#multi-image slide show

[miscpav]

Spoiler Alert: It's a 5 screen wide coffee break slide module!

Coffee break modules often introduce the break to the audience in a roundabout way. This one is no different.

[jentlemahae]

the process of finding a job sounds so dreadful it’s making me seriously consider unemployment as a future career

[watchedvids]

Spoiler Alert: It's a 5 screen wide coffee break slide module!

[kunareads]

brat | track one

360

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2k

content: smut, fluff, smau / exhibitionism (concealed in a public setting), fingering, drug/alcohol use, ambiguous relationship status / a little scene-setting before we get into it next chapter :)

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Variety — YEAR OF THE BRAT: SUGURU GETO AND YN HAVE THE INDUSTRY IN A HEADLOCK (AND THEY’RE LAUGHING ABOUT IT)

Vulture — INSIDE THE CULT OF YN AND GETO: WHY EVERYONE’S COPYING THE CHAOS

The Cut — THE ART OF BEING WATCHED: THE ROLLOUT THAT TOOK OVER YOUR TIMELINE

[ seven days, 14 hours to drop ]

you’re chewing gum when you walk in.

the meeting room is glass-walled, over-lit, aggressively air-conditioned. it smells like money and emails. a brand director is mid-slide, gesturing at a screen filled with words like reach and multi-platform ecosystem. someone else chimes in about vertical integration.

suguru trails two steps behind you with half a croissant in his hand, headphones slung around his neck. he doesn’t say a word—just drops into the chair beside yours and opens his laptop as if the room isn’t full of people.

you don’t take your sunglasses off. their fault for lighting the place like an interrogation chamber.

“the aim is cultural virality,” someone says. “we’re thinking cross-brand utility meets niche rebellion.”

you blink slowly. blow a bubble. pop it.

“is there a slide where you tell us what the fuck that means?”

suguru doesn’t look up, but he does smirk beside you—the silent, crooked kind he gives you when he thinks you’re being mean on purpose. (you are.)

a younger exec tries to pivot. “no, like—we just want to elevate your image without diluting the—”

“please don’t say authenticity.” you cross your legs. “i’ll have to light myself on fire.”

[ six days, 12 hours to drop ]

@/cultyn (instagram post) 📸 : your silhouette behind a sheer curtain with silver tinsel, suguru’s tattooed hand pulling the curtain aside. 💬 : countdown in bio. don’t be late ⏳

@/cultgeto (instagram post) 📸 : same as yours. 💬 : it begins 🔄 360 video friday

[ four days, 22 hours to drop ]

you feel it before you name it—that warm, sparkling edge of visibility. the music’s perfect. the lights are forgiving. everyone’s looking, seeing exactly what you want them to.

but the only eyes that matter are fixed on you from a corner—suguru, legs spread and an arm slung over the back of the couch like the section belongs to him. (it does.)

he waits.

you let it build. air-kiss people you barely remember. twirl a girl’s hair between your fingers, whispering something that makes her giggle. lean into camera flashes, catching light in your earrings, your clothes, your teeth.

and when you’re satisfied, you cross the floor, hips swinging like a threat, and slot yourself between his knees. he leans back and gives you that look—somewhere between dare and devotion.

“having fun?” he asks, amused.

you straddle his thigh without answering. your skirt rides higher, his eyes drop lower. instead of stopping you, he grabs his jacket from the seat and drapes it over your bare shoulders—possession dressed as modesty.

“so fucking spoiled,” he mutters, more observation than complaint. like he’s proud. like he made you this way on purpose.

you roll your hips once. then again, slower, dirtier. a palm settles on your ass to guide you, not stop you. his show now, not yours. every grind hits harder as you fall into the rhythm he sets.

he takes your drink, downs it in one swallow, sets the glass aside. you watch his throat work before that same hand trails condensation up your thigh and under your skirt.

you’re slick through your panties.

“you’re such a fucking handful,” he says with a smirk, planting kisses from your cheek to your jaw. his voice is hot in your ear, close enough to catch between beats. “you know that?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “wanted you to touch me.”

his smirk deepens when you slide your knees wider on the seat for him. he shifts your panties aside and sinks two fingers in.

your mouth drops open as he sets a pace. you arch into him automatically, grinding harder, already after something without permission. his palm presses over your clit with every thrust. it’s sloppy—shallow breath, parted lips, heavy eyelids.

you try to keep the rhythm, to stay composed, but his fingers work in time with the music, eyes pinned to your face. he kisses you when he catches it—the split second where it stops being teasing and starts being need.

“breathe.”

your hips stutter, the warning landing between your lungs and your legs.

“you’re gonna cum too fast.”

you nod, or shake your head—you don’t know. you ignore him like you always do, desperate now, chasing it like you’re not surrounded by strangers. if anyone’s watching, suguru’s already made sure they can’t see anyway.

“you wanna be fucked on this couch in front of everyone?” he asks, voice dropping to something fond and a little mean. “or are you gonna behave?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hitching as his cologne fills your senses. you’re right on the edge—

“i know, baby.” he murmurs it like a spell, dragging his thumb up your clit. “i know. make a mess if you need to.”

you cum on his hand like it was his idea. like you didn’t start the whole thing in the first place.

he keeps you there, fingers still inside, letting you come apart in pieces on top of him. your hips twitch and you whimper into his throat, melting against him. he lets you ride it out. lets your slick flood over his fingers and down his hand, then pulls out slowly. tucks your panties back into place too carefully for what just happened.

then he brings one finger to his mouth, licking it clean. he offers the other to you, and you take it like you always do—lips parted, tongue out, wrapping around him slow in the way you know drives him insane. you suck, humming low in your throat like a thank you.

you start to lift your head, suddenly aware of where you are and the fact that the song’s changed twice, but a hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he kisses your temple.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”

so you exhale and let yourself sink into him fully. your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm snug around your waist, jacket still warm over your shoulders. the music keeps playing and the lights keep shifting, but for a few more seconds, you stay where you are.

[ four hours to drop ]

you’re twenty-five minutes late and only partially dressed when you go live.

you rarely do interviews separately. don’t take meetings separately either, unless you’re trying to scare someone. livestreams are the same—it’s him or nothing.

suguru stands behind you, black shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up. he’s halfway through lacing your corset, rings flashing as he works the ribbon like he’s tying a gift.

“i told you to start getting ready two hours ago,” he mutters, eyes on his hands.

“you did,” you agree with a nod, squinting at the phone propped against the hotel mirror. the chat scrolls too fast to follow, but you catch a few:

SUGURU HANDS WATCHERS STAND UP he’s doing it wrong but like… sexy?? she’s so calm i would be screaming and crying and biting

“chat says you’re doing it wrong.”

“chat can’t get you out of a corset with one hand,” he deadpans, not even looking up.

you seal the joint in your hands with a slow press of your tongue, dragging it across the paper like you know he’s watching. (he is. he always is.)

he finishes with a final tug, knotting the ribbon tight and smoothing the laces like he’s proud of himself. his fingers trail down your spine in a lazy line as he kisses your bare shoulder once, soft and thoughtless.

the lighter clicks. you inhale, exhale. watch him in the mirror as he disappears from the frame to rifle through the jewelry you’d dumped onto the counter earlier.

he returns with earrings, necklaces, and bangles in hand.

“stay still.”

his fingers are cool where they skim your neck. he hooks the earrings in slow, fastens your necklace, slips each bracelet on one by one and brings your hand to his lips when he’s done.

you pass him the joint.

“we were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago and it’s thirty minutes away,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“mm,” you reply, dabbing on lip gloss. “better hurry up and pick my shoes then.”

i’ve never wanted to be a joint so bad in my whole life HE PICKS HER JEWELRY?????? is this foreplay or a grwm

[ 30 minutes to drop ]

the diesel party is still going by the time you leave. your heels click loudly against the sidewalk. suguru’s hand rests low at your back, half-steering. he smells like weed and your favorite cologne.

someone with a press badge calls your name—matte lipstick, eyes wide like she can’t believe you’re real. she catches you just before the car with a mic, a cameraman, and a hopeful smile.

“just a second—can we get a quick word? you both look—” she hesitates, trying to find the right language. “—unreal.”

suguru stops halfway behind you, not moving his hand from your waist.

“so,” she starts, practically vibrating. “what made you two want to show up together for tonight’s diesel launch?”

“we love a party,” you reply, smiling.

she laughs like it’s charming. follows up with something about your sound, the visuals you’ve been putting out recently. you let suguru answer that one—you’re busy watching the lights bounce off the gloss you left on his cheekbone.

“okay, last one. you probably get this all the time, but—are you two… together?”

suguru grins. “we’re the same person.”

you don’t miss a beat. “worse.”

the interviewer laughs, flustered and delighted. “right. okay. thank you—”

but you’re already sliding into the backseat.

the car door shuts and the world cuts out. no bass, no flashing lights. just dark leather and air conditioning and exhaustion behind your eyes.

you exhale once, sharp, and start leaning forward to unbuckle your shoes.

suguru stops you. “let me.” like it’s obvious.

he pulls your feet into his lap one at a time, slipping the heels off like you’re breakable. his thumb circles your ankle, slow and grounding. your breathing evens out.

outside, cameras flash against the windows, but the tint’s too dark for them to get anything real.

it echoes in your head. are you two together?

“you didn’t say no,” you say softly, eyes closed.

he keeps rubbing. “you didn’t either.”

when you look at him, he’s smiling at you, eyes soft like he’s listening for something unspoken.

you settle deeper into the seat, one hand resting over his.

neither of you has said it.

but he always shows up. always looks at you like you’re the only person in the world speaking his language.

and you do the same.

you’re each other’s. just not in a way you can put in writing.

[ three minutes post-drop ]

the 360 video drops at midnight. it’s trending by 12:03.

the internet does what it always does.

@/bratchive: every brand strategist watching this with tears in their eyes

@/getogirl: brat / tamer dynamic so loud you can hear the leash drag

@/forynonly: legacy is UNDEBATEDDDDD icon behavior

you don’t check your phone, but you feel it—the shift, the buzz, the spin of it all. the world catching up to something you’ve already lived through.

[marzipanny]

omg HARLZ..........

where are your horns and fuzz !! ft. my @marzipanny ☆ ⋆.˚જ⁀➴

[grimmsbride]

i saw ur that ur request were open and i just need you to hear me out on multipaul 🫣 that man is to dam fine for there to be literally nothing of him 💔 if you write a paul fic MY LIFE IS YOURS 🧎‍♀️‍➡️🙏

𝄃𝄀⠀⠀my mine⠀╲ multi-paul ֤ࣨ🫀𖥔 ݁ ˖

summary you decide to give your beloved convict boyfriend, paul cha, a little gift <3.

tags canon-divergence | pre-established relationships | ooc characters | paul literally jerks off to pictures of you | mentions of him being an assassin | masturbation | chubby coded reader | etc

authors notes i was so nervous writing this imagine cause i realized i have like, zero input on how paul would act in a relationship 😭 so im sorry if i didn’t do his character justice but i really appreciate you requesting for him, it gives me much needed practice 🫶🏾. as always please excuse any typos and grammar mistakes

Imagine sneaking polaroids to MultiPaul in prison. You don’t know what had driven you to this; whether your mind was clouded with the thought of missing him, or simple human horniness— you had no idea. The only idea that struck you was taking scandalous images with your camera, printing them, and getting them to your lovely, convict boyfriend.

Through the entire prison visit you were practically beaming with excitement, something the man picked up on easy. He was a killer for god’s sake, human nature was something he had to know. Plus, Paul was your boyfriend after all.

So the moment a simple what’s got you so excited? climbed from his lips, you burst out into a little giggle, reaching over the table for his hand— which Paul accepted with zero issues.

“Nothing.. just, so happy to see you.” Despite your words, your hand was busy, pushing something small right into his palm.

Paul was quick yet discreet in accepting it, squeezing your hand for extra measure before slyly pulling his hand away and under the table, tucking the mystery gift right into his pocket.

Now it was his turn to be excited, pretty features pulled into a smile as he tilted his head at you.

“From the way you look, I’m assuming I’m really going to enjoy this gift?”

Your smile was worsening at this point, practically leaning over the table as a sweet; “Oh, you’re going to love it..” escaped you.

You weren’t lying. While Paul was expecting maybe a key or some sort of cliche file to help take his collar off, he certainly wasn’t complaining the moment he tore the film off of his little gift.

There you were, in all your glory, images of yourself in some type of lingerie, position, or even completely bare— that left him salivating. It was no secret Paul missed you, the visits the only solace to the distance between you.

At times it seemed it wasn’t enough, given the amount of restrictions placed on the two of you. No excessive touching, you had to stay across the table, extra bullshit Paul wasn’t in the least impressed with, yet was stuck complying to.

But you, his sweet girlfriend, just knew when to push boundaries. And he was eating up every second of it.

The laminated film shined against the light of his cell, highlighting every perfect curve of your body. Paul’s eyes were practically glued to the photo, thumb sliding across the smooth surface as a soft hiss slipped from him.

Fuck, did he miss you. Every single inch. He missed coming back to you after a particularly hard mission, spotting your waiting body under the blankets to which he would climb under, securing his arms around your waist and pulling you in. You would always cuddle close, hand carrying up and down his body, assuring he sustained no major injuries. Sometimes, your gentle touches would illicit something deep inside his stomach— the man using the little bit of energy he had left to show you how excited he was to be back home.

But now, Paul was stuck in this damned cell, paying for his crimes with only fleeting images of you to keep him company. A sad case indeed, but he knew to make due.

Plus, Paul didn’t particularly plan to stay cooped up so long.

For now however, he would satiate himself with what you provided. Paul backed up until his knees hit his bed, sitting down and turning to press his back against the wall. Flipping through the polaroids, the man felt that familiar ache right between his legs. His hips shifted uncomfortably for a moment, blindly reaching for the zipper of his orange jumper. Revealing his white undershirt, and plain black boxes— the man hissed softly the moment his palm dragged across his growing bulge.

Blindly his fingers swept through the waistband of his underwear, curling around his length whilst his freehand flipped to the next photo. The light of your camera shined against your skin, the man wondering if you’d used some type of glittery lotion the way you just seemed to sparkle. A pretty purple set of lacey lingerie cupped your body perfectly, accentuating your breasts and the curve of your ass— and it certainly didn’t help the way your body arched; showing off every inch of your body.

Slowly, Paul’s palm dragged against his dick, teeth tucked tight against his bottom lip, quieting down his soft grunts. His mind was running wild, thoughts of you consuming him entirely. Replays of your past nights together, the man trying to perfectly remember every twitch and every moan you emitted.

He flinched the moment he made contact with his sensitive tip, hips rising right up into his hand. Precum was trickling from his slit, creating a mess he would concern himself with later— for now, the man was focusing on the next polaroid of you.

The picture featured you straddled a pillow, pretty thighs squeezing the plush item whilst covered in black sheer stockings. Hung up by gaterbelts that dug into your plump flesh, attached to the prettiest black underwear that rested high on your hips. Except this one was different then the other, given the undergarment was entirely crotch less; and the moment that realization hit, Paul was knocking his head back against the wall, closing his eyes tight.

“Fucking tease..” The man muttered to himself, eyebrows pushing close as he continued to fuck his hand. As the pleasure grew, he felt his legs widening, even pushing his boxers down further as his actions grew more vigorous. Paul could just imagine it, fingers playing with the lace and with your exposed pussy; fingers sliding across your wetness before dipping in, rubbing against your walls so perfectly you would cry out his name like some sort of prayer.

Paul’s stomach was clenching as time passed, lips parted as soft breaths escaped. His hand formed into a tight, wet fist, hips rising up into it as glossy eyes took in your last final polaroid.

You were completely bare, legs spread, arms opened— completely exposed to the watchful eye of your camera and Paul himself. He couldn’t help but focus between your thighs, wondering if you played with yourself during this process. The man could just guess how excited you were getting the entire time, pretty lips pouted as sweet moans escaped every time you rubbed at your little button.

Maybe you even played with your breasts; pulling and squeezing your nipples until they peaked, that thought alone caused him to twitch, hand falling to his side as the images laid out amongst his bed.

Paul dragged his hand up and down his length urgently, bated breaths and quick swears falling from his lips before he clenched, making a complete mess of his lower half.

Slowly, his hand slid down to his waist, slumping against the wall entirely as soft pants escaped him. His eyes closed, attempting to regain his breath after that little event.

Soon enough Paul’s eyes were opening, peeking at the pictures amongst his blankets, the corner of his mouth twitching into a little smile.

Which slowly fell the moment he glanced down at his legs, releasing the loudest sigh ever.

Now.. to get cleaned up.

[julietsf1]

Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

----------------------------------------------

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

[macfrog]

ride it, cowgirl cowboy like me chapter ten

hey dudes. anyone up for some dbf? i seriously can't thank you guys enough for all the love y'all show this series. blows my mind every time. i have been super excited for this chapter for a WHILE. might be my fave so far. who knows. you can grab chapters 1-9 on my masterlist and also my ao3 if ur feeling fancy. love u all sm!!!!!! ✨💘💫

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel picks you up from a girls’ night. you’ve plans for when you get home

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader isn't an astrology girlie (sorry), more pining beCAUSE, alcohol consumption + a mention of the devil’s lettuce, very quick bit of unwanted touching, even quicker bit of protective joel, soft!joel, softdom!joel, one tiny mention of daddy, protected piv sex this time (feeling conservative slutty max will return), reader rides him into the sunset, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 6.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You lazily drag yourself over and over Joel’s dick, each stroke drawing you nearer and nearer to your high. When your body starts to falter, you feel him shift, and open your eyes to see him leaning over to the nightstand. His fingers grip the rim of the black cowgirl hat you’d worn that night. He lies back, flat against the mattress, and reaches up, placing the hat on top of your head. You smile. Joel speaks in a low, gentle, but commanding whisper. “There you go, cowgirl. Show me how it’s done.”

You never believed much in the power of the universe. Astrology, moons, manifestation. Whatever. None of it ever really meant much to you. You knew your star sign, knew which cool little symbol resembled you, and that was about it. Everything past that was…confusing and, frankly, a little overwhelming.

However.

If the universe were to send you a sign, one huge, fluorescent, multi-colored, in-your-face sign, that it was on your side…this weekend might just be it.

Your dad’s downstairs, finishing up packing for his work trip. His departure is imminent. Sarah’s been in Nashville since last night. A series of texts she sent you at 3AM riddled with spelling errors and heart emojis tell you she’s been having a pretty good time so far.

You are Joel are…alone. All by yourselves. For a whole…twenty hours.

Can’t have it all, I guess.

Your eyes skim down the texts you sent him this morning, texts he is yet to reply to.

You: Merry Christmas!!!

You took his non-reply for confusion – he is almost fifty, maybe he doesn’t get the joke? It’s a pretty lame joke, anyways. Very lame. If your thumb hovers over the send button before you press it, it’s probably not that great a joke. And your thumb had most definitely hovered. So, you’d followed it up.

You: As in, today’s the day

You: I don’t mean it’s actually Christmas

You: I mean like, happy ‘we’re finally gonna be alone again’ day

You: Never mind

“Hello?” Anna’s voice cuts through your train of thought. “Are you even listening to me?”

You drop your phone, shaking your head clear of Joel. “Yep. Sorry. Just didn’t catch that last part. You froze.”

The image of her on your – pretty fucking dusty – laptop screen rolls its eyes, knowing you’re lying. “I don’t know whether to go with the pink or the black boots,” she says.

“Ain’t your dress yellow?”

Her head falls into her hands. She throws herself down onto her bed and slides her laptop closer. “That was, like, ten minutes ago. I’m goin’ with the pink strappy one now.”

“Pink does say rodeo.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps through a giggle. “Remind me what you’re wearin’, again.”

“Black hat, black boots, black dress.”

“You’re so boring.”

“Thanks. Really looking forward to our night out.”

Anna snorts and then stands back up, strides over to her closet and resumes rummaging. “Black jacket, too?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Uhuh,” you reply, glancing back down to your phone. “Although – it has rhinestones. And tassels. Not so boring after all, huh?”

Anna’s silence drags your eyes from the text thread back to your laptop screen. She’s frozen in place, twisted around with a dress in her hands, jaw on the floor. “Show it to me. Now.”

“Hold on,” you roll over and off your bed, your shoulder stiff from the position you’d been lying in, “I think I left it downstairs.”

“Tell your dad I say hey!”

You pad down the carpeted stairs in your socks, toward the sunlit hallway.

“Dad, have you seen my– Oh, fuck.”

As you round the corner at the bottom of the stairs, glancing over your left shoulder to the front door, your chest knocks into something hard. Steady. Strong.

Something you recognize the feel of before you’ve given him a proper look.

“Mind your step, baby,” Joel says, and your heart leaps.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” you whisper, peering around his body to look for your dad.

“He’s out front,” Joel tells you, then takes your shoulder and reels you in against his chest. “’m just here to help ‘im with his GPS.”

He plants a kiss on the top of your head and gives you a squeeze. Your head rests safely on his chest, arms link at his back. If you didn’t have plans tonight, and if your dad wasn’t, like, ten feet from you guys right now, you’d never let him go. Just follow him around, vice grip around his waist, surrounded by the smell and feel of him.

Not that that means anything. You’d do other stuff, too. You’re not…you know.

Your dad’s voice streams in through the open door and Joel releases you.

“It ain’t for workin’, Joel, I’m about to throw it at the f– Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey. What’s the matter with your GPS?”

You lean in to the tiny device in his hands. Joel’s elbow comes up to rest on your shoulder.

“Just won’t connect to the car. Every time I plug it in, it just…” He lifts his hands, screen loose in his fingers, and hands you a bewildered look.

You look at him, expressionless. “Why don’t you just use your phone?”

“Because I paid almost a hundred bucks for this thing, and I’ll be damned if I’m– Alright,” he stops himself, eyes shutting in exasperation, “I already explained this to him. I ain’t justifyin’ myself to the two of you.”

Joel’s laughing behind his hand, pretending to scratch his nose when your dad stalks off to the kitchen and throws the device down, snatching the instructions off the table.

The pair of you follow, both still trying to swallow your laughter. Joel wanders around the table and sits down beside your dad, fumbling with the screen. You dive into the coat closet at the bottom of the stairs and fish out your bejeweled, tasseled jacket.

“You lookin’ forward to your girls’ night?” Joel asks, eyes flitting up and down the leather jacket in your hands.

“Mhm,” you reply, opening your mouth to continue when your dad butts in.

“S’posed to be a girls’ night, but that boy Sam’s crashin’ it, ain’t he?”

“Well, we asked him.” You shrug. “It’s his night off.”

Your dad scoffs, shaking his head to Joel, who looks up to you with a confused expression. “’s the big deal with that?”

“Oh, wise up, Miller. He’s only goin’ ‘cause of…” He wags a finger in your direction, and a smirk peels across Joel’s lips.

“Is he, now?”

“Uhuh,” your dad replies, intense stare still on the instructions in front of him. “Makes no damn sense. I plugged it in using the cable they gave me in the box. Stupid thing…”

You shake your head to Joel, who’s still looking at you, bemused. He knows you and Sam are just friends. Also knows your dad is the most oblivious theorist to walk the planet. Just aiming his gun at the wrong target, is all.

“I’m gonna let you two get back to…that,” you say, turning to head back upstairs. “Anna says hi, by the way.”

Your dad’s eyebrows rise once, his eyes never lifting from his GPS. “Hi, Anna.”

“Hey, Anna,” Joel echoes, smirk on his lips.

“Not to you,” you throw back, hopping up the first step. You hear his chuckle as you disappear.

----------

Anna’s reaction to your jacket in person matches that over Facetime: a deafening squeal. A squeal which she repeats almost every damn time she sees you throughout the night.

“So – fucking – cute!” she exclaims for the fifth time, fingers dancing through the tassels. “And it goes so well with your hat.”

You sip on your cocktail, nodding enthusiastically, pushing your eyebrows up underneath the brim of the black cowgirl hat on your head. Trying to match her energy. Your mind’s elsewhere.

Joel texted you a few hours ago. Told you to have a good night, said something about Sam, but you were stood right next to the dude, so you quickly locked your phone and slipped it back into your clutch.

Now, standing with your back against the wall of Franks, watching Sam play pool with Eve, you feel safe enough to read over the message.

Joel: Have fun baby. Be safe. Tell Sam good luck from me.

You squint at the screen, pulling it away from your face and leaning back in to read it over. Good luck? The fuck does he mean –

You: Good luck??

He replies almost instantly.

Joel: Yeah. Good luck winning you over. Took me, what, a week?

Oh, fuck off. You roll your eyes and throw your phone facedown onto the table where Anna and Kara sit, about twenty minutes deep into a conversation you missed the beginning of.

Your attention turns to the room before you – brick-walled, metal dome lightshades hanging over each pool table. Glass-paneled door to your left leading back through to the main bar. For being a tiny bar on a backstreet, Frank’s is pretty lively. There are bodies everywhere, bumping by each other, drunken arms slung over shoulders, hips swaying with the soft rock song blasting from out front.

You imagine your dad here with Joel, maybe Hank and Bill, too. Playing pool, beer bottles resting on the felt while they take their shot. Or sat on the rooftop, sipping on a whiskey. Talking about you and Sarah. What does Joel say about you when you’re not around?

And what does he want to say, but can’t, ‘cause it’s your dad? What does he think, and bite back when it bubbles to the surface?

Your straw gargles, slurping up the last few sips of your drink. You lean over to Anna and Kara, holding your empty glass up.

“Another?”

They both shake their heads, and you nod, turning on your own back to the bar.

You squeeze between two older women, both dressed smart and sharp. One of them – clutching a Manhattan – shifts out of the way as you pass.

“…one more conversation with him about squash,” she tells her companion, “and I am gonna blow my brains out…”

You edge over to the bar and slot into a free space, propping your elbows up on the wood. One of Sam’s coworkers – her name escapes you – notices you and shuffles over, smiling sweetly.

“How you doin’?” she asks, running a damp cloth inside a tumbler.

“Good,” you reply. “Could I just get a Bud, please?”

“Sure thing,” she says, and reaches behind to grab one. You slide her a note and she hands you change, and then you’re on your way back to the pool room.

As you slink by the two women, a weight knocks into your shoulder, almost sending your beer flying out of your hand.

“Sorry,” a rough voice sputters on your left, and you glance in its direction. Some broad dude in a tight t-shirt.

“’s fine,” you mumble, clutching your hat; a smell of weed choking your throat.

He passes by behind you, one hand lingering a little too long on your waist, and you saunter back over to Anna and Kara.

“That dude stinks, right?” Anna whispers behind a cupped hand, and you snort.

“He smells like he’s having a good night.”

“We’re talking about Romeo and Juliet over there. We’re basically third, fourth, and fifth wheeling,” Kara says, nodding over to Sam and Eve, who’re finished their game of pool and have now graduated to darts.

“I don’t…think that’s a thing.”

“Eve asked me if Sam was single earlier,” Anna says, lifting her straw to her red lips.

“What?” Kara spits out, choking on her drink. “Eve has a boyfriend!”

Anna giggles. “He’s kinda an ass, anyway. Look at them, they’re so sweet.”

“You say sweet, I hear morally wrong.”

“Who says it’s morally wrong?” you chirp, alcohol pushing the words over your lips before your brain’s had time to stop them. Your fingers clutch your phone, still laying on the table where you left it. “You?”

“Uh, it’s cheating, dude. What if Nick found out?”

“’s not that big a deal,” you reply, phone screen lighting your face in a blue hue, “they’re just having fun.”

Anna points to you, lifting her glass. “Here’s to havin’ fun, I guess.”

Kara lifts her own reluctantly and they clink, but you’re distracted. Already typing a message to Joel. Bored. Drunk. Morally wrong.

You: What you doing?

Joel: Watching TV. What you doing?

You: What ya watvhin ?

Joel: None of your business. Go get another drink. Looks like you’re not drunk enough.

You lift your head with a giggle, almost ready to turn your phone around to Anna and Kara and say, look what the dude I’m sleeping with just text me. And then, thankfully, your good sense kicks in and you bring the screen closer to your chest.

You: Kinda bored. Wanna come home now please

Bored, horny. It all means the same.

Joel says he’ll be at Frank’s in twenty minutes. You rest your chin on your palm and watch as Sam cheers Eve for hitting bullseye.

“I think they’re cute,” you whisper.

Anna and Kara are already preoccupied, taking photos of one another across the table. Kara leans into you and you smile, flash blinding your hazy eyes for a few minutes afterward. A few more pictures, couple boomerangs of your glasses cheersing, and then your phone’s vibrating.

Joel: Outside. No rush.

That last part is where he’s wrong. There most definitely is a rush, and it’s in the form of the heat that starts to pool between your legs.

“Alright,” you shimmy off your barstool and stretch your back. “My ride’s here.”

“What?” Anna almost screams, her hand slapping down on the table. “You’re leavin’?”

You nod. “Sorry, babe.”

“Don’t babe me, traitor. It’s, like, midnight.”

“Uh, it’s, like, almost 2AM. I’m tired. I don’t know how y’all do it.”

She sighs, conceding, and agrees to walk with you to the front door. Kara and Eve stop off by the bar to grab another drink. Sam holds the door open for you and Anna and you’re hit by a wave of cold night air, instantly cooling your hot, sweaty skin.

“Is that…Mr. Miller?” Anna asks, mouth falling wide open.

You glance down the street and notice his black truck, parked up by the curb. “Mhm,” you reply, “my dad’s out of town, so he’s picking me up.”

“Can he take me home, too?”

Sam snickers. “Wow, Anna. That’s just…Wow.”

She shrugs, lips closing around her straw as she stares at Joel’s truck. Something inside you lurches at the idea of Joel sitting there, his eyes glued on you, watching everything you do, everyone around you. And then again at the thought of Anna and her doting gaze on him.

“Alright, I guess that’s my cue to skip.”

Anna pouts. “One more drink?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you scoff, patting her head affectionately. I got business to attend to.

You give her a quick kiss on the cheek and Sam wraps an arm around your shoulder, giving it a squeeze before you’re wandering off toward Joel’s truck.

“Hey.” Something – someone – hooks around your elbow, and you turn back. It’s that same guy who stank of weed.

“Hi,” you reply, as sweet as you can, but trying to loosen his grip.

“Saw you inside, you out with friends?”

“Mhm. I’m just leavin’, my–”

“Few of us are headed upstairs. You wanna come?”

You glare at him a few seconds, before yanking your arm from his grasp. “Nah, no thanks. I’m leaving. Have a good night.”

You stagger off, feeling his eyes on you as you go. Joel’s truck headlights switch on, dazzling your eyes, and you quickly click around to the passenger side, throwing yourself in beside him.

Joel doesn’t say hey, doesn’t squeeze your thigh, doesn’t even look at you when you settle into the seat. Just asks –

“Who’s that kid?”

“Uh…not sure. Bumped into ‘im in the bar.”

“He give you trouble?”

“No,” you lean over the console, pulling your seatbelt over your body, and flash him a tipsy grin, “thought that was my job. Givin’ trouble.”

Joel doesn’t reply. Doesn’t take his scowl off the dude outside Frank’s, either. Your eyes meander across to his hand, locked in a tight fist around the wheel. Your smile drops.

“Joel. It’s fine. Can we go?”

When you lift a hand to the crook of his elbow and he feels your warmth on his skin, he tears his gaze away and it lands on you. Soft, gentle. His lip isn’t curled anymore. His brows lift.

His eyes watch your lips as you whisper the words to him.

“Want you to take me home.”

“’s go, pretty girl.”

----------

Joel refuses, no matter how many times you ask, how hard you bat your eyelashes, how many promises you make, to stop by a drive thru.

“Please?” you ask one last time before he’s pulling in to his neighborhood.

He shakes his head. “Look at that, we’re already home.”

“I ain’t takin’ no for an answer, Miller, not until the engine’s off. We’re still driving.”

He doesn’t reply. Just pulls up in his drive, cuts the engine, and looks at you. Shrugs. “Oops.”

“Fuck you,” you groan, sliding down in your seat. “I’m starvin’.”

“Make you a big breakfast in the mornin’, how’s that sound?”

“Wanted a Big Mac, but whatever.”

Your fingers fumble for the door handle, clicking it open. You roll out of the truck and stroll around to meet Joel at the driver’s side. He snakes an arm around your shoulders, steadying you as you walk up his porch steps and into the house.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, glancing around his living room.

“Alright,” he says, tossing his keys and kicking his boots off.

Your eyes settle on the TV screen, paused. Probably around the time you text him. There’s a crowded hospital room onscreen, doctors in dark blue scrubs, all surrounding someone lying on a bed, someone who looks pretty familiar…

“Is that…fuckin’…Grey’s Anatomy…?”

Joel chuckles, peeling your jacket from your shoulders.

“That’s Meredith! When she–”

“She fell in the damn river,” Joel mutters, placing the tasseled leather over the back of his couch. “Derek had to go in after her. Intense stuff.”

“Right? I told you it was good!” You smack his arm. “I can’t believe you’re watchin’ it without me.”

“I ain’t watchin’ it,” he protests, “it was just on, ‘n I needed something to keep me awake. I’m still rooting for Meredith ‘n George.”

“We can watch it from the beginning.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, moving over to him. “And then I can be over here all the time, and you can make me all the grilled cheese I want, and we can lie in bed and…do stuff.” Your chin rests on his chest, flashing him a toothy grin. Hands swinging in his at your side.

Joel’s eyes narrow, but there’s a smirk on his lips. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I had a couple drinks. I’m not drunk.”

“H’many fingers am I holdin’ up?” Joel asks, raising his fist. You punch it away.

“Ha-ha,” you say tonelessly, and wander away from him.

“Baby,” he calls you from behind. Sure, you’re tipsy, and he can be a cocky asshole – especially when he has to take care of you, but that’s a sound you’ll never get tired of hearing. Baby. You’re his darlin’, his sweet girl.

You spin around, very nearly losing your footing, and he’s standing with an arm out, ready for you to take.

You smile dumbly. Meander over, and take his strong hand in both of yours, wrapping your fingers around two of his to let him reel you in against his body.

“C’mon,” he whispers, as you lean against his frame. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

You follow him up, knowing where he’s leading you. You’ve spent more time in there the last few weeks than you have your entire life.

His room is cool, not cold, but comfortable. It’s Joel all over; the muted colors, the décor, the smell that calms you as soon as you stumble over the threshold.

He sits you down on the edge of his bed and kneels, pulling your boots off one by one.

You giggle.

“You laughin’ at me?”

“You’re like my own personal tr…No, not trainer. Wait. Personal ch–”

“Chef?” he says, snorting. “Not chef. Try again, soberhead.”

“Oh, I dunno.” You throw your arms up as he sits your boots against the wall, then stands and takes your hat off.

“This,” he says, placing it on the nightstand at your side of the bed, “is very cute. I like it.”

“I’m cute, too, y’know,” you whisper, pouting.

He smiles, and leans down to give you a quick kiss on the lips, pointer finger under your chin.

“The cutest.”

“Ha!” you roar. Joel twists around you to undo the zipper at the back of your dress. “Joel Miller thinks I’m the cutest. Take that, Anna…”

He laughs. When he unzips you, he pulls the dress off your bare chest and down your legs. You don’t shy away, used to the idea now of him seeing you naked. Used to the idea of him seeing you in any vulnerable state; drunk, or naked, or in a sobbing mess on day two of your period.

You notice, even though you’re a tad dizzy with what alcohol is left in your system, that his eyes linger on your panties a moment before he turns and grabs a tee from a chair.

And something inside you ticks.

“Joel?”

He’s pulling the shirt over your head. It smells like him. Intoxicates you much more and much quicker than any drink you could order from Frank’s.

“Mhm?”

You feed both arms through the sleeves, swallowing the question you were about to ask. He’s standing up now, telling you to get into bed.

He walks over to his dresser and begins removing his own clothing. He only sleeps in boxershorts. Your eyes track him as he yanks his t-shirt up over his toned shoulders; fingers undo his belt, unzip his jeans. Everything is discarded to the side for now; he has something more pressing to attend to.

His best friend’s daughter, laying in his bed, a pool of wet forming in her panties.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

As he slips under the covers beside you, you pull off your underwear in one quick movement. Joel doesn’t seem to notice, or so you think; his arms immediately take hold of your waist and pull you against his body. You’ve gotten into the habit of sleeping pressed against his torso, his thigh between your legs. Joel settles comfortably with you draped over him, and lets out a deep sigh.

“Joel?” you whisper again into the darkness, growing braver.

“Hm?” he replies, starting to fall asleep.

You toss ideas over in your head. None of them good, you’re sure, but you’re getting desperate. How he can’t feel your damp core on his thigh, you’ve no idea.

But then, maybe he can? Joel doesn’t miss anything, especially not where you and your…arrangement are concerned. Can he feel you? Is he deliberately ignoring it?

Maybe he has something up his own sleeve?

“I…was just wondering…”

“Wondering what, darlin’?” His voice is muffled, spoken through unmoving lips. You glance up at his face. His eyes are closed.

You grow more desperate.

“…wondering what your body count is?”

You ask it as innocently as you can, your voice wavering on the words body count. It gets him, though, as his eyes blink open a few seconds after you say it.

“I ain’t tellin’ you that. Go to sleep.” He closes them again.

“I wanna know.”

He ignores you.

“Joel,” you moan.

He calls you by name now, and you’re not sure if you’re pissing him off or turning him on – or both.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

“I’m not tired, though. Not yet.”

In response, Joel lets go of his hold on you and rolls over without another word. It’d sting if you weren’t soaking wet right now, and didn’t have a strong hunch he was hardening under the sheets.

“Joooel…” you whine, sitting up on your elbow. No use.

You take hold of his shoulder and tug him back toward you, rolling him onto his back. Like a deadweight, he remains frozen.

“Ugh,” you groan, and drag yourself on top of him, knees either side of his waist, ass hovering. When you sit back onto him, your core lining up with his crotch, your suspicions are proven right.

He’s hard.

Not as hard as he can get, as you’d like him to be, as you’ve felt him before…but he’s hard.

“Joel…” you mewl into the darkness, starting to grind your bare center over his boxers. The friction feels good, so you apply more pressure.

“If you don’t stop that,” Joel’s voice finally grumbles, “I’ll be sleepin’ downstairs.”

“Sex in the living room sounds good to me.”

His eyes open. “We,” one hand comes up to point between the both of you, as if he doesn’t expect your sobering self to understand which pairing he means, “are not having sex. No sex tonight.”

You sigh, shoulders dropping dramatically.

“Huff all you want, baby, it is not happening.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re a few drinks too deep and it’s three in the morning. I’m tired, it’s been a long night waitin’ for you, I–”

“So let me make it up to you. I ain’t even drunk anymore.”

“No?”

“Nuh-uh. Could count any number a’ fingers you put in front of me.”

“Funny.” He closes his eyes.

“Joel.” You drag your hips again. If anything, he’s harder than he was when you first sat down on him. “I had a few drinks, I’ve sobered up. C’mon…”

You bend your waist and lower yourself to align your lips with the side of his head, peppering the skin under his ear with soft kisses.

“I wanna ride you, daddy.”

This gets him. His eyes open again, staring up at the ceiling. His hands slowly come up to rest on your hips.

“Don’t– That’s low, even for you, kid.”

You giggle and straighten up. When your hands lightly trace down his chest, onto his midriff and follow the trail of hair to his boxers, he doesn’t stop you. Just watches from beneath hooded lids, tensing at each point your fingers touch.

You raise your eyebrows, watching his expression for any sign to stop, and it never comes. He remains in place when your fingertips hook around the waistband of his underwear, slowly pulling down.

Joel breathes in deep when you reveal the tip of his cock, springing up to rest on his lower stomach. You feel your core clench. If he’s not inside you in the next five minutes, you might scream.

Well, you’ll be screaming either way.

You look back into his eyes and tilt your jaw, asking for permission.

“Go on,” he whispers.

Your hands take him eagerly, pumping up and down his shaft, and his head falls back onto the pillow with pleasure.

“Uhuh,” you mumble, focusing on his solid dick, but desperate for more. You give him a gentle squeeze and a groan passes his lips, his grip tightening on your body.

You let go of him and grind your hips along his length, folds coating his shaft in your wetness. Joel’s humming, watching as you pull yourself up and down him.

Then, you lean forward, and your hands take hold of him again. You give him a couple more strokes, eliciting a deep groan, and then line his bare cock up at your entrance, practically foaming at the mouth to sink down on him already.

“Woah, woah,” Joel takes hold of your wrist, “slow down, cowgirl. I gotta get a condom.”

You huff as he leans over to his nightstand and opens the drawer. “Don’t want one, Joel, I’m on the pill.”

“No way, baby,” he says through a chuckle, silver wrapper in his fingers. “We already did that, one too many times.”

“So just pull out?”

“Nope.”

You sigh, frustrated.

Joel holds the packet out to you, smirk on his face like he doesn’t expect you to take it.

So, you do.

You steal it from him and tear the wrapper, fishing the rubber out between your two fingers. Pinching the top, you roll it down his shaft and pump up and down for good measure.

“Ready?” you ask, head tilted, cocky smile on your lips.

“Wait, wait,” he whispers, shoulders lifting off the mattress. He lifts the hem of your shirt, telling you, “Off,” before pulling it over your head, exposing your bare breasts.

He stares you down; legs wide open, straddling him, completely naked, nipples hardened, figure silhouetted against the slivers of light peeking through the shades from the streetlights outside. You’ve never felt so confident, mounted on top of Joel fucking Miller.

His eyes roll back and his head falls against the pillow. “Fuckin’ – knock yourself out, baby.”

You steady yourself with one hand on his chest, the other taking hold of his cock and guiding it to your entrance. You push his head through your folds a couple times, and Joel hisses at the feeling, before you sink down.

You stop after the tip the first time, but it draws the same reaction from you both. Joel groans even louder than before, and you moan as you push yourself back up.

Then, without warning, you sink the whole way down.

He’s so deep it brings tears to your eyes, so big that he’s stretching you out more than you thought possible, hitting all the right spots already before you’ve even begun.

Joel’s eyes are screwed shut, his grip on your hips digging into your skin so tight it almost hurts. His jaw is tight, holding back what you can only imagine are the neediest moans he could sound.

So, you decide to draw them from him.

You lean forward and begin bouncing, feeling his thickness pull out and push back into you, both hands on Joel’s chest now for balance. You’re whimpering, the burn of his cock stretching your tight cunt so good and borderline painful at the same time, but you don’t stop.

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl,” Joel moans, opening his eyes to watch you ride his dick. “’attagirl, just like that.”

“Joel…” you cry, letting him bottom out each time, feeling his balls slam into your ass with each bounce.

“Yeah? You like that? Tell me, baby, use your words.”

“So – good – Joel – oh!” you shout.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me, huh?”

You fight against the urge to close your eyes; the pleasure between your legs and the knot beginning to tighten in your stomach are all you can see, hear, feel, but you want to watch him some more. You want to see what you do to him.

You lean forward even further, moving your hands to the pillow either side of his head, so you’re directly above him now. One of Joel’s hands comes to the back of your head, pulling you down until your foreheads are together, moans escaping your mouths only to be inhaled by the other.

Joel speaks to you quieter, through gritted teeth.

“Like ridin’ me, do ya? Like the way it feels?”

“Mhm,” you moan back, and he brings a hand down to slap your ass. You yelp. “Fuck…”

“You look so good, baby, so good. Such a fuckin’ whore for me, hm?”

Another stinging spank pulls a whine from you so filthy, so loud that you’re sure the neighbors will hear, even at this hour. Joel smirks back, resting his hand back on your hip, where he has a grip of you.

Then, he bucks his own hips, pushing into you deeper than before, so deep you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, panting through the searing pain so good that you never want it to end.

“Joel – I’m gonna – fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

“That’s it, sweet girl, cum all over me. Let go, baby, I’m here.”

That does it. The coil snaps, your walls clench. Joel lets out a guttural moan as you throw your head back and ride him through your orgasm. He coos you through it, squeezing your hips, whispering, That’s my girl, doin’ so good, baby as your body rocks back and forth on his cock.

When you come back down to earth, your lids heavy and breathing staggered, you swear your body can’t take anymore. You feel so fucked out that you’re not sure you can sit up straight on top of Joel.

But he’s always been able to read your mind, and this is no different. He pulls himself up and into you, propped up with one strong hand on the mattress behind his back, the other wrapping around your waist. His cock is still buried deep inside you.

“Joel…” you whimper pathetically. “Can’t do it anymore…”

“That’s okay, baby, we’re gonna do this one together, alright? I got you. Can you do that for me? Just one more?”

You link your arms around his neck and lean into him; his strong form doesn’t shift, just takes on your weight and keeps the both of you upright as he starts to bounce you on his length again.

You’re overstimulated; your cunt swollen, fucked-out, drenched in cum, but Joel makes you feel so good that it’s impossible to let him stop. Your arms pull him in closer to your chest to steady yourself, and his groans echo in your ear.

“Good girl, that’s– that’s it, so fuckin’ tight for me, pretty girl.”

When it all becomes too much to take – Joel’s hand squeezing your waist, your clit rutting against the bottom of his stomach, his fucking cock buried so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him splitting you open – you push him back down onto the bed.

Once when you still lived in New York you read something in a Cosmo about spelling the word ‘coconut’ with your hips when riding a guy. You’d tried it a couple times with hookups, and it’d never done anything for you. They’d never done anything for you.

But here you are, nearing your second orgasm, on top of someone making such a mess of you that you brain can hardly compute to spell coconut, never mind your hips being able to round the shape of the word.

You lazily drag yourself over and over Joel’s dick, each stroke drawing you nearer and nearer to your high. When your body starts to falter, you feel him shift, and open your eyes to see him leaning over to the nightstand.

His fingers grip the rim of the black cowgirl hat you’d worn that night. He lies back, flat against the mattress, and reaches up, placing the hat on top of your head. You smile. Joel speaks in a low, gentle, but commanding whisper.

“There you go, cowgirl. Show me how it’s done.”

It’s all you need. It’s all it takes, by this point.

You brace yourself against his chest again, positioning yourself just right, and bounce on him until your vision starts to blur.

The noises slipping out of Joel’s mouth each time your bodies connect at the base of his cock push you closer and closer; every groan and whimper which passes his lips makes you sink your hips down even harder, pushing him deeper and deeper with every bounce.

“So – fuckin’ – big – inside me,” you slur, and Joel moans in response.

When he takes your hips in his hands again, you know he’s there. He’s just waiting for you to fall first.

You give in to him, feeling yourself close around his length, throwing your head back in pleasure as your second orgasm washes over you, igniting every inch of your body.

Joel’s groans meet yours as you lean forward again, slowly rolling your hips to coax him through his own orgasm. Watching him release, buried deep inside, he looks so good that you feel like you could cum again just at the sight.

You feel his cock start to go limp inside you and when he opens his eyes, panting, you smile sweetly at him.

“Fuck, darlin’.”

You giggle, hips still driving gently against his. “Good?”

“So good, baby, did so well. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers with a trembling breath, taking your waist in both hands and giving it a tight squeeze. You roll to the side, letting his cock slip out of you, condom full of his seed.

You tumble onto the mattress beside him, both heaving, moaning messes. Your chests rise and fall in sync, fingers tangling and untangling by your sides.

Then Joel gets up, and wanders over to the bathroom, where you watch him through the open door as he pulls the filled rubber from his soft dick. He bins it, then runs a facecloth under the faucet, dabbing it across his own forehead as he makes his way back over to you.

You can’t hide your grin as you watch his naked form approach; tan lines where his t-shirt must end, dark hair decorating his arms, legs, chest, the base of his cock. He sits at the edge of the bed, arm outstretched with the flannel in hand.

You go to take it from him, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. Just pats it over your face gently, soft gaze on yours, your fingers intertwined around his wrist. Your eyes fall closed, the cold cloth a relief against your warm, sweaty skin.

“Feel nice?” he whispers.

You nod in response. Your chest swells at how soft he’s being, how tender. When he stands to throw the flannel back into the sink, you almost find yourself reaching out to hold him down.

He climbs over you, springing back down onto the mattress with a heaving sigh.

You prop yourself up and shimmy over, positioning yourself on top of Joel, chest-to-chest. He looks down and smirks, running a lazy hand across your cheek.

“You’re so good to me,” he mumbles.

You tilt your head with a smile and lay down on his chest. You can hear his heartrate slowly calming down. His fingers twist through your messy hair.

“I have no idea what you’re laced with,” he says, “but you got me.”

You smile. “Yeah?”

Joel nods. You shift positions, adjusting your aching hips safely between his thighs. “You hurtin’?” he asks.

You nod. “Mhm. But I like it. It’s you.”

Joel’s hands run through your hair and his fingertips trace your shoulders. His touch is so light it almost tickles. You turn your jaw and kiss the back of his hand.

“My dad gone, Sarah out, free house…” you mutter.

“Hm.”

“So, you invite your mistress over.” You lift your head, smirking at him.

Joel’s chest vibrates with laughter. “You ain’t my mistress.”

“Oh really? What am I, then?”

“I am not having this conversation at 4AM, kid. Ask me again tomorrow.”

You’d think of something to throw back at him, messing with him, but your entire body aches, and your heavy eyes are starting to fold closed with how sleepy you suddenly feel.

You pull Joel’s sheets over yourself, turning your back to him. Joel instantly follows suit, pulling up right behind you, your back tight to his chest, his thighs cupping the back of yours, then slipping one between your legs.

His arms lock around your torso under the sheets. Safe. Secure. Nothing can happen to you as long as he’s got you.

“Ten,” his voice mumbles against the back of your head.

You turn so your ear is pressed against his lips. “Huh?”

“Ten. That’s my number. Includin’ you.”

Oh.

He doesn’t ask to hear yours. You wouldn’t mind if he did, but he doesn’t. You don’t think he’s telling you to hear yours in exchange. He’s telling you because you asked. He’s telling you because, whether in attempt to turn him on or simply to know something about him that you didn’t before – something nobody else knows – it mattered to you.

He’s telling you because you matter to him.

You nuzzle back into him a little, a form of reply, and, as you start to fall asleep, you feel him place a gentle kiss to your ear.

----------

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[sentientgolfball]

Who wants to hear my stupid thoughts about Aether and Phantom and irresponsible use of medical equipment?

(I just think all quints are allowed to be weird about medical stuff ok)

When Phantom begins training in the infirmary they’re SO excited. Everything is so cool and they get to look at blood and bones and see how those weird little human creatures work. Unfortunately for Aether that means they’re very distracted most of the time. He tries to teach them about what a machine does and how to use it and the information does in one ear and out the other.

Fortunately by this point Arther knows how to calm the bug down, burn out his little star’s excess energy so they’ll pay attention. A quickie in the bathroom. Using his quint to make them cum untouched. Anything along those lines really. One good orgasm and Phantom is so calm and attentive. They can’t take their fucking eyes off Aether if they tried.

They’re almost done with their training at this point. Aether takes bug to learn about the ultrasound machine and the plethora of things it can be used to for. But they’re not paying any attention, more so than usual. It’s not their fault Swiss and Rain were teasing them all day with quick little kisses and hands that wandered too far. They don’t hear a word Aether says. The only thing in their mind is images of behind sandwiched between a multi ghoul and a water ghoul. Every hole filled.

Unfortunately bug still doesn’t have a grasp over their quint yet and Aether can feel the lust radiating off of them. He likes to think he has golden self control, for a ghoul at least, but he cannot take it anymore. He calls Phantom out on not paying attention and ever the people pleaser they babble and apologize and promise they’re listening. Aether just shakes his head and decides a hands on lesson is needed to make sure they really are learning.

He gets Phantom up on the table and preps the machine. Just a check up he claims. Just to show them how it works and what to look for. He tugs the waistband of their pants down just enough to run the probe over their stomach. He shows them what their uterus looks like. How empty it is. Phantom is downright fascinated being able to actually see inside of themselves like that. This actually does get them to pay attention. Maybe a little too well, but Aether won’t complain.

They don’t notice slide his free hand down. They don’t notice him shimmy his pants down just enough to pull out his half hard cock. They barely acknowledge Aether pulling their pants down more. Probably just to get better access. Well they are right about that. Everything Aether does goes unnoticed until they feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against their cunt. Already fucking drooling from fantasizing about Swiss and Rain all damn day.

They try to question him but Aeth just shush them and tells them they need to know what it looks like filled too. He slips inside and makes Phantom keep their eyes on the screen so they can watch him fuck into them.

They cum so hard so fast. Something about being able to see the head of Aether’s cock pounding into them while feeling it just makes them burn.

[lilu787788]

I feel a quiet yet undeniable irony in the fact that the most fervent critics of Aleksander have become his most reliable promoters. While they insist they want him gone, canceled, buried beneath fake moral outrage and threads on TikTok or Tumblr, the truth is far more amusing. They are actually one of the reasons why the Darkling remains one of the most talked-about and beloved characters in the Shadow and Bone universe.

Today, I won’t focus on his supporters and our boundless love for him or our understanding of his actions. Instead, let’s turn our attention to the ones who drip venom.

From a purely technical standpoint, social media platforms thrive on engagement. They don’t stop to examine whether a post is righteous or malicious. They don’t ask if your opinion is virtuous or vengeful. All that matters is how many people interact with it. A post screaming “Stop romanticizing the Darkling” accompanied by clips of his darkest scenes will reach just as many people as a fan-made tribute. Why? Because controversy ignites attention. Comments flood in, people argue, repost, and reply. The algorithm watches the chaos and concludes: this character matters. Let’s show him to more people.

And just like that, the critics end up doing something incredibly beneficial for Aleksander. It’s no wonder that the very people who tried to ruin his image are refreshing it for a new audience. In fact, they do it so consistently, it starts to make you wonder — is it really hatred, or something more complicated?

You don’t keep talking about a character who bores you. You don’t quote him, you don’t edit his scenes, and you don’t spend hours crafting multi-slide condemnations of someone you’ve supposedly forgotten. What they call denunciation is starting to look suspiciously like obsession — the kind that seeps under your skin and never truly lets go.

Characters that spark this kind of discourse are rarely forgotten. History is full of examples. Characters like Kylo Ren, Loki, Paul Atreides, Roy Batty — they are morally grey characters. What made them endure wasn’t just universal love. It was, and still is, the endless debate about who they were, what they did, and whether it was justified.

Aleksander belongs in that pantheon — not despite the arguments around him, but because of them. A clean-cut character, widely accepted or rejected, fades fast and is forgotten even faster. A character that divides opinions becomes legend. And what a beautiful kind of legend it is.

As is often the case in fandoms, the harder one side pushes, the stronger the other becomes. Every angry thread accusing Aleksander of emotional abuse, manipulation, tyranny, or worse leads to thoughtful essays defending his actions and exploring broader themes of military history and moral ambiguity. Fans respond not out of wounded loyalty but because the discourse gives them a stage. It gives them a chance to analyze a character whose actions can be interpreted through lenses of trauma, politics, survival, and love. That kind of complexity is irresistible to anyone who finds depth more compelling than labels.

Even the idea that Aleksander must be “defeated” by discourse is unintentionally flattering. It means he still matters. It means his presence is still felt. He still haunts the narrative, the fandom, and the people who claim to despise him. Meanwhile, characters who once caused outrage but now gather dust have truly lost. The silence that surrounds them is the only kind of cancellation that works.

Aleksander, on the other hand, is alive and well. He’s reposted and reinterpreted every day, still lighting up the collective imagination of those who cannot let go — those who love him, and those who hate him.

In the end, the critics — the antis — are not destroying him. They’re giving him the spotlight, the platform, the legacy. With every hashtag, every frame, every outraged paragraph, they solidify his place in fandom culture. They remind the internet that he’s worth talking about. They remind the studios that he draws attention. They remind the fans why they fell in love with him.

The louder the outrage, the more irresistible the puzzle becomes. Why? What? When? And just like that, people start to discover him — and in most cases, they fall in love.

So truly, I thank them. They make sure he’s never forgotten. They feed the algorithm. They expand the discourse. They build the myth.

Aleksander doesn’t need to defend himself. His critics are doing all the work.

And to make this boring post a little more fun, here’s a set of cute graphic showing the popularity of Shadow and Bone characters over the past 12 months 😊

[thehypnone]

Symbol on the Surface Chapter 10

WC: 1,3k

Relationship: SwissAlps

Tags: Transmasc Swiss, Pregnancy, Ghoul Nature, Possessiveness & Protectiveness, Violence, Blood and Injury, PTSD, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Healing Magic

Swiss doesn’t know who to turn to. Mountain has tears streaming down his face and he rids his mate of having to make a choice as he runs away. He presses his hands to his ears so as not to hear Aeon’s sobbing and babbling.

Notes: Tysm to @jimothybarnes for beta reading :3

Chapter 1 here or on AO3.

Read chapter 10 under the cut or on AO3.

Mountain’s possessiveness and protectiveness is growing just as steadily as Swiss’ baby bump.

Everyone has been warned by Omega not to come too close to the multi ghoul when his mate is around—which is all the time, nowadays—and most definitely not to do it without warning.

Aeon is forgetful, though.

Especially when he’s excited.

That’s why he’s not thinking when he goes to Swiss and Mountain’s room all giggly and excited to show them adorable bat onesies that he’s found and would love to get for their kits as a gift so the babies could match with him.

It’s just a horrible coincidence that the pair is on their way out of said room at the same time, with Mountain’s hand hanging over the doorknob when the young ghoul barges in.

It’s only a flash of claws, a rumble of a snarl, and a pained shriek before Aeon stumbles backwards with a slashed open arm, dripping blood onto the ground.

Aeon, poor little Aeon who has suffered so much in the Pit, hurt again.

His back hits the wall before sliding down it. His eyes are wide and stuck at the wound and all the blood leaking out of it. Swiss can see how Aeon’s spiraling into a panic attack; his head surely filled with the images of his past abuse in the Pit by now.

“You–you all t–told me I was–I was safe here. You s–said I wouldn’t be h–hurt again, you–you promised, and–and I’m…he–he hurt me,” the quintessence ghoul chokes out, lost in the flashbacks.

Swiss doesn’t know what to do, who to turn to. Mountain has tears streaming down his face and he rids his mate of having to make a choice as he runs away to their bathroom and slams the door shut. He curls in a corner and presses his hands to his ears so as not to hear Aeon’s sobbing and near delirious, panicked babbling.

The multi ghoul, being cut out from Mountain, drops to his knees by Aeon, grabbing his face and trying to ground him.

“Bug? Buggy, breathe. It’s okay, breathe, you’re okay. I’m right here, you’re okay,” he tells him. Except…except he’s not okay, and Swiss knows Aeon is not going to be able to calm down until he’s healed and all the blood is gone. He can’t leave him, though, so his only choice is to yell. “AETHER!!! GET ME AETHER, RIGHT NOW!!! AEON’S HURT, WE NEED HELP, GET AETHER!!!”

Swiss screams until the older quintessence ghoul gets there—fortunately he was down in the den, and not in the infirmary or outside.

“What the fuck happened!?” he asks, already by Aeon’s side and taking care of the huge and deep slash across their forearm that’s all but gushing blood.

“Mountain,” the multi ghoul breathes out and Aether turns to him with disbelief painted on his face. Swiss goes to explain, “Aeon surprised us and Mountain didn’t–there wasn’t even time, he just saw a threat and–and this happened.”

“Accidents happen,” the quintessence ghoul sighs, nearly finished with healing the other one. Aeon seems to be completely dissociated now, no longer in pain, but still trapped in his mind. “I’m gonna take him with me, you go to your mate. I’m sure guilt’s eating him alive right now, he needs to be taken care of, too.”

Swiss nods and waits for Aether and Aeon to leave before he goes to get up. He struggles—cursing under his breath as he grabs onto the nearest piece of wall and digs his claws in. His stomach hurts a little, but he ignores it when he finally stands up; running straight to the bathroom door. He finds it locked.

“Mounty? Sweetheart? Are you okay in there? Let me in, please,” he begs. No answer comes, so Swiss puts his ear against the door. He hears shaky breathing and little choked out sobs—Mountain sounds like he’s about to run out of air.

Swiss’ heart aches as he can do nothing but listen, begging once again. “Aeon’s with Aeth, he’s healed him already. He’s a little shaken up, but he’s fine. Please, open the door, my love. You didn't do anything wrong, no one’s angry at you. It was an accident.”

Still no answer.

He rests his forehead on the door and lets his own tears of stress and worry and frustration flow. His breath hitches and he just–doesn’t know what to do. It’s been barely five minutes since Mountain lashed out at Aeon and so much has happened.

Swiss cries against the wood, not hearing his mate move on the other side. Suddenly the lock clicks and he pulls away so he doesn’t fall as—if—Mountain opens it.

The earth ghoul lets out a pained whine when he sees Swiss’ reddened eyes and puffy cheeks. He reaches out with a shaky hand and cups his mate’s face.

“No c–cry,” Mountain mutters. He struggles with it, clearly going into a verbal shutdown from all the stress. It makes Swiss smile—albeit a little sadly.

“I’m okay, my love,” he assures, “and Aeon is, too.”

The earth ghoul nods and dips his head to look at Swiss’ bump before moving to place a hand on it. He flinches back, though, when he notices Aeon’s blood under his claws.

Swiss covers them and pushes the bigger ghoul back and towards the sink. “C’mere. Don’t have to look.”

He grabs the soap and turns on the tap and in no time at all the blood is washed away. The multi ghoul takes Mountain’s hands, then, and brings them to his belly again.

“M–m–mine,” Mountain mumbles.

“Yours,” Swiss agrees before tipping his head back to kiss the earth ghoul. “You were just trying to protect what’s yours, yeah?”

The other nods. The guilt won’t go away for a while, but the comfort of his mate is certainly helping.

“Yeah, I know, sweetheart. It’s alright.” The multi ghoul forces another reassuring smile despite some worry settling in the back of his head. His stomach is hurting.

Still, he decides to ignore it—at least for now—and get Mountain to bed. He leads him to the nest and makes him shuck off his clothes, then his own, leaving both of them in only their underwear. The earth ghoul curls around Swiss and nuzzles his face into his neck, clinging onto him just a little too tight.

They just…are for a while, both trying to breathe normally again; neither speaking.

Mountain jumps when Swiss’ phone buzzes on the bedside table and the multi ghoul coos to him as he reaches for it. A message from Aether—he reads it first before deciding to share it with Mountain.

“Hey, Aeth texted,” he whispers, not to startle the earth ghoul again, “Aeon is alright, they’re watching a movie right now. He says you shouldn’t feel too guilty and asks if you would be up for a walk outside tomorrow.”

Mountain lifts his head and Swiss can see some conflicting feelings flash through his eyes, but then the corner of his lips twitches upwards and he nods. The multi ghoul leans down to kiss him on the tip of his nose before replying to Aether.

S: he’d love to, i think it’ll help him to see that buggy really is okay

A: I agree. Have a good night, you two.

S: you too :)

Swiss’ phone feels heavy as he turns on DND before dropping it back onto the bed. He sighs before curling more into Mountain’s embrace and letting his eyes fall shut.

He’s ready for the day to end.

Taglist: @arkeusruin @skele-bunny @everybodyshusband @ratsummer @jazz-bazz @mac-and-thefox @karmicbias @wine-irytatus

[miscpav]

Adventures of Excellence - 15 projectors

Here's a 15 projector slideshow that's 99% graphic art and 1% photos. It has a mind-bending narration, designed to encourage the audience to do - something (probably sell more of whatever they sell). To me this is as nice an example of a graphic-art-rich slide module as you'll find anywhere. This was produced by Wilden Enterprises in 1985 and kept safe over the years by Paul Vershbow.

[zerosconsort]

Zero's Fic Binding - don't it beat a slow dance to death

don't it beat a slow dance to death by solitarydreaming

Fandom: Raven Cycle [by Maggie Siefvater]

Ship: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish

Start Date: 12/23/2024

End Date: 02/18/2025

Pages: 230

Okay, so, this fic? This book is like the show Russian doll. Or Happy Death Day. The best kind of groundhogs day time loop fic, where the death resets the day over and over again. And after each loop, Adam and Ronan slowly start to…glitch. And slide. And fall out of time itself.

This fic is, perhaps, my favorite version of this trope. I grabbed on to that hiccupping, time-stutter idea and pressed it into a digital form - a glitching, fizzy, warping version of a stuttering iPod.

The typeset for this bind progressively

gets more

and more

glitched.

The headers, the fonts, the page breaks, the addition of texture and visual noise into the pages - ramps up through the typeset. I love it. I think it's fucking crazy and I love it so much.

This is the first time I tired to print a cover. It….went. It happened. It looks pretty ok, but this is not how I'm going to ever print out a cover image ever again. I do like this laminate, so I'll probably use that again with a different type of paper. But I can check off the 'try a new cover material' off my Resolution list for this year.

And, like - it's pretty crisp. The image looks pretty good, the color is nice - it's fucking weird and I love it. The spine being simple and so widely different is also a fucking vibe. I'm fucking grooving on this theme dudes, I don't know what else to day.

I used a multi-colored thread for the headband, so it is also changing and random in color.

Another first.........…..I fucking put the text block in upside-down.

My first time screwing up a book like this, so I'm giving myself a pass, but also…this kind of works for this book? You have to read it backwards to get to the front cover. It fits, and I'm only a little mad about it?

This fic is worth the read, even if you're not in this fandom. If you are in this fandom and you haven't read this fic yet? Ya - your welcome.

[wrathofrats]

If you're comfortable with it yourself what about someone comforting Swiss over him getting a bit of a tummy over the last tour. Always feel he uses over confidence to cover up the fact he's just as insecure as everyone else (we all love the tummy and him dearly)

First of all I appreciate the asking if I’m comfortable or not, things like that can be triggering but I’m cool to write this rn, but genuinely thank you for the check, it means a lot that you thought of that!

Have some Swiss insecurity rambles, featuring small talk of body image issues, and mountain bc swissalps disease is chronic.

Honestly I think he’s a bit embarrassed of the insecurity itself. Looks in the mirror and just kinda examines himself. Gained a bit of pudge, softer around the edges. He knows rain and dew are obsessed with the new found fat judging by some of the still healing bite marks. And he��s always found aether unbearably attractive, so the insecurity seems stupid to him more than anything.

But he can’t help but judge, can’t help but to scrutinize and prod at every soft feature. Stare at every freckle or spot of discolored skin or scar until he’s ruined his day in just a couple minutes. He throws his sweatpants and a sweatshirt back on, something baggy to get him to stop looking.

He ends up in mountains room as he seems to do often these days. Better than being alone in his room, and mountain usually hoards snacks in there anyways. So it’s a win win situation.

“Hi starlight” mountain smiles as Swiss allows himself into his room. He instinctually slides over to make room for his multi, closing his laptop and shuffling it to his nightstand.

“Hi mo” Swiss climbs in to slot next to him, wasting no time to snuggle into his side. Mountain wraps his arm around him to pull him closer, giving Swiss a small squeeze.

“You seem upset, everything alright?” Mountain pets at his head.

“How would you even know that”

“I know everything starlight” mountain states

“Liar”

“I can just read you well, besides, your water shows up when you get sad, you’re freezing Swiss”

Swiss rolls his eyes. He knows mountains right. His skin tends to go cold when he’s not in a good mood, cool water practically coursing through his veins. His hands feel like ice cubes when mountain reaches to warm them in his own.

“Talk to me, I don’t like it when my starlight is sad”

“Just feeling … weird I guess. Gained a bit of weight on tour I think. It’s whatever”

Mountain doesn’t mean laugh. A quick chuckle and a confused look while Swiss seems ashamed of his confession.

“Just means you’re healthy Swiss. Besides, you’ll need it for winter”

“What?”

“Earth and pebble always make sure they were gaining extra fat for when the harvest slows in the winter. Poor Ivy never keeps much on him, he’s a lanky thing. But earth and pebble would be proud of you”

Swiss laughs a bit at the explanation. Some earth ghoul ritual nonsense that he always enjoys hearing about. Mountain rests his hand on Swiss’ stomach, not moving, just a caring touch.

“Besides, I think it’s beautiful on you”

“You think everything is beautiful on me mo”

“Maybe I just think you’re beautiful”

“….. shut up”

[jedijesi]

Caught in the Cat's Web

Chapter 1

Felicia Hardy! Reader x Miguel O’Hara

Series Masterlist 🕸 Masterlist

Warnings: Angst, Sexual Tension, she/her pronouns

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Felicia Hardy, Black Cat, endures a nasty breakup with Peter Parker, and now with her new Spider-Powers, she must navigate the Spider society and meet their esteemed leader.

Co-writer: @stclairesplace

A/N: This a Felecia Hardy Self Insert, beyond her classic platinum hair color, no descriptive terms are used! Insert yourselves, loves! This is my first Miguel fic, enjoy!

New York, Earth-194

“No, Peter! I- I can’t keep fighting for us if you’re just gonna run back to MJ every time!” Felicia sobbed. 

“We were just talking about our relationship!” Peter yells in defense. 

Felicia's hands come up to her forehead, smoothing out her platinum hair back in frustration. “You said it was over, Peter! You don’t need to continue to talk to her, especially not at 8:30 on a Friday in a restaurant! The same restaurant you took me to last week, by the way, for our 6 month anniversary!” 

“It doesn’t matter, Felicia! Nothing happened!” Peter runs his fingers through his hair pacing back and forth in frustration. 

“No! You- you lied to me, you told me you didn’t have feelings for her anymore.” Felicia breaks out into more tears, blinding her. “I don’t want to be ‘the other woman’ anymore, Peter. I won’t be. I can’t keep waiting for you, hoping you’ll finally look at me the way you look at MJ. I’m done.” 

Before Peter could say another word, the sound of Felicia’s grappling hook cut him off. In an instant, Felicia goes back into her Black Cat persona, swinging through the New York Skyline. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been 3 weeks since the breakup. 3 weeks of crying, ice cream, and pajamas. Felicia had never taken a breakup hard, she’d always known her worth, but something about Peter Parker was different. It made no sense as to why it hurt so much. She’s been cheated on before, she’s watched partners come and go, but she was able to brush it off like it was nothing. Then stupid Peter Parker had to come and along, turn her into a hero, and break her heart. 

By habit, the sound of sirens outside her apartment causes her to pause her show, and look at the Black Cat suit hidden behind the painting next to the window. 

Felicia sighs, unable to decide if she should cry or scream. Ultimately, she decided to continue eating her ice cream, pushing the images of Spider-Man somewhere out there fighting crime. 

Despite pushing her feelings away, a tear escapes her, sliding down her cheek. Suddenly, chills go down Felicia’s spine. She looks around the quiet apartment trying to figure out what was happening when her tear begins to slide back up her cheek and into the air. The empty pint and spoon along with various items follow suit, prompting Felicia to grab the gun and knife hidden under the couch. 

A bright light emits in the middle of the living room, transforming into a colorful circular object. Felicia’s guard falls, recognizing the multi-dimensional portal. 

“Woah! What’s with the guns?” Jessica Drew, questions as she emerges. 

“You could have given me a heads up instead of scaring the shit out of me.” Felicia rolls her eyes before putting her weapons away. 

“I told you, I’d come pick you up in a month.” 

Felicia’s eyes widened in surprise. “It’s been a month since I’ve last seen you?!” 

“Ahuh,” Jessica responds as she inspects the apartment. “Has it been a month since you’ve cleaned too?”

“Uh- 3 weeks, actually.” 

Jessica whips her head around. “3 weeks?! What the fuck happened, girl!”

Felicia rolls her eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Honestly, she didn’t have to. Jessica could see right through the broken-hearted girl. “You ready to go then?”

“I don’t think I can meet the boss man like this.” Felicia frowns, looking down at her oversized tee shirt stained with ice cream and various mysterious stains from her wallowing sessions. 

Jessica nods, “Shower and change. I’ll help you clean up this shit.” 

It took about an hour for Felicia to clean up and feel like herself again. After putting on her Black Catsuit, she looks into the mirror, smiling for the first time in 3 weeks, feeling like herself again. 

Felicia emerges from her bedroom, finding Jessica standing in the middle of her cleaned-up apartment. “Holy shit, Jess!” She feels like she could cry.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome, hon, let’s go or I'll get a lecture.” Jessica hastily as she creates the portal.

Felicia’s been through multi-dimensional portals a few times before, but it’s still something she can barely get used to. 

~~~~~~

Nueva York, Earth 838

Nueva York was bustling with life as heroes of the spider society swung and walked around. Felicia felt both excited and overwhelmed. It was hard walking into a world full of people who dressed, talked, and looked like her ex. 

“Cat!” Jessica shouted across the hall to the distracted woman, pulling her out of her trance. “Move!”

Felicia scurried across the main hall, doing her best to weave between spider people. Once she caught up to Jessica, they made their way to the ‘big man’s office’ as Jessica puts it. 

The two women entered the dark, grand office. Felicia spots a platform about 20 feet in the air with dozens of holographic screens filled with information and statistics. In the center stood the back of a blue and red man. 

“Ahem!” LYLA appeared next to the tall man. “Your newest recruit is here.” 

The platform slowly lowers but the man doesn't move. Instead, he touches the holographic screens, causing Felicia’s profile to appear. 

“Felicia Hardy?” 

Felicia was taken aback by his voice. She didn’t know what she was expecting but it wasn’t that. It’s a low, resonant tone that fills the air and commands respect and attention. It has a subtle vibration that conveys confidence and strength, and it's a sound that Felicia finds attractive and comforting. His voice has the power to evoke emotion and stir feelings of comfort and security. 

Jessica nudges the woman beside her, yanking Felicia from her thoughts. “Yes, Sir.” She purrs, easing back into the Felicia Hardy she knows and loves. 

“According to my data, you’re the first spider woman.” The platform touches the ground prompting the man to turn to look at Felicia. 

She couldn’t help but admire the man’s build and height, thinking that the elevated perspective had made him appear bigger. “The one and only.” She smirks. 

“Hmm…” The man thinks for a moment, admiring the beautiful woman in front of him. He’s seen and read about plenty of Felicia’s as they have been a big part in some Spider-Man’s lives. Yet, this Felicia seemed different. Her eyes sparkled and the way she carried herself radiated confidence. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Spider-man 2099, my name is Miguel O’Hara.” Miguel closes some distance, letting his mask retract to reveal his messy wavy head and stunning brown eyes.  

“Felica.” She replies, making intense eye contact with the man. 

Miguel slowly walks closer and begins to circle her like a vulture, studying his prey. “ According to your file, you only got your powers several months ago. Explain.”

“Long story short, my… Spider-Man and I infiltrated Oscorp. They were trying to replicate the serum and I ended up getting accidentally bit by one of their patients during the fight, but they’re all dead now, don’t worry.”

“Hmmm..” Miguel hummed as he inspected her suit. “Is this your spider suit?” 

“I don’t need one.” Felicia crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at the Spider-Man. 

“If you want to join the spider society you do. What’s your call sign?”

“Black Cat.” Felicia side-eyes Miguel, predicting his thoughts. 

“Jess,” Miguel looks over to the woman, now sitting in the corner. “Why waste my time?” 

“Waste your time?!” Felicia snaps, turning to look at Miguel. “You need me!” 

“Ahuh.” He rolls his eyes as his mask covers his face, unleashing Felicia's three weeks of pent-up rage. 

“Listen here Spider-Man! I spent 4 months training my ass off, learning my powers, and proving to your little spider society that I’m worthy. I am not going to let you circle me and make assumptions about me based on my outfit and variants! I’ll fight you right now, and I’ll kick your ass!” 

Miguel can’t help but make a small smirk at Felicia’s personality. Miguel steps closer tilting his head down so that his chin practically grazes his collarbone and lets his mask fade. Felica stands her ground looking directly up into his chocolate eyes with fiery determination. She wasn’t going to let some self-appointed leader tell her she wasn’t good enough. 

Meanwhile, in the corner of the office, Jessica and LYLA watch the interaction with confusion. “What the fuck is happening?” 

“I- I really can’t tell you.” LYLA replies. “There’s something there though.” LYLA pulls out her phone taking a picture of the two for future evidence or blackmail before glitching away. 

Still withholding their gazes on each other Miguel eventually snaps out of it only to grumble.  “LYLA, take Felicia to the tailor to make a suit.”. A short smirk makes it’s way on Felicia’s face, silently congratulating herself that she got her way. “We’ll start your training with the other spiders tomorrow morning. Bright and early. As for you ‘Black Cat’ let’s get one thing straight here…” Felicia raises her eyebrow in anticipation, her arms crossed over her chest, her cleavage poking through just enough in the black skin-tight suit adorning her body. “You may be used to playing by your own rules and whatnot but here, this is my playground. And what I say, goes.” He leans back against the small table behind him, his arms now also crossed over his chest, making it hard for Felicia not to notice the way his biceps and arms moved with each breath he took. “Do I make myself clear, gata?”

Felicia unfolds her arms and takes a step closer to Miguel, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for a fight. “Yes, Araña.” 

“And start thinking of new names,” Miguel said before walking back to his desk with a smirk. 

Chapter 2

A/N: Its good to be back! Please let me know what you think💕

[callsignspark]

Mar[r]y Me - part eight

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

summary: A love story told through friendship, laughter, and food.

series warnings: 18+ minors DNI, discussion of insecurities, difficult family relationships, discussions of food and alcohol use, discussions of body image, conversations on what it’s like to be a fat woman trying to date in today’s society, extreme fluff, warnings to be added as needed

word count: 5.1k

previous part | series masterlist | main masterlist

note: happy Friday! I’m super excited for this chapter! I know I say this every time but this is my favorite chapter so far and I can’t wait to hear what you all think!! have a great weekend!

part eight - peanut butter bites

It’s February 25th, and Bradley has sweat dripping down his back. He’s painfully aware that he’s the only one; the cold air blasting from the vents has everyone else reaching for sweaters, but he feels like he’s on fire. So hot he’s afraid he might melt through the old, cracked vinyl flooring of the VTC room. His neck is the worst of it; the skin is scorching from thirteen sets of eyes burning into him. Steadfastly ignoring all of them, he tries to focus all of his attention on the presentation happening up front.

“And as you can see here, since the implementation of the pilot program, the FA-18 return to service cadence has improved by ten days. The proposed plan to expand this training pipeline to Pensacola has been approved, and Dave will be working with Admiral Kerner and his team to spin this up over the next two quarters. The schedule that’s been laid out in Artemis, has the ECD for initial implementation on September 24th, one week before the start of FY22. Next slide, please.”

Bradley barely understands what Mary is talking about, but his fidgeting gets so bad as she gives an overview of the new program going into Florida that Jake nudges his side, looking genuinely concerned.

Bradley has always liked smart girls. Tessa Richardson, his first kiss, was valedictorian and went to Harvard on a pre-law track. The last he heard, she was moving up the ranks as a judge. But it’s a whole new level of attraction, watching Mary talk so competently and confidently about the inner workings of the multi-million-dollar planes he flies every day.

How is she so sexy talking about something so boring?

It’s a thought he’s had multiple times since program review began on Monday. He almost had to excuse himself yesterday when she had an entire page’s worth of suggestions for hardware and software improvements. Today has been exponentially worse, because Mary has deviated from her typical attire of simple but professional clothes. Today, she’s paired a black pencil skirt with three-inch stilettos. The heels accentuate the curves of her legs while the skirt hugs her hips in the most delicious way. And he was actually doing pretty well until thirty minutes into the PowerPoint when she slipped her blazer off to reveal a white button-up shirt that’s been perfectly tailored to show off her waist. Since then, he’s spent most of the time staring at her and then scolding himself for staring.

It’s like she’s trying to kill me.

He quietly takes a deep breath, hoping a sip of water will help him settle down. There are no hops scheduled for today, so the Dagger Squad is wearing their khaki uniforms, the least forgiving material, and the last thing he needs is to get hard while listening to his girl spout corporate buzzwords to satisfy the brass from Washington.

Unfortunately, Mary says the words “stick handling” while making direct eye contact with him and he chokes, spluttering and dripping water down his shirt as he coughs. Half the heads in the room swing in his direction, and he genuienly might burst into flames when he makes eye contact with his uncles; one looking concerned, the other highly amused.

Bradley knows he’s pathetic, getting all riled up over watching a woman excel at her job, and the boring part at that, but he really can’t help it. They haven’t had any alone time since Sunday, the week filled with back-to-back meetings, professional development, and deployment preparation for both of them.

“Of course. Happy Birthday, dolcezza.”

Bradley can feel her breath against his lips, her hand gripping his curls as their cupid bows brush.

“Bradley?” Someone is pounding on his door, the muffled yelling startling them apart. “Are you home? Fred fell! I can’t get him up! Bradley?!”

“Fuck!” He mournfully pulls away, racing to the front door. He carefully swings the door open, conscious of Mary being right behind him, her plate clattering on the table seconds after he stood up. “Mrs. Hadcock? What’s wrong?”

“Fred! He fell, and I can’t get him up! I think he broke his hip!” Bradley freezes when the older woman at his front door bursts into tears; he’s not equipped to deal with this, and he’s worried she might hyperventilate as she gasps around her words.

“Mrs. Hadcock, we need you to take a deep breath. Okay?” Mary quickly takes control as she slips her shoes on and tries to focus the panicking woman, nudging Bradley to do the same. “Is he bleeding? Did you call 911?”

“He’s not bleeding, but he’s in a lot of pain. I couldn’t call; I don’t know where my phone is.”

“Okay, let’s go to your apartment, and we’ll call once we’re there. C’mon.”

She wraps her arm around Mrs. Hadcock’s shoulders and leads her toward the stairs, asking more questions in a calm voice. Bradley grabs his phone, wallet, and Mary’s purse before locking the door behind him, anticipating this becoming a multi-hour thing.

It did become a thing, the doctors confirming the broken hip a few hours later, and it was almost 2 AM by the time he was driving the two women back to the complex. He walked Mary to her car, leaving with only a promise to let him know when she got home, before escorting Mrs. Hadcock back to her apartment.

Bradley was glad that his neighbor’s partner would be okay after surgery and a few months of physical rehab, but the interruption meant that he still hadn’t kissed Mary. He didn’t know what she tasted like. What sounds she would make. How long her perfume would linger on his skin. He's more on edge now than any mission he’s flown.

All week, he’s been itching for an opportunity to get her alone so he could finally press his lips to hers, as long as that’s what she still wants. He’s pretty sure she does. He’s caught her staring at his mouth several times, her chocolate eyes shyly meeting his when she realizes she’s been made.

He’s never been so grateful to hear Cyclone’s grumpy voice replace Mary’s sweet tone, the admiral thanking everyone and reminding the North Island team of the final prep meeting before ending the program review. As the crowd disburses, Bradley makes his way toward the front, heading directly for Mary to ask her to eat lunch with him.

In her office.

Alone.

With the door locked.

Halfway there, his path is abruptly blocked by Melissa Ludden, one of the visiting Boeing representatives. A new program manager, she’s visiting Coronado for the first time to get an understanding of what’s needed for the next generation of fighters, and she’s had target lock on Bradley since the kickoff meeting. Ten years ago, he would have reciprocated - hell, he probably would have had her in his bed after the first happy hour mixer - but now he couldn’t be less interested if he tried. He can admit that she’s very pretty and she seems smart, but the perky twenty-four-year-old can’t hold a match to his Mary.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” She also can’t get his rank correct, which irks Bradley, and tallies yet another point against her. “Boeing is hosting some of the attendees to lunch at Clark Square Grill; we would love for you to join us!”

“Thank you for the invitation, ma’am, but I can’t. I have deployment prep meetings this afternoon, so I’m needed on base.” He politely turns her down, secretly reveling in the little bit of twisted pleasure sparked by how her face drops.

Thankfully, he’s saved from her trying to plead her case and convince him by Slider calling him over, an order he swiftly – and happily – follows.

“Dave, this is Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw. Rooster, this is Dave Rhoads, the West Coast service director from Lemoore.” The name is familiar, sparking something in his brain as his uncle introduces him to an older gentleman.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Oh, please, call me Dave!” The thin but jolly man insists with a firm handshake. “I was just telling these three how much I appreciated your feedback on the training pipeline.”

That’s how I know that name. “I’m glad it helped; we weren’t sure if anything we were sending up to you would be useful.”

“No, it was great! Getting perspective from pilots really helped us grease the wheels in some places where we were stuck. You should be very proud of your squad, Mav.”

“I’m glad their complaining finally was do something besides give me a headache.” Mav jokes before pulling Dave into a different conversation, leaving Bradley with Slider and Mary.

“Mary, you probably already know him, but if you don’t, this is Bradley.”

“Yes, Ron. I know Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw quite well.”

Bradley feels himself go hot, heat racing up his neck at hearing his full rank come from her mouth. He ignores his uncle, refusing to look at him, already knowing a shit-eating grin is spreading across his dumb face.

“Oh, really, M&M?” He could punch his uncle for the way he laughs through his question. “Exactly how well do you know my nephew?”

“Your nephew?”

“How do you know each other?!” He can’t help how he blurts it out; his confusion overclouding the manners his mother drilled into him.

“Slider was my mentor when I worked in Pensacola. We spent many hours together working on the flight school repair schedule and trying to get me to fully understand the ranks. He’s the one that gave me the flight school sweatshirt with my call sign on it - I think you’ve seen me wear that, right?” Mary’s eyes twinkle, letting him know she’s laughing at how his jaw drops.

“I’m the one that convinced her to go up on a flight!”

“Tricked!” Mary jokingly snaps, smacking his arm with her notebook, comfortable joking around now that the room has cleared.

“Tomato, potato.” His uncle turns to him, his grin even bigger. “She always loved that photo I have of you on my bookshelf. The one where you’re laying on the changing table clutching your little teddy bear.”

“That’s you?! That’s such a cute photo!”

“How do you have that photo? I thought I destroyed all copies of that!” Bradley groans, not sure if he’s more embarrassed that it’s been on his uncle’s desk for years or that Mary has seen what is arguably his worst baby photo. The one where he’s red in the face from crying and screaming, clutching a teddy bear with an atrociously full diaper.

“Nope! And you’ll never get rid of it now because I’ve made a digital copy and distributed it to everyone!”

“Oh my god…” Bradley looks at the ceiling, cursing who is listening for making his parents' generation technologically savvy.

“A group of us are going over to Victory Café for lunch; you guys want to join? My treat.”

“I can’t; I have a meeting in a few minutes and then more this afternoon. But you can buy me a drink at the Hard Deck tonight.”

“Yeah, fine, M&M. One vodka cran on me.” Slider laughs as Mary starts to walk away.

“Oh!” She turns back. “When you have some time this afternoon, could you stop by my office, Bradley?”

“Uh- sure! I can stop by after your meeting and before the briefing?”

“That works, see you then.” Mary gives a quick wave, and the two men watch her walk away, grabbing her phone from the lockers outside the VTC room.

“I’m not going to give you a shovel talk because I can tell how much you care about her. Though, had I known that she was the one you were acting like such an idiot about a few weeks ago, I would have flown out here early just to kick your ass. But I will tell you how much I love that girl; she’s like another kid to me, just like you are. So be careful, communicate, and do your best not to hurt each other.”

“I won’t; I’m just lucky she forgave me because I love her. I mean- I- uh-” Bradley stutters, shocked that those words just came flowing out of his mouth without permission.

“God, you’re just like Goose.” Ron smiles at his nephew and pulls him into a hug, a bittersweet feeling washing over him, realizing how much the boy acts like his father, despite barely remembering him. “They would both be so proud of you.”

Bradley gets a little choked up, feeling like a little kid again when his uncle runs a gentle hand over his head, stroking his hair just like he used to when he was small. “Thanks, Uncle Ron.”

“So…” He can’t hold it back; he has to embarrass him just a little bit more. For his own enjoyment. “Why do ya think she wants you to stop by her office?”

“Please stop.”

“Ohhh! Look at how red you are, baby goose! Are you hoping it’s something dirty?”

“I’m walking away.”

“Your call sign should have been tomato!” Laughter follows Bradley out the door and down the hall to the canteen, where he grabs two sandwich and chips combos.

“You okay, Bradley?” Halo quietly asks when he silently joins the squad, used to the boisterous nature of her teammate.

“I’m good. Thanks, Callie. Just thinking about the rest of the shit I gotta do before Saturday.”

He chuckles as she groans and launches into a rant about everything she’s procrastinated. Bradley listens intently as she vents, giving suggestions when he can, with Bob adding an occasional comment from across the table.

“And thankfully Aliyah’s friend was willing to watch Rupert and water my plants while I’m gon, since she backed out on me!” Callie exclaims. “Like, I’m happy she’s finally getting to go on this trip, but now I'm gonna owe Kelly like six hundred favors when I get back.”

“I’m glad you found someone in time and didn’t have to put him in a kennel until Aliyah gets back from Europe!” Bob says, knowing how much she hates putting her dog in the kennel for long stretches.

Bradley is just about to ask more about the woman who’s going to be watching Callie’s chocolate lab when the mechanics who work for Mary get in line for food.

“I’ll see you guys at the briefing; I’m gonna go take care of a few things.” He dumps his trash, ignoring the table full of protests as he turns toward Mary’s office.

It doesn’t take him long to reach the fifth floor of the admin wing. As the newest addition to the team, Mary had been relegated to an office on the mostly empty top floor. The lack of neighbors was a bonus when bored pilots visited, but the end-of-the-hall corner office was as far away from her shop as she could get.

He slows down as he gets closer, not wanting to interrupt whoever she’s talking to with her “I’m calm, but just barely” voice. It’s one she usually reserves for condescending admirals before tossing them to Cyclone so he can tear them apart on her behalf. Pausing in the doorway, he finds her staring at the ceiling, dissociating as the person on the other end yells loud enough that Bradley can hear it. He lightly coughs to grab her attention, smiling when she perks up and mashes the mute button.

“Beau wasn’t in his office, so I’m getting to listen to Cain’s bitching about my presentation on the manned flight stats as if I get to choose the content of the slides.” She looks down at the phone. “We’re going on thirteen minutes.”

“I brought you a turkey sandwich and kettle chips, if that helps?”

“Oh, Bradley, you’re so sweet! What would I do without you?”

“You’d probably be a lot hungrier in the afternoons. You want this now or in the fridge?”

“Fridge, please.” Mary hums before returning to her call. “Yes, sir. I hear you, but like I said earlier-”

As he’s storing the food in her mini fridge, her nails start to tap against the desk, frustration levels high after being cut off again. Bradley grimaces at her in sympathy. Everyone at NAS North Island is aware of Chester Cain’s personal vendetta against Maverick and how it’s begun to leak to anyone on base involved with manned flights.

He settles into one of her chairs, stealing a mint from the bowl on her desk and looking out the window. He loves Mary’s office, even though it technically sucks. She’s alone at this end of the hall, it’s a trek down to the repair shop, the elevator seems like it’s out of order more than it works, and in the hot summer months the air conditioning struggles to cool the westward-facing room. But he feels like the good parts make up for the bad. Like the privacy it provides and how huge the space is; big enough for her desk, two chairs, a conference table, all of her file cabinets, and a loveseat that has seen more than a few naps from the Dagger Squad. Bradley’s favorite part is the large windows that give a perfect view of the airfield, from the tower all the way to the end of the runway and the ocean.

He’s watching waves form and crash on the breakers when Mary moves around her desk, the phone cord stretching as she closes and locks the door, her stockinged feet silent on the tile. She surprises him when she continues her loop, perching on his leg with Admiral Cain still chattering in her ear. For a moment, he’s frozen, completely taken off guard by this development and the nervous look on her face, but it doesn’t take him long to get on board.

Bradley sits up straighter, wrapping one arm around her waist to pull her onto his lap while the other grips her thigh to tug her legs over his other thigh. Mary’s free hand wraps around his shoulder, immediately playing with the short hair at the back of his neck, sending goosebumps across his skin.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir. I have to go; I have someone in my office I need to speak with about final deployment preparations. But I will make sure Admiral Simpson is aware of your feelings.” Bradley listens as he natters on for another minute, unsure how Mary keeps her cool.

“Yes, Admiral, I understand. Goodbye.” She slams the phone down. “You stupid fucking dickhead.”

“Wow, tell me how you really feel, honey.” His hand slips under the hem of her skirt when she leans back into his chest, her hands slipping around his shoulders as she crosses one leg over the other.

“That was me being nice. He’s lucky I actually care about keeping this job.”

Bradley doesn’t get a chance to respond because Mary is pressing their lips together. He instantly responds, tilting his head to meet her and sliding his hand up to cup her neck. She’s so warm and solid on his lap; he loves the weight of her pressing against him.

Time feels syrupy, slow and sweet, matching their pace. It’s taken them ages to get here, their first kiss, but there’s no rush, no urgency. It’s comfortable - loving - like they’ve been doing this for years. He’s in awe of how perfectly they fit together, their bodies instinctively reacting to each other. It starts to heat up when their tongues meet, the two of them pressing closer, closer, closer to taste each other.

Minty. She must've had a mint before I showed up, he thinks as his left hand slips further under her skirt. Bradley feels his brain break when he meets lace halfway up her thigh.

“Are you wearing thigh highs?” He asks, voice edging on desperate.

Mary nods, panting and looking gorgeous with her flushed cheeks. “I hate pantyhose, and it’s so much easier to just wear the garter belt.”

“Garter be-” He groans loudly, thankful no contractors are occupying the neighboring offices. “Fuck, Mary. Jesus Christ, you’re so goddamn sexy.”

Bradley presses a bruising kiss to her lips before making his easy down her neck, leaving teasing kisses up and down the sensitive skin. He undoes her top two buttons and tugs the collar aside to nip at her collarbone, perfume invading his senses.

Would it be weird to get a travel bottle of her perfume?

He knows he’s not thinking entirely straight, but he doesn’t think it would. He could spritz his pillow and fall asleep every night to the same sweet citrus and floral notes he’s smelling now. It’s that thought that has his hand wandering to her buttons again, his goal to get her shirt off and then maybe spread her out on her desk or bend her over the table or get her in his lap on the couch…

“Bradley, wait, we- shit!” Mary pulls him back to her face, chest heaving. “We still have meetings.”

“Shit. Right.” He abandons the buttons, instead choosing to play with the hem of her skirt while he closes his eyes and tries to calm down. Mary rests her head on his shoulder as she catches her breath. They sit there for a few minutes, enjoying each other’s company, just reveling in the way their bodies move in unison as their breathing starts to sync up.

“So, uh… not that I’m complaining, but where did that come from?”

“Don’t kiss anyone while you’re gone.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, honey.” Bradley nudges her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Why would I when I’ve got you waiting for me at home?”

“I just- I saw Melissa flirting with you and…” Mary trails off, and he understands.

“She can try to flirt all she wants, but she can’t compare to you, Mary. You’re so much better than her. She can’t even get my rank right, never mind the fact that she’s twelve years younger than me. Besides, I don’t like blondes, you know that.” He winks at her, making her laugh, which was his goal.

“Is that why you and Jake are always fighting?” She innocently blinks at him, teasing him for the pseudo-feud he has with his wingman.

“You think you’re funny, huh?”

“I know I am, actually.” Mary brushes their lips together. “Can do this whenever I want now.”

“Been wanting to do this for a while?” He asks between kisses.

She hums and nods slightly, more focused on slipping her tongue into his mouth again. “Ever since that first night at the Hard Deck.”

“You’ve wanted to kiss me since we met?

“M&M?” A knock on the door startles them apart, Mary almost falling off his lap, catching herself on the desk and rattling her knick knacks and picture frames. “You good, Vertucci?”

“Yeah! Yeah! I’m fine. What’s up?”

She springs off his lap, her cheeks redder than he’s ever seen, and he knows his match. It’s a good thing his uncle can’t see them through the frosted glass; they look guilty as hell, like two teenagers who got caught making out in the backseat.

“Well, I want to get set up for the meeting early, but I don’t know how the controls work in the VTC room. I was hoping you could show me since you have to be there anyway.”

Both of them relax, thankful he’s unaware of what he interrupted. Mary moves to open the door. “Sure, I can do that! I just-” She stutters to a stop after catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above her couch. It’s very obvious what they’d been doing.

“I just have a few things to take care of, and I’ll be down in a couple minutes!” She croaks, trying to rebutton her shirt and fix her hair at the same time.

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you there.” Bradley watches his silhouette turn away; his sigh of relief is premature when his uncle comes back after a few steps. “Oh, I almost forgot! Bradley? Mav is looking for you; go meet him in the hangar.”

All the blood drains from his face, and Mary turns in horror, their eyes meeting in terror. He clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. Take a few minutes if you need to!” This time, the silhouette walks all the way down the hall, laughing and whistling to himself the entire way.

“Oh my god. Oh my god! I can never speak to him again!” Mary moans, dropping onto the loveseat and burying her face in her hands.

“If it makes you feel better, he’s caught me doing worse.”

“Really?” He smiles at the way she peeks at him between her fingers.

“Unfortunately. I was bad about locking my door, and he was bad about knocking.” Her nose scrunches, obviously trying not to laugh at him. “It’s okay, you can laugh. You would think one of us would have learned after the first time it happened. Or the second. Or the third.”

He smiles as she snorts, pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound and sinking into the couch. Her laughter dies down as they stare at each other. Bradley doesn’t think he’s been happier than this moment, Mary smiling at him with her partially unbuttoned shirt and mussed hair.

“We should probably go.” She sighs and nods in agreement.

He watches as she fixes her shirt and smooths her hair in the mirror, inspecting her makeup before padding over to the corner.

“These are for you.” She holds out a container from the shelf above her mini fridge.

He looks through the clear plastic. “What are these?”

“I made you those peanut butter bites you liked so much. They’re not the most exciting thing, but they don’t have to be refrigerated, so you can take them on the carrier. And you should be getting a box about halfway through deployment, so make sure you send me anything you want so I can put it in for you.”

Bradley takes a shaky breath, unable to swallow the lump in his throat. No one had ever made him a treat to take with him, and it’s been years since he’s gotten a care package that wasn’t from a volunteer group. Despite the fact that he wasn’t speaking to Ice, Sarah had sent him packages during his first few deployments. But that stopped when Ice got sick the first time, and it didn’t start again when the cancer went into remission.

It sucked being the only one being passed a charity box full of things he didn’t like or need, but he understood. Their life was different at that point. New health rules to follow, more appointments, their kids were starting to have kids. There was no spare time for unnecessary things, like sending a box of goodies to a kid who was refusing to speak to them.

“Bradley?” His name is said quietly, and he looks up to find Mary looking anxious, her brow creased in worry.

He drops the Tupperware on her desk with a clang and pulls her into his arms, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth and hoping it conveys everything he’s feeling that he can’t quite say.

Thank you for thinking about me. Thank you for caring about me. I love you.

She reciprocates, matching him, knowing this is one of the last times they’ll see each other alone before he’s gone for two months.

“Thank you.” He whispers when they break apart, Mary smiling at him and pressing one more gentle kiss to his lips before pulling away to put her heels back on.

Bradley walks her to the conference room, his hand brushing hers, but neither of them bold enough to hold hands when anyone could catch them. He spends the time watching her, savoring the quiet moments they get to spend together. A quick glance into the conference rooms reveals his uncle fighting with the display screen behind the podium, so he pulls her to the side of the doors and, after thoroughly checking the hall, kisses her.

The first time of many that he’ll dare to kiss her in an empty hallway of NAS North Island throughout their lives.

“I’ll see you at the Hard Deck.” He murmurs against her lips before opening the door and waving at Slider.

“Finally! Mary, what the hell does “extend the display” mean?” Ron rolls his eyes when he sees his nephew staring at his mentee like a lovesick puppy. “Bradshaw! Get your ass to the hangar, now!”

Bradley snaps to attention, giving a sarcastic salute that he only gets away with is because there’s no one else around, and the admiral glaring at him also witnessed his many potty-training failures. He gives his uncle a genuine grin as he turns to leave, getting instructions to prop the door open and an overexaggerated wink in return.

He does as told and hesitates for a minute before stepping to the side of the doorway, hoping he understood the non-verbal hint correctly.

“So… you and Bradley? That’s something you didn’t mention the last time we talked, Mary.”

“It’s new, very new. Could you not say anything to anyone – not even Mav – for now, please?”

“You got it, kiddo. Just try not to hurt him.”

“I won’t, Ron. I lo-” She cuts herself off, and the silence of the hall is deafening. Bradley can hardly hear her continue above his racing heart. “I care about him too much to hurt him.”

His phone is continuously buzzing in his pocket, but he doesn’t bother to answer it; he knows it’s Mav or one of the Daggers looking for him. In a daze of excitement and nerves, he makes his way to the hangar, wishing more than anything that he wasn’t walking into the final deployment briefing. He wants to turn around, throw Mary over his shoulder, and drive them up the coast until they find a little mountain town with no cell service and stay there for two months instead.

“There you are! Rooster, what took you so long?” He should feel lucky that it’s just an exasperated Maverick he has to deal with and not Cyclone.

“Sorry, Mav, had to drop something off to Admiral Kerner.” It’s probably the wrong excuse to give, his uncles are definitely going to gossip, and he’s going to get so much shit tonight for it. But he can’t bring himself to care as he slips into his chair, smiling so big at Hangman that half the squad worriedly looks at him.

She loves me.

Mary loves me.

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