

“It would be asserting the importance of your own time. You’d come off as busy and dominant, if you did it properly.”

Her uncle blinked once. He recognized that she had needed to solve not only for that answer but also for what he had wanted to hear from her. Something in his expression showed Alexandra he was unsatisfied with her, but she could not tell exactly what. A second after she affirmed he was indubitably malcontented, his expression was swept away on the waves of a facade even her observance could not read through.

She felt small, and childish. She had done something wrong, apparently, but he wasn't going to tell her what it was, and she was guaranteed to never know for sure.

She had been a child, in fact. When Alex now thought back on this interaction, she realized she couldn't have been older than eleven.

“It gives you the opportunity to see someone off guard,” he had answered. “People will expect you to be on time. Being purposefully late by nothing more than a few minutes gives you an opportunity to see what they do with time they didn't expect to have.”

The way he had answered had told Alex he had wanted to say more than that. What he had said was intended to be a second, follow-up point, but she had nailed down the first thing he had meant to say, and either he was grumpy about it, or she had done something else wrong. She assumed it was the latter. She didn't know what.

Perhaps that was why she remembered the entirety of the conversation so clearly, even over twenty years later. She had spent hours revisiting it.

She hadn't seen her uncle much growing up, but her mother and father had told her he was someone of importance, especially after she had begun expressing an interest in law. Follow in his footsteps, they had told her, and that requires listening to everything he said with careful detail. That requires earning his favor. Her uncle was not easily pleased with the behavior of younger people.

Her career had been jump started because she had been one of the few children in her family who he had been impressed by. Even then, she remembered many moments when his displeasure had been evident. She couldn't imagine how depressing it would've been for her if she wasn't naturally clever. Some of her cousins hadn't turned out as much- she had been able to follow her passions, but they had ended up haphazardly thrust into positions in companies where they couldn't even properly explain what the hell they were doing there. Enough to keep the family name, because their family was too self-important to ever have a child turn out to be a disappointment, but definitely nothing that they had wanted to do.

She wasn't sure, still, if her uncle perceived her being shot as becoming a disappointment. She knew he must have been displeased with the diagnosis of her disorder- which, she realized, must be the first psychiatric problem he was aware of, because her parents had told her to hide her generalized anxiety diagnosis from him- but to what degree, she couldn't predict.

She wanted to indignantly reaffirm it wasn't her fault she had been shot, but if he was feeling especially harsh, perhaps he would depict it as a failure to properly assess the extreme risk demanding to stay on the case despite the warnings.

Alex balled her fist in her lap and took a deep breath through her nose, her eyes flickering over text she wasn't reading.

Her uncle, in that conversation years ago, had told her the proper time to be intentionally delayed was between five and ten minutes, because any more than that was rude no matter what the intention, and before that wasn't late enough for the other person to grow anxious.

She’d like to say she disliked him for having such perceptions of social dynamics.

Even with someone she wished anxiety on, someone she disliked, she wouldn't want to make them wait for her, because something as petty as that seemed entirely pointless. But her uncle was her uncle, and she had been raised to see his silhouette as being bathed in golden light.

She couldn't bring herself to dislike him. She wanted his approval.

Alex could've notified the district attorney at any minute and on any whim that she wanted to return. She would've been allowed in- that hadn't ever been the concern. But she wanted her uncle to tell her that she could.

The chains that held her were entirely her own hesitancy to act in opposition to her uncle’s will. She was completely aware of this. She had slapped them on her own wrists, turned the lock, and provided the key to the man she had just noticed out of the corner of her eye.

Alex did not look up. For anyone else, she would've done the courtesy of acknowledging their presence, but she knew her uncle better than that. This conversation was a mental fifth-dimensional chess game. He had been late intentionally to watch what she would do in his absence, and she had decided to raise the facade as though she hadn't noticed.

“Alexandra,” he said in his gruff tone, taking the seat opposite her, and only then she raised her eyes, blinking as soon as her head finished moving as though she had only just realized, and then smiled.

“Uncle,” she greeted warmly (although not too warmly), “Did the journey fare you well?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I hope you didn't mind waiting.”

Alexandra smirked to herself, although her face exhibited only a mild curiosity as she raised an arm to check the golden watch that adorned it. It was a movement only for antics. She knew exactly how overtime he had been- a subsection of her brain had been counting the seconds.

“Ah,” she said, “No worries.”

He was wearing a diplomatic smile, but Alex could swear she saw the edges of it jerk up at her response. He knew she had decided to participate in his game- thereby, he knew she was well enough to play it. Pride made her own couth smile turn genuine.

She hadn't quite decided what technique she was playing with tonight, but all things considered, that was the best tactic. Prematurely settling on a route to take through her uncle’s brain would most likely only backfire. Her uncle’s concept of how she should act changed by the second, or by the minute if she was lucky.

Instead, something she picked up from her time with SVU would be deployed- get him talking, and keep him talking, until she got her ducks in a row.

“You’ve never told me to come here, before.” Alex murmured conversationally, letting her eyes drop back to the menu as if she was skimming the text, before looking up again with a smile. “Is it a new find of yours?”

“Opened recently,” Uncle Bill said, as though he were making a statement at a press conference, “So a new find, yes. Wanted to bring you here myself the first time, not only recommend it over the phone.”

So he was in one of his more sentimental moods, Alex noted to herself. He was speaking curtly, but if he was in a different perspective his words wouldn't carry warmth like that. Alex did not see her uncle often, regularly- their meetings were spontaneous at best. Saying he wanted to save this spot until the next time they dined together was an odd thing to say if one was thinking logically. His version of logically, at least- he prided himself on his intellect, although Alex often decided to herself that he frequently borderlined on selfish behavior.

“That's kind of you,” Alex smiled. The waitress had noticed her company had arrived and was striding over, and that put her in the awkward position of not being able to begin saying something that she knew would be interrupted by her interjection to take drink orders. She didn't want the silence to stretch on, though.

“It's been a while since I’ve been at a contemporary venue that boasts art inspired by the romanticism period,” she decided to fill what she estimated to be a half-minute time slot with an observation instead of something more fruitful, “the oil work on the far wall is quite something, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he agreed, turning in time to see the waitress pass the last table between them. They briefly gave drink orders. Alex was pleased by the satisfied shift of her uncle’s eyebrows at her wine selection- she had gotten better at picking alcohol that suited both his taste without sacrificing her own.

“How has your recovery been, Alexandra?” He asked, a small strain of tentativity present in his voice.

She paused. She hadn't expected him to bring that up himself. He must be feeling a lot more sentimental than she had originally estimated- getting to personal details like that was not a strong suit of his.

Alex had been planning on playing a long game, peppering small talk until she could decisively take a winning shot. He clearly wasn't going to allow her to do that- perhaps he, like her, was feeling impatient today, or maybe he was just trying to catch her off guard. She couldn't get any sort of read from his blue eyes- ones that were almost the same hue as her own- other than the note that his had turned a shade of blue-grey with age, something that had only been slightly present in the last conversation they had had and was now becoming increasingly apparent. She didn't like realizing her uncle was growing older. He had been an early balder, so for the last twenty years he had looked essentially the same. A man as statuesque, and one who held as much power, importance and reputation as he did- the idea someone like that was getting older, more vulnerable, seemed uncomfortable.

“I’ve been doing okay,” Alex replied a heartbeat after she should've, but she recovered from the momentary stun rather quickly, “honestly not as fast as I would've liked, but I’ve recovered to an extent that …”

She trailed off. The worst thing, currently, was her inability to do anything. She needed the chase, the fight, the enthusiasm of work or at least being able to volunteer or just do- just do something, anything. Bring cooped up like a caged bird was by far the most irritating part of her recovery.

“I know you,” he said simply, glancing down and taking a sip of the prefilled water glasses that had adorned the table, “you don't appreciate having your wings clipped, I’m sure.”

“No,” she answered honestly, “I don't.”

She folded her hand awkwardly in her lap. She was used to resting her elbows on the table, leaning forward like people had taught her how to, in a way that extruded dominance and confidence- but she couldn't do so without agonizing over the possibility her hand might quiver on the table in a way that alarmed Uncle Bill, so she didn't.

“How has work been?” She asked, in lieu of making any real, meaningful conversation. Something about his affect today was throwing her off.

“I remember you used to ask me that all the time,” he smiled- as much as her uncle could smile with his stiffened, stoic form- as if nostalgic. “Whenever I’d come to the townhouse, you’d always be ready to jump at me and ask for stories of cases I presided over.”

Bill’s lips jerked up at the corners, and he shifted in his chair, straightening the knot of his tie and looking off to the side.

He was a tall, statuesque man, all black tie and formal. Right now, an ink-colored, tailored suit jacket emphasized the humble square of his build, emphasized with a burgundy tie perfectly straight and perfectly crisp that brought the eyes of an observer straight to his face. If one were the leave that- his face- out of the equation, he seemed as professional, cunning and sleek as a humanized eagle- but his head broke that illusion. Not particularly in a bad way, though. He wasn't bad looking, Alex had seen that he was quite handsome in his youth and he hadn't aged badly, but he had balded and his face was dotted by stubble he seemed to never quite get rid of. His jowls hung by the sides of his face, his eyes sunken softly from age. Her uncle was getting older.

Alex was briefly concerned with her own lack of perception- she had frozen on the detail the shade of his eyes had changed color, and forgotten to scrutinize the emotion within them. His expression was blank, judge-like in the sense it was the balance between hawklike in observance while still nonjudgmental, but his eyes- he was discomposed, and an apprehensive swirled in a way she had never seen before.

He was very emotional today, it seemed. Alex willed her brow not to furrow, but she was growing genuinely bewildered- genuinely concerned. This was unlike him. It was difficult for her to accommodate this mood of his into her existing understanding of her uncle’s moods.

“Yes,” she agreed, “It was the highlight of family holidays, when you’d make time to have dinner with us.”

“I think it was the highlight only for you,” he responded, “I imagine, the other children of our family were never quite as fond. They’d play in the playroom, or wait around for their parent’s permission to watch the television. You were always the one who’d come to sit by me.”

Alex’s eyebrows furrowed gently over her eyes, in slight confusion, apprehension. “I … some of my cousins would always be with us in the drawing room, too.”

“Because they were told to be.” Uncle Bill responded gruffly, firmly. “I could always tell. It’s dog eat dog, even in our own house. Children are raised to grasp at whatever advantage their parents perceive. You wanted to learn; they wanted their parents to think they wanted too. Wanted to trick me into thinking they wanted too.”

“I could always tell.” He repeated again, quietly this time, when Alex did not respond.

“I suppose,” she hesitated, and then internally winced. She must be proving his point, not being able to react decisively. “I suppose you're right,” she said, but she didn't believe it. She had never paid much attention to the behavior of her family members when her uncle was in the room. His appearances were always perceived by her to be rare, and she had wanted to know everything she could about him in the opportunities she could. She had assumed the others felt that way; but perhaps they hadn't, and she couldn't answer either definitively.

Neither spoke until the waitress returned. Alex wasn't sure why. It freaked her out. Her uncle had never acted like this.

They gave her their orders- Alex blinked, her uncle hadn't even pretended to read the menu this time. That was odd. What game was she supposed to be playing tonight, if he was being so overt with his preparations? What was he thinking, what was she supposed to be doing?

Saying something too soon to jumpstart the conversation would be revealing a card from her deck that she wasn't sure she should be using yet, and she didn't have a clue what she could say that would be effective. She said nothing, and for some reason, her uncle continued his silence, too.

“Alex,” he said finally, “Do you feel like you have something to lose?”

She stared at him blankly, frozen, which was something normally she knew he’d chastise her for, but with such an odd introspective question, she didn't think he could blame her.

“ … Yes,” she said finally, “Yes, I have a lot to lose. There are people in my life I’m very grateful for, I’ve achieved a great deal, and I … wouldn't want to risk anything I didn't need too.”

She thought of Olivia, of the friendship they had, forged through years of late night cases and coffee and easy laughter. Her family, peculiar as they were. The penthouse she lived in, the stories she had been a part of, the people she had helped- and all the people out there who she knew she could help in the future. Alex thought of Casey, but that hurt, so she settled on the deep feeling of longing in her heart and satisfied herself with the knowledge that feeling was worth something. She had a lot to live for, which meant a lot to lose. That had been her instinctive answer the second he had asked, but she wasn't sure what he was looking for.

“What were you thinking that night?”

“The night I was shot?” She shook her head slowly, perplexed, but then grimaced, because of course that was what he was asking, and he probably wouldn't appreciate her saying that.

“I…” Alex paused here, because she genuinely didn't remember.

“It's been months since the shooting,” she breathed, refolding her hands in her lap to soothe her growing anxiety, “I’ve had too much time to scrutinize every detail, and exaggerate some things and under exaggerate others, if you're talking about… my exact thoughts. I could testify on the specifics of the night, and I wrote down everything I could think of in the hospital after for when they’ll inevitably need my testimony, but … if you're talking about what exactly I was thinking of when I realized what was happening, I’m not sure my appraisal at this moment would be necessary accurate.”

“So you can't tell me?” He said, and her lips turned down into something as close to a frown as she’d ever make in his presence. Backtracking would only be a further weakness, so she simply nodded silently. He sighed, and she glanced at her watch.

“They made threats against you, they found out your address, your routine, hell, Alex, the government wanted to put you into witness protection.” He looked up, and while she couldn't frown around him, his lip was curled into a grimace.

“I know,” she tried, “But there were people in that case that I needed to protect, and recusing myself, dropping the case- how would that be any sort of justice? I need to be strong for the people who can't be, and I- all I tried to do was act accordingly to that.”

“So, you don't regret it?”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he seemed upset with her, but the answer came as easily as breathing. Regret was something she could show to Alex, to Cragen, to Donnelly or to Casey, but never, ever to her uncle.

“No,” she said, regardless of how complicated her feelings were, “No, I don't.”

“You lost function in your arm,” he snapped at her, “You developed a psychiatric disorder, spent weeks at the hospital and even longer in physical therapy which you're still attending to my knowledge-”

“A lot of people had far worse happen to them,” she cut him off, “That's precisely why I don't regret it, I need to fight for them, and that's similarly why I need you to let me go back to work-”

“Even though you can't put your hand on the goddamn table because you know I’ll notice it shaking?”

She paused, trying to conceal the affrontation that flashed immediately across her face. She swallowed, staring down at her lap.

What game was he playing? She couldn't think fast enough, and that was an incredibly rare experience for her. The situation was unlike any conversation she had ever engaged her uncle in, she tried to console herself with that, but even then she couldn't complace the anxiety that swirled and spiked in her gut, growing rapidly with every additional second of this unease.

Alex would not let him be right about her; she was not weak, and she wasn't unable to do her job.

Defiance bubbled within her, and she wasn't sure if that was a piece she could use, because the board was not in her view. Without anything else to do, however, she decided to use it.

She raised both hands for his inspection, and her hand cooperated with her- it shook, but just barely, and due to anger, her other hand was similarly not entirely still. It was barely, barely noticeable.

“This doesn't make me weak, if anything, my recovery after was considered admirable to doctors,” she tried to make her voice as clear and as calm, even though she felt the urge to snarl, “I defended a case-”

“That you lost,” he interjected immediately, cutting her off as though it proved some sort of point.

“Regardless,” she said firmly, “I defended a case. No one noticed. In a few weeks I’ll have full control over my hand again, and it’ll take a few weeks to sort out my return to work anyway. My most recent psychiatric evaluation showed that I was clear of all previous symptoms, and it's been weeks since I behaved in any way that was deemed irrational. I’m fine, Uncle, and I want to work.”

“Alexandra, you're being far too hasty- dare I even say naive,” he argued, his hands forming into small fists on the table as he straightened his spine, pushing his elbows back authoritatively.

He was larger than her, taller. His face was firmer, and he was older. The same blood ran through their veins, the same one roots that believed in patriarchal families and that wisdom brought age no experience could supplement. Her heart felt as though she was the small little girl eager for his approval that she was in childhood, the ambitious young woman who he had shaped and whose guidance she had needed so frequently earlier in her career, but she adamantly affirmed to herself she was different. Working with special victims, navigating the complexities of law and cradling children and terrified women in her arms- she was stronger than she had ever been, regardless of what she had been through in the pursuit of justice.

She would not let him make her feel small or as though she needed to form to his expectations anymore, and especially- fuck, especially- not when his expectation was below the potential she could fill.

Alex used to feel like she was always driving for a standard that was higher above her than she could reach, her hands clawing her way up to some golden torch to wrap her hand around and prove her worth, but now he was acting as though she couldn't, and that angered her.

“I’ve grown fond of challenges, and of challenging myself,” she bared her teeth just barely as she spoke, a signal to the rage flickering in her gut that her anxiety had transformed into, “and I don't appreciate your belief that I’m incapable.”

He stared at her with a grimace on his face and she stared back, her face a solid mask of stubbornness.

“I’ve stayed away from work at your will,” she reminded him, “The DA has no objections to me. Hell,” she chided herself internally for cursing, that was unprofessional, but then immediately tried to convince herself it was odd to feel like she had to censor herself more to her uncle than her own boss, “I’ve been asked repeatedly to return, I’ve been forwarded every possible opening, and even letters of reassurance I don't need. The only reason I haven't taken back my stance is because you told me not to, and I thought it was for my own sake, but- why not? It’s been months, uncle, months. When will I have ‘rested’ enough for you?”

Her tone was angry, but she had given up trying to hide her frustrations. His play of internal fourth dimensional chess was irritating, and if he wasn't playing by his own rules with his straightforward questions, she wasn't either. Participating in his game blind to the terms of it might be stupid, and she’d probably regret the way adrenaline was starting to course through her blood, but she wouldn't stop herself now. She didn't think she could, even if she had decided to.

When she opened her mouth to speak, though, the waitress returned with their food, and so she clamped her lips shut and offered a word of gratitude. Neither her nor her uncle picked up their fork or even looked at the plates for a second longer than they needed too.

With the sting of the interruption of her nerves, she felt herself falter slightly, so she stayed quiet. She was sure he would respond equally aggressively- although, unlike her obvious display of frustration and strong emotion, he would be cold and calculating the way he always was.

He didn't, though. He stayed silent and stared at her for a long, torturous minute.

“Say something,” she demanded then, finally.

He still didn't. His eyes were void of any emotion, his facial expressions tight as though he was grinding his jaw, but with the excess skin age had provided him she wouldn't be able to tell with complete certainty. It was unlike him to be quiet. He was the type of elder who provided his opinions even when they were unasked for, who spoke for the sake of reminding everyone he always would have something to say. She had no doubt he had some sort of response formed, but even as she wracked her brain, Alex had no clue why he wasn't bestowing her with it.

Her frustration grew, tight and hot in her lungs, stealing more than half of the oxygen in her every breath. If this was anyone else making her feel so- so overwhelmed, so bewildered, so unlike her usual clever self, she would've lost it at them, unprofessional and irrational as it may be. She prized herself for the ability to react so well, and she couldn't, not to this. Not when she didn't understand, and there was nothing Alex hated more than not understanding. There was nothing she hated more than not knowing what to do.

She knew what she wanted to do with her life. She wanted to help those poor battered women that sat so still in the chairs of her office, eyes like pitchers that had long been poured out. She wanted to dry the eyes of little children who hadn't been blessed with the safe, healthy, protective upbringing that she had been so lucky to be born into. Not everyone was as fortunate as she, in life or in love, and the second she had settled into her role at sex crimes, she knew she wanted more than anything else to be one of the people working to give poor souls a shot at a life as bountiful in happiness and safety as the one was able to lead.

Alex knew where she wanted her life to go, fighting until the last breath to make sure there was absolutely nothing in the power she hadn't done to protect someone.

That strong, stable sense of purpose that had bound itself to her identity exasperated her budding frustration towards her uncle, this unmoving, rigid and concrete boulder in her way.

His hands had already turned to fists, and now her’s did too, balling on the table. Her bad hand shook more than the unaffected one, but although she noticed, she was too vexed to switch the focus of her attention towards stilling it.

“When will I have recovered enough for you to deem me suitable?” She said, an echo of her prior question, and this time it felt like an accusation, because it was. “What can I possibly do to show you that I'm beyond capable?”

When he remained silent, she snapped. “Being shot- that does not make me a disappointment. I can still make you proud, I can still uphold our family name, and I don't understand why you believe me to be inadequate.”

Still, her uncle said nothing. He did not move at all, he didn't even make a shift in the microexpressions she was studying him for.

Alex took a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for something, anything, from him, but he didn't. Nothing was offered, so the only option was to keep talking, keep throwing random cards down onto the table until something was picked up to elaborate on.

“I know our family has high standards,” she tried to barter, her eyebrows furrowing and she didn't even attempt to hide it this time, “I spent my youth fulfilling and fighting to exceed every possible expectation you, or my parents’, or any teacher or mentor I’ve ever studied under had set for me.”

She continued because he didn't make any motion to respond to that. It was a fact. She had done well, and she knew she had.

“I was provided the position in sex crimes because they knew they could trust me to ensure the squad ran properly and efficiently. You helped raise me right, to be the type of impenetrable force that ensured justice, worked to protect. I’m beyond proud of that, and beyond grateful for the work you put in to confirm that I was the successor that- … that you and my parents could be proud of. I’ve achieved so much in my career already, and I’ve only just gotten started.”

He stared at her with that blank expression that had long become infuriating.

“I have only just gotten started,” she repeated. “Ever since I was a child I have done everything I could to prove myself. I won't stand for this, now, your inability to- …”

Alex took a deep breath, a slight snarl accompanying her exhale. She hadn't been raised to let her anger affect her responses, and she needed this to be clear, and as compelling as possible. She was an accomplished, proficient individual, and she would not let him forget that.

“I’m just as strong, just as independent, just as clear headed and well read and talented and everything else I had been praised for before I was shot. I don't know why you're so adamant that I’ve somehow become inept now, but frankly, your attempts to keep me submerged are only growing my will to prove this too you, so if you don't give me the opportunity to demonstrate that my assessment of myself is correct, I will do so without your approval, and without your permission. I will show you I am still someone you can be proud of; even if you're so stubbornly refusing to see it.”

When he continued to do nothing, she stood up, partially because she was genuinely wondering if his eyes would follow her- they did- but mostly because she had now said her piece, and if he didn't provide her a response now, there was no point in continuing to occupy the table.

“Alexandra,” he said quietly when she slung her purse over her shoulder and was about to abandon the untouched plate behind her.

She bit back and admonished ‘so you can speak’, but stared at him defiantly, her eyes cold, widened and flashing with evidence of her will.

“Sit back down, please.”

Her uncle rarely ever said please, so at the very least, it meant she had got somewhere, achieved something, even if she wasn't sure what. She did as she was requested too, but only because it had sounded like a request- if it had been a barked order so he could berate her for her obstination, she would have left- or so she told herself. It was beyond uncomfortable to her, being at odds with her uncle. Demonstrating complacency to his orders and expectations had at some point in her development engrained itself into her psyche.

She tried to calm the anxiety that followed the anger as she settled back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and folding her hands together, on top of the table this time rather than below it.

“Alexandra,” he said again, then he put his head in his hands on the table, and the realization that the corners of his eyes had grown red from unshown tears added to the growing pit of bewilderment and anxiety in her stomach.

He looked up again, and now his faded blue eyes were glassy. His nose was beginning to run, she could hear the quiet sounds of sniffling when he inhaled.

She felt herself soften, and she nodded gently when he seemed as though he wanted a response to him saying her name. He sighed, deeply, as though trying to empty the emotions that had developed claws in his lungs out into the air between them.

“There’s nothing you could do to prove to me that I should be proud of you,” he muttered, and his voice was now solemn, rough and quieter than she had ever heard from him. “Because I already am. Good Lord, I am so proud, Alexandra, that I may call you my niece.”

Alex felt the rigidity of her shoulders soften, caught off guard by his affect, but for the first time tonight it was not unwelcome. It was his turn to speak, so she didn't respond to that, but she knew she’d circle his words around in her mind for years to come.

“For the opportunity to have a hand in the way you were raised, and for the ability to say I provided you any aid on the path to success I knew you’d achieve, I am grateful. From the moment you were born, whether it be speaking far either than other infants, being the top of your elementary school, winning mock debates in highschool, your acceptance to Yale, and for every single case you ever prosecuted, regardless of the outcome, I was proud of you for it.”

He cleared his throat and shook his head, taking a sip from his wine glass, if only to try to swallow back the burst of emotion Alex now recognized was overwhelming him.

“As you know, I … I never made the time to have children of my own. You, on the chair across from me at Christmas dinner, with your wide eyes and eager nodding, was the closest I ever felt to something that resembled paternal.”

It was Alex’s turn to sit still in shocked silence.

She loved her father dearly, so she couldn't exactly respond that the feeling had been mutual. Her father was her father, and her uncle had always felt in some sense otherworldly- a federal judge, appointed by a president himself, a gilded portrait on the wall she could stare at, a statuesque face chiseled as a figurehead into the front of a ship sailing rocky seas towards the ideal that was justice. It felt stupid to admit at times she vaguely forgot he was human, but her admiration for him at times guided her over that bound. He was a solemn god, a person whose slightest reactions were something to be studied, every word he said something to be considered and remembered.

Every conversation she had ever had with him felt like a competition to prove intellect, an exaggeratedly elaborate game of cards. She had initiated this conversation assuming she was playing something she didn't understand, but as it was revealed, she had misunderstood him from the start.

Her uncle was not toying with her, and didn't want her to try to prove she was perfect the way she always thought she had to be in his presence.

They were family. She belonged to the lineage that formed his flesh and blood. He cared about her in a way that overwrote whether or not her reputation as a prosecutor affected the name of their family.

In all these years, in all the conversations in which every miniscule movement he made had been studied by her in detail, she had never noticed.

“All you’ve ever known of me is this apotheosized solemnity, and you … you were raised, like your cousins were, to study me, because my wealth and my status uphold the idealized regard our family considers ourselves with. I don't know how to show much else, other than this …”

He trailed off, something he had rarely ever done, because he was trying to open himself up to her. He was trying to show her the humanity inside him, express himself honestly and in a way that made it overtly obvious his metaphorical deck of cards was being scattered across the dining table for her perusal.

“Other than this ideal of a masculine, intellectual, affluent ideal. For the majority of my life, that's all I’ve ever been. It got me to where I am today and the only regret I have towards it, is that it may have misled your perceptions of how I felt regarding your career.”

He clenched his jaw, and then forced himself to relax it by swallowing down more of the wine he had ordered. She hadn't touched her own glass, and neither of them had even glanced at the food before them in minutes. The restaurant still hummed with the quiet refinery of a high-class establishment, but in that moment, nothing existed to Alex other than her uncle and his word.

“The truth is,” he said once he found himself again, with a chuckle that held absolutely no humor, “I forget that myself. As all people do, I have molded to fill the space of my expectations. Don't misunderstand, I am proud of that- that when people look at me, they believe they're observing an insurmountable and impenetrable force of justice, masquerading as a man. In all authenticity, that's what I, at times, believe I am, too.”

Alex could only nod. That's what she had believed of her uncle growing up, and still did.

“But humans are not impenetrable, Alexandra.”

He rubbed his glabella with his thick fingers, shaking his head slowly. It occurred to Alex to say something, then, but she had the feeling he had more to say. She tried to regulate her breathing, and her heartbeat. This emotional outpour from her uncle was something she had never, never in a thousand years, expected to hear.

“You were the victim of an assassination attempt.” He looked up at her again, and did not try to disguise the way his eyes softened, the greyish blue of his irises pooling into the tears that still hung idly in his eyes. She nodded again. It was a fact- the cartel had attempted to kill her. She had dodged death, and only barely, while attempting to prosecute a case. Another who was involved in that same case had not been as lucky.

“Your parents were at a conference the night it happened,” he said, his gruff voice going gentle. “The detective you work with- Detective Benson, I believe- was going through your contact sheet until someone answered. Apparently, I was the first one who picked up.”

He put his head back in his hands, and then lifted it with his eyes averted, as close to fidgeting as he could ever come, staring at the space just beside her eyes as though he couldn't quite meet them- as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

“I was reminded, in that night,” and now Alex pictured him in his reading glasses and vintage sleepwear, waiting by the phone at the chance Olivia may call back with news about her condition in either direction, “that I am only a man.”

He met her eyes again, and she almost wished he didn't, because now he could see she was close to tears herself.

“And I wondered, in all the years I knew you looked up to me, if I had given you the perception that living as though you were untouchable was what you thought you had to do.”

Alex opened her mouth, but she had no response prepared. Her throat was closing up, but not from any lingering trace of the outburst of irritation from earlier. She had survived the attempt on her life and for weeks over she had agonized over the possibility she hadn't, but with the near-casual regard Olivia and her parents had expressed for her own sake, she had nearly forgotten how traumatizing that must have been for the people close to her. For her Uncle- god, for Casey.

The people she loved and was loved back by must have been terrified, and for her sake they had pretended they weren't, so she could process her emotions however she best saw fit.

She hadn't tried to share her grief with anyone else, and they hadn't tried to force her to share their own. But it had existed, tangible and powerful.

It was real, and it made her want to cry now.

“At times I’m harsh,” he continued, for now the floodgate of his words had been opened, “And sometimes I’m even further beyond that. You survived by the grace of a couple inches.”

That, too, was a fact. Her assassin had attempted for the heart. That would've killed her instantly, similarly, if the shot had breached either of her lungs. He had missed both, but the shot hadn't started far from her subclavian. She would've bled out on the concrete floor of a New York sidewalk, with a desperate Olivia trying to keep her conscious by her side. If he had been successful, she could've been dead in seconds from her heart having been ripped open, or from her lungs collapsing, filling with her own blood. The bullet only impairing her nerves, and not even permanently at that, was a miracle.

“That night, I couldn't stand the thought of you dying, only while trying to follow in my admittedly large footsteps. I wondered- I couldn't help but wonder … if you were scared, if you wanted to recuse from the case when the threats were made, but only proceeded because I, the criticisms I’ve made of you, the indomitable facade I exert, made you think … made you think that you had too.”

A large tear rolled down his cheek, trailing slowly down the wrinkles in his aged face. Alex was frozen in place, cradling her injured hand in her lap with her other.

She stared at him blankly, and realized too that the earlier numb expression he had donned wasn't from any sort of indifference, but because his face stilled into a mask when he was overcome by emotion- a behavior they both shared.

“You could've died that night, because of a case you thought you needed to prosecute, in a job I encouraged you to pursue, despite knowing the threats that are made against attorneys.” His voice was now hoarse, and the skin around his eyes was turning an overt red. “You could've died scared and with regrets because you were trying to fill my expectations, because you thought I wouldn't be as proud of you if you had stepped away. I couldn't handle that, Alexandra, you … you could've died.”

He was crying now, really crying. The tears falling down his face were indistinguishable from each other as they blended into a track of water down his broad face. He reached into his pocket to withdraw his glasses case, using the cloth inside which was intended to clean the glasses he wasn't wearing to wipe at his eyes.

“I am only a man,” he repeated, “And by now, I’m an old one. I am helpless, trying to handle that you could have had the rest of your life stolen from you, and that I contributed to the situation that led you into the path of that bullet. If I had needed to attend the funeral of my own … my own very beloved niece, who was murdered trying to make me proud of her … who died, without knowing of the high regard I had long since held her in … Alexandra, I would not have survived that.”

Alex took her glasses off slowly, because she was now also crying. Her shoulders shook softly with concealed sobs, parallel to the ones her uncle was similarly exhibiting. Blonde hair felt soft and loose on her scalp when she ran a hand through her hair, at an utter loss for words.

“I’m alive,” she whispered finally.

He licked his very dry lips and stared down at the plates full of food neither of them had considered in quite a while because he couldn't bring himself to look at her, at the blue eyes that were so reminiscent of his own when he was her age. She could only look at him because her eyes were so full of tears, all she could see was a blurry silhouette.

“I thank God every morning that you are,” he responded to her finally, his grave voice thickened and distorted with anguish.

Neither spoke for a long while.

Uncle Bill began eating because he needed to fill his mouth with something other than the bitter taste on his tongue, Alex dabbed gently at her eyes with a tablecloth, thanking the universe for waterproof mascara. It was mutually recognized that they needed to take a minute to breathe, to coexist, in quiet sanctity after both had become so emotionally overcome.

Logically she should've known that her uncle had an emotional bone in his body, but with the idealized version she had spent years looking up too, it being laid bare for her was still a shock she hadn't yet recovered from. He was now vulnerable, and was trying to grapple with the stone that covered his face cracking after decades of affirming it to be one and the same with himself.

Alex expected her to be the one to restart the dialogue, but yet again, her uncle surprised her.

“I know I can't keep you chained down, Alexandra.” He sighed, although he kept avoiding her gaze, “It would be pointless to try, and more than that, it would be depriving the world of someone exceptional.”

“You’re being very kind,” she said quietly, unable to form anything profound to express the depth to which his words of praise affected her. Her uncle never made his approval so overt, but then again, he had broken a damn lot of ‘never’s over this pristine tablecloth.

“Forgive me,” She opened her mouth, and then closed it again alongside her eyes, smoothing her hands over her face and trying to ground herself with the feeling of it. Her uncle, the gilded, idealized, unconquerable statue, had cracked himself wide open to show her how much she was worth to him. It was too much to process so quickly.

“Forgive me for being inconsiderate,” Alex breathed, then, after a long moment. “I don't know how to apologize properly. For assuming the worst motive behind your objections to me returning, for being so headstrong when we needed to have a real conversation.”

“I am not an easy man to converse with,” he muttered, “And especially not when it comes to emotional matters.”

Alex began to eat quietly. She had only ordered a salad, so it hadn't gone cold, although some of the dressing had seeped through the leaves and pooled at the bottom of the shallow bowl. Her uncle ate steak as though he was a robot programmed to do so. At this point, his food must have long since cooled off.

“I accept your apology in regards to my intentions,” her uncle said finally, after his plate had been cleared, “And I hope you forgive me too for not disclosing … how I felt to you before now. You’ve spent weeks in the dark without knowing why, of course you would be frustrated.”

Alex swallowed, placing her fork gently down on the plate as she had decided she had eaten her fill, and gazed down at the tablecloth like she wanted to try to find something there.

“I do,” she whispered eventually, “I accept your apology. It must be very hard, being vulnerable for my sake. I appreciate it immensely.”

He could only provide her with a solemn nod.

“Uncle,” she leaned forward on her elbows, placing her hands on the intertwined knuckles of her hands, “For most of my life, I’ve felt as though I was obliged to follow your will. I won't deny that. But tonight, for the first time, I will ask you something, not because I feel obligated to act in accordance with your approval, but … because, as your family and as someone who loves you, I … I want to.”

His eyes, which had iced back over into his more normal expression as he ate, softened again when he looked up at her, and he followed suit in placing his utensils back on the table.

“Perhaps, in my youth, I wanted to be a lawyer because you were my role model and I wanted to be just like you,” Alex admitted quietly. It was the sort of admission that, although both already knew that, still felt vulnerable to say openly.

“But as my career developed, and when I was placed in the sex crimes division, I felt myself and my aspirations develop. I worked with wonderful people and uplifted a great many who needed the protection I could provide. I am aware that this work can be dangerous, difficult and taxing, but I don't feel at all as though I’m doing it because I have something to prove, not anymore. I want to make you proud, but I also want to do this. It gives me a sense of purpose; and I enjoy it.”

She took a deep, clearing breath, and glanced up to see if he was still looking at her- he was, and his eyes were filled with a great empathy.

“... I can't promise that I’ll back away from cases that may put me in danger, because I won't. You asked me earlier if I thought I had something to lose, and I do. I have a great deal to lose, because I have had a very fortunate life- however, that makes protecting those who haven't been as lucky as I all that much more meaningful to me.”

He nodded. He understood her.

“You have always been beyond important to me,” Alex murmured quietly. “If you truly believe my work will bring you such grief, if you'll wake up and worry about me, I’m sure I would find another way to help people the way I have been, without the risks I have been taking.”

It was late in the restaurant, it was now quiet and starting to empty out as the other diners began to take their leave. Some tables were replaced with newcomers, others stayed empty. Waitresses in fancy clothes bustled about, but it seemed as though the workers understood something vital was happening at their table, and left them alone. Alex didn't perceive any of this. Her attention was wholly and entirely fixated on the greyed blue eyes sitting across from her, on the uncle who she had learned so much about over the duration of a few short hours.

“In my heart, I know I want to return to my previous position,” she spoke slowly, meaningfully, anxiety prickling at her stomach, “but I also know that to feel satisfied with it, I need your blessing.”

“The bald eagle is a symbol of American bravery,” her uncle said without much hesitation, his voice gruff but much clearer now. “I will provide you the conclusions I’ve drawn from this discussion with a metaphor.”

She nodded, and resigned to give him a moment to collect his thoughts, but he seemed not to need it now.

“Despite the way we revere the eagle for all the traits we deem admirable- bravery, strength, agility, liveliness, the sense of intimidation- humanity has rendered their species endangered. Pesticides are a major issue, among other things.”

He let her sit with that notion for a moment, the dramatic emphasis a mannerism he had long since developed in all his years of practice with the law.

“But to clip their wings, and keep them in gilded cages so we can ensure they will never die … It would be depriving them of the ability to display the attributes that made them so admirable in the first place. Dangerous as it may be for them, in a man’s world which is so full of poison, we must let them soar. We have a duty to watch over them, protect them as well as we can, without impeding on the freedom we associate with them.”

He picked up his goblet of wine and swirled it once, watching the liquid as though trying to tell a fortune with the motion.

“Fly, Alexandra,” he said, and then he downed the rest of his drink, “Spread your vast wings and sink your talons into those who oppose you. I have no doubt you’ll go unimaginably far.”

And then he looked up at her again, at his niece, the only person in his life who had ever been interested in the stories he had to tell and the guidance he wanted to give without the ulterior motives of greed or personal ambition, the woman he had helped a little sparkly-eyed girl grow up into, the closest thing he considered he had to a child of his own.

“But please,” her uncle said simply, “Try your best to fly home.”

#casey novak #calex #alex cabot #svu #casey novak x alex cabot #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #lesbian

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championofthefade · 2 days ago

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happy DADWC friday, sending you “i‘m not gonna get much sleep tonight, am i?” for athell and anneliese

Happy Friday!! | @dadrunkwriting

Thank you for this prompt! It really came at a wonderful time and I knew I just had to write it tonight!

Words: 423

The fireplace crackled, a welcomed sound in the silence that had filled the room.

Anneliese had joined Athell in her bed, laying together as Anneliese’s fingers carded through Athell’s hair. It would be hard to sleep with her so near, Athell knew that simply from the nights they spent in one another’s tents so long ago.

“I am not getting much sleep tonight, am I?”

“No..” Anneliese shook her head, running her fingers through the loose strands once more. “Not really. Four years in the Fade, I think you have been sleeping long enough.”

“Alright.” Athell sat up with a soft chuckle, turning her head towards Anneliese as light strands filtered through the warrior queen’s fingers. “What is it that you’re dragging me into?”

Anneliese had paused for a moment, brushing some hair away from Athell’s eyes in thought. There was a flicker in those green eyes, something that Athell couldn’t pin down for the life of her.

“Athell…” Anneliese’s hand found the back of Athell’s neck, firm and steady to hold her in place. “I don’t want to drag you into anything… I would prefer to hold your hand and walk with you for a change.”

Athell’s brows slightly furrowed, eyes blinking as she searched for answers in Anneliese’s gaze.

“That’s not what I meant—”

It was sudden, Anneliese’s fingers tightening in Athell’s hair as she was silenced with the crashing of their lips.

All the breath in Athell’s lungs had been stolen, her eyes closing to keep the room from spinning.

Athell made an attempt to pull away, shaking her head as she could barely think straight. “Anneliese…”

“Don’t.” The word came out soft, softer than anything that Athell had heard before, “Don’t run from me now…”

Athell blinked again, a sharp pain prickling its way to her heart. She had been so focused on her own feelings, on her own circumstances, that she hadn’t considered just how hard it must’ve been for anyone else… Especially for Anneliese.

“I won’t.” Athell promised, reaching out and cupping Anneliese’s cheek. “I wouldn’t dare run from you.”

Athell leaned in, kissing Anneliese back just to prove it. Soft, unbelievably so in comparison to the rest of her.

This… It had been the feeling Athell had spent years wondering what it was like. To be the one Anneliese had loved, even for a stolen moment.

Athell was pulled closer, trying not to fall clumsily into Anneliese’s lap.

It felt real, the war was finally over and she could finally live…

And truly be at peace.

#da drunk writing circle #atlas.writes #oc: athell surana #anneliese cousland #athelliese #worldstate: doomed yuri upon the world

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nyxofdemons · 1 year ago

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four years for this show...

#IM SORRY. ITS JUST. IM SO. HHHHHRGN #its fine. its good. its entertaining to say the least #but from a writing perspective......#im not an anti i am the worlds biggest helluva boss enjoyer the hellaverse is SO SPECIAL TO ME #but.. the more i see about hazbin s1......#how in over four years was this what you came up with. how is the pacing this insane. how is this character treatment ok.... PLEASE #my sorta toxic trait is that as someone obsessed with media analysis; narrative devices; and story structure -#as well as just. someone who is an aspiring showrunner/creator working on my own huge projects -#is that every time i come across a movie or show that i think is done in a really lacking way. all i can think about is how i would #have done it instead #(this happens in a non-critical way too tbf if i really enjoy a book or game i'll be like they should let me make a based on film)#but hazbin. hazbin. all i have right now is 'i could fix her' in my head #I WOULD TREAT THESE CHARACTERS RIGHT I WOULD GIVE THEM THE NARRATIVE THEY DESERVE #there is. so much potential here. how is the execution so lacking #mine #good ideas!!!! good moments!!!!!!!! THE OVERALL CONSISTENT NARRATIVE IS NOT DOING SO HOT #as a side note though i really think this is why helluva is doing so much better in terms of pacing and writing. the structure of that show #is so much more accommodating to a long intricate story WHILE weaving in a billion different character stories #8 episodes for hazbin is insane season 1 needed twice as much #nyx crit tag

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gutsby · 3 months ago

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Too Close for Comfort

Pairing: Joel Miller x Babysitter!Reader

Summary: You’ve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you’re surfing the web on her dad’s computer, and you find some…unusual things in his search history.

Or, Joel likes to jerk off to your lookalike on PornHub. It’s time you showed him what the real thing is like.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Creampie. Mommy/Daddy Roleplay (HEAR ME OUT!!) Brief boot humping. Squirting. Perv!Joel. Breeding kink.

Note: ‘Just call me if anyone else checks in…and by anyone, I mean any swingin dick’ is a line from No Country for Old Men

Word count: 12.7k

Purple slime had been Sarah’s idea.

It was an innocent thing, really. The four-year-old had practically been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and shining with excitement when she’d begged—‘Can we pleeeeease?!’—and who were you to tell her no?

You’d only be breaking one small rule of Joel’s, after all. One silly little admonition he’d made before leaving for work the first day you’d started babysitting for him. That had been over a year ago, and he hadn’t even sounded that serious when he’d said it. He probably wouldn’t mind if you bent the rule this one time at Sarah’s behest.

‘Don’t go in the computer room, please.’

Don’t use Joel’s desktop. Don’t rifle through any of the drawers in Joel’s office—it was a mess, but everything was in its place, according to him. Just don’t go in there.

But in exchange for Sarah agreeing to take her nap that day without protest, you’d promised to order her slime.

Purple, gooey, glittery, sticky stuff for her new collection.

You weren’t sure when the fuck putty had become the plaything of choice for kids in Pre-K, but you hadn’t been in a place to judge; whatever Sarah wanted to do, so long as it was safe for her to play with, was totally fine by you.

It was just one rule.

Surely if Mr. Miller knew how badly his daughter wanted the slime, he’d be fine with you booting up his computer once. That was what you kept telling yourself, anyway.

What kept humming through your mind as the desktop came to life and you toggled straight for Google Chrome.

Be quick, be quiet, it’s fine. It’s fine.

Purple goo—it was safe. Innocent. Completely justifiable.

What could the sweet, old, forty-something and forever polite Joel Miller possibly have to hide on this machine that made it wrong for you to buy this one simple toy?

You reached for the keyboard and inhaled a quick breath.

Then you typed one letter, and your heart nearly seized.

P…

…ornhub.com

It was the very first thing that appeared in the search bar.

You couldn’t unsee it. Instinctively, your hand clamped over your mouth, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help but read the four URLs that immediately dropped down below the first; they were just so garishly inviting.

Hot, Naughty Babysitter gets POUNDED by her Boss!

Slutty Babysitter Gets Railed from Behind and Loves It

Big Dick Boss Gives Babysitter a Passionate Raw Fuck

‘I’ve Never Done This!’ Babysitter Deepthroats Cock

“Oh…my gosh,” you said, words muffled by your palm.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It was just too bizarre, too far out of character, too unlike your boss.

The man had scarcely said ten words to you altogether that didn’t relate to your job in some way or another. He rarely ever engaged in casual confab, and he certainly wasn’t the type to flirt, or make you uncomfortable in the slightest. Frankly, in all the time you’d been babysitting, you always thought you were just…invisible to Joel Miller.

Not this. Never this.

You were still staring at the screen when you realized that you’d missed one URL title from the list. It was long.

It was the most unnerving one of all, you came to see.

Babysitter Lounging Poolside in Hot Red Bikini Gets a BIG Surprise—Her Old Boss Teaches Her How to FUCK

Your hand lowered from your face. It trembled, contemplating, before coming to rest atop the mouse.

Something about this seemed familiar. Strangely…off.

You couldn’t explain it, but your head and your heart and your hand gravitated to that one odd link in particular. You hadn’t even meant to move the mouse. Or press it with your finger. But there you went, following your instincts like some dumb, brainless ditz, and then the screen was changing. Going dark with the shift to an adult site before brightening anew with the thumbnail.

It was paused on one frame. Your jaw slackened.

The girl staring back from the scene was you.

Or looked exactly, uncannily like you anyway.

It was then that you noticed what she was wearing, too—what you guessed wouldn’t be on her body for long—and you glanced down to your own shoulder. Just like your on-screen doppelgänger, you were wearing the same bikini in a bright, cherry-red hue beneath your tank top.

You wore it under your clothes damn near every day, indulging in the Millers’ backyard pool more often than not, and even being allowed to swim there on the days Sarah had summer camp—Joel had been so obliging.

So accommodating and sweet.

You never thought he’d be seeking your fucking twin online on a porn site after watching you traipse around his property wearing it. Your gut clenched; you clicked.

“Hey, sweetheart! Everything go OK?”

The voice that rumbled through the speakers was low. Male. Vaguely paternal and with a hint of a Southern lilt.

You swallowed, knowing exactly where this was going.

You weren’t sure why you were even watching when you could already predict what would become of it. The camera panned over a body identical to yours; it landed on a face that was smiling and sweet and so like your own you almost had to question whether it might not be you after all. Had you somehow forgotten this secret porn alter ego in a bout of amnesia? You kept watching.

The girl bit her bottom lip and let out the phoniest giggle.

“Yes, sir. Perfectly fine. Do you like my new bikini?”

Be so fucking serious, you thought, critically.

Then you remembered it was porn, not an Oscar-winning film. You saw the camera tilt down to her tits, and you had to admit, she had a great rack. A bit nicer than yours.

For a beat, you wondered if Joel had thought the same.

You had to batter those thoughts away, because the next second brought a big, burly hand onto the screen. It reached for the girl with her perfect, perky breasts and it kneaded them softly. No further pretense or prelude was needed—they just jumped right in and let it happen, like this was a normal thing for a babysitter and a boss to do.

Maybe in some other universe it was. In a world where a girl your age could just smile, and bat her eyes, and let them roll back gently as a whimper crossed her lips and she begged him, ‘More, daddy, more!’ this was all okay.

The man squeezed the flesh harder. She whined, and he proceeded to push the red nylon aside and expose the whole expanse of her breast—and holy shit, even the nipple looked like yours. Your mouth opened wider, and for a moment, it was like you couldn’t breathe as you watched that old, sun-kissed hand fondle the breast of a girl who looked just like you. Who was peering up at a man who sounded almost like Joel, murmuring, ‘Attagirl.’

You’d heard your boss say that once.

It had been such a silly, off-handed thing that you doubted he even remembered saying it. But one time, you’d struggled to open the passenger door to his truck before he drove you home. Once you’d narrowly managed to pry it open and slide into your seat, he’d laughed and rumbled: ‘Attagirl.’ Your face had warmed.

Just like your cheeks were doing now, all hot and bothered and desperate to hear more. Presently, the man slid the top off of the girl’s chest, and her breasts hung freely. You could hear him groan behind the camera at the sight, and not too long after that, before he could reach to touch her tits again, she was crawling on her knees toward him. Shuffling easily and expertly across the lawn chair and undoing the belt, button, and zip of his pants in a matter of seconds. A hand smoothed over her head, and you could see her preen beneath his touch.

Before she’d even wrapped her lips around his cock, your stomach was churning. Your fingers were stirring from the mouse and moving gently—again, of their own volition, it seemed—toward the waistband of your own bottoms. It was sick, admittedly. So wrong to be wanting to touch yourself to the very same video your boss had indulged in himself, in the very same chair he had done the deed. But you couldn’t help it. Your fingers slipped under the the fabric of your shorts, then your bikini, then your throat let out the tiniest noise upon seeing a cock appear on-screen. It was abnormally large, of course.

Silently, you wondered if Joel’s might not look the same. Your stomach flipped as soon as the girl took it in her mouth, and your index and middle fingers landed on your clit. You barely needed to touch to feel a jolt of pleasure.

Her head bobbed up and down. You felt powerless to do anything else but rub. And circle. And moan the slightest bit when you saw her coat his length with her shiny spit.

You heard that your noises mirrored hers. You didn’t care. Really, it felt as though you were in a trance, and you couldn’t stop watching, or touching, until you’d had your fill. Like Mr. Miller had done himself. It was all too much.

Before you even realized it, five minutes had passed, the man and woman on-screen were shifting from oral to raw, penetrative sex, and you were nearing your peak. Right before the cock that had been lodged down the girl’s throat could slide into her wet, glistening cunt, you felt your stomach lurch. You rubbed harder, watching the fat and leaking tip of the man’s cock tease through her folds, and just as he was about to slide in and you could finally find your release…a door banged open downstairs.

You almost screamed.

As quickly as you could, you yanked your hand out of your pants and clicked out of that browser even faster. The second you heard footfalls on the steps, you scampered out of there. Half-sprinting, half-tip-toeing down the hall and toward the bathroom, before halting at the door. You made your presence known with one light stomp of your foot, pretending to be turning and walking out, and as soon as you did, Joel was right there. Staring.

Sweating.

Scrubbing at his face with one weary hand, before taking a rag and wiping it through his beard. He sighed heavily.

“Long day?” you chirped while trying to mask the panic.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Joel answered, voice wan, “How’s my little terror? Asleep? She give ya any trouble?”

Just asked me to buy her a toy online and inadvertently led me to find your internet Spank Bank archives full of women who look like me. Other than that, it was fine.

“I put her down about an hour ago. She was great.”

You forced a smile, and Joel seemed to believe it.

“Perfect. Need me to give you a ride home?”

“No, no, you should stay here with Sar—”

“‘S’alright. Tommy’s right downstairs.”

Of course he’d brought him home.

“No, really, I can walk. It’s fine—”

“Don’t be silly. C’mon, kiddo.”

Kiddo.

The man had been jerking off to the thought of you for who knows how long, and now he called you ‘kiddo’?

You hated how arousing the nickname sounded from him

You despised yourself for rubbing your clit in his office.

Most of all, you loathed the way your panties had gotten wet the last time you’d climbed into his truck and heard that word crawl off of his old, drawling tongue: ‘Attagirl.’

Reluctantly, you nodded your head. You followed him downstairs and hoped the car door wouldn’t stick again.

He had to stop.

It was no longer a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ his dick would lead him straight off a cliff, and today, Joel was starting to think that precipice was looking extra nice. Tempting.

Almost as inviting as the divot he could see at the small of your back, glimmering with a couple hot beads of sweat under the midafternoon sun. He swallowed.

Sarah was at camp today. You’d had the time to yourself, and the weather was blistering hot, and of course, where else would you be but his backyard? He’d told you ad nauseum, ever since you started babysitting his kid, that his pool was open to you whenever you so chose to go.

Presently, Joel wished he could revoke that invitation.

Seeing how you were flipped on your stomach, body all soft and warm and splayed out on one of his deck chairs—wearing that fucking red swimsuit, of all things—Joel was left to ogle from his office window, and inside, he felt like a certified pervert. Arguably, he was. His old, worn hands had all but glided to find his mouse as soon as he’d sat down at his desk and saw you out there, and no sooner had his cursor found Chrome than his cock started to stir. He’d wanted to watch. If not you in all your bare, sun-baked glory, then surely the woman he could see getting her throat and cunt stuffed on his screen.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Was he really that much of a gooner he couldn’t let his kid’s babysitter lounge outside without stroking his dick?

Shit. He had the bottle of lotion in one hand and the box of tissues in the other in no time at all. He ripped three free Kleenex aside and reached for his mouse once more.

He was pissed at himself. He toggled over to the Hub with a grunt, and in no time at all, had you pulled up.

Joel liked to pretend it was you, anyway.

If he couldn’t have the sweet young thing every swinging dick in this town would’ve killed to have himself, he could rub one out to a girl exactly like you. He could fantasize.

He could skip the video to 8:53 on the dot, as he always did, and he could rub himself raw. It wouldn’t take long.

He always fast-forwarded to that exact part, without fail, because she moaned like you then. He’d never forget it.

It had almost been six months since it happened, and he still remembered that sound as clear as day. You’d been hauling your backpack off the couch in the living room, having stuffed the thing full with more school supplies than you could feasibly carry, and Joel had been in the kitchen, unseen. You’d lifted the bag with effort, and once you had, you let out a soft but audible whine. You dropped the bag back down to your feet, and when you bent to try again, you’d moaned fully. It was like the stretch had made you feel good, or something. You’d huffed and managed to get the weight slung over your back with modest success, then left, but Joel had been changed. Too quickly had he retreated to his office and swore to find any clip where a moan sounded like that.

“Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!”

Granted, the dialogue was cheesy, but the sound after it was identical to the one you’d made. Joel repeated it.

He hadn’t even noticed, but he’d already lathered his hand and cock with lotion. He was scrubbing vigorously while your twin wiggled her hips and begged her co-star to put it in, to quit teasing her pussy like that, can’t you see I’m practically dripping for you, daddy? Look at it!

Unfortunately, Joel’s head was turned the other direction—away from the screen, and toward the window—watching you where you sat out on the lawn.

He stroked harder. He groaned.

You had just turned onto your back. Your tits looked incredible. Joel reckoned they’d look even better with his dick pushed up between them, and at the thought, his mouth watered. His lips were slightly parted, and he feared he might drool. What a sight he must have been then: jaw slack, lids heavy, cock in hand, and moan after moan bubbling out of his throat. He got closer to climax.

“Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.”

It wasn’t long after that that Joel heard the girl whine in pleasure—the man behind her had notched in the first inch and told her to behave—and meanwhile, he watched your chest rise and fall, rise and fall outside. It was calm. Unlike the girl being taught how to fuck poolside, you remained untouched. Spotless. Placid and serene while your hands picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. While Joel’s orgasm crested inside him, he wondered if you’d ever want to try something like that. Roleplay. Or would it be fake at all? Had you ever been touched by a man, shown the best ways to give and receive pleasure, or was it all brand new, like it was supposed to be for the woman on his screen? Joel panted, and he fucked his hand harder. He groaned.

“Oh, daddy, it’s so big! Feels so good going inside me!”

“You love gettin’ fucked by an older man, don’t you?”

“Yes, daddy, yes! Please don’t stop—oh, OHHH!”

Joel wanted to be the only older man you had.

If he wasn’t the first, he sure as fuck could be the last. Give you all the dizzying, euphoric feelings your body deserved and stretch you open gently for the taking.

He could teach you so much, ruin you for any oth—

Shit.

What the fuck was this asshole doing here?

At the back gate, he saw his neighbor Dieter.

The man strolled across the lawn, and Joel’s orgasm receded in a blink. He was walking right over to you.

No. No, no, no. Joel released his dick from its vice grip and felt the thing twitch in indignation. Meanwhile, the sound of skin on skin continued to flood his eardrums from out of the computer speakers, where the happy babysitter-boss duo was hitting a brutal pace. The girl let out one over-the-top shriek of pleasure, and Joel clicked pause. He toggled out of the browser. Then he redirected his gaze out the office window, where his own girl was being accosted by Dieter. His blood boiled with anger.

Who did this creep think he was? The man never so much as looked Joel’s way or approached his property unless it was to ask to be ‘lent’ some booze or else ask after some friend, relative, or coworker Dieter wanted to be introduced to—he was perennially unemployed and a fuckboy bachelor to his core. The last Joel had heard, he’d spent the last year in Los Angeles, or Paris, or some other too-big city to chase his singing and acting dreams

And here he was now, hitting on his poor, defenseless babysitter. Joel wouldn’t stand for that in any world.

Though his dick was still erect, it had softened some, too. His rage facilitated that, and him shoving his length back in his jeans, zipping it up, and all but punching the desktop off made it spongier still. He walked like he was mad at the floor beneath his boots. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so defensive—he had just been rubbing one out to the sight of you less than five minutes ago—but now wasn’t the time for thinking. He had to act.

Protect, if he had to.

What if his neighbor wanted to go for a swim, too?

Joel would drown the man with his two bare hands if he so much as reached for your bikini-clad form. He stalked loudly down the hall and searched for a less sweaty shirt to wear, then some deodorant, then a comb. He peered in the bathroom mirror and saw his black-and-grey locks all out of sorts, and for a second, he contemplated taking a shower. You’d probably be able to smell his unsatisfied desire from outside. He looked, and felt, a bit unhinged.

Joel decided he didn’t care, before plodding downstairs.

Outside, you lay in the same position he’d seen you last. Your hand was shielding your face. You were smiling.

And beside you, Dieter was grinning even bigger.

Joel made a beeline down the porch steps, then across the lawn, like his life might’ve depended on it. Scowling.

“—but getting cast in Gladiator II would’ve been wild—”

Of course Dieter was yapping about his failed acting career. Of course. Joel could hear him drone on as he approached, though he didn’t register a word of what he said. Instead, he waved a hand. He feigned a calm tone:

“Dieter! How’s it going?”

And he slowed down, too.

Just as he drew in, his neighbor volleyed a look his way. Joel couldn’t miss how his smile twitched down a little.

“Joel.”

Accepting a cordial hand in greeting.

“Doing alright, how ‘bout yourself?”

Joel nodded fine, just fine and offered some offhand remark about not having seen him since last summer, and Dieter couldn’t resist the chance to puff up and mention a school he’d been attending. Joel didn’t hear it, or give a shit. His gaze was already trained on you. Your own flitted from Dieter, to Joel, then to Dieter again, and your lips were smiling kindly enough. You seem humored.

“Mr. Bravo just got back from Berlin,” you beamed.

Then Dieter met your look and shook his head.

“Dieter, sweetie, Dieter. Or Dee, if you want.”

Joel almost wanted to vomit in his mouth.

“Germany, huh? What brings you here?”

No sense in beating around the bush.

Joel meant to ask why Dieter was here, in his backyard, with his babysitter, of course. Why the fuck he was eyeing you like that, like your tits were two Emmys and the only way to earn it himself was to stare as long, and as hard, as possible. Joel cleared his throat instinctively.

Dieter blinked and cast a glance back to him.

“Oh, here. Yeah. I, um…I just wanted to see if you had that— that—” He snapped his fingers, “That leafblower.”

Leafblower?

He was so full of shit.

“My leafblower,” Joel repeated.

It was fucking July, for crying out loud.

Evidently, his neighbor didn’t seem to care. He met Joel’s gaze with an even look, and he nodded his head.

He doubled down: “Yeah, the leafblower. I’ve had some debris pile up in my yard since I’ve been gone, y’know.”

“Are you gonna be in Austin long? Or are you going back overseas once you’ve had that casting call?” you asked.

You cocked your head with genuine curiosity. Joel grit his teeth, but he tried not to let his discontent show anyplace else on his face. A muscle might’ve jumped when he saw how smugly Dieter smirked at your intrigue.

“Oh, I’ll be here long enough, don’t you worry,” he said.

That was it.

Joel gestured to the shed in the back corner of the yard, about to tell Dieter that the leafblower was in there, go knock yourself out, when his neighbor cut in once again.

“In the meantime, maybe I’ll have you babysit for me. I hate to steal Sarah’s pal, but maybe you can split your time between my place and Joel’s. What do you think?”

You blinked a little quicker, like you weren’t quite sure what to say at first. Joel took the chance to interject.

“You don’t have any kids, Bravo,” he practically growled.

“I know. I’ve got cats, though,” Dieter just grinned back, flitting a cheeky look to you. “And you have no idea how naughty those pussycats can get while a man’s away.”

That was really all Joel could take. He didn’t even let you answer; he just pointed to the shed and made a fist with his other hand at his side. His chest was heaving breaths.

“You and her can chat when she’s off the clock, how ‘bout that? Leafblower’s in the shed. Door’s unlocked.”

His words didn’t invite protest of any kind. Dense as he was, Dieter probably sensed that he’d ticked his neighbor off with the suggestive comment to his babysitter, and he backed away, both literally and figuratively. He bid a quick, cavalier goodbye with a shit-eating grin stretching his lips, and then he went to the storage shed and left.

You were still blinking, still creasing your brows tight, by the time the back gate had slammed shut behind him. You watched after him, teeth gnawing at your cheek.

“He seemed like a funny gu—”

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

Joel’s words appeared to sting like a slap in the face. You jerked your head back to him, seeming to say, ‘What?’

“You know what. Don’t play innocent now,” Joel griped.

You continued to stare, then started to shake your head.

“Mr. Miller—”

“Don’t Mr. Miller me, either,” he snapped, far shorter than he’d ever spoken to you before. His nostrils flared, “You’re old enough to know better. You did all of that.”

“All of what?” you shot back.

“Attracted men like Dieter into my yard.”

“He’s your neighbor! What do you expect?”

Offense marred your tone. He didn’t entirely blame you.

“No, no—he never sticks his nose over here unless he sees something he wants. You were flaunting yourself.”

At that, your mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Miller? Are you serious?”

“Language, young lady—”

“I don’t give a shit.” You stood up from your chair. Your eyes flashed with ire. Just like his hands had before, yours curled into fists. You stood your ground with him. “You invited me to come swim here whenever I wanted to. You did that, asshole. What did you expect me to sunbathe in, army fatigues and fucking combat boots?”

Joel blinked hard at that. He didn’t like being mocked.

“Still shouldn’t be that damn skimpy. And I said lang—”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, dad. Don’t act like you’re mine.”

Don’t act like you’re mine.

Joel’s chest tightened. His gaze seared into yours, almost as though he were as angry as you were now, but deep down, the man only felt remorse. Resentment. Whatever rage he harbored now was reserved for himself

He shouldn’t have gone there.

He shouldn’t have masked his own jealousy with pseudo paternal scolding. He looked like a dickhead doing that.

And you weren’t shy to let him know it in the slightest.

Presently, your finger was jabbed in his face. You were planted less than two feet from where he stood, and though you were noticeably dwarfed by his size, your next words had him beat by a foot, if he’d had to guess.

“I watch your kid, Joel. I am not your daughter. If you don’t want me hanging around here in my hot red bikini, then you can just say that. But don’t blame me for him.”

Joel bristled at your words, though he wasn’t sure why. When he opened his mouth to speak again, you added:

“And don’t blame me for that, either.”

Suddenly, he realized your finger was pointed at his legs.

Or, rather, what was poking up stiff between them.

Joel’s cheeks heated up to a thousand degrees.

You’d just caught him. You’d seen his arousal.

And you were turning on your heels again.

Before Joel could even try to summon the words to his tongue, you were grabbing your things. Shoving your shoes onto your feet. And Joel had only to stand there.

Feeling stupid and inert beside you.

As you went to the back gate, he somehow managed to call that you didn’t have a car, let him drive you back.

You didn’t even dignify his words with a verbal response.

You just raised your middle finger over your shoulder.

And then the gate crashed shut behind you.

You would be walking home that day.

Two big eyes and round cheeks were all you could see.

Then, they darted beneath the covers and were gone.

“Oh no, where’d sweet Sarah go?” you wondered aloud. Sitting at the edge of the bed and pretending not to see where she’d just dipped her head under the blankets, you furrowed your brows and proceeded to pat around you.

Everywhere you felt with your hands, you completely ignored the big lump under the duvet. It was a game.

A silly one at that—hide-and-go-seek was generally best left to places where you couldn’t figure out her location in the blink of an eye. But you played along. You heard a soft giggle. You continued feeling around the twin-sized mattress like this was the most bewildering puzzle of all.

“Whe-ere’s Sarah?” you sing-songed.

You heard a shuffling of limbs, a sniffle.

Your palm tapped right by those little feet.

And as soon as you did, she screamed. At four years old, Sarah hadn’t quite mastered the art of being stealthy.

You’d cut her some slack. You always had.

Blindly passing where her body lay, you glided to the opposite side of her bed and tapped inquiringly there.

“Is she…here?” You got a pillow.

“No!” Sarah shrieked back.

Such a helpful, obliging kid. She’d make a terrible spy.

“Is she…up here?” You rapped the headboard twice.

“No!!” she squealed.

You glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was approaching bedtime. Taking note of this, and knowing you couldn’t keep up with the charade for much longer, you let out a sigh. You stood from the bed, looked around the room with dramatic éclat, then started to walk away.

“Okay…I guess if Sarah’s not here I’ll have to leave…”

The second you said that, Sarah threw the covers back. She jumped up in bed, and she stomped her little feet.

“No! No! I’m here! I’m here!”

You spun on your heels, eyes wide with faux surprise.

“Sarah!”

And then you rushed back over, just in time to watch her drop to the bed and flash you a wide, exuberant smile.

“Your Sarah,” she corrected.

She adored it when you called her that. Your Sarah.

You nodded your head in agreement, “My Sarah. Sorry.”

She nodded too, like she’d just reminded you of the most important thing, and then she slipped back under her covers. She let you drag the purple duvet over her frame, all the way up to her chin, and when she was all snug inside, she gave another smile. She kicked her feet again.

“Stay,” she commanded, tone still sugar-sweet.

“I will, baby. ‘Til your daddy gets back, I’ll be here.”

“I mean forever!” Sarah dragged out the last syllable, and, not yet content with the answer you’d proffered, tried swaying you again, still more emphatic, “For-ever!”

If your daddy wasn’t such an ass, I might consider it.

Instead, you smiled back at her and shook your head. You smoothed the hair away from her face, then you leaned in and kissed her forehead with a gentle peck.

“Then my family would miss me. I gotta see them.”

“Says who?” Sarah’s pout was unmistakable.

Before you could reply, she cut in again.

“You can be my family. My mommy.”

Your throat constricted at those words. You weren’t sure what to say, or how to assuage your sweet Sarah then.

Again, you were about to open your mouth to speak, when your pint-sized companion piped up again. This time, her voice was softer. Surprisingly delicate and low.

“I want you to be my mommy,” she told you quietly, “Then you’ll live here. With me and daddy. And you’ll never have to go home again and we can play all day!”

Your heart ached. You kissed the tip of her nose and turned away, momentarily, to hide the hurt on your face.

Sarah Miller deserved much more in a mother than you.

When you looked up again, her grin was big. Hopeful.

“Don’t you wanna be my mommy too?” she asked.

“‘Course I do, baby,” you answered without hesitation, “But…don’t you think your daddy should have a say too?”

Somehow, her face got even brighter.

“He will! He— he…”

Sarah trailed off a second, as if considering her words. She didn’t understand what marriage meant. You’d help.

“Your daddy,” you finished for her, speaking slow and soft as you leaned in close, “is a good man who deserves a good woman to make your mommy. Don’t you agree?”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Yeah, but—”

“And a mommy’s gotta be someone he really loves.”

“But he…”

She was thinking again. You could tell. You pressed on.

“He is gonna find someone great someday. He’ll love you and her to bits, and y’all will get to play together all day.”

“But he loves you!” Sarah cried, at length.

A beat.

Your breath faltered.

The girl’s words had scarcely hung in the air for more than two seconds, and their meaning hardly registered in your brain before your own were coming out fast. Certain

“Your daddy doesn’t love me, baby. I’m just his friend.”

“Yes, he does! He told me so himself!”

Again, you shook your head.

“You misunderstood him, sweetie.”

You tried to smooth her hair back again, but Sarah’s head bucked away. She scrunched up her nose in clear protest and refused to let you cradle her face until she’d spoken her piece. When she did, her voice was pleading all over:

“Daddy loves you, he told me. You can be my mommy.”

And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you felt your heart balloon in your chest. Your gut clenched—but not for the reasons she or you wanted it to. The truth was that you didn’t have the words to tell a four-year-old girl that her father didn’t love you like that at all, that his head and his heart were anywhere but with you, and that, if you were being honest, you were furious with him. How he could so much as hint at such nonsense was beyond you. His little girl dreamed of having a mother. It was stupid and senseless and cruel to even suggest that that woman could be you. You sighed.

But, despite your every thought and feeling to the contrary, you knew you had to soothe the girl with some small semblance of hope. Something to hold her over for the night, so she didn’t cry herself to sleep thinking that you didn’t want to be her mommy. Gently, you leaned in.

You lifted the covers back up from where they’d fallen. You tucked them snug around her torso, and you paused.

Your tone was measured and soft when you spoke next:

“I don’t know about your daddy, baby. What I do know is that I would be the luckiest lady alive to get to be your mommy, alright? I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

And you meant it. You saw one look light up her face, and every ounce of anger that had been provoked by her father was forgotten in an instant. Her grin ensured it.

“Anywhere,” she parroted back.

“Anywhere,” you said, again.

Then you kissed the crown of her head, wished her sweet dreams, cut the little light off. You left the room quietly.

It was only when you were out of there and far enough away down the hallway that your skin started to burn.

You couldn’t help it. Anger was fast to trickle back.

This feeling was only compounded when the next moment brought a sound to the landing on the stairs. You glanced over down the hall, muscles all tensing at once, and when you saw him there, it was as though your rage just bubbled over. Your jaw clenched; your stomach flipped in a way so decidedly unlike how it had done for him two days ago, in his office, and suddenly, your throat was working again. You kept your voice low this time, keen not to draw Sarah’s attention out there, but the words you used were clear. Quiet. Doubtlessly effective.

Even in the dark, you saw his brows jump when he heard:

“Joel, we need to talk.”

It had been two years since he’d had a woman in here.

Joel wished it were under any circumstances but these.

Presently, your eyes were ablaze. The two of you had just stepped into his room and shut the door behind you, and with the click of a latch, you hadn’t thought to hold it in:

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He blinked.

Well, many things.

Joel wouldn’t have had the space to explain it all if you’d given him a week, and still, he had to say something. He blinked again, made a sound in his throat as if to clear it, then shook his head. His shoulders sagged in his jacket.

“I…I’m sorry.”

For the other day. For getting caught up in his own anger and taking it out on you. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for now, or what he should say, but he thought it best to start there. He shrugged his jacket off and set it over the back of the nearest chair. He turned to you again, where you were standing with a warning look.

“Don’t say sorry to me,” you said. “Say sorry to Sarah.”

Sarah?

Before he could speak, you went on.

“You’re just setting her up for heartbreak, you know that? I mean how selfish— how stupid could you possibly be?”

You pursed your lips like tears might threaten if you didn’t. This caught him off guard—his daughter? What could he have said or done to hurt her in any of this?

“What are you talking about?”

“You said I’d be her mom, Joel!”

He winced. You furrowed your brows and set your mouth in a line—really trying to fight the emotion behind it—and, while all the rest of you bristled in anticipation for what was to come, Joel softened. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to be the guy who lost his head at the thought of seeing you cry and forget the whole reason you were upset with him in the first place, but he couldn’t help it. Though you looked like you wanted to kill him right then, Joel drew closer. He shifted toward you.

“Did— did she, uh…call you…mommy?” he said, pained.

“Yeah. And you let her believe she could,” you spat.

He hadn’t meant to do that, either. Sarah had been calling you that for a while when you weren’t around to hear, and after enough times telling her otherwise, he’d just stopped correcting her on it. Sarah wanted a mother. You were the closest thing she had, and who was he to sabotage that? At the time, he’d just wanted to…pretend.

That was a running theme he had going with you.

Right now, you didn’t seem to care about that.

You just rolled your eyes in that cool, juvenile way when you didn’t hear a response from him, and he had to bite his tongue from saying something worse. He hated when you did that. It made him remember your age—the reality of you being his kid’s babysitter and how guilty he should feel for wanting to do something more about that eyeroll.

He wasn’t your father.

You weren’t Sarah’s mother, either.

You most certainly weren’t the girl on his computer screen, as much as he would’ve liked to see you that way, and even though you were standing here in his bedroom.

That was all fantasy. Make-believe. This was his reality.

You were visibly pissed and wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Is it really so bad if she says it?” he grit out.

Your eyes widened. You scoffed.

“Of course it is, Joel!”

You backed away.

He hated seeing that, too. He hated having you move from him, not toward him, wearing that scowl on your lips as you did. His fingers twitched—itched—at his side.

“Sarah’s young. She doesn’t…mean anything by it. She’ll grow out of it soon enough. And I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You’ll hurt her even worse by not telling her the truth!” you snapped. You sounded exasperated saying it now. “We’re not a family. I’m the goddamn babysitter, and— and— you’re Sarah’s father. Act like it, for Christ’s sake.”

That set his teeth on edge.

Joel felt the urge to fight back, but narrowly refrained. He flexed his fingers, and he bit down hard to keep the vitriol at bay. Because that was exactly what fathers did. They controlled their anger; even when faced with a smart-mouthed babysitter who wore his patience out.

Even when your arms were folded over your chest in that impossibly tight, white tank, and your tits looked like they might spill from the fabric at any given moment. Joel swallowed and refocused his gaze before going on.

“Don’t tell me how to be a father.”

Something flared in your eyes.

“Why? I’m fucking right.”

“Language, young lady.”

That only seemed to irk you worse; your hands flew up.

“Yeah, well,” you started, accusing, “If we’re playing house, I might as well be allowed to say what I like.”

“We are not playing hous—”

“But you want to, right? That’s why I’m always here.”

“No, I need a—”

“Maid? Mommy?”

You paced closer. Joel’s jaw clenched.

“Obedient little housewife?” you sneered.

Your eyes were shining like two derisive pools. With every blink, you seemed to mock him more. Goad him on and beg for your reward, though you hardly knew what it was.

“C’mon, Mr. Miller,” you chided, voice low, “What is it?”

What he was, or what he’d stand to take. It wasn’t this.

“Keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth, I’ll show you what.”

The words flew off his tongue before he could stop them.

It was a reflex—something that had been stewing in his mind since the second you’d set foot in his room and went on provoking him. But it was wrong, of course.

He was wrong for even thinking it, much less saying it.

Now your eyes were round, and your mouth was slightly agape, and your brain was likely working a thousand miles a minute to process what had just been said.

Joel had to fix it.

“That— that ain’t—” he began, already hating himself.

To his surprise, and embarrassment, a laugh rang out.

Its sound was explosive and short. It split the air with such hot, bitter force that his words dropped off. His gaze had no choice but to remain plastered on yours.

“Oh, I bet.”

You grinned, humorless.

You didn’t appear shocked in the slightest. In fact, his remark seemed only to embolden you then, as you teased that smile wider, drew yourself closer, and tipped your chin up. You looked doubly enlivened by his last admission. Vindicated in some strange, inexplicable way. Your breaths were warm, and the swell of your breasts came to hover just inches from his chest when the last thing he needed to happen, happened between you next.

You pointed again. Joel didn’t need to look down.

“‘Don’t tell me how to be a father,’” you repeated his words from before, voice taking on a low, faux baritone.

Your amusement was clear. His cock was hard.

It seemed you’d never let the latter slip past you.

“Is that what we’re gettin’ at here, Mr. Miller?” you asked, tone now precocious. Probing, “You showing me what a great daddy you are, and me being the mommy you al—”

“No.”

Joel pushed off. He didn’t want to hear another thing.

He headed straight for the door, prepared to usher you out of it. This conversation had taken an irreparable turn.

When he reached for the handle, though, he had to stop. Your voice made him stop, echoing from the opposite end of the room. Joel turned, and he saw you on his bed.

“I’m just curious. Is that really what you meant?”

You were sitting at the foot of it, legs casually hanging off. Your look was innocent, and still more knowing than Joel could bear. The heat left to swirl in his groin nearly suffocated him below the waist, and he inhaled deeply.

“Mean what? I didn’t…mean anything.”

His touch fell from the doorknob all the same.

Your feet were swinging when he faced you completely.

“Just like you didn’t mean for Sarah to call me mommy?”

Maybe he had meant it more than he let on. He couldn’t answer. Joel felt every bit the creep he knew himself to be—decades your senior and letting you rest on his bed, soft, smooth legs kicking back and forth as he watched.

He was good at that, wasn’t he? Watching. Waiting. Aching from the comfort of his home office while he watched those filthy clips on repeat, images of you flitting through his mind at every stretch, moan, and whimper. His will was powerless to his perverted needs. He had only to defend himself against their influence by planting his feet firmly in place and refusing to move.

“You wanna teach me, though. Don’t you, daddy?”

It was as though your words reached him from another place. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind—his memory—and the tone of it stirred him. It was familiar, in ways you couldn’t have possibly understood. Unless you were living in his head, there was no way in hell you could’ve known what those lines meant to him.

‘Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.’

It made him ache.

Joel still wouldn’t move, but you could come to him.

He blinked once, and you were there. Off the bed. Walking to him. Down on your knees in front of him.

This had to be the work of his own sick imagination.

He groaned at just the sight of your smile, curving slow.

And then you peeled off your top, revealing the bright, nylon, cherry-red fabric he’d seen far too many times on his computer screen and off it—on you, by his pool. Joel sucked in a breath and shook his head, gaze darkening.

“Thought you didn’t wanna play mommy,” he growled.

If this was all just in his head, he could talk as he wanted.

“I don’t,” you answered him soberly. Suddenly, your chin was in his hand. Your eyes were still glistening up at him. “But you need to get this out of your system. Just once.”

Out of his system.

Joel was out of his fucking mind with desire.

“Just once?” His voice cracked as he said it.

Only one time. That was alright. Forgivable.

From what he half-believed to be a figment of his own perverted mind came the word from your lips: ‘Once.’

The next had the thumb that was cupping your chin slipping between those same lips. Still smiling while your mouth slid down to his knuckle. You sucked him gently.

And in just one glimpse, one fleeting second on that lone, thick thumb, the sight below him had every other obscene thing entrenched in his memory beat by a mile. You were better than everything else he’d seen or tried to dream up. You were real, he hoped, sliding your shiny wet lips up and down the surface of his skin, and when you pried them off, and you asked for his cock, he had no choice but to oblige. He had to rack his brain for words.

This was his babysitter, his daughter’s companion, his—

“Sweet fuckin’ girl,” he said when he first felt you there.

Before he even knew what became of his belt, buckle, and zip, the base of his cock was in your hand, and your lips were hovering precariously over the tip. Your breaths were soft and hot. Your graze drank him in with curiosity.

“Should I kiss you here, daddy?” Your mouth lowered.

“Right there, sweetie,” Joel breathed out.

He truly couldn’t believe it when the warmth of you enveloped his tip. When the first lick of your tongue came to collect the bead of precum sitting at the slit and he damn near bucked his hips up. You licked at it again.

And again. And again. And again.

You whimpered lightly, enjoying the taste.

The second you pulled your mouth away, Joel hissed.

“Baby, please—” he started, tone strained.

“What? Where does daddy want it?”

The question was so innocent.

It was clear you wanted to hear him guide you through it, as evidenced by the way your lips twitched at his hand smoothing down and over the crown of your head. Joel held it like he might never get this chance again, and, at once, his voice lowered along with it. He scarcely recognized himself with how gently he spoke then.

“Let daddy show you,” he said, “Open your mouth.”

And you did.

Your jaw fell slack, your lips split apart, and your eyes peered up with a wide and open stare. In a look, you seemed already to say that you trusted him to fill it.

No sight on a screen could’ve made him so hard.

He fed you an inch, eyes locked with yours as he did. His cock slid in another, and another, then stopped. He pulled back. The wetness and the warmth of your mouth nearly did him in, and the way you whined for more had him fisting your hair tight. Trying to keep his composure.

“That alright, honey? Feel…nice goin’ in?”

“Yes, daddy,” you hummed obediently.

Your mouth opened wider.

“More, please?”

Your tongue was flattened in a second. Joel slid back in, and his shaft was greeted by the slick, shiny cushion of the muscle underneath. He sank in. He invaded every inch of your mouth he could find, and he breathed out.

“Just like that, sweetie. Takin’ daddy so well.”

What little gurgles he heard stifled between your lips at that, spit drooling gently from either side, he only found more endearing. When he pulled back and saw strings of your spit trail after its path, he felt delirious. You were real, coating the whole throbbing length of his cock with your saliva and your precious soft whines, and you were sweet for him. Pliant for his cock. Jaw obliging and inviting and hanging wide open for him to fuck again.

He let you have it. He slid in once, grazed your throat, slid out again. He cupped your face in his hands and thumbed your cheeks. He coaxed your lips wider for him. You took it all well; you responded to every tender little directive from the man who was stuffing your mouth, ‘Faster now, atta girl’ and ‘Take daddy deeper’ and ‘Keep that pretty mouth open and those eyes on me.’ Joel was so caught up in the feel and the friction and the intimacy of every passing moment that he almost didn’t see when you started to shift your legs. Parting them.

And, right when the head of his cock had reached the back of your mouth and was teasing down your wet, open throat, he felt it fully: your whimpering plea.

You grinding your cunt against the toe of his boot, and peering up at him with eyes all wet, wide, and needy.

You rutted your hips. It looked like you couldn’t help it.

It seemed as though it were a mere spasm of the body that you couldn’t control—like his cock down your throat was too good for your sense or your oversexed mind to handle. He’d scarcely stirred in place when he felt you humping him, whines rippling down his length with every bob of your head as you keened for some kind of release.

Joel had never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what to say or do except stroke his hand over your scalp and pin you with a look. His cock twitched in your mouth.

“Is that how we ask to get fucked in this house?”

His tone surprised him with how steady it stayed.

Your mouth still full of him, you tried to shake your head.

What came next was more instinct than logical thought; Joel pulled you off his cock and onto your feet. His touch on your body was soft. He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his being so gentle, but every second that elapsed now seemed to demand it. He was teaching you to please. There could be no better place for kindness than here.

He’d lead you to the bed and guide you down himself. He’d tell you to open your mouth and then he would kiss it, and lick inside it. Maybe spit inside it, too. He’d tug at your bikini straps, watch your breasts give way to the pressure of the pull before bouncing right back in place. He’d take off your top. Latch his mouth around a nipple, swirl his tongue across the skin, and he’d kiss you again.

Joel did all these things, and you let him. You met him with whimpers, with wide open legs, and eventually, with your feet digging into the covers beneath you, begging, ‘Daddy, please put it in.’ Your gaze was febrile as you did.

Whether you meant it, or were simply pretending for him, gave Joel pause. Just as you’d tried to yank your jean shorts down your legs, he dropped his hands to your own. He stopped them in their path. He leaned closer.

“Do you know what you and me are about to do, hm?”

His question was barbed but sweet. Testing the waters.

Were you game to keep playing house? Did you want it?

These things mattered to Joel; whether the wetness between your legs was meant for him and him alone. Whether you needed him there, like the breath in your lungs. He wouldn’t fuck you if he wasn’t. He might feel lonely at times—desperate to feel your cunt squeeze his too-old cock like your life depended on it—but he was a man who wanted to be wanted, too. An instant of clarity hit, and suddenly he was asking it, plain and in your face:

“Do you wanna do what mommies and daddies do?”

Your mouth fell slack. Again. You nodded.

Either you were the single best actress, or you wanted it. Hoping desperately for the latter, Joel kissed the side of your face. You turned your head, quickly, and captured his lips in yours instead. You pulled him down to you.

“Like this?” you murmured, words muffled against him.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and then ground your clothed lower half with his—Joel’s cock was tucked haphazardly back in his boxers, and his jeans, unzipped, hung just underneath them around his hips. He felt like a teen again, clothes thrown askew and hormones all wild.

Except he wasn’t. He was a grown man, in his own bed, with his child fast asleep down the hall. He thanked his lucky stars that their rooms were as far apart as possible, and that he no longer had to worry about the prying eyes of his mom or dad trying to catch him out after curfew. This wasn’t high school, or a night out in college, or the time a condom had split and Sarah had been conceived.

Now if he could just make sure she didn’t get a sibling…

Kidding.

“Pill,” Joel choked out, just as your legs drew him in to meet your movements, “Are— are you on the pill, or—”

Am I going to have to hit up a Texaco at 10 PM to get some rubbers and admit I haven’t gotten laid in a year?

You grinned.

“IUD.”

That works, too.

Joel probably shouldn’t have seemed so eager. He probably shouldn’t have taken your face in his hands and kissed you so hard, either. But his skin was ablaze; his eyes were wild; his limbs were molten; and his head—you didn’t want to know where it was. What he was thinking.

What he wanted to tell you while he tugged his cock back out and started working his hand up and down it. It felt too intimate, too depraved, to be spoken aloud.

Then, to his shock, you said the words yourself:

“Show me how you’d make me a mommy anyway.”

If not for protection. If not for common sense. If not for that thrumming, pulsing, warning repetition in his head: Do not get her pregnant. Do not give your kid a sibling.

But this was all pretend, wasn’t it?

Joel yanked down your shorts, practically tore them from your legs, and situated himself between them, breathing hard and fast, before he nodded his head and kissed you. With his one free hand, he held the base of his dick, and he guided it closer to your slick, puffy, aching entrance through the barrier of your red bikini. He rutted his hips.

You were bare beneath him, save for that one scrap of fabric between your lower half and his. You smiled, and you wriggled your body against his, and you drew him in. Joel groaned when he felt you slide your bottoms to the slide and let him feel, for the first time, how wet you were. How warm, inviting, and tight that cunt must be and how badly he needed it. How desperately he had to be buried inside that heat—he all but panted the words:

“Can daddy put it in?”

You spread your legs wider. You nodded.

Then he did. Without one breath of a thought to the contrary, he pushed the head of himself past the fabric, through your folds, into that wet and precious spot he’d only dreamed he’d ever feel, and he let out a full-throated moan. He felt your walls contract, heard the tender little squelch of your body making room for his length, and he damn near blew his whole load right there. You felt good.

Your chest rose with a breath, and your eyes widened.

Like you hadn’t just had him down your throat, drenched in your spit and gliding in and out: “He’s so big, daddy.”

Joel’s lips kissed your cheek. His tip kissed your cervix. You whined a little, and he pulled you in closer to him.

“I know, honey, I know,” he cooed, rocking you with the softest motions, “Ain’t that what mommy likes, though?”

Your lips parted again. A strangled whine of assent slid out, just as his hips withdrew himself back to that shiny, bulbous head, and then he fucked back in. Back and forth, back and forth, Joel sent your body bouncing with every thrust. He felt you clench, and the strokes sped up.

The bed creaked underneath. It seemed to shake the whole room. In truth, there wasn’t a thought in Joel’s head except for the ones relating to you and how good you took his cock, but somewhere, not far off, there was the instinct of a father idling too. With every stab of the headboard against the wall and every moan of yours under him he had to smother with his lips, he was reminded you two had to be quiet. He leaned in.

Grazing your ear with a stubbled chin, and fucking you gently into his bed, Joel sank his weight even lower.

“Can mommy stay real quiet for daddy? Can she try?”

From the way your eyes were glazed, he expected you to nod. And you did, just barely, heels digging in the mound of his ass and your fingers finding his sides. But then you slid a touch up his ribs; you squeezed the flesh. You let him pound your cunt for a few more precious seconds, and just when he thought that was the end of it, you tilted your head to him. Your nose bumped his, and you grinned, flashing the single most pretty, fucked-out look.

“Feels like a fucking dream, daddy,” you breathed.

Joel balked. He almost stopped right then and there.

Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!

Oh.

You couldn’t have known that.

There was no shot you knew where the fuck those words were from. Or what they meant. Joel furrowed his brow and kept rutting his hips, hands tightening in the sheets beside your head as the scene from his naughty all-time favorite film flickered briefly through his mind. No shot.

Then your legs wound around the backs of his even tighter, and your eyes were all but shining with a fresh, twisted glint. With a measured tone, you went on for him:

“He’s so big, daddy. Feels so good going inside me.”

You even mimicked her tone. Joel paled above you.

His hips stalled a moment, and your cunt hugged him tight. Your teeth nipped at his chin, playfully, and before he could even try to speak again, your lips were there.

At his ear, whispering what he’d dreaded hearing most.

“You should really clear those PornHub searches after you’re done. Or at least lock your office while I’m here.”

Joel’s thrusts stopped completely.

He was about to search for his voice again, when your walls clamped down around him, and his vision went swimming. His cock pulsed inside you, and he groaned.

Then his hips picked up; it wasn’t a conscious decision. He just needed to fuck, needed to finish, needed to see the light twinkle and burst behind your eyes while he stuffed your cunt full. It didn’t matter what you knew—your lips were curled in such a sweet, smug smile below him, there was likely no use in trying to explain himself now. Joel just gritted his teeth, and he tried smiling back. He fucked you faster, and harder, than he’d done before.

When you clawed at his back, the pace grew merciless. Every inch of the space around him, it seemed, was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans. As before, Joel almost didn’t recognize his voice.

‘That so?’ was all it could manage to get out at present.

With your cunt fluttering repeatedly, hips rolling with his own, and those lips letting moans spill out one after the next, it was all he could do to try to keep his composure.

Joel kissed you, and then he flipped your body around. He moved back to find the headboard and rest himself against it, got your legs straddling his, and slid you down

Down, down, down on his cock. Stretching you out. Then moving you back up again. Making you bounce in his lap and have your hands fumble to find his shoulders. You squeezed his biceps and moaned, and at the same time, his slick-smeared lower half rutted to greet yours. Your essence drenched him; he could feel it soak straight through the black-and-gray hairs at the base of his cock.

You looked perfect like this—better than any girl on camera could’ve been. Your hips rolled, and you moaned while sliding up and down on his dick, again and again. Joel felt the trembling pulse through your body and his, groaned at the grip of your cunt around him, and helped you ride him. With one hand at the small of your back and the other cupping your face, he held you close to him. Your pace quickened, and the hand at your chin made its way to your throat, to hold you firmly there.

Joel had a thumb on your pulse and his eyes raking over your writhing form when he felt compelled to talk again.

Share a truth, since all the rest was coming out anyway.

He didn’t think so much as feel it flow from there, like the blood rushing through his veins. Joel winced at a fresh influx of pleasure and let you grind on him twice more. Then he was gripping you tighter, fucking up into you harder, and he was skimming his teeth along your skin. As a knot coiled deep within his stomach, he let it out:

“Wanna cum inside this pussy, baby. Fill her up with me.”

The head of his cock struck a dizzying blow to someplace close to your cervix, and you held him tighter.

“Yeah, Mr. Miller?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone.

You fought a breathless laugh, then were forced to suck in a gasp of air just as quick; his length sheathed itself inside you completely, and Joel’s grip constricted on your throat. He kissed you. He lapped his tongue into your mouth while he fucked up into you, again and again.

You whined, and he mumbled against you, “That’s right.”

You hissed at him deep in your guts, and he went on:

“Gonna stuff her full. Make her wet and messy and drippin’ with me. Show mommy how much daddy lov—”

He cut himself short. His balls were heavy, full, and ready to paint you white, but that line was a touch too far, even now. He couldn’t say it outright and not sound like a fucking creep, no matter how deep in this roleplay you happened to be. Joel squeezed your hips and grunted.

And, for what felt like the fifteenth time that night, you surprised him. Your chin tilted to his, your lips brushed against his mouth, and you smiled, again. It was tender.

“How much does daddy love me, hm? Show me.”

Your walls clenched at the end of the last sentence, and Joel couldn’t help but groan in your mouth. His eyes lifted to yours, and in your gaze, he found anything but incredulity—you already knew what he felt, somehow.

“Sarah tell you that, too? That I love you?” he growled.

He’d said it once. At the time, he hadn’t thought he’d meant it at all, but the words just sounded so good when it came to you. Sarah had asked him if he’d wanted you to be her mommy someday, if he loved you like a daddy loves a mommy, and he’d said he did. Looking back, it hadn’t felt half as good as it did right now: peering into your eyes, feeling your warmth swallow him whole, and sensing you were nearing your climax, all because of him. It made him want to say it over again, now face-to-face.

Be it roleplay, fantasy, fixation—he needed to say it now.

“Daddy does love you,” he went on, before you could even respond. His pelvis rutted against yours, and his gaze stayed steeped in desire as he felt you grip harder, “Loves you so damn much he wants to stuff a big load in that pretty little cunt. Make you his. That alright by you?”

Your gaze went blank in an instant. Your lips twitched.

Something delectably wet, tight, and far too tempting shuddered someplace inside you, and with pride, Joel sensed the remnants of it leak out and smear his tummy. You liked that idea. Still, you seemed hesitant as your teeth snagged your bottom lip between them. You drew one steadying breath, and you slowed your movements.

“I’ve never…had that,” you admitted quietly.

Then that sticky-sweet embrace your cunt held him in got even wetter. Like your mind wasn’t fully on-board, but your body was all in. You were close, by the feel of it.

But Joel would only give what you were fully ready to take. At length, he lowered one hand to the small of your back, and his thumb rubbed at the skin. He let you feel him in only the shallowest of strokes, bouncing you softly

“Ain’t gotta be inside, then,” he murmured, assuring, “I’ll shoot this load wherever mommy tells me to go, alright?”

That made you whimper.

From there, your mind seemed to be decided all at once.

“Cum inside. I-I want it.”

Joel swallowed thickly.

“You sure, sugar? I can—”

Suddenly, your hips were stirring. They started up quicker than before, and your hand was swift to plant itself flat on his chest, as though to stabilize yourself.

“Cum. In. Me.”

It was the most decisive, and desperate, you’d sounded all night. Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, he saw a plea.

With a look like that, Joel knew he couldn’t make you wait. He wouldn’t make you wait. Trying not to smirk as he did, he leaned in and kissed you, and felt you drip more arousal as something knotted in your belly. He smoothed your hair away and delivered the gentlest thrusts from below—he knew it wouldn’t take much.

“Mama goes first,” he prodded. He felt you tense, and clench, and leak a little more down his front, and when the head of cock nicked a soft ridge, he groaned, too. “Cum for daddy now and he’ll give you his load, OK?”

Then his touch slipped between your legs. You keened.

“Daddy, I—” you hiccuped, grip tightening like a vice when his thumb found your clit and started rubbing.

Joel circled faster.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

“I can’t,” you cried, “Feels too—”

Good. Your body seemed to finish for you.

It started with a pulse. Then a pinch. A trickling warmth. Joel hardly knew what else to do but keep rubbing that little pearl between your folds, even when you started to gush around his hand. It wet his tummy; it drenched all the hairs around the base of his cock, and still, he kept thumbing your clit and rocking you back and forth above him. He let you cry out and bite his shoulder while your climax tore through you, and though he knew you had to be quiet, he couldn’t help but relish the sound. He smiled

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Give it to daddy.”

And, while he also told you to keep breathing and let him have it all, he was right here—in a matter of seconds, he was slipping off, too. He couldn’t hope to try and stop it. With one more pulse of your walls, you groaned and got your wet, spent, needy hole stuffed full of him, just how you’d asked. Joel flooded your insides with his seed and kept you fucked straight down to the hilt so he wouldn’t see a drop of himself escape. He hugged you tight and heard you whine at that primal sensation, getting pumped with rope after rope of his cum, then he felt your limbs go limp. Joel kissed the side of your face. He cradled you, held you securely in place, and let the last of his spend paint your walls in a couple more gentle spurts

When it was over, he stroked your back. He sensed the aftershocks of your climax pass through your tired frame, and he made sure not to rock you too hard against him. He just wanted you to feel that he was there, if the heft of his cum and his cock still deep inside you wasn’t enough.

His head grew clearer, too. While still drawing short, ragged breaths in time, he managed to find the words that had evaded him before—what he should’ve said.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled into your hair.

You just nuzzled your face deeper.

“Don’t be.”

“But I—”

Then you tilted your head—enough for your gaze to meet with his, briefly, and tell him all that he needed to hear.

“You’re a good dad, Joel.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already pressing on.

“And I don’t…mind if Sarah calls me what she wants for now. I’m sure you’ll find someone great to be her mom someday, and then this whole thing won’t even matter.”

For some reason, the sound of it made Joel wince.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but he knew he didn’t want you thinking that. His grip constricted around you.

“No,” he muttered, indistinct. Defiant.

“No?”

You almost laughed.

It was insane, admittedly—just last night he’d been dreaming of the feel of you in the grip of his fist, wishing for nothing but his own release and a fleeting thought of your body underneath him, and here he was, doing this.

You’d said it was a one-and-done deal, and maybe it was.

But for him, maybe, it wasn’t. He’d be remiss not to try.

If you shot him down and left him to pine and meander through the manifold archives of PornHub for the rest of his horny life, that would be alright. At least he had tried.

With these thoughts thrumming through his brain, Joel was about to pull you closer and venture to speak again, when, for the second time, his words were cut short. His voice was presently supplanted by a sound that startled you both, and in a moment, he recognized what it was.

A knock.

“Da-a-a-a-a-a-addy?”

Shit.

He nearly caught a knee to the gut with how quickly you tried scrambling off his lap, limbs revived and frantic and desperate to get your clothes back on before that tiny voice could resume its speech—or get a hand to the door

“Yeah, sweetie? Give— give daddy a—” ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath as he tripped over your shorts on the floor, “—a minute. I’ll be right there. Just gimme a sec.”

Joel fell. You floundered. His hand snagged the edge of the bed before he hit the ground fully, while you set off across the room to fight the strings of your bikini top and wrestle the thing on. The second you sensed that battle was lost, you grabbed your shirt instead. You were just yanking it on, and Joel was just regaining his bearings and about to chuck your shorts your way, when a voice through the door stopped the two of you cold—again.

To your horror, it was hopeful. Too sweet to be real.

“Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?”

You could’ve soundly beat Joel’s ass with that pretty, skimpy swimsuit in your grasp and not regretted a thing, if he had to guess by the look you were flashing him now.

He didn’t blame you. His hands shot up in silent defense.

“Mommy— mommy’s not here, honey. She went home.” Joel shortly tried, and failed, to keep the pretense of innocence alive, all while dodging the first swing of your bikini’s bra at his head. He ducked; you struck a lamp.

He jumped back, a wordless grin stretching his lips as he righted that fixture fast. With one look, it seemed to say:

I’m so, so sorry, baby.

But inside his head, he couldn’t help but admit this was a little bit funny. Probably sensing this, you swung again.

“Yes, she is! I heard her,” Sarah huffed outside.

Joel was sliding up his jeans. Apologizing with his eyes and also trying not to crack an even bigger smile at you.

“Don’t be silly, Sar—”

“You’re having a sleepover!” she accused.

Well, in a manner of speaking.

Joel had just buckled his belt and redid his zip when a flash of red nylon smacked him in the face. Playfully.

You were evidently beginning to fight a grin like his, dropping the feigned indignation and pacing closer.

“Sleeping my ass—” you started in a whisper.

And you were about to chase him again, or else propose jumping from the window to get out now and save face, maybe, when Joel felt an old, familiar feeling crop up inside him. Like before, it wasn’t the kind of urge he could fight; his instincts took over, and he did it swiftly.

Admittedly, the timing was terrible—but he kissed you.

He pressed his lips to your own and relished the feeling. He grabbed both sides of your face and walked you back to the bed—the same one drenched in sweat and your release, which he’d definitely need to change in a minute—and for a fleeting moment, it was all he needed. Your mouth was on his, grinning a little and promising silently that if Sarah ever does walk in on us, I’m gonna kill you.

Against his better judgment, he pushed you back on the bed. He dropped his weight over your body and kept the kiss ongoing, feeling need surge inside for something far beyond the physical. It couldn’t be ‘one-and-done’ here.

But for now, at least, in spite of his feelings, it had to be.

Joel didn’t want to let go or stop kissing, but the next second left no room for much else, unfortunately. His daughter’s voice returned, and the words that followed proved impossible to ignore, for either one of you then.

All color drained from his face, and your eyes widened.

“I heard mommy screaming before. Is she alright?”

#THE WAY I’VE NEVER WRITTEN A NCFOM-INSPIRED FIC IS INSANE #IT’S ONE OF MY ALL TIME FAVORITE MOVIES AND THE TITLE IS SOOOOO FITTING FOR JOEL 😪#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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