#instead it...well...I guess it's memorable

[definefaulty]

sticky situation

spider-man x top male reader

(mlm smut, peter caught using a dildo, fisting, reader is hung, breeding kink, this is long, gets sweet at the end? supposed to be uni age)

Peter, is a dork. adorable, nerdy, very clumsy, awkward, and sexy as fuck. no one else seems to think so much to your bafflement. still, there’s a certain pride in being the seemingly only one who’s stared at his legs while he’s wearing shorts, smooth and toned. that you’re the only one imagining kissing his nape in class. or even the only one who has his entire face memorized, every cute detail, his expressions.

you probably should be embarrassed a little, but thinking of him fogs your brain up with all kinds of feelings, adoration, protection, cute aggression? your dreams often feature his appearance, where you to get to watch more expressions he could make come to life, waking up with intense morning wood and cumming your brains out thinking of him.

so eventually you decide that you have to just ask him out, jump off the proverbial cliff and see if your dreams soar.

which is how you’re now at his apartment, a bouquet of flowers in hand and nerves flying through you. his aunt greets you at the door when you knock, actually just leaving for a while. after explaining you're a friend of Peter's she lets you stay over, eyebrows raising at the flowers in hand, which makes your face flush.

the apartment falls silent when the door closes, distantly you can hear music playing from Peter's room. you swallow your nerves, taking tentative steps through the apartment as you start running the conversation in your head. honestly you were hoping to talk to him at the door, which would let him shut it in your face. if he wanted. your palms are sweaty around the plastic, and already it's hard breath properly.

you're still deep in thought by the time you reach his door, the music pretty loud behind it, and so you don't think at all when you reach for the door handle, grasp it, and push. seeing the scene inside makes your heart skip several beats, probably the blood rushing to your face and filling your cock out.

he's on his bed, a speaker playing on the nightstand, naked, sweaty, and laying on his back with his knees to his chest. the first thought you manage to have is that he's flexible, as he stares at you with wide eyes and his jaw dropped.

your brain finally processes that a thick dildo is in his ass, as he stutters your name, his hole clenches and shoots out the fake-dick making his eyes roll with a low moan. you get a good view of his gaped hole, filled with lube and clenching around nothing.

you gulp, and he stares at you, before slowly reaching over to his phone to pause the music. now in silence the two of you hear nothing but the other's labored breaths.

"i, uhm," he says, "thought i locked the door."

your eyes finally leave his hole to his red face, as his drop to your dick snaking down your thigh.

"guess not," you hold up the bouquet and give it a shake, "brought you flowers. but uh," you let out a little laugh and close the door behind you, actually locking it, and place the bouquet down on his nearby dresser, "if you want, we can start with my dick instead."

you step closer to the bed, watching him bite his lower lip and stoop his head.

"i was gonna offer it to you later, anyway," you say, running your hand over your bulge, surpressing a shiver of pleasure.

he looks back up at your eyes, shifting over slightly to direct his ass to you, "well, i—i do... think of you... using this." he nudges the dildo with his foot, spreading his legs more as you stand at the edge of his bed.

your eyes sinfully take in everything about his state, his messy hair and cute eyes, flushed cheeks, his abs are surprisingly shreaded, his thighs thick and smooth, his cock hanging uselessly with a bead of precum hanging from it, and the depraved, holy grail, of your nerdy crush, his pussy he fucks dreaming of you.

you nod, taking a long breath through your nose, "i need you to say it, though."

he cringes, his hands clenching on the sheets by his legs, his hole winks at you, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"please, give me, gimme your cock," Peter manages, peaking at you through half closed eyes.

it's music to your ears, and you throw your shirt off, taking hold of both his legs and dragging him forward, more on his back. he gasps and you kiss his ankle, moving forward down his calf and knee, stopping to bite the plump flesh of his thigh. you run your tongue down it, close to his crotch and skip over his cock to leave a hickey on the other.

he whines, his hands in his hair as his breathing picks up. you pull from his thigh and lean down to kiss him for the first time, his lips are smooth and angular. he moans into your mouth and submissively lets your tongue enter, running over his and mixing your spit togther.

you pull back to admire his shiny eyes and lips, "open your mouth," you whisper, low and growly, he does and you let your spit drop into it, he swallows and moans.

"please," he mumbles, "fuck me—fuck me—fuck me—"

you move back down and stick your tongue in his accesable hole, his words cut out with a groan and you see his eyes roll, his cock flinch. his lube tastes like strawberry and you dig your tongue into him, running it over his gummy walls, at a spot you feel his thighs squeeze around your head, and you flick your tongue over that spot again and again.

"there, fuck right there!" he whines, as you attack his prostate.

your nose lays against his balls as you dig your face as far as you can in his ass, getting to your knees to give his back a break as you eat him out. he moans with his mouth open toward the ceiling, all the noises deliciously filling his room. you hope his aunt really won't be back for a while.

you pull your face back as he groans your name, inspecting his gaping pussy now mixed with your saliva in it. you give his hole another kiss, and stick your finger in, playing around with how loose and wet he is.

multiple fingers fit in him easily, and you start pumping them in and out, your knucles almost sliding in with them. he whines high pitched and his foot rests on your shoulder.

"please!" he yells, "breed me, fill me up!"

you find yourself grinning, your cock painfully hard in your pants, but your sadistic side wants to tortue him some more.

you stand up with your hand still in his ass and grab his hair, tugging his head up to capture his lips again. you suck on his tongue drawing it out his mouth, and have your eyes open to watch him.

you slowly push your hand inside and watch with glee as his eyes shoot open, his jaw dropping as a long drawn out moan escapes him. your knuckles breaching inside and your whole fist fitting in his cunt.

"holy shit you're a slut!" you groan, feeling his warmth encasing your fist.

tears fall down his face, his eyes glued to your gaze and his toes curling, "fuuuck, punch my pussy," he cries, "destroy my cunt daddy!"

you chuckle and lick his tears, bite his earlobe, and then stand back a bit to start moving your first. he cries out with every movement, you drag your knuckles past his puffy rim and then back in again, his cock is standing hard and leaking.

"oh my god, holy fuck!" Peter throws his head back, his hand holding your bicep strongly, the other twisting the sheet in his grasp.

he yells your name as you pull out, then in, and slowly push more of your arm inside getting up to your wrist, his foot on your shoulder pushes your arm back.

"too much! too much!"

you quickly but carefully pull your fist out and he lets out a loud groan, you inspect his hole, fucked and puffy, finding no blood, and get back to him, putting your arm around his shoulder.

"are you okay? need to stop?" you ask, carefully gathering him in your arms.

he's breathing hard but shakes his head, blinking his eyes open and, catching your worried expression laughs a little, it makes your heart flutter.

"no, no i'm good just, wow, a little too much," he says, you feel him cuddle closer to your chest, his body shivering.

you nod and place kisses on his forehead, his nose, over his eyelids, he giggles and grabs your chin, moving you to kiss your lips. and pulling back he looks up at you as cute looking as ever.

you feel his hand go to your cock, slowly dragging over the contained inches in your pants. a shiver runs through you, your eyes rolling and then focusing back on him.

"can i," Peter says, a shy smile on his lips, "suck you off for a bit?"

"yeah," you breath.

"and then," he gets closer, touching his nose to your neck, and then getting his lips next to your ear, "in a bit. you get me pregnant with this huge fucking cock, like i've been asking."

your chest fills with excitment, your face trying and failing to hide your emotions, "yes baby."

he pushes you gently to lean back on his headrest, getting on his knees and spreading your legs out. in-between your legs with his back arched, his round butt sticking up in the air, he runs his hands along your thighs and over your bulge and balls, getting his fingers in your belt.

he looks up at you as he unclips it, dragging it out and off, the metal clattering beside his bed.

"i've always wanted to taste you," he says, "mmh, you're so fucking big daddy."

you groan, stretching your arms over the headrest, "get me in your mouth, Pete, please."

he nods, undoing the button and dragging down your zipper, he grabs your pants by the calves and drags them off with a shocking speed. you blink now in your underwear, his eyes are focused on your dick and he licks his lips. you gulp.

he kisses the tip of your cock through your boxer-briefs, placing more kisses down the shaft as he goes and licks the cotton over your balls, each placement of his mouth giving you a small blush of pleasure. a tease of what bliss you know his mouth will be, the back of his throat.

he bites his lip, fingers clasping the waistband of your underwear. he drags it down slowly, and when your member springs up he smiles, getting your underwear down the rest of your legs and tossing them behind him.

his hand grasps your cock, his fingers almost touching around the girth, you feel his hot breath on it as he stares, his eyes dragging up the whole thing like he's memorizing it. then he kisses the head, his eyes meeting yours as he does, flirty and sexy and cute, and you feel all that fog filling your head, wishing your cock would be filling his.

he lays down, his legs kicking behind him and his cute butt on display, he licks the underside of your dick from the base to the tip, moaning as he goes and flicking his tongue around the head. he puts his lips over your tip and starts jacking the rest off, his playful gaze trained on you as your breathing gets harder.

he rotates his mouth letting his drool spill down the sides of your cock. he pulls off with a wet kiss, stooping to lick your balls, he takes one in to suck on while stroking your length, moving his wrist around the end of it.

he picks his head up again, drawing in air while running his tongue over his lips, “your cock is addicting,” he mutters, placing both hands on you and energetically jerking it off.

he smiles with your groan, taking his eyes off the angry head to enjoy your expression. his eyes twinkle with a lust you couldn’t have imagined him having as he slows his movements, holding your cock in front of his head. he slaps your tip on his face, his eyes crossing as he stares at it.

“stop playing with your food,” you tease.

“yes sir,” he smiles.

with a breath he sucks your dick in and slowly pushes his head down, you feel the mind melting bliss of his tongue and mouth, breaching his throat, his saliva coating you, his walls massaging every inch of your cock as he audibly fights through gags.

“careful baby,” you manage through moans.

he squirms a little, his eyes pouting up at you as his nose settles into your pubes, your cock logged inside his throat to the hilt. his hand cradles your ballsack, the other pressing on your thigh for grounding.

you have to throw your head back as he holds himself there, moaning around your length, his tongue wrapping around what doesn’t get in his throat. when he pulls back a thick mess of his spit stays hanging from your cock, soaked in his saliva and your precum.

he gasps for air, but his eyes shine with that beautiful smile, he only takes a break for a moment—throating your cock again with ease, it has you grabbing his hair, brown and fluffy, slightly curly hair you’ve dreamed about, you clutch it to drive your pelvis into his face.

“fuck Peter! so, mh, fucking good.”

your brain is doing that melting thing, your eyes rolling back in your head. when you drop your hips back down he’s fighting for air, flushed face and drooling down his chin. you clean his tears with your thumbs.

“ha, fuck, my face.”

“you want it?”

“yes! i can take it,” he pleads, tapping your cock against his tongue, “be rough.”

“slap my thigh if you need me stop.”

“yes sir.”

you take hold of the sides of his head, he opens his mouth willingly keeping eye contact with you, you time it with him taking a deep breath—pushing his head down as you thrust forward, shoving your whole cock in his throat.

you pick up a fast pace, his hands relaxed on your thighs, as you fuck his mouth you feel your balls slap his chin. his eyes almost shut close, fighting to open and watch your jaw-dropped expression through tears. he takes it so damn well, not a gag coming from his as he breathes through his nose, his throat relaxed to service you.

your abs and thighs start to burn, but the pleasure blocks it out, your tongue hanging out as a wicked grin grows on your face. he keeps his eyes trained on you, drool flowing over the sides of your dick and coating your balls in it, getting on his bedsheets.

you feel your release approaching, moaning loudly, “Pete, i’m close, p-pull off, lemme-“

hearing that he grabs your chin and balls, burying his face into your crotch.

“oh Peter!”

he’s strong as fuck, but lets you push him off your cock, just barley holding back a fountain of cum. he takes scarily stable breaths as you hunch over to keep from cumming. your cock is buzzing with the pleasure he just gave you, harder than you’ve ever been.

“almost,” you say, grabbing his chin, “made me cum a little soon.”

he swallows the excess spit in his mouth, placing a finger lightly on your piss slit, sending a shiver through you.

“i want more than one load though, daddy,” he says, flashing his teeth.

you gulp, staring with a mix of excitement and fear at him, “alright, anything for you, c’mere.”

you drag him up and on your lap, your cock nestling between his butt-cheeks. you hold his waist, the both of you smiling as you lean into a kiss. you feel him push his ass back into your dick, his glute muscles flexing to mush them against your cock. you groan into his mouth, feeling his tongue slide into yours.

he’s slow and sultry as he explores your mouth, his arms around your shoulders, his back arched. he tilts his head to the other side, your tongues moving around the other. he rolls his head back giving you access to his neck, you quickly move to it to place more hickeys without a care. he sighs, caressing your back.

he leans down next to your ear again, “first load goes in my pussy, balls deep.”

you get your mouth on his nipple, suckling it, he moans.

“s-second load, i wanna drink.”

you push his arm up to lick his pit, a small patch of hair there and the smell of his body wash, fruity mixed over the musk of his sweat.

“th… third,” he gasps, you move to meet his gaze again, nodding, “i wan’ you to cover me with, nut on my,” he pushes his pecs together, “lil tits?”

you kiss him again, grabbing the base of your dick and lifting his ass up, lining your tip with his hole.

“and when will you cum?"

he whines and wiggles his butt over your tip.

"maybe a few times, if you're good with me."

you push his ass cheeks down, his hole sliding over your cock wet with lube and spit, you both moan in sync, eyes fighting to stay on each other through the penetration. he sits on your cock fully, jaw dropped gorgeously at how full and stretched you make him feel, you feel his heat encasing your member, his skin is warm on yours, his heart beat on your chest.

"i am good, trust me," you say in a whisper, clutching his torso with both arms.

he nods, eyes rolling as they close and he lifts himself up your length, keeping the end inside, and then dropping down with a flush of his cheeks on your thighs.

you both swear, every nerve in your dick firing on all ends how fucking good his ass feels. his adam apple bobs as he starts riding you, hugging your shoulders, his nails bite into your skin and you keep sucking the skin on his collar bone, planting a possesive pattern to bloom across his chest.

he about sings your name in needy moans, his hole squeezing around you, milking your cock to draw out that orgasm. that cum he needs to feel fill him up, needs to feel hot on his skin. you watch him through every bounce, your eyes taking in every shift of expression and bounce of his pecs, your hands on his waist, his round cheeks bouncing on your lap. you growl and move up to kiss his neck more, he clutches your hair with a hand, moaning throatly.

when he moves up you feel his walls milk your inches, fight to keep you inside, and when drops down it sucks you in, warm and wet and making your whole body buzz.

he groans his head rotating to lay on your shoulder, "every, hng, time it hits my! prostate, you fill me so good sir, so... so fucking good."

you lick up his neck, tasting his sweat, and get your tongue in his mouth again. your hands grab his ass-cheeks and squeeze them, helping him move up and down faster. he groans into you with every landing, and you feel his dick leaving precum over your abs.

"you're perfect," you gasp inbetween kissing, he hides his face in your shoulder, and you start thrusting upward, "so perfect baby, i'm gonna fuck you so good."

he cries out with your thrusts, his hands clenching your shoulders. he throws his head back, loudly moaning your name. you swear and shift him forward, getting him to lay on his side and hook his leg over your shoulder, getting on your knees to keep thrusting.

he grabs hold of the sheets by his head, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, struggling to breath and moan at the same time. you huff, sweat dripping down your back and chest, but force your muscles to keep fucking him. you grasp his stiff cock and begin to stroke him, but he slaps your hand to get it off.

"no just-" he moans, "keep fucking me! wanna cum on your cock, j—just your cock!"

"Peter," you groan, your thrusts make his chest bounce upward, his abs sweaty and nipples perked up.

his cock keeps leaking uselessly, and you grab his other leg to get it on your shoulder, leaning him further on his back into a mating press. his eyes open as you do, teary-eyed and struggling to focus.

"cum in meee," he whines.

you swear, getting your feet on the bed, legs spread for more purchase. driving your cock harshly into his cunt has him moaning so loud the neighbors are probably hearing this, loud slapping noises emit from your hips colliding with his ass.

another few thrusts and your resolve is breaking down, your balls tightening approaching that point, you feel covered in sweat and have the biggest boner of your life.

"i'm close baby," you groan, "you want my nut? you wanna get pregnant?"

"yes!" he squeals, "cum in my pussy, knock me up! make me yours!"

your groans grow louder, your thrusts getting sloppy yet harder.

"i'm cummin' i'm cummin!"

with a final push, his walls squeeze you and you start cumming inside his ass. you press your forehead into his, forcing your eyes open to watch him feel rope after rope creampie him. it lasts for the longest seconds of your life, so much cum it starts spilling out around your cock.

“ha fuuuck i’m cumming! i’m cumming from my pussy daddy!” he screams, his hole clamping onto you, you feel his cum spill out onto his stomach between the two of you.

struggling to get back to earth from your high, you huff, and collecting his legs again in your arms you keep fucking him through his anal orgasm, his hole even more messy and loudly squelching with your load.

"i'mma fuck this load so far inside you, you'll really get pregnant," you growl.

he gasps and moans, nodding dumbly. your cock is overstimulated, your legs shaking with the effort and your core tired from all this movement. but you think of his orders for how many loads he wants and fire starts in your chest, your dick pumping up to go again.

"holy shit, you're so hard again!" he cries, you let his legs go down and he spreads them.

you lay your hand down, use the other to cup the side of his face, wiping more tears with your thumb. you groan, and have to lean back and pull out with a wet sound. he exclaims with your cock leaving, and you slowly stroke yourself to his creampied pussy, letting the sensitivity leave your dick.

he mumbles your name, his eyes blinking open, "keep, fucking me..."

"hold on baby," you breath, "i'm coming back, get on your knees for me, show me that hole.”

he swallows, moving over to get on his knees, he arches his back and lays his chest flat, his knees spread and presenting his fucked ass to you. you swing your dick a bit, getting up on your knees to smack it against his ass earning a cry from him. then you grab his shoulder with a hand and insert your cock back in, his head springs up as you do and he whines.

you huff and grasp both of his shoulders, quickly getting into another rhythm of fucking him hard, trying to aim your cock downwards to really press his prostate. his head bobs with your thrusts, his back covered with sweat, you can't get enough of how his ass bounces with your thrusts. or how sweet his moans are. you really feel on cloud-nine having the boy of your dreams like this, completely and totally.

his body is limp in your arms and you hold him to steady to receive your thrusts, the room smells completely of sex and sweat. you spot the dildo he was using earlier out of the corner of your eyes, and getting a wicked idea grab it by the base. you hold it to the front of his mouth, and without words or hesitation he sucks it in with a moan, eyes closed in bliss. his dildo sinks into his throat and your cock pounds him from behind, you feel his hole clench with the addition of the dildo, his swinging cock flinging cum on your thigh.

you hold the dildo down his throat to the base, holding it there for a moment before he gags and it comes back up wet. you smack his ass and pull out, moving over to his mouth. he looks up at you hungry and expectant, and compliantly you present your cock to him, he grabs it with one hand and quickly begins to deep throat it, straight from his ass. you feel your eyes roll involuntarily, and reach around him to sink his dildo inside of him. his moans vibrating your cock make you think the second load will come quicker.

he holds your thighs face fucking himself on your cock, as you grind and push the dildo in his ass. the view is crazy, his face pushed between your legs, his back and butt below you. his skin glistens, and your roughly hold the dildo with both hands to fuck him, your hips moving into his mouth, solo spit-roasting Peter. you feel a big wave of vibration around your cock, his ass grinding back onto the dildo. you feel that sweet release approaching again, keeping one hand on the dildo to grab his hair.

“ha, your meal is ready, FUCK!”

its beyond static as your second load fills his throat, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm grabs hold of you. he drinks it all, his throat guzzling around your length to swallow the load. you keep swearing loudly and push the end of the dildo further inside him.

as your orgasm ends he pulls off with a gasp, letting you look in his mouth to find it spotless. you swear and groan.

“shit, you’re gonna drive me crazy baby.”

his smiles, and slowly strokes your cock, “heh… i fucking came from that, wow.”

Peter’s expression is still so happy, and sweet, your cock stirs again with the juxtaposition of how sluty he is.

he moves your hand off the dildo to drag it out of him with a low whine, turning over again sluggishly onto his back, picking his legs up.

"o—one more, promise," he says in a low breathy one.

you gulp and stroke yourself to get harder, shuffling forward on tired knees and with a sore dick. but you sink inside his gaping hole, slotting yourself in completely with a sigh, he wraps his legs around your waist and his arms around your shoulder, a dopey grin on his face. you feel your bodies slot together perfectly, his hair is tousled and messy, his skin blemished with hickeys, you move at a gentle pace, thrusting deeply, pressing soft kisses into his cheek and neck. he whispers your name over and over, as if lost in a dream completely of you. you meet his eyes and kiss him deeply, rocking yourself into his body, sleepy but determined to do everything to blow his mind. you kiss down his neck and his chest, placing your hand on him to hold him down as you rise up, gazing at his face. he seems more bashful like this, taking your time to really make love. your head is full of him, everyday maybe, could be like this one—well less rough, even if he is stronger than you thought you want to pamper him, give him princess treatment?

"d... don't stare." he covers his eyes with the back of his hand, lips pursing.

you smile, lean down to kiss his wrist and gently pull them away, "why? you're beautiful."

his eyes pull with tears more emotional than before, he cups your face in his palms, his eyes searching your expression for something.

"you don't think i'm like, gross?" he asks in a whisper.

you shake your head, trying to keep a smile from breaking, "nah, we're perfectly kinky together i'd say."

he laughs, that grin breaking out like the dawn, "i'm tired, s—stroke me?"

you nod and go back to kissing his neck, taking hold of his member with a hand and matching your thrusts as you move your hand over him. you pick up slight speed, angling your hips upward, he moans softly, eyes closed and smiling. his legs are wrapped around you tightly, your core flexing as another release approaches. he gasps and squirms a little, you lift up a bit to watching his abs flex and his cum spurt out onto him, you slow your strokes to milk the last drop. your own release is right behind him, you pull out to jack yourself but Peter takes hold of it with both hands and massages up and down. you moan and roll your head, your eyes landing back on him, taking in the curves of his body, the muscles, his shoulders, his face, that face you've stared at for hours, will stare at for longer. you gasp as your build up climaxes.

"Peter!" you gasp, “i fucking love you,” your cum shoots out over his face and neck, more spilling down his chest.

he keeps moving his hands over your cock, getting all of your cum onto him. you stutter and a shiver runs down your spine, your abused cock leaking all the cum you have left. he drags his hands down your length and lets go at the end, wrapping his arms around you to drag you down for another kiss, light and airy, you both giggle. spent and sweaty and sore everywhere.

“i love you,” he whispers in reply, you hide your face in his shoulder, cuddling together in your mess.

you groan, "we've got to shower."

"mmh," he kisses your temple, "later."

[swan2swan]

Me, watching That Happen: "OH. OH THAT'S BAD. BUT THAT'S REALLY COOL. OH THEY'RE DOING THIS. THIS IS HAPPENING. WHAT A COOL WAY TO VISUALIZE IT."

Me, watching That Happen Again, One Minute Later, But This Time It Looks Silly: "Oh. You messed it up. Guys. You ruined it. It didn't have to be this way."

[unproduciblesmackdown]

blade gunnblade !!!!!!!!

via eliza simpson:

There are no words for this true warrior. They kill me. MMM: went in for a post show hug. Me:"ow!" Asia: "oh sorry, that's my bullet necklace." 😳........ 😍

[oceantornadoo]

inspired by a dramoine fic i read! simon riley x f!reader

it’s the third time today someone has handed you simon’s paperwork and you’re starting to get confused. in fact, there’s the distinct feeling that you’ve missed a memo.

first, it was the visiting captain, so you couldn’t blame him for confusing lieutenants. but then it was johnny turning in his mission report, muttering something about “cannae be late this time if ah give it ye, lass.” which was odd, considering you weren’t his direct report (you were gaz’s). but what really sent you over the edge was getting called into price’s office and being met with a load of folders addressed to one Lt. Ghost (Confidential).

“sir, i’m a bit confused as to why you can’t just give these to him yourself.” price looked up from his desk, eyes flickering from under his boonie hat. “hav’ you seen ‘im today, lieutenant?” you nodded immediately while trying to scoop all of this paperwork (that was not yours!) into your arms. “yessir, i saw him before breakfast and then during training and then…what?” price had silently quirked an eyebrow, his beard echoing the movement. “i haven’t seen ‘im all day, so i figure it’s faster for you to deliver since you’re more well-versed in his movements than i am.” huh. “i’m sure he’s just doing his ghost thing, y’know? slipping into shadows and…”, price patiently gave you an exasperated look, “but i’ll get these to him, sir. see you later!”

the problem was, you knew exactly where simon was. in your office.

his own had an unfortunate ground level window near the track, so he was always complaining about nosy recruits until you offered to share some office space. temporarily, of course. it’s not like you were using all the empty space anyways and it made it much easier to get the opinion of your fellow lieutenant on a report by walking over to his desk, rather than going up and down stairs. that was the second point he made, and who were you to say no?

after pushing open your office door, you beelined for simon’s desk, dumping the stacks of folders on his desk. “wot’s this?” his mask was off so you could see his eyes widen at the mess of papers. “everyone now thinks i’m a drop off box for your paperwork, so i got burdened with all of this when i was doing my rounds.” he nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his tea. “cheers, love.”

“what do you mean, cheers? don’t you think it’s odd for them to give me your paperwork? and why do we even have so much paperwork? i swear im drowning in it this week.” he snorted at your last sentence, opening the first folder in front of him while you rounded your desk, sitting in your comfy chair with a hmpf. “yer out an’ about more than me, tha’s all.” well, that was true. the infamous ghost was not known to be a sociable person on base. “i guess…” you turned to your old radio, passed down by a retired captain, and turned on simon’s favorite classical station.

“ya want mess or the pub tonight, love?” another great thing about being on base with simon - you never had to pay for dinner. “actually, that thai place we like is doing a special tonight.” he gave you a half-smirk, one cheek ticking up. “bloody raccoon. we had thai two nights ago.” you didn’t respond, instead blinking your best impression of puppy dog eyes at him. simon sighed, then shook his head at his desk. “olrigh’. the things i do.” you smiled and winked, dipping your head back down to your desk. “thanks, si.”

-

two weeks later, you were prepping for a duo mission with simon. price had been grilling the two of you for the past three hours, making sure you had everything memorized. satisfied, he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his temples, the feeling of a headache coming on. “one more thing.” both of you snapped your head up at price, desperate to leave and eat. you’d already missed dinner and your stomach was complaining.

“the safe house is pretty small, basically a shack. one bed, no couch. i assumed ‘s fine since y’r datin-“ “‘s fine, captain.” simon cut him off, an out of character move that had you frowning. “it’s fine, cap. not like ive never slept on a floor before.” now price was frowning at what you said. he turned to simon, who shook his head imperceptibly before becoming still again. price’s brow furrowed but he didn’t push further. he got up from his chair, eyes flitting suspiciously between you two. “i’ll see you at 0600.”

“what was that about?” you whispered to simon after as you walked down the hall. “‘s nothin’.” you were missing something but it was so unclear what. “he thinks that we’re datin-“ “said it’s nothin’, sweetheart. he’s an old man. let’s get some food in you, yeah?” you nodded, letting him guide you to the kitchen. price wasn’t that old. and you were not dating simon riley.

-

the mission was beautiful, your best one in years. it was the first duo mission between you and simon, so the nerves of pulling your own weight had settled in hard. thankfully, your skills balanced each other out and you’d gotten the target in record time. now, all you had to do was wait in the safe house for exfil.

“you were so good.” you whispered once he’d locked the door. he only hummed a response, checking exit and entry points while you set up your packs, scrounging up MREs and testing the shack for electricity. price wasn’t kidding - it was practically a studio apartment. one bed, a bathroom and a decrepit stove. the soldier part of you was fine with it, but that small soft part of you ached for the warmth of your apartment. memories of yelling at simon for using all your shampoo even though he didn’t live there, of him running you a bath after a long day of training.

“you were good too, baby.” he snuck up from behind your spot on the floor and lifted you onto the mattress that had definitely seen better days. you hadn’t even checked it for bed bugs yet. “c’mere.” he pulled you into his lap, unbuckling your tac vest as you pulled off your bandana. you tugged off his mask - the hard shell since you were on a mission - and ran your nails through his short haircut. simon started kissing your neck, wet and sloppy like he couldn’t get enough. the unrestrained want he displayed sometimes scared you. the respective pulsing in both your chest and cunt scared you more.

“so are you sleeping on the floor or am i?” he flipped you over, your back flush with the mattress as simon loomed over you. there was still eyeblack around his eyes, caught on his blonde eyelashes as well, and you couldn’t help the hand that reached up to brush some of it away. “y’r funny, sweetheart.” you grinned at that - a real toothy smile. he bent down to kiss you, scarred lips caressing your own. simon bit your lip and you moaned, sliding your legs out from under him to wrap them around his torso. when you tugged him in he went willingly, grinding into your clothed cunt. his tac vest was still on, scraping against your shirt, hardening your nipples.

“keepin’ you in this bed all night.” cold fingers dipped past the waist of your pants. you were already wet, his fingers sliding easily up and down your slit as they warmed up. that’s when you realized he still had his glove on, his movements harsher than normal. wide eyes met his own, and simon stopped so you could make a decision.

it didn’t take much as you dug your heels into his back harder, meeting him in a sloppy kiss as his gloved thumb played with your clit. “fuckin’ made for me.” he whispered, and you chalked it up to dirty talk because obviously, you weren’t together. he just knew exactly what to do, giving your clit the right amount of pressure as his other fingers teased your hole, the stretch burning more than usual. it only took a few flicks and you were off, your orgasm settling through your bones like a warm cup of tea. “jesus, si.” he grinned, his scarred lips pulling up to show a beautiful smile. “know ya like th’ back of my hand, huh?” you shook your head, capturing the idiot in another kiss.

-

after the mission, after debrief and a hot shower, you made your way back to your base office. thankfully, paperwork had only slightly piled up. one envelope stood out though - a thick card-stock with glossy, swooping letters. an invite to london’s military gala, addressed to a Lieutenant & Lieutenant. simon’s name was next to yours, connected by a singular symbol. you turned to him in disbelief. simon had been going through his own backlog, but his head snapped up under the focus of your glare.

“simon, are we…dating?”

-

this was fun!!! check out the fic i linked it was so good and i couldn’t put it down.

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― When Gojo Satoru’s arms are wrapped around your trembling form, when he’s buried so deep you can’t tell where he begins and you end, the world narrows to this- skin against skin, breath mingling in desperate gasps. His hips rolling into you with a desperation that makes your chest ache, each thrust a silent plea to be more than the weapon they made him.

There’s something fragile in the way he holds you, like you might disappear if he lets go even the slightest. Between ragged breaths, he tries to crack jokes, "Guess I really am… hah… Gifted in every way, huh?" But his voice breaks slightly, the joke falling flat as his forehead drops to yours. Those brilliant sky blue eyes, usually hidden behind dark lenses, are completely exposed now and you can see everything he’s been trying to hide.

This is where he becomes human. Not Gojo Satoru the six eyes bearer, not the lonely god on his pedestal- just a man wishing to create something beautiful instead of destroying everything he touches. When he’s moving inside you like this, creating friction and heat and something that feels like salvation… His past, the Gojo legacy, the isolation, the burden of being untouchable… All of it falls away.

"I love you," he whispers against your neck so quietly you almost miss it… The way he say it sounds like an apology, like a promise all at once... His pace becoming more urgent, more sloppy, as if he can fuck away every moment of emptiness that came before you…

Each moan you make, each broken cry of his name, builds something new in the ruins of what his family tried to make him…

As your nails rake down his back he arches into the sting, welcoming the marks that prove this isn't another hollow dream. Inside you, he's molten, complete, every thrust a quiet rebellion against the loneliness that's been his only companion since birth.

And when he finally spills inside you, it's with the desperate hope of planting something beautiful in the ashes of his bloodline. Starting over. Starting clean…

In the quiet of night when everything is said and done, as his cum dribbles out of your well used body, Gojo Satoru holds you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The nursery glows amber in the soft light of a rubber ducky nightlight, casting gentle shadows that dance across pink walls. Gojo Satoru, folded impossibly into his newborn daughter’s crib like the world’s most devoted pretzel. All six foot three of him bent and twisted… One arm was draped protectively over the sleeping infant while the other hung awkwardly out past crib bars. His poor knees were tucked up, long legs hanging over rails at awkward angles that would make anyone else cramp.

But he doesn’t care about the discomfort, how could he when he has his precious angel snuggled up to him?

The gold band on his finger catches the duck's warm light, a simple band that represents everything he never thought he could have. His white hair falling across his forehead as he watches her tiny chest rise and fall, memorizing every detail of her peaceful face.

Down the hall, you’re fast asleep in your shared bed with his son curled against your side, small fist clutching at your nightshirt. Two heartbeats, steady and trusting.

Gojo’s white lashes flutter closed as exhaustion pulls at him, but his mind drifts to that conversation with Suguru all those years ago- that question that used to keep him awake: Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?

For years, he’d never really known how to answer… The question felt like a riddle designed to trap him in endless circles. To remind him he’s built his entire identity around being untouchable, unbeatable, alone at the pinnacle of power…

But now, cramped in this tiny crib with his daughter's tiny heartbeat against his and the memory of your sleep smile when he’d kissed you and his small son goodnight, the answer crystallizes with perfect clarity. He now understands how to answer his old friend’s question.

He’s the strongest because he has something worth being strong for. Not because the world demands it, not because his bloodline cursed him with power- but because this little girl and his photocopy twin -his son- needs their father to come home. Because you need your husband to survive every mission, every fight, every single day…

His daughter sighs in her sleep, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, whispering against her skin, "I'll always come home to you, princess."

For so long, Gojo Satoru carried the heavy curse of loneliness, a weight that seemed unshakable especially after Geto. But now, as his gaze drifts beyond the crib bars to the photography of the family he built, his heart swells with a quiet realization… The curse of loneliness vanished the moment he found you.

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[kifu]

but i

If you had to sing a child to sleep RIGHT NOW what would you sing and it CANT BE a lullaby it has to be a regular song

[ssa-dado]

what if fleabag reader has to get a new vibrator 'cause her old one died on her or she's just getting one for her friend as a gag gift, and she runs into hotch in the process ? also i didn't know you could get them at pharmacies, but i guess that's a more realistic place for hotch to be (old back and everything).

For a Friend

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man and pre-relationship mutual pining Summary: You just wanted a new vibrator. Instead, you bump into Aaron Hotchner at 2 a.m., holding six modes of clitoral suction technology and a G-spot stimulator in a paper bag. Now he’s offering you a ride, a jacket, and possibly his number. You’re doing great. Warnings: Sexual themes & imagery (non-explicit but VERY suggestive), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch* with *pearl clutch pt.2* sex toys, objectification of the Hotchner body, reader calls Hotch out for not having an ass, grief (your last vibrator died) Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: Thanks for the request, dearest!! Sorry it took me forever, I hope you enjoy itttt!!! Special thanks to @hotchology for the free psychological counseling

masterlist(s)

Experts say it’s healthy to walk at least seven minutes a day, so here you are - taking your medically-recommended stroll at 2:06 a.m., in the direction of a 24-hour pharmacy, because you care about your health.

Deeply.

You really care about your health especially now that your vibrator has officially died in your hand right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a perfectly respectable late-night fantasy involving you, a locked door, and the tall, emotionally unavailable federal agent with zero small talk skills you’ve been mentally undressing since the first time you saw him do a butterfly stroke at the Y.

…It’s not like you always picture Aaron Hotchner.

You’re not that far gone.

You do have range.

You’ve gotten off to strangers.

To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.

To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.

You are complex. You contain multitudes.

It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.

He’s easy.

Not easy-easy.

Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.

You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)

You don’t even have to think.

He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.

…And also dripping, practically naked.

All yours, at least visually.

You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.

Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.

Not a lot of meat back there.

Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.

No jiggle. No fluff.

Just… deeply respectable glutes.

Taut. Efficient. Compact.

An ass with more function than fat.

An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.

An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.

Toned, athletic. Not juicy.

You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it.  (Another lie.)

(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)

You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.

…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.

You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.

And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.

You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.

He’s obscene.

You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.

The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.

The mystery.

And yet… is it really?

Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.

Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.

You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.

At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.

You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.

If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.

Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.

Your brain barely breaks a sweat.

Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.

The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.

You make the turn casually.

Like you’re browsing.

Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.

Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.

Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.

Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.

This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.

Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.

No lines. No witnesses.

No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.

Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.

No. Absolutely not.

You’re here because you swore - never again.

Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.

(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)

You’re a modern woman.

Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.

You can vote.

You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)

Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.

And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)

Nothing says freedom like that.

Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.

God bless America.

…Maybe not.

Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.

A voice your brain knows very well.

Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”

(Ew.)

Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.

He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.

(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)

(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)

(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)

(Guess it was just a phase.)

Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.

He’s focused on your face. Just your face.

(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)

(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)

But you don’t buy it.

There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)

You are so incredibly fucked.

Unfortunately, only metaphorically.

Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.

…This feels like a crime.

(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)

Still.

You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.

And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.

Pushes you against the KY shelf.

Pins you with his full body weight.

Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”

Which you clearly don’t.

Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.

“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)

He nods. Polite. Awkward.

…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.

Goddammit, he’s a prude.

One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.

Oh no.

What if this is his first time seeing one up close?

What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?

What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?

(…You wish.)

No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”

But won’t.

And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:

“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)

“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.

“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-

…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.

Ouch.

Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)

Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.

He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.

Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.

Italic Hotchner.

“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”

By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.

But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.

“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”

…Oh. Oh, fuck.

You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.

But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.

He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.

Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”

It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)

“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.

Then turns. To you.

“Is this your fault?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

How adorable.

You wish. God, you wish.

You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.

But no.

“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”

Fucking. Sexually intimate.

Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.

(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)

And so, in doubt? You flee.

A timeless tactic.

You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.

“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-

(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-

You’re outside.

Alive.

Vibrator in a paper bag and…

…It’s pouring.

Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.

Great.

“Miss.”

You physically jolt. Because:

1. That voice.

And

2. Miss?! Hello???

Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”

He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.

It lasts a second.

Feels like a week.

“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”

…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.

How romantic.

“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”

Feminism is a beautiful thing.

Except right now.

Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.

Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.

Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.

He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:

“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”

…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.

(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)

Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”

Too late.

Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.

Not at the acid rain.

Not at the dry-cleaning bill.

Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.

Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.

A white shirt. In the rain.

(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)

(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)

“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.

Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.

He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)

…He even closes the door for you.

There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:

•           It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.

•           It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.

•           There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.

But what really grabs your attention is the seating.

Full black leather.

Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.

Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.

A car designed to be fucked in.

The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.

And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.

Just… starts.

“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.

Fifty percent because you mean it.

Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.

You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.

Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.

“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.

You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.

That’s it. That’s the bar.

And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”

Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.

He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.

You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.

Pathetic.

You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.

Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.

Basically porn.

You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.

Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.

No. It’s the tongue.

The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.

His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You, however, are acutely aware-

Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.

If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-

And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:

“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”

No shit, Sherlock.

If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.

“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”

He’s right, though.

There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.

“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”

You get The Look™.

The full Dad Look™.

Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:

“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”

He looks horrified.

Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.

“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.

“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”

“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.

Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.

Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.

Chivalry.

That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor. Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”

No.

From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.

Not performance. Not politeness.

Just… kindness.

Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.

And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.

You try to create distance. He scoots closer.

Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.

Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.

Kind of romantic.

You could kiss him here.

Right now.

Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.

You could just… do it.

Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.

If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.

Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.

In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.

In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.

Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.

Still, Temptation is real.

Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.

The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.

“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”

“Trip?” you offer.

“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”

“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)

He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”

…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.

“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.

Saved. Almost.

“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”

You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.

He’ll follow you to your door.

To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.

Not for sex. God, no.

Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.

That your bedroom window locks properly.

That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)

He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.

The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.

And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.

The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.

He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.

He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.

The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.

The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”

He’d see you. As you are.

And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.

But not like this.

Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.

And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.

So you smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But doesn’t leave, either.

Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

His business card.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.

You blink at it.

The paper is thick. Embossed.

Feels like you’re holding a warrant.

“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.

(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)

You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”

He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”

You pause.

“It’s-” You tell him your name.

He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.

You might actually pass out.

Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.

You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.

made it still alive didn’t get murdered not even a little bit

He replies almost instantly.

(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): This is a work number. Please be mindful. – A.H.

…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): But I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, miss. – A.H.

You type back:

goodnight... agent??

Three dots appear. Pause. Then-

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): 👍 – A.H.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[ssentimentals]

prompt: this is reader’s first relationship & she’s just a little unsure of herself & how to be in a relationship?

seungcheol + inexperienced!reader

it's not a big deal. thats what you've been trying to tell yourself since seungcheol became your boyfriend. your very first boyfriend in your very first relationship. it's great, amazing and it's not.a.big.deal. if only your mind was so easy to trick.

'baby?' seungcheol calls over and you turn so quickly, you give yourself a whiplash. he raises one eyebrow at you, frozen with a big bowl full of popcorn in his hands. 'is everything okay?'

you gulp. you're doing a horrible job of not showing your insecurities if seungcheol can tell that something is wrong by standing five feet away. 'everything is fine,' you lie and it sounds so fake that you can't stop yourself from grimacing.

that, of course, only worries seungcheol even more. your boyfriend comes over, carefully placing full bowl on the floor before climbing on the sofa next to you. he doesn't get anywhere in your personal space and instead reaches out to take your hands in his. 'what's wrong?' he asks in such an earnest tone that you feel bad.

you almost want to tell the truth. your mouth almost opens, your tongue almost curves and forms the words that haunt your mind. almost. you draw back, swallowing hard. how can you tell the truth to someone like seungcheol? someone so confident and sure in himself, someone for who this relationship is not anything new; how can he understand you? you know that you're overthinking it. so many people told you that it's not a big deal and you agree, but what can you do if your mind always comes up with hundred and one ways to make you unsure in this whole thing? seungcheol's thumbs caress your skin gently and he waits so patiently for your answer that it makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. it also serves a good reminder - this is seungcheol. same seungcheol who held your bag and chaperoned you to every single class. same seungcheol who memorized your food allergies and favorite snacks, always checking labels of everything for any allergens and surprising you with sweets whenever you're least expected them. same seungcheol who took his time to know you, kept respectable distance till you got comfortable, waited for you to develop feelings for him as well. same seungcheol who looked the happiest when you agreed to be his girlfriend. it's the same seungcheol and you breathe out, willing your whole body to release the tension you've been holding.

'it might be a bit stupid, you warn, biting your lower lip.

seungcheol shakes his head. 'it's not, it won't be. share with me, baby. i can help, i promise. and if not then it at least will feel good to get this thing out of your chest.'

you smile. somehow he always knows what to say to make you at ease. 'i'm just worried, i guess.' you let out slowly, being careful with words. seungcheol nods, urging you to continue. 'like- ugh.'

it's unexpectedly hard. how do you tell him that being in relationship for the first time makes you nervous? that even during simple movie night you feel unsure on how to act? that your mind is clouded with 'what should i do' and 'am i suppose to do this' more often than you'd like to admit it? in the end, what ends up coming out of your mouth is: 'you're my first boyfriend and i'm just worried about... this.'

seungcheol waits for a little but when it becomes clear that you're not going to elaborate, he carefully asks: 'i'm not making you uncomfortable, am i?'

you shake your head, gripping his hands. 'no-no, cheollie. you don't.'

'alright,' seungcheol sighs in relief. 'but if i do - please tell me, okay? this is new for me too, i need to know if my actions somehow upset you. it's not going to work without a good communication.'

you blink. this is new for me too leaves you breathless. god. of course it's new for seungcheol too - he never dated you. you are a new person and it's new for him too, he doesn't know everything about you. he is also in this for the first time with you and this realisation makes you want to laugh. 'i had the most ridicilous thoughts,' you confess, chuckling a little. 'like- like how i can be good girlfriend.'

seungcheol looks so confused and baffled that this time you laugh for real, letting your head fall forward on his shoulder. 'are you serious? babe, look at me. c'mon, show me your pretty face.' he makes you look up, cradling your face in his hands. 'are you serious?' when you nod shyly, he groans. 'oh my god. what on earth- baby. i am with you. i am dating you. we are together. i am so happy, why are you even thinking about this?'

you blush under his stare. 'cause you know that this is very new for me, i don't want to fuck up or something like that.'

'just be yourself.' seungcheol says it with so much conviction that you don't doubt his sincerity. 'just be you, i fell for you, i don't need anything else. we will move on your pace, don't worry about it. you can do whatever you want to do, act however you like - just be you.'

it takes a gigantic effort from you to not cry. you hug him tight and seungcheol hugs you even tighter right back, plastering himself all over you and leaving tiny kisses on your shoulder and head. his words fill you with so much warmth and relief, you sag in his arms. 'thank you,' you mumble.

'you don't have to thank me,' seungcheol whispers. 'just be you and you'll be the best girlfriend on this planet.'

it's cheesy and it makes you giggle and feel all of the butterflies in your stomach. you kiss his cheeks, sighing happily. 'okay.'

seungcheol smiles, caressing your back lovingly. he lets you two enjoy this moment, only pulling back when you move. 'now let's go back to our movie night, yeah?'

you nod. 'cuddle?' you ask shyly.

seungcheol's answering grin is blinding. 'of course, princess.'

a/n: is it very obvious that seungcheol is in my top3 of the members to write for? :') hope you enjoyed this one! - nini

my other seventeen works are HERE

[littlemillersbaby]

"well hello"

request: hiiii!! saw ur baker fic & loved it was wondering if you could write teacher!fem!reader? like she’s one of the teachers in Jackson and ofc ellie’s in her class and ellie LOVES HER talks about her nonstop and bothers joel. one day at pick up he finally sees her and he definitely understands what all the hype’s about now. It can lead to smut or not whatever you want I love ur writing <333 word count: 1,3k warnings: +18 minors dni, too lazy to write more but there's smut and language!

it’s just past three, and your classroom still smelled faintly of chalk dust and damp wood. ellie was long gone, already bolted with a bounce in her step and a grin that cracked sideways when you reminded her that her essay on pre-fall governance systems still needed citations. you really liked her. she was smart-mouthed, whip-quick, a little feral in that lovable way if there was one.

you were gathering up worksheets into one neat stack when there’s a knock—barely even that, more like a hesitant tap. you look up, and there he is.

joel miller.

you’ve heard of him in bits and pieces, mostly ellie’s flippant mentions. "my old man," she says, or "joel says if you give me homework on a friday he’ll riot." the usual teenager noise. but you’d pictured someone rough, maybe grizzled, but the real thing? no one warned you about those bedroom eyes.

he’s leaning halfway into your doorframe, one hand braced against it like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come in. you couldn't help but take him in; worn flannel, heavy shoulders. his gaze cuts across the room until it lands on you, then lingers like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“hey,” he says. voice like gravel, but still warm and apologetic. “uh..i’m here to pick up ellie.”

you blink, “oh, she left ten minutes ago. said she was heading home.”

joel blinks right back, slowly this time. you watch his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace of regret. “of course she did.”

“she told me you’d come late,” you add, something about the way he stands there makes you want to offer him anything. a chair, coffee maybe.

he huffs out a breath, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers catching in graying curls. “figures...guess she figured i’d just find my way here anyway.”

“and she was right,” you smile, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, tilting your head. “she’s clever like that.”

his eyes—brown, kind—settle on you again. longer this time. like maybe he’s taking his time to memorize you. your cardigan’s too big, sleeves pushed to your elbows and there’s a bit of pink and orange chalk on your fingers. he sees it all, catalogues it.

“you’re her teacher,” he says, not a question.

you nod, with a small smile. “mhm.. history.”

he nods too, but it’s faint, the air feels weirdly full all of a sudden. he shifts, and you catch the faint creak of leather from his belt. the man is solid. not just physically, though, lord, yeah, that too—but there’s something rooted in him.

“she talks about you,” he says, breaking the silence.“a lot.”

you swallow, “i hope it’s all good things.”

his mouth twitches again, and this time it’s definitely a smile, a crooked one but a smile nonetheless. “she says you’re smart. don’t take her shit. and that you swear sometimes when you’re grading papers.”

you laugh, nodding at the ellie's silliness. “that’s true.”

“she likes you.”

something about the way he says it makes your stomach do a little flip. the way his eyes don’t leave yours. how his voice drops on that last word—like he’s testing the water.

you could say something flirty here..something coy. but instead—

“do you want to get a drink sometime?” you blurt, then immediately feel heat crawl up your neck. “i mean, just, if you’re free..and want to.”

joel doesn’t blink, he just stares for a second at you; you could tell he was wondering if he heard you right.

“yes,” he says, so fast. “yes, i would love to.”

it was now saturday night at 7:00pm, and you were second-guessing all off it, thinking that you should've canceled.

you tell yourself it’s because of the cold—there’s a chill in the air but not threatening enough to cancel. it’s because you haven’t dated since coming to jackson.

but you show up to the bar anyway. it’s small, just off the main road. the smokey firewood smell clings to the ceiling beams, and old pre-fall songs hum low through restaurant speakers. joel was already there when you walked in, sitting at a corner table, hands curled around a glass of brown.

he stands when he sees you. such a gentleman.

“you came,” he says, and he looks so sincere about it your chest hurts.

“of course i did,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

he orders you a drink, and for the first few minutes it’s causal talk: ellie, school, the town, then it starts to slip into something else.

“you always this quiet?” you ask, teasing.

he raises a brow. “you always this bold?”

“bold? please...you should see me on parent-teacher night. i’m a badass.”

he chuckles and it’s soft and full of sweetness. it makes his whole face change. you sip your drink and watch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“what about you?” you ask. “always this broody?”

joel leans back, one arm slung over the back of the booth. “only when i’m tryin’ to impress someone.”

“you think it's working?”

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“yeah,” he says. “think it is.”

later, when the drinks are gone and the once big fire is now burning low, he walks you home. the streets are too quiet while snow comes down in soft flakes. his hand brushes yours once. then again, finally on the third, you just take it.

your fingers tangle easily, like they’ve been doing it forever. at your door, there’s a pause. his breath plumes in the cold. his eyes search yours, asking without words.

you don’t make him ask.

“you want to come in?”

“yeah,” he says again, that same voice, full and sure. “i’d love to.”

the door closes behind him, and it’s like the air shifts with warmth.

neither of you says anything for a second. his eyes are still on you, dark and lustful. you can feel the beat of your heart, too loud in your chest. his fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, but he's too hesitant.

so you take his hand again, lead him inside, past the coat hooks, into the living room. you turn to face him, suddenly unsure. “joel, i—”

he cuts you off by kissing you deeply. you open your mouth under his, and the kiss deepens even more. one of his hands cradles your face, the other grips your waist. he pulls you in as you moan into his mouth.

he groans low. “fuck,” he mutters against your lips. “you feel good.”

you thread your hands into his salt and pepper hair, dragging his mouth back to yours. you break for some air and he chases your mouth, kisses down your jaw, and your throat. his beard scrapes against your skin, making you wetter than before.

“bedroom,” you say.

he lifts his head, eyes blown wide. “you sure?”

“yes,” you breathe. “joel, yes, please.”

you don’t remember the walk to the room. it’s a complete blur, hands under shirts, skin on skin, maybe a bit of grinding.

he undresses you slow, like he’s afraid to rush it. and when he’s finally bare before you—he’s so large, scarred, and beautiful—you pull him down onto the bed.

“look at me,” you say.

he does as he slides into you, slowly and unhurried, one hand pressed to your cheek. the rhythm starts off slow. his breath catching on every thrust as your nails claw at his back. he kisses you and talks you through it. over and over.

“been thinkin’ about you,” he says, voice ragged. “since the first moment..couldn’t stop.”

“me too,” you whisper. “joel—don’t stop..please don’t stop.”

he fucks you so well and lovingly. God, you can't remember the last time you felt so good. and when you both cum, shaking and holding on to each other. you think to yourself, maybe jackson was a good move.

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

[junezsq]

failing potions

harry james potter x fem!reader

summary: when working on an essay might turn into something more

warnings: none! takes places in third year

word count: 1,1k

a/n: i love writing confident harry, we need to see more of him

── ᵎᵎ ✦

the gryffindor common room was busy for a late afternoon, the usual hum of chatter flowing through the room while a small ray of sunlight seeped in from the window. you’d just come from a quick chat with hermione about charms when you remember the essay professor snape had assigned you to write for the next potions class.

deciding you’d have a better chance in a quieter environment you gathered your things—quill, parchment, books—ready to leave for the library. potions was still giving you trouble, and you needed a bit of peace to work through your essay, even if you weren’t entirely sure where to start. slipping through the portrait hole, you were nearly to the stairs when someone stepped into your path.

"sorry," harry’s voice cut through the stillness after almost bumping into you. when he realized it was you the usual curiosity he had towards you bubbled up.

“it’s alright.” you smiled, stepping aside to let him pass, but he didn’t move. instead, he looked at you with a sort of tentative hope, his eyebrows raised in question. "where are you off to?" he asked, almost as if it was a casual thing to ask.

you hesitated for a second. you hadn’t been planning on bumping into anyone, nor letting someone possibly join you, let alone that someone being harry. however, looking at the boy standing in front of you, you realized he looked genuinely interested. besides, maybe he could help you with your essay; you’d been struggling for days now.

"i was about to head to the library,” you sighed. “to work on that potions essay snape assigned us. it’s giving me a headache. i can’t make heads or tails of half the instructions."

"funny, i was going to work on it in the common room.” harry’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “i still haven’t even started it yet, though. do you wanna... work on it together?"

you raised an eyebrow, surprised. harry wasn’t exactly the first person you’d think of when it came to potions. it was one of the few things he never seemed to excel in; almost having blown up his cauldron last week. still, there was something about the way he smiled at you—genuine, warm—that made you hesitate.

you thought for a moment. in truth, you just didn’t want to spend the entire evening buried in your own confusion, and the idea of working alongside someone sounded nice. especially harry, who you’d been getting to know better over the past few weeks, even though potions wasn’t his strong suit.

"i guess it wouldn't hurt," you said with a small, amused smile.

harry grinned back, his usual enthusiasm lighting up his face. "great!" he said, his voice eager, though you knew it wasn’t because he expected to solve your potions problem. no, harry was simply someone who liked helping, and, maybe, you suspected, it was also about sharing something with you. "i’m not brilliant at it either," he added with a sheepish chuckle, "but, well, two heads are better than one, right?"

"definitely," you agreed, though you couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical about how much help harry would be. still, his presence was comforting, and that was enough.

you turned to walk toward the stairs, but stopped to glance back at harry. "let’s not tell hermione, though," you added with a quiet laugh. "she’d have a lot to say about us needing help with potions."

harry’s face lit up with a grin, and for a moment, you thought he might laugh out loud. "agreed," he said, nodding. "she’d probably start writing us notes on the finer details of snape’s instructions. i swear, she’s got the entire textbook memorized."

you both shared a laugh, the conversation flowing easily as you made your way to the library. you could feel the beginnings of something comfortable, something real, forming between you. and as harry walked beside you, his smile never quite fading, you realized his company might make the evening worthwhile.

as you reached the library, madam pince was immediately there, giving both of you a sharp look. "quiet," she muttered, waving a finger at you. "this is a library, not a social club."

you both muttered apologies, and harry shot you a grin, making you suppress a laugh. with madam pince keeping a close eye on the two of you, you quickly made your way deeper into the library, picking a secluded corner near the back shelves. it was quieter here, and it felt more private—perfect for getting some work done.

after having sat down at a small table you spread out your books. harry picked up a thick potions textbook, his brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, and you followed suit; your own potions book open in front of you. the silence between you was comfortable, and as you both tried to piece together the complicated instructions snape had written, you found yourself glancing at harry more than once. he didn’t seem stressed, just casually flipping through the pages, occasionally muttering things under his breath.

"right," harry said after a long pause, "i think i finally understand this bit about the aconite root. snape’s wording is a bit—" he paused, then looked at you, "—confusing, don’t you think?"

you nodded, feeling a sense of relief that harry was just as baffled by snape’s cryptic instructions as you were. "yeah, it’s like he’s trying to make us all fail on purpose."

harry let out a sarcastic chuckle, "wouldn’t surprise me. he’s probably hoping we’ll figure it out on our own, like some sort of secret test."

you smiled at his words, the ease of the moment settling over you. for a split second, you almost forgot about the stress of the essay, of potions, of everything. it was just you and harry, talking and working together in this quiet corner of the library.

then harry suddenly looked up at you, his expression shifting slightly. "you know," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, "i’m glad we’re doing this. i mean, we haven’t really gotten the chance to get to know one another."

you blinked at him, surprised, and a teasing grin formed on your lips, “are you?”

harry shrugged, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. "yeah, well. between everything going on...” he trailed off, but when he seemed to remember he couldn’t tell you more, he lightly shook his head, “i mean, with all the homework we’re getting and all.” he looked at you for a beat, his gaze a little more intense than before. “but this is nice.”

you swallowed, unsure of what to say, and for a moment, you were both caught in a silence that felt different from the usual. the world outside the library seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in this small, intimate space.

"yeah," you said softly with a small smile, the quiet in your voice matching his. "it is."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

SOUNDTRACK // blind, role model

TAGLIST // @callsigncrushx @moonjellyfishie @pussyslayerhd

[imaginespazzi]

Part 14: The End And The Beginning

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 15

Still a flicker of hope that you first gave to me that I wanna keep (please don't leave)

(In which an infrequently-updating writer finally didn't take a month to update)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff and I guess a little bit of Hurt/Comfort

Words: 9.2K

TW: Swearing (and I believe that's it)

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 It's a little past 2 AM but y'all wanted a chapter at an ungodly hour so here it is. It's insane to think that there will only be one more chapter of this fic. In all honestly I did have ways to drag it out for a little longer but ultimately, this felt like the right path to take. I feel like some of this chapter is a little OOC (though my lovely friends have said maybe I'm just being paranoid) but whelp it was for the plot so! Like I said, ungodly hour chapters means barely any editing for now but I will go over and fix things later. In the meantime if y'all wanna point things out in terms of grammar and typos, please feel free. As always, let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see as this story comes to an end. Have a lovely rest of your day (night?) my loves <3

June 2033 

Azzi thinks she might have every detail of her rather uninteresting bedroom ceiling memorized by now. After all -for almost 3 weeks now-  instead of sleeping, all she’s done is stared up at it, her mind wandering off to a thousand places, all plagued with the same face. Azzi hadn’t thought it was possible for her heart to ache as much as it had the morning after the proposal, when the regret had hit and she’d rushed into Paige’s room, only to be told by KK that the older girl was gone. The days following had been torture, like enduring a heart attack over and over again, the pain crescendoing until she’d gone numb from it. 

But last time there had been no false notions, no open-ended goodbyes, just a clean break and somehow that had been easier to live with. These last few days -filled with the unbearable waiting of maybe today she’ll come back to me- have been worse. Perhaps it’s because of the innate hope flickering like a candle within her. And even though the flame of it seems to get smaller and dimmer every time she sees Paige and the older woman still can’t quite make the promise to stay, Azzi knows that until that hope of hers is either completely shattered or fulfilled, there is no moving on from this hurt. 

Sighing to herself, Azzi grabs for her phone. The screen lights up to countless notifications and she bites her lip when she notices the one from Clémence. Dinner had been uncannily awkward last night in a way that it had never been before when the French woman had been a much more frequent presence in her and her daughter’s life. But in between Azzi being completely lost in thoughts of her and Paige’s conversation in the locker room and Stephie somehow managing to find a way to relate every little detail back to Miss Buecks and her face-falling a little every time she did, well it was suffice to say even Clémence’s attempts as making the dinner more cheerful hadn’t been enough to make the evening less of a disaster. Azzi had almost let out a sigh of relief when she’d finally dropped the other woman off at the hotel, trying to not to wince when Clémence had leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. But cleary she hadn’t been inconspicuous enough -and neither had Stephie, who’s voice had been rather devoid of her normal Clémence related cheer when she’d wished the Frenchwoman a goodnight- and the guilt from the way the other woman’s smile had faltered, still lingers in Azzi’s stomach. 

Chewing at her bottom lip, she swipes the text open. It’s a simple “it was good to see you two again.” and perhaps it doesn’t mean much -maybe Azzi’s doing that overthinking thing again- but there’s something about the formality of it, about the full stop at the end of the sentence feels rather definite. Azzi almost feels like she should apologize for something, perhaps for being so aloof last night or maybe even more. She knows that Clémence had wanted something else from her, had patiently waited for her to turn their relationship into something beyond just casual, something Azzi had never been ready to give to her. But it almost feels too late for any of that and so all she says is “it was good to see you too.” and she hopes that Clémence knows that despite everything, she means it. 

Throwing her phone back on the dresser and now feeling perhaps even worse than she had a couple minutes ago, Azzi pulls her blanket above her head, almost pleading with her brain to just shut off. She’s about to give into the impulsive urge to scream into her pillows, when instead her door creaks open and she immediately throws the comforter off of herself, reaching over to turn on her bedside lamp as she sits up straight on her bed. 

Stephie stands in the doorway, a fluffy teddy bear cuddled to her chest as she stares up at Azzi with big doey eyes and the older woman’s heart constricts when she sees the hint of sadness sitting heavily within them. Her little girl had been quiet all day -really since dinner last night. With today being a rare off day, the two of them had spent most of it lounging on the couch watching movies. But Azzi could tell something was off about Stephie. Her daughter, normally ever the commentator, had been dead silent, cuddling into her mother’s side and barely even chuckling at the comedy scenes. Truthfully, Stephie hadn’t been quite the same ever since they’d left Paige’s that morning -and with the amount of nights she’d snuck into Azzi’s room since, her mother had almost been expecting it tonight- but it seemed like something else had shifted last night. 

“C’mere baby girl,” Azzi says softly as she holds her arms open and Stephie dutifully climbs into them, burrowing her head into her mother’s chest, “what’s up?”

“Can’t sleep,” comes the muffled response from her daughter as Azzi gently rubs the little girl’s back, “can I sleep here with you?”

Azzi smiles, pressing a gentle kiss against Stephie’s hair, “of course you can sweetheart,” she whispers, before falling back into her pillows with her daughter still securely wrapped in her arms. 

She continues to brush her hands through Stephie’s hair, listening to the sound of her little girl breathing as she hums a lullaby. 

“Mama,” Stephie says tentatively, after a while. 

“Yeah Stephie-bean?”

“Yes-er-day when we were at dinner-,” the little girl swallows nervously and Azzi’s squeezes her shoulders, hoping it conveys that she’s listening, ready to hear whatever it is that’s been bothering the little girl, “yes-er-day at one of the other tables, I saw- I saw a woman with gold hair and she- she had it in a bun like- like the one Miss Buecks usually has.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, “go on sweetheart.”

“And she- she was-,” Stephie drops her voice down to a whisper, “she was kissing someone who looked a lot like you Mama.”

“Oh,” Azzi manages to get out as she feels her lungs compress. 

“And there was a little girl too and they both gave her lots of kisses too,” Stephie’s voice is small as she says the fact and Azzi has to bite her lips hard to keep in the sob that’s threatening to escape her lips. And she remembers the exact people Stephie’s talking about, remembers the way her heart panged as she’d seen the way three of them -the two women and their little girl- were practically giddy around each other. They’d looked almost like an exact replica of Paige, Azzi and Stephie, not that long ago. Azzi had, had to tear her eyes away from the scene, not wanting to let the tears that were dangerously close to her waterline slip down her cheeks. She hadn’t looked in their direction again. But Azzi hadn’t even imagined that maybe Stephie would’ve noticed that too, that her daughter would’ve felt the sting of the happy picture the same way she had. 

“Oh sweetheart-”

“My friend Anya has a Mama and a Mommy,” Stephie rushes out before Azzi can console her any further, “and my other friend Lena didn’t understand how that was poss-ble cause she has a Mommy and a Daddy like most of my other friends but Anya said it’s poss-ble and that her Mama and Mommy love each other just like Lena’s Mommy and Daddy love each other.”

“Anya’s right,” Azzi says softly, smiling at how simple children make everything sound even though she’s not quite sure where Stephie’s getting at with this story, “I’m sure her Mama and Mommy love each other a lot.”

“Anya says they kiss on the lips- just like- just like the women at the restaurant and like Nana and Pops or like Uncle José and Aunty Tully,” Stephie scrunches her nose as she finally untucks herself from Azzi’s chest, “Anya says that’s what people in love do but I think it’s kinda gross cause kissing on the lips looks kinda yucky.”

Azzi laughs, booping the little girl’s nose, “it does look a little funny.”

“But Anya says her Mommy and Mama do other things too. Like her Mama takes care of her Mommy when she’s sick and when her Mama cries over a movie, her Mommy laughs but then gives her Mama a big hug. And Anya says that sometimes when Anya’s Mama isn’t looking, Anya sees her Mommy looking at her Mama with a big smile,” Stephie stretches out her arms for emphasis as she climbs off of Azzi’s lap to sit on the bed next to her. 

“That sounds sweet,” Azzi says wistfully, still a little confused why she’s being told everything about Anya’s two mothers. 

There’s a moment of silence before Stephie drags in a deep breath as she stares intently at her mother, “I never seen you and Miss Buecks kiss, Mama.”

Her words loom in the air as Azzi’s mouth falls open, everything suddenly beginning to click, “Steph-”

“But when Miss Buecks was sick, I saw you make her soup and make her eat her med-cines even though Miss Buecks said they tasted yucky. And when you cry over Mr. Olaf melting in Frozen, Miss Buecks always says ‘Az you’re so silly, you’ve seen this so many times. How can you still cry at it?’”Stephie recites, doing an almost perfect impression that has Azzi’s letting out something in between a sob and a laugh. 

“But then she gives you a big hug anyways. And Mama,” the little girl continues, “when you’re not looking, I see Miss Buecks looking at you with this big, big, big, smile all the time.” 

“Stephie,” Azzi chokes out, trying to hold herself together. 

Her daughter looks at her with something almost like wonder, “you and Miss Buecks- you were just- you were just like Anya’s Mama and Mommy?”

“Yeah,” Azzi whispers, as she grasps the little girl’s hands in her own, bracing herself for whatever Stephie might say next, “yeah I guess we were.”

But Stephie doesn’t say anything for a while, sitting all quiet and contemplative for a moment until she slowly climbs back into her mother’s arms, resting her head right against Azzi’s chest. 

“Mama,” her voice is small when she finally does speak, “I really miss Miss Buecks.”

Azzi feels her heart constrict, finally losing the battle against her tears as they drip down her cheeks, and she tightens her grip on her daughter, “I know baby. I really miss her too.”

*** 

April 2025

“What are you doing?” panic filters into Azzi’s tone as she watches Paige slowly get down on one knee, her heart pulsating as she slowly begins to understand why her girlfriend had set this whole thing up. Really she should’ve known as soon as KK and Ice had excitedly bound into her room, mischievous knowing smirks on their faces as they’d made her change into something nice before practically dragging her onto the roof. She should’ve known when she’d seen the candles and the pink roses and Paige just a little too dressed up in the midst of it all, that this was more than just one of the older girl’s lavishly planned date nights. 

Paige smiles up at her, either not hearing the distress in the brunette’s voice or perhaps not quite understanding the gravity of it. She reaches for Azzi’s hands, soft fingers entwining with the younger girl’s like their holding onto a lifeline. An unfamiliar sensation builds in Azzi’s stomach, one she doesn’t think she’s ever felt in Paige’s presence before.  

“Paige,” she whispers helplessly. 

“I’ve got you baby,” Paige squeezes her hands gently, mistaking whatever it is that Azzi’s feeling, for simple nerves. 

But it’s not that. Azzi knows this unsettling feeling that’s tornadoing around her isn’t just nerves or butterflies or whatever else it is that one normally feels before a proposal. It’s something much, much worse. Something almost like dread. And Azzi can feel all those suppressed emotions that have been building for the last couple of weeks-the whispers of thoughts that she’d brushed away as nothing serious- suddenly rushing through her body and settling like a large, immovable lump at the back of her throat. 

She remembers the first time she’d felt it, that unfamiliar twist in her stomach. It had been at a press conference after some easily won Big East game with UConn’s Big Three sitting diligently at the media-table. And it had suddenly occurred to Azzi, just as they’d finished their media availability, that she’d been asked exactly one question about her own performance -a respectable 24/4/3 statline- from the pool of reporters. Every other question of the four that had been directed her way, had been about Paige. She’d come to a stop outside the press room, letting herself sit with the thought for a second until her girlfriend -with her bright blue eyes and just-for-Azzi smile- had come bounding up to her. And suddenly, as it always seemed to be when it came to Paige, Azzi couldn’t think about anything else anymore. Not when the blonde was lacing their fingers together and putting her lips dangerously close to her ears, whispering all the sinful things they could get up to that night.

But then it happened again two games later. One question about her own performance followed by a cycle of questions about Paige during a presser where the blonde wasn’t even in attendance. This time Azzi had thought about it a little longer but then she’d chided herself for it, chalking it up to her brain doing that overthinking thing again. It was natural to be asked about teammates, especially superstar, generational, teammates who were likely to go #1 in the upcoming WNBA draft. 

And then it happened again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Until it was the Elite Eight and Azzi found herself, after a 28/5/4 statline and two clutch free throws to win it all, still somehow fielding more questions about Paige -and how the blonde had impacted Azzi’s game and recovery and their relationship as best friends- than about her own performance. 

That’s when she’d finally begun to understand what that twist in her stomach had been. She’d felt sick at the idea that it could be envy -how could she ever be jealous of her Paige’s success- but she’d understood then, almost gawking at the reporter who’d had the audacity to ask her, her fourth Paige-related question that night, that it wasn’t that. Maybe it would’ve been easier if it was. 

It was fear. 

The fear that her own identity in the basketball world was slowly withering away under the weight of her relationship. 

“Hey,” Paige’s voice feels like it’s coming from a distance even though she’s right in front of Azzi and the brunette swallows hard as she tries to pry herself away from her thoughts to focus on her girlfriend. 

“Paige,” she whispers back helplessly, as her eyes begin to water. 

Every time Azzi had imagined Paige proposing -the first time had been when she was 15 and she’d woken up from the dream, almost shaking but still filled with the serene calmness that came from knowing something was inevitable- she had always in fact pictured tears in her own eyes. 

But not like this. 

Because these little droplets cascading down her cheeks that Paige’s fingers diligently reach up to wipe away aren’t the tears of a girl whose dreams to marry her best friend -the love of her life- are coming true. They’re the tears of a girl who’s bracing herself for an inevitable fight when she puts her career before a relationship, when her head wins this fight against her heart. 

Blissfully unaware, Paige continues on, “I’ve um- I’ve thought of this a million times. Actually maybe a billion or a trillion or quadrillion. Point is I’ve been thinking about it pretty much ever since I met you.”

Stop, Azzi thinks but all that comes out is a whimper. 

“So you’d think, considering I’ve thought about it that many times, I’d have an actual speech prepared or something. And I did you know. I uh- I wrote one and then I hated it so I deleted it all and then I wrote another and then I deleted that one too,” Paige laughs and the sound of it, that had once felt like a warm blanket shrouding all of Azzi’s senses, now feels a lot like a wintry chill settling around her body. 

“And what I realized,” there’s moisture pooling in the blonde’s own eyes now, “is that I don’t need a speech. I don’t need hundreds of words. I just need three. I love you,” Paige presses a kiss against Azzi’s knuckles and the other girl shudders, “I love you so fucking much Azzi Fudd. And I’m gonna love you for the rest of my life.”

She lets go of the brunette’s hands to retrieve a black velvet box from her pockets and Azzi bites her lip so hard, the metallic taste of blood overwhelms her taste buds. 

“Azzi Jazlyn Fudd,” Paige says softly, flicking open the box to reveal a heart-cut diamond ring, “will you marry me?”

“No,” it comes out so soft, almost blending with the wind, that for a second even Azzi doubts she’d said it. 

“”What?”

Azzi clears her throat, “no.”

“No?” Paige repeats, blinking up at her with a mixture of confusion and anticipatory dread. 

“No,” Azzi says again, her voice much stronger now as she takes a step back, the tears freely falling from her cheeks. 

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Paige, still on one knee, stumbles a little as she tries to formulate the right words, “you- you don’- no?,” her eyebrows furrow in confusion, “you don’t want to marry me?”

I do, Azzi wants to scream. 

“I can’t,” she says. 

Paige stares up at her, something akin to disbelief etched across her beautiful features, “what does that even fucking mean you can’t?”

“I just-” Azzi struggles against the jumble of thoughts in head as she tries to piece together a coherent sentence, “I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” Paige snarls. 

“Paige-”

“Do not Paige me,” the older girl seethes, her expression darkening, “you better fucking explain yourself.”

“I- I will,” Azzi stutters, trying to make herself small as she wraps her arms around herself, “can you- just,” she eyes Paige, who’s still kneeling one one knee, “can you please- please just stand up.”

Paige flinches, like Azzi has asked her to shoot an arrow into her own soul. And maybe she had. But she does as asked. The blonde’s movements are reluctant, almost like it pains her to stand up and when she does, the distance she puts between her and Azzi can’t be more than a few meters, but it feels like it stretches the length of an ocean. 

“Explain,” Paige says scathingly.

“I just-” Azzi takes in a deep breath, barely able to meet her girlfriend’s eyes as she forces out the next words, “I don’t want to be known as just your wife.”

Paige lets out an expected noise of protest, “you wouldn’t-”

“You don’t know that,” Azzi cuts her off with a pointed look, “because right now- right now sometimes it feels like all I am is just Paige Bueckers’ best friend. It doesn't matter how many points I score or how many defensive moves I make on the court or whatever else I do on the court, somehow it all leads back to you. And it makes me feel-,” she chokes on the next words, the acidity of them leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, “I feel invisible.”

“Azzi-”

The brunette holds up a hand, needing to finish what she’s saying before she fully succumbs to her emotions, “sometimes- sometimes my entire career at UConn so far feels like- like it’s just an extension of yours. Paige you- you get to be Paige. Just Paige. The superstar. You get to go to entire pressers not having to answer a single question about me or our friendship. You get to have entire articles written about you that have just a throwaway line about me and not have half of it be dedicated to how I’m the driving force behind your success. And that’s how it should be because- because as much as we rely on each other, your success is still yours. But sometimes it feels like mine isn’t mine.”

“I’m sor-”

“No!” Azzi cuts Paige off loudly when the older girl tries to apologize, guilt flashing in her eyes, “it’s not your fault Paige. You- you’re my biggest cheerleader. You always have been. But I just- I need to have my own identity. And that’s already been so hard being known as just your best friend. It’s only going to get worse if I-” she stops, unable to say the rest but even unspoken, it lingers in the air. 

If I become your fiancé. 

 “I need next year to be different,” Azzi says instead, “I need it to be my year. Just mine. Just for once, I just want to be known as Azzi.”

“It will be,” there’s a newfound conviction replacing the previous anger in the blonde’s voice as she takes a deliberate step towards Azzi. Bolstered when the other girl doesn’t instinctively move back, she takes another one and then another and another, until the seemingly never-ending distance between them disappears. 

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Paige says softly as she gently holds one of Azzi’s hands between her own, “and I hate- I hate that you feel this way. But it’ll be different next year when we’re not on the same team anymore right? Out of sight out of mind type shit? They won’t- they won’t ask you about me or make everything you do about me anymore-”

“You don’t know that-”

The older girl continues like she didn’t hear the interruption, “I just- I just don’t understand why you can be known as my girlfriend but not my-” she swallows, “but not my wife? Because Az- when we come out-,” the girl in questions flinches and Paige pauses, her expression falters at the movement. 

A deadly silence clouds the air and it’s April in Connecticut and the spring breeze is just the right temperature. But as Paige slowly lets go of her hands, realization dawning on her face, Azzi thinks she’s never felt colder in her life. 

“You- you don’t-” the blonde looks at her almost accusingly as she takes a step back, “you don’t want to come out?”

“Paige-”

“Answer the fucking question Azzi.”

Azzi casts her eyes downwards, digging her fingers as deeply into her palms as possible, “no, no I don’t.”

“I see,” Paige says slowly, her tone dangerously low, “and how long have you felt this way Az?”

“I-I-” the brunette stutters nervously, “I made- I made the decision after the Elite Eight.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Paige says calmly. 

“I don’t- I don’t understand-”

“How long Azzi?” the blonde sneers, “how long have you had all the fucking doubts about your identity and our relationship? How long have you been questioning everything about us? How long have you bee going through this whole fucking decision-making process about our future?”

“That’s not-”

“Oh no,” Paige interrupts harshly, “that’s exactly it. That’s exactly what you were doing. So tell me. How. Long?”

Azzi gulps nervously, “since the game at home versus Nova.”

Paige blinks at her, “three months? Three fucking months Azzi. You’ve been feeling this way for three months and you didn’t once think that maybe you should tell me? That maybe we should talk about it?”

“I didn’t know,” Azzi says helplessly, “I didn’t even understand it myself Paige. I didn’t know what I was feeling. I didn’t even know there was something to discuss.”

“But clearly you did figure it out, Azzi. Because I know you and I know you didn’t make this decision without figuring your emotions out, so why not come to me then? Why not tell me as soon as possible. God fucking hell Azzi- when even were you gonna tell me?” Paige yells, all pretence of calm gone from her body, “if I- if tonight hadn’t happened, when would you have even told me?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything and Paige shakes her head, starting to pace around the rooftop. 

“We had a plan Azzi. We’ve had a plan for four years. As soon as one or both of us was out of UConn, that was it. No more hiding. No more secrets. Just you and and me and we weren’t gonna care who the fuck knew about it,” the blonde pinches the bridge of her nose, “and you’re telling me that for three month- three fucking months- you’ve been questioning that whole fucking plan while I remained oblivious as fuck? Azzi all I’ve done these past few months is tell you how fucking excited I was about being able to call you my girl in front ov everyone. How excited I was to hold you in public and for us to just be us without giving a fuck who could see. And you just,” Paige’s voice breaks, “you let me. You let me do all of that- feel all of that. You let me be hopeful for a future that you weren’t even sure you could see for us.”

Azzi looks away, that rock of guilt settled in her stomach starting to get heavier and heavier with each word that leaves Paige’s mouth, “I’m just asking for a little bit more time Paige.”

“And what happens if that time doesn’t go the way you want it to Az?” Paige asks sadly, “what if we survive the next year but you decide that you can’t be attached to me to start your W career?”

“That won’t happen-”

“You don’t know that,” a sardonic smile appears on the blonde’s face, “I can’t keep hiding forever Azzi. All I’ve done is love you in secret. I can’t- I don’t- I won’t do that forever.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Azzi bursts out, her defensiveness suddenly translating into a burst of anger, “I am asking you for a little bit of time. Not even a whole year anymore. Just a little bit of time for me to establish my own identity and honestly Paige if you can’t even give me that- if you can’t understand why I need this time- then maybe-” she stops herself, eyes widening at the words -word she’d never even expected herself to think of - that are now sitting, like burning embers, on the tip of her tongue. 

“Then maybe what?” Paige asks slowly, but there’s an almost resigned tinge to her tone that suggests she already knows. 

“No,” Azzi shakes her head, turning away from the older girl’s piercing gaze. She looks down at the ground, still covered in rose petals. The wax of the glittering candles littered between them has melted onto them, causing their pink hue to turn into a darker shade of red. And it’s like there’s blood scattered on the remnants of Paige’s perfect proposal. 

“Say it Azzi-”

“No-”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to,” Azzi covers her ears and she wishes this were a nightmare, wishes she could open her eyes and find herself waking up in Paige’s arms. Warm and soft and loved. 

“Godfuckingdammit Azzi,” Paige yells, “just say it. If I can’t understand why you need time then maybe we should what?” she repeats, waiting for the brunette to finish her own sentence. 

Azzi whimpers, continuing to shake her head, “Paige please.”

“Just. Fucking. Say. It.”

The younger girl swallows, “then maybe we should end it.”

Another beat of silence. 

“Maybe we should,” Paige’s voice is gravelly and Azzi doesn’t dare turn around, not ready to see the heartbroken expression -or worse, perhaps the nonchalant one- on the older girl’s face, “if after all we’ve been through, if it’s so easy for you to think those words. Then maybe we should- maybe we should end it.”

And Azzi thinks for the rest of her life she will wonder what she should have done next. If she should’ve said something or if -when she hears those retreating footsteps- if she should’ve run after her. She thinks, for the rest of her life, she will look back on this moment and dissect every single second of it, that she will wish for the time machine to go back and stop herself from doing and saying so many of the things she had on the rooftop that night. 

But Paige walks away. 

And Azzi doesn’t do anything to stop her. 

It isn’t until the morning after -when her head does finally catch up to her heart and all she can feel is that unfamiliar sting of regret- and she races into the apartment downstairs and Ice’s expression is filled with sadness and KK’s glare is filled with accusation, that she finds out just how far Paige had gone away from her and Azzi realizes, she’s just a little too late. 

*** 

June 2033 

There’s a redhead and a brunette, holding hands and chatting quietly as they wait outside the school. The two women are clearly entrenched in their own world -sharing those warm gazes and bright smiles that Azzi’s just a little too familiar with- blissfully unaware that they are currently being stared at. Actually, perhaps glared at is a more accurate statement because there’s a clear tinge of envy running down Azzi’s spine as her eyes remain laser-focused on the scene in front of her. She hadn’t meant to be doing this of course -nobody really plans to come to pick up their daughter from school and somehow end up stink-eying said daughter’s friends parents for being too in love. But as fate would have it, somehow from where she’s parked, Azzi has a perfect view of Anya, infamous Mommy and Mama. 

They’re sickeningly cute.

And Azzi fucking hates them.  

It’s unfair of her to feel this way; she knows that. But watching them lead the life she’d always imagined for herself, is more difficult now than it ever has been when Azzi had seen them before in passing. Back then, it was just a dull ache of something she craved but knew she’d turned away herself. But now- now she’s had a taste of that life; had gotten to live it out -even if just for a second- with the girl she’d always dreamed of living it with. Until one night and a series of revelations had snatched it all away, and now Azzi’s left with nothing but the bitter feeling of waiting to see if she’ll get that back forever or if it had really only ever been meant to be a fleeting moment in her life. 

A sigh of longing escapes her as she watches Anya go rushing into her mothers’ arms, the two of them catching her in perfect sync. She has the resentful urge to scoff at the scene. It’s all so goddamn dramatic for three people who see each other every day. Except Azzi’s mind is filled with memories that are almost exact replicas of the scene in front of her; just with different faces. 

“Hi Mama,” it isn’t until the backdoor opens and Stephie’s voice fills the car that Azzi finally tears her eyes away from Anya’s family. 

“Hey baby,” she choruses back, turning around in her seat to make sure her daughter is buckling herself in correctly, “how was your day?”

“It was okay,” Stephie shrugs and Azzi feels her heart plummet at how nonchalant the little girl sounds. She misses the sound of her daughter ranting about just how booooring school is, and thinks she wouldn’t even try to reprimand her if Stephie deemed school useless like she used to. Azzi just wants her ball of sunshine, talks-a-mile-per-minute child back because this meek, quiet little girl in the back feels like a shell of who Stephie used to be. 

“You excited for Mama’s game tonight?” Azzi presses as she starts to back out of the parking lot, almost relieved when it seems to cause Stephie to sit up a little straighter. 

“You’re- you’re playing the Liberty right?” the little girl asks quietly, “that’s- that’s where Miss Buecks wanna go? New York?”

Azzi freezes at the question, trying to keep her hands steady on the wheel as she hums in agreement. 

“They’re a good team right? Lots of champ-ships and stuff?” Stephie continues. 

“Yeah,” Azzi clears her throat, “it’s uh- it’s definitely gonna be a good game.”

“Anya’s Grammy and Grandpa live in New York. Not the city-city but close to it,” Stephie says after a moment, “Anya says New York’s really nice. She’s been there lots and lots of times to see her Grammy and Grandpa forChristmas. And she- she says when she went, it snowed lots and lots.”

Despite herself Azzi smiles as her mind drifts to memories of cold Northeast winters. For the most part, they had been filled with dreary chills and darky rainy days. But then amidst it all, there had been a couple rare days of snow and when she’d been at UConn, her teammates had taken full advantage. And just like most of her memories of those years, Paige is front and center of these ones too. The blonde had never been nearly as enamored with the snow as Azzi was, and she definitely wasn’t enamored by it at seven in the morning when the brunette would wake her up squealing that it had in fact snowed and the world around them was white. Despite her grumbling, Paige had still let Azzi bundle the both of them up in winter clothes and drag her outside. And her faux irritated expression hds slowly morphed into one of admiration as she’d flicked the snow off the younger girl’s eyelashes, pulling her closer by her scarf because Azzi I’m so cold, you have to kiss me to keep me warm baby. 

“We don’t get snow here,” Stephie says thoughtfully, unaware of the path down memory lane her mother had just taken. 

“No, no we don’t,” Azzi says, almost wistfully. 

“It would- it would be nice to live somewhere with lots of snow,” Stephie ponders out loud and her mother’s eyes widen as she starts to understand where this is going, “like- like in New York.”

“We could- we could have snowball fight and make snowmen like Mr. Olaf and snow angels and everything else you do in snow,” the little girl’s voice gets increasingly more and more high-pitched in excitement, “it would be so fun Mama.”

“Steph-”

“And Anya said that- that- that- she’d even visit me like she visits her Grammy and Grandpa. She promised Mama, she promised she’d come see me if I lived in New York-”

“Honey no,” Azzi cuts her daughter off heartbrokenly, “we are not going to live in New York. 

“But Mama, Miss Buecks-”

“Stephie stop-”

“No Mama listen,” Stephie protests indignantly, “Mama what if- what if Miss Buecks really needs to be in New York. What if it’s impo-tant. And that’s- that’s why she can’t stay here. With us. Not cause she doesn’t want to but cause she can’t. But Mama just because Miss Buecks can’t say doesn’t mean we can’t go Mama.”

“Sweetheart-”

“And you- you just said the Liberty is a good team and you’re such a good player Mama. I think you’d be good on their team too. And I- I really, really like the Valk-ries and I would really miss Aunty J and Aunty Tessie and Aunty Joy but if you- if you and Miss Buecks played for the Liberty- I know I’d like them too. And I’m sure Nana and Pops and Uncle Jon and Uncle Jose and Aunty Tully would come visit us lots and lots and I wouldn’t even miss them lots cause they’d visit so much. I just know it. It could work Mama- I know it could.”

“Stephanie,” Azzi's voice is louder than she’d meant it to be as she pulls onto their street, “sweetheart, we are not moving to New York.”

“But Mama-” the little girl whines. 

“No Stephie. That’s just-” Azzi swallows the sob stuck in her throat, “that’s now how the world works.”

“But what if I want it to work that way?” Stephie asks softly with all the innocence of a five-year old as she meets her mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“Oh baby,” Azzi’s so caught up in her daughter’s earnest wishful thinking that she doesn’t even notice there’s another oh-so-familiar car parked in her driveway until she almost crashes into it. 

“That’s Miss Buecks car,” Stephie whispers softly, craning her neck to get a better view. Her eyes widen in tandem with her mother’s as they both catch sight of the same thing at the same time. 

It’s Paige. 

Paige, whose eyes are sunken in and red-rimmed. Paige, whose hair is tossed back into a messy bun -looking like it’s been in that same one for days- with little loose strands falling out of it. Paige, whose entire body is hunched over as she sits on their front porch, holding a grey hoodie close to her chest. Paige, whose hands are fidgeting with themselves because she can never sit still, especially when she’s nervous. Paige, who looks up just as Azzi parks her car -whose staring at the both of them like they’re still her everything. Paige, who despite it all, still looks like the most beautiful woman in the world. 

Paige, who’s here. 

It’s Stephie who recovers from the shock of seeing Paige first, the click of her seatbelt being unclasped pulling Azzi out of her own trance. The little girl pushes her door open, getting out of her car seat with quickness as she stumbles out of the car. 

“Careful sweetheart,” Azzi calls out immediately but Stephie isn't listening, already rushing up the pathway as Paige -her expression hopeful- stands up at the sight of the child running towards. 

It isn’t until Stephie hesitates, coming to a halt just a couple of meters away from Paige, that Azzi draws in a deep breath and gets out of the car herself. Unlike her daughter, her steps are much slower, her movement hesitant and guarded. She knows this is it; knows that this is when all that waiting she’s done in the past few weeks will finally be over, that Paige is either here to fulfill a dream or to start a nightmare. 

Azzi walks up the pathway until she’s right behind Stephie, one of her hands instinctively reaching out to hold her daughter’s shoulder, conveying two messages. One to Stephie, a promise that no matter what happens now, she’ll still always have Azzi. The other to Paige is an unspoken message from a protective mother, silently begging her that if she is here to break their hearts, to break Stephie’s gently. 

“Hi,” Paige’s voice is croaky when she speaks, her eyes flickering nervously between the mother and daughter in front of her. 

Azzi clears her throat, willing herself to reply, “hey,” she pauses, continuing only when the older woman keeps her own mouth shut, shuffling her feet nervously, “do you- do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” Paige says, her cheeks reddening at how quickly the word leaves her mouth and that almost makes Azzi smile. 

She nods at the older woman, her hand travelling from Stephie’s shoulder to instead hold her hand as they walk up the steps together. Azzi’s shoulder brushes against Paige’s as she moves past the blonde to open her door and electricity courses through her veins. From the way Paige gasps, the brunette is sure she must’ve felt it too. It crackles in the air as Azzi unlocks the door, her brain feeling foggy at the mere feeling of having Paige so close after so long. 

The three of them walk quietly towards the living room, Stephie’s hands still clasped in Azzi’s and Paige following closely behind them. The little girl’s grip is tight and despite how young she is, Azzi knows just how perceptive Stephie is. She’s just as aware of this moment as the adults are, realizes it just as much as they do, that they’ve reached a crossroad and the path they take -a path determined by whatever Paige chooses- will shape their future together or apart. 

“I um- I- well- the thing is- I-,” Paige breaks the silence first, stuttering over her words before letting out a soft sigh She closes her eyes for a second and when she opens them, there are little droplets of water on the edges of her eyelashes. 

“I really missed you guys,” she confesses in a whisper, her voice breaking throughout. 

There’s a second of silence as her words linger in the air and Azzi feels Stephie’s hand slip away from her own and the little girl almost stumbles over her own feet as she races towards Paige, the older woman’s arms immediately opening to catch her and as she kneels down to pull Stephie into her her chest. It’s like the blonde’s confession had broken a dam, and the water that came rushing through it, had washed away the last little bit of pretence of nonchalance that Stephie had been holding onto. 

For the last few weeks, every time Azzi’s little girl had seen Paige, be it when she accompanied her mother to a practice or when she was on the sidelines at a game, Stephie had ignored the blonde, maintaining the same angry façade as the one she’d had the morning after that night. But Azzi had seen that resolve weaken over time; had seen Stephie’s eyes linger just a little bit longer on Miss Buecks with that familiar look of yearning. And Azzi had known that resolve was almost completely gone, in the car, when Stephie had all but begged her to consider moving to New York if that was the only way they were going to be able to keep Paige in their lives. 

She feels her own set of tears prickling in her eyes as she takes in the scene in front of her. Stephie’s face is pressed into Paige’s neck, the blonde has one arm wrapped around the little girl’s waist and the other other gently brushing through her hair. Their grip on each other is tight with barely any space for air between them, tears freely streaming down both of their faces. 

“I missed you too Miss Buecks,” Stephie sobs and Azzi notices the way Paige’s hold on her tightens at the familiar nickname, “missed you so much.”

“Me too Stephie-bean,” Paige affirms as she coaxes the little girl’s face out of her neck, cupping it in her hands, “I’m so sorry sweetheart. So, so, sorry. I missed you so, so, so, so much,” she says, punctuating each word with a kiss to Stephie’s face in between. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie looks down nervously, her fingers playing with the collar of Paige’s t-shirt, “can me and Mama come to New York with you?”

“Stephie!” Azzi exclaims as Paige’s eyes widen. 

“Wh-what?” the blonde asks softly as she searches the little girl’s face in confusion.

“I don’t want you to go,” Stephie says quietly, “but if you have to- then can we come with you?”

“Oh sweetheart,” there’s disbelief in Paige’s tone, something almost akin to awe as she tilts Stephie’s chin to make the little girl look back at her. 

“My friend Anya says New York’s nice,” Stephie rambles, repeating what she’d been telling her mother in the car, “and-and-and she says there’s lots and lots of snow and I told Mama that I think it will be nice to live in lots and lots of snow. Mama hasn’t said yest,” the little girl briefly looks back at Azzi with a sheepish look on her face before turning back to Paige, “but I know- I know we could cov-ince her because Miss Buecks, Mama’s missed you so, so, so much too.”

“Has she?” Paige asks, her eyes flickering to Azzi who’s trying desperately to keep her face neutral as she keeps her own gaze firmly fixated on a picture of her daughter on top of the mantle. 

“She has,” Stephie confirms, before using a finger against the older woman’s cheek to get her to return her attention back to her, “so can we come with you? Please.”

Paige slowly tucks a strand of hair behind the child’s ears as she shakes her head, “no.”

“N-no?” Stephie’s bottom lip trembles at the rejection, “why not? Why can’t we go to New York with you?”

“Because nobody’s going to New York, Stephie-bean,” Paige says firmly and Azzi’s eyes shoot towards the blonde, her lips parting slightly as she processes the meaning behind her words, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. 

“Nobody?” Stephie repeats as a question, her little voice filled with hope. 

Instead of answering, Paige grabs the grey hoodie she’d brought with her that had fallen to the ground. She gently un-scrunches it, holding out the sleeve of it for Stephie to look at. Azzi cranes her head curiously to get a better look of it, squinting her eyes when she notices something written in washed-out black ink. 

“You probably don’t remember this because you were a lot littler when it happened,” there’s a teasing smile of Paige’s face as she uses the incorrect word, “but the first time you ever spoke to me properly, you told me, that your Mama says that one day, you’re gonna be an even better basketball player than she is.”

Stephie beams, “Mama says I’m gonna be the best in the world today.”

Paige chuckles, “I believe it and I believed it then too. That’s why,” she points down at the hoodie, her fingers brushing over the material so delicately, like it’s one of her most treasured possessions, “that’s why I had you sign my hoodie.”

“You asked for my auto-graph?” Stephie’s eyes glint and perhaps she doesn’t quite remember what Paige is talking about exactly, but Azzi can tell that it’s stirred up recollections of something. 

“Yeah- yeah I did. And you said, ‘silly Miss Buecks, I’m not famous’ and I said, ‘but if you’re as good at basketball as you say you are, then one day, you will be. Just like me and your Mama.’ And I meant it. You’re gonna be so- so great one day sweetheart. I know you are,” Paige says with conviction as her thumbs lightly caressing Stephie’s cheeks, “and I- I wanna be right here every step of the way, I wanna be right here to watch you grow up and become the great player -the great woman- that you’re destined to be.”

“You mean it?” Stephie asks, her eyes shining with a fresh new set of tears.

Paige nods, delicately wiping her thumbs under the little girl’s lower eyelid, “I do. I wanna be here, with you and- and your Mama,” she raises her head toward Azzi, mustering a watery smile, “I want to stay. Forever. If you’ll have me.”

Azzi lets out a staggered breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as her eyes remain locked with Paige’s. And suddenly, after eight years spent feeling unfulfilled -eight years spent with this constant sense of being incomplete-, hearing Paige finally say she wants to stay forever, feels a little bit like as if that missing part of Azzi has finally returned back to where it rightfully belongs. 

A loud squeal echoes throughout the living room as Stephie leaps back into Paige’s arms, a large smile stretching the length of her whole face as she buries her face back into the crevice between the blonde’s shoulder and her neck. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” the little girl chirps excitedly, “of course we’ll have you. Of course, of course, of course,” Stephie says in delight before she turns herself slightly in Paige’s grasp, arms still around the other woman’s neck as she looks imploringly at Azzi, “right Mama?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything, pursing her lips as she tears her gaze away from the two people in front of her. 

“Mama?” Stephie presses. 

“Give me a second Stephie-bean,” Paige whispers to the little girl, bumping her head against her temple. 

From the corner of her eyes, Azzi watches as the blonde disentangles herself from Stephie, before slowly getting to her feet and walking towards the younger woman. 

“Az-”

“It’s been almost three weeks-”

“It’s been two weeks, six days, five hours and around fourteen minutes,” Paige shrugs, a hint of a smile playing on her face, “give or take a few minutes.

Azzi continues to look away from her, trying to keep her face devoid of emotion, “still took you a really long time to decide you were gonna stay.”

“Well I’m an idiot,” Paige says matter-of-factly and Stephie snickers behind her, “you know me Az. Sometimes these things- they take me a little while to understand.”

“I told you we wouldn’t wait forever,” Azzi says softly. 

“I didn’t make you wait forever,” Paige reaches out to gently grab her chin between her thumb and index, turning the brunette’s face towards her, “just needed a little bit of time.”

“You didn’t give me time,” Azzi accuses and the blonde flinches. 

“I know. I- I should’ve. Should’ve don’t a lot of things differently when it comes to us but I didn’t and I- I can’t change that but Azzi, I promise, I promise I’ll do everything right this time,” keeping one hand cupped around Azzi’s cheek, Paige uses the other to guide one of the brunette’s hands to rest against her chest, “I swear.”

Azzi swallows, feeling the quick rhythm of Paige’s heartbeat under her fingertips, “how do I know you won’t run away again?”

“Because I trust you,” the blonde whispers, “I trust you to stay and I trust you not to break my heart again. And that- that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared anymore- cause I am. Not a lot but definitely still a little bit. But someone once told me that, trusting is really scary but that maybe- maybe it would be a lot less scary, if we did together.”

“They sound like a really smart person,” Azzi bites her lip, “you should probably listen to them more often.”

Paige chuckles, “well if uh- if they give me the chance, I think I’d listen to them for the rest of my life.”

Azzi shudders and she doesn’t know if it’s from the earnestness of the words spoken or the strength of the emotions in the blonde’s gaze that’s still completely transfixed on her. 

“What about New York?” she asks finally. 

“I called the whole thing off,” Paige states nonchalantly, “I had Talia call Jonathan Kolb last night and I explained everything to Ohemaa this morning. Everyone’s on the same page. There is no deal anymore.”

“You-” Azzi gapes at the girl in front of her, “you- you already called the whole thing off?”

“I did,” Paige confirms, not a hint of regret in her voice, “I don’t need an escape plan.”

“You called it off before even talking to me?” Azzi asks, knitting her eyebrows together, “you didn’t even know how this was gonna go.”

“I already told you. I trust you,” Paige says simply, “I believe in us Az and I really hope you still believe in us too.”

The words are barely out of Paige’s mouth before Azzi’s crashing into her, the weight of her body sending the blonde staggering back a few steps before her hands steadily secure themselves around the younger woman’s waist. A slightly surprised gasp escapes Paige until the sound of it is stolen by Azzi pressing her lips against the older woman’s. Despite her initial surprise, Paige kisses Azzi back with equal fervor, both of them pouring the myriad of suppressed emotions between them the last few weeks into it. And it feels like a cliché, like coming home. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Paige breaks away first, eyes widening as she slowly turns around to look at Stephie who’s practically vibrating with happiness as she watches the two of them, “Stephie-”

“She already knows,” Azzi says with a slight grin, shaking her head fondly at just how joyful her little girl looks. 

 “You told her?” Paige looks between the mother and daughter. 

Stephie smirks triumphantly, “I figured it out myself Miss Buecks.”

“Of course you did smarty pants,” Paige smiles at the little girl but Azzi knows her well enough -is still so in tune with every little bit of Paige despite the time apart- to see the small hint of disappointment behind it. 

“I would’ve told her myself if she hadn’t,” Azzi says quietly and Paige turns back around to face her. 

“What?”

“I love you,” Azzi says and she swears no three words have ever sounded as right on her lips, as those three do, “I love you,” she repeats again and she can feel Paige’s hands shaking as they instinctively tighten their grip on her waist, “I love you so much Paige Madison Bueckers and I want everybody to know it. Stephie, our families, our friends, our teammates, the whole world. I love you and I never wanna hide that. I want everybody to know that you’re mine and I’m yours. Forever.”

A strangled sob escapes Paige’s mouth as she presses her forehead against Azzi’s, “I love you too. I love you, so, so, so much. I’ve loved you since the beginning and I’m gonna love you till the very end. Forever.”

Their lips meet in a searing kiss and it’s unclear if they’re both crying more or giggling more, as they hold each other as tightly as possible. And this isn’t their first kiss, far from it- far closer to being their millionth or so- but still it feels like a fresh new start, a brand new love story but with that same old special, all-consuming, forevermore love that has always connected them to each other. The one that had never gone away, no matter how long they’d been apart. 

“Ahem, ahem,” an exaggerated cough breaks them apart and the two of them turn their heads at the same time to see Stephie looking dramatically at them, her hands on her hips. 

  “So, Mama loves Miss Buecks and Miss Buecks loves Mama. What about Stephie?” she pouts, exaggeratedly stomping her foot. 

Paige and Azzi both laugh, removing themselves from each other just enough to crouch down and open their arms out for Stephie, beckoning for her to join their embrace. The little girl’s attempt at a sour expression is immediately replaced by a cheerful grin as she runs into their arms, tiny hands somehow managing to wrap around both of their necks. 

“You know we love you the most Stephie,” Paige whispers into the little girl’s hair, who lets out a content sigh as she burrows herself further into the two women’s arms. 

Azzi hums in agreement, closing her eyes as she leans her head against her daughter’s, feeling Paige’s fingers intertwine with her behind Stephie’s back. And then it’s quiet for a while, nothing but the sound of the three of them breathing and their hearts beating together in sync. Azzi feels at peace, her mind completely calm, no longer overthinking anything. 

Because now she finally has everything. 

Paige, Stephie, and the promise of a world the three of them can build together, it’s everything. 

[benispunk]

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

[yearsbecomingcool]

bury me at makeout point | jason hochberg

donate to gaza here | masterlist

pairing | jason hochberg x f!reader

synopsis | after sticking up for jason you learn he's never been to makeout point, you won't let it stay that way.

warnings | some minor spoilers from the movie that are just dialogue spoilers!!, minor physical violence, making out, bullying, sexual references, tooth rotting fluff, jason is an adorable loser and we love him for it.

word count | 5.1k

a/n | if you are able to make it out to the theater to see hell of a summer please go see it!! it's so funny and such a good time, it leans more on comedy than horror and could've definitely gotten a pg-13 rating if it wasn't for all the swearing. think of it like gateway horror! it's such a fun time, especially with some friends. please let this fic influence you to go see it, there's some really cute stuff in it with jason and everyone gives amazing performances. fred and billy are standouts in the film and i really hope i portrayed their characters well in this!! these next few months are probably going to be filled with hell of a summer fics from me because i have more planned for jason and some for bobby as well!!

taglist | @kawaii1kitten @samslvrgirl @circuslxcysplace @spookyscarydemonbabe @slaytheusurper @orangecheeks00 @boo8008

“Seriously? Another fight with Demi? You’re a grown adult and you can’t stay out of conflicts for five minutes?” John rants at you from across his desk. You sit in the chair across from him, feeling like a child sent to the principal's office. It’s no surprise to anybody that you and Demi had another fight; what was a surprise was the fact that you had gotten in her face and pushed her hard enough to knock her on her ass. 

“It was stupid of you to escalate it like that, you do realize she could get the police involved, right? You could lose your job for this,” Kathy says, sitting next to John with her arms crossed in disappointment.

You sigh and shake your head, “Listen, I know I shouldn’t have gotten physical with her but she was being, excuse my language, a fucking cunt. The way she talks about the other counselors and about the campers is bullshit. The shit she was saying about Jason was unacceptable, she should feel lucky I didn’t slap the shit out of her instead.” 

John and Kathy sigh, looking at one another before looking back at you. “We know that she isn’t exactly the nicest person all the time but you cannot get violent with her. We’re gonna talk to her too but we’re gonna have to punish you. You’re on dish duty by yourself for the rest of the week.”

You sit there slack jawed, “By myself? Jesus Christ, just fire me instead…”

Kathy snorts and shakes her head, “We could’ve done worse, just take your punishment and don’t get into a fight with her again. We really don’t wanna have to fire you.”

You groan, “Fine I’ll take it off property next time…” You get up from the chair and head out of the office to go to the mess hall where everyone else is eating breakfast.

You feel grateful they didn’t just fire you or do something like make you clean the bathroom with just a toothbrush. You push open the doors of the mess hall, heading to the empty line to grab food. “Hey! I grabbed your breakfast for you already,” Jason calls from his table. He’s sat with Claire, Shannon, Bobby, and Chris. You head over to the table, sliding into the seat next to him.

“Thanks, Jason.” He slides the tray over to you. He’s memorized your breakfast order already.

“So, how’d it go with John and Kathy?” Asks Claire, taking a sip of her orange juice.

“Better than I thought actually, I’m on dish duty by myself for the rest of the week. I mean it’s still not great but it’s way better than like getting fired I guess…”

“Wow, maybe you really are their favorite.” Claire laughs.

“Bullshit, we all know it’s Jason.”

He turns to look over at the two of you, “Hm? What about me?”

You take a bite of your toast, “You’re John and Kathy’s favorite.”

He blushes, smiling shyly. “Oh, I don’t know about that…I wouldn’t say-”

“I would. Claire, what about you, do you think Jason’s their favorite?”

She smiles and nods, “Definitely.”

Jason rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to defend himself but you grab an apple slice off his place and shove it in his mouth. “Shut up and take the compliment.” He chews obediently. 

Bobby leans over from across the table, Chris and Shannon deep in a conversation of their own. “So, what did you and Demi fight over this time? Trying to decide who gets me?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

You roll your eyes, “Bobby I can promise no one in camp is fighting over you. Unless they’re fighting over who gets to kick your ass first.”

He glares, “Uh you don’t know that.”

“I do. I promise.”

“But seriously, what was that fight about? It had to have been pretty serious for you to have to knock her on her ass like that.” 

You sigh, trying to decide the best way to explain things. “Well, Demi was talking shit about someone who didn’t deserve it so I had to put her in her place.” 

He chuckles, Claire and Jason leaning in to listen to the conversation. “What’d she say that was so bad? Did she say something about me, did you defend my honor?”

“When have you ever had honor?” You roll your eyes.

“Just tell us what she said that set you off like that, c’mon don’t leave us waiting!”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, you know if you told them everything Jason would get his feelings hurt. “She said something shitty about Jason. It’s not important.”

Before anyone else can ask more questions to bell rings signaling that breakfast is over. “Looks like I’ve got shit to do, I’ll see y’all later.” You head towards the kitchen, dumping the rest of your breakfast in the trash. There’s already a stack of trays and plates waiting for your attention. You groan at the sight, grabbing an apron off the hook along with a pair of gloves. The rest of the counselors round up their campers, Kathy taking care of yours till you’re done with the dishes. You lean back against the counter and watch as everyone piles up their plates and trays as they leave for the day's activities. Jason’s last out of the mess hall, he looks over at you with a pity smile and a wave. “See you later, yeah?” He calls as he exits the mess hall.

“Don’t get your hopes up Hochberg, I might just drown myself in the sink and put myself out of my misery!” You yell back, watching with a smirk. His cargo shorts do nothing for his ass but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable to watch him walk away. 

He peeks his head back in, “Don’t, please! You can’t leave me with Bobby all summer!”

“You’ll live!” You playfully blow him a kiss before he heads back outside, you can’t see it from where you stand but his cheeks turn red from your gesture. 

You turn back with a sigh to face the massive pile of dishes everyone has left for you, you’re gonna be here awhile. You grab the old radio from the storage closet and turn it to a pop station to try and make things a little more bearable. You hum along to the music as you start to clean, starting with the trays first since they’re the easiest and least messy. You find yourself falling into a rhythm, now caught up in your work as you hum along with the music. You’re so caught up with it that you don’t even notice Jason slipping back into the kitchen to join you. After hearing that you’d stood up for him he couldn’t help but feel like he owed you some help as a thank you. 

He slips into the mess hall, hearing the radio playing from the kitchen. You’re busy and focused on your work, it makes him happy to see that you aren’t completely miserable. He sneaks his way behind you, quickly grabbing your waist. You jump about a foot in the air and scream like you’re being murdered. Jason backs away and starts to laugh until it hurts, tears streaming down his face as you try to compose yourself. You back yourself against the sink, gripping the counter behind you as you watch him laugh. 

“Is it really that funny Jason? Really?” You ask in annoyance, narrowing your eyes at him.

He slaps his knee cartoonishly, “It’s a knee slapper!”

You quickly reconsider your friendship with him. You’re convinced that the universe makes him do something cringe every ten seconds to balance out how hot he is. “You’re the worst.”

He smiles playfully, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I think I might be the best actually, I came to help you after all…buuuutttt if I’m the worst I could always just go find something else to do…” He threatens jokingly.

You spring forward and grab his wrist, “Please stay…if I can only listen to pop music all day I might go insane, a familiar face would be nice even if it comes with corny jokes.”

“You love my jokes, you always laugh.”

You roll your eyes and don’t even bother to bite back your smile, “I do…”

“Mhm, you know you do…I’ll be nice and give you some more help. I heard you stuck up for me and that’s why you’re stuck doing this, is that true?” He asks as he grabs some gloves and an apron, suiting up to help you tackle the seemingly endless pile of dishes.

You turn back to the sink, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, uh, you don’t owe me for it or anything. I just wasn’t gonna let her talk about you like that.” You pick up a nearby dish and continue with your work.

He slides up next to you, reaching over you to grab a plate. His arm grazes your chest and your breath hitches, you feel your cheeks heat up as he pulls the plate back over to him. “Did Demi really say something bad about me? I thought we were friends…she was probably just kidding!” Jason has always been naive, bless his heart. That poor boy would apologize to the pole he ran into.

You remember arriving at camp at the beginning of the summer and seeing Demi with her nice car stocked full of her suitcases and watching in anger as she let Jason carry them all to her cabin by himself. You’d grabbed a few from the car so that it wouldn’t all be left up to him. You’d followed him to her cabin, watching as he stumbled bringing them in.

“Can you be careful with those…” Demi snarks, rolling her eyes as she scrolled on her phone. 

“Sorry, Demi!” Jason laughs as he tries to set her things down gently.

You shot her a glare and rolled the remaining suitcases in a bit too rough, she looked up from her phone to return your glare. “Oops…” You deadpan, staring her down. Jason remains oblivious to the tension, leaning up against the doorway.

“Well uh…see ya…” She says dismissively, waving her hand at him to make him leave.

“Yeah, it’s great to see you too!” Jason smiles, a bit out of breath. “It’s just so good to be back.”

Demi ignores his existence but he doesn’t take the hint. “You know what they always say! You can’t spell Pineway without eway.”

Demi finally looks up from her phone, giving Jason a confused look. “What?”

Jason continues on with his joke, “Because I can’t stay eway from this place!”

Demi looks annoyed by his mere existence but shoots him a pity smile, “Okay cool.”

You take that as your cue to save that sweet boy from anymore embarrassment, you turn back around with a smile. “You wanna help me and Claire get settled, we’ve got that cabin with the difficult door handle.”

He looks at you like a puppy looks at a new toy, if he had a tail it’d be wagging. “Of course, uh, Demi don’t forget I’m cooking lunch in a bit! I can make a mean burger!”

Demi nods and you drag Jason out of the cabin by his wrist, muttering under your breath about what a bitch she is. Jason is off in his own world telling you how excited he is to be back.

“I don’t think she was kidding this time, J. She didn’t seem like it at least…I mean I wouldn’t get in her face and push her like that over a little joke, I was ready to really kick her ass…”

He turns to look at you in shock, reaching down to grab your wrist. “It was that serious, I mean I’d heard you gotten physical but I didn’t know…what did she say?”

You sigh, “You really don’t wanna know, it’s for the best if I don’t tell you.”

His expression hardens, “I do want to know. I deserve to know if it was about me.”

“Jason seriously it was-”

His grip on your wrist tightens unconsciously, “Please, I’m an adult I can handle it.”

“Fine…” you sigh, “I’ll tell you.”

You were coming out of your shared cabin with Claire, the morning sun shining down on the camp. It was early, too early, the dew was still fresh. You were dressed in a green tank top, a flowy linen button down thrown over top, and a pair of denim shorts that hit a bit above your knee. You make your way to the rec room hoping to watch an old movie before everyone else wakes up and claims the tv. You pull open the wooden door, the hinges creaking loudly. As you walk inside you see Demi sitting on the couch, an old teen magazine in hand. The tv is off so you take your chance to use it, going over to the stack of vhs’s, sorting through the available films. You mentally curse Kathy and John for only keeping a supply of family friendly films, the best you can get out of the stack is Poltergeist. You thank the ratings board for not introducing the pg-13 rating until two years later, giving you a loop hole into having an actual horror film to watch at camp. You take it out of the case and pop it into the vcr. You grab the remote and plop down onto the couch and sit down next to Demi. She glances over at you in disgust and scoots away. “Sorry, you worried you’re gonna catch something?”

“I don’t know what weirdo disease you carry around from hanging out with Hochberg,” she retorts.

Your brows furrow in anger and annoyance, “What the fuck? It’s six in the morning, it’s too early for you to be an asshole like that!”

She rolls her eyes, not looking up from the magazine. “I don’t get why you hang out with him, you’re like actually pretty y’know. He’s such a fucking loser, what do you see in him?”

You turn to face her wearing an angry expression. “He’s not a loser, he’s sweet and he actually gives a fuck about his job. He’s nice to everyone, even you, and god knows you don’t deserve his kindness.”

She laughs, “More like oblivious. You could punch him in the face and he’d take it as something sweet.”

She’s not wrong but she doesn’t get to say that about him. “Yeah, he can be a little oblivious, sure. But at least he’s kind, at least he’s always positive. Do you know how much the kids look up to him? They love him.”

“Yeah, they’re the only ones…” She scoffs.

You clench your fists, “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

She tilts her head, finally looking up from her magazine. “Oh honey, you don’t know? Jason has zero game, like none at all. It’s sad honestly, he’s probably gonna be alone forever. It’s pathetic. You know makeout point?”

You nod in response, confused about where this is going.

“He’s never been. I heard he doesn’t even know it exists. He’s gone to this camp since he was a kid and he’s never been anyone's camp crush, never even gotten a pity kiss at makeout point. He’s nothing but a fucking loser, he’s gonna be alone forever.” 

Sadness fills your chest, bubbling up to your throat. You imagine teenage Jason being left out by all the others, people whispering behind his back, girls asking him out as a joke. It breaks your heart into a million pieces. “And that’s funny to you?” Your voice shakes.

“It’s hilarious. He doesn’t even know how much of a loser he is. He’s a clumsy dorky loser, you know it’s true. He’s twenty fucking four and he still goes to summer camp,” she replies ruthlessly.

You jump to your feet in anger, “As a counselor.”

She stands in response, “Does it matter? He’s still trying to rehash his glory days that weren’t even glorious, he’s pathetic. You need to hang out with someone better like Ari, Bobby and Chris aren’t doing you many favors either.” 

You get in her face, anger fueling your every move. “Fuck you and your superficial bullshit, Demi. I don’t care what you say, I’ll never see him as pathetic.”

She laughs in your face, “Yeah, well maybe you can take him up to makeout point and be his first kiss. He’d probably cum in his cargo shorts,” she snorts. 

You don’t know what comes over you but you shove her back hard. She hits the ground, the breath getting knocked out of her from the force. She gasps and the door slams open, Kathy walking in angrily. She looks down at Demi on the floor and then back up to you. “Wait outside, now!” She yells. You sigh knowing you’re about to get yelled at, walking out the door. You fight the urge to spit at Demi as you walk past. Kathy helps her up and onto the couch and Demi starts to tearfully give her side of the story. You can hear her playing it up for Kathy and you clench your fists again. Your fingernails leave deep indents in your palm as you angrily grind your nails into your delicate flesh.

You think back to Jason, you’ve been shamelessly crushing on him ever since you met last summer. Last summer he was cleanly shaved, his wavy hair a bit shorter than it is now. You remember how he greeted you with a toothy grin and a dorky pun, offering to help you with your bags and walk you to your cabin as he introduced himself to you. You were new to the area and decided to take the summer job as a way to make some friends, he made you feel so welcomed that you became friends immediately. You resented the way the other counselors spoke to him, you and Claire were really the only ones who were kind to him. It never bothered him, he was kind to everyone and strode past the rude remarks almost as if he didn’t hear them. You admired him for it and also pitied him, you knew he deserved better treatment and you had no problem making that known to everyone else. Every time he looks at you it sets your body ablaze, every time he touches you it feels impossible to do anything but lean into it. You’re whipped and you’re not ashamed to say it.

When Demi finishes giving her sob story Kathy grabs you by the arm and leads you to the office, a few campers and nosy counselors who are already up peek out of their cabin windows, already gossiping about what trouble you could’ve gotten into.

“She…she said all that?” Sadness washes over his face, he looks down at the floor as his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. He lets go of your wrist, his hands falling to his sides in defeat. No one had ever said anything like that to his face, Demi technically hadn’t but somehow hearing it from you made it hurt worse.

“Jason,” you reach over and grab his hand, grasping it tightly in embrace. “I don’t care that you haven’t been to makeout point. It’s a dumb little makeout spot with a cheesy name, it means nothing.”

He takes a breath, “It does to everyone else. I mean, she’s right I didn’t know it existed until me and Claire went on a hike. She told me she recognized a tree, I made fun of her for it, and then she said she recognized it because it was makeout point. I felt so stupid…all these years, over a decade and I didn’t know it existed…I mean, maybe Demi’s right, maybe I am pathetic…”

You pull him into you, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you. “Fuck that and fuck her. She’s an uptight little bitch with a Tik Tok career she can’t even get off the ground, what does she know?”

“She knows where makeout point is apparently…”

You roll your eyes, “Fuck makeout point. It doesn’t matter, Jason. I don’t care that no one ever took you, well no I care a little, it breaks my heart that no one ever took you. You’ve had to deal with bullying for decades at this shit hole and that makes me so mad.” You start to tear up and try to blink it away, “Do you know how great you are? I was so worried when I got here last year that I wouldn’t make any friends and there you were with that adorable smile to greet me. You were so nice, so welcoming. God I thought it might’ve been an act at first but you never stopped being kind, not even to those assholes who made fun of you to your face and said even worse things behind your back. You’re not pathetic, you’re not a loser, you’re so kind and funny. I love your dorky little jokes, I love how I can’t fight off my smile when you hit me with a pun. You’re like the embodiment of sunshine and nothing Demi ever says is gonna change my mind about that, okay?”

He stands there in silence taking it all in, your grip on his face has him unable to look away from you. He watches the tears rolling down your cheeks after your passionate speech. “You really think that about me?”

You nod, letting go of his chin and wiping away your tears. “Yeah, I do. I regret not saying it sooner because I feel like all you ever hear is this vitriolic shit from everyone else and-”

He interrupts you, “Can I take you to makeout point?”

Now it’s your turn to be shocked, you stumble over your words as your body heats up, “What?”

“I wanna take you to makeout point…if you’d like that…” He says shyly.

You couldn’t fight off your smile if you tried, “I would like that…what about my punishment though, John and Kathy are gonna flip their shit if I don’t get this done before lunch.”

“Well it’s a good thing you have an assistant, huh?” He smirks, picking up the plate he’d been cleaning before.

You smile, “I couldn’t ask for anyone better…”

The work goes by quickly with Jason by your side, the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm. You listen to him tell stories from past years at camp and occasionally sing and dance along to the songs on the radio. Jason’s dorky dance moves make you laugh harder than you thought you would today. He always has a way of making things better.

Finally you’re putting away the last dish when Jason comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you against his chest and settles his head on your shoulder. “You ready to go to makeout point with me?” He teases, his breath feels warm on your neck. You wish you could kiss him right here right now but you’ll let him have his fantasy.

“Mhm, you have me all excited. I feel like a teenager sneaking off at a party,” you laugh. Jason reaches around you and takes the plate from your hands, setting it on the pile for you. 

He turns you around, untying your apron for you. He pulls it off your body, removing your gloves next before throwing away the gloves and rehanging the apron. “Let’s get going before Kathy and John realize where we’ve gone.” 

You smile and take his hand, letting him lead you out the door. “Do you remember where it is?”

He moves like he’s on a mission, “Mhm, it’s not hard to find now that I know where to look. I know these woods like the back of my hand.”

“I like a man who knows his way around,” you tease.

“You must be obsessed with me then,” he laughs.

He leads you through the woods with ease, pointing out some pretty spots until you make your way to makeout point. It’s a small area off in the trees, a boulder sits as coverage for couples. You let him lead you behind the boulder, sitting next to him on the ground, your knees touching. “So this is it, huh?” He says, looking around the area. “Not that impressive.”

You chuckle, “I don’t think many people come here for the scenery.”

He cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy, “Oh really? Mind educating me on why they come here?” You watch as he smirks, feeling pretty proud of his line.

You stare at him wide eyed, your mouth agape. “Jason Hochberg, did you just flirt with me?”

His cheeks turn pink, “I…um, did you not like-”

You grab his chin and turn his face towards you, leaning over quickly and cutting him off with a kiss. Every ounce of restraint you’ve had this summer melts away as your lips melt against his. He’s slow to kiss you back, taking his sweet time to register what’s happening. You can tell he’s inexperienced and out of practice but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. He pulls away after awhile, resting his forehead against yours with a smile. “So you liked it?”

“Of course I liked it, you fucking dork.” You peck his lips playfully.

“You think you would’ve brought me here if we’d gone to camp together?” He asks. He pulls away from you and leans against the rock, spreading his legs.

You take that as a signal to slot yourself between his legs, leaning back into his chest, “Of course I would’ve. I bet you would’ve been all nervous and red, adorable…”

“I’ve gotten better at hiding my nervousness,” he mumbles. He wraps an arm around your chest, holding you against him. He leans his head forward and rests his chin on your shoulder. “I wanna kiss you again.”

You turn back around, sitting on your knees as you face him. “So kiss me then.”

He cups your face in his hands, taking a minute to admire your features, “You’re so pretty.”

Before you can try to respond he kisses you, he clearly took notes from the first kiss, it’s sweet. He kisses you like you’re his first love, and maybe you are. It doesn’t take long for you to deepen the kiss, your hand moving to his hip to push him back against the rock. Your other hand going up to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to you. He whines softly into your mouth and you run your tongue across his lower lip. He parts his lips, letting your tongue slip in. He’s never kissed like this before as he struggles to keep up, what he lacks in experience he makes up for in passion. You tug softly at his hair and smirk into the kiss at how he whimpers. His hands go to your hips, pulling you against him. You’re just about to roll your hips against his when you hear footsteps. You pull away from Jason with wide eyes, “Someone’s coming.” Now you really feel like a teenager sneaking around.

You and Jason work quickly to adjust each other's appearances to look more presentable. The sound of two voices becomes more and more audible.

“C’mon Mike this is the only chance we’ll get, I have to get back to my campers in like 30 minutes.” It’s Demi. You look at Jason with a smirk and he’s starting to crack a smile. 

“You wanna fuck with her?” You ask, leaning back in.

He nods and pulls you back in for another kiss, this time it’s more passionate and desperate. His fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, pulling you in closer against him. You tangle your fingers back in his hair, pulling harder to get him to make the sounds you love oh so much. He whines pathetically against your lips and you slip your tongue back in his mouth. His hips involuntarily buck up against yours and now it’s your turn to whine. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire. You almost forget what the plan was until you hear a loud gasp from behind you.

“Oh my god…” Demi exclaims from behind you.

You pull away from Jason, fingers still tangled in his hair as you turn to face her. “Sorry Demi, it’s occupied right now…” You tease.

“Why the hell aren’t you still doing dishes? Did you skip out to come out here with him?”

You smile up at her, “He helped me finish early actually…” Jason snorts at your innuendo. 

She groans in annoyance and frustration, gripping Mike's hand. “Whatever, it’s contaminated now. We’ll just use the rec room…” She starts walking off, pulling Mike along with her. She makes sure to shoot you a glare before disappearing into the woods.

You look back at Jason and burst into laughter, falling into him as you do. Once you compose yourself you lay back against his chest once again, draping his arm over your chest and playing with the bracelets on his wrist. “She’s such a bitch…” you mumble.

“I wouldn’t say that. She just…doesn’t like us…”

You can’t help but smile as he continues to try and see the positive in her. “You’re too good for Pineway, I’m packing you up in my suitcase and taking you home with me.”

He looks down at you with a smile, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Promise.”

“Pinky promise,” you giggle, linking your pinky with his.

“We should probably head back before John and Kathy get suspicious…”

You groan, holding his arm tight against you. “Do we have to? I think I have some more makeouts left.”

He chuckles, “We’ll sneak off again later, I won’t leave you high and dry.”

“Good boy…” You mumble, going to stand. He sits there with pink cheeks as you turn back around and offer your hand to help him up. He slings his arm around your waist as you start to walk back to camp. “So Hochberg, what's your review of makeout point now that you’ve gone?”

“Hm…I think I see the appeal now. I think we’re going to spend a lot of our free time here.”

You cock your eyebrow at him, “Oh are we now?”

“Mhm, I just decided that for us,” Jason retorts, pecking your cheek again.

“For once I won’t argue.”

Jason decides to bold and slip his hand into your back pocket. He leans into you, whispering in your ear, “Good girl.”

[gr4cier4cie]

♡ breaking point (lucky number nine) ♡

or: you're young. smart. spunky. fresh blood on the track. scarily, devastatingly fast. you grew up idolizing lewis, but now? you're racing him. taking risks he used to take. doing things he used to do. pole position might be yours now, but it won't always be. fem!rookie!reader x lewis hamilton pt 2

warnings: oh man this age gap is me appeasing me (reader is ~23, lewis is 41), slight sexual undertones, a lil angst, i do not know when this idea came into my mind but suddenly it was there and it would not leave i needed to write this before i lost my shit

♡

press conferences were always the same.

blinding lights. cameras trained on the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the the commanding, deep-set brown of his eyes. the color of the earth, his father liked to chuckle. it is where we begin, and where we will end. lewis had done this dance a thousand times before. (maybe more. he'd stopped counting somewhere between his fourth and fifth championship.) the routine was damn-near muscle memory. deflect, smile, rinse, repeat. deflect, smile, rinse, repeat.

"ladies and gentlemen," fred's voice cut through the rampant cacophony of whispers. "ferrari is proud to announce..."

lewis tuned his team principal out. focused instead on the way you - you, with ferrari-red painted across your chest like a second skin, you, trained for the camera, for the voices, for the endless void that formula one tended to become- drummed your fingers restlessly against the wooden surface of the podium. once. twice. three times. (nervous tell, that. he wondered what other secrets lingered beneath the pristine surface of your skin. untouched. pure. young.)

the questions were bullets. loaded guns. "first female driver-" "time at the f1 academy-" "are you prepared for the-" "working with lewis hamilton-"

your eyes landing on him like a physical blow. recognition flickered across your features, electricity sparkling in the depths of your irises. (oh, you'd studied him, hadn't you? watched his races. memorized his race radios. you probably knew his lap times better than he did.) lewis watched your throat work as you swallowed. your fingers had stilled. good.

"thank you," you spoke into the microphone, rendering the room silent, if only momentarily. you kept your tone controlled. stable. so much different from how he'd been back in the day. "and to blanket your questions, i know what everyone's thinking. i admit i'm young. i admit i'm inexperienced compared to other drivers on the grid. i admit i'm female." your laughter was tight. "a shocker, i know."

lewis felt something in his chest tighten. sear.

"but with all due respect," you continued, "i didn't come here to make history as formula one's first female driver, because that history has already been made. i came here to win." your eyes found his again. held. burned.

"oh, and about working with lewis hamilton?" a pause. practiced, deliberate. (he wondered how many times you'd rehearsed this in the mirror.) "well. i grew up watching him break records. guess it's my turn, now."

the room erupted as lewis uncrossed his arms. you'd done it, hadn't you? fred had no idea what he'd done by bringing you here. putting you in that goddamn red suit. giving you that seat. making you his teammate. it was akin to striking a match in a garage full of gasoline.

fred was saying something. questions, protocol, new team dynamics. lewis found himself unable to focus, not with the way you kept glancing at him in your periphery, a sharp thing that seemed to search under his skin for acid. resentment. it found none. oh, the italian press would have a field day with this. the way you looked at him. dangerous, and steely, and real.

but that was tomorrow's problem.

"lewis?" fred was staring, now. a knowing look met lewis' apprehensive one. "would you like to comment on working with our newest driver?"

lewis wondered how your number - lucky number 9 - would look in his side mirror as he left you in the dust. (or maybe how it would look pressed against the paddock wall, your breath heavy in his ear, his name on your lips like a prayer. he would grant your wishes, sweetheart. all you'd have to do is ask.)

"welcome to ferrari," lewis said, the weight of every camera trained on his lips as they formed the words. "hope you're ready for what comes next."

your smile widened. sharpened. "oh, i am." you tilted your head, challenge written in your heavy gaze. "question is, are you?"

god, he was fucked.

♡

♡

lewis had always tried to admit when he was wrong. had always tried to take the hits when he deserved them. but suzuka was different. suzuka was you, dancing on the edge of disaster for forty-seven minutes, your car a blur of red in his mirrors, on his tail, that just wouldn't. back. down. relentless. (aggressive. angry.)

he had always tried to admit he was wrong. but he wasn't. not when you'd been the one to clip his rear wing going into turn thirteen. not when he'd requested you on comm only to get radio fucking silence. not when he simply watched - helpless, furious beyond plain, good common sense - as you barely missed the wall.

the garage echoed a tomb when he stormed in, mechanics scattering hastily like startled birds. they, too, taste the tension in his jaw that begged for something to wrap itself around, a fury that tasted like fear on his tongue. you were already there, helmet discarded on the workbench, hair wild from the way you'd torn it free. you'd unzipped your race suit to your waist, revealing the black fireproof beneath. sweat glistened like elixir on your collarbone, a drop following the column of your neck to settle in the curve.

"what the fuck were you thinking?" his voice was low. lethal. you didn't flinch. (you never did. and lewis never got angry. he was composed, he prided himself on it. but you were something else, weren't you? something else entirely.)

"it's racing, lewis," you shot back, chin lifting in that utter defiance he'd sworn he'd someday grow to resent. "forgotten what it looks like already?"

"racing? really?" lewis' step closer had your breath catching. (a tell. another to add to his list.) "that wasn't racing. that was suicide."

"it was calculated-"

"calculated?" his laugh cut through skin. through bone. "you nearly put us both in the fucking wall."

"i had the line-"

"you had jack. shit." another step. another. another. he'd backed you against the workbench, your hands grappling for purchase on the edge. "you're trying to prove something. trying to show everyone you deserve to be here, yeah?" his voice dropped an octave. "trying to show me."

your eyes flashed red. "don't treat me like a fucking child."

"don't drive like you've got something to prove."

"didn't you?" your words cracked. splintered. the silence between you stretched like a live wear. (you were... right. he remembered it. being young, once. he remembered that hunger, that need to prove, to show, to stay. he saw it in you. saw it in the way you raced like you were running out of seconds on a ticking time bomb, like every lap might just be your last chance to show them - to show him - what you were made of.) god, you were close enough now that he could count your eyelashes, could see the way your pulse jumped in your throat.

"that's different," he managed, but it felt hollow. fake.

"bullshit. i've watched every race you've ever driven, every risk you've ever taken, and-"

"how many of those ended with me in a wall?"

"how many of them made you a champion?"

lewis stepped back. had to. needed air that didn't taste like adrenaline and defiance and you. (always you.) "be careful what you wish for," he said finally, voice soft enough that only you could hear. dangerous enough that you shivered.

"you can win all you want. you only get one life."

♡

[YOUTUBE: Post-Race with Lewis Hamilton]

♡

note: is this a thing???? i will defff make a part two if this is something you guys wanna see HEHEHE I NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT THE WRITING GODS GUIDED ME IM SO SORRY ITS NOT PROOFREAD OR ANYTHING LFMAO love always from gracie thank you thank you thank you!!!

[padmerry]

Stanford Pines: “and isn’t it suffocating?”

This is basically my attempt to understand the issues of the Stan twins’ relationship from teen Ford’s point of view and the reason(s) for their separation. Was Ford really feeling suffocated by his relationship with Stan? If so, why? And when did it start? When did things start to shift in this direction, if once they were just fine? There’s just so much to unpack.

I don’t think I need to point out, to most fans, where the word “suffocating” comes from. It was a very memorable scene, if nothing else, since a lot of people hated Ford for it.

Behold the scene in question:

I think it’s so obvious that Ford was projecting and actually talking about his and Stan’s relationship here that I won’t even attempt to prove that, hahah.

Now, is this Ford... a) talking about his true feelings regarding his and Stan’s relationship when he was young, even before the science fair incident, or b) lying to himself, as he presumably started to do ever since (but only after) the science fair incident?

First, I’d like to invite you to actually listen to Ford’s voice/watch his mannerisms as he says this, here (timestamped). The thing is that... he doesn’t sound very bitter! He doesn’t sound like he’s throwing shade at Stan. Instead, he sounds and looks—pay attention to his eyebrows—like he’s genuinely puzzled. Does Dipper... really think he’s not meant for something more? Why! He’s so brilliant, with so much potential! Just like Ford when he was younger! The poor boy must be really attached to his sister...

Second, I’d like to invite you to not be so harsh on Ford, as he says that it, nor she is suffocating—the relationship Dipper has with the girl, not the girl herself. Not that Ford can’t be mean! He can be terribly mean, sometimes, especially out of spite. But the man has some limits. He wouldn’t say this about his twelve-year-old niece.

Another thing to be taken into consideration is that Ford was convinced Mabel would be fine, since she had “a magnetic personality.” This is a trait he very likely also attributes to Stan! In TBoB, for example, he was convinced of Stan’s ability to make the waitress laugh. There’s a lot of evidence for the fact that Ford had no idea of how badly Stan was faring and/or would fare without him, due to the idealized version of Stan Pines in his head.

That said, here is the behind-the-scenes commentary on Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

Alex Hirsch: Ford offers Dipper [an] apprenticeship because Ford sees Dipper as somebody who’s special like himself. And that’s Ford’s great flaw, that arrogance. He believes there are special people and everyone else.

Jason Ritter: And that you can be held back by your siblings, maybe.

Alex Hirsch: Yeah, he believes that attachments are actually weaknesses.

It has been said before Alex is too harsh on Ford, hahah. (If you have actually read enough of his interviews and listened to all his commentaries, like I did, you’ll realize he’s harsh on most of his characters, including Dipper and Stan!) That is, however, something also made canon in J3 in many, many excerpts, and stated by Ford himself quite plainly here:

“I thought being a great man meant being alone.”

And of course, his advice to Dipper in the show itself:

“Don’t let anyone hold you [back].” His choice of words is interesting. “Anyone,” not “anything.”

I do believe this line meant exactly what we think it did, since Ford, for all his “Mabel will be fine,” immediately guessed that she didn’t take it well as a visibly upset Dipper returned to his side:

When did he start developing this mindset, though? Before or after the science fair?

I think some of you might have read the (in)famous TVInsider 2016 interview in which Alex states Ford saw his brother as a “bumbling leech” (ouch!) his “entire life.”

In terms of Stan and his brother’s conflict, we always wanted a moment where Ford saw that he was wrong. Ford’s spent an entire life imagining himself as this lone solitary hero and imagining his brother as this bumbling leech. From a narrative point of view, for Ford to see Stan be the hero finally lets Ford see the true side of his brother that he’s been too blinded by pride to see.

Now, an important fact is that—I think many people fail to grasp this—Ford looking down on Stan doesn’t mean Ford not loving Stan. My boy can and will multitask!

And, of course, “entire life” didn’t actually mean Ford’s entire life! It was definitely an exaggeration on Alex’s part, meant to convey that for most of Ford’s life, presumably from late teen years old to the current age, Ford looked down on his brother.

We know for sure that baby Ford never looked down on Stan, and in fact defended him from the Sibling Brothers in the last Lost Legends comic!

But one thing we also see is how baby Ford already shares, to a certain extent, adult Ford’s ambition:

Another trait, equally important, early on: the tendency to think he was special and/or different from everyone else, for better or for worse. Like one of the very first things Stan told us in his childhood retelling in AToTS, “As if his abnormally high IQ wasn’t enough, he also had a rare birth defect: six fingers on each hand. Which might have explained his obsession with sci-fi mystery weirdness.”

As he grows up, he also grows, understandably, very proud of his accomplishments. In Stan’s words, “Ford’s brains seemed to get more impressive every year.”

He grows to embrace the “freak” part of him more and more, both ashamed and proud of not fitting in. Like Bill so gently phrased it in TBoB: “The ego of a king. The insecurity of a circus freak.” (I take all his words with a grain of salt, of course, but sometimes he hits the nail on the head.)

But what does this mean for his relationship with Stan?

I think the first thing we have to know is that Stan is Ford’s identical twin, something that is heavily alluded to in canon and confirmed by Word of God. The first comment from Alex regarding this matter that I could find was this tweet from 2015. Then it was further confirmed in many episodes of the DVD commentaries (the first ones already mention it) and indirectly implied by Bill on the TBoB website.

Why is this even important? Twins of the same gender, especially identical aka monozygotic twins, tend to struggle with identity issues. Not only the same birthday, but the same face—that without having to share even a name.

The second thing is that they only ever had each other. I talk more about their codependency here, elaborating on the differences between the relationships of Dipper & Mabel and Stan & Ford.

Again, I borrow Alex’s words when asked about Shermie’s role in the family as Stan and Ford’s brother in HanaHyperfixates’ and ThatGFFan’s interview:

In terms of Shermie, I remember asking Rob or somebody at some point, like, “Would Shermie be here, logically? Do we have to see him?” I don’t really wanna see him. I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in Stan and Ford being—sort of having only each other and then losing each other because of their different life paths.

Let’s not forget, too, the only time Ford ever mentions Shermie in Journal 3—“Sherman Pines’s,” surname and all:

The best example we have of this in the show is probably Stan’s line in AToTS, “Those bullies may have been right about us not making many friends, but when push comes to shove, you only really need one.” Stan not only acknowledges their dynamic, but sounds very content with it.

Was Ford content with it, tough? That’s... more complicated.

Like we’ve established, these two were identical twins (unlike Dipper and Mabel, fraternal and of different genders) and only had each other (again, unlike Dipper and Mabel), which not only exacerbated their codependency but also their identity issues. They were used to being two halves of a whole. It’s very telling that in AToTS, “the Pines twins” are both called to the principal’s office, even though only Ford should have been called. They were seen as a single entity.

And don’t get me wrong, Ford has always loved Stan so much. Perhaps part of him even enjoyed the fact his brother trusted and leaned on him so much, depended on him both emotionally and to... get a passing grade.

But for some reason, even before the science fair... things still grew quite awkward. From Stan’s Land Before Swine commentary (DVD extras):

Anyway, cut to high school, the guy’s never kissed a girl, prom is coming up, and he asked me for advice. “Stanley, I know things have been a little weird between you and me with college, but can you talk to me about girls?”

The interesting thing here, to me, is that Ford... straight up recognized the “weirdness” between them to Stan’s face! And the fact Ford felt the need to mention it, as if he couldn’t simply ask his own twin brother for advice about girls without making a sort of acknowledgement first! These brothers once told each other everything... How did things get to this point?

First, notice how Stan says “prom is coming up.” The same prom at which they laughed together and shared a moment of camaraderie after Stan threw punch at himself to share Ford’s humiliation.

Which to me points to the fact it was something gradual, happening little by little, hand in hand with the sweetest moments in their teen years.

Imagine you’re Stanford F. Pines, not yet PhD.

You know you are special. You’re both a genius and a freak. You are always praised by adults around you, by your teachers. This starts to go to your head. You cling desperately to the “genius” part of your identity, so you can be more than a bullied freak. You grow even more ambitious. You can see a future for yourself.

You have a twin brother. You love him more than life itself. But everyone talks, and... aren’t they right, somewhat? Just a little bit right? Stanley isn’t a genius, like you are. That’s a fact. Stanley also doesn’t have ambition, like you have. Stanley isn’t a freak, like you are. It doesn’t mean Stanley isn’t cool! But you are... different from him...

And yet, despite all that, he’s your identical twin brother! You can only ever be one half of a duo. A single entity. Even your name, you share with him. He doesn’t seem bothered by that, but you are. Can’t you just be Ford, for once, no Stan? (Ironically, the fact is lost on you that your brother was always more under your shadow than you ever were under his.)

You start to think that the Stan O’ War isn’t anything more than a beautiful, but ultimately childish, dream. It isn’t very realistic, is it? You could be so much more than that. You could actually make a difference. You could prove everyone wrong about ever calling you a freak. You try to breach the subject with Stanley, but all he wants to talk about is this damn boat. And you care about it too, of course you do, but... Doesn’t he care about anything else?

I can see, so easily, the influence of other people on Ford slowly (and subconsciously) growing, even though his love for Stan didn’t diminish. I can see him noticing the mismatch between his ambition and Stan’s ambition, his academic achievements and Stan’s academic achievements... or lack thereof. Again, this is the teenage version of the little boy getting starry-eyed about seeing his own face in the papers. Except now, the possibility of Stan being there with him... doesn’t seem as likely.

Alex on A Tale of Two Stans (DVD commentary), confirming that the rift between them had started before the principal’s words:

A lot of different ideas that we came up with to suggest, you know, what was the moment where things started to change between them? When they went from best friends—and it felt, as we went to draft, that the right moment would be—sort of—as they’re entering the end of high school they have to make a choice about college and the rest of their lives, they’re speaking to guide counselors. That’s when the world at large is pointing out, “by the way, one of you is amazing!” And the toll that would take on Stan.

Alex being mindful of the difference between love and respect, as seen by his commentary on Stan’s condescending love for Mabel in Land Before Swine:

But this idea that Waddles is sort of a metaphor for what Mabel loves. And Stan loves Mabel but he doesn’t—he doesn’t really think that anything she thinks is necessarily smart or right. You know, he loves like her, ah, she’s my sweet niece, but [Stan’s voice] “she doesn’t know anything.”

I can see, also very easily, Ford having some intrusive thoughts, then immediate guilt over them. For example, after someone mocks Stan for his grades, Ford comforts him while thinking, “but yeah, maybe Stanley could really put more effort in—wait, what? He’s my best friend! I can’t think like that about him!”

Stan’s narration over this scene: “The future was looking bright... for both of us.” Oh, Stan... Ford’s smile looks painfully awkward.

Just notice the difference between Ford’s posture and body language there and here in college!Ford’s picture (and, again, look at Ford’s eyebrows, but also the way he leans in Stan’s direction):

It’s important to remember that this, too—the scene in which Ford smiles awkwardly—was before West Coast Tech.

But now, with West Coast Tech, he finally has something solid. Something tangible. A real way to make a name for himself. And he loves it. Now this is the face of true happiness!

He manages to win even the approval of his famously “not impressed” father!

Borrowing my words from another meta:

Pay attention to Filbrick and Caryn’s shocked faces when it’s revealed to them that Ford’s genius can, actually, earn them millions! Pay attention, too, to the way Ford looks at Filbrick when he’s praised by him. He’s very surprised and ecstatic to receive his father’s approval, a very brief, “I’m impressed,” that wasn’t even expressed directly at Ford. Ford doesn’t act as if it’s something he receives every day or casually. He was in fact feasting on crumbs.

Ford also knew it was not unconditional acceptance. From Ford’s point of view, at least, he was worth exactly just as much as he could earn Filbrick, and Bill’s threat in TBoB (“your father won’t want you returning without millions”) touches on that insecurity.

But... What about Stan?, you might be thinking. That was, funnily enough, the only thing that Caryn (who didn’t smile or praise Ford once) wanted to know, too.

He’s visibly very upset by having his brother insulted like that, and he didn’t know Stan was on the other side of the door overhearing their whole conversation. But he also doesn’t defend his brother, like Stan likely would have, and Stan doesn’t see Ford’s facial expression. He just hears silence from him.

And no, young Ford had zero difficulty in standing up for himself or for Stan, as seen in Lost Legends and as explained at length in my previous analysis. My own interpretation is that Ford finds it harder to defend himself or Stan from things that, deep down, he considered to be true: the fact that his polydactyly made him a freak, as pointed out by Crampelter and the Sibling Brothers, and Stan’s lack of ambition (and lack of future born out of said lack of ambition), as pointed out by the principal. I don’t think he appreciated his brother being called “a clown” at all, in the same way he didn’t appreciate being called a freak, but I also don’t think he could bring himself to disagree with the point being made here.

This moment in the series was also probably inspired by a real moment in Alex’s life that inspired the scene in which Mabel overhead Ford’s proposal to Dipper, according to the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

This idea of Mabel overhearing Dipper and feeling left out actually came from a real thing that happened between me and my sister. This is a weird anecdote about me and my sister but we did this kind of like, sort of competitive improv games when we were in middle school, very nerdy. And we did pretty good, like, our team made it to the international competition every year, and there was this high school team... [...] We had a pretty good team, but there was a team above us, the high school team, that was like, legendary, that we wanted to be like. And when me and my sister went from junior high school to high school, like, this is going to be our last year to do this sort of competitive improv, and I got a call from the high school team saying “hey, guess what? we already raided your team for the standout members, we’ve taken the people from your team that always do good scores and we’re combining the high school team and the middle school team into a super team and we would like you to be on the high school team. And I was like, “what about Ariel?” And they were like, “well, there’s only seven members per team—” and Ariel was listening on the conversation and I remember her like, bursting into tears because they had basically been like yeah, we got two Hirsches [and] we only want one, and I didn’t even blink. I just said, “no, I refuse to be on this team.” Like, I couldn’t, it was just like, this is so messed up, you’re breaking this whole thing apart, like yeah, it’s a great team, yeah, you guys are awesome, but I’m not gonna do this without Ariel. And I just remember being this awful moment where some external pressure was telling us like, oh, you gotta choose, you gotta make a choice. Um, like, and it was like this very personal thing. And so like, that’s a big part of the inspiration of like, somebody comes and says, like, you but not you.

Based on Alex’s reaction to such a proposal, it’s not a stretch to think Ford’s silence here was indeed telling, from a narrative viewpoint. It was a deliberate choice from the creator.

And then... Oh boy, the swingset talk.

“Joke’s on them if they think you wanna go to some stuffy college on the other side of the country,” Stan says, then proceeds to boast about their future adventures, only to end it all with a painful expression that shows he doesn’t believe what he is saying. He knows what Ford is truly going to choose.

Stan asks him what would happen if the college board was impressed with his experiment. “Well then, I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country!” Which indicates he clearly didn’t expect Stan to come with him, either.

Then The Accident happens, and Ford reacts accordingly.

It’s fascinating to me that Ford knew exactly what would bring someone like Stan to do something like sabotage his machine. He doesn’t accuse his brother of feeling jealous of his success or of the attention of their father and teachers! Oh no, that’s not your typical sibling drama of competitiveness, nor an easily solvable lack of communication. Instead, he accuses Stan of sabotaging his machine so Ford would stay with him! Which proves he was aware of Stan’s feelings, despite what a good part of this fandom seems to think! And, while it had been just an accident, a dumb mistake on Stan’s part instead of a deliberate act... Ford is right! Stan really couldn’t handle Ford going to college on his own.

He’s right, because we know Stan’s feelings about this. Stan says, in so many words: “Without Ford, I was just half of a dynamic duo. I couldn’t make it without him. And now, thanks to that dumb college, I was gonna lose my brother forever.” I know the “forever” was perhaps Stan being a bit melodramatic (understandable considering his distress) but it also shows us he didn’t expect their relationship to go back to normal, or for the college to be just one passing fancy. He knew it would be just the start of his brother’s career.

And perhaps this is the last thing you’d expect me to bring up at this point, but...

Do you remember this episode? Little Gift Shop of Horrors? It’s often dismissed as non-canon (due to its hidden keyword being “noncanon”), but even if the events in it didn’t actually happen, the characterization remains very much real.

We talk about Ford projecting on Dipper about a relationship being “suffocating,” but Stan was doing some impressive amount of projecting here too, hah, considering that he was more likely than not making up all the stories.

Just. This entire conversation:

Stan couldn’t be more unsubtle if he tried. And of course, Waddles chooses Mabel, his favorite person in the world.

We know whose “favorite person” Stan wants to be...

But again, back to Ford.

Yay, Ford is free of his suffocating relationship with Stan! Free to do things like looking at pictures of Stan with yearning! Writing that he misses Stan in code while yearning! Staring at the Gravity Falls’ lake with yearning because it reminds him of Stan! The last one in particular is very amusing to me because to study anomalies was basically Ford’s dream job and he loved Gravity Falls and... and yet! There is no place in Gravity Falls he would rather stay than the lake...

You might want to read this for the full extent of Ford’s clownery, but just the fact that Ford canonically (per Word of God) carried a picture of baby Stan in the breast pocket of his coat at least as early as his Gravity Falls researcher days to remember his brother by, is... telling.

That is, without even counting the fact that he has actively attempted to replace Stan with Fiddleford, Bill, and then even poor Dipper! Because, again, he yearns! From Alex’s commentary on Society of the Blind Eye:

Ford as somebody who lost Stan is kinda looking for—even though he rejected his brother, he kinda needs, he needs that other person, and he tried to find that in this kinda sweet prodigy and he just pushed him too far.

Yeah, I know. Ford is quite... confusing. What does he want? To use three other people (or triangle) to fill the role of Stan in his life but still reject and stay away from Stan himself? Everything and nothing, at the same time?

And now I need you to bear with me and read this entire excerpt of the HanaHyperfixates’ and ThatGFFan’s interview, most important parts highlighted in bold:

Ford was very much us building backwards. The same way you know a black hole is there by the light warped around it, it’s like, you know the damage someone’s family has done to them by all of their weird tics and behaviors. So who is the character who would result in Stan being this hurt and needy and mad and also longing?

And so we came up with this guy who kinda seemed too perfect. And is distant. He’s aloof, and distant, and he’s too perfect. And it’s like, “oh! I think he’s also aloof and distant from himself.”

I think he is, uh, deeply deeply hiding from his real feelings about things, because at some point early on, he decided that he could run from hurt by achievement and by creation, and has dug that hole so deep that he has no relationships. He doesn’t have friendships, he doesn’t have romantic relationships, he is someone trapped in a tower of his own mind and estranged.

We know Ford has always loved Stan very deeply—and yearned for his company just as badly—through his entire adult life. So what, exactly, changed in old Ford for him to invite Stan to sail away together again, post-Weirdmageddon?

Well. I have some hypotheses.

First, he spent forty years separated from Stan, and then almost lost him forever (or at least their relationship), from a certain point of view. Have you ever heard that saying that you only know the value of something or someone after you lose it? Teen Ford had never lost Stan, and didn’t know how much he would miss him.

On that same note, all those years separated allowed him to develop a personality and identity of his own, and a very defined and strong one at that. (Yes, poor Stan meanwhile spent that time pretending to be Ford. Ironic.) The Stan twins have also managed to be competent at what was once their weak spot, something they relied fully on their brother for. Stan has managed to learn and understand complex physics to fix the portal. Ford, on the other hand (and we’re focusing more on his feelings, here), has definitely learned how to defend himself physically.

Second, Ford was severely “humbled by the narrative,” so to speak. He thought he would get to be the hero, when the hero (at least in Ford’s own point of view, which is the only point of view that matters) was actually his brother. “Stanley Pines was the man who saved the world, not me.” His pride—and Stan’s own pride as a reaction to Ford’s pride, but again, this analysis is focused on Ford—was a great barrier between him and Stan. And on what regards his self-loathing and subsequent thirst for external validation, he has learned to seek love in the right places. His family. Stan.

Stan, who has always loved him unconditionally, who never considered him a freak in the first place, who has always tried to make him feel as if he belonged, if only on an old boat. Stan, who after Weirdmageddon is now his priority, above his scientific ambition, symbolized by the journals he was no longer reluctant to destroy.

Another excerpt from the interview I’ve referenced lastly wraps things up perfectly:

[...] and it’s always sweet to see [Stan and Ford] come together again, because they’re so full of themselves, but they are also both so damaged they desperately need each other.

The codependency is mutual—people really should understand this. I don’t think it ever really went away, not in an emotional, psychological sense, despite the two of them having developed separately for decades, as I have elaborated here. They didn’t return to the same place they started because they have matured as individual persons, but the love they had for each other never did decrease. They know, now, exactly how it’s like to stay away from each other, and they... actively prefer not to.

After all, like Ford himself said, “I don’t just want someone to come with me, Stanley, I want it to be you.”

[yvesssssssss]

That was your first kiss..?

(shin, nagumo, gaku, uzuki, seba)

Nagumo– "Damn, that was fun. Wanna try again?"

Nagumo’s kisses are effortless, teasing, and completely unpredictable—just like him. One second, he’s smirking at you, eyes filled with mischief, and the next, his lips are on yours, stealing your breath away. When he pulls back, he expects you to be flustered, but when you whisper that it was your first kiss, he actually pauses. His grin falters for half a second before it comes back twice as wide. "Oh? So I got to be your first?" He leans in again, voice low. "Then I better make sure I leave an impression."

Shin Asakura – "Wait—THAT was your first?!"

Shin had no idea what came over him. Maybe it was the way you looked at him, or maybe he just… really, really wanted to. But as soon as your lips touch, he stiffens, pulling back in wide-eyed shock. "Oh, crap. Was that—was that your first kiss?!" His face turns completely red, guilt and panic mixing on his features. "I-I didn’t mean to steal it like that!" He’s already spiraling into apologies when you laugh, and that’s when he realizes—you don’t regret it. His shoulders relax, and he lets out a breath. "Still… if it was your first, I should’ve done it properly." His gaze turns more determined. "Mind if I try again?"

Gaku – "Hah?! You serious?"

Gaku isn’t exactly the kind of guy who overthinks things. When he kisses you, it’s instinct—fast, confident, and without hesitation. But when you blink up at him, lips parted in shock, and stammer out that it was your first kiss, his brain short-circuits. "Wait—what?" He leans back slightly, staring at you like you just spoke in another language. "You’re tellin’ me no one’s kissed you before?" He huffs, scratching the back of his head. "Shit, if I’d known, I would’ve—" He stops himself, narrowing his eyes before suddenly yanking you close again. "Tch. Guess I’ll just have to make sure you don’t go regrettin’ it."

Uzuki – "...I see. Was it okay?"

Uzuki’s kiss is soft, slow, almost hesitant—like he’s trying to memorize every detail of the moment. When he pulls back, he notices the way your fingers are still curled into his sleeve, your expression a mix of surprise and something unreadable. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before you whisper that it was your first. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, maybe, but also something deeper, more thoughtful. He’s quiet for a beat before asking, voice gentle, "Was it okay?" When you nod, he exhales, something in him easing. "...Then I’m glad." His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. "Because it won’t be the last."

Natsuki Seba – "Oh? Then let’s make it memorable."

Seba is completely unfazed. He tilts his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he processes what you just said. "Your first, huh? That’s kinda cute." He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem nervous—instead, his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly. "Well, in that case, we should do it right." Before you can even think of a response, he leans in again, this time slower, deeper, taking his time. When he finally pulls back, his lips are still barely an inch from yours. "There," he murmurs, voice smug. "Now it’s a kiss you won’t forget."