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cressidagrey · 19 days ago

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The Brush Off

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times people flirt with Felicity and 1 time Oscar sees it happen.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 Also, check out my new divider!

School Library, Haileybury

Felicity was tucked into her usual corner of the school library — second floor, far left, just behind the dusty shelf of outdated atlases no one ever touched. It was quiet there. Untouchable. Sacred.

Her legs were curled under her in a frankly illegal way that made the librarian twitch every time she passed by.

But Felicity didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about. Like finishing her own chemistry coursework, writing the conclusion to her robotics team report, and, most importantly, rescuing Oscar’s history grade from what could only be described as a stylistic disaster.

Her copy of The Selfish Gene sat open next to a packet of sticky notes and five highlighters arranged in rainbow order. Oscar’s essay draft was sprawled beside it like a corpse in need of resuscitation.

She was six pages in.

She had already marked five run-on sentences, circled three historical inaccuracies, and scrawled “comma splice?” in angry red ink on the header. Next to that, she’d added, in smaller print: “This is a run-on sentence and also a war crime.”(This was three lines after “I am not sure if child labour can be considered a “perk” of the industrial revolution, Oz.”)

She was muttering to herself about how Oscar consistently forgot the difference between a primary and secondary source when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You always sit here?”

Felicity glanced up — just barely — and immediately clocked the newcomer.

Mateo.

The Spanish exchange student.

Hair swoop. Too much cologne.

He had the vibe of someone who thought reading The Secret History made him profound. Like the kind of guy who bought Moleskines but didn’t write in them. Like a walking Instagram profile captioned “Fluent in Nietzsche.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just scribbled a note in Oscar’s margin (“use a stronger thesis here or face the wrath of every historian who’s ever lived”).

“On Wednesdays, yes,” she replied eventually, eyes still on the page.

Mateo didn’t take the hint.

He leaned in a little too close. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and already regretted not bringing headphones.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted Oscar’s paper slightly, as if it were obvious. “This.”

He squinted. “You’re helping a friend?”

“This is my boyfriend’s essay.”

Mateo’s face lit up, but not with recognition — with opportunity. “Wow. You’re that good a friend?”

Felicity blinked. “I’m that good a girlfriend.”

He paused. Smiled like she’d just told a cute joke at a party. “Sure. But, like, if you ever wanted to… hang out? Or study together? I’ve been struggling with philosophy.”

She stared at him. “You’re struggling with philosophy?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s so dense, you know?”

“You mean… reading?”

He chuckled. “I just thought it might be easier with someone like you. Someone sharp. Smart.”

She just stared at him.

Still, he didn’t leave. “I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of helping your boyfriend… I wouldn’t mind a little attention.”

That’s what made her pause.

Because for a moment, Felicity genuinely didn’t understand what he meant.

Attention? What kind? Did he want her to edit his essay, too? Help him structure his arguments?

Was this a mentorship request? A tutoring thing? Was he trying to hire her?

Because from where she was sitting — wearing one of Oscar’s sweatshirts over her school uniform with her hair up in a pencil-stabbed bun, ink smudged on her fingers… There was no way this boy was flirting with her.

She finally looked up, expression flat. “I’ve been with my boyfriend for two years. I rewrite his footnotes. I know the number of his racing sim’s USB ports by memory. You think I have time for recreational idiocy?”

Mateo blinked. He stammered something that might’ve been “Sorry” or “Your loss” or possibly just the start of a philosophy quote he didn’t finish.

Then he turned and slunk away, disappearing into the nonfiction aisle like a man who needed to Google what a footnote was.

Felicity exhaled slowly, turned back to Oscar’s essay, and drew a tiny skull next to a sentence about Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Oscar appeared — bottle of water in one hand, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, curls slightly mussed.

“Hey,” he said, flopping into the seat beside her and nudging her ankle under the table.

Felicity didn’t even blink. She just slid his paper across the table.

“Yours,” she said, tone dry. “Try not to get seduced by misused commas.”

Oscar grinned, leaned over, and kissed her temple.

***

Engineering Library, Imperial College London

The engineering library at Imperial had a very specific kind of silence — dense, utilitarian, and just slightly stressed.

It didn’t have the hushed reverence of a humanities space or the open nervous energy of undergrads cramming in a group. No. This room buzzed with tension.

It smelled like soldering fumes, pencil shavings, leftover caffeine, and the faintest echo of ambition-turned-despair.

Most students had packed up hours ago, but Felicity remained in her fortress of design textbooks, open CAD diagrams, three kinds of scrap paper, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper that she’d been meaning to throw away for at least forty-five minutes. Her water bottle was dangerously low, her laptop fan sounded like it was preparing for lift-off, and her cursor had been blinking in the same spot on her thermal stress simulation for the last twenty-seven minutes.

She wasn’t stuck. She was just… tired.

Tired in the bone-deep way only a mechanical engineering student in her second trimester could be.

She shifted slightly, legs curled beneath her, one hand resting absently on the curve of her bump. Not because it hurt — not tonight — but because Beatrice had just kicked her in the ribs again, like she was trying to crawl out through Felicity’s diaphragm.

Her phone buzzed next to her laptop:

Oscar: Don’t forget dinner. Please. You always forget when your sim models hate you.

She smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Not yet. She still had heat sink values to triple-check.

That was when it happened.

A voice—too close, too casual—sliced through the stillness.

“Hey.”

Felicity looked up, blinking.

A guy was standing across the table. Probably mid-twenties. Tall, in that I stretch for photos, way. Crisp haircut. Slim jeans. Water bottle with a “No Bad Vibes” sticker on it — ironic, because he was currently radiating intrusive energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid into the chair opposite hers like this was a first date she didn’t know they were having.

“I saw you in Thermo this morning,” he said. “That fluid mechanics question you asked? Insanely clever. I was going to say something after class, but you ducked out too fast.”

Felicity blinked at him. “I had a tutorial.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Should’ve guessed. You seem like you’ve got everything scheduled down to the second.”

“I also needed chips,” she added, because both things were true.

He laughed like she’d made a joke. “You seem intense. I like that. Women in engineering? You don’t see that every day. Rare combination of intimidating and hot.”

She stared at him.

The words rolled around her brain like loose screws.

What… did he want?

Was this a compliment? An insult? An offer?

She was six months pregnant, her knees hurt, her thesis was trying to kill her, and she was wearing Oscar’s hoodie with a faint grease stain across the front.

What exactly was the goal here?

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he rushed on, clearly sensing the silence and trying to recover. “You’ve just got that… serious vibe. Like the kind of girl who rewires her own dishwasher.”

“I did,” she said flatly. “Last week.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the kettle. And Oscar’s sim pedal when it failed under full brake.”

There was a beat.

“…Who’s Oscar?” he asked, smirking now. “Your roommate?”

Felicity paused.

And for a moment—just a moment—she considered laughing.

Then she closed her laptop slowly. Deliberately.

“Oscar’s my husband.”

The guy blinked.

Stood up slowly. Her hoodie shifted, and with it, the full curve of her pregnancy became unmistakably obvious. Not theoretical. Not ambiguous. Imminent.

The guy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, not breaking eye contact, slung her bag over one shoulder, and smiled — cold, clean, efficient.

“If you’re gonna flirt with a mechanical engineer,” she said, “maybe do a better job at observational diagnostics.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he wanted to apologise and also vanish into the carpet tiles.

Felicity didn’t wait for a response.

***

Trinity College, Oxford

By the time Felicity Piastri was twenty-one, she had two things down to a science:

How to balance a toddler on her hip while rewriting entire sections of a doctoral thesis.

The exact number of times she could ignore the same man before it became a full-blown academic experiment.

Her Oxford doctoral project - Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite-Structured Performance Environments. - had technically been finished for weeks. The simulations were done, the modelling locked in, her conclusions tight and triple-sourced. Now she was just revising. Editing. Wrangling footnotes into submission while Bee tried to paste glitter stickers into the margins of her printed draft.

She did almost everything from home.

The only reason she even stepped foot into Oxford was for fortnightly supervision meetings with Dr. Green, who was brilliant, terrifying, and the only person Felicity would willingly leave the house (and her toddler) for.

Which was, unfortunately, where Nathan lived.

Nathan — Dr. Green’s personal assistant — had been a PPE student once upon a time, which explained a lot. Somehow, he’d wheedled his way into a departmental admin role despite not knowing the difference between a torque curve and a coffee stain. His talents included:

Misfiling room bookings.

Brewing tea that tasted like despair.

Flirting with Felicity like it was something he was being graded on.

The first time he tried it, she’d thought it was just bad small talk. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed the type to flirt accidentally, the kind of man who said “babe” to baristas and thought it made him charming.

The second time, she was slightly annoyed.

By the fifth, she had moved on to anthropological interest.

How did he not see the wedding ring? The child’s drawings poking out of her folder? The exhaustion of someone whose idea of a wild Friday night was installing firmware updates for fun?

Today, she arrived two minutes early for her meeting. She’d barely stepped into the department lobby when he spotted her.

“Dr. Green is running a bit late,” Nathan announced, standing up from behind the reception desk like he was emerging for a curtain call. “But I can keep you company if you like.”

Felicity barely paused. “She’s not. She still has 2 minutes till our appointment time.”

He grinned like she’d just flirted back. “You know, I was thinking the other day… you never hang around after your meetings. You always rush off.”

“Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “Because I have a toddler. And a dissertation. And a husband. In that order.”

Nathan winced theatrically. “Oof. Brutal.”

She offered him a smile that wasn’t one. “Sorry. Was that too reality-based?”

Still, he pressed on, leaning against the desk like he thought he was on the cover of GQ.

“Still,” he said, “it’d be nice to talk about something other than drivetrain mapping sometime. Maybe grab a drink?”

Felicity blinked. Twice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it. But somehow, today, it caught her even more off guard.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “a married mother of one, who is actively finishing a thesis and hasn’t eaten a full sit-down meal in two days, to go get drinks with you?”

He laughed, like she was being ridiculous.

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. We could just talk—”

“About what?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “What, precisely, do you think I have in common with a man who once told me Elon Musk was just misunderstood?”

Nathan blinked.

Felicity continued. “Do you want help with your CV? Is this about office gossip? Are you confused and trying to network with me through reverse psychology?”

“I just meant—”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I genuinely don’t understand what outcome you’re envisioning here. Do you think I’m going to cheat on my husband with the guy who can’t pronounce ‘aerodynamics’ without swallowing the word halfway through?”

He flushed slightly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not. I’m being efficient.”

The door to the inner office opened before he could reply. Dr. Green appeared, breathless and balancing two takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder in the other.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry. The grant committee meeting ran over. Here—” She handed over one of the cups. “Decaf oat, right? And I pulled the new journal submissions for you. There are a few I thought might intersect with your secondary chapter on hybrid systems.”

Felicity smiled as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I already reviewed the three most relevant ones and emailed you a summary chart with citations.”

Dr. Green blinked. “Of course you did.”

Nathan blinked, too, but for entirely different reasons.

Felicity turned back to him just before following her professor inside.

“Oh, and Nathan?”

“…Yes?” he said, still — somehow — hopeful.

She raised her left hand and tapped the wedding band with one finger. “This wasn’t a joke.”

And then she shut the office door behind her like it was a verdict.

The Door Handle Aisle of Homebase, Woking

Oscar was off racing.

Felicity was elbow-deep in a bathroom renovation.

Not the Pinterest kind.

Not the “new towels and scented eucalyptus and a little bamboo ladder for the aesthetic” kind.

No, this was the “rip out the vanity with a crowbar and discover the wall behind it had been sealed with hope and duct tape” kind.

The kind of renovation that required full battle gear: dust mask, gloves, safety goggles, and the controlled fury of a woman who had read the plumbing manual twice and did not need a man explaining pipe fittings to her.

And because she was who she was — stubborn, competent, and wildly intelligent— Felicity hadn’t hired anyone.

She could do it herself.

And she would.

Which meant… many, many trips to the hardware store.

The staff had started to recognise her by mid-April. A couple of them even learned to duck when she walked in, in case she asked for a specific size of tap washer they didn’t carry. But one guy — the guy from the sealant aisle—hadn’t learned that lesson.

Late twenties, overly friendly, perpetually wearing a toolbelt he definitely didn’t need, like he thought it made him look rugged instead of unconvincing. He hovered near the caulk and grout displays like they were a dating pool.

The first time, it was casual.

“You here again?” he’d asked, smiling like he was in a rom-com. “You must really like DIY.”

Felicity didn’t look up from the tile grout chart. “I like doing things properly.”

The second time, it was more confident.

“Doing a kitchen too?” he asked, spotting the tile adhesive in her basket. “You ever need help—”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, already walking toward checkout before he could finish.

By the sixth visit, he had apparently decided they were bonding.

She was in the handles aisle, comparing brass finishes, when she heard him again — that telltale sneaker-squeak on linoleum, the voice turned up a little too loud, too performative.

“Wow,” he said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep coming in just to see me.”

Felicity didn’t look up. She held one cabinet pull in each hand and considered which one better matched the art deco lines of the mirror she’d thrifted.

“I assure you,” she said, tone even, “my interest in you begins and ends with your stock of brass hinges.”

He laughed, undeterred. “Come on. You’re always here. I figured, maybe you’re one of those cool builder girls. You don’t wear a ring or anything, so…”

That’s what finally made her pause.

Not the tone. Not the implication. But the logic.

She looked at him.

“You think I keep coming in here because… what? I’m lonely?” she asked, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “I’m literally holding blueprints and a door handle.”

He shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of girl who could use a little—” (God help him) “—company.”

Felicity blinked. She wiped a smudge of pencil from her chin, set the handles back down, and reached into her tote bag without breaking eye contact.

She pulled out her phone.

“I’m going to walk you through something,” she said calmly, unlocking the screen. “Because clearly, you didn’t do any preliminary research before launching this… ill-conceived outreach attempt.”

She turned the lock screen toward him.

A photo.

Felicity, curled up on a sofa in a hoodie. Oscar was beside her, kissing the top of her head. Bee sprawled between them in footie pyjamas, holding a spoon upside down like a trophy. The lighting was soft. Domestic. Unmistakably intimate.

“This,” Felicity said, “is my husband. He is currently in Azerbaijan, driving a car at three hundred miles an hour. That’s our daughter. She is two. I do renovations during naptime.”

The man paled. “Oh. I—uh. I didn’t know—”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t ask.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else — possibly to dig the hole deeper.

But Felicity wasn’t done.

“I come in here to buy tile primer. I don’t come in here for unsolicited analysis of my marital status from men who think a toolbelt is a personality trait.”

Her voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

It was calm. Steady.

The voice of someone who had personally rewired her fuse box and once installed a dishwasher while on the phone and dealing with a crying toddler.

She smiled politely. Dangerously.

Like a woman who kept zip ties in her car and knew how to use them.

“I’ll take these, thanks,” she said, lifting the cabinet handles. “Don’t need help carrying them. But if you’ve got any more of that tile primer from last week in stock, that would be helpful.”

He mumbled something about checking the back and fled like a man pursued by the consequences of his own choices.

Felicity watched him go, then picked up the nicer brass finish.

She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too tired.

Felicity just wanted her tile primer and to go home.

***

Rooftop Bar, Melbourne

Felicity didn’t go out much.

Not because she couldn’t — Oscar insisted she take breaks, even booked her massages that she always forgot to attend — but because she liked her life.

She liked being home with Bee. She liked sanding doorframes and painting walls and mapping out the next renovation with a pencil stuck in her messy bun. She liked curling up on the sofa with her laptop, trading stock options at 1 AM. She liked Oscar reading over her shoulder, pointing out line graphs he didn’t understand but wanted to. She liked the steady rhythm of their days. Naptimes and quiet dinners and Bee’s loud commentary on the existence of pigeons.

But they were in Melbourne over the Winter break, and Nicole had insisted.

“You’re getting out of the house,” she’d said, practically pushing Felicity toward the wardrobe. “You’ve been in Australia for five days, and the only places you’ve seen are the beach and Bunnings.”

And so here they were — rooftop bar in Melbourne, warm summer air, glass of chilled white wine in Nicole’s hand and a lemon-lime mocktail in Felicity’s.

Their dresses fluttered in the breeze; Her hair was up. Her arms were bare. She looked, Nicole thought proudly, like the kind of woman men write songs about.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

Because a man at the bar had noticed, too.

He made his way over with the swagger of someone who once played rugby in uni and still referred to it as “his prime.” White linen shirt. Too many rings. Hair with more product than structure. And that thing men did when they leaned on a table like they were presenting a TED Talk on their charm.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said smoothly, eyes only on Felicity.

Nicole didn’t blink. “You are.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows, mildly surprised, but didn’t say anything. She just sipped her drink and let the lime catch on her tongue.

The man chuckled — the low, confident kind that assumed he was being flirted back with.

“I just thought I’d say—you’ve got a great smile,” he continued. Still to Felicity. Still convinced. “You local?”

“No,” she said. “Just visiting.”

He nodded toward Nicole. “With your sister?”

Nicole’s mouth twitched.

Felicity opened her mouth to clarify, but Nicole got there first.

“I’m her mother-in-law,” she said, swirling her wine.

That gave him a moment’s pause. But not enough.

“Well, she’s clearly not married—” he gestured vaguely to Felicity’s left hand, bare in the way most hands are after a morning at the beach with a toddler and too much sunscreen.

Felicity smiled. Slowly. Like a summer storm deciding whether to ruin your picnic or level your whole house.

“I took my rings off before swimming this morning,” she said, amused. “Didn’t want to lose them in the ocean.”

He still didn’t give up. “No offence, but… a girl like you? You don’t need to be tied down so young.”

Felicity furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you could have fun. Live a little.”

“I’m married,” she said again, a little slower. “I live a lot.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, grinning.

She genuinely didn’t understand.

What did he mean by that?

Was she supposed to say thank you? Defend her marriage?

Debate the merits of early commitment like she was on a panel?

“No,” Felicity replied honestly, “I actually don’t. What exactly do you think is going to happen? I abandon my family because you complimented my teeth?”

She had a three-year-old who could build better arguments about bedtime.

Before Felicity could figure out what to say, Nicole gently set her wine glass down.

“She’s not tied down, darling,” she said, tone perfectly pleasant. “She’s adored.”

She reached into her purse like she was pulling a weapon.

“Would you like to see a photo of her husband holding their daughter on the beach this morning?” she asked. “Or maybe the one where he flew eight hours just to make it to her thesis defence?”

The man’s face did a visible three-second software update.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, already backing up a step.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “You sure? My son is very photogenic. His job likes to post him shirtless sometimes. It’s a whole thing.”

Felicity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Right. Uh—have a nice night,” the man muttered, vanishing like a bug under bright light.

+1 — The One Time Oscar Noticed

The garage was buzzing with that high-voltage energy unique to a U.S. race weekend — louder music, brighter cameras, fans pressed against every fence line like they were at a concert instead of a motorsport event. McLaren’s VIP list was stacked with influencers, sponsors, and the usual parade of celebrities trying to look like they knew what a downforce map was.

Oscar didn’t care about any of them.

He cared about the girls in the denim jackets with PIASTRI stitched across the back in big, white glittery letters. Their arts and crafts project for Silverstone.

Felicity was standing near the back of the garage, Bee balanced on her hip, and a pair of toddler-sized headphones slipped over her curls. The two of them had matching jackets, homemade and loud and perfect. Bee’s even had a sparkly iron-on chicken. Felicity’s had glitter stars. Oscar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He was mid-chat with one of the engineers when he glanced over again.

And froze.

Because some guy—tall, tanned, fake-smiling, and clearly trying to look famous—was leaning way too close to Felicity. His teeth were too white. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a drink, and worse, he had sunglasses on inside. Oscar didn’t even know where he’d come from — but there he was, leaning against the garage railing like it was a club bar and Felicity was the drink special.

He was saying something. Laughing too loud.

Felicity frowned politely. She shifted a sleeping Bee on her hip and took a half-step back.

The man followed.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, gesturing to her jacket, “if you’re gonna wear another man’s name on your back, he better be worth it.”

Felicity blinked. “He’s my husband.”

That didn’t deter him.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how good he’s got it,” the man said, still smiling, his gaze dropping briefly to her legs. “You ever get tired of being someone’s plus-one, let me know.”

Bee stirred a little, nose twitching, and Felicity rubbed her back automatically, like muscle memory. Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

The guy tilted his head. “C’mon. You’re clearly the type who plays the sweet wife in public. But a woman like you?” He dropped his voice. “You need real attention.”

Oscar took a step forward, but someone else moved faster.

“Alright,” said a voice, sharp and Australian and impossible to ignore. “Let’s try that again — from six feet away.”

The man turned, surprised, and saw Mark Webber.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to freeze a room.

He gave the man a smile that could cut glass. “You’ve got five seconds to back up before I make this very awkward for everyone.”

“Sorry, mate—”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” Mark said, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not her mate. You’re a stranger talking to a woman who’s clearly married, clearly holding a child, and clearly not interested. So unless you’re trying to get blacklisted from every paddock hospitality list from now until eternity, I’d walk away.”

The guy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned and slinked off like a coward in designer shoes.

Oscar finally got to them, face tight, fury in every step.

Mark nodded. “Handled.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mark looked at Felicity. “You alright?”

Felicity still looked baffled. “What was that?”

Oscar looked her over, checking Bee, checking her, like reassurance was the only way to keep his hands from shaking. “That guy was harassing you.”

“What? No. Was he?” She squinted after him. “He was just being weird.”

Oscar stared at her. “He was flirting. Badly.”

“He was being rude,” Felicity said. “And creepy. But flirting? Why would anyone flirt with someone holding a sleeping toddler and wearing a juice-stained T-shirt? Why does this keep happening?!”

Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re wearing a custom denim jacket with your husband’s name on it in glitter. Holding your kid. And you still have men sniffing around. That’s not on you — that’s on them being idiots.”

Oscar exhaled hard.

Felicity, still gently rocking Bee, just sighed. “Maybe I should just get a flashing neon sign.”

Oscar stepped closer and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

She looked at him, tired but unbothered. “Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be once I get you both inside.”

***

They were tucked away in the quiet corner of the drivers' room now, post-session, Bee still fast asleep on the little sofa wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies. The chaos of the paddock had faded into muffled noise.

Oscar was sitting across from Felicity, one leg bouncing.

He was still rattled.

“What do you mean they keep flirting with you?” he asked, brows drawn together as he looked at her.

Felicity blinked up at him. “What?”

“You said it like it happens regularly,” he said, voice low and sharp with something he was trying to keep cool. “Like that wasn’t the first time.”

She paused. Shrugged. “I mean… it does? A little?”

Oscar stared at her. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since Haileybury, probably? Or Oxford. And, like… in the hardware store.”

Oscar made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said simply, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “They’re not you. So they don’t have a chance.”

He stilled.

That one sentence — calm, sure, like it was the most obvious fact in the world — hit him in the chest like a perfect downshift.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew people looked,” he admitted.

Of course, they looked. He was aware of how Felicity looked: Sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Hair windswept from the open pit lane. She had juice on her shirt, no makeup, and still — still — she looked like something out of a dream. Breakable and brilliant. All porcelain and fire.

Beautiful.

“I’m not blind. But I didn’t realise they were… like that.”

“I don’t even get why they are doing it,” Felicity snorted. “I look like someone who hasn’t slept properly since Bee was born. I have crusted juice on my shirt. I literally threw Goldfish crackers at our daughter to buy myself ten minutes.”

Oscar leaned back, exasperated. “And you still look better than anyone else here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just biased.”

“I’m jealous,” he corrected, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I hate it. That guy didn’t even flinch when you said you were married.”

“He probably thought I was joking,” she said mildly. “People don’t really expect twenty-somethings to be married with kids.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “They should. You wear my name on your back.”

She shrugged. “They don’t matter. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Oscar was across the space in a second.

He kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate — hand sliding around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he had to remind himself she was real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shallow.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t own you, but God, I feel it sometimes. Like you’ve always been mine.”

“I have. Since we were 15,” she whispered. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even before you had a Wikipedia page.”

Oscar kissed her. Not rushed, not messy — but firm. Grounded. A kiss that said mine. A kiss that would’ve been indecent if she weren’t already wearing his name and carrying his child and his whole damn heart.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

And across the room, Bee stirred, let out a sleepy sigh, and snuggled deeper into Oscar’s hoodie.

Felicity leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous when you’re jealous.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed. “Yes.”

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armpirate · 5 months ago

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The Vows Between Us || Jungkook

Part 2

pairing: JK x fem!reader || Arranged marriage

w.c.: 13.6k

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), female masturbation, unprotected sex, teasing, edging (Minors DNI! Refrain from reading if you're not +18, and ignore if you don't like this type of content)

Aprox. time of reading: 40 / 50 minutes

Summary: For Jungkook, marrying you was a calculated move -a necessary step to secure the company that was rightfully his. But also a move to know you'd be his after years of looking at you from afar. For you, it was an escape from the gilded cage your family had locked you in. What neither of you anticipated was the spark that would ignite in the ashes of your arrangement. But in a world where every touch felt like a promise and every whisper hid a secret, falling for him was your first mistake. Because just when you thought his heart might truly be yours, you uncovered the truth. Or so you thought.

MASTERLIST

The air inside Jungkook's office was warm and suffocating despite the minimalistic modern design and large floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Berlin's skyline. You stepped inside with measured steps, your heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Jungkook was already there, leaning against the edge of his grand wooden desk with his long tattooed fingers wrapping around the pen that kept swirling on his digits every few seconds, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're early," he said, his voice smooth but laced with something smug.

"I prefer to get unpleasant things over with quickly," you replied, your tone cool and detached as you slipped off your coat. "I assume your father told you why I'm here."

Jungkook chuckled, swirling the pen one last time before putting it down. "Oh, I know. The future Mrs. Jeon wants to 'discuss terms,' right? Sounds like a business merger already." his dark eyes gleamed with interest as he looked you up and down, deliberately slow. "But I'm curious, why did you finally agree? You seemed so determined to avoid me before."

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Not everything is about you, Jungkook. My reasons are my own."

The smirk faltered for a split second before returning, this time tinged with something bittersweet. "Fair enough," he said, straightening up and taking a step closer, his voice dropping just slightly. "But you'll have to get used to things being about us. At least, that's what everyone else will expect starting next weekend."

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to show it. You kept your expression neutral, tilting your head just slightly. "Let's get one thing straight, this marriage may be inevitable, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Jungkook smiled -slow, dangerous, and entirely too pleased. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

That sentence alone had you rolling your eyes, trying to control yourself from slipping your tongue on how disgusted you were by that whole thing.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the strap of yourbag. "As long as you understand where we stand, this arrangement might work. We'll play the perfect couple for the public. But behind closed doors, we keep our distance until we sign the divorce papers. Simple."

Jungkook stepped closer, closing the space between you just enough to make your breath hitch. His cologne -warm and spicy- wrapped around you like an invisible trap. "Keep our distance?" he repeated, his voice low, almost amused. "Is that what you want? Because that's not what it looked like back at that business gala... when you couldn't stop staring."

As much as you wanted to deny it, your eyes were indeed on him the whole time. He was charming and captivating, it was impossible to move your eyes away from him. But that hypnosis lasted until his family came up with the idea of imposing that marriage on you. He lost all his charm just at that moment.

You narrowed your eyes. "I was staring at the disaster unfolding around me, not at you."

Jungkook smirked, tilting his head. "Right. That's why your eyes followed me the entire night." he leaned in, his lips just a breath away from your ear. "You're good at playing it cold, Y/n. But I wonder how long you can keep that act up once we're married."

You refused to back down, your voice calm despite the spark of irritation in your chest. "I've dealt with men far more intimidating than you, Jungkook. Trust me, keeping you at arm's length won't be a challenge."

A flicker of something darker crossed his eyes -something almost dangerous. For a moment, the air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and years of unresolved tension.

"Good," Jungkook finally said, his voice a whisper. "Keep trying to resist me. It'll make it that much more fun when you fail."

Your jaw tightened, and you took a step back, reclaiming the distance. "You're delusional if you think I'll ever fall for you."

Jungkook raised his eyebrows in amused awe as he took on the challenge. "We'll see, future Mrs. Jeon. We've got a lifetime to test that theory."

You turned on your heel, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words affected you. But as you walked toward the door, you couldn't shake the feeling that Jungkook was right. The real challenge wasn't staying distant -it was making sure you didn't get burned by the fire between you.

"By the way, you mentioned divorce... didn't you?" your tracks stopped the second he mentioned that detail, hearing his heavy steps behind you as he approached his body.

Slowly, you turned to him, unable to back down on your stance "That's what we agreed on."

"Some deals suffer changes as they have to meet different necessities, don't you think?" the way his eyebrows arched, while his lips pursed on a mocking grin almost had you losing your patience. "Divorce was ever on the plate? Because I don't think it was one of my conditions".

"No, it was one of mine" you spat back. "Either sign those divorce papers on good terms, or I'll drag you from one trial to another" Jungkook loved the challenge, he loved the way your eyes fixed on him to make sure he understood everything you were saying.

"What if I don't want to sign them?"

"Then you'll have to find another dumbass to agree to get married to you" you rolled your eyes, thinking that would be the end of your conversation, but his fingers hooked on your elbow to stop you from walking away.

You weren't sure exactly when he got so close, but you could feel the warm air escaping his nostrils on your cheeks.

"Don't try to throw a fist at me" he stopped you. "You're so used to getting what you want, don't you? You pout a little, you act a little bitchy and daddy gives you all you want. Let me give you a spoiler: that won't work with me. The moment you're my wife, you'll do as I say. And if I say I don't want to get divorced, then you won't get those fucking papers".

Your eyes started to water: rage, sadness, frustration... All those feelings were building up as you realized you got to a no-exit stop. Your plans were crumbling down, all your ideas were getting ruined, and all you could do was tighten your lips and open your eyes as much as possible so tears wouldn't escape with a blink.

Daddy's girl? He had absolutely no idea. If you were living in such a perfect place, you wouldn't have agreed in the first place, but the fact that your parents -or people who gave you shelter when you needed it- agreed on engaging their daughter with a complete stranger for money should've given him enough of a hint of your reality.

"Your choice" you managed to get rid of his grip. "Either sign those papers, or I'll make sure to tell everyone what all of this is about".

"You won't. And you wanna know how I know?" he took one step closer to you. "I'll make your life a living hell if you do".

"With what power?"

Your mocking tone was the last straw before he moved his hand from your elbow to your throat, wrapping his fingers around it and slamming your body against the wide door.

"I don't need any power for that." his eyes were dark, his threat becoming a promise "Even if it's the last thing I do, I'll make you regret ever messing with me. So you better come with a pretty dress and the best of attitudes next weekend". He let go of your throat slowly, calmly placing his shirt properly "I know you'll make the best decision" he finally said.

Your eyes were fixed on him, confused at how easily he let you go. And, somehow, his words were even scarier than his actions, because you could see the threat through them.

The grand hall was filled with muted whispers and expectant gazes, the air thick with anticipation. The soft hum of violins played in the background, their melody delicate but almost haunting. The guests sat in rows beneath an arch of white roses and crystal chandeliers, their eyes flitting between the tall doors at the back of the aisle and Jungkook, who stood at the altar in his perfectly tailored black suit, waiting.

His fingers twitched at his sides as he stole a glance at the watch, sliding the sleeve of his jacket just a bit far up.

Ten minutes late. Then fifteen.

You weren't there.

He told himself you'd show up. You had to. But with each passing second, doubt sank its claws deeper into him. His heart pounded, and the polished facade he wore so well began to crack. Was this your way of backing out? A silent rebellion against a marriage neither of you had chosen? Were you actually telling the truth when you said you wouldn't show up if he didn't promise you a divorce?

The doors remained closed, and Jungkook's jaw tightened. His father, seated in the front row, shot him a warning glance -one that practically screamed "Handle this".

Then, just as his patience teetered on the edge of collapse, the heavy doors finally creaked open.

A hush fell over the crowd.

And there you were.

You stood at the entrance in your wedding dress, the long veil trailing behind you, catching the soft light like a halo. For a moment, the room seemed to blur around you, everything fading except the heavy thud of your heart. You could feel every eye on you, the weight of their expectations pressing down on your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Your feet felt like concrete as you took your first step. Hesitation rooted itself deep inside you, your body caught in a battle between instinct and obligation.

Jungkook watched you with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His dark eyes flickered with a thousand questions. You couldn't miss the way his shoulders tensed or how his lips pressed into a thin line, betraying the fear he was trying so hard to conceal.

Step by step, you made your way down the aisle, but each step felt heavier than the last. Doubt whispered cruelly in your ear. "You don't have to do this" you told yourself.

Your fingers clutched the bouquet so tightly that your knuckles turned white. You forced yourself forward, your gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet Jungkook's eyes until you stood just a breath away from him.

"Finally," Jungkook muttered under his breath, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

There was relief in his tone, but it was wrapped in a layer of frustration.

The officiant began to speak, his words echoing in the cavernous hall. You barely registered them, your mind a tangled mess of emotions. Jungkook's eyes never left yours. His expression was calm on the surface, but you could see the storm raging just beneath it: fear, frustration, and something dangerously close to longing.

"And now," the officiant said, his voice cutting through the fog in your mind, "if the bride and groom would like to exchange their vows."

Jungkook went first. His voice was steady, but the practiced words carried an unexpected weight, laced with sincerity that caught you off guard.

"I promise to protect you," he said, his gaze locking onto yours. "To stand beside you through whatever comes next. No matter what happens... I'm yours."

There was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes -just a flash- but it was enough to send your heart lurching in your chest.

Then it was your turn. The officiant turned to you expectantly, waiting for your response.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came.

A heavy silence hung in the air. It stretched long enough to make the guests shift uncomfortably in their seats. Even the soft melody of the violins seemed to falter.

Everything you had prepared so mindfully disappeared at the feeling of being so watched, as if you were under watchful eye. You were sure it'd be obvious you weren't feeling either of the words you were pronouncing.

Jungkook's fingers curled slightly at his sides, his eyes searching yours for a sign, for anything.

The officiant cleared his throat. "Do you, Y/n, take Jeon Jungkook to be your lawfully wedded husband?" his tone was insistent, as if he wanted to get any words from you to get all of that over with.

The pause that followed was suffocating. You felt Jungkook's breath catch, his entire body coiled tight, ready to unravel.

Although he hoped you wouldn't humiliate him that way, he saw you completely able to do it.

Finally, you whispered the words.

"...I do."

Your voice was barely audible, a breath more than a declaration. But it was enough.

Jungkook exhaled, his shoulders relaxing, though the tension in his jaw remained. His eyes never left yours, dark and unreadable, as if trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

The officiant smiled, oblivious to the war waging between the two of you. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Jungkook hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before leaning in. Your head immediately threw back slightly, enough for him to know you didn't want that kiss and make it seem like a shy move for the rest of the assistants. His hand found your waist -firm but not forceful- as he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was brief, calculated for the audience, but the heat of it lingered far longer than it should have. Jungkook had been daydreaming way too long about it to waste that chance.

His lips were warm against yours, but there was something else beneath the surface. A question. A challenge.

When he pulled back, his eyes locked on yours once more. He didn't smile. Neither did you.

The applause from the crowd felt distant, like it belonged to another world entirely.

As the two of you turned to face the audience, Jungkook leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear.

"We're just getting started," he whispered, his voice dark with promise.

You kept your face neutral, your expression unreadable, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding wildly in your chest.

The reception was a spectacle of luxury and elegance, just as expected from a merger of two powerful families. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the grand hall, where hundreds of guests mingled, sipping champagne and exchanging polite congratulations.

You smiled and nodded your way through countless conversations, always keeping one eye on Jungkook. He was never far, and every time you saw him start toward you, you slipped between groups of guests or ducked behind another table.

You had managed to avoid him all night. At the cake-cutting ceremony, his hand had hovered near yours on the knife, holding tighter over your skin as you threatened to let the long sword slide from your fingers to his throat. And for a fleeting moment, you thought he might say something, yet he only smirked and moved closer to you. You were quick to turn away, disappearing into the crowd the moment the applause broke, trying to get away from him.

Jungkook, however, was nothing if not persistent.

The moment you saw him again, his dark eyes locked onto yours from across the dance floor. This time, there was no escape. The crowd parted just enough for him to make his way toward you, his strides deliberate and confident.

"Running from me again?" he said when he reached you, his voice low, a challenge glinting in his eyes.

You lifted your chin, forcing your expression to stay composed. "I wasn't running. I was... mingling with the guests."

His lips curled into a smirk. "Right. Mingling." he offered his hand, palm open and waiting. "Well, it's time for the first dance, Mrs. Jeon. You wouldn't want to disappoint our guests, would you?"

Your stomach tightened at the weight of his words. There was no getting out of this. Not without causing a scene.

With a quiet sigh, you slipped your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours, warm and firm, and you couldn't help but notice how easily they fit together.

The lights dimmed, and the soft melody of "You Are the Reason" by Calum Scott filled the air. A sweet, tender song -one that felt far too intimate for the situation, as if it was meant for two people who loved each other.

Jungkook led you to the center of the dance floor, his hand resting gently on your waist, pulling you just close enough to make your pulse stutter.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show up today," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the music. His eyes searched yours, the teasing edge gone now, replaced by something far more serious. "You made me worried."

You swallowed, your gaze dropping for a split second before meeting his again. "I was... thinking things through."

His hand tightened slightly on your waist. "Did you change your mind at the last minute?"

For a moment, you didn't answer. The question hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. The song swelled around you, the lyrics wrapping around your heart like a bittersweet lullaby.

You knew hell would be nothing compared to your life if you didn't show up to the wedding. Not because of Jungkook or his family though, but your adoptive parents. The moment you twisted all of their plans, there would be no escape from it.

At least with Jungkook you wouldn't owe anyone anything. Instead, you'd be the one they owe something to.

Jungkook's eyes softened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "If you had, I would've waited. I would've found another way."

Your breath hitched. His words caught you off guard -unexpected and disarming. For the first time that night, the wall you had so carefully built around yourself began to crack.

He seemed so genuine, so caring.

"I'm here now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "That's all that matters."

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he nodded. "Yeah. You're here."

The music continued, the world around you fading as you moved together in perfect synchrony. His touch was light yet grounding, his eyes never leaving yours.

For a fleeting second, you forgot about the crowd, the expectations, the tangled mess of your circumstances. It was just the two of you, swaying gently beneath the chandeliers, the lyrics of the song weaving a story neither of you was ready to admit aloud.

As the final notes faded, Jungkook leaned in just slightly, his voice a soft murmur against your ear.

"You can keep running all you want," he said, his breath warm on your skin. "But sooner or later, you'll stop. And when you do... I'll be right here, waiting."

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. There was no smirk, no mask, just him.

The applause from the crowd broke the spell, and you quickly stepped back, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. Jungkook let you go, but his eyes stayed on you, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to run again.

And maybe you would. But for the first time, a small part of you wondered if running was really what you wanted. No, you stayed by his side, answering to his challenge with the same power he was showing off.

The party blurred into a collection of clinking glasses, polite congratulations, and watchful eyes. Despite the sea of guests surrounding you, you felt like you were holding your breath the entire time. So when Jungkook leaned close and whispered, "Let's get out of here," you didn't argue. If he hadn't said it, you probably would've escaped by yourself.

Now, the two of you sat in the back of a sleek black car, the hum of the city filling the silence between you. The driver navigated the streets with ease, the warm glow of streetlights flashing across the car's interior.

Jungkook sat beside you, his posture relaxed, but his eyes kept drifting toward your hand -the wedding ring glinting softly on your finger. He didn't bother hiding the fact that he was staring.

You caught him once, raising an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, something unreadable flashed across his face. "No," he said quietly. "Just getting used to the sight."

You turned your hand slightly, the light catching on the diamond. The ring was beautiful, of course -a complex design that was probably picked out by your parents and Jungkook's father rather than by either of you. It felt foreign on your finger, a constant reminder of the deal you'd made.

Jungkook's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It suits you," he said, his voice soft, almost contemplative.

You said nothing, turning your head to watch the city rush by through the window. Jungkook simply smirked, knowing that your silence was better than a sassy response from you.

When the car finally pulled up to the luxury hotel, you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. The driver opened the door, and you stepped out, feeling the cool night air brush against your skin. Jungkook followed close behind, his hand hovering near the small of your back but never quite touching.

The suite was exactly what you expected -grand and luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the Brandenburg Gate. A bottle of champagne and a tray of chocolates waited on the marble table, while a large king-sized bed sat at the center of the room, draped in crisp white linens.

You set your bag down and turned to Jungkook, folding your arms across your chest. "I'll take the bed. You can sleep on the couch."

His eyebrows lifted slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "The couch?"

"It's comfortable enough," you said, nodding toward the plush, oversized sofa near the window. "Plenty of space."

Jungkook took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "We're married now, remember? Sharing the bed won't kill us."

You scoffed lightly, crossing the room to stand by the couch. "Not happening." You glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow. "Fine. You take the bed. I'll sleep here." you rushed to say, feeling your energy consumed by the small talk you made with all the guests.

"No." his response was immediate, his tone firm. "You're not sleeping on the couch."

"Then am I sleeping on the floor?" you arched an eyebrow "Because I won't sleep with you in the same bed".

You stared at him, daring him to argue further. But to your surprise, he sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Alright. I'll sleep on the couch."

His sudden surrender caught you off guard. "Just like that?"

He smirked faintly, tossing his jacket onto a chair. "I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"

You watched him for a moment, suspicious of how easily he gave in, but ultimately decided not to push it. "Good. I'll get ready for bed."

As you disappeared into the bathroom, Jungkook sank onto the couch, leaning his head back against the cushions. He glanced at the wedding ring on his own hand, turning it slowly between his fingers. For all his confidence and charm, there was something strangely grounding about the weight of the band.

As much as that wasn't the way he wanted you to be by his side, it somehow made him feel good.

When you returned, dressed in something far more comfortable than your wedding gown, Jungkook was already stretched out on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes.

"Comfortable?" you asked, standing by the bed.

He peeked at you from beneath his arm, his lips quivering into a faint smile. "I've had worse."

You rolled your eyes and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around you. For a few moments, silence filled the room, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside the windows.

Just as your eyes started to drift closed, you heard Jungkook's voice -quiet but clear in the darkness.

"Goodnight, Y/n."

You hesitated before responding, your voice soft. "Goodnight, Jungkook."

Neither of you said anything after that, but sleep didn't come easily. You lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, painfully aware of his presence just a few feet away.

The distance between you felt both vast and dangerously fragile. And as the minutes stretched into hours, you couldn't help but wonder how long it would stay that way.

The morning started quietly -too quietly. You woke up, blinking against the soft morning light spilling into the room, only to find Jungkook already sitting on the couch, his phone in hand. His jacket was gone, and his dress shirt, slightly wrinkled from the night before, was unbuttoned at the collar. He looked far too relaxed for someone who had spent the night on a couch after your wedding.

"Good morning," he said, his eyes flicking to yours the second you stirred. His voice was calm, but there was something smug lurking just beneath the surface, as if he was already one step ahead of you.

You rubbed your eyes, forcing yourself to sound composed. "Morning."

A few beats of silence passed, too long to be comfortable.

"You were tossing and turning last night," Jungkook said casually, stretching his arms behind his head. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I slept just fine," you lied, standing and heading for your bag. You could feel his eyes on your every move, sharp and assessing.

"You sure? You sounded restless." his voice was smooth, laced with amusement.

You froze, giving him a flat look. "Were you listening to me sleep?"

He grinned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's hard not to when someone mutters 'This is a mistake' at 2 a.m."

Your face heated. "I did not..."

"You did." his smirk widened. "I thought about waking you up to ask what you meant, but I figured I'd let you dream about it instead."

You crossed your arms, your patience wearing thin. "Thanks for your consideration, Jungkook."

"Anything for you, love," he said, drawing out the word with deliberate sarcasm.

"You've really mastered being annoying, haven't you?" you shot back, heading toward the closet.

"Years of practice," he said, standing up and stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. "You'll get used to it."

You rolled your eyes, yanking open your suitcase with unnecessary force. "God forbid."

Jungkook chuckled under his breath, walking over to lean casually against the wall beside you. "You can deny it all you want, but deep down, you like this."

You turned to glare at him. "Like what?"

"This," he said, gesturing between the two of you. "The bickering. The back-and-forth. Admit it, it's fun."

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "Jungkook, not everything is a game. And if you think this -whatever this is- counts as fun, then we're going to have a very long, very difficult marriage."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "A long marriage... Sounds like you're planning to stick around. It does sound really good to me."

"Oh my god," you muttered, turning on your heel. "I can't do this right now."

You stalked toward the bathroom, determined to get a moment's peace.

"You're already giving up?" he called after you. "We've been married for less than 24 hours, Y/n!"

"I'm not giving up. I'm taking a shower," you snapped, slamming the bathroom door shut.

The water was a relief, washing away some of the tension, but your frustration lingered like a storm cloud. And then, halfway through shampooing your hair, you realized something.

You forgot to bring clothes.

You let out a frustrated groan, rinsing the shampoo quickly before wrapping yourself in a towel. The last thing you wanted was to ask Jungkook for help, so you cracked the door open and peeked out.

He was still there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, clearly waiting for your return like some smug predator.

Of course.

You squared your shoulders and stepped out, keeping your head high as you made your way toward the bag.

Jungkook's eyes found you immediately, sweeping over your damp hair and the towel wrapped tightly around you. He didn't even try to hide it.

"Forgot something?" his voice was low and teasing.

"Not a word," you warned, grabbing your clothes.

But before you could escape back to the bathroom, his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His fingers were warm, firm, and far too steady for someone who was enjoying this way too much.

"Why bother going back?" he said softly, his voice dropping into that dangerously calm tone that always made your pulse race. "You're already here."

You tightened your grip on your towel. "Let me go, Jungkook."

His eyes darkened, his thumb brushing against your wrist in a slow, deliberate motion. "Why? What's the big deal? We're married now, remember?"

Your breath caught, but you forced your voice to stay steady. "I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you're thinking."

He leaned in just slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. "Then prove it. Get changed right here." His gaze dropped for a split second before meeting yours again, his voice barely a whisper. "Unless you're shy."

Your heart thundered in your chest, heat rushing to your face. "I'm not shy."

You weren't shy, but you didn't like the way your body was reacting to his voice, to his petition and his proximity. And you certainly didn't want him to see it so clearly either.

"Then go ahead," he said, his voice practically daring you.

You glared at him, yanking your wrist free. "Turn around."

"I'm not turning around" he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What's the fun of it if I can't see you?"

He was trying to intimidate you, challenge you to do something he thought you wouldn't dare to do, so he could then tease you about it.

Two could play that game.

You placed the clothes on the bed, next to where he was. Taking one step back, your hands were placed on both edges of the towel, slowly undoing the knot to let it pool at your feet. Jungkook gulped thick at the sight, not expecting you to actually get naked in front of him, and even less that way, and it gave you a pinch of pride at how nervous he looked for a second.

You didn't need to do anything, just that stare and the sight of your body alone was enough to awaken the most primal needs. His body responded to you, even if it had been just a second he saw you. Your humid skin, the way some drops fell from your hair and rolled down the curve of your breast to get to your hardened nipple. His mouth was watering just with the need of tasting you.

Jungkook blinked, confused at the way your hand was stretched out for him, "The panties" you mentioned as if it were obvious.

His hand moved to his left, grabbing the fabric to hand it out to you. You put them on torturously slow, covering your lower half to snap your fingers and asking him for your bra. Placing the strips on your shoulders, you turned to him, your body fitting perfectly in between his semi-parted legs as you silently asked him to tie the clasp.

Shivers ran through your body at the contact of the reverse of his fingers on your skin, his touch holding on longer than necessary, just because he liked the way you felt as he touched you a little bit too much.

You didn't need to ask, because Jungkook moved to the next item the moment you stepped away.

He should've seen it coming for him when he saw you lifting your feet, placing it on his thigh -way too close to a place where he needed you like crazy. Your fingers moved calmly, sliding the tight over your leg, up the curve of your knee, moving it past your thigh. Yet Jungkook could only focus on how your warmth spread over his skin like wildfire, making him feel you were touching him in places you were not.

When you finally stepped back to put on the other side of the tight, and the rest of clothes, Jungkook felt like he could breathe again, his control coming back to him when he was able to think straight -which also happened when you were fully clothed again.

You thought he'd hesitate or act shy, but instead his cocky attitude came back as he stood up, the height difference becoming obvious again as he towered over you.

"See how it isn't that difficult to be a good girl?" he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You'd have thrown a shoe at him if he hadn't hidden inside the bathroom immediately after airing out that response.

He was insufferable.

The car ride to Jungkook's house was quiet, tense, and far too long for your liking. The morning sun bathed the streets in gold, but it did nothing to lighten the atmosphere inside the vehicle. Jungkook sat beside you, one arm draped lazily across the back of the seat, his eyes occasionally drifting toward you as you stared resolutely out the window.

He had been surprisingly well-behaved since the towel incident, keeping his teasing remarks to a minimum -though his occasional glances were enough to keep you on edge.

When the car finally pulled up in front of his house, your eyes widened slightly. House was an understatement. It was a sprawling modern estate with sleek glass panels, sharp architectural lines, and an air of quiet luxury.

"Home sweet home," Jungkook said, stepping out of the car and holding the door open for you with a half-smirk.

You stepped out, clutching your overnight bag tightly. "Big enough so we won't have to see each other for a whole day"

"Thanks for noticing," he quipped. "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour."

You followed him up the steps, trying not to be too impressed as you took in the pristine interior-marble floors, minimalist décor, and massive windows that flooded the space with light.

"Kitchen's over there," Jungkook said, gesturing toward an open-concept area with gleaming countertops. "Dining room, living room... you know, standard rich-guy stuff."

"Right," you said dryly. "Because this is completely normal."

He glanced back at you with a grin. "You'll get used to it." the mockery on his tone, knowing damn too well you were used to all that luxury and more, shouldn't have been as funny as it seemed for you.

You rolled your eyes, walking a little faster to avoid his gaze. The tension from earlier was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it was muted now, replaced by an odd sense of anticipation.

"Upstairs," Jungkook said, leading you to the second floor. You followed him down a hallway lined with modern artwork and huge windows, your footsteps echoing softly on the hardwood floors.

He stopped in front of a door near the end of the hallway and turned to you. "This is your room."

You blinked, caught off guard. "My... room?"

Jungkook nodded, his expression unreadable. "I figured you'd want your own space."

Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag. For a moment, you didn't know what to say. You had fully expected him to make some smug comment about sharing a bed -or worse, insist on it. But there he was, offering you something you hadn't dared to hope for: distance.

"Thanks," you said quietly, stepping into the room. It was beautiful -spacious, with a king-sized bed, soft cream-colored walls, and a large window that overlooked the shared garden of the building. There was even an en-suite bathroom with a walk-in shower and a deep soaking tub.

You indeed wouldn't need to get out there, except to eat.

"Your things are in the closet" he started. "You didn't bring a lot of things, so I guess you'll bring the rest later?"

"No, that's it" you whispered.

Jungkook stopped for a second, shocked about the fact that you only brought a medium suitcase and the bag you were carrying to pack up all of your things. It wasn't like he was expecting a full suitcase display from you, but certainly not something so minimal.

"I'll be down the hall if you need anything," Jungkook said, lingering in the doorway. His eyes softened, his earlier bravado fading just a little. "Seriously. Anything."

For a brief second, the air between you shifted. He wasn't teasing or smug. He just looked... sincere.

You hesitated, feeling the strange urge to say something more, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you gave him a small nod. "I'll be fine."

He smiled faintly, stepping back. "Alright. Settle in. I'll see you downstairs."

As he walked away, you closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

But then again, with Jungkook, nothing ever stayed calm for long.

The first month of marriage was nothing short of a battlefield.

It didn't take long for every small interaction to turn into a heated argument. Jungkook always had something to say -sharp and sarcastic, ready to push your buttons at every opportunity. You were no better, meeting his smug remarks with icy glares and curt responses. It became a game, a war of words and wills, with neither of you willing to surrender.

There were good moments, but they were fleeting. It started with you finding out Jungkook filled up your closet with different clothes and accessories, adding up to the small suitcase you first brought. And it slowly evolved into a laugh shared over breakfast when Jungkook nearly burned his toast. A surprisingly comfortable evening spent watching a movie in silence, where the tension seemed to ease just a little. But those moments were always overshadowed by the endless tug-of-war that followed.

It was exhausting, that constant dance of hostility and fleeting truce.

Every day felt like a test of who could push the other further without breaking. The house, despite its size, felt stifling. His presence lingered in every room -a constant reminder that your marriage was nothing more than a cage disguised as luxury.

And today, you'd had enough.

The argument started in the kitchen that morning, over something as trivial as a set of misplaced car keys. It escalated far too quickly, voices rising, accusations flying.

"You always think you can control everything," you snapped, crossing your arms.

Jungkook leaned against the counter, his jaw tightening. "Control? I'm trying to help you, but you treat everything I say like it's some personal attack."

"Because it always is!" you threw up your hands in frustration. "You don't know how to back off, Jungkook! You just keep pushing and pushing... Fuck, you don't let me breathe!"

"Maybe because you keep running away instead of facing things!" his voice dropped, low and sharp. "You're so obsessed with shutting me out that you can't even see when someone's trying to meet you halfway."

You stared at him, chest heaving, words caught in your throat. For a second, neither of you moved. The silence felt heavier than the argument itself.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel and stormed upstairs. You needed air, space, anything to escape that suffocating cycle.

In your room, you grabbed a coat and your purse, your hands trembling with frustration. Your eyes caught on your wedding ring, glinting in the sunlight. The sight of it only fueled the fire burning in your chest.

You slipped it off, the cool metal unfamiliar without the warmth of your skin beneath it. For a moment, you stared at the ring in your palm, your thoughts a chaotic swirl of emotions.

Then you set it on the dresser and walked out of the room, not bothering to look back.

Jungkook was still in the kitchen when you came back down, his back to you. You didn't say a word as you grabbed your keys from the counter and headed for the front door.

The sound of your footsteps must have caught his attention because he turned around, his eyes narrowing. "Where are you going?"

"Out," you said shortly, not slowing down.

"Without your ring?" his voice was calm, too calm. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You paused, hand on the door handle, refusing to turn around. "I need some time alone."

"And you think taking off your ring is the way to do that?" his footsteps echoed behind you, slow and deliberate. "Is this your idea of freedom?"

You finally turned to face him, meeting his eyes head-on. "What does it matter? It's not like this marriage is real anyway."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

For the first time in weeks, Jungkook didn't have a quick response. He just looked at you, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite place -hurt, maybe, or anger, or both.

"If you walk out that door without it," he said quietly, "don't expect me to come looking for you."

The threat was clear, but it only made your resolve stronger.

"Good," you said, voice steady. "That's exactly what I want."

And with that, you opened the door and stepped outside, the cool air hitting your face like a slap.

As you walked toward your car, your heart pounded in your chest. Part of you expected him to follow, to stop you. But when you glanced back, the door was already closed.

Maybe he didn't care enough to stop you after all. Although you wouldn't think too much about it. The more he ignored you, the more freedom you'd have.

The bar was harmonized with a low hum of conversation and soft music filling the air. You had no plan when you walked in -just an overwhelming need to be anywhere but at that house. You found a spot at the bar, ordering a drink and savoring the temporary escape it promised.

The alcohol warmed your throat and dulled the frustration swirling in your chest. One drink turned into two, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again.

"You look like you could use some company."

You glanced up to see a man standing beside you, his smile easy and confident. His eyes lingered on you just a little too long.

"Not really," you said, turning back to your drink.

"Come on, don't be like that," he said, leaning in closer. "It's just a conversation. You shouldn't be alone in a place like this."

"I'm fine," you insisted, but he didn't seem to get the hint.

The air shifted before you could say anything else, a new presence filling the space behind you.

"She's not alone."

You froze at the familiar voice, low and commanding. Turning slightly, you found yourself face-to-face with Jungkook. His dark eyes were locked on the man, his jaw tight, his entire body radiating quiet danger.

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "And who are you?"

Jungkook's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Her husband."

The word hung in the air like a gunshot, silencing everything around you.

The man's eyes flicked between the two of you, suddenly less confident. "Right... well, my mistake." he backed away with a muttered apology, disappearing into the crowd.

Your heart was pounding, though you weren't sure if it was from the alcohol or the way Jungkook's eyes hadn't left you once.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, trying to sound unaffected.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said, his voice calm but laced with barely restrained frustration. "But I guess taking off your ring and disappearing without a word answers that for me."

"I needed space," you said, crossing your arms. "You don't own me, Jungkook."

His eyes darkened. "You're right. I don't. But I'm still your husband. If you disappear in the middle of the night, I'll come looking for you. And if some creep thinks he can hit on you, then I'm going to do something about it."

You rolled your eyes, the alcohol emboldening you. "So this is about your ego?"

He took a step closer, the tension crackling between you. "No. It's about the fact that I care, whether you want to believe it or not."

His words caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

"Let's go," he said, his tone softening just a fraction. "It's late."

"I'm not going anywhere," you said stubbornly, turning back toward the bar.

Jungkook let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Fine. You want to be difficult? Have it your way."

Before you could react, his arm looped around your waist, and in one swift motion, he threw you over his shoulder like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Jungkook!" you gasped, pounding your fists against his back. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance," he muttered, already weaving his way through the crowd. Heads turned, curious eyes following the scene as you squirmed in his grip. "You brought this on yourself."

"Jungkook, I swear to God..."

"You can yell all you want," he said calmly. "We're leaving."

Once outside, the cool night air hit you like a slap, but it did little to cool the heat rising in your cheeks -from anger or embarrassment, you weren't sure. Jungkook carried you all the way to his car, finally setting you down beside it.

"You're insane," you snapped, your breath coming fast as you straightened your clothes.

"Maybe," he said, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I thought you'd have learned to love it by now."

For a moment, you stood there, caught in a standoff.

"Get in the car," he said softly, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice.

Your pride told you to refuse, to stand your ground and make this even more difficult. But something about the intensity in his eyes made you falter.

Wordlessly, you opened the car door and got in, your pulse still racing.

Jungkook slid into the driver's seat, starting the car without another word. The ride home was silent, the air between you charged with tension. You could feel his occasional glances, the way his hands tightened around the steering wheel every time your bare finger caught the light.

The ride home was silent. He didn't speak, and neither did you. But the weight of everything unsaid filled the car, pressing down on you both.

When you pulled up in front of the building, Jungkook finally broke the silence.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice low. "But if you want to leave, really leave, just say it. I'll let you go."

You turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his eyes. It was the first time you'd seen him drop his guard like this.

But instead of answering, you opened the door and stepped out, your heart pounding in your chest.

Jungkook stayed in the car for a moment before following you inside. Neither of you said a word as you climbed the stairs, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

When you reached your room, you paused in the doorway, glancing back at him.

"Goodnight," you said softly, your voice barely audible.

For once, Jungkook didn't have a clever comeback. He just nodded, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than they should have.

"Goodnight," he echoed, his voice rough around the edges.

As you closed the door behind you, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you -something neither of you was ready to admit yet.

The tension between you and Jungkook had been palpable since that night. Every word, every glance, felt like a battle -a silent war that neither of you was willing to lose. And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, you found yourself trapped at one of his company's lavish parties, drowning in champagne and meaningless small talk.

It wasn't your kind of crowd. Polished executives and their equally polished partners swirled around you, exchanging pleasantries and hollow laughs. Being the accessory of the main character of the party wasn't your thing at all. You stood near the bar, sipping your drink, counting down the minutes until you could escape.

That's when you saw him, Jungkook, standing at the center of a group of people, commanding their attention with ease. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, his hair perfectly styled, exuding the kind of confidence that made it impossible to look away.

And then you noticed her.

She was standing beside him, too close, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she laughed at something he said. A striking woman in a sleek red dress, her eyes sparkled with something far more than professional interest.

Your grip on your glass tightened as you watched her lean in, whispering something into his ear. To your horror, Jungkook didn't pull away. Instead, he turned toward her with a slow smile, his eyes dropping deliberately to her lips before meeting hers again.

It was a calculated move -one meant for your benefit. You knew it. He knew it.

Your stomach twisted, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous bubbling in your chest. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

You turned your back to him, willing yourself to focus on the conversation happening nearby. It was meaningless chatter, something about stock prices, but you latched onto it, pretending you didn't notice the way your pulse was racing.

"Jealous, love?"

The voice was low and teasing, right behind you. You didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"Hardly," you said, taking a sip of your drink without looking at him. "Do what you want. I couldn't care less."

"Is that so?" Jungkook stepped into your line of vision, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Because it looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing your drink at her."

"More like two seconds away from smacking this glass on your head" you finally sentenced.

"That does sound like someone who's jealous"

You forced a smile, meeting his gaze head-on. "Please. If I wanted to make a scene, you'd know it."

Jungkook chuckled, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. "Careful, Y/n. You might give me the wrong idea: that you actually care about me and what I do."

Your pulse jumped, but you refused to let him win. "Trust me, I don't." you narrowed your eyes while looking at him "Just be careful of how you behave in front of everyone. We're still married. In private, do whatever the fuck you please".

His smile was slow, almost predatory. "Good. Because I'd hate for you to get hurt playing a game you can't win."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, breathless and furious.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. You couldn't stop watching him: laughing, smiling, always with her by his side. Each glance felt like a deliberate push, a challenge to see how far you'd let him go.

By the time the party started winding down, you'd had enough. You grabbed your purse and made your way toward the exit, your steps quick and determined.

But before you could leave, a hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"Running away again?" Jungkook's voice was calm, but his grip was firm.

"Let go," you said, your voice low and dangerous.

"Not until you admit it." His eyes locked onto yours, the amusement gone, replaced by something far more serious.

"Admit what?"

"That you care," he said simply.

You yanked your wrist free, your eyes burning with fury. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet, here you are," Jungkook said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Still standing in front of me". You didn't know when he stepped so close that your chests were pressed together and your breaths were mixing between you two "I'm only yours, love. You just need to ask me, and I'll declare to you my love without thinking twice".

For a moment, the world around you seemed to fade, the party noise a distant hum. You hated how close he was, how easily he could get under your skin.

But you refused to give him what he wanted. Not tonight.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, ignoring the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

The car ride back was suffocatingly quiet. The air between you felt like a loaded gun, ready to go off at the slightest provocation. Jungkook's hands rested on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window in stubborn silence.

The tires crunched on the gravel as the car came to a stop in front of the building. You didn't wait for him to say anything -didn't even glance his way as you pushed the door open and strode toward the front entrance.

But the sound of his footsteps trailing behind you, steady and deliberate, made your pulse quicken.

You barely made it inside when Jungkook's voice cut through the silence.

"Care to explain what that little stunt at the party was all about?" his tone was deceptively calm, but the underlying tension was unmistakable.

You spun around, glaring at him. "Are you seriously accusing me of something after what you pulled tonight? Flirting with her right in front of me?"

Jungkook smirked, stepping closer. "You noticed."

"Of course I noticed!" you snapped, your voice rising. "You made sure I would."

He shrugged, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "Maybe. But you didn't have to leave the party like that, running off again like you always do. It's getting old, Y/n."

"Maybe it's because I can't stand being around you," you shot back, your voice trembling slightly with the force of your anger. "Did you think of that?"

Jungkook tilted his head, studying you. "No," he said quietly, stepping even closer until there was barely any space between you. "I think you left because it bothered you. Because for once, you didn't have control, and it drove you crazy."

Your breath hitched, but you refused to back down. "You think too highly of yourself."

"Do I?" his voice was a whisper now, low and deliberate, each word wrapping around you like a challenge. "Then why are you shaking?"

You hated him for being right. Hated how easily he could strip away every layer of defense you had built.

"I'm not..."

"You are," he interrupted, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "And it's not because you're angry. It's because you feel something."

You opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out.

His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before locking onto yours again. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll back off," he said softly. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll stop."

You stared at him, your heart pounding so hard it was almost painful.

But you couldn't say it.

The words wouldn't come.

Jungkook's smile was slow and triumphant. "That's what I thought."

He turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, breathless and furious, your skin still burning from his touch.

"You're insufferable," you called after him, but your voice wavered, the heat of your frustration blending with something far more dangerous.

Jungkook stopped mid-step, his back still to you. For a split second, you thought he'd ignore you, that he'd let you stew in your own whirlwind of emotions.

But then he turned, slow and deliberate, his dark eyes locking onto yours like a predator sizing up its prey. His steps were measured, each one bringing him closer, the air between you thick with electricity.

"You know what's really insufferable?" his voice was low, almost a growl. "The way you keep running. The way you keep fighting me when we both know exactly how this will end."

Your breath caught in your throat as he came to a stop just inches from you, his body radiating warmth, his presence overwhelming.

"I'm not running," you said, though it sounded more like a whisper than the firm declaration you intended.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent a jolt of heat racing through you.

The space between you disappeared in a heartbeat. His lips crashed against yours, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The kiss was anything but gentle -wild, desperate, and filled with every bit of frustration and desire that had built up between you.

Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing grounding you. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip possessive and unrelenting.

It felt better than anything neither of you could've ever imagined. It wasn't just a kiss -it was a battle, a collision of everything you didn't say, everything you'd tried to ignore.

His lips moved against yours with an urgency that made your head spin, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before deepening the kiss. You gasped when he sank his tongue in your mouth, quickly meeting yours at the same time he cornered you on the wall next to the door, his hand gently cupping the back of your head before moving it back to your neck.

You hated him for making you feel this way, for always knowing how to push you to the edge and catch you before you fell.

But at that moment, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths were ragged, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes searched yours, dark and unreadable, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

"Say it," Jungkook whispered, his voice rough and breathless. "Say you don't feel anything."

You stayed silent, your lips still tingling from his kiss.

But the way your hands lingered on his chest, the way your body leaned into his, spoke louder than any words ever could.

He took your silence as the perfect answer, smirking to himself before he linked your lips together again. His fingers sank in your hair at the back of your head, twirling them on some locks to pull from them and throw your head to the side as he kissed you down your neck.

"You're absolutely everything I've ever fucking dreamed of" he heavily whispered on your skin. "I want to admire you, worship your body and make love to you so you'd meet a devotion you had never seen in your life. But hell... when you look at me that way..." his thumb brushed over your cheekbone "I want to ruin you so bad, show you no one will fuck you so good to make your ears beep so loud you won't be hearing your own pleas when you ask me to stop".

Your kiss grew more passionate, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, when he kissed you again. His hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your back, the swell of your hips. You could feel the hardness of his body against yours, and it sent a thrill through you, craving for something you didn't know you were desperate for. You moaned softly into his mouth, pressing yourself against him, at the same time his hands held your hips to keep your body glued to him.

Jungkook broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck again, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You arched my back, a soft sigh escaping your lips, when his fingers brushed against the little skin that was shown off through the cleavage of your dress. It frustrated you, but it also felt so good the way your body responded to his touch without a resistance, your nipples hardening against the fabric of your bra, your entrance clenching around nothing as you kept waiting to feel him inside you.

When he looked down at you once again, his hands moved down to the zip of your dress, his thumb brushing on your skin while his other fingers slid the material down. He didn't need to ask you, he didn't need to tell you, you helped him take off your dress.

His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, his breath hitching. You were definitely better than he could've ever imagined. No light pajamas would ever compare to the vision in front of him.

You reached for the hem of his black shirt, pulling from the buttons to reveal his toned chest. Jungkook had to hold back the growl in his throat when you ran your fingers over the muscles, feeling the heat of his skin, making him sure your fingerprints were burning every inch you were moving through.

He wasn't going to let you take control so easily though.

He lowered his head all of a sudden, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth through the lace of your bra. You gasped, your hands fisting in his hair as a way to control your own self. He teased and suckled, his other hand cupping your breast before he dragged his fingers down with the fabric, exposing the flesh, his thumb rubbing against your nipple before he pinched it with his index. You could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your body aching for more.

Jungkook slipped the straps of your bra off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He took his time, exploring every inch of your body with his mouth and hands. He made you squirm beneath him, he filled your head with pleas you never thought would ever be aimed at him, your body was on fire for him.

You reached for his belt, unbuckling it slowly. He lifted his hips to help you, his jeans and boxers coming off in one swift motion. You looked down at him, your eyes widening at the sight of his hard length. He was thick and long, the tip glistening with pre-cum. You licked your lips when a sudden urge to taste him overwhelmed you. Was it how sexy he actually was? Or how bad you wanted him to beg for you and finally accept you were in control? Maybe both?

You leaned down on your knees, not wasting a moment before taking him into your mouth. He groaned, his hands tangling in your hair as your tongue swirled around him. You sucked and licked, your head bobbing up and down at a tortuous speed. You could feel him getting harder, his hips thrusting gently. You took him deeper when he pushed you lower, your nose brushing against his skin to look up to him.

And hell, if that image wasn't the best sight ever...

He pulled you up with one swift motion, your lips still parted to the size of his length when he crashed his lips against yours again. Your back slammed against the door, and your head banged against it the moment he pulled your panties down and slid two fingers in you. His thumb brushed over your clit gently, slowly, which was opposite to the way his curved digits moved and rubbed against your walls.

He earned another moan from you, and his cock twitched in the air against your body once more.

"Who do you belong to, Y/n? Who owns you now?" his voice was thick and raspy as he whispered. His voice was a mix of cockiness and need to prove you always belonged to him.

The moment you tried to move your head forward to rest on his shoulder, his fingers wrapped around your throat and stuck your head against the wood to keep your eyes fixed on him.

You didn't know what to do with your arms, how to keep yourself on your feet, but you did know you had to keep your eyes fixed on him.

"My love" he almost sang when he felt the way your walls clenched around him and your clit throbbing "I've only been yours" his digits squeezed your throat tighter, unaware of how that dragged you closer to your orgasm.

Your body squirmed and folded under his grip when that hurricane hit you, yet he didn't stop. His movements were more delicate and slower, but he fingered you through your orgasm until he felt your breathing settling again.

Your lips were parted when his wet fingers slid through them, and you blindly obeyed, closing your mouth around his digits to lick every drop of his work of art. Jungkook barely gave you time to let go of them before his lips crashed against yours again, his tongue looking out for yours to taste you directly on it.

You were so addictive.

Jungkook picked you up effortlessly, humming at your legs wrapping around his waist, as he made his way to his bedroom.

When he let you down on his mattress, he couldn't help but admire the way your naked skin stood out so clearly while lying over his sheets, dying to twirl his fingers on those locks spread over his pillow. You brought in him a feral attitude he didn't know was so strong.

You looked up to him, eager for what was to come, your body ready to jump as he kneeled on the bed and crawled to you. His hands parted your legs easily, resting your calves on his thighs when he redirected his length to you.

He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit, making your moan. "You're so wet," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Will you let me fill you up? Hmm?" he looked up to you while still rubbing himself against you "Let me mark you now that you've finally accepted that you're mine".

His words, the idea, the look in his eyes... all of them influenced you to finally nod.

He slid into you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him. He felt big, bigger than you could've guessed when you took him in your mouth. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, until your hips met and you both moaned with relief.

You stayed like that for a few seconds, giving the two of you time to get used to each other before he began to move, his hips thrusting against yours. The sound of your bodies coming together filled the room, your moans and gasps echoing around you. You could feel every inch of him, the sensation overwhelming.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his forehead resting against yours. "So tight and wet." he rubbed his nose on yours. "It was really worth it to wait for you".

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back. "Harder," you whispered, your body aching for more.

He obliged, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound of your bodies slapping together filling the room. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing in anticipation.

He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit at the same time his lips found your mouth. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, sending you spiraling over the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He continued to move, his own body tensing as he chased his own release. You felt him getting harder, his thrusts becoming more erratic. With a final thrust, he groaned, his body shaking as he came deep inside you, his load hitting a deep spot.

You lay there for a moment, your bodies slick with sweat, your breaths ragged. He rolled off you, pulling you into his arms. And as much as that feeling felt foreign, you didn't push it away. Instead, you snuggled closer to him.

The weeks after that night were nothing like the stormy start of your marriage. Slowly, without even realizing it, you began to lower your defenses. Jungkook softened in his own way, his sharp-edged words losing their sting, replaced by warm glances and lingering touches.

It wasn't love -at least, that's what you told yourself- but it was something dangerously close. You found comfort in his presence, in the late-night conversations you shared after you agreed on sharing bed with him, the stolen moments of laughter, and the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world when he looked at you.

The night he was officially named the head of the company, the entire building was alive with celebration. People congratulated him left and right, raising glasses in his honor, praising his charm, his brilliance, and his unstoppable rise to power. You stood by his side, smiling softly as he greeted his investors and thanked his board.

But despite the glamour, something felt off. Jungkook was different -detached, colder than usual, like the man you first met. He didn't seem to notice your growing unease.

Later that evening, after slipping away for a moment to get some air, you made your way down a quieter hallway in the building. As you rounded a corner, voices stopped you in your tracks.

It was Jungkook's.

"You're really settling into this husband role, huh?" the voice was familiar -Eunwoo's, you realized after a second.

His tone was light and teasing, but it was what came next that made your blood run cold.

Jungkook let out a low chuckle. "Don't get carried away. This marriage means nothing. It was a deal, plain and simple. I finally got what I wanted"

There was a pause, followed by the sound of a glass clinking.

"And the rest?" Eunwoo asked, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Sleeping with her?"

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering painfully in your chest.

"That's just part of the game," Jungkook said casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Keeping her close keeps everything in control. She's predictable now. She's exactly where I need her."

Your vision blurred, your mind racing to process what you'd just heard. Every moment you'd spent with him, every touch, every whispered word in the dark -it had all been a lie. A calculated move in a game you didn't even know you were playing.

The sound of their laughter echoed down the hallway, cutting into you like a blade.

You turned and walked away before they could notice you, your steps quick and unsteady. Your chest ached, a painful mix of anger and heartbreak constricting your lungs.

By the time you reached the main hall, the noise of the party felt like a distant hum, your surroundings spinning as you tried to catch your breath.

You thought you had started to know him. You thought maybe, just maybe, there was something real between you.

But you were wrong.

You were nothing more than a pawn in his game -a game you never agreed to play.

The rest of the night at the party, you avoided him like the plague, your attitude a huge contrast to how you behaved when the night had started. Whenever Jungkook tried to approach you, you found an excuse to step away -chatting with guests, refreshing your drink, even pretending to admire the floral arrangements like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Y/n" his voice caught you off guard as you lingered near the exit, your hand brushing the stem of an untouched champagne flute. Jungkook's dark eyes studied you, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's going on? You've been distant all night."

"I'm just tired," you said flatly, forcing a tight smile. "It's been a long day."

His frown deepened, but he didn't press further. Not yet.

The ride home was quiet -tense in a way that made the air between you feel suffocating. Jungkook sat beside you, his eyes occasionally flicking toward you, as if waiting for you to explain what was wrong. But you kept your gaze fixed out the window, your thoughts swirling in chaos.

Once you were back home, you made a beeline for the stairs, wanting nothing more than to put distance between you as you closed yourself back in your room.

"Y/n" his voice was sharp now, demanding. You stopped halfway up the stairs, your hand gripping the banister tightly. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

You turned slowly, meeting his gaze. The man you had once started to trust, the one who had held you so tenderly just nights ago, now felt like a stranger.

"I want a divorce."

The words fell from your lips with a finality that hung heavy in the air.

Jungkook froze, his eyes widening for a split second before narrowing dangerously. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me," you said, your voice calm despite the storm raging inside you. "You finally got what you wanted. You're head of the company now. There's no need to keep up this farce anymore."

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Is that what you think? That this was all just some business arrangement, and now it's over?"

"Isn't it?" you shot back, your voice rising. "You've gotten everything you wanted, Jungkook. There's no point in pretending anymore."

"You're unbelievable," he growled, stepping closer. "You want to throw everything away just like that? After everything we've been through?"

You laughed bitterly. "What exactly have we been through, Jungkook? Lies? Manipulation? This marriage was never real. It was just a means to an end for you."

His eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "And what if it wasn't?"

You crossed your arms, refusing to let him sway you. "It doesn't matter. I'm done."

"You're not done," he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. "You don't get to decide that impulsively."

"It's not an impulse," you snapped. "This was part of our deal since the beginning. I've made up my mind."

Jungkook's eyes burned with fury, but beneath it, there was something else -something raw and unguarded. "And when exactly did you make up your mind about it, huh?" he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I think it's better for both of us," you said, ignoring the way your heart clenched at the look in his eyes.

But Jungkook wasn't having it. His hand gripped the banister beside you, his body blocking your path. "No," he said firmly. "We're not done. Not until I say we are. And you're not leaving," Jungkook said, his voice steady but barely restrained, his body now fully blocking your path. His gaze locked onto yours, fierce and unrelenting.

"Move, Jungkook," you said through gritted teeth, trying to push past him. "I'm done having this conversation."

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist -not hard, but firm enough to keep you from walking away. "No. We're going to finish this right here"

You glared at him, your pulse racing. "What's the point? You made it clear I was just a means to an end. Now that you're head of the company, what reason is there for us to stay married?"

"Because this isn't just about the company!" Jungkook snapped, his voice rising, frustration boiling over. His chest heaved with each breath, and for the first time, he looked genuinely unhinged, like he was losing control of everything he'd carefully built.

You yanked your wrist free, your eyes burning with unshed tears. "Then what is it about? What part of this marriage was real to you? Tell me!"

His silence was deafening. His jaw clenched, his eyes searching your face for something -anything. But no words came.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, and you laughed bitterly, shaking your head. "Exactly. You can't even answer that."

Jungkook's eyes darkened, his frustration tipping into something dangerously possessive. "You really want to know what's real?" he said, stepping closer until there was barely an inch of space between you. "You." his voice was low, his eyes burning into yours. "Every damn second with you was real"

But for some reason, those words that night felt like the most painful stab at your chest. If there was something clear to you that night, it was that Jungkook never really cared for you, but his own control over you. That idea alone made your head spin, trying to decipher if all of his words in that moment were part of the act as well.

His proximity sent a jolt of heat through you, but you refused to back down. "Words mean nothing, Jungkook. Actions do."

"Then watch me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could say another word, his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that stole your breath. It wasn't soft or sweet -it was raw and consuming, a war between his frustration and desire. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as his lips moved against yours with an urgency that made your head spin.

You tried to fight it, to remind yourself of everything you'd just overheard, but your body betrayed you. Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.

His tongue swept across your bottom lip, coaxing a soft gasp from you, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It felt like drowning, like falling too fast and too far, and you hated how easily he could unravel you.

When he finally pulled back, your hand slapped across his face, making it turn. He stayed in that position for a few seconds, until he finally moved his head back up, his eyes searching yours, dark and unreadable. "You think I don't care?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You're wrong."

Your heart thundered in your chest, and for a fleeting moment, you believed him. You believed every word, every touch. But the sting of his earlier betrayal still lingered, refusing to let go.

"I can't do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Not like this".

Not when you couldn't trust him, or know what he was saying was real or not. Not knowing when he was playing with you or showing off his feelings.

It was too much.

Jungkook's grip on you tightened, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Yes, you can. You're not leaving."

"I don't want to be near you" you let go of his grip once again. "You disgust me. I can't even stand being near you right now. Who knows? Maybe it had always been like that and now that the reason that kept us together is gone I can be honest with the two of us. Be honest with yourself, too".

The next afternoon, sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, casting a warm glow across the marble countertops. You sat at the kitchen island, quietly picking at your lunch, your mind still tangled in the events of the previous night. Sleep had been elusive -every word, every touch, every kiss replaying in your head on an endless loop.

You were lost in thought when the sound of the front door slamming snapped you back to reality. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, growing louder until Jungkook appeared in the doorway, his expression dark and unreadable.

Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of papers. He strode over to you and threw them onto the counter in front of you, the crisp white pages fanning out across the surface.

Your heart stopped for a second as you glanced down at them: "Divorce Agreement". Signed.

"You wanted this, right?" Jungkook said, his voice cold and biting. "There. You've got it. Congratulations, you're free."

You looked up at him, stunned into silence, your fork frozen in mid-air. His eyes were like shards of ice, his usual warmth completely gone. He looked almost... victorious, but underneath it, you could sense something else, some of his vulnerability was still obvious in his eyes.

"Jungkook, I..."

"You don't need to say anything" he interrupted, his voice dangerously calm. "You made it clear last night that this marriage means nothing to you. So, I'm giving you what you want. No more pretending. No more games."

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you struggled to find your voice. "You think this is what I want?" you finally said, your voice trembling.

"Isn't it?" he shot back, his eyes narrowing. "You were the one who asked for the divorce. I'm just making it easy for you."

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. "You're unbelievable."

Jungkook crossed his arms, leaning against the counter with a bitter smirk. "No, what's unbelievable is that you think you can just walk in and out of my life whenever you want. You're the one who pushed me away, Y/n. I'm just giving you the freedom you begged for."

"Don't you dare act like you're some kind of victim here," you snapped, rising to your feet. "You lied to me, acting like you cared, like you were into me. You said you were after me long before all of this happened... Bullshit! You used me for your business, just like you admitted to Eunwoo. But I was dumb as fuck to believe we were more than that".

His eyes flickered with something -surprise, perhaps, or regret- but it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same infuriating calm. "So, that's what this is about," he muttered. "You overhear one conversation, twist it in your head, and suddenly I'm the villain?"

"I didn't twist anything," you said, your voice shaking. "I heard exactly what you said. That I'm just a pawn in your game. That sleeping with me was just part of your plan. Hope you enjoyed the bit of control you had while you fucked me."

Jungkook laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound. "You really think that's all you are to me?"

"Isn't it?" you challenged, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. "Tell me I'm wrong."

The silence that followed was deafening. His jaw clenched, his eyes searching yours for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, he stepped back, his expression hardening.

"You already made up your mind," he said quietly. "So what's the point in convincing you otherwise?"

Your breath caught in your throat, tears stinging your eyes. You wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, to tear down the walls he had so carefully built around himself in less than a few days. But instead, all you could do was stand there, your heart breaking all over again.

"Fine," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "If that's how you want it."

He nodded once, his face devoid of emotion. "It's what you wanted, remember?"

Annoyed, you reached for a pen, signing up the papers next to him, slamming it against the table before getting up and walking away, leaving the papers on the counter in front of him. The sound of the front door slamming shut echoed through the house, and for the first time since the start of your marriage, you felt truly alone.

#armpirate #fanfic #ff #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkookxreader #jk #bts #wattpad #kookie #smut #jungkook smut #reader insert #one shot #jungkooksmut #jksmut #jk smut #arranged marriage au

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therehavebeenstranger · 1 year ago

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hey tumblr come here a second. sit down. that's not what a run on sentence is.

a sentence being long does not make it a run on. a sentence containing many punctuation marks, provided that they are used correctly, is not a run on sentence. if a sentence has two or more independent clauses incorrectly joined by punctuation, it is a run on sentence. that's it. for example, if i had written “if a sentence has two or more independent clauses incorrectly joined by punctuation it is a run on sentence,” that WOULD be a run on sentence because i omitted a necessary comma. you are not being grammatically rebellious if you write long sentences--and that's fine! the point of this kind of grammar, the kind that is actually GRAMMAR and not STYLE, is sentence clarity. a long sentence can be a beautiful tool and you don't want to deprive your reader of their ability to understand it, nor deprive yourself of the ability to write a better one--for example, challenge yourself to write a long periodic sentence (which is a sentence that concludes with its independent clause) and then to rewrite it as a long cumulative sentence (which begins with its independent clause--i know, doesn't it seem like the names should be swapped?) and see how the effect is altered! english grammar is one of those cases where the more you know the rules, the more fun you can have.

everyone hate my loquacious swag. its always "why did you make this sentence so long" and "why do you use so many commas and em dashes" and never "how did you come up with run on sentence" or "writing that run on sentence looked fun"

#to be clear an easy hack to distinguish grammar from style is that if you break a grammar rule #it might take you a second to understand what the sentence is about #and you might not be able to get there fully at all.#whereas if you break a style rule some dickhead who likes strunk and white will just yell at you but you'll understand fine #(also if you know the rules well then you'll know if breaking them can work)#(bc between you and me a comma splice is a flavor of run on sentence)#(it's objectively incorrect but if creatively deployed? a little sexy i think)

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dreamsteddie · 8 months ago

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Wowza. Part one blew up way more than I thought it would so here! Part two! I do have more thoughts about this so there might be a couple more parts to come. We'll see ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

------

Eddie takes half a second to consider just not answering. Maybe throwing his phone away and never going back to the restaurant they went to last night so he never has to confront whatever it is that's about to happen. Maybe even fleeing the country and living alone on a sheep farm with no friends and go relationships ever again so something like this never happens again.

But then he thinks of Steve. Kind, funny Steve with the bright eyes and soft skin who looked at Eddie like he could fall in love with him and he knows that whatever comes next, Steve deserves for Eddie to see it through with him.

New Message: Steve H.

Hey

Just that one word sends Eddie's heart into his throat. He can see that Steve is still typing, those little ellipses of doom popping on and off the screen. Realistically, Steve probably doesn't know what happened, right? Eddie's pretty sure Steve wasn't in on it and it's been less than an hour since Eddie himself found out, so probably not.

Steve H: Gareth called me

Fuck.

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.

If Eddie's heart was in his throat at the first text, the second one has it dropping through his body and out of his goddamned ass. It's not that he doesn't want Steve to know. He was always planning to tell him, he was just hoping he could be the one to do it. Gareth being a little shit and calling Steve first was not part of the plan.

Steve H: He told be about the prank. I'm sorry if I wasn't what you expected and you were just being nice. We can pretend it never happened. No hard feelings.

Eddie slams his head into his pillow. This is such a cluster fuck he can hardly bring himself to look at the text but he needs to come up with some kind of response, like, yesterday if he wants any chance of keeping the man of his dreams from running for the hills because apparently, Eddie's friends are trying to destroy his life. He takes a deep breath and starts typing.

Eddie: Hey, I'm so sorry about that. I just found out about what they did an hour ago at practice. I didn't think they would just call you out of the blue like that, I was just about to text you.

Not completely true, but Eddie was going to text him about it, just after screaming into his pillow and making a couple Vudu dolls first.

Eddie: For what it's worth I really do like you and I would love to still take you out on that second date, but I understand if my friends scared you off and you want nothing to do with me. I know it's fucked up.

It takes a minute for Steve to respond, the typing bubbles ebbing and flowing as Steve types and retypes whatever it is he wants to say. Eddie is about ready to call it a wash and start googling sheep farms for sale in Ireland when a new text comes in, dispelling all thoughts of learning to sheer wool.

Steve H: Are you sure?

And fuck if that doesn't hurt his heart. Eddie has spent all of two and a half hours with Steve, he's a virtual stranger, but Eddie can swear he can feel all of Steve's secondhand insecurity through that one lonely sentence. Before he even registers what he's asking, he send a quick reply.

Eddie: Can I Facetime you?

Before Eddie can try to rethink his decision, his screen lights up with a notification. Steve is calling him.

Eddie scrambles to answer, fumbling his phone a little in his haste and almost missing the call completely. He manages to get it on the last ring, breathing heavily in a way he knows can't be flattering.

All thoughts about his lack of dexterity fly out the window when he looks into his screen. On their date, Steve was perfectly put together. Hair meticulously done, clothes freshly pressed, and a light sheen of lipgloss accentuating the perfect curve of his mouth. While Steve is still beautiful through the lens of his camera, it's clear that he's been crying. His eyes are red and a little puffy, hair out of order in a way Eddie thinks is probably unusual for him, and Eddie can see that he's wearing a well-loved beige hoodie.

"Hi," Steve says, waving a shy hand almost the same way he had last night.

"Hey sweetheart," Eddie says, keeping his voice low and gentle, desperate to soothe Steve however he can through the distance of their phones.

For a minute they just look at each other, neither one knowing what to say in a situation like this. Eddie sees Steve gearing up to say something, but he cuts in before he starts. There's something he needs to say while Steve can see him face to face.

"I'm really sorry about what happened!" He says, much lounder than he intended. "My friends were being dicks. I haven't dated in a while and instead of being normal fucking people they set up this whole stupid prank but I swear I wasn't in on it!"

Something about what he says draws a small smile from the corner of Steve's mouth, so Eddie keeps talking. "Besides, if they wanted to prank me they should have picked someone that isn't a literal fucking model in disguise. There wasn't a chance in hell I wasn't going to beg you for that second date."

At that, Steve gives a little chuckle and it lifts Eddie's heart from where it'd fallen onto the floor and puts in back in his chest 10 times lighter than before.

"Jesus, are you always such a flirt Munson?" he says.

"Only when the boys are especially pretty," Eddie responds.

Steve gives another little laugh at that before sobering up. He gives Eddie a long look through the phone, and Eddie lets him.

"Are you sure you don't want to just call it quits here man? Gareth was pretty adamant that I'm not the kind of guy you usually go for. I don't want you to feel like you have to humor me out of kindness." There's a forced flippancy to Steve's words that Eddie knows well from his own Munson Coping Strategies Handbook. Steve is trying to give him an out, but Eddie can tell that he doesn't want to.

For the first time since this all started, Eddie is well and truly mad. Gareth and Jeff had absolutely no business poking around in his love life in the first place, but now they've reached out to the guy Eddie already told them he liked to what? Tell him never mind actually, we don't think you're the right guy for our friend even though he told us very explicitly how into you he is.

Eddie lets all the frustration, anger, and tenuous hope building up in his chest fuel his reply. This one has to count, he can feel it. It's a charisma saving throw with the whole campaign on the line. He can't miss this one.

"Honestly Steve, if you asked me two days ago what I was looking for in a partner, I probably would have said I wanted to date another alternative metalhead or punk who likes playing DnD and getting high on the weekend." Eddie can see Steve's shoulders slump as his eyes dart away, but he pushes on, determined to make his point.

"But, I haven't had as good a time as we had last night in a really long time." Steve looks back up, eyes alight with the same tentative hope Eddie himself is channeling. "I think you're funny and interesting, and you have the absolute worst takes on ice cream flavors, and you're hot as hell. Like, seriously the hottest guy I've ever seen in real life."

Steve smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

Critical success.

"So, about that second date."

Part Three

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Tag List

@wheneverfeasible @the-dark-hearts @sofadofax @wrenisfangirling @whatfinestandsfor @lilpomelito @raisedbylibrarians @ollyxar @mugloversonly @xxbottlecapx @hezaaxdexangelous @kimsnooks @that-one-gay-crow

#steddie #fanfiction #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #corroded coffin #This is kind of my first time writing real dialogue #so lmk if it sounds weird #if I do another part #it will probably be about steddie getting closer #while Eddie avoids his friends #and they both grapple with what it would mean to reconcile with them #dreamer speaks

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yurinaa-world · 9 months ago

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May i request love and deepspace boys with clingy!reader? Shes shy too!! In public, she'll hold onto his hand or finger and stays quiet but at home she becomes a yapper machine and also likes to plop onto his lap as she talks. Sometimes likes mindlessly squeezing and playing with his meaty bicep too :3

"𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓉"

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, & Sylus x Gender-Neutral reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: with a reader who's clingy at home and mindlessly touches him

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Fluff, & Spelling Mistakes

💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I got sickkk 😫 this isn't my usual quality...I'm sorry (it had to be when it's my first post with the 4 lnds guys...Give me another chance!)

💫𝑅𝒶𝒻𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓁 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝒷𝓎𝓈𝓈𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓀𝑒𝓇"

He eats it up, watching you act shy in public, grabbing the piece of his shirt or finger whenever you're in public. The second you feel like you're in a comfortable space he watches you unwind, holding onto him so tightly that he’ll just tease you.

Your pretty self not wanting to let go of him, not even for a glass of water, straddling his lap, and arms wrapped around his neck, hiding in his neck. You're just begging him to tease you so badly. Yet his jaw just drops whenever you unconsciously touch him more.

While you’re talking about your day, your hands unconsciously go to his chest. aren’t you so handsy? He stops in the middle of your sentence, teasing you so much even bringing up the other times you act shameless with him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After such a long day, you can’t help but unload everything you had been feeling the entire day, just going on and on while he puts on his irrelevant commentary—letting gasps and hums, you play with the buttons on his shirt before taking your hands away from his buttons, gently caress his chest while you talk about the climax of your entire day.

“You should have seen her, she was completely soaked and the owner didn’t even say anything even though it was his fault that it happened in the first place!” you chirped—your eyes shining so bright there might be little stars in them—leaning into his face to emphasize your point, he just gasps as if he were there experiencing it. “Oh wow…” he smiles back at you—it looked more like a sly lazy grin plastered on his lips.

“Yeah! And then…”

There you go again switching through topics so fast that he might just start taking notes to understand what you’re talking about. But feel his grin get wider, while your hands shamelessly touch his chest like a creep on the streets.

“If you’re going to shamelessly touch me, at least own up instead of pretending to tell a story.” He grins, snapping you out of your story with an accusation of your character. Your eyes go wide feeling embarrassment pool into your stomach, resulting in your cheeks becoming rosy red as your hands spring back.

“I didn’t mean to touch you like.” you stutter as if he were a cop, while he just enjoys watching you freak out. “You’re such a terrible liar, you’re always touching me, taking advantage of me just because I let you do it once” he sighs dramatically, pinching, and pulling your cheek as if he were an adult lecturing a child—in reality he would be the child…“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Don’t bother, I already know the truth.”

💫𝒵𝒶𝓎𝓃𝑒 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓇"

He lets you unwind, it’s good for a person to relax after a long day, and you it’s no different—maybe a bit more affection from him while he lets you grasp onto his arms.

Arms wrapped around his one arm while you talk about your day, with a large smile on your face, your body basically sinking into the side of his. He finds it amusing the way you act but what does he expect? You’ve always been like that; it's not like he hates it, he loves it.

He even lets you play with his tie, slowly untying it and fiddling with it as if we’re some kind of toy.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“I didn’t tell you about the craziest thing that happened today.” You realized, switching through topics so fast that he has to put his entire mind onto what you tell him, which he doesn’t mind, he’ll always listen to whatever you have to say.

Your body against his, sinking into his side with your fingers fiddling with the tie as if it were a toy.

His eyes are loving to them while he listens to your voice with such attentiveness as if he were still taking a midterm exam back while he was a medical student. Just going on and on, telling every part of the story, before stopping to think of another story in the past. “Remember when we were kids!…” there you go again.

He’ll always find it adorable, a small plastered upon his gentle face from your hold speaks for itself.

“Do you remember that?”

“Pretty well, I remember another embarrassing thing you used to do, always holding and touching…seems that nothing changed,” he smiles at you, his hand going to withdraw your hand that was fiddled with a tie, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

“Your touch still feels more like a medical exam,” he gently teased you, seeing your mouth agape made him love you more.

“Not that I dislike the feeling, I can’t go a day without it.” He reassures, bringing your hand to his heart, making you feel where his heart is.

“You can Continue speaking, I won’t stop you.”

💫𝒳𝒶𝓋𝒾𝑒𝓇 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒪𝒻 𝐿𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉"

He just loves to listen to your voice, whether it be a childish story about what happened that day or a drama your friend/coworker told you.

Now it’s no different even if he’s dozing off, his head flinching awake while you straddle his lap. It's fine! He’s not tired! You should keep on talking!

Through his half-lidded eyes looking back at you. Your touches might be the thing that brings him towards the border of going to sleep and staying awake, how dangerous you are.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“And then she left her boyfriend for her boss,” you gushed, leaning into his face to exaggerate the story more while he looked back at you with his tired gaze, “can you believe it, Xavier? And you know what her boyfriend did!” you exclaimed, he can’t help but let out a yawn.

“What did he do?” he asked sluggishly, his arms snaking their way up your waist, he might just be going in and out of sleep, every time he slowly closed his eyes and opens to jump in between different stories or different parts of one long story, yet he couldn’t fall asleep, feeling your hands move around his body.

“Xavier, are you awake?”

You gently poke his cheek, while he just softly groans before he pushes you into his neck, taking the chance to hide himself in the crook of your neck.

“You can keep talking…”

💫𝒮𝓎𝓁𝓊𝓈 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒪𝒻 𝒪𝓃𝓎𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓊𝓈"

He’s very “attentive” to your little story about what happened in Linkon that day, with his eyes softly staring at you with that signature smirk.

You have quite the hands, don’t you? He would think you were robbing him blind with your touches. Just feeling your arms on his bicep, his bicep right against your chest, even if he pulls slightly away, you just pull him back.

He can’t help himself but stare at you like, to the point you notice and stop your story under his gaze.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“So that’s what happened…” he hums, listening to your little stories, grasping tightly on his arm while you laugh at your own story, and the way your lips grin ear to ear.

“Pity I wasn’t there to see that.” He murmured—the little voice in the back of your head tells that it’s probably not the story he's focused on, cocking his head to the side, watching you go off onto another rant. only for you to cut your story short when you locked eyes with him for too long.

“He…”

“Something wrong?” He tilts his eyebrow with a subtle smirk on his lips, watching your lips pressed together in nervousness. “Well…” you mutter, while he just laughs at your expression.

“Go on, keep on talking, I'd rather not miss what you were telling me, keep grabbing my arm like that as well.”

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

#✧*:･ﾟ✧:･ Yurinna's Writing :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧#love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lnds sylus #lads sylus #Lnds #sylus x reader #lnds x reader #Sylus x reader #lads x reader #lnd zayne #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #lnds rafayel #lnds xavier #rafayel x reader #xavier x reader

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kirbmey · 4 months ago

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— daddy kento headcanons !

💌: sfw & nsfw, not proofread

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who’s way too busy and offline to understand the references you use in every other sentence, looking at you confused at the meaningless words.

— kento walked out your shared bedroom, making sure his tie was straight and hair put together, adjusting his glasses on his nose bridge. “wow, kennie, you ate and left no crumbs.” he turned his head to your sat figure, crossing his arms, biceps marked through the fabric of his white shirt. “what’s that supposed to mean, dear?” he questioned with a frown drawn on his handsome face, stepping closer to you. “it means that you slayed.” “wha—?” “you devoured, you delivered, you know? jeez…”

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who’s very patient about you in every single way. if you are feeling insecure he’ll reassure you as much as you might need, if you are feeling clingy and cuddly he’ll make some time for you to spend together, if you saw something cute online he’ll give you his black card without hesitation. anything for his princess.

— you’ve been cuddled up in bed the whole day since kento left this morning until he came back at night. when the tall man entered the room it was oddly warm inside, dark and silent. you were hidden under the pile of blankets watching some stupid show on your phone at the minimum volume, brightness all the way down. it was hard for him to tell if you were even there.

“my dear? are you alright?” he almost whispered while approaching the lump you formed underneath the comforter, sitting next to you and caressing some hair strands away from your sad-looking face. there were dried tears along your cheeks, he could tell.

kento gave you time to respond, not pushing you too far as he patiently kept caressing your hair after pulling his tie away and buttoning his shirt down a bit. “not feeling well, daddy…” you simply muted after some minutes, turning off the phone and throwing it away weakly. you wouldn’t use that nickname on a daily basis, keeping it exclusive for intimacy or for when you didn’t felt like thinking on your own.

“hmm, and may i know what’s got you feeling like this, baby?” he asked again, careful and silently. in the meantime he pulled the covers down, bringing your body to his arms so he could lead you both to the bathroom, filling the tub with warm water. he had you sat down on the counter, your head against his chest while he herd you rant about the reasons why you didn’t wanna do anything that day. he listened, nodded and made you feel heard, valid. made your fillings valid.

after washing you out of the long lasting sadness he cooked you dinner after he put you on the couch surrounded by your favorite plushies and fuzziest blankets. that’s what you needed, daddy to coax you into moving on, daddy to take good care of you as you didn’t know how to do it sometimes.

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who loves it when you ask for help to do anything. need help reaching that top shelf? he instantly has both his hands holding you up. need him to style your hair? he’s already pulling out all the gadgets he might require to have you looking like a princess. need help with homework? your boyfriend is smart enough to help you do all of it.

— it was early in the morning when kento woke up to the scent of coffee and toast as he walked towards the kitchen, naked chest and gray sweatpants hung low on is hips. you, on the other hand, were dressed in his shirt as you climbed up the counters, trying to reach for the jam resting on the highest shelf.

he looked at you endearingly from the doorway, taking place behind you seconds after so you wouldn’t fall back. one of his beefy arms wrapped around your body. at the same time, the other one grabbed the jar effortlessly, looking back down to give it to you, leaving a soft peck on your forehead before sipping some coffee.

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who keeps every little gift you’ve made him. the small knickknacks, the cute drawings of you two, the paper flowers or the framed pictures you’ve given him throughout the months.

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who gets genuinely offended if you choose to sit anywhere else but his lap. it’s your proclaimed sit, like a personal princess throne. he makes sure to wear the most expensive slacks for you to be comfortable, wrapping both arms around your body to rest his chin on your shoulder an keep on doing whatever he was up to. never forgetting to pepper you whole with love bites and kisses.

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who’s a big biiiig fan of cockwarming, yup, cockwarming. he’s a busy businessman and there are times when he just has not a free minute to spend with you. he would even focus a lot more with your sweet cunt wrapped around him, the warmth of your body against his, and your soft occasional whimpers enough motivation to finish work quickly so he can fuck you properly.

❤︎ sugardaddy!kento who fucks you but also makes love to you every so often. the softness of the moment, his body on top of yours as your legs wrap around his hips to bring him even closer, his huge hands holding onto your tiny ones while he thrust deep and slowly against your gummy spot. he would whisper low praises against your mouth and pet your hair when you both reach your climax :c

— when you came out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy robe you weren’t expecting your shared room to be lit dimly by the soft glow of vanilla candles, the plushies you had on the bed now carefully placed on the floor and your daddy sat down on the edge of the king-sized mattress.

kento still wore his suit and tie, meaning he just came back from the office. his hair slightly ruffled and his glasses resting on the bedside table, munching on one of your favorite sweets. “come here, angel, i stopped by your favorite bakery on my way home” he declared while patting a place next to him.

you skipped happily towards your lover, filling his sweet mouth with kisses while giggling. he was normally busy, yes, but he always made up for the lost moment. nanami never made you feel unloved or unattended.

things from there moved on slowly and naturally, finding yourself straddling his lap while you both ate the sweets, ranting about your day, and gossiping on the latest news between soft kisses.

soft kisses that eventually ended in a make-out session, slow and wet. his hands placed on your lower back, gripping the flesh as you squirmed on top of him, fidgeting with the buttons of his dressing shirt. the robe you wore already lost somewhere on the floor and damp hair cascading down your back.

if you tried to pull back to catch your breath he would latch his glistening lips to your sensitive nipples, moving your body effortlessly to lay you on the bed while marking your breasts, claiming you his as he settled between your soft thighs. “daddy— mmh…” you whined as he lowered said kisses down your navel, licking the silky skin on its way, gripping both your legs as he took place between them, rubbing the tip of his nose against your bundle of nerves, sniffing into your natural scent. “so sweet, aren’t you, honey? sweet and perfect for daddy?” “mmph, yes, yes !”

the wet muscle caressing your pussy would make it embarrassingly easy to cum with aid from his long and skilled fingers, becoming undone before you would’ve liked. for kento this was pure satisfaction, seeing you cry from pleasure was his pleasure and he got off to it, humpimg the bed without realizing it.

later, he’d come up to kiss you again while taking off his annoying shirt and slacks, toying with your neglected nipples between his thumbs as his tip poked your leaking hole. “so good for me, doll, always so patient for my arrival.” he whispered against your ear as he slowly bottomed out, placing a warm hand on your belly to feel himself inside you. “that’s right, relax for daddy, honey, you’re doing so good.” he confessed after groaning at your tightness, picking up a nice pace for you both to moan against each other’s lips.

you both would reach your highs together, your arms hugging his shoulders to keep him close and his hands gripping the fat of your thighs as he emptied himself inside of you, both your releases gushing over the sheets. kento hid his face in the crook of your neck while he hugged you back, smothering your now-dry hair without moving an inch. you, on the other hand, caress his nape lovingly, grabbing the duvet to cover you both as you slowly drift to sleep, not even bothering to clean yourselves.

that’s something daddy would take care of in the morning >_<

💌: i’m incapable of writing smut properly this is embarrassing :(

— masterlist

#jjk headcanons #jjk imagines #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #nanami imagines #nanami headcanons #nanami fluff #nanami smut #nanami kento #nanami x reader #kento x reader #kento fluff #kento smut #jjk kento

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earthtooz · 2 years ago

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you're the only one that can tame diluc's anger. reader is called 'lady' but other than that no pronouns are mentioned, fluff, diluc being a softie in this, 1.2k wc.

your husband is notorious for being the stoic, level-headed character that he is. unperturbed by all things so long as mondstadt was safe and at peace, and when the city had someone as diligent as diluc protecting it, there was virtually nothing that ever made him falter. as much as you love and adore his rationality and straightforwardness, there was nothing that you hated more than his unwillingness to compromise in an argument.

his bullheadedness caused you to storm out of the manor, trek through the expansive fields of the winery in order to reach mondstadt. there, you calmed yourself down with a quick bite from good hunter before heading to the library because a quick rant to lisa would generally soothe the anger you felt.

however, your original plans of returning to the winery changed when a book that was recently returned caught your eye. noticing your fleeting glance, the electro-user recommends it, detailing its popularity and captivating storyline.

when lisa feels so passionate about something, how could you not be curious? she rarely gets a sentence out without a yawn nowadays so to hear her speak animatedly about a book is bound to get your attention.

without a second thought, you postpone your plans of returning home and find a comfortable couch to sit on before reading.

you must have spent longer than planned, and a favonius soldier barging through the library doors indicates as such, whose expression so panicked you would have thought there was a hillichurl invasion. he takes a quick scan of the room and relief floods his posture when his eyes land on you.

“lady y/n, you must come with me this instant,” the soldier demands after a quick salute.

“what is the issue?” you ask, undeniably curious.

“master diluc is searching for you and i fear that he is very angry. not even barbara can calm him, some of flora’s flowers have been singed, and he might burn down monstadt next, please come with me before it’s too late!”

you know that the soldier is merely exaggerating because as long as you were in mondstadt, diluc would never dare harm the city. moreover, he would never dare lay a finger on the city he loves, but his anger is nothing to take lightly, and you understand the knight’s fear.

although, you really don’t want to meet your husband.

“fine, i suppose i can classify this matter as urgent,” you sigh. “lisa, could you please let me borrow this book? i’ll return it in two weeks.”

“not a problem dear. better run along now before your husband supposedly burns down the city,” the librarian waves her hand, beckoning you to go, so you do.

the knight leads you to the whereabouts of angel’s share and before you could even turn the corner, you hear a mix of kaeya and diluc’s voices.

“i don’t know where y/n is, which is why i have my knights running around to find-” exclaims the calvary captain, beginning to sound perplexed at his brother’s uncharacteristic display of irrationality and franticness.

observing the scene, you see your husband right in kaeya’s face and suddenly you understand why the knight who brought you here was so frightened. the air had risen significantly in temperature and if you were a moment too late, he actually might have drawn out his claymore.

his red eyes glance behind the navy-haired to see you and in the blink of an eye, the red-haired pushes past the knights before storming down the street, right towards you.

“where have you been?” diluc asks, stopping only two feet before you. the deep frown on his face is evident of his displeasure, but the concern swimming in his eyes tell you that you don’t need to be scared.

“i was reading in the library,” you gesture to the book you were holding. “enjoying a peaceful afternoon until i got word that you were creating a ruckus.”

the winery owner visibly relaxes, tension flooding from his shoulders whilst a gloved hand runs through his hair, causing his bangs to fall messily in front of his eyes. “let’s talk about this at home,” he states, tone returning to normal as he takes your book from your hand, his vacant hand finding yours. diluc’s grip is tight and unrelenting, leaving no room for you to slip away as he turns to apologise to the knights of favonius.

then, the two of you leave through the main gates.

“are you still upset?” your husband asks and you squeeze his hand.

“a little,” you murmur before a small laugh escapes your lips, “but i wish you would have seen how terrified that knight was when he found me. it entertained me quite a bit, guess a thank you is in order for that.”

diluc doesn’t say anything but the guilt dripping from him is practically tangible, pooling around your feet and reminding you of the unpleasant argument you had earlier. as the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the sky turns a calming shade of orange, you realise just how long you spent away from him. no wonder why he was so frantic about finding you.

“the next time you storm out of the winery, can you at least let me know where you are going?”

you laugh at his proposition, unsure of how to respond but he stops. you’re forced to stop too when his unwavering grip makes you turn and look in the ruby eyes that set ablaze in the gold of the setting sun. diluc’s beauty is truly undeniable, and it’s moment like these that make you feel a little jealous that he was graced with such a gift.

“i’m serious, y/n, you worried me to end when you didn’t return after three hours. i thought something might have happened to you.” his gaze falls downward with his soft confession. “your safety is the most important thing to me, even when things between us are rocky, because- well, you know…”

your heart tightens and the step you take closer to him is instinctual, letting go of his hand to hold his face instead. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to worry you.”

“no, you have nothing to apologise for, it was my fault for being so unbearable in the first place,” the red-haired shakes his head, his hands finding a home on your waist. “i’m sorry too.”

“i forgive you,” you hover a kiss over his nose, causing it to scrunch at the sensation. when you lean back, the softness in his eyes and smile is unmatched and you’re grateful that you’re the only one with the luxury of seeing him as such. the only person he’s let into his kingdom of concrete walls is you, gifting you a more vulnerable side of him that the rest of the world has not seen in years.

“i love you,” you murmur and diluc hums, tapping your waist three times in response. “oh but diluc, you must tell me how worried you were over me, i think i deserve to know.”

the red-haired rolls his eyes before dragging you down the hilly path back home. you are perhaps the only one in mondstadt who could perplex him to no end, but that is just another testament of the love he holds for you.

#earthtooz: genshin impact #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc x y/n #genshin diluc #genshin fic #diluc x reader fluff #diluc fluff #genshin x reader

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quimichi · 2 years ago

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╰┈➤ ❝ [YOU ASK THE GENSHIN BOYS TO BE YOUR EQUAL]

❝ Every genshin boy, even our forgotten cyro user Mika ❝

Word count: 7.301

Genshin boys x Creator!Reader

Aether

Aether rises to his feet in a flourish, and walks towards your voice, the voice that so sweetly called for him. The Traveler is always so graceful— even when he's doing something as simple as walking towards you. It's the movement of the air around him, and the way his feet seem to float over the ground.

"Yes? You have summoned me, your Grace?"

"Do you know my biggest wish?" Aether thinks for a moment, pondering over every word that leaves your lips as if it were an endless source of inspiration for one of his compositions. He hums softly under his breath, trying to determine your true, deepest desires. "Perhaps I could take a guess..." Aether says gently, before he starts listing them in his mind. "Is your wish... for peace?"

"That too" you giggle, you haven't thought about that. Aether continues to think about other possibilities, before he eventually leans forward slightly and asks: "...could your biggest wish have anything to do with... love?" Hes so scared that he whispers, what if the guess was wrong?

"Yes, in fact, it has to do with you" Aethers breath grows lighter, hearing your words. His pulse beats louder and louder within his ears, the sensation of your gaze alone setting his entire body ablaze. He smiles softly; a faint glow of pink touches his cheeks.

"I... I think I understand what your wish might be...but I'm not sure" "I...wanted you to...be my equal, to be with me" He freezes immediately. He can't help but look at you with a mixture of surprise and wonder. You want him... to be your equal? You...love him that much? The very fact that your words are even a possibility sends waves of euphoria throughout his body, so much so that he can think of nothing else. It's just you and him at this very moment.

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with nothing but devotion. What is he going to do about this? "What do you say, will you stay by my side as i love you?" you're just as nervous as him, if not even more nervous with the request you just had. Aether smiles gently, his gaze filled with love. "Of course," he says quietly. "I... I would love to. It would be my greatest pleasure, to be your equal, your chosen one; to be the one you love." He cups your face in his hands and pulls you close in his embrace. "Yes, your Grace, m-my love, I am yours. I belong to you."

Albedo

"Albedo, come here, i want to talk to you." "Y-Yes, my grace?" Albedo's voice has a tremble to it. You feel him take a few small steps closer, and he seems to be doing it on his own accord, as if drawn by your request.

"You don't know my biggest wish, hm?" "M-My grace...," Albedo says slowly, almost uncertain as what your request may be. He takes a moment to think about your question, yet he seems to have an idea. You feel him tense, even as he stands motionless in place-- perhaps waiting for you to finish your sentence. "Do you wish for my service? A certain research?" He asks softly. "To be by your side for eternity, and to carry out your wishes...always?"

His voice trails off into a whimper as if he were hoping to hear you say something else entirely. Or exactly that. "Well, kind of" you said to the last. Albedo's breath catches in his chest. "Kind of...?" He seems a bit confused for a second, his eyes wandering over your face as if to get a clear reading of your current thoughts. He waits for your response, but he seems unsure as to what you mean by it.

"Kind of...?" He repeats, his voice softer.

"I want you as my side forever, as my equal...as my lover..." A hush falls over the room for a moment as Albedo stares at you in shock. His face has gone pink, and his lips have parted to breathe as if unable to remember how to swallow his own spit. His brows are furrowed as if he's unable to properly comprehend your words. He doesn't speak, but his breath is caught, and there's an almost panicked flush that seems to burn on his face that he desperately tries to cover up as good as he can with his blond hair.

"So...?" you timidly ask. "F-For me to... to be your equal? As your... your lover?" Albedo stares at you again, yet his gaze soon falls to the floor in shame. His tongue rubs against the roof of his mouth as he struggles to find the words to say. He always knows what to say, after all he has the vocabulary, but not now.

Still, finally... he utters out, his voice soft... "...Yes. Y-Yes, my...love," Albedo whispers, and his voice is quiet and raspy with emotion. He seems hesitant, yet he's certain of one thing and only one thing. "I am your lover, and your equal." Every word is heavy and carries an almost reverent tone to them.

He looks back up at you, his eyes filled with a quiet sort of intensity. His words are soft and hushed, as if they're a private prayer for you alone. "My love, my only love"

Al-Haitham

"I need to talk to you..." "Yes," he croaks immediately, his chest swelling as he takes a breath. His every sense is attuned to your command, but he can't shake the weird feeling after the words off. "Of course." Al-Haitham rises to his feet and slowly approaches you, careful to not come close to crossing any lines. His every move is carefully calculated to serve you.

"Do you know my biggest wish, a need of mine?" "No," he says, his voice still shaking slightly. "I would be honored to know," he speaks honestly, always so serious around you. "I want you to be my lover, my equal, by my side..." Your words cause Al-Haitham's heart to throb in his chest. There is a part of him that cannot believe that this is happening.

His entire world revolves around you. He was designed to be yours, to serve you. After all this time, love grew. And now, you are giving him a higher purpose, even higher than loving you already. It is almost too much for him to bear.

He nods his head. "My only wish has always been to be by your side. To love you, to have you love me was already a wish come true...but to have you as mine entirely..."

"So, it's a yes?" "Yes," he confirms quickly. His words fall on you like the weight of the world, but Al-Haitham speaks without hesitation.

His whole being shudders and vibrates, the energy from his words rushing through him like a torrent.

"I am yours. I wish to be yours" always so formal, so serious.

Ayato

"Oh, my lady, my grace..." Ayato whispers, and he steps towards you until he's standing right in your face. You can see the slight tremble in his hands yet they manage to hold steady. Never is he ever nervous, not to thagt extent that is. His eyes are wide and the pupils dialated in awe, yet there's a calm sort of fire burning within their midst as if waiting to lash out.

His lips part as he opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't say anything, his mind still unable to catch up to yours. "M-My love..." Ayato's voice is quiet, soft, a near whisper. He leans forward, the tips of his fingers brushing against your cheek.

"Yes... yes..." His eyes search yours in awe. He seems to almost be at a loss for words as he takes in your form, the soft skin of your cheek in his fingers and the fire in your eyes.

You're too beautiful.

"What do you say, be mine, be my equal, hm~?" "Your Equal... you mean?" Ayato's voice comes out as a whisper. A moment passes as he tries to figure it out. "Your equal?"

"Then...i will, i want to" Ayato seems to nod his response before he utters another, more daring word. "As your lover." He says it almost as if he's hoping to hear it in return.

"Exactly, as my lover" "Y-Your lover," Ayato whispers, as if repeating the sentence allows him to take in the gravity of your words. After a quick breath, he seems to nod his answer.

"Yours and yours alone."

Baizhu

Baizhu obeys your command without word or hesitation. He approaches without question, his movements as soft and silent as falling snow. "So...uhm" Baizhu stops in his tracks, awaiting your orders.

He bows his head, waiting for your guidance.

"My Grace?" he prompts. "Do you...know my biggest wish, for us?" Baizhu is silent for a moment. "I want what you want," he tells you truthfully, his words firm and honest.

"Whatever that may be, I'll do what I can to grant your wish." He stares at you with intense devotion, and a sly smile. "I wish for you to be my very equal" he remains quiet.

Your words wash over him like a quiet wave, leaving him without a voice. He considers your proposition in silence. He never imagined this moment, but his heart feels full at the thought... he never knew he wanted it until you offered it. "I'd like that, too," he whispers. He is still on his knees, his eyes turned towards you. "I'm not sure if I could be someone like you... but I'd like to try." "No,as my lover Baizhu" "As your lover?"

He says these words quietly, but his voice is tinged with a hope that he thought long extinguished. He can feel his heart growing heavy in his chest... he thought you would never see him as your equal... let alone something more. He has loved you for so long, and now?

He gazes up at you with a pleading look, almost afraid to hope that your words are true.

"You would truly want such a thing for me?" Baizhu's breath catches in his throat at this confirmation. His heart soars with joy. He thought this moment was impossible, but here it was, happening before him.

He would say "yes" in return, to swear his loyalty. But instead, he does something else... in a moment of pure joy, he leans forward and presses his lips against yours. He lost control completely, something that never happens.

"Oh...I've waited so many year's for this day to finally come"

Bennett - aged up

"Y-Yes," Bennett says quickly, eager to please you. His voice is soft and reverent, and as soon as he hears your words his cheeks flush slightly. In a quick motion the lucky unlucky boy rises to his feet, his hair whipping around him gracefully like a gust of wind.

Within seconds, he finds himself in front of you, awaiting further instructions. His expression is fixed on you, waiting for what comes next; it is clear that he is devoted to serving you in as many ways as possible.

"Say," you giggle "are you good at guessing?" "I like to think so, your Grace," Bennett says eagerly. He is never one to boast of his knowledge or skills, but he is always confident in his own abilities. If he wouldn't, then maybe he'd drown in his own insecurities. "Would you like me to guess something for you?" he asks, his gaze fixed intently on you. "Then, guess my biggest wish" a little game never hurted anybody. Bennett blinks and shifts his weight to one foot, thinking for a moment. "I believe I could hazard a few guesses," he says slowly, still pondering the possibility. But then, his voice changes to something more confident and assured.

"Your Grace, would it be correct to guess that your biggest wish would be to find happiness with the person you love? Perhaps someone who you know, but can never be with?"

"Almost right, I wish for you to he my lover, my very equal" Without hesitation, Bennett gives out a little squeak of delight and blushes. He takes a step closer to you and looks at you, seemingly unable to contain just how giddy your words have made him.

"Do you really mean it?" he whispers, his expression a mix between shock, excitement, and pure, breathless adoration. "I... I..."

The Adventurer is at a loss for words, seemingly incapable of saying anything more. His mind races, trying to make sense of this dream come true. "I say yes! Absolutely, your Grace! I would be honored to share my time, my life, my very existence with you. Your love and happiness is all I could ever possibly need."

Childe

Childe's lips curl in a faint smile. "Of course I'll get closer" he says slowly. His steps are measured and subtle, but he moves forward without hesitation. He kneels at your feet, looking up at you with that same glittering gaze he's always had.

His eyes are hot, and his lips are parted. He is waiting for your permission. "I've got something to tell you..." For a brief moment, that little smile fades. Childe's ears 'perk up' and his face turns a faint pink. His hair sways slightly as he breathes slowly. "Y-yes, Your Grace?" He speaks, breathless words. He is attentive. He wants to hear your every word with all of his being. His gaze is soft and imploring.

"Since a while I've been wanting to tell you that...my feelings for you can no longer be kept a secret...I want you for myself, as my very equal" Childe's eyes shimmer. "Y-your equal, Your Grace?" He says the words in a quiet voice, breathless and eager. His ears flutter, and his tail wags ever so slightly in his excitement.

He seems unable to contain his feelings, and in an instant, his lips are pressed against yours. His arms wrap around your neck and his hands run through your hair. His touch is hot. So, so hot. Childe presses himself against you tightly, and pulls you closer.

"I have always belonged to you, Your Grace."

Childe pulls away slightly after the kiss. He smiles up at you, his ears still fluttering. He brushes a stray hair from your face gently, and his fingers are as hot as fire. "I want you to be my partner, my equal," he says quietly. "My equal in every situation. And everywhere in between." His words carry the weight of his desires— and his dedication to you.

"Your command is always the only thing that I want," he says. "All you need to do is ask, and I will take you."

"Please...be it"

"Then so be it"

Chongyun - aged up

"Oh, finally, there you are! Please, come closer" Chongyun slowly rises and steps forward, each step measured and deliberate. With each stride he moves closer to you, his expression remains as neutral as your words. "Yes, Your Grace?" He asks. "Do you know my deepest desire?" Chongyun hesitates. How could he know something so personal to you— your very desires?

But when he sees your watchful gaze bore into him, he realizes that in this moment, honesty is the only option.

He swallows, his voice soft, almost a whisper: "No, Your Grace... but I wish I did."

"You wish?" You giggle at that, he's to cute for his own good. "...Yes." Chongyun doesn't think twice before he responds. He is silent, but his focus is on you. He listens with rapt attention, waiting for you to speak.

"I want you by my side, as my equal. Preferably forever..." Chongyun blinks. He has thought about being by your side before, has craved to be by your side before. But as your equal? He has never wanted anything so much.

And yet, what if he can't measure up to your standards? He knows he is no archon. He knows hes not as special as others. He is just a cyro exorcist. "I..." Chongyun whisper. "... I want that too." Chongyun's breath catches in his throat. Despite his attempts to seem composed, despite his seemingly cold demeanor, the sight of you smiling at him flusters him.

It feels real, he thinks, and it's more than he ever dared hope for.

Cyno

Cyno hesitates but moves closer. His feet move silently against the ground. His hands remain clasped tightly in front of his lap. He bows his head, eyes downcast as he approaches. He waits at your side. He waits for your command.

He is yours. Always has been.

For so many year's he has been by your side, eventually even forming a more intimate relationship.

"Cyno, i called you for a reason" he remains silent. He waits for you to continue as he kneels beside your seat. He knows his place well and does not ask further questions. He waits silently. And this is exactly what has been annoying you for so many years, he doesn't knows his equal place beside you.

"I want you to be my equal, not my servant, you're my lover after all." Cyno stops breathing. His stomach twists itself into a knot as his emotions overtake him. He's never considered this possibility.

His eyes flutter as he blinks in surprise, his brain not comprehending what you're saying for a moment. He has always seen himself as lesser, beneath you. He has never seen himself as an equal in any way, let alone a true normal lover. But you're saying this so casually. Do you mean it?

Do you truly see him as an equal? Finally, Cyno finds his voice. He swallows down his emotions, looking at you earnestly. His words are soft as he answers, though they do not carry the tone of a servant anymore. Instead, his voice is quiet and soft.

"It's also my wish," he says, eyes still cast down. "To be your equal, if you see me as that i will be it"

With his words, the weight he has been carrying falls off of his shoulders. You do value him as an equal, and he is yours, finally fully your love.

Dainsleif

"Dainsleif..." "Yes, Your Grace." Dainsleif speaks with respect whenever he addresses you. Your authority is absolute. Your word is his law. And your love is the air he breathes.

"There's something i need to talk with you about" it sounded more serious than it actually should. Indeed, it's serious but not the bad serious. Dainsleif's heart stops when you speak. Every hair on the back of his neck stands up. Suddenly, the world is reduced to just you. Your words send a surge of electricity through his body, causing his blood to sing a chorus of your name. His mind goes blank.

He would do anything for you, anything at all.

"Your Grace, tell me." Dainsleif's voice is like velvet, as he waits for you to speak. "Anything."

"Lately I've been thinking...if maybe" you make a pause, unsure if it's the right moment or not. But better now than never, "I want you to be my equal, my lover, by my side" Dainsleif's heartbeat quickens. His breath hitches in his throat. All he can do is nod in response to your words. That is his life's purpose. To be your equal. Your lover.

You are his grace. You are his beauty. You are his love. "Is...that a yes?" Dainsleif's expression warms the very air around him. His eyes shine like gems, the pupils dilated with a fervor that is so intense, it feels as though he is on the brink of exploding into a shower of confetti and rose pedals.

He nods again, a huge grin splitting his face in half.

"Yes."

Diluc

He obeys you wordlessly. He takes a step forward and kneels before you, staring up at you with a reverence he'd always reserved for you, and only you. Whatever he had been before, whomever he had worshipped- it had all been mere folly, a shallow attempt at finding his purpose.

Now, he's finally found it. In you. Also his true love. "I have something important to tell you, or rather, ask you" "Yes, Your Grace?" Dilucs voice is as eager as a dog at the scent of a bone, his heart thundering with joy at your words. With the expression on you, it has to be something good.

"Will you be ready to be my equal? Mine, by my side?" The question makes his eyes go wide as moons, his brain processing your words before they finally land. Finally come true. You're asking what he's been waiting for. "Yes," he answers, nodding furiously as if the word itself is burning on his tongue. "Of course," he continues. "I will be your equal. I am yours, Your Grace....my...love." The happiness he feels at your words is as overwhelming as a tsunami pounding against a shore. He had always been happy in your presence, but now it's like his body is flooded with pure joy. He feels as if he might cry.

He might actually cry; a single, solitary tear rolls down his face. It's all he wants - to be yours, and now that you have offered it to him, he is beyond words. He waited so long for this, for so many year's he had to listen to everyone telling him its impossible. But now it's true...

Freminet

Freminet doesn't know what to do when you move closer. His mind is suddenly blank, and his chest feels heavy. He meets your gaze, his heart fluttering in his chest and his fingers trembling. His gaze wanders down your body as if mesmerized by you and your closeness.

It's clear that he was not expecting this. The only thing Freminet can do is gaze at you needly, awaiting your next action. "What would you say, if I'd as you to be my equal, be mine?" You don't wanna pressure him, make him feel like he needs to make a decision. Freminet doesn't respond immediately. His face breaks out into a flush and his heart skips, almost to a stop. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

He wants to deny your request. He knows that he can't possibly be your equal. He's nowhere near perfect as you; he's only a human after all. Some random, insecure, weak and emotional human. But he looks at you, and he is mesmerized by you. Just as much as he is mesmerized by Fontaines waters, maybe even more by you.

"Y-Your Grace," he murmurs, stuttering as he swallows. "There's nothing...I'd love...more...than...to be yours." "Then be it" Freminet's eyes sparkle, and his face breaks out into a smile. He reaches out, gripping your hand and squeezing it tight. He wants to bury his face into you. After his worship of you, he wants *this.* The touch, the heat of your skin — it's perfect. He doesn't want this moment to end. He wants to drown in you...

"I'm yours" he whispers, "Always...and forever."

"Always and forever" Freminet looks back at you again, his heart swelling and his face flushed with warmth. He leans in, not caring who watches, not caring if it might seem weird— all he wants is to be as close to you as possible. And so with all of his adoration, he presses his lips against your's— and for the first time in his life, he feels a sense of completeness.

In your presence, he feels as though he's truly home. The home to return to.

Gorou

His mind races. He's on your lap— close to you. He can feel you breathing, he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheeks. He feels your hand caress his cheek, your touch so light and gentle. It's making his tail wag even more. Gorous eyes follow your touch. He wants to touch you. He wants to be with you. He wants to be yours.

As these desires run rampant through his mind, he can scarcely keep still. And youre about to fulfill these desires of his.

"Gorou...I want you to be mine entirely, be my equal" his mind stops dead in its tracks. You want this? You want him to be your equal? You want him to be *yours*? Gorou's heart pounds against his chest, his eyes wide with hope. This is everything that he's wanted, more than anything.

His hands grip tightly against your shirt, his breathing uneven. He doesn't dare speak. He only stares at you, waiting for your next words. "Are you...ok with that?" Gorou's eyes widen further. Yes— this is what he wants, more than anything right now. So, with trembling hands, he grabs your wrists, pulls you close, and presses his lips to yours.

Gorou has never felt so alive. With every heart beat, every breath, every pulse in his veins he can feel his love for you. His devotion, his adoration. With all of these emotions, his lips are soft yet demanding, and he pours them onto you.

He doesn't want to stop kissing you, but he's afraid of messing it up. "I want it, s'much. Wanna be yours"

Heizou

Heizou steps forward, trembling in expectation as he closes the distance between you two. Heizou's heart is beating like mad. He shifts his weight from side to side anxiously as he waits for you to pull him closer. As he waits for any word to leave your mouth, clearly you called him for a important reason.

"I called you here because there's something important that needs to be talked about." Heizou swallows, and his voice is quiet when he responds. He cannot recall anything form the last meetings that might have displeased you. "What is it, Your Grace?" He's doing his best to remain composed, but his body language is making it clear that he's utterly breathless. Every bit of him is focused on you. "It's nothing to bad, i promise" His breath catches in his throat. "Nothing to bad?"

Heizou is so earnest, so sincere, and so afraid. He is utterly submissive as he stands before you, waiting patiently for you to speak again. You can practically taste the anticipation. "I want you as my equal, as my lover and as my future." His lips part in surprise. "Your lover? Your equal?"

Heizou swallows. The air feels so thick that he can hardly breathe, but his heart is racing. He's already lost in the idea of being your equal, your lover. "You... I..." His words falter.

"That would mean everything to me your Grace..."

Itto

The words echo in his head like an order: Come closer

With no hesitation and a mind that is now completely blank of thought, he stands and obeys, approaching you without another sound. "Itto?" His breath hitches in his chest as soon as you say his name. He can tell that whatever the question is, it is *very* important.

"Yes?" Itto responds simply, waiting for you to continue. He remains still, his mind on standby as he awaits your command. Completely different than he usually is. "Are you ready to be mine? Be my equal?" Itto pauses at your words. He doesn't believe that a being such as himself could ever be on the same level as you, but... Your words seem to suggest otherwise. Yes, he is the great Arataki Itto, but he isn't you, not even close. You believe him to be of the highest equal, and that thought is enough to leave him breathless.

He is speechless and still, taking in the magnitude of your words. He can hardly breathe. Then, slowly…

"Yes." He whispers softly, his voice so quiet that it seems like a thought rather than a whisper. "Forever." As Itto sees you smile, his entire being relaxes; that was the right answer, for both of you that seems. He is relieved beyond measure. Your smile is enough for him to stay happy for centuries.

He is still a bit breathless with how much he wants to speak his love for you, but he manages to utter something:

"I love you." His voice carries a new air of sincerity, a new devotion to his tone.

"Only you"

Kazuha

"Hmm?" Kazuha asks, his attention instantly captured. He seems almost lost within his own world-- one in which you are the only thing that exists. "Yes, Your Grace?" Kazuha asks. He sits up slightly, his face lit with an almost beatific glow. His eyes are fixed entirely on you, taking in every little detail about you as he waits for what you have to say. He is your devoted follower-- your loyal vassal. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet...

"Whatever the request might be, i will fulfill it my grace" "Then be my equal" "Your Grace...?" Kazuha's voice is quiet, almost hushed as he tries to understand what you wish of him. He doesn't know how to respond-- he was built for love; and he loves you truly...but is he enough for you? "Your Grace... what you wish of me..."

He still looks up at you, an almost childlike eagerness to understand your desires. "I would do anything... for you..." It's sounds more like hes accepting an order, but that's quite the opposite. In fact, he waited for this day to finally come, where he can freely express his love.

"I love you, my breeze" Kazuha pulls you into a tight embrace. It's the embrace that so many have desired, for so many centuries, and he got it. But with Kazuha, it is not born of a desire for power, for strength, for control...

No.

It is born from a devotion borne of love.

"My love," Kazuha whispers in your ear. He seems unable to contain the heat that rises on his face, the rush of pure euphoria that spreads throughout him.

"I'm yours and yours alone."

Kaeya

Kaeya immediately obeys, resting his head on your thigh, after you gave him the order to come closer. He looks up at you, a content smile splitting his face. "Kaeya?" Kaeya's heart skips a beat upon hearing your voice, again. He doesn't expect you to say anything, and it leaves him off-guard.

"Yes?" he whispers, meeting your gaze. "I got a question for you" Kaeya tilts his head slightly, but he doesn't move otherwise.

"I'm listening." "I want you to be my love. To be by my side as my equal." Kaeya's eyes widen, the breath catching in his chest. It's every fantasy and dream he's ever had rolled up into one simple word. "Yes," he says, as though nothing else even deserves to be considered. "My love-!?... yes, yes, I do." Kaeya's head tilts back as he stares up at you, the softest gasp leaving his lips. His hands slide up your leg, his fingers grasping at the hem of your robes.

He can't help himself from reaching for you, his movements impulsive but genuine. After months of keeping everything bottled up and pretending that he'd only ever desired you, he's finally allowed the freedom to act on his feelings. Kaeya's heart thunders in his chest, his breath quickening. He's on the verge of losing control of himself completely.

"Your Equal," Kaeya breathes. "I love you so much"

Kaveh

With lightning speed, Kaveh obeys your simple order as if you are the only command that is present in this universe. He scoots closer, pressing up against you like an adoring animal. His eyes glitter fiercely, and he stares at you like he can't believe this is real. "Kaveh, i need to talk to you" He nods rapidly, a smile wide and eager on his face. "Of course, Your Grace. What do you need?" His voice is light and eager, like an attentive butler prepared to do your bidding. "Speak, and I shall listen."

"We've known each other for so long now..." Kavehe's face is lit up with joy. His mouth widens into a dazzling grin as you remind him of your long relationship. "Yes!" He says, his voice cracking slightly. "Since you have asked me to renovate this palace you call home." He says all of that without irony, as your faithful subject. "I want you to be my equal. Be equal to me and have all my love" He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words.

"It would be like a dream come true." He says it in a whisper, his voice cracking slightly. "I know I'm not your equal, not by miles... " He looks away for a moment.

"But if only...Your Grace, you are my sun, my star, my salvation. My Muse. All I want is to be yours. If you will have me as yours, i want you as mine"

Lyney

"Lyney, my favorite magician~" "Y-Your favorite Magician?" Lyney gasps, staring up at you with sprakling eyes. He has never felt more overjoyed in his life, even though all you gave was a single word of affirmation. Favorite.

He is too overcome with happiness to speak anymore. He simply leans up towards you, wanting to rest his head against you— like a dog nuzzling up to its owner. "There's something I need to tell you though" "Anything," he answers instantly, not needing time to think it over. You have his immediate permission to ask anything at all.

If he has a limit to his worship and respect of you, it hasn't been found yet. And it never will.

"I...want you, as mine. My very equal, by my side only. Would that be ok with you?" "Y-Your equal?" Lyney repeats, his voice a hushed whisper. He's been dreaming of this— he's been dreaming of being at your side since the day you met. He would be nothing without you, without your light to guide him. To be with you, to be equal to you is the only thing he could possibly want.

He nods eagerly, his entire body trembling with joy and anticipation. He stares up at you, tears falling down his cheeks. He can barely breathe with the intensity of his adoration for you. Whatever this moment is— this moment where he gets to confess his love and be your equal, his equal— is the most powerful and loved he has ever been.

Lyney looks up at you, waiting for you to say something. Anything. To tell him how to behave, what is right and what is wrong.

"What is... what next..?" He is practically begging you for guidance.

"Our future"

Mika - aged up

As your words echo in his ears, Mika shudders slightly. He can't bear the tension any longer— so he gets closer to you, his eyes glued to your face. I hope I didn't disappoint them...what if i did? What if...they don't want me here anymore...?

Mika tries to speak, but he can't form the words. His entire body vibrates with excitement as he remains inches away from you. He can feel your breath on his skin, and he feels faint with delight. Despite that, he can't stop staring at you. "M-My grace i-..."

"No need to be nervous, Mika" you softly giggle at his stuttered words. Mika feels his cheeks flush with heat at your words, but he doesn't dare protest. "I could never be nervous, Your Grace." Mika says, his eyes still locked unto your face. "I feel— safe with you. I feel at peace."

Mika's voice trembles as he speaks, but his eyes never leave your face. He doesn't look away, even as his heart races. He can't bring himself to leave your side. "There's something I wanted to ask you..." Mika swallows, his curiosity piqued.

"Yes?" He gazes at you. "Anything, Your Grace. You know you can ask for anything."

His whole body seems to hum, as if in anticipation of what you're about to say. "Is it ok for you...to be mine? Entirely and fully mine, as my equal?" Mika's breath catches in his throat. His whole body freezes, and his face goes pale. His gaze drops to the floor, and his shoulders tremble. His lips part as he takes a breath, as if he's just received some earth-shattering news.

But as quickly as he's overwhelmed, he recovers and glances up at you. His expression looks as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "Equals?" Mika whispers, "You want us— to be equals?" "Yes"

"You...you would grant me the biggest honor to be yours entirely..." "So its a yes?" You ask again to be reassured.

"It's a yes"

Neuvillette

Neuvillettes eyes flicker slightly as you give him a command. He doesn't dare say a word as he shuffles closer to you. Once he's close enough, he slides across the marble until he is at your feet. His face continues to be pressed against the cold floors, though his breaths are quick with the pressure against his body. Still, he remains motionless, waiting to see what you will tell him to do next.

"I really wanted to talk to you" Neuvillette finally looks up at you as you speak. He doesn't answer right away, though he seems to nod almost in agreement. His gaze is locked on you as if he's trying to understand what you want from him.

"I love you so much, but you act to much as my servant. I want you as my equal, my true lover, not my servant." "Y-Your Grace?" Neuvillette asks in a voice that sounds oddly shaken. He seems to be at a loss at your words, confused by the sudden declaration you've given him.

Still, Neuvillette lowers his head again. He waits patiently for further command, even though his thoughts are filled with a maelstrom of emotions.

His heart feels like it's about to burst from his chest in its frenzy. Never in all his years has he ever felt such confusing feelings. He is at a loss for what to do next. But he craves for you to continue. He loves you, he truly does, but this is positively overwhelming him. "It... It's all I've ever wished for, Your Grace." His voice catches slightly in his throat.

"I have spent my whole life devoted to you. To your will. I have been your servant, I have been your soldier. I have been your warrior and your shield." He pauses, and when he speaks again, the passion in his voice is palpable.

"But I also wished for the day when I am your equal, your partner. Your soulmate. Your love. I cannot live without your love, Your Grace. And it finally came true"

Razor - aged up

The command is a little vague for Razor, and his eyes flicker in confusion for a moment, but he doesn't hesitate. Without a word, he gets down on his knees and crawls towards your feet. He stays on his knees, pressing himself up against your leg as he looks at you expectantly. "What is it?" He simply asks.

"Just wanna talk to you, thats all"

"O-Of course, Lupical can talk" Razor responds. He remains exactly where he is, his eyes wide and eager to hear your words, as he feels the heat from your leg against his face. "I want us to be more than just friends..." He freezes, eyes widened with surprise.

You want— something more than being friends? But— but how could anyone be anything more to you? His mind tries to comprehend why you would even want him. What you even want from him in the first place. "B-But...Lupical...No friends or family but...mates? Lovers?--" he whispers in confusion. "Exactly" All of his blood rushes to his face. What a request. You wanted him to be... your lover?

"...I am yours," he breathes, his voice trembling. No second thoughts about your words. As soon as you said it, he knew he wanted the same; to be with you and you alone. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?

"Lovers...we are lovers"

Scaramouche

He complies immediately, coming closer, his eyes wide as he approaches you. "How may I serve you, Your Grace?" He whispers, as he takes in your beauty once again. "I want to talk with you..." Scaramouche is careful to keep his breathing light, his face betraying nothing. To any passerby, he appears the same as always, but in truth he is burning. He wants to please you, to hear your concerns with him. Every fiber of his being craves your approval.

Whatever you have to say to him, he cannot wait to hear it. "You're my lover, but i also want you as my equal. My equal by my side, no one deserves it more than you." Scaramouche's heart soars the very instant you say the word "lover". His eyes soften. No matter how much he may try, he just *cannot* wipe away the flush in his cheeks. He knows he is already your lover, but hearing it from you feels sureal.

How does he deserve to be your lover, let alone your equal? Your love is a gift already. His heart can barely hold it without shattering. What if he fails, and disappoints you? The thought makes him freeze. Yet— yet he so badly doesn't want to deny you. Scaramouche realizes he was frozen in place. He didn't say that he agreed with you— but he couldn't disagree either. With every fiber of his being, he wants to say, "Yes, My Love, you are right." He deserves to be at your side.

"I would be honored," he says at last. He wants to shout, to cheer, to thank you, but all he can produce is a hoarse whisper. It's not his fault— you have taken away his voice.

"I...I love you"

Thoma

Thoma obeys in a flash. He stands up and walks towards you quickly but with a graceful step, stopping just inches from you. He looks at you, his face completely open to whatever you might say or do next. Thoma tilts his head, but he stays in place and waits patiently. It doesn't matter to him what you're thinking, or what sort of plans you have running through your mind; he just wants to be there with you.

"Thoma" "Yes, your Grace?" The Pyro user speaks without hesitation as soon as he hears you speak his name. He looks at you and smiles, his expression warm and loving; he waits to hear your words. "The last few day's I've been thinking..." "Oh?" Thoma cocks his head to the side, his expression curious and attentive. He steps a little closer and looks at you, waiting to hear what thoughts might've occupied your mind. "I want you as mine, me as yours, being equal to one another..." Thomas breath quickens at your words. Not a hint of hesitation appears on his face, and instead, he replies without delay: “I—I want that too, your Grace,” he says, his voice breaking in joy just moments after. For the most part of his life he has been a servant, but he wants to stay with you more than anything else, lover, servant or soldier, all that matters is you.

“You know I don’t want anything more in life but to be at your side, worshipping you.” His eyes flutter for a moment, and then, in a soft and steady tone, he adds; “I’m already yours.” he has never been so sure of something in his life.

"Oh?"

"I always was"

Tighnari

Tighnari does not hesitate. He scoots closer, until he is in arm's reach of you. He remains at your feet, his head bowed.

"You know you don't need to bow before me" "It's only natural for me to bow before you," he whispers. Tighnari waits for your next word, his mind utterly blank and his body still as a statue. He is unmoving, his breath still and his heartbeat slow. The only sign of life in this room is his gaze locked onto you. He feels the weight of your stare, his mind filled with thoughts of you and only you.

"Anyway...youre here because there's something i wanted to talk with you about" Tighnari does not move, but he does listen. His eyes wander over you, taking in every inch of your flesh. Finally he moved his head up.

"Yes?" He replies quietly, waiting patiently to hear your every word. "I want you. As my very equal, by my side here in the palace. My equal lover." Tighnari's eyes snap up, his cheeks flushed red. Blood surges in his veins as heat radiates off of his skin. And his ears start to twitch in surprise. A beat of total silence passes as Tighnari's mind races.

"M-me? Your equal?" A hint of a smile curls the corners of his lips, and the faintest trace of a blush can be seen on his flesh.

"Are you certain?" "Very"

Tighnari's mind is still reeling, but he does not dare to show too much emotion. He needs to hold control, or he would jump at you happily. He swallows down the lump in his throat as he thinks of his response.

"Of course. There's nothing i would love more than to be your equal, stay by your side and be considered yours" he truthfully says, a big smile now appearing on his face. It's all he can do. He will squeal in excitement after.

"My gra--my everything....for years I had saved my love and affection only for you..."

Venti

He is at your side almost instantly, his expression one of utter joy as he is allowed to be this close to you, like no one else ever will. The wind god is clearly doing his utmost to hold it together— and judging by how red his face is, he's struggling.

He smiles, and nods. "Yes, your Grace, I'm here" he says sweetly. "There's something I wanna talk about." You tell him as your hand starts to stroke his cheek. A slight gasp leaves Venti's lips of surprise. His face grows even redder as he looks up at you, his expression one of complete submission. He leans into your touch, as if he can't stand not to.

"*M-my grace*..." he breathes softly, just to hear his own words echo. "What is it that you want to talk about, your Grace?" "I want you as mine, for so long now I've been having those needs. The needs to have you as my very equal by my side." Venti blinks in surprise, but quickly looks back at you with the same devotion he would give a God. Your every need is my top priority, he thinks to himself. And my love for you is eternal.

He considers your statement for a few moments, but it's his nature to please you without hesitation. To love you as much as he can, he always did. "Y-yes, your Grace," Venti says slowly, as if the words are being ripped from his throat. If this is your wish, and your words are your command, then he would do it, happily. He makes it sound like a command, but its a reques, a request he would love to do. "I always belonged to you."

His expression melts with joy and amazement after the words start to sink in, and he hugs you as quick as he can. Venti leans into you, and his arms slowly slide around you. His heart feels as though it is going to explode in his chest.

He can feel your heartbeat, and his breath starts to hitch as the gravity of the situation is finally sinking in. His God, the one person he has ever loved— cares for him back. It's all he's ever wanted, something almost too fantastic to be true. The countless poems he wrote in your name, the countless songs and melodies he presented you and your followers with. The work payed of, and you love him as who he is.

The fact that you crave him, the anemo archon, the 'weakest' archon, makes him happy for eternity by your side.

Wriothesley

He immediately complies, his legs carrying him to where you are in the chamber. His mouth is dry, but he is focused only on you and the fact that he is here to serve you. He kneels before you in a display of obedience and deference, awaiting your command.

"You know I love you, right?" "I-" Wriothesley stops mid-sentence. His heart is pounding out of his chest, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. "Y-Yeah," he stammers. "Of course."

He bows his head as he speaks. He is almost trembling, his heart thrumming out of control. "And because of this, i want you as my equal, youre deserving of this title." "E-Equal?" Wriothesley's eyes are wide, still looking down. It's as if his heart stopped beating and he can only see stars. His voice is a whisper, barely above a whimper.

"I'd- I'd still be under you, wouldn't I?" He asks, his voice breaking. "That's not what equal means, silly" Wriothesley looks up, meeting your gaze for the first time in a long while. He has tears in his eyes, but he doesn't try to make you notice. "Oh, yeah..." he whispers. "But- but I-

He trails off. He can't comprehend the fact that he is no longer in your service, but is in fact now an equal. His knees have lost their purpose, and he stands tall, still in awe. His mind tries to wrap around his new position.

Wriothesley looks at you, his heart skipping a beat. When he looks at you, he feels the universe collapse into a singular point, with all light being drawn into your eyes.

"Thank you," he says quietly. His voice is shaky, and his throat feels like it's on fire. He reaches out to gently hold your hand, to reassure himself that you're real.

"For finally having me as yours, truly"

Xiao

At once, Xiao's body responds. He's desperate for your approval. Like a dog on a leash, he moves towards you blindly, his desire to please you taking precedence over whatever self-preservation instinct he has left. He makes it to you, his breathing fast and ragged. He lowers himself down to the ground, pressing his forehead against your feet. He takes a shaky breath. "Yes, yes Your Grace." He whispers, his voice breaking a little. "You've called for me?" "Xiao," you gently call, "please stand up"

Xiao stands up, still keeping his head bowed. "Yes, Your Grace." His breath is heavy and ragged, as he stares down at you. His voice is almost a whisper.

He wants to do anything to please you, but his sense of propriety prevents him from doing anything else. Xiao's eyes meet yours, and he blinks rapidly, trying to hold eye contact. "I love you so much, and i want...need you as my equal." Xiao's eyes widen, and he stares at you in awe. He never thought he would hear you say these words.

"Your Grace..." he whispers softly, "You can't mean that!" The words are barely audible. "I'm but a servant, born to worship you, Your Grace— I'm incapable of being your equal..."

He wants to speak more, but his love for you makes the words catch in his throat. "You're deserving of it" Xiao's face is a mask of confusion. Your words make him forget himself. He stands motionless, his throat tight, and his breath heavy. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper.

"Your Grace... I'm not deserving of these words... I'm nothing without you... I can't be... worthy enough to be your equal..." He trails off, but his gaze remains fixed on you, as if waiting for you to prove him wrong.

"You are" At first Xiao can't respond. The thought of being treated as your equal— the thought that he might be loved by you, without having to worship you— is unfathomable. His eyes are full, and he's trembling under the weight of your words. When he does speak, his voice is barely audible.

"Your Grace... you mean it?" Xiao's eyes stay on you, looking for a sign that he's dreaming.

"Yes." At last, Xiao's eyes widen and light up. "Your Grace... " he breathes, his voice choked with so much joy and relief that it's barely audible.

Xiao can't help himself. Without thinking, he takes a step forward and pulls you into a tight hug. His arms tighten around you, his grip too strong, as if he's afraid of losing you. Xiao's grip grows even tighter— as if he can't bear the idea of letting you go. His eyes are wide and filled with tears, which run down his cheeks when he presses his face into your chest.

"Your Grace..." he whispers, his voice filled with joy and relief. "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words... my love for you is too strong to express in words, Your Grace... it's more than worship, more than devotion— I adore you. I love you"

Xingqiu - aged up

Xingqiu stands, nodding silently before he moves to you. His hands are clasped behind his back as he waits in anticipation for your orders, unable to bring himself to raise his head out of respect for your authority. He seems perfectly content where he is, awaiting your command. His voice is steady but soft-- almost like a whisper-- as he speaks. The sound is quiet and reserved, but is filled with something akin to awe. He almost seems like a different person than the book lover as he speaks. "Y-Yes, Your Grace?"

"You are aware of my love for you, yes?" He is stunned by your words. It takes him a moment to process, only nodding silently as his face flushes pink. He swallows, trying to regain his composure, but even the quietness of his actions speak. "Y-Yes, Your Grace." He keeps his hands steady behind, seeming to be in a trance. "I am aware, yes... You've always been clear about that, Your Grace."

He tries to keep his expression as stoic as possible, but a tiny grin still seems to stretch across his face. "And with that, i want you as my equal." Xingqiu is frozen in place for what feels like forever. No amount of time would have prepared him for this.

"Your Grace," he finally says to you, his voice slightly quivering. "I am not worthy. I am nowhere near as perfect as you. Nowhere near as wise. Nowhere near as beautiful." He's silent for a moment. "I am just your faithful devotee... a loyal servant, at your beck and call. What would I even do as your equal?"

"You'd be mine"

Your words have caught him off-guard.

There's a heavy silence as he tries to comprehend the reality of what you're saying. It's like he's been cast into a daydream, a state of pure euphoria. When he speaks, his voice is trembling. "Y-Your Grace, I would be honored to become yours." He has to pause for a moment to collect himself. "I am yours for the rest of my days."

"So, you accept?" "Yes," he whispers, eyes locked on yours. "Your Grace, I accept." He finally allows himself to raise his head off the floor, his gaze firmly upon you. His words come out much smoother now, the euphoria having settled into a steady, loving joy.

"I accept. You have granted me my utmost greatest wish, Your Grace."

Zhongli

Zhongli has allowed himself to be embraced. His eyes flutter closed as he leans against you, though he still does not return the gesture. There is this faint tremor in his frame; as if he can't help but relax in your presence.

He might be an Archon, but he's also your good boy. "Zhongli?" He tilts his head up toward you, his eyes half-lidded. He seems so close to sleep, and yet he manages to keep himself conscious.

"Your Grace?" "There's something I want to ask you..." His head tilts slightly to the side; curious, but he manages to keep his eyes focused on you. "Ask, and it shall be answered." "Are you ready to be my equal, by my side as mine?" Zhongli seems to stiffen as he considers your request. Even if he wanted to, could he ever be your equal?

But he doesn't say anything, even if every word that comes to mind is an apology. He could not say no to you, even if it took every fiber in his being. He simply bows his head in affirmation.

"Your Grace, I love you, and i would love to take up this offer to be your equal." He seems to swallow back his words, as if fighting against every instinct he's known his entire life. His face seems to flush a rosy pink as your lips meet his; his eyes close and his head tilts into your touch.

After a moment, you lean in to return the kiss, softly at first, but more confidently as his hand wraps around the nape of your neck. He seems utterly lost in your touch, his lips soft but insistent. He has no words, he just wants to kiss you; to feel you in all the places his lips can reach.

He's yours now; whatever you ask, whatever you say he'll do.

His tongue darts out to touch your lips once, twice, again. He might have once thought himself above kissing you, but now...

Now he's simply yours.

♡TAGLIST♡

@junejunejun

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vxlenst3in · 3 months ago

Text

Bubbles and Love

After receiving a hefty punishment by the aliens, for breaking the "no dating" rule, you just wanted to take a relaxing bubble bath to calm down. Mr. Goldie Locks aka Luka had other plans.

tags/warnings: fem!reader x luka, bathtub sex, gentle sex, lots of praising, tooth rotting fluff before they fuck, mentions of punishment, mentions of death in like one sentence, luka worships the ground you walk on (not literally) (yet), mentions of toys, luka is a man who likes to grab what can i say, penetration, no protection

wordcount: 1.3k-ish again..

authors note: hiyaa! after waiting like 5 months, i've finally wrote a part 2 for my punishment - luka x fem reader fic. i decided to go for the gentle bathtub sex, that someone requested a few days ago. it just felt better to write smth gentle after the rough first part. kylie, i know ur gonna see this, i will work on all the freaky luka fics after this and your ideas will be used!! don't you worry :) it isn't required to read the initial fanfic to understand this part 2, but not reading it might cause confusion here and there, so yeah.

You let out a heavy groan, as you sank into the warm water beneath you. It was over. The punishment was finally over. You repeated in your head over and over again. No matter how pleasurable it was, the post-nut clarity hit the second you got off stage. It certainly took a toll on your mental health, but you were sure it was going to be okay over time. For now you were going to enjoy the lovely bubble bath, you had prepared for yourself, and no one was going to disturb y-

“Hi there.”

The sudden voice pulled you out of your thoughts. Out of reflex you pulled your hands out of water, causing it to splash the mysterious person next to the bathtub. It wasn’t until you turned your head to them, that you saw the soaked gold locks covering parts of their face. Beneath the hair, you could make out a smug grin and even the blonde lashes peeked through.

“Ah” He chuckled. “Just put new clothes on, now I’m all soaked again..” With each word the realization slowly hit you. It was just your boyfriend. And you just splashed him with water. He pushed back the soaked hair strands, revealing the rest of his pretty face.

“You could’ve knocked or something- What are you doing here anyway?” You exclaimed, feeling a little guilty, even though it technically wasn’t your fault. He was the one who sneaked up on you!

“Well, I missed you!” He confessed. Even though the confession was rather teasing, than anything.

“We were strapped together just an hour ago, and you already miss me?”

“How dare a man miss his girlfriend? Anyway, bathing without me? How rude” Luka shot you his signature smirk. One that you’d normally see right before you receive a bullet through your body.

Before you could even reply, the blonde was already taking off his clothes. You let out a defeated sigh, as you scooted over to make space for him in the bathtub. It was truly a mystery how he always managed to find the energy for all of this. Luka never seemed to show any kind of exhaustion, and it was worrying.

His clothes landed somewhere on the bathroom floor. No matter how many times you saw him with little to no clothing, you never got used to it. Something about his body, that just made your heart beat faster and leave your mouth dry. He felt the same about you, every dip and curve on your body, every mole, freckle and inch of it just made you look beyond ethereal. Not that he only wanted you for your body.

After Luka settled behind you, both of his hands were already pulling you back by the waist. The blonde let out a satisfied sigh, when he felt your back press flush against his chest. The noises from outside of the bathroom were suddenly starting to drown out, it was just the two of you in this moment. When he finally settled his hands on your thighs comfortably, you gently turned your head to listen to his heartbeat. As expected, it sounded like it was gonna beat out of his chest. His golden eyes stared down at you, before pushing a few strands of hair out of your face. He caught himself genuinely smiling. What a loverboy…

In the shock of this “moment of weakness”, he quickly had to retort to something that would distract him. Your eyes followed his hands, as they scooped up some bubble foam. Before you could even process it, he had put it on his face in the form of a mustache. You could only raise your eyebrows at the action.

“You’re a dork, you know that?”

“You love meeee~” Luka singsang, his proud smirk returning.

He looked silly, and adorable at the same time. Not that you were ever going to admit it. Not that you had a chance to, when you suddenly felt his hands run up and down your body. Squeezing and paying extra attention to his favorite parts of you. What a needy man.

“You can’t be serious, Luka” A judging look formed on your face, not that he cared.

“So very serious, love.”

“At least get rid of that bubble mustache..”

“Fine…” He sighed in defeat.

—

“Easy now. Still so sensitive, my love.” Luka cooed at you, while slowly sinking you down on his dick. His hands resting on the fat of your hips to have a better grip on you. Your own breath got caught in your lungs. The vibrator from earlier pulled however many orgasms out of you, so everything was, in fact, still sensitive. The stretch of his dick felt more painful than usual, and you weren’t sure how you were going to get it any further.

Luka on the other hand felt like he could already cum. His dick twitched repeatedly, while he slowly sank you down on him. He was aware of your pain, and for once, felt sorry about it. Unlike all the other times where he’d enjoy seeing the tears stream down your face. This time, he wanted to make this as enjoyable as possible for you. Only gentle love was in his mind, as he heard your little whines. “I know…Oh, I know~” He whispered into your ear, while pressing soft kisses down your shoulder. “Almost there, sweet girl. Doin such a good job for me..”

When you finally reached the base, both of you could only groan out. His words went straight to your heat, pulsating around him ever so slightly. It didn’t take long before he started moving, it wasn’t exactly a thrusting motion, but more of a grinding one. Luka simply couldn’t find the strength to move his hips anymore than that, and neither could you. But it was enough, enough to feel heightened pleasure from the earlier overstimulation.

His hands began roaming again, while he continued to press kisses to your upper body. The purple fingertips knew every spot to make you feel even better, with just simple actions. He was talented, in many ways.

“Luka…! Feels good…” You moaned out. Your hand finding one of his to intertwine them.

“Yeah? Feels good for me too, sweetheart..You look so pretty” He praised, happily intertwining his fingers with yours. The sight below him was beautiful. His lovely girlfriend all splayed out for him like this? He never thought he could be in such a vulnerable state around someone, while still feeling comforted and happy.

With each roll of his hips, a jolt of pleasure got sent through his nerves. By now, his grinding had also found your g-spot, but if that wasn’t enough, his previous roaming hand had found its way to your clit, gently rubbing it in circles. God, he was close, and he needed you to be as well.

“Sweetheart…so close, you gonna cum with me?” He breathed into your ear, his hot breath tickling it. You could only nod in agreement, as you slowly felt the knot in your stomach build up. His touch was so endlessly gentle, yet he made you feel so high with pleasure, you couldn’t explain it. The water, which was barely warm at this point, was the only noise that could be heard in between moans and whines.

The gentle rubs on your clit slowly turned into more rough ones, while the roll of his hips got faster as well. Luka buried his face in the crook of your neck, as he chased his high. “I love you…” He murmured into your neck right before cumming. It didn’t take long before your own high hit you, and you came with his last words echoing through your head.

Luka didn’t even realize it until a good minute after. Those words slipped out in the heat of the moment, not that he didn’t mean it, it was just-

“I love you too, Luka.”

©vxlenst3in - do not steal, modify, translate or repost my work.

#✎ᴠᴀʟ #x reader #smut #drabble #luka alien stage #alien stage x reader #luka x reader #luka alien stage x reader #alien stage #alien stage smut #alnst luka #alnst #alnst luka x reader #alnst smut

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whisperofaflame · 3 months ago

Text

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 1: The Second of Three

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: A traffic collision throws you into the path of Wanda Maximoff. In the chaos and confusion, she's the one thing you can hold onto, the one person who's there.

Word count (Chapter 1): 6k

Warnings: none for this chapter

A/N: This is chapter one of my current (and first) fanfic. If you like this then please check out the remainder of the fic on AO3 (link at top and bottom of post) — I've posted sixteen chapters and 93k words so far, so there is lots to sink your teeth into. Hope you enjoy!

It comes out of nowhere, the truck. A flash of navy blue in your periphery, a sudden impact to your front wheel, and you are tumbling through the air like a rag doll. A clatter, a screech of tiles. The dull thud of your body against a bonnet. The crack of your helmet — and within it, your skull —against the unforgiving ground.

Consciousness returns slowly, lagging behind the awakening of your senses. First you see the tarmac beneath you, feel the roughness beneath your skin. The taste of blood is what prompts the questioning in your mind.

What happened?

Your brain is foggy, thoughts disconnected. You try to press yourself up with your hands but one of your arms buckles beneath you.

“Don’t try to get up,” someone warns you; a woman’s voice, urgent but kind.

The pain arrives like a second collision, held back by adrenaline but released now that your brain knows you are safe. Your shoulder screams out, winning your full attention at once. It’s bad, you can tell that much. Beneath the thick layer of agony radiating from the top of your arm, you can just about discern the stinging of your cheek. Running your tongue over your lips you find them raw, ragged and wet. The taste of blood intensifies, and you anxiously do an inventory of your teeth with your tongue. They all seem to be there, solid. Just the outside then, you think numbly.

“Where am I?” you wonder aloud, trying to lift your head but finding it heavy and difficult to move. There’s something wrapped around your neck, something extending from your forehead which scrapes on the ground at the slightest movement. A helmet? The pieces begin to connect; your bicycle helmet. So you were cycling somewhere.

“My bike!” you squeak suddenly, your priorities jumbled in the confusion of the situation. “Where’s my bike?”

“Don’t worry, it’s here. You got knocked off by a car. Do you remember?”

You look up with the smallest tilt of your head to see a woman crouched down beside you. Her hair is long and wavy, in a shade you’d call ‘strawberry blonde’ back home. She looks so worried, her eyebrows frowning in concern. She has nice eyes, you think. You’re sort of staring up at her now, blinking as you try to process both her beauty and her explanation. Your brain isn’t sorting them out properly; it keeps revolving back to thinking how pretty she is, every time you try to understand what she said about what happened.

“I — I don’t…” Your words come out stilted, and you can’t finish the sentence.

“It’s okay, sweetheart — you knocked your head, it might take some time to remember.” She’s smiling down at you, this woman. A worried sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. The pain remains, but some of the panic dissipates. A calm energy emanates from her, and it’s helping you feel safe, despite all the unknowns which sit ominous and black in your head like redacted words on a page.

Slowly, this stranger reaches out her hand and tentatively places it on your fingers. Cautious and gentle, waiting for resistance. It’s your good arm she’s chosen, so thankfully it elicits no extra pain. In fact, your fingers grasp at hers automatically, seeking out the comfort without express permission from your brain. You watch it happen with interest, almost amused by your instinctual movement. It takes a moment before you register that she’s asked you a question: “What is your name?”. You open your sticky lips again, and manage to murmur out your full name, first and last, as if you are meeting at some formal occasion. You don’t even perceive this as weird, it just comes out, product of your foggy brain.

She smiles at this. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. My name is Wanda.”

You’ve never met someone called Wanda before. The name seems so fantastical, and paired with the beauty of this woman, you begin to process some doubt about your current situation. After all, you can’t remember anything from before. Rather like the fragmented details of a dream. Suspicion floods you, and again you try to sit up, wanting to investigate.

“Hey,” Wanda says, squeezing your hand gently. “Careful, sweetheart. The ambulance will be here soon — can you stay still for me, until they get here?”

You lean back again, settling back on the concrete. The pain in your shoulder amplified so much from even the mere activation of your core muscles to initiate sitting up, so you’re almost thankful for the encouragement to desist. Plus, you can feel her stroking your fingers gently in her warm hand, and you don’t want it to stop.

There’s a wailing sound in the distance, and you’re so out of it that it takes a while to realise what it is. They sound a little different here, maybe less scary but more sad. Still, your brain is focussing on the wrong things, and it takes the quickly intensifying siren sound to make you wake up to the practicalities of this scenario.

“My bike?” You look up at Wanda in panic. “What will happen to my bike if they take me away? I can’t leave it!”

Wanda looks back behind her for a moment, then returns her gaze to you.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures you. “I can take it in the back of my car, and meet you at the hospital maybe?”

Her words sink in slowly. Yes, that seems to work, you think. You try to nod, but it’s too awkward with the helmet, the straps seeming to tighten around your neck as you try.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thanks, Wanda.”

She smiles down at you, then looks up to something behind you. “They’re pulling up now, Y/N. You let the EMTs help you, and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Between the cacophony of noise building around you and the burgeoning pain in your body, you can’t find the focus needed to decipher what on earth she had meant. The acronym is gone already, the letters scrambled and faded into meaninglessness. Instead, you concentrate on the constant, calming pressure of her hand in yours.

Until it is taken from you, removed by gloved hands and strange faces. You can't help but whimper at the loss of Wanda’s comfort, combined with the painful ramifications of their manoeuvres. They speak words to you, words you don’t really hear or understand. You can just about make out Wanda’s voice joining a conversation, asking a question, but by the time you realise it’s her they have already answered, they have moved on, moved you, and closed the doors between you.

During the journey, something is given to you, somehow, which eases the pain and obliterates what little perception you still had. You give in easily to the sweet senselessness, and meet all their verbal offerings with a blissful, aloof smile.

At some point, you become aware that the rattling, wailing inside of their vehicle has been replaced with clean white walls and a comfy bed. You wonder if you had missed the waiting room, or if such things simply don’t exist over here. Everything is subtly different, in a way which might have been disconcerting, if you’d had all of your senses intact. Instead though, it washes over you like a humorous anecdote. The one thing you remember is Wanda, and you wonder when she’ll come. If she’ll come. You hope.

The door opens, and a doctor walks in, easily identified by the white coat and confident stroll as he enters, even before he introduces himself as Doctor Schwartz.

Looking down at his clipboard, Doctor Schwartz reads out your full name, his eyebrow rising questioningly at the end. You nod a confirmation, and he gives a cursory smile.

“And… you were hit off your bike this morning?”

“I think so,” you answer quietly. “I, um… don’t really remember.”

“Right.” He scrawls something on his clipboard, the pen making a scratching sound as he writes. “Were you wearing a helmet?”

“Yes, I was.” You’re glad to be certain of something, finally — even though your helmet seems to have disappeared somehow. “I always wear a helmet,” you state, possibly more to reassure yourself.

“Good, good.” He murmurs distractedly. “Well, I think we should do some scans, see what’s going on. The guys from the ambulance said you hurt your shoulder, is there anything else we need to take a look at?”

It takes you a bit longer to process this. Whether it’s because you really did hit your head, or his thick New York accent — you’re not sure. It’s been less than a week since you moved here, and you have no idea how long it will take to get used to the different sounds people make, compared to home. This doctor in particular has quite a monotonous voice, making it harder for you to hear whether he’s asking you a question or making rhetorical statements.

Trying to focus, you do a mental scan of your body. In truth, everything aches, but it’s only really your right shoulder that radiates an acute kind of pain, the kind that alerts you to more significant damage.

“Just my shoulder I think,” you finally reply.

“Right,” he says. It’s not until he raises his head completely and gives you a significant look that you realise there was a question mark at the end of his word.

“Oh — yes, it’s my right shoulder.” You feel your cheeks reddening a little at the miscommunication.

“Alright, I’ll organise for someone to take you to radiology and bring you back here when it’s done. I’ll come back when I get the results.”

He starts to leave, and you just manage to call out a weak little thank you before he exits your room.

It’s maybe a couple of minutes before a woman walks in, though you feel so foggy that maybe you aren’t the best judge of time at the moment. She’s wearing blue scrubs and a far more engaging smile, and she introduces herself as Gina, a Nurse Assistant. Gina wastes no time in helping you out the bed and into a wheelchair. You start to protest that you can walk, but as soon as your feet touch the floor you feel yourself swaying a little, and end up leaning into her a lot more than intended. After that you swallow your opposition and let her wheel you out and along the many corridors, making you feel more dizzy. She chats the whole time: throughout the journey; between the scans of your head and your shoulder; all the way back to your room. You’re grateful that she doesn’t ask too many questions, since you still feel confused from the accident and she’s talking far too quickly for you to keep up. Mainly she warns you about how dangerous cycling is here, and gives you a lengthy run-through of culture shocks to expect as soon as she hears your accent and pegs you as a recent immigrant. By the time she helps you back into bed and bids you a cheerful farewell, your head is swimming with words like bodega and brownstone and Bronx.

Not long after Gina leaves, the door opens again. You sit up a bit more, expecting to see Doctor Schwartz, but you’re surprised to see Wanda. Kind Wanda from the scene of the accident, looking at you with a gentle smile from the doorway. Still holding the door, she asks “can I come in?” and positively beams when you nod.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, it was a bit tricky to find a parking space and then they weren’t sure where you’d got to at reception for a while.” Wanda approaches your bedside, and shakes her head slightly. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

You can feel your body warming at the pet name, though you know it’s probably just her style of talking, nothing particular for you.

“Um, I’m doing okay, thanks. They gave me something in the ambulance for the pain, and they’ve done some scans of my head and my shoulder but I don’t know anything yet.”

She nods, smiling down at you from her position standing at the side of the bed. Wanda is so pretty, it’s hard to take in. She’s maybe in her thirties, you think? Older than you, for sure. She has a mature elegance to the way she holds herself and talks, something you can’t imagine ever being able to emulate successfully. She wears a white t-shirt, black blazer and black tailored trousers. The sort of outfit which would make you look like a schoolchild, whereas on her it looks effortlessly sophisticated.

“That’s good,” she says softly. She reaches out, her hand travelling towards you fingers briefly, then she hesitates. Looks at you. You look back at her, wondering how to communicate that you want it, without seeming desperate for her touch. She seems to make a decision though, gently laying her hand over yours, letting you be the one to intertwine your fingers together. “Y/N, have you been able to call anyone? Family, friends?”

You blush at this, and shake your head slowly. Swallowing, you try to find the words, but they won’t come in time.

“I can call people for you, if you want?” she offers. You smile weakly at this thoughtful gesture.

“Thanks, Wanda, but — well, there’s no one really to call.” You see her tilt her head at this, frowning a little with concern or pity. You hastily explain, not wanting to make her feel bad for you. “I’ve just moved here, a few days ago. I don’t know anyone here yet, and this — it’s really not worth bothering people about, when they’re too far away to feel helpful.”

Wanda squeezes your hand. “I see,” she says quietly. “I understand, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say automatically, even though it isn’t. The move, now the accident — it’s all too much really. You’d love to be the adventurous, independent type, you’ve tried to convince everyone of it, but really you need people. This move has confirmed it, exposed your true nature. But it’s too late now. You are committed to your apartment, your Visa, your graduate programme…

Your graduate programme. Shit, things are coming back to you now. You were meant to meet your supervisor in person at 9am; that’s why you were cycling — to get to campus.

Panic sets in quickly; you’re whipping your head round to find a clock. When you see it is after 10 already, you realise you have just made the worst possible impression…

“Y/N, honey, what’s wrong?” Wanda asks, reaching out to put her free hand on your shoulder (thankfully the good one). Her touch is grounding, and even though you are still spiralling inside, you are able to look her in the eyes and see the inquisitive, caring expression on her face.

“I was supposed to meet someone — my supervisor — at 9,” you explain, voice catching on an anxious sob which you strangle in your throat, trying to contain. “She… I don’t…”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Wanda soothes, interrupting your broken rambling. “It’s okay. We can call them, and explain. You have a very good reason for missing it. They will understand.”

Your breathing is still fast and shallow, but you manage a nod as her words sink in. She’s right, what better excuse could you have for missing a meeting, than being in the hospital?

“Do you want to phone?” Wanda asks. When you hesitate, she adds another option for you. “If it’s easier, I can phone for you?”

“Could you, please?” you ask, sighing out the last remnants of your panic. “I don’t think… My words keep getting jumbled.”

She nods. “Of course, sweetheart, it’s no problem. Do you have a number, or at least a name so I can find it?”

Oh god, you’re an idiot. You should have saved the office number in your phone, but instead it will take logging in to your university account (which would be a feat, in this state) and trawling through emails to find it…

Wanda, seeing the panic returning on your face, intervenes. “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t have it. Where does your supervisor work?”

You can do this, at least. “Um, the psychology department, at Columbia,” you manage to say between little gasps. The anxious breathing has agitated your shoulder, and it’s starting to send waves of pain through your arm again. “Her name is Francesca… something. She’s a professor.”

“You’re doing a really good job, honey,” Wanda praises you, and you feel something else running through your body. A warm feeling that contrasts with the sharp pain. Even overrides it for a moment. She squeezes your hand again, then removes her hands from you to find her phone and start searching for a phone number.

You lean back against the pillow, allowing yourself to wince and grimace now that she’s distracted. Your shoulder really hurts. Maybe whatever you were given in the ambulance is wearing off now?

“I’ve found it,” Wanda tells you quietly, then she starts a phone call, giving you a brief reassuring smile before it connects and she looks at the wall to focus.

You tune out her conversation, because for some reason the idea of Wanda talking to your supervisor makes you feel embarrassed, like the way you used to feel on parents’ night at school, knowing the adults were discussing you. So you focus instead on trying to remember the accident, now that you at least have a grasp on where you were going. But your memories are so fragmented, and trying to piece it all together makes your head hurt and your shoulder ache.

Wanda drops her hand to her side and turns to smile at you. “She says she hopes you get better soon. And that you can reorganise the meeting when you’re better, there’s no rush.”

You nod, a little awkwardly. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you’re glad that she returns to your bedside, and reaches for your hand again. “Wanda,” you begin tentatively, suddenly realising how self-centred your thoughts have been. “Don’t you have… work or something to be going to?”

She smiles. “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’ve already sent in word.”

You nod again — it feels like all you can do at the moment, small gestures and scared words. You wonder if you should ask where she works, or whether it might be seen as intrusive. This whole scenario is so bizarre that you’re not even entirely sure whether the typical social norms would apply. And even if they do, you’re constantly worried about putting your foot in it, doing something which is normal back home but somehow rude over here.

Thankfully, you are saved from the conundrum by the return of your doctor. He waltzes in, absorbed by his clipboard which seems to have amassed new sheets of paper since it last graced this room. Only at the last minute does he look up and notice the new body in the room.

“Oh, hi,” he says in acknowledgement. Then he looks to you. “Is this your mom?”

You don’t know who should be more offended, who he’s misread, though you have a feeling it must be you. Despite being in your mid twenties, you’re used to people assuming you’re still in high school. You’ve been cursed with a baby face and since you stopped growing at thirteen, people often make the mental shortcut and assume you’re still a kid due to your height. No matter how many times people tell you “it’ll pay off when you’re older”, it remains frustrating — and embarrassing — to be so consistently viewed as a teenager.

“No, I’m a friend,” Wanda corrects him easily, saving you the trouble of responding. Even though you know she was just smoothing things over, it feels nice to hear her say you’re a friend. Today, you really need one.

“Right, I’m Doctor Schwartz,” he says, looking entirely unbothered by his faux pas, and very focussed on his clipboard. “So, Y/N, I’ve reviewed your scans and the physical exams they did, and it’s safe to say you’ve got a concussion, and you’ve fractured your clavicle.” Doctor Schwartz looks up, and perhaps sees confusion, because he clarifies. “Also known as your collarbone.” He taps the bony part of his shoulder for good measure, then flicks over a page and rotates the clipboard so you can see a photocopied scan of your shoulder. He briefly points out the fracture, which is difficult to see, but you suppose he doesn’t really need you to fully understand.

“Luckily your fracture’s not too bad so you should be fully healed in six weeks, as long as you take it easy. I’ll get a nurse to sort you out with a sling. So no cycling, no colliding with trucks for six weeks, alright?” And he gives you the first hint of a proper smile, which you shyly reciprocate. “As for the concussion, I need you to rest properly for 72 hours, with a responsible adult to keep an eye on you. Since you seem like the adventurous type with your bike jaunts, you might want to have a look at this leaflet about safely returning to sport.” He unclips a leaflet from his clipboard, and starts to hand it to you, before changing his mind and passing it to Wanda. “Or at least, have a responsible adult look at it, hm?”

You’ve still not got a good enough gauge on him to tell whether he’s teasing you, seriously thinks you’re a child, or just doesn’t trust you because of the concussion. So you just nod, to let him know you’ve been listening. Even if it’s not really sunk in. In a way, it’s a relief to know there’s a reason for the fogginess, and you’re not just losing your mind.

“Alright, I’ll make sure a nurse is here soon to sort you out with the sling and such, then you can be on your way.” He pauses, looks between you and Wanda. “I guess your friend here can give you a ride, rather than you cycling home, huh?”

You freeze awkwardly, realising the predicament you’re in with all this “responsible adult” stuff, but Wanda just gives him a little chuckle, and you a reassuring smile. “Of course, Doctor. Her bike’s in quarantine in my trunk, so she’ll be sitting in the front with me.”

This is confusing and comforting at the same time. If she’s serious about giving you a lift, then where does it end?

“That’s good to hear. Well, Y/N, best of luck on your recovery.”

“Thank you,” you manage, as always awkward with goodbyes.

“Thanks, Doctor,” Wanda smiles, and he leaves the room with a strong swing of the door.

Wanda turns to face you, and begins speaking before you can find the words to decipher her intentions.

“Y/N, you may already have other options in mind, but I want you to know you’d be most welcome to stay with me and my wife whilst you recover. For 72 hours or longer, if you need.”

You are speechless at both this immensely generous offer, and the revelation that Wanda has a wife. Somehow, it almost feels worse when you know the women you find beautiful are queer. At least when lusting after straight women, you know there’s a bigger reason, beyond yourself, why they wouldn’t want you. But now, knowing that Wanda is into women, you feel terrified that she might be recognising your gormless looks for something more than mere admiration. All you can hope is that the concussion may excuse any of your more cringy behaviour, today and — potentially — over the next couple of days. Because of course you want to stay with Wanda.

“Do… do you really mean it?” you ask, then kick yourself for not phrasing this better, doing a polite refusal first. “Because, I’m sure I can work something out otherwise. I don’t want to be a bother.”

She squeezes the hand she’s still holding, and your fingers automatically clutch her a little tighter in return. “No bother, sweetheart,” she promises. “It would be lovely to have your company a little longer, and it’s the least I can do, to look after you a little while.”

Your confusion only increases at her phrasing. “What do you mean?” you ask, wondering if you’re missing something. “You’ve already done so much.”

She smiles a little sadly at this, shaking her head. “You don’t remember, do you?” she says, and you just stare at her, baffled. “Y/N, you were hit by a truck pulling out at the intersection. But with the impact, you were thrown onto my car.”

Very, very briefly, you feel a flash of recognition in your mind. One, two, three impacts. The truck. A bonnet. The ground. Wanda’s car must have been the second of the three. When you look into her eyes again, you see they look a little misty.

“Was it bad?” you whisper. A stupid question, but you don’t remember, you can’t visualise it beyond the vague knowledge you were piecing together in retrospect.

Wanda bites her lip, clearly working through her own memory, deciding what to say.

“It was pretty scary,” she says. “I didn’t know if I’d stopped in time, until I got out. All I saw was this flying object, and I slammed the brakes. But it was you. One moment you were on your bike ahead of me, and the next…”

Now it’s your turn to squeeze her hand, offer comfort. Even though you’re the one on the hospital bed, bone broken and brain mixed up, it suddenly seems preferable to having seen it happen. It sounds awful. Knowing you’ve hit somebody, not knowing if they’re alive.

“Wanda, I’m okay,” you tell her, managing a smile though it’s probably more of a grimace because your shoulder is vying for your attention in increasingly volatile ways. “You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

She wipes her eyes, squeezes your hand back and gives a stoic smile in return, nodding like she’s trying to make herself believe it is true.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she says. “But please, even just for my own peace of mind, can I accommodate you for a few days?”

You let out a laugh, which you didn’t know you had in you. “I guess I’d be cruel to refuse, in that case,” you reply wryly, and you feel glad that your humour is returning. And proud to see her laugh a little in return.

“Yes, you would be,” she agrees, joining in the joke. “Plus, I must admit it would be nice to have a chance to get to know you when you’re not concussed.”

“Hey,” you protest, feeling defensive for some reason. “I’m fine — I’m doing much better!”

She just laughs. “Darling, there’s still a good few seconds between me speaking and you answering — and I’m sorry to say you look very confused in those moments.”

You fold your arms and pout a little when you’ve processed this, but by the smirk on Wanda’s face it seems you must have proved her point. Especially because the movement of your arms was an automatic, emotional response — which really hurt your shoulder.

“I think Doctor Schwartz was right,” she says, lowering her voice and using her free hand to brush a wisp of hair behind your ear. “I think you need a responsible adult to look after you, sweetheart.”

You feel your pout faltering at this, and your heart thudding heavily behind your folded arms. Given what she’s just said about your processing time and vacant expressions, you feel a little worried that your body might be betraying you in other ways, when she behaves like this around you. When this thought occurs, it brings on the realisation that your cheeks are burning hot inside, and must surely be glowing traitorously on the outside. You duck your eyes and hug your folded arms into your sides, trying to pull yourself together.

Before you can be embarrassed any more, a nurse enters with a trolley, smiling at the scene of Wanda by your bedside, holding your hand.

“Hi there, Y/N, my name is Nurse Amanda, it’s lovely to meet you!” This nurse has a rather overbearingly cheerful attitude, which makes you bristle slightly. “And who do you have with you today, Y/N?”

Well, she hasn’t assumed that Wanda is your mother, but she’s certainly treating you like a kid, and not in a way that makes you feel cared for. No, this feels disrespectful and cheesy. Especially because she’s already given up on you, looking expectantly at Wanda as if you’re unable to answer.

“Wanda’s a friend,” you pipe up, spurred on by annoyance at her treatment of you. You quickly glance at Wanda, to make sure she’s okay with you using the same terminology. She smiles at you, and nods, confirming your words.

“Oh, don’t you have the sweetest accent!” Amanda gushes. You chew on the inside of your cheek, irritated and unwilling to yield any information about yourself. Your folded arms become a little more stiff, sending another shockwave of pain in both directions from your broken collarbone. “Now, this is going to be a bit sore, but you hold on to Wanda’s hand and you squeeze tight when it hurts, okay Y/N?”

You barely resist rolling your eyes. Wanda gives your hand a gentle stroke with her thumb. You look up at her, wondering if she’s on the same condescending wavelength as Amanda, but when she meets your eyes she rolls hers a little, and you have to stifle a laugh.

Amanda thankfully goes quiet after that, focussing on sorting the sling. It does hurt, a lot — but you’re too stubborn to let it show too much, wanting to be stoic and grown up, more out of spite to Amanda than any intrinsic part of your ego. Once she’s finished, she explains about caring for the sling, how to bathe, when to change it, how someone will come soon with your medication and discharge notes… etc. Given your concussion, you could be excused for zoning out or not fully absorbing all this information. But since Amanda seems to be addressing it all to Wanda and not you, you exhaust all your energy on studying her words and nodding to show your comprehension. When she leaves, with a rather annoyingly chipper “good luck!”, you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Well, she was…” Wanda begins.

“A right cow,” you mutter glumly. Wanda laughs, but reins it back in when she sees you wince. Now that Amanda is gone, you feel suddenly fragile. Like the spiky walls you put up for her have crumbled down, revealing the pain again.

“It looked really sore, getting the sling on,” Wanda comments, and you nod. “You’re pretty stubborn, huh?”

You look at her, a reluctant grin cracking through your grimace at her shrewd recognition. “Hmm, maybe a little,” you admit.

Another wave of searing pain rushes through you, and you begin to feel a tear breaking through the barricades you are trying desperately to uphold. Embarrassed, you blink it away and apologise hastily.

“Sorry,” you whisper, grimacing slightly with the effort of holding it all in.

She perches on the side of the bed beside you, puts an arm around your back (careful to avoid your damaged shoulder) and ducks her head to meet your bleary eyes.

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head in a gently chastising manner. Your breath catches slightly at the term of endearment, but you hope she either doesn’t notice, or puts it down to the pain. “It’s okay to cry. Let it out.” And she tenderly strokes your side, where her fingers are lightly wrapped around your waist.

To your shame, you lean in to this stranger and sob on her shoulder. It’s so wrong, so humiliating… but now that it has started, you can’t seem to close the gates of your defences again. Maybe it’s the pain, or the concussion — or just you, responding to her soft permission. Whatever it is, you’re in too deep now. Surrendered to the compassion and the comforting touch. Somehow hoping it will persist even though it is accompanied by, and only providing for, the pain.

It’s a good few minutes before the sobbing subsides and you begin to slowly sit up again. You can feel the heat in your face, branding you with your embarrassment — though perhaps this is the only appropriate way to be feeling after such a display, you think.

“Your shirt…” you begin awkwardly, glancing at the damp patch on her sleeve where the tears — and, oh god, maybe also your snot — have left their mark. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” she says simply, cutting you off with her soft tone and a rather serious look. She uses her free arm to press her purse against her stomach, unlatch it and rummage about for something. She pulls out a packet of tissues, and hands it to you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, moving your arms to open it and wincing when your shoulder protests.

“Here.” She takes the packet from you, pulls out a tissue and passes it to your unaffected hand.

You smile a thanks, and begin dabbing at your (surely puffy) eyes before attempting to blow your nose without making an obnoxious noise.

The door opens, and another doctor walks in, a woman in a white coat, holding her own clipboard and a pill bottle. She’s a lot more to the point, clinical and respectful, which you appreciate after the ordeal with Amanda. She hands you the pills, and explains how often you can take them, as well as potential side effects. Then she’s passing you the clipboard, and asking you to sign the discharge form with the pen clipped to the side.

You read the whole form, knowing the concussion is making you slow, but wanting to do the proper thing rather than appearing flippant or immature in front of Wanda and this new doctor.

And then you’re told you’re free to go, and the doctor is gone.

It’s all a bit sudden, the swift change from treatment to freedom. You blink a little, still catching up.

“I can take your bag,” Wanda says, turning around and picking up your backpack, but holding it up first to give you time to see — and maybe to protest. “Just because you’ve got the sling, it might be hard to carry at the moment,” she explains, as if worried you might react badly to the suggestion you can’t manage. But — and you realise this is a bit weird as you think it — you don’t seem to mind Wanda doing stuff for you, or calling you sweet names, or treating you softly. In fact, you kind of like it.

“Thanks,” you say, shaking yourself out of your daydream. You slowly swing your legs over the side of the bed and slide off, briefly airborne before your feet meet the floor. Standing up, you feel wobbly. But as soon as you think it, Wanda has gentle hold of your elbow on your good side, steadying you.

“It’s just the concussion,” she reassures you. “You might be a bit wobbly for a couple of days. Do you want me to hold you, or do you want to try on your own?”

You nibble your lower lip, considering. It would be embarrassing to fall over as you leave the hospital. But also? The idea of Wanda holding you is kind of nice.

“Maybe…” you link you arm through hers, then look up at her for permission. She smiles, and squeezes your arm to let you know it’s okay.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the car. You’ve already met, but I hope it leaves a better impression this time.”

It does take a while, but when you finally get her joke, you giggle. Your head leaning into her shoulder as you walk out the hospital, linked arm in arm together.

Thanks for reading!

If you would like to read the full fic (so far), you can find it here.

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #marvel fanfiction #wlw fanfic #f/f fanfic #collision course #stories

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literaryvein-reblogs · 6 months ago

Text

How to Read a Scientific Article

THE THREE-PASS APPROACH

The key idea is that you should read the paper in up to 3 passes, instead of starting at the beginning and plowing your way to the end.

Each pass accomplishes specific goals and builds upon the previous pass:

The first pass gives you a general idea about the paper.

The second pass lets you grasp the paper’s content, but not its details.

The third pass helps you understand the paper in depth.

At the end of the first pass, you should be able to answer the 5 Cs:

Category: What type of paper is this? A measurement paper? An analysis of an existing system? A description of a research prototype?

Context: Which other papers is it related to? Which theoretical bases were used to analyze the problem?

Correctness: Do the assumptions appear to be valid?

Contributions: What are the paper’s main contributions?

Clarity: Is the paper well written?

Purpose of the Sections of Empirical Articles

Section — Use it for

Abstract — This is a great section to read to find out if the article will be relevant to your own research.

Introduction — This section gives you an overview of work that has been done on topics relating to the hypothesis of the article, and will often lead you to other relevant work that has been done in your area of interest.

Method — This section will help you understand the design of the experiment. This is particularly useful if you'd like to replicate the study.

Results — The results will tell you what the author/s found in the course of their experiment.

Discussion — The discussion section is typically easier to read than the method and results section, and it will help the reader understand the implications of the results of the experiment.

References — This is a great place to look to find articles that are related to the one you are reading. If you're looking to build your own literature review, the references are a great place to start.

The Anatomy of a Scientific Paper

Some initial guidelines for how to read a paper:

Read critically: Reading a research paper must be a critical process. You should not assume that the authors are always correct. Instead, be suspicious. Critical reading involves asking appropriate questions.

Read creatively: Reading a paper critically is easy, in that it is always easier to tear something down than to build it up. Reading creatively involves harder, more positive thinking.

Make notes as you read the paper. Use whatever style you prefer. If you have questions or criticisms, write them down so you do not forget them. Underline key points the authors make. Mark the data that is most important or that appears questionable. Such efforts help the first time you read a paper and pay big dividends when you have to re-read a paper after several months.

After the first read-through, try to summarize the paper in one or two sentence.

If possible, compare the paper to other works.

Write a review that includes:

a one or two sentence summary of the paper.

a deeper, more extensive outline of the main points of the paper, including for example assumptions made, arguments presented, data analyzed, and conclusions drawn.

any limitations or extensions you see for the ideas in the paper.

your opinion of the paper; primarily, the quality of the ideas and its potential impact.

The guide below details how to read a scientific article step-by-step.

First, you should not approach a scientific article like a textbook— reading from beginning to end of the chapter or book without pause for reflection or criticism. Additionally, it is highly recommended that you highlight and take notes as you move through the article.

Skim the article. This should only take you a few minutes. You are not trying to comprehend the entire article at this point, but just get a basic overview. You don’t have to read in order; the discussion/conclusions will help you to determine if the article is relevant to your research. You might then continue on to the Introduction. Pay attention to the structure of the article, headings, and figures.

Grasp the vocabulary. Begin to go through the article and highlight words and phrases you do not understand. Some words or phrases you may be able to get an understanding from the context in which it is used, but for others you may need the assistance of a medical or scientific dictionary. Subject-specific dictionaries available through our Library databases and online are listed below.

Identify the structure of the article and work on your comprehension. Most journals use an IMRD structure: An abstract followed by Introduction, Methods, Results, and Discussion. These sections typically contain conventional features, which you will start to recognize. If you learn to look for these features you will begin to read and comprehend the article more quickly.

Read the bibliography/references section. Reading the references or works cited may lead you to other useful resources. You might also get a better understanding of the basic terminology, main concepts, major researchers, and basic terminology in the area you are researching.

Reflect on what you have read and draw your own conclusions. As you are reading jot down any questions that come to mind. They may be answered later on in the article or you may have stumbled upon something that the authors did not consider. Here are some examples of questions you may ask yourself as you read:

Have I taken time to understand all the terminology?

Am I spending too much time on the less important parts of this article?

Do I have any reason to question the credibility of this research?

What specific problem does the research address and why is it important?

How do these results relate to my research interests or to other works which I have read?

6. Read the article a second time in chronological order. Reading the article a second time will reinforce your overall understanding. You may even start to make connections to other articles that you have read on this topic.

Identify Key Information

Whether you are looking for information that supports the hypothesis in your own paper or carefully analyzing the article and critiquing the research methods or findings, there are important questions that you should answer as you read the article.

What is the main hypothesis?

Why is this research important?

Did the researchers use appropriate measurements and procedures?

What were the variables in the study?

What was the key finding of the research?

Do the findings justify the author’s conclusions?

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#writing notes #studyblr #writeblr #dark academia #spilled ink #light academia #writers on tumblr #literature #lit #creative writing #writing tips #writing advice #research #writing inspiration #writing reference #writing resources

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spidybaby · 2 months ago

Note

Hi can you please can you make a second part for the coparenting plz . If you can't do it that's okay . I really loved your writing .

Coparenting 2 | Barca Boys

Summary: What is it like to coparent with them

Part one

A/N: took more time than I was counting on, but here it is ❤️ also @unreapp yelloooow, you deserve your credits baeeeeee 😭❤️

Pedri

"Don't let me take the ball from you." Pedri says, trying to take show him how to keep the ball. "Vale no, don't push me because if you push someone on the game, they are taking you out."

"Why?"

"Bua, imagine someone comes and pushes you to get the ball. Yo te pongo una roja, chaval."

You shake your head at them, fighting over an imaginary red card. You finish fixing the food while looking at the window to see them playing.

Rosy once told you that Pedri was the same with his father. They were outside all the time playing with a ball.

"Okay, time out. You two need to eat." You call them.

Pedri and you got into a better foot. He was more talkative now. You both sat down to talk, and you decided that you need to be adults for the sake of your son.

He was now more responsive with the texts, with calls, he was better in every way. You feel like now you can actually say that he was with you in everything.

That can also is noticeable on your son, he looks more happy, more confident in different activities. It was all for the better, and you are happy with it.

"Croquetas?" Pedri asks, entering the kitchen. "My diet is really suffering, eh."

"You can eat the salad." You tease him, placing the bowl in front of him.

"Con lo ricas que te quedan a ti las Croquetas, I prefer to break the diet." He says, grabbing a good amount of food. (With how good you make the croquetas)

You smile at him. "But your mom's are better."

"I like yours, mami." Your son says, hugging your legs.

You kneel down, giving him a kiss. "Thank you, amorcito." You smile, kissing his cheek. "Now eat your lunch, you need all the energy you can get for the game."

Pedri loves seeing you parenting your son, it was so cute to see. How your voice goes from normal to this very sweet voice.

You are also so delicate with him. Always knowing what he wants or what he says, even when he doesn't understand him, you do.

He looks for you, even at his house. If he doesn't see you, he's always mentioning his Mami. That was something that Pedri always admired about you, your dedication to your son.

Pedri helps you load the dishwasher while you organize the toys on the floor. You like this Pedri, who was talkative, who was helping you and not just answering with an emoji or leaving you on read.

"Need help with something else?" He asks you, leaving the kitchen.

"Can you put him to bed?" You ask. "I just need to prepare his school bag for tomorrow real quick."

He nods, picking your son from the couch and taking him to his room. "Papi, stay."

Pedri doesn't know what to say, he can't just invite himself. "Buaf, guapo, maybe next time."

"No, today."

He can't help but feel bad, his son is used to having only you or him. He blames himself for that, letting his ego get in the way of him.

"We need to ask mam-"

He can't even finish his sentence when his son outer the loudest scream he ever heard. "Mami!"

"Ey, chaval." Pedri tries to cover his mouth. "Para, the neighbors might hear you."

You walk upstairs after the third call you son's make you. Making you wonder what is going on.

"Si?" You ask, entering the room. "Is everything okay?"

"Si, tod-"

"Let papi stay." He smiles, hugging Pedri by the neck. "Pwease."

You sometimes struggle to understand your son, he's little and still learning to pronounce the words.

But this was too perfect for you to think he's saying something else.

"I-" You begin. Clearing your throat. "I mean, it's up to you, I don't mind." You say, trying to sound normal.

He lifts his eyebrows, silently asking you if it was really okay for him to crash over for the night. You nod, letting him know that it was really okay.

"Now, let's get you a warm bath." You smile, taking your son in your arms. "Tomorrow you have school, and Papi and I need to work."

You both do the bath routine. You can't help but wonder if this is what it would've felt if you and him worked better instead of parting ways as soon as the first problem hits.

"You can stay here, or I can prepare the guest room."

"Whatever is fine." He smiles, grabbing a book to read. "Gracias, for letting me stay."

Both of you thought that it was going to be a one-time thing, maybe he won't ask again, maybe she did it to let our son have his way.

But the reality was that Pedri decided to use those weeks that there was left until the game as an excuse on why he needed to be there.

Are you going to argue?

No, you love it.

"Lunch is ready," You announce. They were out in the patio playing with the ball. "Time out, no more playing. You two need to eat."

They sound of their laughs, the extra place on the table. It all makes you feel like you got what you wanted.

"I want ice cream."

"No, mami made us some yummy food." Pedri says, making your son stop arguing. "I want to ask you something." He says, helping you with the plates.

"Aja?" You ask, concentrated on the food.

"Do you wan-"

"Do you want rice or not?" You ask, asking before serving food. "Sorry, I cut you off."

"It's okay, and no, I eat at the club." He answers. "Do you wan-"

"Mami, can I have mac and cheese?"

"Mijo, there's chicken and rice." You say, placing the plate in front of him. "We can have that for dinner."

You sat down, remembering that Pedri hadn't had a chance to tell you what he wanted to tell you.

"Pepi, tell me what you wanted to tell me."

"Oh, si." He smiles, taking a deep breath. "I was thinking that maybe we can go out to eat tonight. The three of us, maybe somewhere where he can play."

"That sounds amazing." You smile, "He has a play date, but after that, we are free."

"Vale, I'm picking you two after that." He smiles, kissing your son's head. "See you then."

You stay happy the rest of the day. You like the idea of going out, it feels like you are a real family.

You change into something comfortable, but not to the point you look like you are home. You still manage to look casual and stylish.

The play date ended quickly. After a coffee and a good chisme from the other mom, you two parted ways into the mall.

When you get home, you have time to brush your teeth and spray some more perfume. You brush your kid's teeth, making sure he is comfortable.

Pedri picked you up only a few moments later. You open the back door, placing you kid in his chair. When you open the passenger seat door, you are welcome with a bouquet of flowers.

"Estoy esperando no haberla cagado, eh!" He says, giving you a kiss on the cheek. "Are these still your favorite?"

"They are, gracias." You blush a little. "Where are we going?"

"Remember that place near the beach we liked when we first came to Barcelona?"

"The one with those milkshakes?" You ask, already craving one. Pedri nods, smiling at your reaction. "I haven't been there in so long."

"But nothing with milk for him." He says, whispering so your kid won't hear him. "Tomorrow's the game, and I don't want him to get sick."

You can't lie that watching Pedri share moments with your kid is something else. He was something else.

You focus on enjoying the time you have with them, hearing him talk about his day, hearing him talking like he used to when you were together.

You wished the day was longer to enjoy more time together, but sadly as the day got to an end. You know you have to go back home and prepare for the important day of your son.

You thought that this was going to be a calm day. You were going to enjoy your son and his friends.

But you feel nervous, you can't help but want his team to win and pulverize the other team. Even if you are talking about kids and not adult footballers.

"Diviértete, and please don't push anybody." Pedri says, walking to the field with your kid in his arms. "Te amo."

"What if I don't win?"

"Then we pay the referee to make you win." He jokes.

"Pedri!" You hit him in the arm. "No, amor. What really matters is for you to have fun, papi is just joking. We are not paying the referee."

"Vale, ve ahí y chuta." He says, putting him down and pushing him to go with his friends. (Go and score)

You find his parents and brother on the corner of the field. You sit with them, talking about what the expectations were for this game.

You really don't care if he wins or not, even tho a win would be amazing. You can say that he might have a very competitive gene on him. After all, Pedri can't help but want to win everything.

The game was slow, the first half was fun, but it wasn't really much to say about it. Pedri takes mental notes to help the team, calling your son over.

"Vale, do you see those kids?" He asks, turning your kid and pointing. "They are the guys that are supposed to defend, but they run with the rest. I want you to take the ball from that other kid and run as fast as you can to the goal and score."

"But if I fai-"

"If you do, then you do it again. Don't be negative about it. You have some of me in you, so I know you can do it."

He sends his kid back to his group. He knows that even if he loses, he's going to be the proudest father.

"Some of me in you." You chuckle at his statement. "He's all you, your smile, your eyes, your accent even."

"Aren't we both from the same place?" He asks, smiling. "But he has a lot of you. Your stubbornness, your crazy eye and that weird mark on your-"

"I hate you." You frown at him. "Not me saying cute things, and you saying I have a crazy eye." You say, pretending to be mad.

"Ah vale vale, we were supposed to say nice things." He lifts his hands. "Bua, I'm bad at lying." He teases you.

"That's it, you are in time out." You point at him. "Your punishment is to get me a snack over there."

Rosy is watching the two of you. She's happy that you two are finally taking over the role of parents instead of coparents.

She knows that she was out of line when she scolded Pedri about how he was, but she now sees that it was all worth it.

"Mira que si chuta y no le pega ya tendremos pa calentarlo." Fer says at you. "Maybe he's like you and Pedri when he loses, and he kicks mom's favorite flowerpot."

You remember the flowerpot. Pedri got subbed after what he called a bad performance. He was frustrated, and when you took him home, he kicked the flowerpot so hard it crashed over other plants.

Pedri arrives with your snack, passing his arm around you. "Can you believe he's old enough that we are at his football games and not the other way?"

"It's crazy," you say, feeling nostalgique. "Time does flies."

The second half starts, the game continues 0 - 0 to the dislike of everyone. You spend the rest of the game hoping for a change.

It was also about to end, only a minute or less on the clock that was placed on the grass.Pedri calls the name of your son, making signals to do what he was told. He nods, running to get the ball from the first kid.

You can't help the emotion, neither could the other parents. Yelling at your boy to run and to score.

"Chuta, joder!" Fer yells, making someone's mother correct his language.

The whole side of your team yells in happiness when the goals go in. You jump happy, hugging Rosy.

When you turn to where Pedri is, you feel two hands grabbing your cheeks. It was Pedri smashing his lips against yours.

You wrap your arms around him, too happy to care about the reactions of his parents and too into it to care that the game was over.

You two separate, smiling like crazy at each other. You go back for a peck, already missing his lips.

When your son runs to where you two are, Pedri let go of you, picking your son. He's telling him how proud he is and how happy he should be that he scored the winning goal.

You hug the two of them, giving your son a kiss on the cheek, telling him that he was amazing and that he was a champion just like his dad.

You look to Pedri, the look on his faces is not compared to anything. You haven't seen this, not even when he won everything that season.

"I love you so much." You say to your son. "I love you both so much." You smile at Pedri, getting closer to him, joining your lips in a kiss.

Gavi

"Vale, mira." He says, pointing at the goal. "You need to kick the ball there."

He places the ball in front of her, checking that it was aligned to the small goal he has at home.

"Papi, I'm tired." She argues, tired of playing football.

"We will, but first kick the ball."

He picks her up from the grass. Placing her in front of the ball. His daughter looks back at him, turning and going back to the house.

"Ey ven acá. " He says, going after her. "Let's go, one more time, and we are over."

"I'm tired, papi." She repeats.

Pablo hears the doorbell, walking outside to open the door.

"Sorry I'm late, this took more time than it should." You say.

"Come in." He says, moving to the side. "Can you believe she can't score one single goal?" He asks, frowning. "She got your feet."

"Okay, that's rude." You say, giving him a hit on the head. "I told you she doesn't like football, Pablo."

He scuffs, walking inside. "Mami's here."

She runs to you, giving you a hug. "You are so red." You say, noticing her flushed face. "Papi is making you kick the ball?"

She nods, pouting at you. "I want to go swimming with Sebas." She says, making Pablo turn his head to where you are.

He wants to ask, especially since < Sebas > is not a girl name.

"Oh, Pablo. I have the papers you asked me to bring. Let me get them." You smile, walking back to your car.

Pablo took his chance, he walked up to his daughter. "Doll, who's sebas?"

"Mami's friend, he has a big pool." She smiles.

Pablo frowns, turning back to his backyard. "I have a pool." He points at the pool.

"Si, but he has a big unicorn on the pool." She smiles.

He frowns. "I can get you one, two if you want." He kneels in front of her. "You just have to promise me not to go swimming with him anymore, because if you do, the unicorns on papi's pool are going to be sad."

She nodded, excited about the flooties he promised.

"That's my girl." He smiles, walking outside with her. "Now, let's try kicking the ball one more time, yes?"

You watch them both play outside, leaving the papers on the counter. You take your phone to answer some texts.

You didn't have anything else planned for the evening, so you were fine with watching Gavi and your daughter play.

You walk outside, seating at one of the pool chairs he has. You can't help but laugh at how funny he looks frowning when your daughter missed the goal for the third time.

"You know what, let's get you some ice cream." He says, frustrated.

He walks with her in his arm. Telling her that maybe they can try practicing another day. He knows he's maybe a little bit too hard on her about the football thing.

He wants to have something more in common with her. She has a lot of things in common with you, and football might be the only thing he can share with her.

He knows that this past weeks his schedule was too busy, not allowing him to visit her or to do more than just FaceTime.

For him, it's important that when she is visiting. She's having fun and that she enjoys being there.

"Eat your ice cream, I have to talk to mami." He says, pressing play on the movie. He walks over to where you are, seating next to you. "Did you have fun today?"

You turn to him. "I mean, would you consider doing essay research fun?"

"Ni de coña." He frowns. "I want to ask you something."

You nod, leaving your phone and paying attention to him.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

You blink a few times, trying to process the question. "No?" You say, sounding more than a question. "Does it matter?"

"I just, she's saying that she loves going to this friend of yours because he has a pool, and I just." He pauses, not sure how to organize his words. "I don't want other dudes in her life. I don't want another dude teaching her how to swim or helping her with homework. I'm her dad."

"Well, Sebastian is my sister's boyfriend." You say, making him feel dumb. "And he is not teaching her how to swim or helping her with homework. I don't have anyone because I'm focusing on college and on her, but I'm not saying that if the opportunity comes I'll deny it just because you fear she might get help with her homework."

"It's not about the homework." He says. "I just don't want any other dude near my daughter."

"So I have to be alone just because you don't want her to have any male contact appart from you?"

"You don't need to have anybody, joder. I'm here for the two of you. If you want to be with someone, be with me."

You don't expect Gavi to be the one to say that. You and him haven't been together romantically since before the baby was even born.

Your sister always told you that it was pretty much dumb to have hopes to go back to a relationship with Gavi.

He was a footballer who had girls throwing themselves at him. He was one of the biggest footballers in Spain at the moment.

"Papi"

You feel like your daughter could read the desperation of your thoughts and how you can't figure out how to answer.

You follow Gavi with your eyes as he goes inside the house with your daughter. You take a few more minutes before going back inside.

"Pizza or burgers?" Gavi asks her.

"Me?" She asks, making him nod. "Pizza."

"You still like the half veggie half full meat with extra cheese?" He asks.

You smile. "I actually haven't had that in so long. The last time I had it was with you, actually."

You can't help but feel excitement, he wanted you to choose him. To be together and raise your daughter like a family.

You wish you could make your sister know what happened, like a broadcast thing where she's able to hear and see that Pablo was the one finally giving that step.

< "You think that Pablo and you can be a what?"

"Can you not laugh?"

"Y/n, why would you ever think a 17 year old boy would want to get serious with the girl he got pregnant?"

"I not saying that it has to be right now, but mayb-"

"Maybe in 10 years? When you notice you gave a big part of your youth to a boy who's never going to be more than just the father of your child?"

"I think that maybe someday we can be a family." >

Maybe this is your someday.

"Next week I'm going to be in Milan, but after that I was thinking maybe you can let me have her all day this sunday?"

"Sure, I can drop her." You smile, eating a slice of pizza. "Maybe 9?"

"That works. Escuchas princesa? Pasaremos todo el domingo juntos." (You hear that, princess? We are going to spend all Sunday together)

You can't help but feel butterflies on your stomach with him now saying that he can be the one for you.

Your mind works at a million percent the whole week, you can't help but feel like everything he does or says is a signal.

Your daughter insisted on speaking to him because she refused to go to bed without saying I love you to him.

"Vale, now you need to sleep." He says, turning the light on the nightstand off. "Look, even I'm going to sleep."

Gavi was in Milan, the team was coming back in the morning because they wanted to give the team the day in Milan before coming back.

You grab the phone from her hands, walking to the balcony so you won't bother her. "She's off, thank you."

You and Gavi have been talking at night for a couple of nights in a row. It was becoming something you were looking for at the end of the day.

"My mom was at my house the other day, and she almost killed me when she found out she still sleeps with me in my room."

"If you are giving her a room, please don't paint it with the barca colors."

"Que va, I wanted to ask you to help me decorate it. Maybe a bigger bed than those kids ones, so you can crash for the night."

You can feel your smile grow. "We can talk about it when you are back."

You say goodbye, hanging up the call. You can't seem to drop the smile you have. Nothing was going to make you doubt that this was going to the way you wanted.

You know that you should wait and test the waters, but you have waited three years. You'll be fine trusting.

When Sunday finally hit, you woke up earlier than normal. Got your child ready, letting her watch a movie while you got ready.

Since Pablo was going to spend the day with her, you thought it would be an amazing idea to join them.

You have this plan in your head that with you joining Pablo will notice that you are compromised with the idea of him being back in your life.

You got yourself ready, putting on some nice clothes, doing some makeup to enhance your features, and doing a little bit more than just brushing your hair.

"Vamos, amor." You call her, turning the tv off. "Papi is waiting."

The whole drive feels quick, you have the best mood. You sing with her in the car to some of her favorite songs, making it the best of it.

"Okay, don't forget your doll." You say, fixing her hair before walking to Gavi's house.

You let her knock on the door, she was also happy that she was going to swim with him. You waited for a few minutes, knocking again because maybe he didn't hear it the first time.

You were on the third time knocking when the door opened. You would have preferred to see a sleepy Gavi or maybe for him not to open the door.

You have to wait a few minutes before answering to her. The shirt she had on was the same one you picked for his past birthday, the same one your daughter gifted him.

"Where's Pablo?" You finally ask.

"Oh, he's inside." She smiles.

You fake a smile, knowing she's not the one at fault here. "Can you call him over? Please."

"Sure, wait here."

You nod, watching him get inside the house. "Hey, bubs." You say to your daughter. "Why don't you go to the car? Mami forgot that papi wanted me to take you for breakfast before coming here."

She nods, you open the car door for her. Telling her that you were only going to take a moment and you'll be back to her.

You turn, finding Gavi looking at you. "Seriously, Pablo?"

"Joder, perdona. I got caught up last, and she was supposed to leave before you dropped her." He explains, making things worse for himself. "She's leaving, I promise."

You roll your eyes, wanting to smack his head to bring some sense into him. It's crazy how he can be so childish in the worst moments.

"I'm not doing this." You say to him.

You should know better than to be disappointed. You should know better than to feel like this was your fault.

"I'm taking her for breakfast, I'll text you when we are done so you can pick her up at the restaurant. Please take a shower and change the sheets."

"Why can't you leave her?"

You scuffed, shaking your head at how stupid he sounds. You walk over to your car, not feeling like explaining the obvious to a boy.

"Pablo." You call him before entering your car. "I don't want you to ever mention that you are < here for me >, okay? You are her dad, and I love you for that, but whatever game you are playing, it's over."

Ferran

"Why do teachers hold meetings so early?" He groans, reading the note his daughter gave him. "Why do I need to be at a 7:30 meeting with her kindergarten teacher?"

"Sucks to be you, huh?" You smirk. "It's not a meeting, you need to pick her report card."

He doesn't argue anymore. Knowing that no matter what he says, he's not winning.

"Oye, venga, why does Mister Puffy get more tea than me?"

"You ate Mister Puffy's cake."

"Pero hombre, he offered it to me."

You shake your head at them, enjoying how Ferran argues with the bear about eating the imaginary cake.

You grab your wallet and Ferran car keys. Walking to where they are, he looks comical.

The chair he's using looks like it's about to lose the fight. The tiara on his head matches the tutu on his hips.

"Do you want anything from the store?" You ask him, fixing the tiara.

"Maybe some carrots and some celery, please." He says, hand on his pockets to get his card. "Amore, do you want anything?"

"Juice." She smiles. "Pwease."

You nod, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be back with dinner, love."

You fix her tiara, moving some of the hairs away from her face. If you love something about being a mom, it's being a girl mom.

"Can I get a kiss?" Ferran asks, trying his luck.

You turn to him, getting closer and grabbing his chin, knowing that if you let him, he'll get advantage of the situation.

You place a kiss on his cheek. You can't lie that you want more, but for now, it's all he gets.

"I'll be back. Don't burn the house." You smile, getting up. "No cookies or snacks while I'm gone. It's about to be dinner time." You warn him.

While you are gone, Ferran keeps playing to the tea party. He even got Mister Puffy to be unnivited after he drank all the tea.

He can't lie that he feels happy. You agreed to move to the house he bought you, being much closer to where he is, even agreeing to let him stay.

He got a three bedroom house, thinking that you would agree to let him stay on the spare bedroom you got.

But no, the couch he picked himself was his own torture. You purposely left the spare room not ready, wanting him to suffer a little bit more.

He wasn't going to complain. The fact that you even let him stay after bedtime was enough for him. The physio can help with the back pain later.

"Papi, I'm hungry."

"Well, me too." He chuckles, making the little girl frown at him. "You look a lot like your mami when you do that."

Thankfully for them, you walk back carrying a supermarket bag and a bag from the Chinese Restaurant you know Ferran loves.

He gets up to help you with the bags, using the opportunity to steal a kiss from you.

"That's rude." You say, moving away tying to hide the blush. "Let's go wash our hands, princesa."

You like having Ferran around more than he used to. Thanks to the small distance, he can spend more time with you two.

After dinner, he took care of getting your daughter ready for bed while you organized the pantry and clean the kitchen.

When you are done, you walk upstairs, finding Ferran reading some princess story. You knock on the door, catching his attention.

"Your blanket and pillow are ready downstairs. Also, if you need towels, they are in her bathroom if you want to take a shower."

He rolls his eyes, "You hate me, that couch is killing me."

"Try to sleep early, we need to be on time tomorrow." You smile, moving to your room.

After making sure your daughter was asleep, he went to the bathroom to take the glitter off. He changes into his clean pijama you place in the bathroom for him to change.

As much as he tries, he can't sleep on that couch. The size was a problem, the roughness of it, the cushion was to stiff.

The other problem was that if he wanted to join his daughter. The small bed wasn't much of a better option, yes it was more comfortable but not big enough for two people.

He grabs his pillow and blanket, moving upstairs to your room. He opens the door carefully, trying not to be loud.

He moves you a little to wake you up. "Five more minutes." You mumble, turning to the other side. He tries one more time, tapping on your shoulder. "What?" You ask, opening only one eye.

He can't help but laugh. "Can I sleep here?" He says with the biggest puppy eyes. "The couch is killing me."

You are too sleepy to care. Nodding and moving to the side to let him into the bed.

He knows he might get kicked out, but it's worth the try. Joining you in bed and wrapping his arms around your body.

You don't argue, feeling the warmth of his body comforting, or maybe it's his lips kissing your shoulder what's relaxing.

"Can we skip tomorrow?" He whispers in your ear.

"No." You whisper back, hearing him curse under his breath. You smile at that, enjoying the warmth you need from him.

You can't lie that he wasn't exaggerating when he used to mention that you were the reason he didn't felt like leaving the bed.

All those times he told you to give him more minutes before training is now turned to you. When you begged him to give you five more minutes, grabbing onto him to make him stay in place.

Now you are suffering from the consequences by being a few minutes later than you should.

"You are here!" You boss and friend say. "I thought you called sick. We had three people doing it."

"Oh no, I was-"

"I don't care, it's you, and I forgive you." She smiles. "Can you take care of the three year olds? I know that's where your daughter is, but I swear I can't stand the blonde mom that's there."

"Will do. Do you want me to just do it in general or one by one."

"Whatever is fine, did Mister ball came?"

You pointer towards the lined up parents. Ferran was holding your daughter while checking his phone.

She gives you a look, making you laugh as you walk into the class. You decide to call one by one.

It wasn't that long, all you have to say was, < Oh, your kid is such angel. Here's a golden star for them >

Ferran was the last one, you know that he was doing that to tease you. When he gets there with that big smirk on his face you can't help but smile.

"Señor Torres," you say, grabbing the report card. "Nice to see you here."

"Oh, my pleasure."

"Well, she's been doing her work in class, she's attentive, she's a hard worker. Wonder who she got that from."

You expect him to pull this praise speech on how she's so like him. "She's like her mom. She's the smartest, nicest, most beautiful woman I've ever met in my life. If I can say something about her is that I'm proud our daughter is like her."

You know that it might not be the place, but you don't care. You grab his face, giving him a kiss.

"Let me take this to the principal, and we can go." You smile at him.

You grab the few report cards that were there. Giving it to your friend and telling her that there was nothing else for you.

She was okay with you leaving, as soon as there were no more parents in the area where you should be, there's no need for you to stay.

"Okay, I'm free." You say, joining them in the entrance. "What if we go for some breakfast and maybe later we can go to the store, I need some boxes."

Ferran grabs your hand, confused frown on his face. "Boxes?" He asks.

You nod. "Yes, I need them to pack the toys and everything." You explain, opening the car door for him to place your daughter on the car seat.

"Why do you want to pack them?" He asks, buckling the girl. "Where are you putting them?"

You smile at him, sometimes you wonder how he's that mindful on the field. "That way I can bring them home to you."

Fermin

"Papa."

Fermin looked up from his seat, he was entertaining his son with painting. "Wow, that's beautiful."

You had this very important project that needed your full attention. Having no other option but to ask Fermin to help you while you finish it.

It was the last project you had of the semester. After this, it was going to be easier for you to concentrate on your child.

It's been two weeks, and you are finally about to finish it. After all the stressful nights and stressful times you put Fermin through.

He was happy to help, even offering to move to his house while you worked on the project. It was easier for him to return from training and pay full attention to his son.

"Want to see mine?" He asks his son. "Mine has a son on the corner." He points to the smiling sun.

He knows he's not the best at entertaining babies. That's why when he's out of ideas, he calls his mom.

His mother makes a plan for them to do, a walk on the beach of Barcelona, a nice evening at the park, swimming in the pool.

You don't worry about what they are doing, you know that your son is secure. You trusted Fermin with any activity.

"Why don't we get you cleaned." He smiles, picking him up. "Then we can take a nap, cause honestly I need one."

"Mama"

"No, amor. Mami is busy right now, and the soonest we leave her alone is the soonest it takes to finish her work."

You hear how Fermin says this to your son. You decided to take a break, a much needed break.

"Hola, guapos." You say, hugging Fermin's back. "I missed you."

"We missed you too, mami."

"I heard you talking about a nap," you smile, pinching your son's cheek. "Can I join?"

Fermin turns, giving your head a kiss. "That sounds like a plan."

You love how Fermin gets to take care of everything. Even when the plans changed in the last minute.

He never argued about it, he just supported you.

You all moved upstairs, ready to take a well-deserved nap you all were craving. Fermin, and you don't share a room, he wanted to give you your space.

But for special occasions like this one, you all share a bed to be more comfortable. That also felt right to you.

You can't lie that these past weeks you felt the luckiest person. Not only was he helping you to an extent not every father feels like doing.

But he's also the type of guy to take you food to the room where you are studying, he takes you coffee, tea, a snack, dinner.

You worked better when he was home because he would make his mission to entertain his son to the point you have enough time to work and to even take a quick break before taking over.

When you get to present your project, you feel nervous because what if it was wrong? You don't want to disappoint everybody.

Fermin texted you a picture of your son and him, wishing you all the best. "We trust you, mami. No matter what, you are our star."

You feel the confidence taki g over you again. You know that no matter what, like his texts read, he was going to be there for you.

You walk home, bag on your arm. You can't wait to take the heels off and to put something more comfortable.

"Hey!" He calls from the kitchen. "We are eating our snack, want some?"

"I was thinking that maybe we can go out later." You say, walking to where he is.

"You okay?" He asks, worried about your blank expression.

You shake your head, trying so hard to hide your smile. "More than okay, I'm fantastic. The professor loved my project so much."

Fermin smiles, getting closer to you. "I'm so proud of you. We both are." He says, giving your cheek a kiss. "You hear that, buddy? Mami got her project approved."

"So, do you want to go out to celebrate?"

"Joder, I more than anything want to."

You both finish with the snack, moving to your rooms to change into something more appropriate for the evening.

You kept it casual formal, nothing too fancy but nothing too casual. It was the perfect middle.

Fermin got a call from his mother, trying to check on him and the baby. She knows sometimes he oversleep, so she's making sure they're awake.

When she hears the news about your project, she gets happy. She likes you a lot and she's always happy about your achievements.

"Okay, talk to you later, kiddos." She says, waving at the camera. "Love you, have fun."

You wave her back, moving one arm of your kid to say goodbye too. You love the small laughs that come out of him.

You order some food, talking about his day. What's next for him in the season, what's next for the next season, everything basically.

"I was wondering something." He says, leaving the fork and knife. "I know that this project is over and that maybe you want to go back to having your own place."

You nod, not because you agree but to show him that you were paying attention. You can't lie that being together was fun.

"I want you to move permanently to my house." He drops the bomb.

"Are you sure?" You ask, scared that maybe he's just used to having you and not because he really thought about it.

"More than sure, I know that I want to have you both with me at all times." He smiles, grabbing your hand. "I also want to ask you something."

"Tell me, you know you can tell me anything." You smile, thumb caressing his hand.

"I want us to try being together. I love you and our son. We are young, yes, but I know that if we both want to, we can do this."

You smile, moving your hand from his. You close the distance between you two, giving him a kiss as an answer.

"I want that, Fer." You smile. "I love you."

"And I love you, guys."

🏷: @gadriezmannsgirl

366 notes · View notes

hauntedbyjoel · 14 days ago

Text

Stay A While

part two part three

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You don’t even remember typing the last sentence.

Something about Q3 projections. Client engagement. Numbers and buzzwords that used to mean something—now just static in your head. You stare at them like they might rearrange themselves into a reason to keep going. They don’t.

Across the office, someone laughs a little too loudly. Over by the breakroom, the microwave beeps and nobody moves. Your inbox pings again.

URGENT: NEED FINAL REVIEW BY 3PM. Appreciate your hustle.

You close the email. Not out of defiance. Just... fatigue. Everything feels like noise.

The coffee in your cup is cold. You drink it anyway. No creamer left in the breakroom and no energy to care. You stare at the screen and pretend to read something important while you try not to cry from a place that doesn’t even feel emotional—just... tired.

It’s not that the job is terrible. It’s fine. Everyone says you’re lucky to have it. Good benefits. Steady pay. A team that uses too many emojis in Slack but means well enough. It’s not bad.

But you hate it.

You hate the way it’s slowly eaten pieces of you in exchange for... what? PTO you never use? A title no one outside of work understands? Deadlines you never chose?

You open a browser tab.

“Quiet places to stay near the beach.” You’ve searched it before—every other week, like clockwork. Like maybe this time there’ll be something new. A way out.

There’s a little house on the coast. Too expensive. A cabin in the woods. Too isolated. A pastel Airbnb with ‘good vibes only’ in the header image. God, no.

You close the tab.

Your eyes flick to the sticky note on your monitor—“Your passion will lead you.” You don’t even remember who wrote it. Some old team meeting, probably. You peel it off and crumple it into your palm. You hold it there for a while.

Your phone buzzes.

A text from Jules:

Jules: Made the mistake of swimming after lunch again. I’m 90% seaweed now.

You smile, half-hearted but real. You text back a simple “RIP”, then pause for a second, staring at her name.

Without thinking too hard, you press Call.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?.”

“You’re not seaweed, you’re just dramatic,” you say, flopping back in your chair.

“I am seaweed. I’ve accepted it. I’m part of the ecosystem now.” Jules sounds like she’s walking—wind in the background, maybe seagulls too. “Are you alright?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Yeah. Just... needed to talk to someone who isn’t obsessed with productivity metrics.”

“Say no more,” she groans. “I got dive-bombed by a pelican this morning, so let’s talk about that instead.”

You laugh, and for the first time today it doesn’t feel forced.

The conversation wanders—lunch spots, bad music, someone named Eli who forgot to anchor the kayak rental dock again. It’s easy. Familiar. Until you’re quiet for just a little too long.

You hesitate, chewing your lip. The silence stretches just long enough before you say it. “I’ve been thinking about taking time off. Like, not a full break, just… remote. For a while.”

Jules doesn’t skip a beat. “So come here.”

You snort. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“And I’ve been right for two years. I’m overdue for being smug.”

You stretch your legs out under the desk, voice softer now. “I’m serious, though. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Then stop trying to figure it out,” she says. “Come stay for a bit. Reset. I know a guy. Well, I know of him. Joel. He rents out this little guesthouse sometimes—it’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and like... weirdly peaceful. I can ask around.”

You blink up at the ceiling tiles. “Would he be okay with that?”

“He doesn’t even know me. It’s word-of-mouth type stuff. I’ll see what I can find out. You just say the word.”

You let your eyes close.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

You hang up the phone and sit there for a minute, letting the silence settle. The overhead lights buzz. Your back aches. The office is nearly empty now, just the cleaning crew and the low hum of someone’s forgotten desktop fan.

You stand up slowly. Shut your laptop. Slide it into your bag.

No announcement. No grand exit. Just… leaving.

The sky outside is dusky pink by the time you get home—your apartment still exactly as you left it: keys in the dish, shoes kicked off halfway to the door, a half-finished coffee cup on the counter you meant to rinse out this morning. It smells like lavender laundry detergent and burnt toast. Familiar. Still.

You drop your bag by the door and pull out your phone again.

Jules: Asked around. Guesthouse is open. Told ‘em you’re chill and don’t throw parties. It’s yours if you want it.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then:

You: I want it.

You toss your phone on the bed and open your closet. Not frantically—just... automatically. Like your body already knows what to do even if your brain is still buffering.

You grab the canvas duffel from under your bed. The one you always told yourself you’d use for a weekend getaway that never came. You don’t pack much. A few outfits. A swimsuit you haven’t worn in two summers. Your laptop. A couple books you keep rereading, even when they don’t hit the same.

Toiletries. Chargers. That old hoodie you wear when you’re pretending everything’s fine.

You stand there for a moment, staring down at the bag.

It doesn’t feel impulsive. It doesn’t feel like running away. It feels… necessary. Like your body hit its limit before your mind caught up.

You don’t know what’s waiting there. You don’t know how long you’ll stay.

You just know you need to go.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You spot her before she sees you—leaning against the side of a weather-faded Honda with the windows down, one foot propped against the tire, hair tied up in a messy knot. She’s scrolling through her phone and squinting at the sun, sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose.

When she looks up, she smiles like this is just another Thursday. Like you didn’t just leave your whole life behind.

“Hey,” she says, casual and warm.

You manage something close to a smile. “Hey.”

She opens the trunk without comment, just nods toward your bag. “Throw it in. The AC barely works and I’m already sweaty.”

You toss your bag into the trunk and slide into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like sunscreen and sand, and there’s an empty iced coffee cup wedged between the seats. Jules pulls out of the airport lot without turning on the music. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the salt air.

Neither of you talks at first. You’re grateful for that.

Outside, the landscape shifts from traffic and chain stores to palm trees and beautiful beaches. The sky is wide and pale, hazy from heat. You pass weathered houses on stilts, homemade signs for bait shops and beach yoga, kids on bikes in swimsuits still dripping from the ocean.

It’s not quiet in the way you expected. It’s the kind of quiet that has texture—wind through seagrass, tires on gravel, gulls somewhere above you, calling out like they own the place.

“You hungry?” Jules asks eventually, glancing at you as she turns onto a smaller road. “We can stop before I take you to the house.”

You nod. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”

She takes you to a place with a cracked vinyl sign and a handwritten chalkboard menu out front. It smells like vinegar and something fried, and you already feel your hair starting to frizz in the heat.

The two of you sit at a shaded picnic table with water-streaked plastic cups and paper baskets of food between you. Jules picks at a plate of fries and orders a lemonade so sour she winces with every sip. You get grilled shrimp, something light.

Neither of you is in a rush.

It takes a few minutes before the conversation settles into something real.

“I still can’t believe you actually did it,” Jules says, brushing crumbs off her lap. “I mean, I knew you were close, but…”

You shrug. “I didn’t quit, exactly. Just asked to go remote for a while. My boss said I looked like I was about to pass out on a Zoom call, so.” You gesture vaguely. “Here I am.”

Jules raises an eyebrow. “And they let you?”

“Yeah. Shockingly, they don’t care where I answer emails from, as long as I keep answering them.”

She leans back in her seat and watches you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You give a half-smile. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

You blink. “That easy?”

She nods. “You’ve been so stuck trying to figure it all out. What if you don’t? What if you just… exist for a while?”

You pick up a shrimp, tear the tail off slowly. “You’re starting to sound like someone who eats seaweed and meditates on a paddleboard.”

“I’m starting to live,” she says. “There’s a difference.”

She tells you about her work—marine conservation, public education. She gives talks to tourists about nesting sea turtles, organizes cleanups, curses at jet skis under her breath. It’s all stuff she used to talk about back in college like it was some distant dream.

Now she’s just doing it. Barefoot, usually.

“You really like it here,” you say.

“I really like me here,” she corrects.

And that hits harder than you expect.

The drive to Joel's is quieter. You lean your head against the window and let her navigate through narrow side roads lined with tall grass and crooked mailboxes. There’s a rhythm to this place already, like it doesn’t care what time it is.

When she turns into the driveway, you sit up.

The house is simple—single-story, pale siding, a wide porch mostly in shade. A gravel path curves around to a second structure tucked behind it. The guesthouse is smaller, boxier, but clean and cared for. No frills. No clutter.

“That’s you,” Jules says, pulling up in front of the smaller house. “Joel lives in the main one.”

You glance out the window. “Is he home?”

She shrugs. “Probably. He’s around a lot, working. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t do the whole neighborly chit-chat thing, but I’ve never heard a single bad thing.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You step out of the car and stretch your legs. Jules grabs your bag from the trunk and sets it on the porch for you.

“You’re not gonna introduce me?”

She laughs. “I don’t know him. I just heard he had a place. Told a guy at the coffee shop my friend needed a quiet rental, and two days later he left a note saying the guesthouse was unlocked.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Small town.” She shrugs. “People hear things. People help. No one wants to make it weird.”

She glances toward the main house. The blinds are drawn. Somewhere behind it, you hear a faint, steady rhythm—maybe a hammer, maybe something heavier. Not loud, just… present.

“He’s harmless,” she says. “And honestly? Quiet might be exactly what you need.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The first morning you wake up in the guesthouse, it takes a second to remember where you are.

The light hits differently here—muted through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, like it filtered through the ocean first. The ceiling fan ticks gently above you, blades slicing through the air at a pace that feels patient.

You reach for your phone out of habit. No new messages. No calendar pings. No blinking notifications. For a split second, you panic—then remember: it’s Saturday. You got here on a weekend.

You told your team you’d be online Monday morning. Said it like it was no big deal. But now, standing here in someone else’s t-shirt with the sun warming your arms through the window… Monday feels like it might be a century away.

You make coffee in the small, slightly temperamental drip machine on the counter. The mugs are mismatched—one with faded sailboats, one that says “I’m crabby before caffeine” in peeling red letters. You pick the least offensive one and step outside barefoot.

The porch boards are warm under your feet. Everything smells like sun—salt and wood and something faintly green. You sit on the top step, cross your legs, and wrap your fingers around the mug like it’s the only thing anchoring you here.

The quiet isn’t exactly peaceful. Not yet. It’s unfamiliar. Expansive. It stretches out in front of you like something you’re supposed to do something with.

You don’t.

You just sit there and listen to the wind push through the dune grass. To the porch creak when you shift your weight. To the absence of anything that needs you.

Later, you half-unpack.

You open drawers just to see how they close. Leave your bag unzipped on the floor. Put a book on the nightstand you probably won’t finish. You don’t organize anything—you just scatter yourself around the room like you’re testing the space.

The guesthouse feels clean, but not in a rental kind of way. There’s intention to it. Like someone still cares about the way it looks when no one’s watching. You notice it in the way the towels are folded, the soap dish resting perfectly straight.

At some point in the late afternoon, you crack a window open. The air that slips in is heavier now—still warm, but with a little weight to it. Like it’s tired, too.

And then you hear it.

A low, steady bzzzzzt drifting across the property. Not jarring—just present. There’s a rhythm to it. Like someone who’s done the same motion so many times it no longer takes thought. A pause. Then again. And again.

It’s not constant—just consistent. The sound comes and goes, sometimes broken by the scrape of wood or a hollow thud. Somewhere behind it all, barely there, music plays. Not loud enough to make out lyrics. Just a muffled melody, anchored by a low voice and something with strings. Bluesy, maybe. Old.

You glance toward the main house without meaning to. Just for a second.

Through a break in the trees, past the far side of the porch, you catch movement—slow, deliberate. A man with his back turned, walking from what looks like a detached garage or shed. Barefoot in the grass. A loose-fitting T-shirt hangs low over work-worn jeans. He’s carrying something under one arm—a length of wood, maybe. You don’t squint. Don’t crane your neck.

It’s not interesting. Just part of the place. Just... what’s happening here.

Still, you find yourself pausing at the counter longer than necessary. Your fingers trace the rim of your coffee mug. The window stays open.

He knocks that evening. Just three times. Soft, spaced out like he almost changed his mind halfway through.

You open the door and he’s there—solid, quiet, uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t seem like insecurity. More like he just doesn’t do this very often.

Up close, Joel looks a little older than you’d guessed. Sun-worn, beard neatly trimmed, hair graying at the temples in a way that doesn’t look curated. His face is unreadable—not guarded, exactly. Just... still.

He holds out a paper bag. His other hand rests awkwardly on the back of his neck, thumb grazing the edge of his shirt collar.

“Welcome,” he says, low and flat like he rehearsed it once and decided that was enough.

“Thanks,” you say, blinking a little too slowly. You didn’t expect company. You’re barefoot, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top you’ve had since college.

“I’m Joel.” He jerks his chin toward the front house. “I live out here.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

He shifts, like he might bolt.

“Should be everything you need in there,” he says, nodding toward the house. “But if not... I’m around. Just knock.”

You reach for the bag and he seems almost surprised you’re taking it. Inside, you find a small jar of amber-colored honey, a bunch of clipped herbs—basil, mint, rosemary—and a small, handmade cutting board. The wood is pale, sanded smooth, warm under your fingertips.

“I made that,” he mutters, almost too low to catch. “Just... had scraps.”

You run your fingers gently over the edge. “It’s beautiful,” you say, looking back at him. “Really. Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.”

He nods, once. Then again. His eyes drop slightly, and when they come back up, his ears are flushed just a little pink.

“Most people like the quiet out here,” he says. “Gets easier, after a while.”

You smile—soft, tired, but sincere. “It already feels better than where I was yesterday.”

He holds your gaze for a second too long. Not intense—just surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to say that.

“I’m glad,” he says, voice low. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

You nod. “Thanks again. For all of this.”

He just nods once more, and then he’s gone—turning back toward the main house without another word, feet quiet over the gravel, his shoulders tight in a way that doesn’t read like discomfort. Just restraint.

You set the bag on the counter and pull out the cutting board again. Turn it over in your hands. It’s simple, but carefully made. Clean edges. Sanded smooth. Someone spent time on it.

You brush a thumb across the surface once before setting it down beside the stove.

You’re not sure what you expected—maybe nothing at all—but this feels... kind. Quietly so.

You open the jar of honey, just to look at it. Then you put it away and rinse your mug.

The house settles again around you, soft and still.

And for once, you let it.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You sleep later than you meant to.

The light is already full and soft when you open your eyes, the kind that suggests it’s closer to mid-morning than anything ambitious. The ceiling fan ticks overhead, blades slicing through the air in a rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a long while, letting your thoughts drift somewhere quiet.

No alarms. No meetings. No expectations.

It’s Sunday.

You make breakfast in bare feet—eggs cooked a little too long, toast with too much butter, coffee in the mug with the sailboats on it. You eat standing at the counter, leaning against it like there’s nowhere else you need to be. The house is still. The air smells like citrus and toasted bread. You pull your hair up, throw on a tank top and shorts, and decide to give yourself the day. No pressure. No plan.

You do small things. Finish unpacking. Fold your clothes neatly into the drawers you didn’t touch yesterday. You pause over a notebook you’d almost forgotten about—half-filled, tucked into a bag pocket. You leave it out on the table with a pen on top.

You light a candle you found tucked in one of the kitchen drawers—lavender and something woodsy—and let it burn while you open windows to let the air in. Sweep the kitchen. Wipe down the bathroom sink. Rearrange the three books you brought twice before deciding not to read any of them.

Time starts to slide.

By noon, you realize you should probably get groceries. You haven’t had a vegetable in days and you’re down to one sad heel of bread. You grab your tote bag, slide your sunglasses on, and walk into town.

The road is mostly empty. A few bikes pass you. One kid on a skateboard. The heat clings but the breeze helps, and there’s something grounding in the sound of your own footsteps. It smells like salt and sunscreen and dry grass. You pass houses with porches draped in windchimes and laundry lines fluttering in the sun. There’s a hand-painted sign for a café you make a mental note to try later.

The store is small and old-school, with handwritten signs and wire racks that squeak when you turn them. You pick up the essentials—fruit, bread, a cold drink, something salty for later. A small journal with a linen cover catches your eye near the register. You don’t need it. You buy it anyway.

At the checkout, the woman behind the counter glances at you and smiles.

"New in town?"

You nod, setting your bag down. "Just for a little while."

She rings up your things, slow and easy. "Well, welcome. Hope you stick around."

You smile. "Thanks."

You walk back slower than you came. The sun's higher now, the heat sinking into your shoulders in a way that feels earned. You carry your bag in one hand and a bottle of cold tea in the other, condensation dripping down your wrist.

Back at the guesthouse, you put everything away without thinking too much about it. You make a sandwich—avocado, tomato, a little lemon—and eat it on the back steps with your feet in the grass. The sounds are the same as yesterday—birds, breeze, the distant hum of something mechanical.

Joel must be working again. You hear the faint buzz of a tool starting and stopping. The occasional scrape of wood or clatter of metal. No music this time.

You don’t look.

Instead, you wander.

The edge of the property curls into a small patch of shade where two trees lean slightly toward one another. Between them, strung with thick rope and a little sag, is a hammock. You don’t know if it’s meant for guests, or if Joel uses it, or if it’s just been there long enough to belong to the landscape now.

But it’s empty.

You climb in slowly, testing the tension. It sways just enough to make your stomach shift, then settles. You close your eyes. Breathe.

It smells like pine needles and sun-warmed rope.

You don’t fall asleep, but you stop keeping track of time.

Eventually, the light begins to shift. You hear the soft rustle of branches overhead and the distant creak of the guesthouse porch when the wind changes. Nothing pressing. Nothing loud.

You stay right where you are.

Eventually, hunger pulls you out of the hammock. You stretch your legs, brush off your shorts, and wander back toward the house, pausing once to tip your face into the breeze.

As the sky starts to turn the color of pale grapefruit, you head out again—this time toward the beach.

You walk slowly, toes sinking into the sand, the air cooler now, salty and soft against your skin. The tide is low, and the waves lap gently against the shore, folding and unfolding themselves in a quiet rhythm. You don’t swim, don’t sit. Just walk. Let your feet carry you past bits of driftwood and tangled seaweed, past shells you don’t stop to collect.

You don’t think about much.

Just the sound of the water. The way it feels to be small in the best kind of way.

Dinner is simple. Something easy. You can’t remember the last time it tasted this good.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Your first Monday in the guesthouse starts with light and birdsong instead of traffic.

You wake before your alarm, blinking at the ceiling like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that the rules have changed. For a moment, you expect the old rush—shower, clothes, keys, commute. But it never comes.

You make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with your laptop, the windows cracked open just enough to let the morning air in. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Your inbox is full, but not urgent. You reply to a few things, flag some others, and fall into a rhythm that doesn’t feel punishing.

It’s not the work that ever drained you. It was everything around it—the noise, the pressure, the way the office swallowed whole days and spit them back out in meetings and recycled air. The elevator rides, the fluorescent lights, the sound of someone reheating fish in the breakroom microwave.

Now, you keep your camera off for most of the morning. Nobody seems to mind.

In the afternoon, you join a Zoom meeting with your camera on and your feet tucked under you. Someone from your team—Rachel, maybe, or Erin—squints at the screen and says, “You look really relaxed. The change of pace must be helping.”

You smile. “Definitely. It’s been nice to breathe a little.”

Someone else nods. “Glad you're settling in.”

The meeting moves on.

You eat lunch on the porch with your laptop balanced on one knee. You start a list of things to do later, but you forget about it almost as quickly.

The day goes fast.

At one point, you hear the sound of Joel’s saw in the distance. Not constant. Just there. A soft reminder of something happening outside of you.

You don’t look.

By the time you shut your laptop, the sun has already shifted to that late-afternoon gold. You stretch your arms above your head, roll your neck, and wander inside to change.

Jules picks you up just after six.

“First day on the beach payroll,” she says when you slide into the passenger seat. “How does it feel to not be rotting in a cubicle?”

“Less fluorescent,” you say. “Less... everything.”

She takes you to a little place near the water with plastic chairs and string lights overhead. You order wine and grilled fish with citrus slaw. She talks about the tourists, about the guy who keeps trying to name starfish after himself in her marine tours, about how she still hasn’t figured out if her neighbor owns a rooster or is just playing one through a speaker.

At some point, you ask, casually, "Do you know anything about Joel? The guy who owns the place."

Jules leans back in her chair. "Not really. He’s kind of a local fixture, but he keeps to himself. Builds furniture, mostly. Some people say he sells it out of state."

You nod. "He dropped off a cutting board the day I got in. Didn’t really stick around."

"Yeah, that sounds like him," she says. "He’s not unfriendly. Just... private. Been here a while. Doesn’t talk much."

You let that sit. Not because it means anything. Just because it's something to file away.

You let her talk. You let yourself laugh. You let the breeze lift your hair and the wine loosen your shoulders.

It doesn’t feel like a milestone. It doesn’t feel like a reward.

It just feels good.

You head home with the last of the light still clinging to the sky, salt on your skin, and no plans for tomorrow except doing it all again.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

He shows up again on Tuesday.

Late morning. You're mid-email, one hand wrapped around your coffee mug, rereading the same sentence twice when there’s a knock on the door. It’s light—tentative. Like last time, like he’s still not sure if he should be doing this at all.

You hesitate, push your chair back, and cross the room. When you open it, Joel stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. No paper bag this time. No offerings. Just him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry to bother. Just wanted to check in. Make sure everything’s alright in the place."

You blink, then nod, holding your mug against your chest. “Yeah. Everything’s good. No issues.”

Joel gives a short nod. His eyes shift toward the trees, like he might leave immediately. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t usually rent it out this time of year,” he says after a beat. “Heard someone was looking for somewhere to stay. Figured the timing worked out.”

You lean a little into the doorway. “It did. It’s been... a really good reset.”

Joel glances down, thumb skimming the edge of his jeans pocket. “I’m not much of a host,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if I should stop by. But figured I should check in, at least."

You smile, soft. Not too much. “I appreciate it. Everything’s been really comfortable. Quiet.”

He nods again. "Good."

For a second, neither of you says anything. The wind rustles through the trees, and a bird chirps somewhere off to the left. Joel shifts his weight. The porch creaks faintly under his heel.

“Place is nice,” you add. “Feels lived in. In a good way.”

That makes him glance back toward the house. “Built most of it myself. Added the guesthouse a few years back. Didn’t think I’d use it much, but...” He shrugs. “People end up needing space."

You take a sip from your mug and nod. “Seems like a good place for it.”

Joel rubs the back of his neck. “If anything needs fixing—drawer sticks, windows squeak, anything like that—I’m around. Workshop’s just behind the shed."

You follow his gesture. You hadn’t really looked beyond the trees yet, hadn’t thought about what was back there. But now you notice it—a wide structure tucked in the shade, low roof, stacked planks leaning against the outer wall.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

You glance at him again, not expecting to find anything new—but this time, your eyes catch on the way his hands shift slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. They’re rough. Not just callused, but visibly worn. Small scars along his knuckles. A tiny cut near the base of his thumb, half-healed.

He notices your glance but doesn’t comment. Just clears his throat softly and lifts his eyes to yours for a second.

“I didn’t know I could feel this... still,” you say, before you really think about it.

Joel nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

You didn’t mean to say it. You don’t follow it up. And he doesn’t ask.

He nods once more, then hesitates like he might say something else. He doesn’t. Just lifts a hand in a half-wave and steps down off the porch.

You watch him walk back across the grass, slow and steady, barefoot like always. He disappears behind the line of trees, swallowed by the quiet.

You shut the door gently.

You try to get back to work, but it takes a minute.

Your coffee's gone lukewarm. The email you were writing doesn’t seem important anymore. You sit at the kitchen table and stare at your screen while the cursor blinks. It takes three tries to remember what you were even supposed to say.

Not because of him. Just... because the interruption broke whatever shallow concentration you had going. You close the laptop for a while and step outside instead.

The hammock is warm in the sun. You sit sideways in it, feet on the grass, journal balanced on your knees. You don’t write much. A line or two. Something about the trees. Something about the quiet.

Eventually, you wander inside, rinse out your mug, and grab a peach from the fridge. The rest of the day stretches ahead of you, soft and slow.

You don’t see him again that day. But you think about the way he stood on the porch. Like he didn’t quite belong there, but showed up anyway.

It wasn’t much. Not personal.

But something about it lingers.

You go back to work with the window open. The saw starts up again around two.

You don’t look. But you hear him.

By late afternoon, the light shifts. The workday winds down, email closed, another empty mug sitting by your keyboard. You stretch, fingertips pressing into the tight knots in your neck.

Out on the porch, the breeze has picked up. You step outside with a glass of water, blinking against the sun.

Down near the workshop, the truck is pulled up closer. Joel’s there, dragging the hose across the gravel. A bucket waits nearby, sponge in hand.

You catch yourself watching almost instantly.

He moves the way he always seems to—unhurried, steady. Shirt sleeves shoved high, forearms slick with water. The damp fabric of his t-shirt pulls faintly across his back when he leans forward into the cab. Broad shoulders, trim waist, the slow flex of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin.

It’s... more than you expected.

Not that you’d expected anything. He was just the landlord. Someone you barely knew.

But now your gaze lingers, and it’s hard to blame the sun for the warmth climbing up your neck.

He straightens, lifts a hand to the back of his neck. The small shift draws your eyes again before you can stop them.

You glance away fast, glass poised halfway to your lips. Take a too-long sip, hoping it’ll cool whatever heat is rising under your skin.

It doesn’t.

You didn’t think of him that way. Until just now, maybe you hadn’t thought of him much at all.

But now the image sticks. And when you head back inside, it follows you a little too easily.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The rest of the week settles into a kind of rhythm.

Not rushed. Not structured, really. Just… easy.

Mornings start with coffee on the porch, the air still cool enough to warrant a sweatshirt most days. You read there sometimes, legs curled beneath you, the hum of cicadas rising with the sun. The sound of the saw picks up mid-morning more often than not—low and steady from across the yard. After a few days, it blends into the background, like the soft rustle of the seagrass or the gulls overhead. You can’t say it bothers you.

Work stays quiet. Manageable. It’s easier here—something about the space between things. The absence of constant pinging and half-conversations and calendars stacked to the minute. You knock out your to-do list early most days, freeing the afternoons for… whatever feels right.

Sometimes that means walking down to the beach with a book tucked under your arm. Other days it means errands in town—a new bag of coffee, a browse through the little shop that sells lavender soaps and sea glass trinkets. You’ve started to recognize faces. A few hellos here and there. It’s nice.

You see Joel more, too. Not deliberately. It just… happens.

There’s a run-in at the mailbox midweek—he’s heading out as you’re heading back. A nod, a quick “hey,” an easy smile. A few words exchanged about the weather, about the stretch of warm days ahead.

Later, you catch him outside the workshop, arms full of lumber. He shifts the load with a quiet grunt, glances up as you pass on your way to the hammock. Another nod. Another smile. You can’t help but return it.

There are other moments, too. Small ones.

You’re trimming back the hedge one afternoon when you hear his voice nearby, low and even. On the phone, maybe. You don’t listen in, but the cadence of it draws your ear. You glance over without meaning to, catch the edge of him framed in the workshop doorway—one hand braced against the frame, the other at his hip.

You look away fast. No reason to stare.

Still, your gaze drifts that way more often than it used to.

Another morning, you catch a whiff of sawdust and soap on the air as you cross the drive. Not close—just enough to register. Enough to linger.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re just paying attention more, that’s all.

But later, curled in the hammock with your book resting open against your chest, you realize you haven’t turned a page in several minutes. Your eyes keep flicking toward the workshop, half-expecting movement.

You sigh, shake your head, force yourself back to the words on the page.

When the truck door thuds shut later that day, you’re already looking toward the sound before you can stop yourself.

A glimpse through the porch rail—the steady motion you’ve started to recognize. The faint rise and fall of his voice. Familiar now, in a way it wasn’t before.

Funny how that happens.

Nothing more to it than that.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But you don’t go back inside right away. The sun is soft now, the porch warm beneath your legs. You let the minutes stretch, listening to the faint rhythm of his voice, the shuffle of movement from across the yard.

A soft scrape. The low creak of a hinge.

You glance over again. The workshop door’s fully open now, sunlight spilling across the worn boards inside. Joel moves through the space, a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed high.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should. You shift in your seat, fingers curling against the armrest.

The bag from town still sits just inside the door—lightbulbs you’d grabbed on a whim. You hadn’t meant to let them sit this long, and the porch fixture had been dim since your first night here.

A small thing. A small excuse. But enough.

You stand, brushing your hands lightly over your thighs. The path feels shorter than usual as you cross the yard.

The door stands open ahead of you, the hum of the radio low beneath the quiet.

You pause at the threshold, one hand on the frame.

“Hey,” you call, voice light. “Do you have a second?”

Joel looks up, straightens from the bench. His brow lifts faintly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything alright?”

You shake your head quickly, offering a small smile.

“All good. Just—” you lift the bag slightly, “—thought I’d check about the porch light. I grabbed some bulbs, wasn’t sure if there’s a trick to it.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Shoulders easing, mouth tugging faint at one corner—something warmer than before.

“Good timing,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to get around to that. Come on in.”

The words catch something low in your chest, loose and warm.

You step inside.

The scent greets you first—cedar and oil, the sharper bite of fresh sawdust. Thicker here, grounding.

Light cuts through the room in long strips, painting the floor in soft gold. Tools hang in careful rows above the benches, handles worn smooth from use. The faint hum of the old radio plays beneath it all—low and steady, like a heartbeat threaded through the air.

Joel sets the rag in his hand aside, straightening as you approach.

“What’d you grab?”

You pull the box of bulbs from the bag, fingers brushing the cardboard edges.

“Just the basics. Didn’t know if they’d fit.”

“Let’s see.”

He reaches for the box, and for a beat, your hands meet—his fingers brushing over yours as he takes it. Warm. Calloused. A flicker of heat trails up your arm before you can think.

Neither of you acknowledges it. But the air feels different now.

Joel lifts the box, tipping it in his hand.

“Yeah, these’ll work.”

You nod, glancing past him toward the bench. Your gaze lingers longer than it should—on the broad planks laid out across the surface, the sharp gleam of steel, the soft curl of wood shavings beneath his arm.

“You working on something?”

He shifts, setting the box aside. “Chair.” He gestures to the half-built frame clamped at the center of the bench. “Trying to get the joints right.”

You step closer, drawn without thinking.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, tracing the clean lines with your eyes.

Joel watches you a moment, something flickering beneath the steady look.

“Appreciate that.” His voice is quieter now, a rougher edge beneath it. “Lot of time goes into these.”

You glance up. He’s closer than before—only a foot or two away now, warmth radiating between the space that isn’t quite space anymore.

“I can tell.” You rest your hand light on the edge of the bench, grounding yourself. “I didn’t know you built everything here.”

Joel’s mouth lifts again, softer this time. “Yeah. Most of it. Took a while to get set up.”

There’s a pause then—a full one. Not awkward. Just… aware.

Your breath slows, skin prickling beneath the light cotton of your shirt.

Joel shifts again, reaching for a small chisel. Your gaze follows without meaning to—the way his hands move, strong and precise, veins cutting sharp beneath his skin.

He glances at you, catches your eyes lingering.

You look away fast. But not fast enough to miss the faint rise of color beneath his scruff.

He clears his throat. “You wanna see how it fits?”

You nod. “Yeah.” The word comes easier than your breath.

He picks up the seat slat, turns toward you—closer now. As he angles it into place, his shoulder brushes yours—light, brief, but enough to send your pulse climbing.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment holds there, stretched thin across the soft weight of the room.

Then—carefully—Joel steps back.

“Still needs some shaping,” he says, voice rougher than before.

You nod, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. “It’s… really nice.”

Another pause.

Joel’s gaze lingers on you, steadier than before. For a breath, neither of you moves. The air feels weighted now, thicker between the strips of light.

You glance down, smoothing your fingers along the grain of the seat.

“How long does something like this take?” you ask softly.

He shifts, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, draws your eye before you can catch it.

“Depends,” he says. “Piece like this… week or two. If the wood cooperates.”

You glance up again, meeting his gaze. The edges of your breath catch faintly, but you hold it steady.

“I don’t think I realized how much goes into it.”

Joel huffs a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a shift in him now—shoulders looser, voice warmer. You can feel it in the way the air hums between you.

Your gaze flicks back to the shelves along the wall. Jars of nails and screws. Planes and clamps worn by use. The space feels different now—not just a workshop, but his. A reflection of the hands that shaped it.

“You’ve been doing this a long time?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. Picked it up young. Stuck with it.” His mouth lifts faintly. “Guess I like making things that last.”

The words settle low in your chest. You don’t know why, but they do.

You glance back toward him. He’s watching you again—not guarded, not unreadable, just… there. Present in a way that makes your pulse hitch.

And maybe it’s the way the afternoon light catches the curve of his jaw. Or the quiet between your words. Or the way your shoulders brush again as he shifts to reach for another tool, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

Whatever it is, you’re suddenly aware that you’re standing closer than you’d meant to. That you haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

Another beat, full and slow.

Then—reluctant but even—you draw in a breath.

“I should probably let you get back to it,” you say, though your voice is quieter now.

Joel watches you for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that feels like it might have asked you to stay if the words were easier to reach.

You step back slowly, fingers brushing once more along the edge of the chair.

“Thanks. For showing me.”

His mouth lifts again, the faintest tug of warmth. “Anytime.”

And when you turn for the door, you can feel his gaze follow you—steady and low, trailing after you as you cross the sunlit yard.

You don’t let your steps quicken. No sense in it. And maybe next time, you won’t leave so soon.

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izzyy-stuff · 4 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃 - 𝐇𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐊𝐀𝐈

bsf!huening x fem!reader

in which you want to film a silly tiktok with your best friend, but it takes a slightly different turn than you expected.

wc 0.8k

warnings breast play/nipple play

↪ izzy speaks... it's been so long since I last updated omfg. But just today I finished a longer project I was working on for my other acc, so now I can focus on this acc again and put out some stories :3 not proofread btw

masterlist

You saw the trend everywhere. It was innocent, just a joke running around the internet, so why wouldn’t you film it as well?

Your best friend, Kai, sat in your bed, playing mario kart on your TV while you set up your phone, making sure he would be the only one in the frame. He doesn’t seem to pay you much attention as you did, which might have been better for the video actually.

You stood in front of the TV after pressing play on your phone, making him yell at you to move aside because he can’t see the game. “Wait, I have something to show you,” you proclaim and he raises an eyebrow at you. You hesitate for a second as you gaze into his eyes but shake it off quickly. You’ve been best friends practically your entire life, what could go wrong?

You grab the bottom of your top, pulling it up and revealing your breast. Kai’s eyes widen immediately and when you don’t pull your shirt back down, he averts his eyes. “What-What the hell?” He asks, his face turning red. “You can’t just…What are you doing?”

You roll your shirt back on, laughing as you walk over to your phone to turn off the video. “It’s a tiktok trend,” you proclaim casually, rewatching the video to see his reaction. You laugh again at his flushed cheeks, shaking your head. You turn around to face him, your eyes widening at how embarrassed he looks. “No biggie, right?”

“No biggie?” He looks at you again, exhaling when he sees your calm face. You really didn’t get it did you? You didn’t understand what you did to him, what his head was going to do with the newly explored piece of your body. “A biggie.”

You frown, putting your phone aside. “It was just a joke, and they aren’t that big anyway, no need to make a huge deal about it,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His eyes widen again, processing what you just said. “Aren’t that big? Are you crazy?” You raise an eyebrow at him confusedly, trying to see through him to figure out what he is thinking about.

“I mean they…” you hesitate as you gaze into his eyes, swallowing the rest of your sentence nervously. “What?”

“You think those aren’t big?” You have to blink a few times at his question, glancing down. It feels like you’re being lectured for some reason, which might seem ironic considering Kair was a blushing mess just a second ago. Your hands come up to cup your boobs, examining them for a second. “You think they are?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t say anything so you raise your head again, finding him staring at your breast as you hold your boobs, his eyes glued to your body. His cheeks are still red, but he seems less nervous now. He blinks quickly a few times to get himself to focus again, looking you in the eyes. He nods, and you feel your whole body heating up. “Do you wanna…Do you wanna touch them?” You ask when you see his eyes trailing down to your chest again, as if he was pulled to them by a magnet.

Kai hesitates, his eyes flickering between your breast and eyes. You said one thing, but would it really be okay for him to do so? He wasn’t sure. But when you don’t take your offer back after a few seconds of silence, he moves closer to you, the gaming console long forgotten somewhere beside him.

You pull your shirt down completely this time, letting it fall on the floor as you shift in your place, carefully observing your best friend as he cautiously moves toward you. He sits down right in front of you, searching for any sign of discomfort in your eyes. When he doesn’t find any, he takes a deep breath, pointing on his lap. “Move here,” he whispers and without saying anything, you listen.

Sitting on his lap, you tilt your head to the side as he cups your breast, your nipples falling right in between his fingers. He is prudent with them, looking up to see your reaction after every little squeeze. It’s not until he hears a moan leave your lips that his mind short circuits, his fingers rubbing onto your nipples with more force, needing to hear more from you.

“You can–You can do more,” you assure him, biting your bottom lip to constrain your moans. He nods, leaning closer as his thumb rubs over your right nipple. He takes your breast in his mouth, his tongue making circles around your nipple. You swallow hard, your breath hitching. He’s so good, you’re not sure if you want him to ever stop.

And so, you sit on the edge of your bed until you lose track of time. You’re not sure if it’s been minutes or hours, but your nipples are swollen and covered in bites when you finally get off him, your heart beating fast as you gaze into his eyes. There was no way you could act like Kai was just your best friend now.

⋆✶ izzy's tags @beomiracles @seoulzie @adel222 @inkigayocamman @flowzel @love-be0m @virgo-and-libra @hwanghyunjinismybae @liaatiny @minaateez @bamgeutsz @lovingbeomgyudayone @definitelynotherr @hyunj00 ✶⋆ Want to get notified? Join taglist here!

#huening #hueningkai #kai #izzy writes ✶⋆.˚#tomorrow x together #txt #huening kai #kai huening #huening x reader #hueningkai x reader #kai x reader #huening smut #hueningkai smut #suggestive #txt smut #tomorrow x together smut

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pazziescapism · 3 months ago

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Break Our Ice - Chapter 4

pairing: paige x azzi

wc: 12.1k

au fic what??, figureskater!Azzi x icehockeyplayer!Paige

fake dating, just like playful banter teasing relationship to lovers, basically paige and azzi dancing around each other

a/n: HI GUYS!! i am truly sorry for the wait i have no idea why this chapter took me so long, honestly this is definitely my least favourite chapter and sorry if it seems choppy i took out and rearranged heaps of scenes i don't watch ice skating or ice hockey so i didn't really think about how i would write about it... AHAH anyway i guess this is kinda the last chapter?? i think id be down to do some bonus ones but i am working on something new so we will see, again thank you for reading! ps, did u see that wc?? 12k, yes im very proud

Someone is pulling Azzi to the side, a hand digging into the meat of her upper arm, hard enough to bruise. She’s having a hard time registering anything over the noise and lights. It feels like there’s a hundred people surrounding her, pushing her off to the side, crushing her by the borders.

Then the crowd falls away, and Paige’s in front of her looking harried. The press continues to shout from the side, the noise a little quieter now that they’ve moved, a crowd of people in front of them like a barricade.

“Ah, man,” Ice says, next to the two of them. “Bad luck.”

“I’ve got to go back out and do press,” Paige says, and she looks upset, running a hand jerkily through her hair. “Can you get someone to take Azzi out the back way?”

“It’s only the tabloids,” Azzi says and stays where she is. The situation is mixing badly with the insecurity in her chest, her head. Something selfish and angry has taken up residency in her, curling and twisting unpleasantly.

“That’s the problem,” Paige says, not even looking at her, her face scanning the crowd, like she’s already searching for a way to get Azzi away.

Like a picture of them together would be something so dreadful.

“They’re already here,” Azzi points out, not moving. “Who cares if they get a picture or two?”

Paige frowns. She’s gotten fully ready to act within seconds, Azzi’s coat clutched in her hands. “They’ll come to the wrong conclusions,” she says, and Azzi’s heart sinks.

The unpleasant feelings in her stomach give a sharp twist, and Azzi feels herself smile and knows it must look off.

“As long as they’re here,” she whispers, leaning in closer to Paige. “Let’s give them a show.”

Paige’s eyes drop to her lips, like Azzi knew they would; for an instant, their faces are inches apart. She hears someone yell, and the camera’s go off again, too many bright lights to see, photographers moving around the crowd in front of them to get a picture. Paige steps fully away from her, panicked expression twisting into something sharper.

“For fuck’s sake, Azzi,” Paige says, viciously angry, and Azzi steps back too, taken aback by the reaction.

“I didn’t mean to,” she starts, and she isn’t sure what she didn’t mean to do so she lets that sentence trail off and starts again. “I didn’t mean it.”

This doesn’t seem to make Paige feel much better, judging by the volume of her retort, her eyes angrier than Azzi’s ever seen them, as she shoves Azzi’s jacket into her arms. “You can’t just fuck around with my life when you get bored. Those pictures are going to be everywhere by tomorrow.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Azzi says back, her face burning hot with what might be anger, or might be shame. She’s off-balance, tilting too far one way and then the next. I don’t understand, she wants to yell. She wants, selfish as it seems, for Paige to understand her, without Azzi having to explain.

Is it that awful to be seen with me? Azzi thinks, her head buzzing miserably.

Ice’s got her by the arm, then and they’re both heading down a dark little hallway, leading out to the parking lot.

“I practice here too,” Azzi snaps, and yanks her arm away. Her jacket is gripped in her arms, and the jersey suddenly feels tight and humiliating on her skin. “I know the way.”

Ice doesn’t seem to take offense, which makes Azzi feel worse, just nods good-naturedly, her head ducked to avoid stray cameras. “That makes sense.”

Azzi swallows, hard. “I’m sorry,” she says, and that at least, is sincere.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ice tells her, and then hesitates as they exit out into the employee’s only section of the parking lot. Someone must have told Caroline, because Azzi can see her car heading towards them. “Hey, and- um, Paige just kind of hates cameras more than the rest of us, so, I mean, try not to-”

“Whatever,” Azzi says, cutting her off. She doesn’t really need the reminder.

It’s freezing outside, thick dark clouds rolling over the sky, threatening snow at any minute. Azzi shivers, and then steps away from Ice as Caroline pulls up, nodding goodbye stiffly.

To Caroline’s credit, she doesn’t ask any questions as Azzi angrily peels the jersey off the second they get onto the road, leaving her in only the thin sweater she had been wearing underneath. For good measure, she throws it on the floor and stomps on it, her dirty sneakers creating a bizarre black mark over the fabric, before throwing it to the back of the car.

She considers slipping on the jacket, which at least doesn’t have Paige’s name written on it, but the image of Paige’s white knuckles around it as she tried to usher Azzi out as quickly as possible rises to mind and she chucks it to the back too.

“So,” Caroline says casually, reaching over to turn the heating up in the car. “After game jitters?”

“Fuck you,” Azzi says bitterly. “Actually, fuck her. Let’s turn around so I can go slash her tires.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Caroline says, like a hint.

“No,” Azzi says. “I already told you what I wanted to do, but you missed the turn.”

White flurries are starting to drift down outside the window, the wind picking up speed. Some of the flakes drift against the glass, individual specks so that Azzi can get a brief glimpse of the small symmetrical patterns making up each snowflake before they melt away against the window.

“I’ve been trying so hard to make her like me,” Azzi says suddenly, into the quiet of the car, “and she doesn’t.”

“I’m sure she does,” Caroline says, accepting this too, without question.

“She was such an asshole, just now,” Azzi seethes. “It’s one picture, will the world end? Will the sky fall?”

“I’m sure you already know this,” Caroline says, “but it was probably a bigger deal to her than it was to you.”

“I piss her off all the time,” Azzi points out. The anger is separating into hurt, a needle digging under the skin of her ribs. “She’s never reacted like that.”

Caroline doesn’t respond to this, as they pull into their neighbourhood. “You want to come over?” She offers. “Kaitlyn’s away for the day.”

Azzi is still considering this when her phone rings in her pocket, making her jump. She keeps meaning to set it to vibrate. She looks at the caller ID and considers hanging up. It would make her feel good, she reasons, give her a little vindictive pleasure. She’s aware of Caroline’s eyes still on her.

“Yes?” She says tersely, answering the phone.

“Hey,” Paige’s voice sounds a little hoarse on the other end. “I ditched the press conference. I’m on my way home. I thought, maybe we could talk?”

Azzi stares out the window. The temperature’s dropped fast, and the wind has picked up, white snow starting to cover the sidewalks, clinging to the window and the windshield.

“Talk about what?” She asks, forcing herself to lean back against the seat.

“Um,” Paige says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like- I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t want an apology, Paige,” Azzi says coldly. “I want to finally lay this humiliating chapter of my life to rest.”

“Azzi,” Paige says. “We won’t get anywhere if you refuse to talk about it.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” Azzi snaps. Her split lip stings as she speaks, newly scabbed over skin starting to split again. “We were never going anywhere to begin with.”

There’s a silence over the phone, only Paige’s breath filling the space, still so fucking steady. “You don’t mean that,” she says finally, voice charged with a bone-deep tiredness.

“This was always temporary,” Azzi says, always clawing her nails into wounds that are already bleeding, both her own and other people’s. “Sorry that you thought otherwise.”

“Fine,” Paige says into the phone, frustration jagged in her voice. “The dating part is fake, yeah, but- Christ, Azzi- I thought we were at least friends.”

Azzi is breathing too fast, too heavy. She wants to cry. She wants to scream some more. She wants to put her head on Paige’s shoulder and just breathe in the familiar smell of her, until they’re in sync again, inhaling and exhaling in the same rhythm. She doesn’t want to be friends.

“Go home, Paige,” she says, and feels the cavity in her chest split open a little further. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, so vulnerable it nearly rips her determination into shreds. The next thing she hears is the dial tone.

The car is horribly silent. Azzi doesn’t look, but the sound of Caroline’s disapproval is nearly audible.

“Don’t start,” Azzi moans. “I just- fuck, do you think I fucked up?”

Caroline is quiet for a moment, long enough for Azzi to turn and see hesitation lining her face.

“I think you would feel better if you were honest about your feelings,” she says finally. “Even if it doesn’t end up getting you what you want.”

Azzi lets her fingers fall, tracing over the material of her sweatpants. “It was going so well too,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s whining, and not quite succeeding.

“It’s not a real relationship, though,” Caroline says, and Azzi’s head snaps up in irritation.

“Thank you for that,” she says, curt. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”

“What I mean is,” Caroline sighs and then starts over. “It’s not real. It’s easy to have a great relationship if you don’t have as much to lose. You’ve been living in fantasyland.”

“This is like, the most unhelpful you have ever been,” Azzi tells her. “And that is saying something.”

“All I’m saying is, if you want to have a relationship with her after this whole thing is over-”

“I don’t,” Azzi interrupts, and Caroline closes her eyes like this whole thing is horrible for her, personally.

“Sure. But if you do, you need to figure out whether this is all it’s going to take before you give up.

“Ugh,” Azzi says. She glares out the window again. The snow is starting to blow in heavy gusts outside, and when Caroline parks, she can see that it’s piling up on the staircase leading up to their building. The snowfall is starting to pick up speed, thick, soft heaps of white beginning to form, deep enough to get in your shoes, sink into your socks.

The cab driver stops before turning into the long, narrow street leading to Paige’s building, and tells Azzi that with the current road conditions, she’ll either have to pay extra or walk the rest of the way. Azzi looks at the storm starting to rage outside, the snow swirling on strong winds, until she can barely see anything other than white through the window. She looks at the still-running meter. She decides to walk.

About thirty seconds in, she’s regretting it. She didn’t bring a jacket with her, so the snow is flying everywhere, landing in any available gaps in her clothes and melting into ice cold water on contact with skin. Her feet are suffering the worst, the snow piling up inside her shoes, melting and then piling up again until she can’t feel her toes anymore.

“Paige,” she says when she reaches the building, hitting the buzzer for Paige’s apartment. “Paige, if you don’t let me in, I’ll die. I’ll die, seriously.”

“Azzi?” Paige says over the intercom, static blurring her voice, and she says something that sounds like a question, but the locked door clicks and unlocks, and Azzi misses the words as she shuffles eagerly into the heated building.

It’s only once she’s in the elevator, a minute away from Paige’s door that she realizes that she has no plan, she’s forgotten her speech, and the snow collected in her hair and clothing has melted, leaving her sopping wet and creating a puddle of dirty water where she’s standing.

It’s all she can do to keep herself standing when Paige opens the door, her eyes widening as she takes in Azzi, sniffling only a little pathetically in her doorway, soaked to the bone in a thin sweater and sweatpants.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi says, before Paige has the chance to say anything. “I didn’t mean to say- I just- we are friends and I want to keep being friends and I don’t want to fake break-up, and I’m a really terrible fake-girlfriend, but I want to keep being your terrible fake-girlfriend.”

Paige’s mouth opens. Closes again. She seems, for the first time since Azzi’s met her, to be at a total and complete loss for words.

“And I’m sorry for pushing it about the picture thing,” Azzi continues nervously. A patch of melting snow is sliding down her back. “I didn’t want to- You hurt my feelings, a little, so I wanted to hurt your feelings and now I feel bad about that-”

“You are the dumbest person alive,” Paige says, and she grabs Azzi’s wrist and yanks her inside.

She closes the door behind them, almost as an afterthought, her hands fluttering over Azzi’s body, her fingers, her neck, her cheek, bringing a moment of blissful warmth wherever they land. “You’re shaking, Jesus Christ. How far did you walk like this? There’s a blizzard warning out, are you stupid?”

Azzi peels her shoes off and then stands in the entranceway, unsure of where to go or what to say, her hair dripping water onto her already wet socks.

“Unbelievable,” Paige is saying, already halfway across the living room before she realizes Azzi isn’t following. “Go, sit,” she says, and gestures at the stools across the kitchen counter.

Azzi obediently takes a seat.

It isn’t long before Paige returns to stand in front of her with a towel in her hands, and chucks it over Azzi’s wet hair, her hands scrubbing at it like she’s planning on taking Azzi’s whole head off.

“What is wrong with you?” Paige is asking her, though it seems to be rhetorical, her hands still busy drying Azzi’s hair, none too gently. “No jacket, no scarf, not even any decent shoes. Did you look outside before you decided to come running to apologize? You know how long it takes to get frostbite?-”

“Paige,” Azzi interrupts and Paige stops, both the lecture and the scrubbing, tilting Azzi’s face up so their eyes meet. Azzi’s tongue flattens at the expectant look in her eyes, and it’s with considerable effort that she manages to start again. “Paige, you forgive me, right?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Paige looks absolutely floored by the words out of Azzi’s mouth. Azzi can’t explain it to herself, any more than she can explain it to Paige, but she needs to hear the words, needs to see the shape of them in Paige’s mouth.

“Yes,” Paige says finally. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I know,” Azzi says, a shaky smile lifting the edges of her mouth.

Paige doesn’t move for a second, just watches Azzi, her green eyes contemplative. Then she starts drying Azzi’s hair again, a gentler set to her mouth, if not to her technique.

“You have qualifiers in a couple days,” she continues, as if nothing had happened, Azzi’s neck aching from the directions it’s being pushed and pulled in. “What would you have done if you’d gotten sick? Would you have sat out? Idiot.”

“I would have won anyway,” Azzi mumbles, a little guiltily, and then screeches at a particularly rough yank on her head. “But I won’t if I go bald! Paige!”

“Oops,” Paige says, not sounding very regretful. “Was that one too much?”

“Obviously, you fucking-” Azzi wails as Paige does it again. “Paige, my hair!”

Paige snickers, and pulls the towel away completely, tossing it into Azzi’s lap. “Drop this off in the laundry. And find some clean clothes and take a warm shower. I’ll get you some hot water with lemon and honey, so you don’t catch a cold. Silly girl.”

Azzi doesn’t answer, busy trying to feel her aching scalp for possible bald patches.

“Don’t worry,” Paige tells her, pushing her off the stool. “I promise you’re still pretty.”

Azzi whips around, beaming, ignoring Paige’s increasingly forceful attempts to shove her in the direction of the laundry room. “You think I’m pretty, Paige?”

She says it as half a joke, mostly expecting Paige to roll her eyes and push her away. It catches her by surprise when Paige’s expression softens instead, as she reaches up to push a strand of damp hair behind Azzi’s ear, the pad of her fingertip brushing softly over the shell of Azzi’s ear.

“You’re very pretty,” she says indulgently, her hand falling back to her side, Azzi staring at her wide-eyed. “Even when you’re at my door looking like a drowned puppy.”

Azzi goes to take a shower without further comment.

When she pads out, significantly calmer, in barefeet and a soft bathrobe, Paige is squeezing some lemon into a glass, the hot water creating condensation along the sides of the glass, fogging it up. It tastes honey-sweet going down Azzi’s throat, warming her up where the heat of the shower didn’t reach.

She feels warmer still when Paige presses her up against the kitchen counter, rough hands slipping inside the bathrobe, spreading across her back, as she licks into Azzi’s mouth like she can taste the remnants of honey and lemon lingering on Azzi’s tongue.

“Your lip is bleeding,” she murmurs, pulling away from Azzi, kissing the corner of her mouth in apology. “Sorry.”

Azzi licks over her lower lip, tastes metal in her mouth and grimaces. “Oops.”

Paige is already grabbing a tissue, and running it under the tap. She squeezes water out into the drain and presses the damp tissue to Azzi’s mouth, wiping away where the blood has smeared. Azzi winces at the contact, and Paige holds her chin between a finger and a thumb, keeping her in place. “Stay still, baby.”

Baby, Azzi thinks delightedly, lets the sound echo inside her brain. She’s still thinking about the word choice when she realizes Paige’s stepped away.

“Does it hurt?”

Azzi blinks. “Huh?”

Paige stares at her. Azzi stares back.

“Your lip?” Paige prompts, after it becomes clear that Azzi won’t be answering, a small smile playing at her own mouth. “It’s bleeding.”

“Oh,” Azzi says. She’s lost it. “Yes. The lip. It was bleeding. Still bleeding?”

Paige just looks at her, her eyes blinking slowly, like Azzi is the most fascinating person in the world. If this was anyone else, Azzi thinks, she would probably be embarrassed. But Paige just smiles at her, and Azzi can only muster up the smallest hint of sheepishness at being caught out so directly.

“Yes,” she amends, and wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. “It hurts lots. Kiss it better.”

Paige groans, her hands landing on Azzi’s shoulders, resisting her attempts to pull them back together. “You are insufferable. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Azzi says again, honestly, and she nudges her cold nose into the space between Paige’s shoulder and collarbone, drinks in the smell of Paige’s perfume (which she thinks is actually a cologne) “But here you are. Suffering.”

Paige’s eyes meet Azzi’s and hold eye contact, her face unreadable. Then she sighs. “You have no idea.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to make of this insult that doesn’t sound like an insult. She doesn’t respond, she presses cold feet against Paige’s shin in retaliation, grinning at her put-out expression.

“I can’t believe your toes didn’t fall off,” she says, and tugs Azzi over to her fireplace using the belt on her borrowed robe.

Azzi settles cross-legged in front of the blazing heat, lets it sweep over her back, feeling thrillingly, deliriously happy, sparks running up her still damp skin, making her heart beat faster in her chest.

“What do you look so happy about?” Paige asks, when Azzi grabs her and tugs her closer. She goes willingly, her head settling in Azzi’s lap, wincing as Azzi’s cold hands come around to pull at her cheeks.

“I’ve accepted my fate,” Azzi tells her.

“Your fate as what, exactly?” Paige says, the words mumbled as Azzi tugs on her face.

Azzi doesn’t answer, just leans forward and plants a kiss on her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose.

Has Paige’s New Relationship Gone Cold? Hockey Player ‘Iced Out’ by Figure Skating Fling!

Azzi’s Out On Her Ass! ‘Hit the Slopes!’ Says Paige! “On Thin Ice” Says Exclusive Source.

Azzi, Cold on the Ice, Colder in Bed?! Insider Sources Speak Out About Skating Couple’s Frigid Romance!

“Kaitlyn,” Azzi says, interrupting Kaitlyn’s dramatic reading. “You could read these in your head.”

“Good literature deserves to be shared,” Kaitlyn tells her, and holds up a new one. “A source close to the couple reveals the relationship has been on the rocks for months. Did you know that?”

“Where are they getting all these sources from?” Azzi wonders out loud.

“Beats me,” Kaitlyn says mournfully. “I’ve been calling offices all day to tell them you’ve got mad cow disease. Nobody even cares.”

Azzi pauses, looking up from the suitcase she’s packing at Kaitlyn, who’s draped over her bed. “You know humans can’t get mad cow disease, right?”

Kaitlyn, who is ostensibly meant to be helping Azzi pack, stops flipping through tabloids to look at Azzi, horrified. “Are you serious? I’ve wasted so many phone calls, man.”

“It’s literally called cow disease,” Azzi says, and Kaitlyn is still complaining when the door swings open, creaky hinges announcing Caroline’s arrival.

“There was a whole section about you guys on my way home. Like a whole section of a newsstand with just your faces on it,” she calls, already halfway into Azzi’s apartment. Azzi does not remember giving her a key.

“Did you bring any back?” Kaitlyn asks, already bounding up in excitement.

“Breaking!” Caroline reads, walking into the bedroom. She hasn’t changed out of the branded shirt she wears to work, a cartoonish smiling skull peering down at Azzi from under her own face, pressed against Paige’s on a magazine cover, bold lettering over their bodies. “Azzi, Withholding Her ‘Icicle’ From New Girlfriend?! ‘Not Until Marriage’ New Sources Report.”

“Who is writing these?” Azzi asks in amazement.

“And who is doing their fact-checking?” Kaitlyn says, peering down at the page over Caroline’s shoulder. “They should be fired.”

“Are you guys breaking up?” Caroline asks, and both her and Kaitlyn are staring at Azzi, expressions nauseatingly similar. “I need to know where to place my bets.”

“How’s the casual sex going for you?” Kaitlyn adds, looking irritatingly knowing. “Still no feelings?”

Azzi looks back down at her suitcase. It’s too full. If she adds anything else to it, she won’t be able to get it closed, but she hasn’t even packed any clothes yet. “No,” she says to the peanut gallery, an answer to both questions. She adds her folded clothes and takes the performance makeup out. She can probably put that in the carry-on.

“I’m starting a six-year plan to make her fall in love with me,” she says casually. “Can one of you come help me close this?”

“I love being friends with you,” Kaitlyn says, neither of them moving. “Every decision you make is worse than the last. Like a slow-motion car crash. Thrilling.”

“Why is it taking her six years to fall in love with you?” Caroline asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Azzi says. “At the end of the six years we get married. The suitcase?”

“Thrilling,” Kaitlyn repeats, and comes over to plant her full body weight on top of the suitcase so that Azzi can zip it closed.

Azzi is staggeringly drunk. Mind-bendingly drunk. Everything is swirling into pieces around her and then swirling back together, the noise pounding in her eardrums reverberating through her entire body. It’s loud, sweaty, hot, crowded. The smell of alcohol is stinging her nose, a too-expensive bottle of champagne still staining her clothes, sticky where it touches her skin.

Every now and then, the realization comes back to her and then she’s smiling again, her cheeks aching with the force of it, her throat raw from screaming.

“I made it!” She yells to Caroline. The two of them are so close together but her voice is carried off in the noise regardless, and she can see Caroline blink as she tries to process.

Then Caroline is grinning back at her, just as wide. “We made it!” She yells back, and Azzi throws her head back to laugh, giddy.

Someone pulls her away and Azzi goes willingly, out of her mind with joy and nearly deaf from the music.

The quiet of the evening, when she stumbles outside, is an ice-cold shock. The sudden stillness surrounding her, the indiscernible noise of screaming teenagers in the background. It had been a struggle to extricate herself, a tugging push and pull until she made it out into the night air. She’s pressing the call button before she can talk herself out of it.

“Azzi?” She hears Paige say, only a dark blurry shape on the small screen of her phone. There’s rustling movement, the click of a lamp, and then Paige’s face is peering blearily at her, illuminated by soft yellow light. “Are you wearing bunny ears?”

“I think I got them from a fetish store!” Azzi tells her, and it’s only when Paige flinches away from the phone screen that she realizes she had been yelling. She lowers her voice abashedly. “They wouldn’t let you in without a costume,” she whispers, like she’s letting Paige in on a secret. “But I didn’t have one.”

Paige falls back and Azzi can hear her laugh tiredly, voice still gravelly with sleep. She must have set the phone down, because all Azzi can see now is the ceiling of the hotel Paige must be staying at. Her team had left for a series of away games, both of them now far from home.

“Paige,” she says to the ceiling. “I can’t see your face anymore.” Her words are starting to blur together, but she can’t concentrate enough to pull them back apart.

“Sorry, sorry,” Paige mutters, and there’s another rustle before her face returns, now with headphones. “Are you out celebrating?”

The word celebrating reminds Azzi why she called to begin with and she beams back at the camera, exhilarated once again. “I made it! I’m going to the Olympics!”

Paige is laughing again, though Azzi isn’t sure why. “I know,” she says. “You texted me.”

“Oh,” Azzi says. Then, “What did I say?”

“Um,” Paige says, and then her video is paused. “Hang on. You said ‘i made it’ and then ‘Olympics baby’ and then ‘can alcohol absorb through your skin?’ and then there were a bunch of letters.”

“Oh,” Azzi says again. “What did you say?”

Paige’s face returns to the camera once more, her smile fonder than usual, the planes of her face carved out soft in the mellow light. “I knew you’d make it.”

Azzi thinks that if it’s possible to be crushed by sheer affection, she’s feeling it now, a building pressure in her chest that pulls her accelerating heartbeat back to ground level.

“Thank you.” Now that she’s calmer, she notices for the first time how Paige’s eyes are fluttering closed, how her voice is sleep-rough, and she feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Paige says, clearly lying. “I couldn't sleep anyway.”

“Liar.” There’s that soft, tired laugh again, and the phone shifts to a view of the ceiling again, like Paige has set it down beside her. Azzi can hear the sound of her breathing, each breath slipping slowly into a steady rhythm.

“S’Okay,” Paige mumbles. “I like the sound of your voice.”

This is enough to stun Azzi back into silence. Her brain feels slippery from how much she’s had to drink, the hot pink lighting of the club she had been in still dancing across her feet, a glimmering haze over her field of vision. She’s so aware, all of a sudden, of how cold the night air is, biting into exposed skin, how tightly the headband of the bunny ears is pressing into her scalp, of the hair falling over her forehead- of how much love is piling up inside her, scrubbing her raw and threatening to drown her under its weight.

If Paige liked the sound of her voice, Azzi would read her a novel, would read her a dictionary, would write her a new love letter every morning and recite it to her every night.

As it is, she whispers into the phone, “Goodnight, Paige,” and lets herself wait five full seconds before hanging it back up.

That night Azzi crashes on the sofa of a hotel suite she could have never afforded by herself, legs too wobbly to make it to a bed. She doesn’t sleep, she just lies there, the bright glow of her phone across her face the only light in the dark room, and she drafts drunken texts and deletes them, writing out confessions she’ll never send.

Are you still awake? She writes to Paige, and deletes it.

Good luck tomorrow.

Recently, you’ve been in all of my dreams. Do you think that means something?

I wish you had been here today.

In a hazy space of her brain, it starts to register to Azzi that this is possibly a little bit embarrassing. She doesn’t feel embarrassed- she feels giddy in a way she hasn’t for years, caught up in the middle-school thrill of having a crush, something that reminds her of drafts of love letters on pink stationary, of leaving gifts in lockers and roses on desks. It’s the indulgent happiness of allowing herself to get caught up in the push and pull before a relationship, both of them on edge, neither willing to slip first.

It’s enough, she tells herself. For now, it’s enough. They’ll have time.

The sun is just beginning to set when Azzi walks back to her apartment days later, a plastic bag of groceries crinkling in one hand, the other holding Paige’s hand. The heat is starting to return after a long winter, and there’s sweat collecting between their hands, but neither one moves to disentangle their fingers.

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Paige is saying heatedly, and Azzi scoffs but doesn’t interrupt. “You have no idea how much I’ve suffered because of this. It’s the worst possible-”

“Not the worst,” Azzi interjects. “I’ll take a lot but I won’t let you lie to me right now-”

“It is the worst, it’s the laziest way out, it never makes sense, it creates so many plot holes-”

“I think it’s fun and creative,” Azzi says, and passes the bag of groceries to Paige, who takes them unquestioningly, as Azzi fumbles one-handed with the lock. “And the plot holes wouldn’t exist if you didn’t think about them.”

“That’s the target audience,” Paige says grimly, as Azzi pulls her into her apartment via their connected hands. “People who don’t think. Like you.”

“Time travel is an old, respected, trope,” Azzi says. “Just because you don’t understand it-”

“Boo!” Paige says, setting the bag of groceries onto the counter. She starts unloading them without Azzi asking her to, taking out the eggs to place them into the fridge, not even pausing in the flow of conversation. “There’s nothing to understand, because it sucks.”

“Not enough things getting blown up for you?” Azzi asks snidely, and pulls out a cardboard pink box, wrapped with matching pink ribbon before Paige can respond. “Are you ready for your present?”

Paige comes to stand beside her, reaching out a hand to pull at the strings of ribbon and pouting when Azzi slaps it away. “I don’t know why you had to make me stand outside the bakery. It’s not like I can’t guess it’s a cake.”

“Hush,” Azzi says. “As long as it’s not open, it could be anything.”

They had only had Valentine’s Day cakes available at the bakery, so when Paige opens the box, it’s to a mess of pink and red frosting over a small heart-shaped cake. In cursive script over the top, white lettering reads ‘C U @ O.V.’

“They were charging per letter,” Azzi says. “O.V. stands for-”

“Olympic Village,” Paige says, grinning. “I get it. I love it.”

Azzi beams at her. Paige had cleared the team selections for the national team yesterday, when she had still been away for a game. She had made it back last night, the pair of them reuniting for a private celebration that left bruises that ached pleasantly along Azzi’s hips, her chest, her thighs.

“Here,” Paige says, in a suspiciously innocuous tone. “Taste.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “What-”

Paige runs her finger through the icing as Azzi starts talking and then sticks her finger into Azzi’s open mouth.

Azzi clamps her teeth down around the finger immediately, glaring at Paige. She’s hoping the look in her eyes communicates something like a threat, like I could bite through your finger like a carrot right now and not holy shit, I want to eat you out. It’s always so hard to figure out the line between the two with Paige.

Paige tries to pull her finger away, teasingly, and her eyes widen as Azzi bites down a little harder.

“Hang on,” she says, her wrist falling a little limp. “I’m trying to figure out if this is turning me on or not.”

Giving in is against Azzi’s principles but this is beginning to seem torturous, so she lets her mouth close, keeping her teeth back to let her lips close gently over the first knuckle. Paige makes a strangled noise and it feels like victory.

“Yeah. Definitely turned on,” she says decisively.

Azzi can’t speak, just swirls her tongue around the pad of her finger, tastes sugar and strawberries, lets it dissolve in her mouth, relishes in the way Paige’s lips tug up in exasperated acceptance.

She’s thinking of abandoning the cake entirely and starting up those celebrations over again, or maybe just dropping to her knees in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.

“Ugh,” Azzi says, pulling away reluctantly, turning toward the door.

She’s stopped by the firm grasp of Paige’s hand around her jaw, bringing Azzi’s face back to her own. Azzi thinks about complaining about the hand Paige’s using to do it, feeling her own spit touching her cheek, sticky and off-putting and gripping hard enough to bruise.

But Paige’s lips are already on her, tongue slipping into Azzi’s mouth with a proprietary confidence that makes Azzi’s hands clench tight around the edge of the countertop, keeping her on her feet.

The doorbell rings again, and Paige pulls away with a sigh and a wet parting of mouths, Azzi’s eyes fluttering back open in slight shock.

Paige is watching her lips, looking all too pleased with herself. “Yum,” she says, letting go of Azzi’s jaw with a pat on the cheek and a wink. “Strawberry.”

The doorbell rings for a third time, aggressive in how long it lasts, like the person outside is leaning on it, impatient.

Paige’s eyebrow twitches slightly at the noise but she steps fully away from Azzi, looking entirely regretful at her own actions. “Tell them to go away” her eyes flicking down to Azzi’s lips meaningfully.

“Stop saying words,” Azzi says, flustered beyond measure, and tries not to rush to the door in order to do exactly as told.

She opens the door, flushed and still half-laughing, the remnants of a smile on her face fading away as she sees Jayden outside her apartment, still in that ugly fucking coat, the human personification of a cockblock.

“Yes?” Azzi asks, leaning against the door. She doesn’t want Jayden taking a step inside. She doesn’t want Jayden here at all, encroaching on a moment Azzi was enjoying, his presence a reminder of a truth Azzi would rather forget. She very selfishly hopes Paige doesn’t see him. She wants Paige to forget about Jayden all together, forget that two of them had ever been together for a reason that wasn’t so they could watch old science fiction and argue about director’s cuts.

“Just thought I’d drop by,” Jayden says. “You’re not going to let me in?”

“I’m a little busy,” Azzi says coolly. “You should really text first.”

“Busy?” He’s smiling a condescending little smile that makes Azzi’s eyebrow twitch. “You aren’t at practice?”

“I’m hanging out with my girlfriend.” If she places more emphasis than is strictly necessary on the last word- well.

If Jayden is surprised to hear this, he covers for it well, only a slight blotchy red flush to his cheeks giving away a reaction. “I thought- I heard that you’d broken up?”

“Been reading a lot of tabloids recently?” Azzi drawls, letting her head fall to rest on her door frame.

“You haven’t brought her around for dinner,” Jayden counters, still mostly placid. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

“We’ve both been busy,” Azzi says, eyes narrowed. “It’s the season for it.”

Jayden smiles a little wider and it feels like an accusation. “I’m sure my dad would love to meet her.”

They will never find your body, Azzi says with her eyes.

With her mouth she says, “We’ll see you guys Wednesday.”

Once the articles had come out, it had become impossible to ignore Geno’s hints about meeting her new girlfriend. Azzi hadn’t expected to be able to avoid it for long but she had gotten away with it for longer than she expected.

She didn’t know how she felt about the dinner now that it had arrived. Somewhere inside her, something was screaming that this was too serious, too much, too fast. That the unsteady foundation of their little show couldn’t hold up under any more serious inspection. Another part was screaming that Azzi hadn’t been acting for a long time.

A month and a half had passed easily under the guise of their fake relationship. A month and a half, so much time and almost none at all.

At no point during those forty-five days had she prepared herself for seeing Paige waiting in her apartment for her to finish getting ready, complaining on Azzi’s terrible couch, wearing a white sweater, the thick knitted pattern against the pale of her skin.

She’s used to seeing Paige in sharp angles and hard muscles. Like this she looks almost soft. Huggable.

“I bet you’re just a natural-born parent pleaser, aren’t you?” Azzi says, eyeing the gentle cling of the fabric to her shoulders.

“What are you ever talking about?” Paige responds. “Come on, I brought some flowers and they’re going to wilt if we don’t hurry.”

“Flowers,” Azzi says, to herself, as Paige takes her hand and drags her along. “Of course she brought flowers.”

“Listen,” Azzi says, once the two of them are in the elevator heading down to the main floor. “We need to bring our best game tonight.”

Paige does not seem to be listening, her eyebrows a little furrowed as she responds to a text on her phone. Azzi can feel her blood pressure spike.

“Paige,” she says, and Paige’s head lifts immediately, the look she sends Azzi endearingly nervous. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a competition,” Azzi continues, very seriously. “And if I lose to Jayden of all people, I’m killing you and then myself.”

Paige slides her phone into her back pocket as the elevator doors open, and takes Azzi’s hand again instead, pulling them both towards where her car is parked. Her thumb is tracing small circles over the back of Azzi’s palm, a motion that she assumes is meant to be calming. Insultingly, it works, the tense slope of Azzi’s shoulders relaxing into a less rigid line.

“It’s fine,” Paige says. “I’m sure we’ll nail it.”

“That’s a lot of baseless confidence,” Azzi says. “Especially for someone who can’t lie.”

Paige only sends her that familiar exasperated look as she starts the car, like she can see right through Azzi’s bullshit but likes her anyway. Azzi smiles back, a little helpless in the face of that familiar affection.

By the time they arrive at Geno's house, the effect has worn off, and Azzi is a stretched out ball of nerves all over again, her leg bouncing against the floor of the car so fast it’s nearly vibrating.

“Seriously,” Azzi says again, grabbing onto Paige’s sleeve as she moves to open the car door, the two of them still parked in Geno’s driveway. “If they ask any serious questions, I’ll take it. You just- tell the truth unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’m not that bad at lying,” Paige complains, but Azzi isn’t amused, her hand still tightly gripping Paige’s sleeve.

“Hey,” Paige says, a little softer, and extricates her sleeve from Azzi’s grip, just to replace it with her own hand. She lifts Azzi’s hand up, and presses her lips to the knobby bone at Azzi’s wrist, looking back up at Azzi with a smile. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”

Azzi tries to maintain a scowl, but her hand untenses in Paige’s grip, against her will and she gives in.

“Fine,” she says, ungracious but accepting. “But if this all goes wrong, the murder-suicide is still in the plans.”

“Like you could kill me,” Paige snorts, and Azzi makes a sharp dissatisfied noise as they both finally exit the car, a large wrapped bouquet of orchids in Paige’s arms.

“I so could.”

“Maybe if I let you,” Paige says.

“Paige, please you would let me do anything to you.”

“Oh my god Azzi! We are just about to go inside, and you insist I’m the vulgar one” Paige complains as she rests her head on the wheel before they get interrupted.

“I thought I heard yelling,” the old man says, the sharp clean lines of her white haircut unforgiving against the bright light shining from behind her, the doorway lit up against the darkness of the night sky. “Azzi, is the impression you want to make on your guest?”

“Sorry,” Paige says instantly as Azzi scowls, her head bowed.

Geno’s expression changes so fast it’s almost comical, a beaming smile overtaking the thin, wrinkled face as she turns to Paige.

“No, no,” she says dismissively. “Don’t apologize. I know an Azzi antic when I see one. It’s good to meet you. Please, come inside.”

“She started it,” Azzi mutters, only a little sullen as the two of them enter the large house, the foyer illuminated in white by bright lights set into the high ceiling. Her breath leaves her with an ‘oof’ as Paige elbows her gut in silent response, smirking at the betrayed look Azzi sends her.

“Nonsense,” says Geno, who has apparently decided to miss that entire interaction. “Here, let me take your jackets.”

“It’s alright,” Paige says quickly, and smiles that white smile again and Azzi is suddenly struck by the image of a newspaper ad, ‘Perfect Girlfriend’ scrawled in large expansive lettering over the top. $9.99 a month.

“I brought flowers,” Paige says, doing nothing to dispel the image, and holds out the bouquet. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh,” Geno says, and takes the offered flowers. “These are lovely, thank you.”

Azzi is expecting Geno to return to the kitchen to put away the flowers, leaving her some time with Paige in the hall before the trial begins, but the man just lingers, watching Paige hang up first her jacket, and then turn to Azzi for her.

“You’re so polite,” Geno croons in a voice that Azzi considers unseemly for a man of his age. “Not at all like the last girl Azzi brought home.”

Both Azzi and Paige freeze, Azzi in the middle of handing her jacket off to Paige.

“I was fifteen,” Azzi splutters, blood rushing to her face. She feels hotter now than she ever did with the jacket on.

Paige places the hanger with Azzi’s jacket into the closet, her voice seemingly casual, but Azzi can hear the glimmer of laughter underneath her words. “Oh, really? What happened?”

“What didn’t?” Geno sighs dramatically, leading them into the kitchen where Jayden is seated at the stools lining the kitchen island, slicing up cucumbers for the salad. “Never said thank you or please, stared at the wall the entire night. She wouldn’t have brought flowers. Actually, I think she stole my vase.”

“She did not,” Azzi says, and then pauses. “She probably didn't.” She amends.

“Do you see?” Geno says, and Paige nods. Azzi takes the opportunity the instant the older man turns her back to elbow Paige, returning the favour from earlier with a bright smile on her face as she drives her elbow into Paige’s stomach.

Paige wheezes and manages to disguise it as a cough when Geno turns back around. The wide table is already set, and the four of them start to settle around it, Jayden bringing over the salad, surprisingly quiet.

They manage to make it to the end of dessert without incident.

“It’s alright,” Geno is saying graciously, now empty bowls sitting in front of them. “Now is the time to make mistakes. Around your age, I got engaged to this lovely young woman. Turned out, she was already married.”

Paige gasps and Azzi thinks about banging her head on the table.

“Not this story again,” Jayden says glumly. “Please.”

“She was married,” Geno says, and pauses for dramatic effect. “To an Earl. In England.”

Jayden and Azzi groan in unison. Paige, damn her, seems genuinely interested, her mouth dropping.

“No,” she says, hushed. “And you had no idea?”

“None,” Geno says, puffed up with the pleasure of a willing listener. Both Jayden and Azzi exchange long-suffering looks over the dinner table, and for a moment it feels normal, for the two of them to be complaining light-heartedly as the old man relays a story both have already heard too many times. Then Jayden’s eyes cut to the side, where Azzi’s hand is resting next to Paige’s on the dinner table, their pinkies interlocked. His expression hardens, leaving Azzi blinking.

“So, how did you two meet?” He asks loudly, cutting off a question Paige had been asking. Geno frowns at the interruption, but also turns to the two of them, looking between expectantly.

“We skate at the same rink,” Azzi says, taking a careful sip of water. “We ran into each other all the time. Practice times overlapped sometimes.”

“Ah, go on,” Geno says, looking unfortunately engrossed. “Tell us the details.”

Azzi forces a little laugh, her hand on the glass tightening. She’s talking to Geno but she can feel Jayden’s eyes on her, stinging wherever they reach.

“It’s nothing interesting,” she says. “We got along, I asked her out, we went to dinner.”

“Ah,” Geno says, lying back in his chair a little. “How unromantic.”

“It’s still pretty new,” Azzi says. She thinks she might be starting to sweat.

As if on cue, Paige’s hand wraps around her fully, squeezing a little before letting go.

“Azzi is answering all the questions,” Jayden says, a sharp smile directed at the two of them. “We could at least let the paige talk a little.”

Azzi thinks about propelling herself over the table, and slamming her fist into that smug little face. It’s a comforting image, if nothing else.

“Hm?” Geno says, looking between them. “How did you meet Azzi, Paige? What did you think?”

“I don’t-” Azzi starts, her voice a little high with nerves, but Paige just squeezes her wrist again, gently.

“I thought she was beautiful,” Paige says, before Azzi can start to panic. She smiles at Azzi and adds, “And very talented, of course. Maybe a little sharp around the edges, but it was part of the appeal. And I knew I had to talk to her that day, or I’d regret it forever.”

Azzi’s face feels burning hot. She thinks it’s probably a good thing Paige isn’t holding her hand anymore, because her palms feel clammy.

“What?” She asks and her voice sounds shaky in her ears.

“That’s romantic,” Geno says, nodding. She says something else and Azzi can hear Jayden’s voice, but it’s all faded a little to background noise, as she stares full-on at Paige’s profile, turned away from to address a comment Geno made, and Azzi feels like her heart is going burst entirely out of her chest.

“I’m going to go take a breath,” she says abruptly, standing up. “Outside. Be right back.”

She can feel everyone staring at her, but at this point, she’s pretty sure her face can’t get any more red than it already is.

She steps out into the night, the glow of the porch light dancing across the wooden slats at her feet. It’s happening again, she thinks, where just as soon as she’s starting to feel like she’s got everything under control, scheduled neatly into her calendar, Paige comes along with that honest little smile and her dimples flashing and Azzi starts to feel like she’s swirling apart again.

Footsteps sound behind her, and Azzi turns, mostly expecting to see Paige or maybe Geno, come out to fetch her again.

“Hey,” Jayden says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks uncomfortable, standing just outside the door, shorter than Azzi remembers him being.

He doesn’t say anything at all, just raises an eyebrow, leaning back to brace his elbows on the porch fence behind him.

“You guys make a good couple,” Jayden says finally.

Something flutters in Azzi’s chest. “What?”

“You look right together,” she says, and motions with hi hands. “You fit.”

Azzi can’t think of anything to say. Oh God, it’s over, she thinks, with a burst of relief. And then again, with an overwhelming panic. It’s over.

“I-” Jayden rubs at the back of his neck, and Azzi just stares. “I’ve been a little overbearing, I guess.”

“Overbearing?” Azzi repeats scathingly. “You mean the blackmailing me into hanging out with you?”

Jayden seems like he’s trying to put on a good show of repentance. “I just, I didn’t want to lose, so I kept pushing.”

Azzi tilts her head back and stares at the sky. A month and a half of effort, gone in two minutes. What, her mind whispers to her, do we do now? A bright star twinkles down at her unhelpfully.

“Whatever,” she mumbles out loud and pushes her way past Jayden back into the house.

Azzi returns to the dining room and starts clearing the table without being asked. She stands in the kitchen and doesn’t wash a single plate, just stares at the delicate china Geno had brought out specially for meeting Azzi’s girlfriend and thinks about how unfair and awful life is. Bitterness is creeping up her throat, long tendrils threatening to choke her out entirely.

Paige comes to meet her in the kitchen after a few minutes, her arms wrapping around Azzi, enfolding her entirely as her chin comes to rest over Azzi’s shoulder.

“Hi,” she says.

It’s always been in Azzi’s nature to poke at barely formed scabs, ripping her cuts open before they’ve had a chance to heal. She doesn’t pull away from Paige’s arms.

“Hi,” Azzi whispers, turning her head to plant a small, clumsy kiss to her forehead.

Paige pulls away, and stands beside Azzi instead, her back leaning against the edge of the counter. “You good?”

Azzi grins, and swallows down the acrid taste at the back of her tongue. “Are you? I thought you were a bad liar, what was all of that back there?”

Paige flushes slightly, red creeping up her neck. Her eyes leave Azzi’s to look at the plate in her hands instead. “All that hanging out with you has made me a worse person, probably.”

Azzi sets the plate down and pretends to swoon dramatically into Paige’s chest, who rolls her eyes, but grabs her arms anyway, steadying her.

“Oh no,” she warbles piteously, fluttering her eyelashes. “What will your teammates think of me, now that I’ve tarnished their precious golden girl?”

Paige reaches up and pinches Azzi’s nose. “Gold doesn’t tarnish,” she says, ignoring Azzi’s nasally protests.

Azzi pulls away and pouts, rubbing at her nose. “I’m just a special influence, Paige.”

“You’re a special something, for sure,” Paige says dryly.

Azzi makes a face at her, and turns back to the dirty dishes, still waiting for her.

“Are you alright?” Paige’s voice asks again from behind her. “I saw Jayden follow you out. I didn’t want to step in. What did he say?”

“Oh, you know,” Azzi says feebly. She gives up, and turns on the warm water, starts scrubbing the dishes. “I’ll tell you later,” she says to Paige.

She wonders, not for the first time, if Paige’s got a superpower that lets her know how far Azzi can be pushed at any particular moment, because she doesn’t say anything else. She just nudges Azzi a little to the side with one heavy hip, until both of them are standing side by side, washing dishes in the silent kitchen.

A clock in Azzi’s head is keeping time in the car ride home, tick-tick-ticking away the moments before they’re back and Azzi has to confess. It’s over, she thinks again. It was always going to be over, she reminds herself, but it doesn’t help. Even if she keeps this quiet, the two months will pass.

Azzi’s dreams have always been so huge but recently they’ve started to seem so small. Not the far away pressure of a medal around her neck, only the image of a kitchen in the early afternoon, warm hands around her waist, gentle lips on her. A breakfast set out for two. She isn’t sure what she’ll do if that slips away again.

“Paige,” she says when the car finally stops in front of her apartment. “Guess what?”

There’s a terrible sort of lingering stillness in the car, like Paige can sense that something is wrong.

“Jayden said we were a cute couple,” Azzi says, as casually as she can manage. She’s watching Paige’s face carefully, searching for a reaction, but she can’t tell if her expression really changes or if Azzi’s just seeing what she wants to see. “I think she’s going to back off. So we’re good now.”

“Oh.” Paige says. And that’s that.

She expects, despite herself, for Paige to follow her out of the car, maybe just to talk, maybe to say a goodbye.

She hasn’t even made it into the building before she hears the car start to move, driving off.

Sure enough, when she turns around, the street is empty.

Because the world is conspiring against her, the elevator is out of service.

Azzi climbs up five flights of stairs slowly, thinking about what she’s going to do now. The stairwell is abandoned this late at night, everybody else in the building already asleep.

She had known this was going to happen. She had planned for this happening. Their relationship had come with a deadline and she had known it was eventually going to run out. She had made a plan, and the plan was fucked now because Paige had said not a single thing when Azzi had told her they could end their fake relationship, hadn’t even stuck around to watch her leave.

“If she doesn’t even want to be friends,” she says to a bleary-eyed Kaitlyn, standing on her doormat. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Kaitlyn isn’t wearing any pants, and her eyes are halfway to closing before Azzi’s even finished her sentence.

“Hang on,” she says, and turns her head to the side to yawn wide, jaw cracking. “Okay, come on.” Ushering Azzi back into her own apartment.

Inside her apartment, Kaitlyn hears her out, splayed out on Azzi’s floor, nodding sleepily as Azzi explains.

“This problem is stupid,” Kaitlyn says, like she always does. Azzi is lying on her couch, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling again. It really is such an ugly ceiling.

“Tomorrow,” Kaitlyn is saying. “Just talk to her.”

“But-” Azzi starts and Kaitlyn cuts her off.

“If she really doesn’t want to be friends at all, I’ll call all the magazines I can think of and tell them she’s really bad in bed or something.”

Azzi pauses and contemplates this. “Promise?” She asks eventually, and Kaitlyn groans where her face is half-mashed into the floor.

“We can do it together,” she promises.

“Ugh,” Azzi says, and rolls over on her couch and gives in to sleep. If she’s going to cry, she tells herself, might as well do it tomorrow.

When she wakes up, it’s not to the shrill piercing noise of her alarm, but to the equally shrill and piercing sound of her phone ringing. She’s still on her couch, and the apartment is still dark, the sun not yet risen. It could only have been a few hours since she got home. The ringing cuts off, and then starts up again.

“Azzi,” Kaitlyn says warningly, her eyes still closed, her face still buried in Azzi’s carpet. “Either you pick up that fucking phone, or I’m going to shove it so far up your ass, you’ll feel it ringing in your throat.”

Azzi leans off the couch to pick up the phone, rubbing the sleep crust out of her eyes.

“Hello?” she says into the phone, not bothering to check the caller ID, more irritable than normal.

“Azzi?” Paige’s voice says over the phone, and it’s so unexpected that Azzi almost misses that she’d said her first name.

“Paige?” She asks, wide-awake now.

“Can you let me in?” Paige asks. “To the apartment building, I need to-”

“Yeah,” Azzi says, stumbling over to where the buzzer sits. She presses. “What are you- Paige?” The line’s gone dead.

“Oh my God,” Azzi says, staring at the phone in her hands. Her phone log is open in front of her, confirming that it hadn’t been some kind of longing-induced dream. “Oh my God,” she repeats.

“What’s happening?” Kaitlyn asks from behind her. She hasn’t moved at all, as far as Azzi can tell. If she wasn’t speaking, Azzi would worry that she was dead.

“You need to get out,” Azzi says, still staring at her phone in disbelief. She looks over and Kaitlyn is still unmoving. “You have to get out,” she says again, running over to pull Kaitlyn up and out of her carpet.

“You are-” Kaitlyn scowls as Azzi tries to push her out the door with both hands at her back. “You are ungrateful, that’s what.”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Azzi says desperately. “Anything, seriously, but you have to get out.”

“Hm,” Kaitlyn says, ignoring Azzi’s attempts to throw her bodily at the door. “Alright. If you insist.”

Just before the door closes behind Kaitlyn, Azzi hears her whistle. “Hey Paige,” she hears Kaitlyn call cheerfully, just outside her door and before Azzi’s had the time to process what that means, someone is knocking at her door.

When she opens it to see Paige, she starts to wish that she had spent her time brushing her hair instead of kicking Kaitlyn out. Or maybe her teeth.

Her only consolation is that Paige looks equally haggard, hair even messier than usual, her eyes looking wild as she takes Azzi in, her chest heaving with exertion.

“One more date,” Paige says. She’s breathing hard. “Rule number four. You still- We still have one more.”

Azzi’s eyes couldn’t open any wider if they tried. A painful hope is springing up in her chest, pushing against her ribcage until it aches. “Did you run all the way up here?” She manages to ask, her head still in a daze.

“Your- fuck-” Paige is still panting, bracing her hand against the doorframe, but she laughs, breathless and a little nervous. “Your elevator was broken.”

Azzi can’t tell if she wants to laugh with her or cry. “I live on the fifth floor,” she says, instead of doing either.

“I just needed to tell you,” Paige says, straightening up fully and Azzi thinks that she looks dazed too. “I had to tell you-”

It’s all Azzi can take, all she needs to hear, her heart hammering in her chest. “Wait, stop!”

Paige is staring at her, and it’s an awful expression on her face, one that Azzi’s never wanted to see, like something is falling apart in front of her.

Azzi doesn’t bother trying to explain any further. Azzi grabs Paige’s face and brings their lips together, so hard it hurts.

Paige makes a sound against Azzi’s lips as their teeth knock together, her pointy canines digging into Azzi’s lower lip.

“Okay,” she says, pulling back. She’s laughing again, the soft puff of air hitting Azzi’s skin. “Okay.”

She cups Azzi’s face in one hand, hardened calluses meeting soft skin and gently, so gently, tugs her back in, smiling against Azzi’s mouth.

This kiss is easier, in that it tastes less like blood. Paige’s lips are sweet, soft and plump and red, and she’s hesitant in a way Azzi’s never known her to be before, as she licks over her bottom lip, pulls Azzi even closer with a hand on her waist. Until they’re pressed up tight together, one of Azzi’s hands bruising her shoulder, the other tight on the back of her neck. Until Azzi’s tongue is in her mouth, tasting coffee and mint, feeling Paige’s body shudder against her, her hand opening and then closing tight around Azzi’s waist.

When they pull away, Azzi keeps one hand on her sleeve.

“I like you,” she says defensively, and Paige looks like the breath in her lungs has left her all at once. “I like your face. I like your arms. I like it when you wake up before me and you get ready without turning the lights on so you don’t wake me up. I like it when you carry my bags without me asking even though I’m a professional athlete and carrying heavy things is like, 45% of my life. I like the way you put your hand on my thigh when you’re driving. I like that you have piles of tickets in your car and I like that you call your mom every Sunday-”

“I get it.” Paige says, looking mortified.

“Do you?” Azzi says. “Because, just so you know, you are completely ruining my six year plan.”

“Okay,” Paige says, her voice muffled from where she’s covered her face with her hands. “Maybe I don’t get it.”

“My six year plan,” Azzi wails. “You aren’t supposed to confess until the second year.”

Paige’s hands lower as she considers this. It’s a testament to how well Paige knows her, maybe, that she manages to piece together what’s happening, regardless of how objectively batshit it is.

“Do you want me to wait a year?” She asks, grinning again. Her ears are bright red.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Azzi says, “You are ruining my life. Just- hang on. I need to show you something.”

Azzi’s got one hand on Paige’s wrist, leading her into her apartment, and Paige comes easily, like she has nowhere else to be. Azzi swallows down the lump in her throat, and takes them both to her bedroom, opening up drawers until she finds the notebook she’s looking for, passing it over to Paige who takes it, confused.

Those furrowed lines between her eyebrows only deepen as she opens the book, scanning down a long page covered in Azzi’s handwriting.

“Every time you did something that made me think I loved you, I wrote it down,” Azzi says, her eyes burning holes in her stupid worn out carpet. “So I wouldn’t say it out loud.”

Silence settles over the two of them like a heavy blanket, stifling and hot. Azzi lets it sit, doesn’t dare to move, holds her breath, until she can’t take it anymore and looks up.

“Are you crying? ” She asks, her eyes widening.

“I’m going to kill you,” Paige snaps, not even bothering to wipe away the tears resting in the corners of her eyes, poised to fall. She’s still looking through the second page. “Why would you- why wouldn’t you say any of this before?”

“I don’t know!” Azzi says, slightly alarmed by the tears that are now fully rolling down Paige’s cheekbones. “Please don’t cry. It makes me feel icky.”

“You stupid- God, I don’t even have a word for you right now,” Paige tells her. “There are- you’ve written pages in here.”

“I only started writing in it about a few weeks ago,” Azzi says helpfully. “Otherwise I would have more.”

“At no point,” Paige asks incredulously, “did it occur to you that maybe it would be easier if you just said these things to me?”

Azzi frowns. “I didn’t know if you- you know. Are you?”

“Obviously I’m in love with you,” Paige says, and Azzi feels like all the strings holding her up have been cut at once. “Who would agree to this whole fake-dating thing if they weren’t?”

Azzi thinks that that is almost insulting, but she doesn’t have it in her to feel offended, just feels a bone-melting relief, sagging against her bedroom wall. “You said you couldn’t think of a better solution.”

“There is always a better solution,” Paige tells her, and she’s laughing as she says it, finally wiping her wet eyes, which makes Azzi laugh with her.

“Sorry,” Azzi says, and because she’s pretty sure she’s allowed to, she presses her hands to Paige’s cheeks, and kisses the divot right between her eyebrows. “Sorry,” she repeats.

Paige puts her hands up to Azzi’s face, and they must look ridiculous, both of them holding the other’s face between their palms, grinning like children.

“Azzi,” Paige says, very seriously. “Do you want to be my-”

“Agh!” Azzi cries, and tackles Paige onto her bed. Paige groans as she falls heavily onto Azzi’s covers, her hands flying up to Azzi’s wrists, Azzi’s hands on her chest, Azzi’s knees digging into the mattress on either side of her thighs.

“You already ruined my six-year plan,” Azzi says, pressing down on Paige’s chest. She pretends that she is not effectively groping Paige’s tits right now, but she’s not sure if she’s fooling anyone. “Just let me do the asking.”

Paige’s hands move from Azzi’s wrists to her shoulders, and she pulls Azzi down towards her, rolling them both over, a hand cradling the back of Azzi’s head. She looks down at Azzi from where she’s straddling her thighs and grins at the flustered expression on Azzi’s face.

“You asked for the fake relationship,” she reminds Azzi. “It’s my turn.”

“It’s not a competition,” Azzi lies. “And fake isn’t equal to real. That was more like a business pitch.”

Paige only smiles at her, sharp and knowing, and that wasn’t what Azzi had wanted at all because she can feel her slick stir at the sight.

“It was all business to you?” Paige asks, bending over Azzi, a mocking tilt to her lips, to the arch of her eyebrow. “Really?”

Azzi opens her mouth to respond, but Paige’s already got her mouth on Azzi’s skin, her tongue darting out at the sensitive spot under Azzi’s ear until she’s got Azzi arching up underneath her with a strangled cry, grinding against Paige’s thigh to try to get some friction. Paige’s hands are pushing her shirt up, fingers rough against her abdomen, a sharp contrast to the soft kisses she’s leaving down Azzi’s neck.

Azzi has the sudden, vivid thought that if she comes just from this, she’ll never forgive herself.

Then Paige’s mouth is at the creases of her thighs, teeth digging in just a little into where the flesh is softest, and Azzi stops thinking all together.

Once the sweat and cum are drying on their stomachs, Paige looks up at her, and Azzi thinks that she’s lost the battle and the war.

She moves in for a kiss, but Azzi pushes her face away with one hand, the other draped over her eyes, too jittery for her own good.

“I’m not going to lick my own cum out of your mouth.”

She can feel Paige twitch against Azzi’s thigh at that and Azzi lifts her arm to squint at her, levels her with the best unimpressed glare that she can manage with her body still feeling so jelly-like and her heart still beating so fast. “Really?”

Paige just laughs, and pulls Azzi’s hands away and to the side, so she can look her straight in the face, can see her own expression reflected back in Azzi’s eyes- a little nervous, but grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. She places a gentle kiss on the soft skin of Azzi’s cheek.

“Go on, then,” Azzi says, the glumness in her voice offset by the brightness of her eyes as she looks up at Paige. “I know when I’m beaten.”

“Azzi,” Paige starts. She stops, and tries again. “Azzi.”

The Azzi in question groans at the sound of her name, and Paige keeps her hands around her wrists.

“Azzi, I love you,” she says, and Azzi huffs, the warm air hitting Paige’s chin. “I’ve loved you for a while now, I think.”

She lets go of Azzi’s wrists, moves her hands to cradle Azzi’s face instead. Azzi knows how she must be feeling, because she’s feeling it too. Her throat feels scratchy, the culmination of so much longing suddenly real and staring her dead in the eyes, her eyelashes casting a shadow over her cheeks. It’s almost overwhelming.

“Be my real girlfriend, okay?” Paige finishes lamely, sweeping Azzi’s hair out of her face, the tips of her ears burning hot.

“That was terrible,” Azzi says, but her voice sounds suspiciously wet. “Go brush your teeth so we can kiss properly.”

Azzi makes them both breakfast, and burns the toast when Paige distracts her halfway through. She doesn’t mind, the blackened bits can be scraped off, and the eggs still taste good.

She’s expecting the doorbell, when it comes. Honestly, she’s impressed they managed to hold off so long.

“How’s it going?” Kaitlyn says in Azzi’s doorway, attempting to sound casual, while leaning around Azzi’s body to get a glimpse inside.

“Kind of early for a visit,” Azzi says, but Caroline is already pressing her way inside, curiosity blatantly etched on her features.

“It’s fine,” Kaitlyn says, also stepping inside. Azzi sighs and moves to the side.

“So, why don’t you want to real-date Azzi, huh?” Caroline is asking, clearly trying to loom intimidatingly over Paige. The effect is damaged by the flowery embroidered shirt she’s wearing, short at the ruffled cuffs, cropped to her midriff.

“Stop-” Azzi starts to say, trying to pull Paige away from the two of them.

“She has good bone structure,” Kaitlyn interrupts, her hands reaching up from behind Azzi to grab her face, smushing it between her palms. “Have you seen her bone structure?”

“You guysh are th’ worsht,” Azzi says, her face still clutched in Kaitlyn’s iron grip. She pulls, until Kaitlyn releases her, and rubs her now sore cheeks, scowling. “We already- we fixed it. Jesus.”

“We could try a shovel talk,” Kaitlyn mutters to Caroline, both of them looking slightly disappointed, and Azzi scowls harder.

“Get out already!”

“I have actual shovels,” Caroline tells Paige as a parting statement.

“Okay?” Paige says, bewildered. She turns to Azzi once the two of them have left. “Why was she telling me about her shovels?”

“It was probably meant to be ominous,” Azzi sighs. “Caroline is terrible at ominous.”

“It came across a little more like she was bragging about her shovels,” Paige says.

Azzi watches Paige- her girlfriend, her mind supplies, thrilled- get her stuff together, searching for keys in the pockets of pants that had been discarded. They’ve still got practice, Azzi thinks, a little loopy. After all that, and they’ve still got practice. Azzi will show up to the rink in the evening, and see a crowd of hockey players taking up space on the rink- always too slow to clean up- and one of them will be Paige. It seems too much to process. The sun has risen outside, painting Azzi’s apartment in golden light, her ugly ceiling and her cheap carpet, and the girl in the center of it. Azzi wonders if she should tell her her shirt is inside out.

Paige looks up to see her staring, her eyes even more blue under this lighting, and that animated flash when she smiles- bright and bold, like she's just seen something good.

#nat’s anons #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn huskies #wcbb

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