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daryltwdixon · 3 months ago

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Summary: Tensions rise as the three of you try to find clarity in the aftermath of lines crossed and feelings laid bare. In the weeks that follow, you begin to wonder if something this messy could still become something that lasts.

|| smut MDNI 18+, some mentions of pregnancy, angst and feelings, some fluff, dirty talk, pinv, blowjobs, love triangle (?), no outbreak, jealousy, possessiveness, power play, joel talks you thru it of course, fair warning this isn’t exactly healthy, bad communication, don’t do this ok EDIT TO ADD: threesome, some dubious consent at first then reader fully consents. Tommy is an asshole || notes: eeeehhehe okay I love this one. its a long boy! I listened to you and didn’t delete any of it lmao I love this dynamic so much and it makes me so happy to know everyone is as filthy as I am // pic of Joel & Tommy is mine //

“So, when you saw them, what went through your head, Tommy?” Dr. Servopoulos asked. The office was neat, almost unnervingly so. The walls were bare except for a few framed photos—serene lakes, white sailboats drifting across still water. A false sense of calm in a space built for unraveling things that weren’t calm at all. The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, a weak attempt to soften the weight of conversations like this.

It had taken a lot to convince either of the men beside you to come today.

Bringing anyone into this mess was hard enough, but laying it bare for someone outside the three of you, having someone watch, analyze, pick apart what happened behind closed doors felt like something private was being dissected under a microscope.

Joel hated this. You knew he hated this. He was a man who carried his feelings in silence, whose apologies lived in things left unsaid. He didn't do this—didn’t sit in stiff chairs like this, in stuffy offices like this, didn't put words to things that made his throat tight. Yet, he still agreed to be here.

And Tommy—you knew this was hard for him too. Not just because of what had happened, but because sitting here, having someone else pick at the wounds, meant acknowledging that things weren’t okay. That they couldn’t just fix it themselves. That you had invited someone in to see the cracks that had formed over the past few months.

It made the walls feel closer, the chairs feel stiffer, the quiet feel too loud.

You watched Tommy as he sighed beside you, his fingers rubbing at his brow. His eyes flickered to the doctor before dropping to the floor. “I don’t even remember,” he muttered. “S’like I’ve blocked it all out.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I do remember the right hook I gave ‘im when Joel was tryna say somethin’ to me.” His voice darkened. “Ya know. When they were finally dressed.”

The last word dripped with bitterness.

You flinched. Your fingers curled together in your lap, knuckles pressing tight.

Joel shifted beside you, the slight movement drawing your attention. He sat stiff in his chair, his thumb rubbing absently at the bruised, purple swell on his cheek—the evidence of Tommy’s fury. He hadn’t said a single word since the session started.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Dr. Servopoulos—”

“Tess,” she offered smoothly.

“Tess,” you amended. “We never meant… this was never supposed to get this far. I just want him to know I never—” You turned to look Tommy in the eyes. “I never intended for this to happen.”

Tommy let out a rough scoff, shaking his head. His arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

A quiet beat.

Tess glanced at Joel then, waiting.

Joel felt the weight of her stare and finally looked up. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable.

Tess raised a brow. “Anything to add?”

His jaw ticked. “What d’you want me to say?”

“You tell me, Mr. Miller.” Tess mused, tapping her pen against her notepad. “What about how you ended up sleeping with your brother’s wife?”

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. His knuckles flexed. “Didn’t start out that way.”

Tess hummed. “Right.” She flipped to a page of her notes. “So let’s lay this out. You—” she nodded at you, “wanted a baby. You—” she pointed at Tommy, “were willing to ask your own brother to be a sperm donor, which then turned into you—” she turned to Joel, “what, just doing your brother a favor? By sleeping with his wife?”

Joel’s fingers drummed against his knee. “I did say no at first. But yeah, somethin’ like that.”

Tommy mumbled under his breath, “Yeah. A real big favor.”

You swallowed.

Tess scribbled something down. “Okay,” she said, flipping her pen between her fingers. “So when you three agreed to try for a baby in this… hands-on way, you never foresaw the possibility of… complications?”

You shook your head, stomach twisting.

“Not once?”

“I didn’t think about it,” you admitted, voice small. “I thought we were just—we were focused on the baby.”

Tommy snorted, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah? Well, neither of you seemed focused on it when you were sneakin’ around.”

You flinched again.

Joel finally looked up at him, his expression dark. “We weren’t sneakin’.”

“Sure as hell felt like it,” Tommy shot back.

Tess sighed, leaning forward, her gaze flicking between the three of you. “Alright, let’s just call it what it is: things got complicated. Lines that were there for a reason got crossed. And the problem wasn’t you trying for a baby—it was everything that happened outside of that agreement.”

She gestured between you and Joel. “You broke the boundaries you set. Maybe you ignored it, maybe you thought you could handle it, but now you’re here. And not because the plan failed, but because you broke your own rules. You had sex outside of what you all agreed to.”

A brief pause. Her eyes scanned each of you, as if silently asking any of you to deny it, before she tilted her head.

“So let’s cut to it. Why are you here? What do each of you actually want?”

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know, okay?” His voice cracked slightly. “I just—I ain’t ready to throw away my marriage, but I also ain’t stupid enough to pretend like nothin’ happened.”

Tess nodded, absorbing his words before turning to you. “And you?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—” Your hands fisted in your lap. “I don’t want to lose either of them.”

Tommy’s head snapped toward you.

Joel’s fingers twitched.

You swallowed, your voice steadier now. “My marriage with Tommy is important to me. He is important to me.” You turned toward your husband, eyes pleading. “But things are complicated. Because Joel is important too.” You hesitated, shifting your gaze to Joel’s hands, his knuckles tight and white where they pressed together. “I don’t want to just cut him out of this just because of one mistake.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. His fingers drummed against his knee, his gaze flickering between you and Joel like he was waiting for something.

Tess sat forward slightly, pen poised. “And Joel?”

Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t wanna make things worse than they already are,” he muttered, voice low, unreadable.

Tess hummed, unimpressed. “That’s not really an answer.”

His fingers tapped against his knee. “Ain’t got another one.”

You turned toward him, heart pounding. “Joel.”

His jaw flexed, his eyes staying downcast away from you.

You didn’t push right away, letting the silence stretch between you before trying again, voice softer this time. “What do you want?”

His throat worked, but he didn’t speak.

Tess glanced between you both. “It doesn’t have to be a speech, Joel. Just say what’s in your head.”

Joel breathed in a slow, heavy breath, rubbing the heel of his hand over his mouth. His fingers dragged across the stubble on his jaw. When he finally looked up, his eyes locked onto his brother. “I know what we agreed to,” he said, voice steady but low. “I know this was supposed to be your kid, that I was just…” He trailed off for a second, shaking his head, like the word didn’t sit right with him. “That I was just helpin’.”

The room felt very still.

Joel shifted, his knuckles flexing against his knee. “But shit changed, Tommy.” His voice roughened. “I can’t just—" He exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. “I won’t just step back like this don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

The weight of it settled between all of you. Tommy’s knee bounced, his hands gripping his own upper arms where they were crossed. His mouth pressed into a hard line, but he didn’t speak, didn’t argue.

Joel swallowed, gaze flicking downward for a second before lifting again. “I ain’t askin’ for—” He hesitated, his jaw flexing like the words were hard to force out. “I don’t even know what I’m askin’ for.” His eyes flickered to Tommy’s. “But I do know I ain’t gonna be left out to dry.”

“No one said you would be,” you tried to soothe, your hand reaching to rest on his forearm, shaking your head. His skin was rough, warm, solid beneath your touch.

Your eyes traced the worn lines of his face, the quiet tension in his jaw as he looked at his brother. He was handsome in a way that felt etched into him, shaped by time and hardship, by everything he’d carried.

And you knew—better than anyone—how much Tommy meant to him. That neither of them trusted anyone as much as they trusted each other. That this needed to be amended before anything else could carry on between the two of you. You took your hand away from his arm.

Tess let out a slow breath. “Okay,” she murmured, nodding slightly. “Thank you, Joel. I think everyone needed to hear that.”

Joel’s fingers flexed again, and this time, his gaze flicked toward you, studying you for the first time since you arrived. There was something there—a charge, a quiet pull that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and you were only noticing it now, now that everything had changed.

You let the silence stretch as you kept your eyes on his, trying to read between everything he wasn’t saying. That he wanted to be part of this, that he wasn’t going to give this up easily.

Then Tommy sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Alright,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Then we gotta figure out what the hell we’re actually doin’ here.”

Tess tapped her pen against her notepad. “Right. So let’s talk about our options.”

“Options?” Tommy echoed, his voice edged with skepticism.

Tess nodded, uncrossing her legs only to recross them the other way. She leaned forward slightly. “The way I see it, there are ways to make this work—even if none of them are simple.” She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “But make no mistake: it’s going to take work.”

Her pen tapped lightly against the paper as she continued. “Let’s start with the obvious: you can walk away from this entirely, go your separate ways—but none of you seem too eager to do that. Or, you and Tommy could stay together, work on the marriage, and Joel can remain in the background. Be some kind of father figure to this child and nothing more.”

She lifted a brow and looked directly at him. “But I’m not sure, with how far this has gotten, that that’s actually what you want.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, tension shifting through his shoulders as his eyes dropped to the floor.

Then, quiet but certain, Joel said, “It’s not.”

Your chest tightened. The urge to reach for him surged again, stronger this time, but you didn’t move. You let him sit in the silence he’d chosen, even as it said more than anything else could.

Tess gave a small nod, like she’d expected that answer.

Joel didn’t elaborate. Didn’t look up. But the shift in the room was immediate. Whatever this had started as—it wasn’t just about the baby anymore.

Tess paused, giving the moment space before she spoke again.

“So the third option…How do we feel about the possibility of an open relationship?”

The silence that followed was thick, charged.

Tommy looked at you. You looked at him. Then at Joel. Joel stared at the floor, his jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Tess leaned her elbows on her knees, voice calm but direct. “I’ll be honest—I rarely see that work in situations like this. But it’s an option. If you’re willing to set clear, honest boundaries—and actually respect them.”

Tommy let out a breathy, humorless laugh, running a hand down his face again. “Boundaries. We’d need real ones this time. Ones that actually get followed.” His voice was edged, not cruel, but firm. “Not just shit we say and then ignore the second someone gets all… worked up.”

You tried not to let the flush creep onto your face as you kept your eyes on Tess as she went on.

“Now, let’s talk about Sarah.”

Joel immediately stiffened, his eyes shooting up to look at the doctor. Tommy did too.

“She doesn’t need to know about any of this,” Joel said, voice sharp.

“Not right now,” Tommy agreed. He turned to his brother, “But eventually, she’s gonna ask questions. And if we’re talkin’ about raising a baby together too, we can’t just not think about how this looks to her.”

Tess nodded, writing something down. “And if you don’t figure out what you actually are to each other, she’s gonna pick up on that long before you’re ready to have the conversation.” She flicked her gaze between all of you. “Kids are perceptive. The more unsure you are, the more confusing it’s gonna be for her.”

“When the time comes,” Joel said, measured, “I’ll tell her.” He glanced at Tommy, then at you. “Not before. Not unless she starts askin’.”

Tess watched him closely. “And if she does?”

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Then I’ll explain it to her. In a way that makes sense.” His eyes flickered between you and Tommy again. “She don’t need to know more than what’s right for her age.”

You let out a slow breath, nodding. “Alright.”

Tess closed her notebook. “Alright. It’s a start. But you’ve got work to do. This isn’t just about a baby anymore.” She looked directly at Tommy. “It’s about your marriage. About your relationships with each other.” Then her gaze flicked between you and Joel. “And whether or not you two can actually handle boundaries, or if this is just a slow crawl toward something blowing up in your faces.”

You swallowed. Joel’s hands clenched.

Tommy just sighed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The walk into the parking lot was a quiet one, with the buzzing of unsettled energy between the three of you. Once outside the door, you all seemed to turn to each other, waiting for someone to speak.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice soft. “Both of you. For coming to this. I know it was…” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Weird,” Joel offered, with a dry edge.

“Necessary,” Tommy muttered, crossing his arms.

You nodded, arms folding across your chest. “So…” you trailed off, unsure what came next. None of you were.

Tommy gave a short sigh and looked off toward the lot. “I’ll go grab the truck.” He didn’t wait for a response—just turned and walked, shoulders tight, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

You and Joel stood in the stillness he left behind.

He glanced at you, then away, rocking slightly on his heels. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say right now.”

You huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, like something was caught just behind his teeth—but he didn’t speak.

And you didn’t reach for him, even though you wanted to. Even though your hand twitched like it might. To squeeze his, to graze his wrist, to pull him close and maybe even kiss him goodbye. But it was still too weird. Too soon.

So instead, when Tommy pulled up and the tires crunched on the pavement, you stepped forward and let your fingers brush lightly over Joel’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just enough to say something without having to speak.

The window on Tommy’s side rolled down, elbow braced on the edge. He was watching his brother with a resigned look in his eyes.

Joel met his eyes. They exchanged a short, silent nod. Nothing more.

You climbed into the passenger seat, heart thrumming. Joel stayed standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, watching as the truck pulled away.

And even though nothing had been said… it felt like something had shifted. Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

For mid-October, the sun sure was baking you in the bleachers. But it was the good kind of heat—cozy, not oppressive. The air smelled like dust and hay and horses. Behind you, the fair buzzed with life—kids screaming on the roller coasters, bells ringing as prizes were won, music from the concert stage floating over the field like static.

The Austin Fall Festival was in full swing.

Tommy sat beside you on the sun-warmed metal bench, one hand deep in a bag of kettle corn, the other resting easy on your knee. Down in the arena below your seats, another bull rider went airborne, thrown like a ragdoll into the dirt. The crowd let out a collective wince.

“Damn,” Tommy said, watching the guy scramble to his feet. “That’s gonna bruise.”

You snorted, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Bruise? That man’s spine just folded in half.”

Tommy grinned, leaning in. “Bet I could do better.”

You raised a brow. “You can’t even get outta bed without your back crackin’ like fireworks.”

He laughed, mouth full of popcorn, then pressed a quick kiss to your lips—warm and familiar. “True. But I’d still look good tryin’.”

You smiled as you sipped your soda. The air smelled like caramel and something fried—probably the funnel cake stand you passed earlier. You sat close enough to the arena that you could hear the thud of hooves, the pop of the announcer’s mic, the wave of cheers and groans rolling through the stands behind you. It felt electric.

Sarah was up soon. Her first barrel race. She’d been buzzing about it for weeks.

You leaned into Tommy’s side, and he brought his arm up to wrap around your shoulders, giving you an affectionate squeeze.

This was good. A sense of normalcy again.

Then, a familiar face caught your eye making his way up the bleachers. Joel had a bag of cotton candy in one hand and was weaving through the crowd with ease up the stairs. He reached your row and slid in beside you, a small smile already on his face.

“Just left Sarah with her trainer,” he said, a little out of breath. “She’s up in the next few.”

Then he leaned in to greet you, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek meant to be just a casual familial ‘hello’. But still, his stubble scraped your skin just enough to leave a spark, and he smelled like horses and leather and that subtle cologne he always wore. It hit somewhere low in your stomach, but you didn’t let it show.

He greeted Tommy with a nod, and popped a puff of cotton candy into his mouth.

You made a face. “Ugh. How can you eat that stuff?”

Joel grinned around the sugar, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s what makes me so sweet.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your soda. Tommy reached down for more popcorn, his arm brushing against your back as he dropped his hand from your shoulder, and Joel leaned forward to watch the next event being announced.

You sat between them, shoulders brushing, the sun warming your back, the crowd rising around you.

For a moment, it almost felt like things could settle. Like the three of you could fit into this new normal—comfortable, easy, like it was supposed to be this way all along. At least you hoped.

The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, calling out Sarah’s name, and your heart gave a little skip.

“There she is,” Joel said, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

You leaned, too, eyes scanning the gate. Sure enough, Sarah was there behind the posts on her horse, nerves painted all over her posture even though she tried to play it cool. Even from here, you could just make out the furrow in her brow—the same quiet, determined look she got from her dad.

“She’s gonna kill it,” Tommy said beside you, resting his hand high on your thigh. He gave it a gentle squeeze, leaning into you as he said, “Ain’t no way she don’t win.”

You smiled, but it felt slightly delayed. Joel’s knee pressed against yours as he leaned close on your other side, eyes still locked on the arena.

“Hope she don’t cut that second barrel too close,” he muttered, mostly to himself, his voice low and rough. “She keeps doin’ that in practice. Gets excited and leans too early.”

“She’ll be fine,” you said, but you could hear the tension in your own voice. Joel’s hand had come to rest behind you on the bench, close to your lower back. Tommy’s fingers were still on your leg.

Sarah burst out of the gate, and the crowd roared. The three of you shot to your feet as her horse charged forward, hooves kicking up dust. She moved fast—tight, clean—rounding the first barrel like she’d done it a hundred times.

Joel was grinning ear to ear. “That’s my girl!”

His arm slid around your back, his other hand curled into a loose fist, pressed just beneath his mouth as if to contain the rush of emotion building in him. The hand at your back caught in the fabric of your blouse, fingers curling there, like he was tethering himself. Like he was bracing.

You tried to focus on Sarah, but all you could feel was the heat of his fingers, the way he clung to you, like your body was hyper aware of him.

You smiled, cheering, barely breathing, eyes fixed on her horse thundering toward the second turn. She hugged the barrel tight—too tight. A little wobble, a gasp from the crowd, but she corrected at the last second.

“She’s got it,” Tommy said beside you. His hand came to rest against the small of your back—right below where Joel’s hand was already bunched in your shirt. The two touches nearly met.

Neither of them moved.

Sarah charged toward the third barrel. Clean. Her final sprint down the home stretch brought the stands to their feet.

The three of you clapped, cheered, whooped, your heart racing, the electricity between the two men fizzing silently beside you. Tommy’s hand splayed wide across your backside. Joel barely moved, watching the timer screen flash across the display.

“That’s a good run,” he said, low and proud. His fingers loosened from your shirt, but he didn’t move his hand away.

“She’s gonna place,” Tommy agreed.

“She might win it,” you added, turning your head to look at them.

Both of them were already looking at you.

You smiled, flushed from the excitement—but something in the way they each looked at you made your skin feel hot for an entirely different reason.

Neither of them said anything, and for a second, the moment just… hung there. Their hands on you. The roar of the crowd fading into something muted.

Then the announcer called the next name, and the energy around you snapped back into motion.

Joel pulled his arm back to grab the cotton candy. Tommy slid his hand away like nothing had happened.

But your body remembered. And so did theirs.

After catching up with Sarah after her event, she was still buzzing with adrenaline. Practically bouncing.

“Did you see how fast he took that last curve?!” she gasped, practically skipping between you and Joel. “I was freaking out when the second barrel started to tip—did you see that?! Were you guys watching?!”

Joel was all pride and smiles as he walked beside her, teasing and nodding along, soaking in every word. She rambled on about her trainer’s horses, how they’d competed at Rodeo Austin for real, how she couldn’t wait to do it again. Eventually, she managed to talk the three of you into a round at the BB gun booth.

All four of you took a stance—Sarah coached dramatically, and you, predictably, failed miserably your first try. Joel and Tommy moved to the next round, and you watched from the side with Sarah, both of you hollering in support.

“Hit it! Hit it!” Sarah screeched at her dad. You let out a whoop as Tommy nailed the bullseye again and again.

When the game runner handed him a giant teddy bear, Tommy swung it into your arms with a triumphant grin before kissing you full on the mouth, unbothered by the crowd.

You laughed against his lips, hugging the bear tight, bouncing a little despite yourself.

“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah groaned, tugging at his arm until he pulled back from the kiss, grinning at her wide-eyed look. “Win me one too! Please?”

Tommy’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Joel, clearly amused that he was the one winning today. Joel rolled his eyes, but you caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long as he glanced at your oversized teddy hitched on your hip.

“Go on, then,” Joel said, nodding toward the booth. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”

“I’ll join you,” you added quickly, glancing toward Tommy. But Sarah was already dragging him away, his hands back on the BB gun, ready for round two.

You and Joel peeled off quietly, heading toward the food and drink stands.

“Sarah was beggin’ for a funnel cake earlier,” Joel said, hands in his pockets. “Okay if we stop by one of the stands?”

“Yeah, ’course,” you murmured, falling into step beside him.

The walk was quiet—not awkward, exactly, but the air between you had thickened. Every step felt like it carried the weight of something unsaid.

You hadn’t talked much since the therapy session. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. The three of you had agreed to give it space—to breathe, to not immediately push into definitions or rules or boundaries.

But space didn’t feel like clarity. It felt like walking on eggshells. Like waiting for someone else to speak first, only no one ever did.

You weren’t sure what this was supposed to look like now. The idea of exploring an open relationship had been thrown out into the room like a life raft, but no one had said if they were actually ready to grab onto it. Not Joel. Not Tommy. Not even you.

You made it all the way to the counter before either of you spoke again.

“Make that two funnel cakes, please,” you said, just as Joel ordered Sarah’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” you laughed, lifting a shoulder. “Can’t help the cravings.” You reached for your wallet. “I’ll get Sarah’s too.”

Joel stopped you, his hand catching your wrist as you moved to your back pocket.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, already pulling out cash.

Then, quieter—low enough that the vendor wouldn’t hear, but just loud enough for you—he added, “Guess that sweet tooth runs in the genes.”

Your heart stumbled a beat. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t smirk, didn’t wink, but you could swear there was a twinkle in his eye when he turned back to you as you both stepped aside to wait for your order.

And just like that, the silence settled back in—only now it wasn’t neutral. It was charged.

When the funnel cakes came, you didn’t hesitate—tearing off a bite, still warm and soft, powdered sugar sticking to your lips.

You sighed in delight. “Oh my God.”

Joel was watching you when you looked up. That slight smirk on his face.

“What?” you asked, mouth full.

“You got a little somethin’,” he said, gesturing vaguely near his own mouth.

You licked your lips automatically, tongue sweeping the corner.

“Nope,” he murmured, chuckling. “Still there.”

Before you could try again, his hand reached out. Fingers warm and rough as they curled under your chin. His thumb dragged gently across your upper lip, brushing away the sugar with a slow swipe.

You froze—your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes searched his face. The lights from the festival sparkled in his eyes, and behind him the sky had deepened into a wash of orange and violet.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he moved.

His lips brushed yours—soft, hesitant—like he wasn’t sure if this counted as crossing a line, or if the line had disappeared altogether. But he didn’t pull back right away. Instead, he paused there, the warmth of his breath ghosting against your mouth, and for a second neither of you moved.

You stood still in that sliver of space where touch becomes choice, where you could pretend it hadn’t happened yet. But then his mouth pressed into yours fully, slowly, like he was tasting something he already knew. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, drawn out and gentle.

His hand stayed at your chin, his thumb pinching just barely as if to steady you, and your lips parted instinctively beneath his. You felt the sigh in his chest more than you heard it, like something deep inside him had let go the second your mouths met.

Your hands stayed at your sides, fist clenched around the paper tray still holding your funnel cake, the other hugging the teddy bear to your side, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. It wasn’t a kiss born from adrenaline or jealousy—it wasn’t the kind of kiss that begged for permission. It simply was.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt. It was slow, like he didn’t really want to stop, but knew he had to. His lips hovered a moment longer—just close enough that you could still feel the heat of him—and then he stepped back half a breath. You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. You stood there staring at him, your lungs burning like you’d been holding your breath the entire time. Joel’s eyes dropped to your mouth again, and then, with a subtle flick of his tongue, he licked the last trace of powdered sugar from his bottom lip. The gesture was unthinking, automatic, but the sheer sight of it landed somewhere low and electric in your stomach, like a match being struck.

And then the world came rushing back in.

The noise of the fairgrounds—the buzz of voices, the bark of game operators, the soft whir of rides—returned all at once, like someone had turned the volume back up. You swallowed hard and looked away, trying to force air into your lungs, trying to stop the trembling in your fingers. Joel didn’t say anything. He just nodded once, almost to himself, and turned to start walking back toward the game booth. You followed beside him, the heat still high in your cheeks, your steps too careful, like if you moved too fast you might lose your balance.

You glanced up at him once, just to see if he was as composed as he acted, but the faint pink flush at the tips of his ears gave him away.

“Dad!”

Sarah’s voice snapped your head up. She was running toward you, a giant stuffed horse clutched in her arms, nearly half her size. She was beaming. “Can I go find Claire and Maddie again? They’re headed to the ferris wheel!”

Joel handed her the funnel cake without hesitation, “Yeah, go on, just stay where we can see you.”

“Thanks!” she chirped, already spinning away with her prize in tow, the funnel cake tipping dangerously as she ran off.

But your eyes weren’t on her.

They were on Tommy, just catching up to you—beer in one hand, the other stuffed in his front pocket, a smile on his face as he watched her go. When his eyes found yours, they flicked to Joel beside you, and something in his expression changed. Not angry, not suspicious… but aware. Like he was conscious of some shift between the two of you.

You tried to will the pink from your cheeks, steady the pulse in your throat as you stepped toward him and offered your funnel cake like nothing had happened.

“That kid had me goin’ three more rounds to get her that prize,” Tommy chuckled, clearly trying to break whatever tension had settled back between the three of you as he tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth.

Joel let out a quiet laugh, eyes following in the direction Sarah had run off. “Better go catch up with her before I lose ’er.”

Tommy nodded, then glanced at you. “Think we’ll call it a night after this. She’ll be wired for another hour and then crash hard.”

You smiled, grateful for the exit.

As Joel nodded and began to step away, Tommy called after him casually, “Hey—when you drop her off, mind swingin’ by the house? Think I left that box of tools in your truck bed last week.”

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure.” his eyes landed on you for the briefest moment, “See ya in a bit then,”

Tommy gave him a two-finger wave, then turned his attention back to you, the last bite of funnel cake pinched between his fingers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you walked out of the fair.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it felt like it stretched forever.

Tommy’s hand had been on your thigh from the moment he slid into the driver’s seat—steady at first, but now, it was creeping higher with every turn he made. His fingers flexed just at the top of your leg, the pad of his thumb brushing over your jeans in slow, distracting strokes.

“Tommy,” you said, a quiet breath more than a word.

“Yeah?” His voice was low, too casual for the way his fingers were moving now.

“You’re bein’ handsy.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Yeah, well. You’re lettin’ me.”

This wasn’t like him.

Yes, Tommy was affectionate—always had been. Touching your lower back as you passed through a crowd, brushing his lips over your shoulder while you stood at the sink, nudging your knee under the table just to remind you he was there.

But his gestures had never been… naughty.

Never anything that lit a fuse under your skin like the way his hand was gripping your thigh now. Never anything that made your breath stutter in your chest just from the press of his fingers curling possessively around your skin.

He was usually more careful with you. Gentle.

Tommy was the kind of man who waited until you were both tucked under the covers, warm and safe, soft and sleepy, before climbing over you with a smile and a kiss to your neck. The kind of man who made you smile first, made sure the world had quieted before he pulled you under.

You turned your head, looking at him from the passenger seat. He was focused on the road, jaw tight, eyes hard on the curve of the pavement as he turned into the neighborhood. But there was a spark there, flashing hot and alive beneath his usual easy exterior.

Your gaze slid down as he shifted in his seat, and your eyes caught on the undeniable shape in his jeans.

Heat bloomed in your face. Your chest. Lower.

The tight bulge in his lap pulsed like a secret between you, and it made your thighs press together involuntarily. But it wasn’t just the fact that he was aroused—it was that he wasn’t hiding it. That he was feeling you up in the front seat of the truck, on your quiet neighborhood street, away from the safety of the four walls of your bedroom.

Tommy, who usually waited until the house was dark and the doors were locked. Who kissed you slowly, slid his hands under your shirt and whispered “you okay?” even after years of being together.

He just slid his hand between your legs and gripped your inner thigh like he’d been thinking about it all night.

It sent heat rolling through you, sharp and dizzying. Not just from the touch, but from the awareness of how out of place it was. How unlike him it was to let go like this, to need like this, especially outside the safety of home.

And God help you—you liked it.

You pressed your legs together, your breath catching in your throat, trying to remember how to sit still while every nerve in your body screamed at you to climb into his lap and ride him right there in the middle of the road.

He felt your squirming as he pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching softly over gravel. The second the truck shifted into park and the headlights clicked off, the cab was swallowed in quiet shadow, only the streetlamp catching the edge of his jaw.

He turned toward you, that smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth—the kind that made your stomach flip. His hand slid from your thigh to the top of your seat, arm stretched across the backrest, his gaze drinking you in from the other side of the bench.

“C’mere,” he said, low and smooth, nodding for you to slide over.

You bit your lip, heart thudding, and obeyed without a word—scooting across the cracked leather until your thigh brushed his.

His hand dropped from the headrest to cradle the back of your neck, warm and firm. The other left the steering wheel, finding your cheek, fingers spreading across your jaw like he needed to anchor you in place.

And then he kissed you.

Not the sweet, half-thought kisses he’d given you throughout the day. Not careful, not playful. This was deep. Needy. Starving. Like he’d been holding it back for too long and didn’t care anymore if it showed.

His mouth slanted over yours again and again, open and hot, tongue sweeping past your lips like it belonged there. The soft sounds he made—those low, growling hums that rumbled in his throat—sent heat surging through your core.

Your breath stuttered as his grip on your neck tightened, his other hand trailing slowly down from your face to trace along your body until it was back at your denim clad thighs. He gripped hard, his palm sliding up along the seam of your jeans, squeezing just enough to make you shift in your seat.

When he tugged gently at the base of your hair, just at the nape, a moan slipped from your throat before you could catch it.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

He huffed a breath against your skin, already moving to your neck, kissing a line down the column of your throat. His mouth was open, his tongue slow, dragging heat behind every press of his lips, and then—teeth. A soft bite that made your body jolt.

“Wanted to get my hands on you all day,” he muttered between kisses, voice muffled against your skin. “Lookin’ so pretty,”

You whimpered, nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as he worked lower, pushing your neckline aside with one hand just to mouth at the new skin he found there.

You were panting now, flushed all over, your thighs pressing together as he kissed, bit, sucked like he was trying to brand you.

“Tommy,” you breathed, completely undone, and when he looked back up at you—lips swollen, eyes dark—you barely recognized the hunger in his face.

“Get your ass inside,” he rasped. “Now.”

You climbed out the passenger door, giddy like a teenager all over again, your skin still tingling from his hands and mouth and voice. As you made your way up the walk, Tommy’s hand came down in a playful smack against your rear, making you squeal and laugh over your shoulder at him.

He didn’t smile—not fully. His eyes were too dark, too focused. But the edge of his mouth twitched like he was barely holding himself together.

By the time you reached the door, his chest was already at your back, his arms snaking around you, mouth grazing your ear. “You drive me crazy, baby… you know that?” he murmured, voice low and breath hot.

You fumbled the keys, giggling as he pressed closer. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to himself.”

“And you didn’t stop me,” he whispered, nuzzling your jaw. “Didn’t want to, did you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The door clicked open and the second you were inside, his hands were on you again—spinning you around, backing you up against the wall just inside the entry. His mouth crashed into yours, deeper this time, slower but no less desperate. His hands slid up your sides, over your waist, thumbs hooking into your belt loops to keep you flush against him.

He kissed you like he hadn’t touched you in weeks. Like he’d been starving for you.

By the time you pulled apart for air, you were both breathless and a little dizzy.

“Upstairs,” he murmured, voice ragged, his hands slipping down to grab yours, guiding you behind him.

At the top, he didn’t even pause—just pulled you straight into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind you with one solid thud. And then his hands were back on your hips, his mouth on your throat, and whatever this was—it wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.

Your back hit the bedroom wall with a soft thump, and Tommy barely gave you time to catch your breath before his mouth was on you again, pressing into the curve of your neck, open and hot, his hands splayed across your hips like he couldn’t keep his hands still.

You gasped as he nipped at the base of your throat, your hands tangling in his shirt, gripping the fabric tight. He groaned softly against your skin, one hand sliding up under your top, rough fingers skimming over your ribs like he needed to feel all of you.

“Tommy—” you breathed, but it came out more like a sigh.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling hard, eyes dark and locked onto yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head before the words even formed. “Don’t.”

That was all he needed.

He tugged your shirt up, slow but sure, breaking contact just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it to the floor. His eyes dropped, sweeping over your bare skin like it physically pained him to look away. One of his hands slid behind you and unclasped your bra in a smooth motion, and let it slide from your shoulders. His hands were reverent, warm and wide as they came up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the groan that left him was raw, almost pained.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, like a thought spoken out loud.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his stomach and chest. He helped you the rest of the way, yanking it over his head and tossing it behind him. His mouth was back on you before you could get a good look, lips trailing heat down your collarbone, your sternum, the swell of your breast. He kissed your flesh until you were arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans next, and you gasped when he popped it open and dragged the zipper down, his knuckles grazing the skin just below your belly. You toed off your shoes, the soft thud of them hitting the carpet barely registering over the pounding in your ears. His hands slid to your waist, and he dropped to his knees, pulling your jeans down inch by inch, kissing the skin he uncovered like it was a map he already knew by heart.

By the time he got your jeans off, his mouth never left your skin, kissing along your hip bone, his breath hot and shaky. His hands slid up your thighs, slow and worshipful—until they weren’t. Until they were gripping.

His fingers dug into your flesh, pulling you closer as he moved up to kiss your stomach, chest, throat—claiming every inch like it was his and his alone. You were breathless by the time he kissed you again, and when he pushed you back onto the bed, you went willingly, your back sinking into the sheets, arms stretching above your head.

He hovered over you, eyes tracing every inch of your face. And then something flickered there. Something sharp.

“You let him touch you like this?” he asked, voice low but tight, as his hand moved between your legs, cupping you over your panties. The lace was already damp beneath his fingers, your arousal bleeding through the fabric. He dragged a finger along the center, slow and deliberate, and you felt the heat bloom deeper as the pressure built.

Your breath caught. “Tommy—”

“Just tell me,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. “Did he touch you like this?” He pressed the heel of his palm in, slow but firm, dragging a moan from your lips even as your brows pulled together.

“Stop,” you breathed, trying to push up on your elbows. “It doesn’t matter.”

But he shook his head, his hand sliding your underwear down your thighs, slow and rough all at once. “It does to me.”

He kissed you again—deeper this time, almost bruising until his hands guided you to roll over, his touch less gentle now, more insistent. He pulled your hips up until you were on your knees, chest pressed into the bed, your face turned toward the pillows. You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him—hot and hard, the blunt weight of his cock pressing against you.

You arched back into it instinctively, needing him to forget everything else, to just feel this—feel you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, pushing into you with one steady thrust that made you gasp, your fingers curling into the comforter. “Always been mine.”

You moaned, eyes shutting tightly as he moved inside you—rougher now, his rhythm firm, controlled, but not cruel. Just desperate. Like he had something to prove.

Every sound that left him was strained, thick with emotion—his hands spreading across your hips, his thumb trailing up your spine like he needed to feel every piece of you to believe this was real.

The sound of your moans and Tommy’s grunts filled the air, the sheets rubbing against your skin beneath you, it was almost loud enough to drown out the front door opening.

But then you heard his voice.

“Tommy?”

Your eyes flew open, breath catching in your throat. That was Joel’s voice coming from downstairs. Your mind scrambled to remember why the hell he was here. And then you remembered Tommy’s request. Some stupid tool box he needed.

Tommy stilled for half a second—just long enough for your heart to lurch—before he started moving again, slower this time, deeper. Like he was doubling down.

You grunted, biting your lip to swallow the moan that threatened to give you away. Your hand scrambled for the edge of the sheets, something to grip, something to hold you to earth.

Your blood ran hot and cold all at once.

Joel’s voice came again—closer. “You home?”

“We’re up here,” Tommy called back, voice completely steady.

No.

Your entire body tensed under him, your head whipping to the side, eyes locked on the closed bedroom door.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, panicked, but he only dropped more of his weight onto you, one hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, the other tightening around your hip. You were locked in place beneath him, your breath coming fast.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Tommy cooed, his voice sweet but mocking as his hips kept moving, slow and steady and deep. “Ain’t gonna stop now.”

There was a creak on the stairs.

Your heart slammed into your throat.

“Tommy,” you hissed again, but it came out half-broken, your voice catching in your chest.

And then—

The door swung open.

“Jesus—” Joel flinched hard, turning away with a grunt and lifting a hand to cover his eyes. “What the hell, man!?”

Tommy didn’t stop.

His grip on you tightened, his thrusts slowing just a hair—but only to lean down, breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “That what you wanted, huh? Him seein’ you like this?”

You whimpered, caught between mortification and a heat that made your knees weak.

“Tommy—please—” you gasped, struggling half-heartedly beneath him.

But he was gone.

“Think you can just fuck my wife whenever you want?” Tommy growled, looking over at Joel now, chest heaving, voice thick with rage and something else—something darker. “Think you do it better?”

Joel turned slightly, eyes caught somewhere between fury and disbelief. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind—”

“Have I?” Tommy snapped, his voice low and dangerous as he fucked into you harder now, like he was trying to prove something with every movement. “’Cause she’s drippin’ all over my cock right now. You seein’ this?”

You let out a broken sound, face buried in the mattress. You wanted to crawl out of your skin—and yet the way Tommy was holding you, the filthy things coming out of his mouth, the heat between the three of you…

It was too much.

Joel’s mouth opened like he was about to say something else—but he didn’t.

He stared.

He stayed.

And your heart nearly exploded as Tommy chuckled low in his throat, thrusting deep and slow again like he wanted Joel to see it.

“That’s right,” Tommy said, never looking away. “Go on. Watch. See what it looks like when a man takes care of what’s his.”

“Call this takin’ care?” Joel said, voice low, sharp with something mean and taunting beneath the surface.

Your eyes flicked up, wide, and found his—and the heat there made your breath catch.

“Tell me, little brother,” Joel drawled, “you ever felt her come all over that dick of yours?”

Tommy’s movements faltered. Just for a second.

You felt it—his grip loosening slightly on your hips, his breath catching.

Your heart was in your throat, beating so hard it hurt.

Joel stepped forward, slow, measured. His eyes dragged over your body—not like it was new to him, but like he knew every inch of it already. Like he could trace it blind, by memory alone.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured.

Then his gaze locked with yours.

“Should we show him, sweetheart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped clean through the mattress. “Show him what he’s been missin’?”

Your mouth parted, no sound coming out.

Joel tilted his head, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Think my pissy little brother needs some pointers?”

Tommy let out a rough breath behind you, a mix between a growl and a scoff, his hand sliding up your spine possessively.

“She’s my goddamn wife,” he snapped, but his voice wasn’t steady anymore.

Joel’s gaze flickered up, darkening, “Then fuckin’ act like it.”

The silence was deafening—so thick you could hear your own pulse in your ears.

Tommy’s hands flexed on your hips again. And then he thrust—hard. Deep. A sound ripped out of you that wasn’t quiet at all.

And Joel’s expression changed. Softer. Almost smug. Almost… proud.

“She sure makes the prettiest sounds, don’t she?” he said, and he approached the bed. Your skin felt like it was on fire as Tommy stilled completely, but he was still hard inside you to your surprise.

“Turn her over,” Joel said steadily.

Tommy’s head snapped toward him. “Get the hell out.”

“You invited me in here, little brother.” Joel’s tone was exasperatingly calm.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Both men. In the room with you while you were naked and taking your husband’s cock.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, wild and uneven, like it was trying to warn you. Or maybe it was just overwhelmed.

You didn’t know where to look. Joel, standing there with that infuriating calm like this was just another Tuesday. Tommy, still inside you, bristling with fury, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as he tried to process what was happening.

And you—trapped in the middle, hips pinned beneath the man you married, body still burning for the one you hadn’t stopped thinking about since that first night.

You should’ve felt humiliated. You did. But your skin still tingled everywhere Joel’s eyes touched.

Tommy was quick to snap at his brother, “And now I want you out.”

Joel didn’t flinch. “And what do you want, sweetheart?” he asked, gaze cutting to you, his head tilted slightly as his eyes took in the flushed features of your face.

You exhaled slowly, your lungs feeling like they’d deflated. Your mouth was dry, but you licked your lips anyway, then turned your face to look back at Tommy, biting down gently on the inside of your cheek.

Tommy’s face twisted in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Just…” you breathed, heart pounding in your throat, “let’s just see. It could be fun.” You swallowed. “We haven’t made any rules yet.”

Tommy looked between the two of you—his jaw tight, his eyes wide, stunned. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before he finally pulled out of you, breath ragged. “Alright. Turn over.”

You moved quickly, your skin flushed and glowing, body still trembling as you flipped onto your back. The sheets were warm under you, your thighs still slick, still open.

Behind you, you heard the unmistakable rustle of clothes—the metal clink of a belt, the soft drag of a zipper—and then Joel was there.

The heat of him hit you first. He was so warm, and as he stepped to the side of the bed, the mattress dipped slightly with his weight.

“This is so fuckin’ weird,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head as he moved to kneel between your legs again.

You sat up a little, cupping his face, dragging your hand down the center of his chest, his stomach. “I love you,” you whispered, searching his eyes. “If you don’t want this, we stop. Say the word.”

Tommy stared down at you for a long second. His lips pressed together, pulled inward like he was thinking too hard. His eyes flicked to Joel, then back to you.

He sighed, jaw clenching. “Just this once. And if it doesn’t work—”

“Never again,” you finished softly, nodding.

Only then did you glance up at Joel.

He nodded once, slow and assured, his hand already moving to the bulge in his briefs. Your eyes followed—broad chest, tan skin, strong forearms—and you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned back, just slightly, hand drifting up to cup him through the fabric. Joel exhaled, low and rough, eyes fluttering shut as your palm rubbed against him.

“Show him,” you said softly.

His eyes opened again, sharper now, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Not sure he deserves it after all that attitude,” Joel muttered, voice teasing but laced with heat.

“Joel—” you warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes—but his voice was dark now, thicker. “But then it’s my turn.”

You watched him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, pushing them down with one slow motion that revealed all of him—hard, heavy, already flushed. Your breath caught at the sight, heat flooding through you like a second pulse.

He fisted himself gently, watching you, waiting.

Above you, Tommy shifted. You turned to look at him and his mouth was drawn tight, eyes hard with conflict. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he moved closer, settling between your legs again, hands sliding up your thighs.

You stared up at him, unsure if he’d really go through with it. But then he lined himself up, his cock dragging through your folds, and you gasped at the contact.

He sighed low, almost like relief, as he sank into you with one long, slow push. The weight of him settling into your hips, the feeling of him filling you again—it made your head fall back, your mouth falling open.

The tension in the room turned molten.

Tommy’s hands slid to your thighs, gripping tight like he needed something to hold on to. His eyes flicked up to Joel, who was still settled at your side, close enough now that you could feel his presence, warm and electric.

You barely registered Joel moving until you felt his hand close around your wrist. Firm. Certain. He guided your hand to his cock—thick and hot and heavy—and curled your fingers around him like he was placing something sacred into your palm.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around the head, soft and swollen and already leaking, and sucked—slow, reverent, like you’d been dreaming of this since the last time. And you had been.

Joel hissed through his teeth, his hand threading through your hair as you hollowed your cheeks and pulled him deeper. “Good girl,” he muttered. Your entire body clenched at the praise.

Tommy groaned above you, building up his thrusts, erratic and messy as you pulsed around him.

“Slow down,” Joel said, calm, instructive. “Long, even strokes. Deep.”

Tommy cursed under his breath but obeyed, grinding into you with a slower, heavier rhythm that made your whole body arch forward, your mouth taking Joel deeper.

“Good,” Joel murmured. “Now thumb her clit.”

You whimpered around his cock, the sound thick and broken. Tommy’s thumb slid over your swollen clit in soft, careful circles, and your whole body clenched around him.

“She’s grippin’ the hell outta me,” Tommy breathed. “Fuck.”

Joel’s voice was right above you now, rough but steady. “Spit on it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Spit on her clit. She likes it messier.”

You moaned, mouth full of Joel, your thighs twitching.

Tommy grunted again, but when you felt the warm wet hit of spit on your skin, you moaned loudly, hips bucking. His thumb slid through the slickness building there, the glide smoother, filthier, perfect.

“That’s it,” Joel growled. “Keep her right there. Thumb her just like that. Don’t stop. Her throat is squeezin’ me so good when you do that.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your body was clenching up, something coiling in your spine and hips as he kept up the pace. Joel’s cock dragged across your tongue, thick and pulsing, while Tommy thrust into you—slower now, more precise, but still not quite enough.

You loved Tommy’s rhythm—the care in it, the way he was doing everything to get you there, the way he wanted to get you there. But your orgasm wasn’t building the same way. It was harder to catch, harder to ride. Joel’s cock had a weight, a stretch that reached something deeper in you—something that made your body respond instantly. With Tommy, it took more. He was only slightly smaller, narrower, not lacking, just… different.

Still good. Still yours. But different.

“She’s close,” Joel said, voice ragged now, eyes locked on your face. “I can feel it.”

Tommy groaned, cock twitching inside you as you clenched down hard. “Jesus, she’s—fuck, she’s so tight.”

“You wanna come for Tommy, sweet girl?” Joel asked, still beside you on bed, one hand fisted in your hair where it spilled across the bedspread, thumb brushing softly over your cheek.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his—and in the same breath, Joel guided his cock back between your lips, sliding into your mouth with a slow, deliberate push that made your throat stretch and burn in the best way.

You gagged softly, the movement rippling through your body. Tommy moaned at the sudden convulsion of your walls around him, his one hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave bruises. The other kept circling your clit with his thumb, your eyes warring between rolling back and trying to focus on Joel.

“Fuck—she just—goddamn,” Tommy breathed, his hips faltering for half a second before finding that rhythm again. Deep, slow strokes that had your whole body arching beneath him.

Joel pulled back with a wet pop, a string of spit and precum connecting your lips to the flushed tip of his cock. You were gasping for breath, whimpering and moaning as he leaned down close, hovering just over your face, thumb wiping at your mouth like it was his.

You were hovering now, your spine tingling with the build up. So close. But not there yet. Your body wanted more.

And Joel knew.

Of course he knew.

“Tommy’s got you so full, huh?” Joel murmured, voice like gravel soaked in honey in your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Still not enough to make you come, greedy girl?”

His breath brushed the shell of your ear, and your whole body twitched.

You couldn’t answer—not with words. But your eyes found his, wide and pleading, glassy with need. You looked up at him from where your head rested on the sheets, Joel crouched beside you now, shadowing over your face like he could read everything you couldn’t say aloud.

And he could. He always could.

Your chest rose with a broken breath as your mouth parted—no sound, just air. One of his hands stayed tangled in your hair, grounding you. The other drifted down, palm dragging with reverence over your chest, and when it reached your breast, his touch went still.

He watched you as if testing the waters. The second your back arched into his palm, just a little, the faintest tremble of pleading… he smirked.

“There she is,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your nipple slowly and deliberately before twisting and palming, kneading your flesh. Your thighs jerked and your eyes fluttered closed, breath stalling in your throat.

Joel leaned in, voice like silk soaked in heat.

“Gonna have to beg him for it,” he murmured, this time loud enough for his brother to hear, dragging his thumb over you again as your back arched once more. “Go on. Show him how sweet you sound when you’re right at the edge.”

He kissed your temple, lips warm and just barely there before sitting up again.

“Show him what you gave me.”

Your breath was a broken thing, chest heaving, your legs locked around Tommy’s waist as his cock filled you over and over again, his thumb grinding against your clit with every thrust. You could barely speak—but you tried.

“Please,” you whispered, blinking up at Tommy. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes were wide, blown out, sweat dripping from his brow, “Fuck,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

“Please, Tommy,” you gasped, fingers gripping his arms. “Please let me come—need it—need it so bad.”

Joel’s hand moved from your hair to stroke slowly over his cock at the edge of the bed, gaze flicking between your face and Tommy’s. “There it is,” he murmured. “You hear that? That’s yours, little brother. Make her fuckin’ come on your cock.”

Tommy’s rhythm picked up, driving into you with slow, hard strokes that hit deep, his thumb never stopping the delicious circles over your clit just like Joel had told him.

Your head fell back. Your thighs shook. Your whole body started to come apart.

As your jaw fell open, Joel took your mouth again—his cock thick and slick as it pressed past your lips, filling your mouth with one steady thrust. You welcomed it greedily, your moan muffled and broken, your tongue flattening beneath the weight of him.

Your back arched off the bed, body seizing with pleasure as your orgasm hit like a tidal wave—white-hot, all-consuming. Joel’s hand was back in your hair, holding you down, guiding your mouth as your throat fluttered around him, his cock pressing deeper with every pulse. The other squeezed and twisted your breast as you rode your high.

Tommy groaned loudly above you, his voice rough, desperate, like he’d just been torn open.

“Holy fucking shit,” he gasped, and his hips jerked once, twice—then stilled.

You felt it. The heat of him spilling into you, thick and heavy, your cunt already so wet and wrecked it only made you twitch harder around him. His breath stuttered out in harsh bursts, body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside you.

“That’s it,” Joel growled. “That’s a good girl, baby.”

He fucked your mouth with slow, controlled strokes—gentle now, reverent—before finally pulling out, letting you fall back against the bed with a gasp, your chest heaving as your climax still rippled through your body.

Your vision blurred at the edges, nerves lit up like static. You barely felt Tommy at first—his hands adjusting on your hips, his breathing shaky.

Then, after a long, weighted pause, Tommy slowly eased back, slipping out of you with a wet drag that made your entire body jolt. You gasped softly at the loss, walls still fluttering from your orgasm, sensitive and aching.

The room went quiet again, thick and buzzing under the surface. You could hear Tommy’s breathing above you, could feel the shift in his body as he sat back on his heels, one hand sliding down your thigh as if to steady himself. He moved slowly to sit against the headboard, breathing heavily.

Your pulse thrummed at your neck, loud in your ears. You turned your head toward him, your skin flushed, lips swollen, heart racing. Tommy’s eyes found yours—dark, uncertain, something different behind them. Not anger or sadness, but something new and raw.

“Tommy,” you whispered, voice low, hoarse. You swallowed. “Can he…?”

You hesitated, heat prickling across your cheeks. You weren’t even sure what words you were looking for. You just knew what you needed.

“Can Joel… please?”

Tommy’s eyes scanned your face, then dropped to where your thighs were still parted, to the slick between them, to the tremble in your breath. He took a slow inhale, like he was weighing the cost of the question. Then he nodded. “Go on then. Show me what’s worth all this trouble.” You could swear there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a faint crinkle at the edge of his eyes. Not quite a smile. Maybe a dare.

Joel was already moving.

His hands found your body—confident, warm, rough as ever—as he pulled you up onto your knees and flushed your back against his chest. His arms wrapped around you easily, like they belonged there. Like he knew this body like the back of his hand.

You inhaled sharply at the feel of him behind you—solid muscle, the heavy press of his cock nudging against your lower back. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. His voice was low, rich, and dripping with something that made your skin tighten.

“Hope you’re payin’ attention, little brother,” Joel murmured, his grip tightening on your waist. “Gonna show you just how sweet she sounds when she gets what she needs.”

You watched Tommy’s jaw clench, and you muttered a short warning to Joel, “Stop,”

Joel ignored you and his hand slipped down between your legs, fingers gliding through the mess Tommy left behind, gathering it in his fingers and spreading it through your puffy center, making your thighs shake.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Still so wet.”

He let his fingers trail back up to your hip, palm splaying across your stomach as he held you there—against him, for him, like he was staking his claim right in front of Tommy.

Then he shifted. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, thick and already slick from your mouth. Your breath caught.

“Hold on to me,” Joel murmured. His other hand slid up, cupping one of your breasts, his mouth brushing just behind your ear as your arms held tightly to his splayed over your torso.

And then he pushed in—slow, deep, deliberate.

Your body seized the moment he started to push in. The stretch was immediate—thicker, deeper, unforgiving. Your legs trembled, a broken moan slipping from your throat before you could stop it. It felt like your body forgot how to breathe, how to think—every nerve lit up as he filled you, inch by inch, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Pressure bloomed deep in your core, sharp and aching, and still he kept going, his cock dragging against every hypersensitive spot until your thighs were shaking, your nails biting into his arm.

You gasped—"Joel!" sharp and high—and your head fell back against his shoulder like you couldn’t hold it up anymore. Your mouth parted, but no words came out. Just sound. Just a helpless, wrecked whimper that made Joel groan behind you.

Joel gritted his teeth, voice strained through a groan. “Fuck. Always so tight for me, baby. Takin’ me so good. Feels like he barely even touched you."

“Fuck off,” Tommy snapped from somewhere below you, voice rough, and you didn’t need to look to know he was watching—his breath hitched, uneven.

Joel noticed, too.

“My little brother’s gettin’ all worked up again,” he rasped, his cock sliding deeper, arms tightening around you. “Look at him, baby. Watchin’ you take my cock like this.”

You lifted your head just enough to find Tommy’s face—jaw locked, hand slowly fisting his already hardening cock as he sat back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.

Joel’s hand slid back between your legs, fingers circling your clit with unrelenting precision as he fucked you slow and deep.

“Talk to her, Tommy,” Joel said roughly.

Tommy shook his head, jaw clenched. “I—I don’t—”

“C’mon,” Joel grunted, thrusting into you harder, making you cry out. “You don’t want me talkin’ all this shit? Huh? Even if it makes her this wet—” his fingers slid lower, gathering slick, “—thinkin’ of us fightin’ over this sweet, perfect pussy?”

He fucked up into you hard as he growled, and it made you gasp in pleasure.

“Then talk, dammit.”

Tommy’s breath stuttered. You looked at him—desperate and open, mouth parted. You watched his throat bob as he tried to swallow whatever pride or hesitation was left.

Then, finally, his voice came low, rough, uncertain.

“You like this, baby?” he rasped, the words strange in his mouth but soaked in truth as he leaned forward, looking up at you. “Like me watchin’ while he fucks you?”

You moaned, the sound unholy and obscene as your body twitched. You tried to nod while Joel’s cock dragged deep again, slow and relentless, the stretch still too much, still perfect.

“Oh, she fuckin’ loves it,” Joel growled in your ear. His palm slid up your chest, fingers curling over the other breast as he kept your back flush to him. “That look on her face? All fucked-out and needy.”

Tommy let out a shuddering breath. His eyes never left yours.

“Look at you,” he said, a little bolder now. “You’re so pretty like this. Letting us ruin you.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs were shaking again, a whimper escaping as Joel’s fingers found your clit once more, slick and swollen. He rubbed you just right—tight, insistent circles that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Joel grunted. “You close again, baby? I can feel it. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

Tommy leaned forward, looking up at you as he reached for your trembling legs, rubbing your skin and kneading it in his hands as his cock twitched in his hand, “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for us. Show us how much you love bein’ ours.”

That did it.

Your body clenched hard, a cry ripping from your throat as the orgasm slammed into you—fierce, fast, and overwhelming. You trembled violently, hips jerking, mouth open but wordless as you came again, harder this time, unraveling between them.

You were still shaking when your body started to shift—Joel's cock still buried deep, grinding against your overstimulated walls with every slow, hungry thrust. You reached forward, chest dropping toward the bed, bracing yourself on your hands as you whimpered through the aftershocks.

But you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Tommy,” you gasped, voice hoarse and half-broken. “Let me—please, let me touch you. Wanna make you come again.”

You reached for him blindly, your hand finding his thigh as he knelt close, cock hard again in his grip.

He looked stunned, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, baby,” he muttered, and he looked up at Joel, “How the hell are you still goin’ after that? The way she gripped me when--”

Joel gave a low, breathless laugh behind you, his thrusts never faltering. “Not my first time, remember?”

He leaned forward over your back, his voice rough and possessive in your ear.

“She gets like this,” Joel said, fucking into you harder now, making your arms tremble. “Once you open her up, she just needs. Can’t help herself, can you, baby?”

You moaned, loud and desperate, your hand finally wrapping around Tommy’s cock again, bringing it into your mouth.

Your husband groaned, hips twitching toward your touch. “Fuckin’ insatiable,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

Joel grinned, lips brushing your shoulder before pulling back to straighten, gripping your hips. “She’s gonna milk us dry.”

You moaned at the filthy words, too far gone to be embarrassed, too full to care. You rocked between them, wrecked and desperate—Joel’s cock dragging deep inside you with each powerful thrust, your mouth stretched wide around Tommy’s length, tongue flattened along the underside.

Every time Joel thrusted forward, it shoved you farther onto Tommy’s cock. Your throat clenched, gagging slightly, and both men groaned—low and guttural at the dual sensation of your body constricting around them.

Your eyes watered, spit pooling at the corners of your lips as you tried to breathe around it, the slick sounds obscene in the best way.

Tommy’s hand came to your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your jaw as he looked down at you. His face was tight with restraint, flushed and glassy-eyed, jaw twitching, “Look so pretty with a cock in her mouth, doesn’t she?”

Joel grunted behind you, slamming deep, making your body jolt forward. “Sure does,” he growled. “Takin’ us both so good, baby. Just like that.”

You whimpered, the only sound you could manage, body fluttering with overstimulation, throat spasming around Tommy’s cock as he hissed through his teeth.

Joel’s grip tightened, his thrusts getting faster, more desperate, and you could feel the wave starting to build again—relentless, all-consuming. You didn’t know how much more your body could take.

“Come on, baby,” Tommy groaned. “Fuck—your mouth feels so good, sweetheart. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Joel leaned in, his voice thick with heat. “You gonna come again with your mouth full, baby? Think you can come for both of us this time?”

Your whole body responded—tightening instinctively, like those words alone triggered something deep inside. Joel’s hand slid beneath you, and you flinched with a soft gasp as his fingers found your clit again—soaked, swollen, aching from how close you already were.

It was too much. Too good. You couldn’t take it, and yet your body begged for more.

The touch was too light at first—then perfect. Circling. Pressing. Your spine arched, your thighs trembled, and your moan vibrated around Tommy’s cock, still heavy and hot on your tongue.

You could barely register where one of them ended and the other began—just pressure and stretch and friction and heat. Joel’s thrusts stayed deep and punishing, perfectly timed with the slow drag of his fingers.

Suddenly your whole body locked, muscles spasming as another orgasm tore through you—sharp and blinding, your vision whiting out as you clenched hard around Joel’s cock, milking him through every brutal thrust.

You moaned around Tommy’s length, the sound desperate and guttural, and that was all it took for either of them.

Joel cursed behind you—low, rough, wrecked. He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself as deep as he could go, spilling inside you with a broken growl. His hands were shaking where they gripped your hips, holding you there like he couldn’t let go.

The hot pulse of him filled you completely, thick and heavy, and the sensation only dragged your orgasm out longer, your legs trembling violently beneath you.

Tommy let out a choked moan above you, his hips stuttering as your throat fluttered around him. His hand cupped your cheek, and with one more shaky breath, he came—spilling into your mouth with a soft, desperate, “Fuck, baby.”

You took it all, swallowing around him as gently as you could, the muscles of your throat still spasming from Joel’s final, deep thrusts.

Then—finally—everything slowed.

Tommy pulled back with a groan, slumping onto the bed beside you with a heavy exhale, one arm flung over his face as he tried to catch his breath. Joel eased out of you from behind, and you whimpered at the emptiness, already missing the stretch of him, the weight. Your body felt boneless, dazed and trembling, as you rolled to your side and melted into the mattress beside Tommy.

Joel didn’t stay far. Within seconds, he collapsed on your other side with a low, satisfied grunt, still half-wrapped in heat and sweat. His arm slid beneath your head, pulling you gently against his chest until you were tucked in close, skin to skin, your cheek resting just below his collarbone.

You were fully tangled between them now—Joel’s leg brushing yours, Tommy’s chest warm against your back, his hand finding your thigh and resting there like a grounding weight.

The heat of three bodies lingered in the air—sticky and quiet and strangely comforting.

Tommy’s hand found your stomach and gave it a slow rub, and when you looked over at him—he was watching you, not angry, not brooding. Just… tired. And stunned.

You let out a laugh. A small, breathless one, but real.

Then another.

Your face tucked against Joel’s arm, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Joel chuckled too—low and lazy, like he couldn’t even muster the energy to be smug, “Troublemaker.”

Tommy let out a breathless huff, still holding you tight, and nuzzled into the curve of your neck. “I’m not sure I survived that,” he murmured, and then he started laughing too—open, surprised, stunned, “Feel like I blacked out halfway through,”

You turned your head toward him, smiling wide, and kissed the side of his mouth. “You were perfect.”

The three of you fell into an easy silence, wrapped up in sweat and warmth and the quiet hum of something unspoken—something new.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, his chest shaking from a chuckle, “Think we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”

And for the first time in a long time, the three of you were laughing together.

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goofygubegubler · 3 months ago

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𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅

Spencer throws out a comment so uncharacteristically bold that even Morgan is speechless.

wc: 768 | F!Reader (established relationship) | cw: VERY suggestive

A/N: I’m honestly blown away by all the love on my first fic—thank you so much! I’ve got more in the works, including blurbs and maybe even a few one-shots. My asks are open, so feel free to send requests or just chat! Hope you enjoy this one—it's short and oh so sweet <3

Your desk was a mess—files spread out, coffee half-drunk, and a notepad filled with half-legible scribbles. Across from you, Spencer was deep in his own pile of paperwork, meticulously writing everything out by hand, as usual. Despite having access to every digital tool imaginable, he still swore by pen and paper, claiming it helped him retain information better. It was kinda endearing, in a stubborn, old-man way.

You were in the middle of reviewing a case file, flipping through pages while absentmindedly tapping your pen against your desk, when you heard Morgan stroll over to Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Morgan said, dropping his coffee onto Spencer's desk with a thud. “You mean to tell me you, the guy who once used the word ‘cloacal kiss’ in casual conversation, has nothing to say about his own mating habits?”

Your fingers hovered over your mouse as you scrolled through your playlist on your monitor, hesitating between switching to something instrumental or letting the indie rock keep playing. Oh boy. Here we go.

Spencer barely looked up, flipping a page in his file. “Because, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to turn my personal life into locker room talk.”

Morgan grinned. "I’m just saying, man, if all that reading has you treating sex like a final exam, I got some study guides for you."

Spencer finally lifted his head, blinking at him like he was the dumbest person alive. “Morgan, your definition of 'expertise' is having a lot of experience. Mine is actually understanding the mechanics of what you’re talking about.”

Morgan scoffed. “That’s not even—listen, Savannah and I are solid, okay? And I’m just saying, for a guy who overexplains everything, you sure get real quiet about this topic.”

Spencer gave him a flat look, putting his pen down. "Morgan, sex isn’t complicated. It’s just applied physics with a little bit of chemistry—and if done correctly, some very impressive biology."

JJ, who had apparently been listening in, snorted. "That might be the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said—and that’s saying something."

Morgan threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about! The man could turn seduction into a science fair project."

Morgan pointed at Spencer, then at you, then back at Spencer, clearly trying to form a comeback. Before he could, Spencer sighed and said, "Morgan, what do you want me to say? Yes, I have sex. Yes, I enjoy it. No, I’m not about to give you a play-by-play."

Morgan opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, searching for something—anything—that wouldn't result in him taking yet another loss. Finally, he let out a deep sigh, grabbed his coffee, and pointed a finger at Spencer. "We're not done."

Spencer just smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Morgan, I hate to break it to you, but we were done the moment you started this conversation."

You were still working, or at least making a half-hearted attempt at it, but you weren’t exactly subtle. Your grip on the pen had tightened, your page-flipping slowed, and the barely-contained smirk on your face was giving you away completely. Spencer noticed—of course, he did. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, and the way his lips curled just slightly told you he knew you were listening.

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Don’t act like you didn’t hear that."

You huffed, shaking your head as you clicked play on your music.

The first few soft notes of "Juno" by Sabrina Carpenter filtered through your headphones.

But your mind was already elsewhere—lingering on the way Spencer had leaned back so casually, how he hadn’t hesitated once, how damn sure of himself he had been. You bit your lip, heat crawling up your spine. You liked the way he’d said it—like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Like he enjoyed it. Like he was claiming something, not just stating a fact. And that was the part that really got to you. You liked being seen, being wanted, being talked about like you were something worth studying, something worth knowing inside and out.

But you were at work. And work meant focus, control, and professionalism. You exhaled, straightening in your chair and forcing your attention back to the case file in front of you. Even as you tried to push it aside, the heat still curled in your stomach, his voice replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

And then, as if on cue, Sabrina Carpenter’s voice cut through the moment:

"Sorry if you feel objectified."

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instantdataservices · 2 years ago

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youtube

सभी को नमस्कार, इंस्टेंट डेटा सर्विसेज में आपका फिर से स्वागत है। मैं आपको इस वीडियो में उस सॉफ़्टवेयर से परिचित कराने जा रहा हूँ जो छवियों को HTML में परिवर्तित करता है। किसी छवि में निहित दृश्य जानकारी को मशीन-पठनीय HTML प्रारूप में बदलने की प्रक्रिया को छवि से HTML रूपांतरण के रूप में जाना जाता है। त्वरित छवि से html रूपांतरण सॉफ़्टवेयर के बारे में, छवि से HTML रूपांतरण सॉफ़्टवेयर एक प्रकार का सॉफ़्टवेयर टूल या सेवा है जो छवि फ़ाइलों को, आमतौर पर JPEG, PNG, या GIF जैसे प्रारूपों में, HTML और CSS कोड में परिवर्तित करने की प्रक्रिया को स्वचालित करता है। फ़ायदे: दक्षता: रूपांतरण प्रक्रिया को स्वचालित करके समय और प्रयास बचाता है। उपयोग में आसानी: उपयोगकर्ता के अनुकूल इंटरफेस इसे सभी कौशल स्तरों के वेब डिजाइनरों और डेवलपर्स के लिए सुलभ बनाता है। ☏ Contact Us :+91-8919508962 ( Instant Data Services ) Website : http://www.instantdataservices.com/in YouTube : / @instantdataservices4010 Email : [email protected]

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theobservatory · 4 months ago

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｡⁠☆Loser Boyfriend｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠

☆Cw: one use of "her", Mina calls you girl once, embarrassment, fluff, humor, rookie!prohero!deku

"Izuku, dude, no offense, but how did you land that?"

Izuku turns to Denki, looking just as lost as he does. There's a little flush on his cheeks and a wide eyed expression on his face. The boy looks like a confused baby dear, which truly only adds to Denki's confusion.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Teach me your ways." Denki says, comically whipping out a notepad from his pants pocket. "Did you grovel? Cry? Feed her a love potion but disguise it as juice so that she would drink it, but have no clue what it was?"

"N-No of course not!... And I'm pretty sure that would be illegal anyway..."

Denki shrugs, "Hey I don't know your life. You could be into some weird shit on the down low, you seem the type!"

Izuku responds with an eye roll. If anyone 'seems the type' it's Mineta and Denki himself. They turn back towards you instead of continuing the conversation. You're still in the same position you were in before; fully leaned over the back of the couch, legs closed with one slightly hanging in the air, while the rest of you is inside Mina's personal space giggling at something she's showing you on her phone.

You're in some cute little outfit that Izuku helped you pick out, a rare case, since Izuku still wears almost exclusively punny t-shirts and sweats. The only reason he helped is because it's your first time meeting his friends and former classmates, you just wanted to make sure the outfit wasn't too little or too much. This is not to say he was much help.

Izuku feels almost entranced by you, and you're not even looking at him. You haven't glanced his way since Mina took your attention, actually. Izuku could start pouting if he wasn't too busy ogling your backside. He's so busy he misses the picture Denki snaps at the enraptured look on his face.

"C'mon man, let's go raid the snacks before Kaachan forces us to leave the kitchen."

Denki's arm around Izuku's shoulder shakes him out of his stupor and he nods in agreement, not really having heard what he said at all. He allows Denki to lead him to the kitchen with only minimal glancing behind his back, just to get a little more time to soak in your image.

But he doesn't expect your eyes to catch. He has no time to prepare for the heat in his pink cheeks to spread to his ears, no time to prepare for your smile to make his heart thump in his chest. It makes him lightly stumble in his steps and turn to face forward again, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

"Oh, Izu! Can you come back for just a sec?"

Izuku breaks out of Denki's hold with not a single lick of hesitation, embarrassment be damned. His world shortens and zooms in when you talk, the feeling of embarrassment, as well as Denki's voice, becomes muffled in the face of it. None of that matters if you're the one who needs him.

"Look at this picture Mina has of you!"

It's the picture All Might took of him before he bulked up. The one where he's dirty and sweating and crying after trying to haul a fridge across a beach. Izuku thinks he might die. Where did she even get that picture?

His face must say a lot, because both you and Mina burst out laughing. You're trying to reassure him, but you're laughing so hard you're struggling to gain a breath to string words together. If the floor swallowed Izuku whole right now, he would be grateful. It was a terrible idea to bring you to meet his classmates, especially a gossip like Mina.

"Oh, baby no, don't look like that!" You gasp, placing a hand on his shoulder. It's not nearly as comforting as you're trying to make it be.

"Izuku you look like a total loser, good thing you gained some muscle there, pipsqueak!" Mina chortles.

"Oh stop it! He doesn't look like a... Loser... I think it's cute!"

"Keep telling yourself that!"

Izuku has never considered the merits of getting hit by a bus before, now is a better time than ever to start.

Your arms wrap around him, and he instinctually hugs you back. You press your still smiling face into his chest, and turn towards Mina, still a little breathless.

"It's okay Izuku, I'll protect you from Mina's mean words." You giggle.

Mina is quick to start booing you, but Izuku doesn't miss the picture of him being sent to an unsaved number in her phone. Oh she's going to get it next time they spare together, and he will make absolutely sure it is soon. She doesn't get to run away from the enemy she has created today.

"Whose side are you even on, girl?" Mina huffs playfully, turning back to her phone and sitting back down on the couch.

The party goes smoothly after that, mostly because Izuku doesn't leave your side for the rest of the night. He refuses to let any of his other classmates show you blackmail. Even when you go to the bathroom he stands right outside the door, waiting for you to come back. At one point during the night Katsuki told him he looks like a stray puppy, and before he could deny it, you responded, "it's cute, part of his charm". He elected to ignore the way it made his chest puff out.

He likes to believe you think of him less as a puppy and more of a guard dog. He will not be confirming or denying this with you.

Before long, the party is over. Despite the little mishap with Mina earlier, he's satisfied. You were both fed well, and you very clearly had a good time with his friends, so he considers the night a success. He knew that you'd been nervous about the whole thing, his reassurances hadn't done much to sway you, but you had a great time. Just like he said you would.

As he's pulling the car out of the driveway, you turn to him, a mischievous smile spread across your face. Izuku hopes you don't notice how heavily he swallows when you look at him, your expression is making him nervous.

"Mina sent me that picture of you."

The car lurches as he slams on the brakes. "She gave you her phone number?! Noo she's gonna show you how much of a loser I am!" He whines, putting his head into the steering wheel.

"Izu, my love, you are a bonafide prohero who's about to hit the top 30 barely two years out of highschool, you are not a loser."

Izuku turns to you with a wobbly smile, forehead still lying on the steering wheel. "U-Uhm no, I totally am. Hero work aside."

You giggle, his heart stutters again.

"Well you're my loser then."

"Yours?" Izuku flushes.

"Mine."

And well, being a loser isn't so bad if it means he gets to be yours. Your boyfriend. Your guard dog. Your puppy. Your loser. Your anything. He can be anything, as long as he's yours.

Love men who are losers and very smitten for their sweethearts, what can I say

｡⁠☆Requests open

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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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Order Up

chef!Max Verstappen x vegan!Reader

Summary: in which an unstoppable force (the stubborn Michelin-starred chef of a glitzy steakhouse) meets an immovable object (the vegan just looking for something she can actually eat) … and the rest, as they say, is history

The steakhouse is packed, the ambient light just dim enough to cast a flattering glow over everyone at the long wooden table. Glasses clink together in a chorus of celebration, laughter, and conversation filling the air as your friends lean in close to chat. The table is filled with shared appetizers — charred octopus, beef tallow truffle fries, the occasional bacon-wrapped date — but you’re preoccupied with the thick menu in your hand.

“What’s good here?” You ask, keeping your voice casual. But inside, you’re already scanning for the little green leaf symbols that typically offer you some respite. There’s not a single one. It’s all meat, meat, meat.

“Everything,” someone pipes up. “But definitely the steak.”

You give them a polite smile, already sensing the dilemma growing in your chest. You could’ve sworn someone mentioned the place had plant-based options. But this is a Michelin-starred steakhouse — it seems like steak is the only thing anyone’s interested in tonight.

“Anything catching your eye?” You friend across the table asks, eyes bright with excitement.

“Not exactly.” You chew on your lip, setting the menu down. “I’m, uh, vegan.”

A silence falls over your corner of the table, the chatter continuing elsewhere as your friends stare at you. You feel your cheeks heat up, the familiar twinge of anxiety flaring up as you mentally prepare for the usual questions.

“Vegan? Seriously?” One of them finally says, brow furrowing. “You’re in the wrong place for that.”

“Yeah, it’s just ... it’s my thing, you know?” You laugh lightly, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sure they can whip something up in the kitchen, right?”

“I don’t know, this place is pretty strict,” another friend comments, glancing towards the kitchen doors as if expecting a sous-chef to pop out and reprimand you. “But you could ask.”

You take a breath, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll ask.”

The waiter approaches, a polished smile on his face as he sets down more drinks and asks if you’ve made any decisions. You tilt your head, giving him a hopeful look.

“I was wondering if the kitchen could prepare something vegan?” You say, your voice steady but polite. “I didn’t see anything on the menu, and-”

“I’ll ask the chef,” he cuts in smoothly, though there’s a slight twitch in his jaw as he scribbles something in his notepad. “One moment.”

As he disappears towards the back, your friends exchange wary glances. You try to brush it off with another easy smile, though your nerves are prickling beneath the surface.

“This could be interesting,” someone says, raising their eyebrows. “Michelin-starred chefs aren’t exactly known for accommodating special requests.”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping this one’s different,” you say, half-joking, though you can’t shake the knot in your stomach.

The seconds tick by, each one dragging out longer than the last. You sip at your water, making small talk, but your mind is already in the kitchen, imagining what kind of chef you’re dealing with. When the kitchen doors finally swing open, you feel a flutter of anxiety — and maybe a little curiosity.

He’s not what you expect.

Max Verstappen storms out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel with an intensity that makes the air crackle around him. His blue eyes are sharp, his jaw tight, and there’s a heat in his expression that has nothing to do with the stoves behind him. He’s annoyed. No, more than annoyed — he’s furious.

And when he locks eyes with you, you feel like the world narrows down to just the two of you.

“Who asked for vegan?” His voice is clipped, Dutch accent thick, and it’s obvious he’s not here to make friends. Your friends glance between the two of you, sensing the impending storm, but you lift your chin, refusing to be intimidated.

“I did,” you say, matching his intensity with your own steady gaze. “Is that a problem?”

Max narrows his eyes, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “This is a steakhouse,” he says slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a child. “A Michelin-starred steakhouse. I don’t make rabbit food.”

“Then maybe tonight you could make an exception,” you reply, keeping your tone even but firm. “I’m sure a chef of your caliber could whip something up.”

A scoff escapes him, and for a moment, you think he’s about to walk away. But instead, he steps closer, the heat of his presence almost tangible. “You think I’m going to ruin my kitchen with tofu or whatever it is you people eat?”

You blink at him, thrown off balance for a second by the sheer force of his disdain. But you gather yourself quickly, leaning forward slightly. “So you’re saying you can’t do it? That it’s too much for you?”

The challenge hangs in the air between you, thick with tension. Max’s jaw clenches, his eyes sparking with something dangerous. But then, to your surprise, he laughs — a short, harsh sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not making you anything,” he says, finality in his voice. “You should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

“Maybe I would have, if I’d known the chef had such limited skills,” you retort, not backing down.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. But then, something shifts. The anger in his expression falters, replaced by something else — something almost amused.

“You’re really pushing it,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel a strange thrill at that, your pulse quickening. “I’m just asking you to do your job. Isn’t a good chef supposed to cater to all his customers?”

“A good chef is supposed to maintain the integrity of his menu,” he shoots back. “Not cater to every whim that walks through the door.”

“Maybe a great chef can do both,” you say quietly, watching him closely.

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gaze intense and unreadable. You’re not sure what you expect him to do next — yell, walk away, maybe call security to kick you out — but what happens is the last thing you expect.

He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” you reply, heart pounding. “I just know what I want.”

Max holds your gaze for a moment longer, then straightens up, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “You’re not going to win this,” he says, but there’s a hint of something in his voice — a challenge, maybe.

“We’ll see about that,” you reply, giving him a small, almost defiant smile.

He doesn’t smile back, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads back to the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind him with a decisive thud.

The table is silent for a moment, everyone exchanging wide-eyed looks as if they can’t believe what just happened. Your heart is still racing, your mind replaying the exchange over and over, analyzing every word, every glance.

“Did you just ...” one of your friends starts, trailing off in disbelief.

“I think I did,” you reply, a bit dazed yourself. But beneath the shock, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction. You’re not sure what it is — maybe the fact that you stood your ground, or maybe it’s something else, something about the way Max looked at you in those final moments.

Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling more alive than you have in a long time.

“Okay, that was intense,” someone else says, still staring at the kitchen doors. “Are you sure you want to keep pushing him?”

You take a breath, letting the adrenaline course through you. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good luck with that,” another friend mutters, though there’s a hint of admiration in their voice.

You don’t need luck, though. Not with this. There’s something about Max — something infuriating and fascinating all at once — that makes you want to see how far you can push him, how much he can take before he cracks. You’re not even sure what you’re aiming for — his respect, his irritation, or something else entirely — but you know you’re not backing down.

The minutes pass, and the chatter around the table picks up again, though you can tell everyone’s still on edge, waiting to see if Max will come back. You sip your water, trying to calm the lingering buzz of energy in your veins. Part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake, if you’ve pushed too far, but another part — a bigger part — knows that this is exactly where you need to be.

When the kitchen doors finally swing open again, the table falls silent once more. Max strides out, his expression unreadable, and heads straight for you. He doesn’t have a plate in his hands, and for a moment, your heart sinks, thinking he’s come out just to reiterate his refusal.

But instead, he stops in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’m not.”

He studies you for a long moment, his blue eyes piercing. Then, to your surprise, he sighs — a heavy, resigned sound.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply, lifting an eyebrow.

He lets out a low, frustrated growl, but you can see the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. The tension between you is still palpable, but it’s shifted — softened in a way that neither of you acknowledges.

“All right,” he finally says, his tone somewhere between exasperation and something almost like admiration. “I’ll make you something.”

Your friends exchange surprised glances, but you keep your gaze locked on Max, not letting yourself get too excited just yet. “You don’t have to,” you say, though the look in your eyes says otherwise.

“I’m doing this once,” he warns, pointing a finger at you like it’s some kind of punishment. “And if you don’t like it, you’re not getting a refund.”

You bite back a smile. “Deal.”

He narrows his eyes at you one last time before turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen. The doors swing shut behind him, and this time, the silence at the table is charged with something new — something like disbelief, mingled with anticipation.

“What just happened?” Someone finally asks, breaking the spell.

“I think Max Verstappen just agreed to make a vegan dish,” you say, a touch of incredulity in your own voice.

“That’s got to be a first,” another friend chimes in, shaking their head. “You’ve got some kind of magic power.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been all night. “I don’t know about that. I think he just likes a challenge.”

“Or maybe he just likes you,” one of them says, waggling their eyebrows suggestively.

You roll your eyes, though a part of you wonders. There was something in the way he looked at you — something beyond just irritation. But you push the thought aside. Whatever this is, it’s not something you can figure out in the middle of a crowded steakhouse.

The minutes tick by, and though the conversation at the table picks up again, you can feel the undercurrent of curiosity running through your friends. They’re all waiting to see what Max will come up with, and honestly, so are you. The anticipation builds, your mind racing with possibilities — what could a Michelin-starred chef possibly make that’s both vegan and up to his standards?

When Max finally reappears, he’s carrying a single plate in his hands. He walks with purpose, his expression serious, but there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. As he approaches, the table falls silent again, everyone leaning in to see what he’s brought.

He stops in front of you, holding out the plate with a sort of grudging respect. “Here,” he says simply.

You look down at the dish and feel your breath catch. It’s stunning — an artful arrangement of roasted vegetables, grains, and a vibrant sauce that you can’t quite place. It’s clear that he didn’t just throw something together — he put thought into this. Care, even.

“This looks amazing,” you say, genuine awe in your voice.

Max shrugs, though you can see the faintest hint of pride in his expression. “I told you — just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

You give him a small smile, something warm blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”

He nods, but before he can turn away, you add, “I’m serious. It really means a lot that you did this.”

For a moment, his eyes soften, and you see a flicker of something vulnerable beneath his tough exterior. But then he smirks, the mask slipping back into place. “You’re just lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Is that what this is?” You tease, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer, just gives you a look that says more than words ever could. Then, with a final nod, he heads back to the kitchen, leaving you with the dish in front of you and the lingering feeling that something significant just happened.

You take a bite, and it’s even better than it looks. The flavors burst on your tongue, rich and complex, and you can’t help but smile. This is more than just food — it’s a statement, a challenge met and won.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Your friends order their steaks, and while they rave about their meals, you’re completely absorbed in your own, savoring every bite. You can’t help but steal glances towards the kitchen every now and then, wondering if Max is watching, if he’s thinking about you as much as you’re thinking about him.

By the time dessert rolls around, you’re almost too full to eat another bite. But when the waiter places a plate in front of you, you freeze.

It’s a small, delicate dessert — something that looks like a cross between a tart and a cake, with a perfectly smooth layer of chocolate ganache on top. But that’s not what catches your attention. Written in dark chocolate sauce across the edge of the plate, in neat, precise handwriting, is a phone number.

You blink, staring at it, your heart skipping a beat. Your friends lean in, catching sight of it as well, and their reactions range from gasps to stifled laughter.

“No way,” someone whispers, eyes wide with disbelief.

You can hardly believe it yourself. But there it is — clear as day, an unmistakable invitation.

You glance towards the kitchen, and just as you do, the doors swing open again. Max steps out, catching your eye from across the room. For a moment, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you again, the noise and bustle of the restaurant fading into the background.

He gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod — an acknowledgment, a dare. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving you with your friends and the plate in front of you.

“Are you going to call him?” One of them asks, their voice tinged with excitement.

You stare at the number, feeling a rush of adrenaline. “I don’t know,” you admit, though a smile is already spreading across your face.

But deep down, you do know. Because this — this little gesture, this playful challenge — feels like the start of something. Something you’re not quite ready to let go of.

You pick up your fork, take a bite of the dessert, and let the sweetness melt on your tongue. It’s perfect — just like everything else he’s made tonight. And as you savor the taste, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something far more interesting than you ever expected.

***

The kitchen is filled with the scent of something sweet and savory, a blend of spices and roasted vegetables that wafts through the house and wraps around you like a warm blanket. You’re perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, one hand absentmindedly resting on your growing belly, the other holding a glass of freshly squeezed juice that Max insisted you drink, despite your protests that you were perfectly fine with water.

“You need the vitamins,” he had said, the Dutch accent that once made you bristle now soothing in its familiarity.

“Max, it’s fine,” you replied, but he had just given you that look — the one that says he’s not backing down — and you relented with a sigh, knowing there was no point in arguing.

Now, you watch as he moves around the kitchen with a practiced ease, his hands deftly chopping, stirring, and seasoning. It’s a sight you’ve grown accustomed to over the years, but it never fails to fill you with a mix of awe and gratitude. He’s changed so much since that night at the steakhouse, when he’d been all sharp edges and stubborn pride. Now, those edges have softened, replaced by a quiet determination to make you happy in every way he can.

“How’s it coming along?” You ask, taking another sip of juice and trying to ignore the flutter of excitement in your stomach that has nothing to do with the baby.

“Almost done,” Max replies, glancing up at you with a smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Patience, liefje.”

“You know I’m not good at that,” you tease, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of what he’s cooking.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he continues to stir the pot on the stove. “I know. That’s why I’m hurrying.”

You can’t help but smile at that, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a comforting embrace. It’s moments like this that make you realize just how lucky you are — how much you’ve both grown together, built a life together. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been worth it.

“What are you making, anyway?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

He gives you a sly look, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’ll see.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he retorts, his voice full of playful confidence.

“Unfortunately, yes,” you admit with a mock sigh, though the smile on your face gives you away.

He laughs softly, the sound deep and full of affection. “Good thing, too.”

You watch him for a moment longer, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and contentment. He’s wearing an apron over his casual clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the steam rising off the stove. There’s something almost domestic about the whole scene, but it’s more than that—it’s the intimacy of knowing someone so well, of sharing your life with them in all its messy, beautiful complexity.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” You ask, your voice softening.

Max glances at you, his expression tender. “Not today.”

“Well, you are,” you say, feeling a sudden rush of emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He pauses, the spoon in his hand hovering over the pot as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You won’t ever have to find out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a promise.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that, but it never fails to hit you with the same force, the same certainty that you’ve found something rare and precious in each other.

Before you can respond, he turns back to the stove, breaking the moment with a casualness that belies the depth of what was just said. “Besides,” he adds, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone, “I’m pretty sure you’d starve without me.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky as you try to regain your composure. “You’re probably right. But I’d find a way.”

“Not as well as I do,” he counters, his voice filled with mock arrogance.

“True,” you admit, watching him with a smile. “You’ve ruined me for all other chefs.”

“Good,” he says, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “That was the plan.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the warmth that spreads through you. He’s always been confident, sometimes to the point of being infuriating, but there’s a sincerity to it now that wasn’t there before—a genuine desire to take care of you, to be there for you in every way.

“Are you going to let me taste whatever masterpiece you’re working on, or do I have to wait until it’s perfect?” You ask, trying to peek over the counter again.

“Patience,” he repeats, though there’s a glint in his eye that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Max,” you whine, drawing out the syllable in a way that you know he can’t resist.

He sighs dramatically, as if you’ve just asked him to perform some Herculean task, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. But just a taste.”

He picks up a small spoon and dips it into the pot, then turns and walks over to you, holding it out with a flourish. “Here.”

You take the spoon from him, your curiosity piqued. The aroma is intoxicating, and when you bring the spoon to your lips, the flavors explode on your tongue — rich, savory, with a hint of sweetness that lingers just long enough to make you want more.

“Oh my god,” you say around the mouthful, your eyes widening in surprise. “This is amazing.”

“I know,” he says, clearly pleased with himself as he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “I had to do something special for my girls.”

You swallow, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a soft, gentle wave. “Girls, huh?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re still convinced it’s a girl?”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart swell. “Just a feeling.”

You smile, resting a hand on your belly. “Well, I’m sure she’ll love whatever you cook for her.”

“She better,” he replies, though his voice is teasing. “Or I’m sending her back.”

You laugh, the sound filling the kitchen and easing the last remnants of tension in the air. “Too late for that.”

“Damn,” he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face as he turns back to the stove, stirring the pot with practiced ease. “Guess we’ll just have to keep trying.”

You watch him for a moment, your heart full to bursting with affection. He’s taken to this whole thing — pregnancy, impending fatherhood — with a kind of devotion that you never expected, but that somehow doesn’t surprise you at all. He’s always been all in, whether it’s in the kitchen or in your relationship. It’s one of the things you love most about him — that relentless drive to be the best, to give his all, no matter what.

“You’re going to be a great dad,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Max pauses, his hand stilling on the spoon. For a moment, he just stands there, his back to you, and you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, if maybe it’s too soon, too much. But then he turns, and the look on his face — full of vulnerability and determination — takes your breath away.

“I’m going to try,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I promise.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, you reach out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it gently. He squeezes back, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that’s so simple, so familiar, and yet it says everything you need to hear.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, clearing his throat and breaking the spell. “I’ve got something else for you.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

He smirks, pulling his hand away and turning back to the counter. “Just wait.”

You watch as he opens the fridge and pulls out a small tray, carefully covered with a cloth. He sets it on the counter and, with a dramatic flourish, pulls the cloth away to reveal ... a plate of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicately shaped and glistening with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

“Vegan croissants,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. “Made from scratch.”

Your jaw drops, and you stare at the pastries in disbelief. “You made these?”

“Of course,” he replies, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I told you I’d figure it out.”

You’re speechless, the effort and care he’s put into this gesture rendering you momentarily stunned. You know how much work goes into making croissants, and the fact that he’s done it just to satisfy your cravings — it’s almost too much.

“Max,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “you didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, though there’s a hint of bashfulness in his expression. “I wanted to.”

You reach out, picking up one of the croissants and holding it in your hands like it’s something precious. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I try,” he says with a smirk, watching as you take a tentative bite of the croissant.

The layers are perfectly flaky, the pastry light and buttery despite being vegan. It melts in your mouth, and you close your eyes, savoring the taste. “This is ... incredible,” you murmur, barely able to believe how good it is.

Max’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

You take another bite, unable to stop yourself from grinning. “I don’t just like it, Max. I love it.”

He chuckles, leaning against the counter with an air of satisfaction. “Good. But don’t go telling anyone, okay? You’re still the only person I’d cook vegan for.”

You laugh, a sound full of love and warmth. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He winks, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Better be. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

You shake your head, your heart full as you look at the man you married — the man who, despite all his bravado, has always made you feel like the most important person in his world. “You’re impossible,” you say fondly.

“And you love it,” he replies, his voice softening as he reaches out to gently cup your cheek.

“I really do,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

Max leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

“I love you,” he says, his voice steady and sure.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion.

And as you sit there together, the scent of freshly baked croissants filling the air, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life might not always be easy, but with Max by your side — cooking for you, joking with you, loving you — you know you’ll always have a reason to smile, no matter what comes your way.

1K notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 8 months ago

Text

MILLION DOLLAR WOMAN | OP81

an: i head to france tomorrow guys, today is my final day of freedom rip. this was so fun to write because imagine just finding out your partner is a millionaire fr, based off of this request

wc: 2.5k

Oscar could see her sitting at the dining table through the floor-to-ceiling windows as he parked his car. The quiet of their home in Monaco always took him by surprise—no revving engines, no buzz of the pit crew. Just her typing away on her laptop with her usual cup of tea. She looked up as he walked in, gave him a quick smile, and then returned to her screen. Always so relaxed, even as he walked in carrying the tension of a bad training session.

"Good day?" she asked, barely looking up. He nodded and mumbled something about a corner he'd taken too fast. She listened but didn’t pry. She never did. That's how she was. She was more interested in weekend hikes than race standings, in cooking simple meals than joining him at fancy team dinners. It was a refreshing kind of simplicity, though sometimes a little mystifying. She didn’t ask about the sport or his schedule, never got jealous over the fans, and didn’t seem to care about the lifestyle that came with dating an F1 driver.

In a way, it was...perfect. He didn’t have to worry about her growing tired of his schedule, or about her expectations getting out of hand. She worked her 9-to-5, met him after, and never asked for more. The fact that she paid for her own things when they went out had caught him off-guard at first, but she’d laughed and shrugged it off when he offered to take care of the bill. "I’m used to it," she’d said. And that had been that. No strings, no expectations.

Tonight, she must’ve been finishing something for work, because she was typing away with focus. He walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, glancing over his shoulder at her every now and then, content. The glow of her screen was the only light in the room; the apartment was quiet but comfortable, like this was all they’d ever need.

“How’s work?” He asked as he shut the fridge.

She briefly looked up, “Long” she sighed but smiled at him.

As he walked past her he placed a brief kiss on her forehead and slid onto the sofa, stretching out and letting the quietness of home sink into his bones. She was already back to her typing, nodding to herself as she worked through whatever was in front of her. It was one of those things he found himself both fascinated by and grateful for—she didn’t need him to fill the silence. She seemed just fine with her job, her laptop, her little rituals that didn’t have anything to do with him.

Oscar watched her for a moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling through emails and messages. A lot of them were about his upcoming sponsorship deal, a whirlwind of numbers and logistics. He thought about calling his manager to check the final figures but decided against it. Just thinking about it wore him out.

He read email after email as he heard the scrape of a chair, he looked up to see her stand up and take a call in their terrace, something he adored about this house.

Then his phone rang, Mark, he picked up automatically. “Yeah, hey,” he said, voice still soft from the calmness of the evening. As he talked through the details with him, he realised he needed to jot something down. With no pen or paper in reach, he glanced over to the dining table where she always kept a notepad beside her tea.

Oscar rose, walking over to her seat, quietly picking up her pen. But as he did, his eyes fell onto the screen of her laptop, where her banking app was open.

It was one glance, just a flicker of his eyes, but enough for him to catch sight of the balance there. He paused mid-sentence, his own words catching in his throat.

That number didn’t look right.

Surely it was missing a decimal.

Wrapping up the conversation with Mark, he wrote down what he needed, and looked at the screen once more. In that time, she’d walked back into the room, her feet padding on the cool granite of their dining room floor.

Oscar couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

"Hey," he said, voice a little strained, still trying to process what he was seeing. "Uh…how much money do you make?"

She blinked, the corner of her mouth lifting in that effortless way of hers. "Enough," she said with a little laugh. "Why?"

Oscar blinked, struggling to wrap his head around it. This was his girlfriend—quiet, low-key, not a trace of the usual high-gloss life he’d always associated with wealth. He’d seen people obsess over money, hover around him just because of it, make a whole lifestyle out of it. But her? She was the woman who insisted on bringing packed lunches to work, who chose thrift shops over boutiques, who still wore her decade-old watch without a second thought. She was content. Comfortable. But this…

"That’s…a lot of ‘enough,’" he said, pointing at the screen, unable to mask the amazement in his voice.

She just shrugged and closed her laptop, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I don’t really talk about it, huh? Not exactly first-date conversation."

He leaned back against the table, watching her with a strange mix of awe and curiosity. "Not even, like, fourth-date conversation."

"To be fair, I didn’t ask what you make, either," she pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Money’s not really…our thing."

He felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. She was right, and yet, here he was, dumbfounded. She’d been living in his world all this time, never asking him for anything, never trying to claim any part of the lavish life he could provide. Now, he realised, maybe she didn’t need it at all.

"So…why not mention it?" he asked, still trying to understand. "I mean, I just assumed…" He trailed off, feeling a little sheepish.

"I know," she said, her smile turning gentle. "I guess I liked that you assumed. It made things easier. It let me be just…me. No expectations, no need to fit into any box."

Oscar nodded slowly, taking that in. It made sense, but it still felt surreal. Here was someone who, from the very beginning, hadn’t wanted anything from him other than his time, his company. She wasn’t here for his lifestyle or his status, things he’d been conditioned to believe were a part of every relationship he’d ever have.

He glanced at her laptop again, unable to stop himself from wondering. “So, wait—what exactly do you do? Something like…senior management?” he asked, half-joking, his tone teasing.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head as the absurdity of it all settled in. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole idea—his girlfriend, his laid-back, thrift-shop-loving girlfriend, was apparently not only financially secure but really well off.

She raised her eyebrows, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Something like that,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea.

He squinted at her, suspicious. “Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging. How high up are you, really?”

She glanced away, as if considering her words, and then said it, almost like a casual aside. “I’m the CEO.”

He blinked, the statement hanging in the air like a punchline he hadn’t quite caught. “Wait…CEO? As in, like, the CEO?”

She laughed, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “Just of a mid-sized company, Oscar. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Darling,” he said slowly, realising dawning. “What company?”

She paused, her eyes darting away, and he could see the hint of mischief there. “Ever heard of Catalyst?”

“Catalyst…wait, as in Catalyst Dynamics?” he asked, his voice growing louder with shock. “The same Catalyst Dynamics that sponsors my team?”

She pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. “Do they?”

“Oh, you are kidding me!” he exclaimed, grinning in disbelief. “You’ve been secretly spoiling me this whole time!”

She shook her head, looking away as though he’d accused her of something scandalous. “Oscar, it’s a sponsorship, not a…spoiling thing. Besides, that’s business. I keep it separate from…this.” She gestured between the two of them, clearly trying to play it cool.

But Oscar wasn’t buying it, not for a second. “Oh, no you don’t.” Before she could say another word, he leaned down, scooping her up and carrying her toward the sofa.

“Oscar!” she yelped, laughing, half-protesting, but she didn’t resist.

He set her down on the cushions, pinning her playfully as he hovered above her, grinning with that spark of mischief that usually only showed up on race day. “You’ve been keeping this a secret, haven’t you? The big boss lady, looking out for me, pretending you’re just this regular 9-to-5 woman…”

“Oscar, I’m not spoiling—”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He grinned wider, fingers finding her sides as he started tickling her, his hands relentless. She burst into laughter, twisting and squirming, but he didn’t let up.

“Okay, okay!” she managed between laughs, her breath coming in gasps as he kept up his assault. “I admit it, I admit it!”

“Admit what?” he asked, pausing, a playful gleam in his eyes as he waited for her to say it.

“Fine!” She was breathless, cheeks flushed from laughter. “Maybe I had a tiny bit of a hand in sponsoring your team, maybe. But it wasn’t to spoil you! It was just…good business.”

He chuckled, finally letting up, settling beside her on the sofa. “Good business, huh?”

She took a deep breath, still smiling as she nudged him. “I mean it. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure…or obligation. This—us—is different.”

Oscar looked at her, his heart feeling fuller than he’d expected. “Different is right.” He slipped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Guess I’m just lucky to be dating a CEO with a secret soft spot.”

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, content. “And I guess I’m lucky to be with someone who never needed me to be anything but…me.”

As they settled into a comfortable silence, Oscar’s mind was still spinning, pieces clicking into place one by one. He glanced around their beautiful apartment—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek, minimalist design. The place had always felt like an oasis, calm and understated, like Anna herself. But something new was nagging at him now.

“Wait…” He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “That’s why you won’t let me pay rent, isn’t it? You said this place was your dad’s, but it’s not, is it?”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile, but the faintest hint of a smirk gave her away. “Well…okay, maybe it wasn’t technically my dad’s. He…may not have anything to do with it.”

“Sweetheart!” he said, laughing as he sat up, staring at her in mock betrayal. “So you’ve just been letting me think I’m staying at this family-owned place when all this time you’re the one paying for it?”

She shrugged, looking at him with playful innocence. “It’s already been paid for. Besides,” she added, her smile widening, “I like the idea of you feeling at home here without any pressure.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m onto you now. You may be this relaxed, low-key CEO, but you’ve secretly been spoiling me this entire time. Admit it!”

She laughed, a bright, carefree sound. “Fine, I admit it—I may have bought this place. Technically. But it’s still your home, too.”

Oscar pulled her close again, marvelling at how effortlessly she balanced everything—her high-powered job, their quiet, easygoing life together, her uncanny ability to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world. “You know what?” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “I don’t care if you own half of Monaco. You’re still my love.”

She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

They stayed like that for a moment, her nestled into him, the quiet warmth of the room settling around them. But Oscar couldn’t resist one more question, the thought gnawing at him.

He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, one last thing, Miss CEO.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Is your net worth bigger than mine?”

She tried to stifle a laugh, her eyes darting away as if avoiding the answer itself. “Oscar…”

He gasped, leaning back in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? You’ve got me beat!”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, biting back a smile as she pressed her lips together stubbornly.

“You don’t need to,” he replied, grinning even wider. “The silence says it all. Here I thought I was the big shot, and my girlfriend’s out here just quietly sitting on an empire.”

She laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Well, maybe I just like watching you think you’re the fancy one.”

He pulled her close again, laughing softly. “Alright, fine. But don’t think I won’t bring this up anytime you try to sneak the bill.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

Oscar chuckled, still shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as if he’d just pieced together some incredible mystery. “You know, our kid is going to be spoiled,” he said, the words slipping out with a grin.

He felt her shift beside him, and when he looked down, her expression had softened, her eyes faraway, a little spark of excitement in them. “They won’t,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Humble start, just like we both had.”

“Oh, so you’ll be the strict parent, then?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “The one laying down the law?”

She laughed, giving him a gentle shove. “So I’m the bad cop?”

“Absolutely. I’m not budging on this.” He grinned, taking her hands in his as he leaned in close. “You’ve been lying to me for four years about practically everything. I think that officially makes you the bad cop in this relationship.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was warm, even a little shy. “Fine, I’ll take ‘bad cop’… but only if you’re ready to be the softie who gives in.”

Oscar laughed, wrapping his arms around her, feeling that sense of joy settle in even deeper. “Deal, I was already planning on it” he whispered, his voice full of promise. And as he held her close, he realised he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oscar pulled her even closer, his hands resting gently on her cheeks as he took in the warmth of her gaze, her face illuminated softly in the low light. The playful edge between them softened into something deeper, and the laughter faded into quiet, shared breath.

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, lingering kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling there as she melted into him, and for a moment, everything—the teasing, the surprises, the whole world around them—faded away.

the end.

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intellitechdataservices · 2 years ago

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pbaz7 · 13 days ago

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SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 11

paige x azzi

word count: 12k

a/n: once again i'm sorry this took so long i had a rough week so finding time to write took a little extra effort than usual. i know everyone was freaking out because i said I teared up but it's not that bad i swear lol. i rushed through the proof reading because i know it's late for some people so let me know if you see any mistakes please :) like always let me know what you think if you can 🫶🏼

—————————————————————————

The ticking of the clock in the hallway was the loudest sound in her house and it made Paige want to claw her eyes out. Who the hell even made her get that clock? Why did she need a clock in her damn house? Paige thought about it for a second before getting pissed at Cam when she remembered she was the one that practically forced Paige to have it delivered to her house when she was moving in.

It wasn’t even just the clock that was annoying Paige. The sunlight that was filtering in through the large windows were casting harsh beams across the hardwood floor and Paige swore it felt like it was turning her living room into a sauna. Who the fuck convinced her to get a house with floor to ceiling windows and why didn’t she close the blinds before she sat down?

Paige was leaned back on the couch with her legs spread and her fingers laced in her lap. She had a blank look on her face as the psychiatrist sat across from her with a small notepad resting on her knee.

“Do you want me to call you Paige, or something else?” the woman asked to break the silence that had lingered for longer than she wanted to.

“Paige’s fine,” she offered plainly.

The psychiatrist nodded. “Alright, Paige. I like to start simple. I’m not here to push you into anything you don’t want to talk about. We can take our time.”

Paige gave her a slow blink before realizing she should probably respond. “Okay.”

The woman studied her for a second, then asked, “So, what does a typical morning look like? You know when there’s no hiccups in your routine?”

Paige shrugged, her eyes locked somewhere past the edge of the coffee table. “Wake up. Stretch. Train.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

The psychiatrist smiled faintly. “That kind of routine takes discipline.”

Paige didn’t have a response.

“And what about after training?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If I feel like being around people.”

The air between them was still; had been still since they sat down. It was from a heaviness that radiated off of Paige, but it wasn’t necessarily hostile. The psychiatrist tilted her head as she studied her body language. “What kind of people do you let in when you do feel like it?”

Paige’s jaw tensed at what she felt was an unnecessary conversation. Her fingers curled so she could push her nails into her palm, distract herself with a feeling other than uncomfortableness. “My sister’s teammates usually. People who don’t expect anything from me.”

The psychiatrist nodded again, still not writing anything on the notepad. Just listening, trying to get a feel for Paige. “Is that how you would describe yourself too?” she asked. “Someone who doesn’t expect anything?”

Paige let out the softest scoff, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something but decided against it. “Expectations for certain people just cause disappointment.”

“Have you been disappointed lately?”

“No.”

The psychiatrist sighed. It was more of a thoughtful sign than one out of frustration as she clicked her pen once to tuck the nib down, then set it along with the notepad on the armrest next to her.

“Paige, you’re…” she paused, glancing around the room to find the right words. “You’re one hell of an athlete. A fighter. You live in a—” she gestured subtly around them to Paige’s house, “—pretty large house at the top of the hill in L.A. with two very expensive cars parked in the garage.”

Paige didn’t move, just stared at her.

“But you’re clearly not materialistic,” the woman added. “This place…it’s warm. Lived-in and comfortable. It’s not showy and you’re not showy even though you’re somebody who could probably afford whatever they wanted. Going off of what meets the eye, this is picture perfect.”

“Is there a question?” Paige asked flatly.

The psychiatrist held her gaze, then said very plainly, “Why are you paying for me to be here?”

The silence stretched as they looked at one another until Paige blinked once and looked away. Her jaw flexed a few times, the blonde clenching and unclenching her teeth before she spoke up. “I dissociated.”

The psychiatrist waited for her to say more.

Paige kept her eyes trained on the floor to keep going. “During my last fight. I don’t remember anything about it. Don’t remember walking from the room, don’t remember hearing the crowd, the bell to start the fight, throwing hits…Nothing. I just remember looking down and seeing blood on my gloves and some girl with her eyes rolled back.”

The psychiatrist nodded, deciding not to reach for her pen but to just listen. “Has that ever happened before?”

Paige shook her head. “No.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist said softly. “Let’s step back, then. You weren’t in the cage with your body that night. So where were you? Where was your mind?”

Paige didn’t answer.

The psychiatrist knew better than to push. So she shifted slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other before changing the subject. “Can I ask about your childhood Paige?”

Paige gave her a suspicious look. “What about it?”

“Well,” the psychiatrist said, “when someone dissociates, it’s usually not just a one off thing and it’s not about just one moment. Their brain is protecting itself from something deeper. Sometimes it can be something old.”

Paige was quiet again.

“You don’t have to share everything,” the woman added gently. “Just whatever comes up first when you think about your childhood.”

Paige leaned back slightly, taking a breath as she leaned her head back to rest against the couch and look at the ceiling. “My mom left when I was fourteen or fifteen. I don’t know for sure.”

The psychiatrist nodded once, silently telling her to keep going.

“One day she just packed her stuff when my dad was at work and never came back. There was no note for him or anything.” Paige paused, swallowing a little unevenly. “I remember her walking down the steps, kissing me on the head, mumbling something about it not being my fault and that she loves me more than anything.”

“Did you understand what was happening?”

“I knew it was permanent. That’s what I understood.” When she spoke Paige’s voice was quiet, almost like she was talking to herself.

The psychiatrist gave her space to process her own words, then asked her, “And your dad?”

Paige exhaled through her nose but instead of answering the question she changed the subject. “You know I used to play basketball?”

The psychiatrist didn’t react to the change in subject. She just nodded, following Paige’s lead.

“I grew up playing with my God sister. I was good, we both were…great actually. Everybody thought we could actually make something out of playing. They loved watching us play.” Paige’s voice changed. “I loved it, too. The sound the ball made hitting the court when no one else was there. That swish when it went through the net. I could stay at the gym for hours and be happy. It was kind of like therapy in a way, relaxing.”

The psychiatrist offered a small smile. “So what happened?”

Paige didn’t answer once again. Her eyes drifted to the side, almost like she didn’t process the question. When she did speak, her voice was distant and she changed the subject again. “Parents don’t even realize how mean they’re being when they’re hurt. Not mean with their words necessarily, or physically. Just mean in how they show up as parents.”

The psychiatrist didn’t say anything, letting Paige unravel whatever was going on in her head in her own way.

“He stops cooking for you after practice, so you learn how to cook for yourself, mostly protein cause you know that’s important for athletes even at fourteen. Starts leaving beer bottles around the house, so you gotta clean them up before somebody fucks their face up tripping over one and that becomes a whole nother thing. You gotta start driving yourself to basketball practice as soon as you get your permit because he forgot, or maybe just didn’t feel like it.”

Her jaw flexed.

“Then he just stops coming to your games altogether. So you stop looking for him in the stands.” She shrugged, trying to seem casual about it. “And eventually you just get angry at everybody who blinks at you the wrong way or looks at you too long. Because you’re a kid, and you’re doing it all yourself, and nobody’s showing up and everything feels like too much but not enough at the same time.

Paige exhaled through her nose as she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. She looked at the psychiatrist like nothing happened and said, “I think you asked me a question?”

The psychiatrist studies her for a few moments, organizing her thoughts on what she’s seeing. “I asked how your dad was,” she confirms.

Paige looks at her blankly, almost like she’s not processing the question but then she says, “He was my dad, but he was different after that. Angry, but not the loud kind that people expect.”

“Was he ever angry at you?”

Paige shook her head. “No. Or at least he tried not to be but I wasn’t easy though.” She pauses and adds, “I made it hard for him not to be,” almost like she was trying to rationalize his anger. “I got in fights a lot, acted out so teachers were always calling him.”

“And how did he handle that?”

“He grounded me at first, took me out of basketball as punishment, but that just pissed me off. He didn’t want me getting in trouble, so he threw me in a gym with one of his friends anytime he couldn’t be at home to watch me. Said if I wanted to hit something, I should at least learn how to do it right so I didn’t look like an idiot doing it.”

There was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, like she was trying to make the memory positive but it didn’t last.

“So that’s when you started fighting?”

Paige nodded. “I was fifteen the first time I felt in control of anything.”

The psychiatrist tilted her head slightly. “Controls important to you?”

“When everything feels like it can get ripped away?” as Paige said this her voice was void of any emotion. “Yeah.”

“What do you remember about your parents before your mom left?”

Paige’s expression changed for a second before reverting back to the blankness, something behind her eyes pulling at the lightness in them tightly trying to dim it. “They fought a lot. Over stupid shit. They always thought I was asleep, but I never was. She’d yell and he’d get quiet, then she’d slam a door for him not listening and her doing that would piss him off so he’d follow her to the next room. They’d repeat that until there were no more doors to hide behind. Until whatever stupid ass thing they were arguing about had to just be out in the open.”

“How did that make you feel, back then?”

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tightened her jaw, then gave a half-shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

“Maybe both. Like I said, I don't know.”

The woman nodded. “That’s fair.” She let a few seconds pass before asking, “Do you ever feel that way now?”

Paige didn’t respond again.

“Like you don’t know how you feel or you don’t want to think about it?”

Still nothing as Paige just stared ahead.

After some time the psychiatrist sat back in the chair noting how long the moment stretched as Paige blankly ahead. “When you dissociated during the fight…you said you don’t remember anything. Has anything like that ever happened before? Any other moments where you lost time?”

Paige finally stirred as she scratched her knuckles with her thumb. “I don’t usually lose time,” she said. “I just zone out.”

“Tell me more about the zoning out.”

“I don’t know. I’ll just be in a room, people are talking, and it’s like my body’s still there, but I’m not listening. I just shut off.”

“Does it happen often?”

Paige nodded once to confirm.

“Has anyone noticed?”

“People just say I don’t pay attention. That I’m distracted.” There's a brief pause before she opens and closes her mouth to end the statement there.

“Do you think there’s a specific reason you’re zoning out?”

Paige stays quiet.

“Is it always when someone’s talking?” the woman asked. “Or can it happen even when you’re alone?”

“Both,” Paige said. “Worse when I’m upset or in my head.”

“In your head how?”

Paige wet her lips, as her eyes started to trace the lines of her bookshelf. “Thinking about something I can’t control. Mad at myself for not being in control. Something I said or didn’t say; did or didn’t do. When I feel like I’m just fucking up. Not being good enough for the women in my life.”

“Do you remember the first time you felt that way?”

There was a long silence.

Then Paige once again randomly changed the subject, “There was this one time a few years ago. Some guy at a club put his hands on Cam. Just like around her waist or something.” She paused as she thought about it. “I told him to stop then he just started jawing at me, wouldn’t shut up for Ion know how long. Next thing I remember, I was outside, with my hands all scraped up, knuckles split.”

The psychiatrist stayed still as she listened.

“I don’t even remember hitting him. Don’t remember leaving. Just kinda blinked and I was out back with my friends yelling at me to get in the car.”

“Did it scare you?”

Paige hesitated before she said, “No,” honestly.

The psychiatrist made a quiet note on her pad, then looked up. “Are you known to have a temper, Paige?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Okay…If I was asking you?”

Paige sits in silence for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah. Sometimes I can lose it.”

“And when you do, do you always remember what you said or did?”

Paige looks down at her hands as she answers, “Not all the time.”

The psychiatrist’s voice was even as she asked her next question. “How’s your memory overall?”

Paige let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Not great.”

“In what way?”

“I forget simple things, conversations, dates. Whole weeks blur together sometimes if I’m getting ready for a fight. Cam says I repeat myself, she used to call me Dory when we were teenagers.”

“Do you? Repeat yourself I mean?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Like I said, I forget conversations.”

The psychiatrist tapped her pen against her knee gently a few times before she stopped and looked at Paige carefully.

“Have you been formally diagnosed with anything recently?”

Paige shook her head no.

“Well,” the woman said, keeping her voice calm but being clear, “based on the few things you’ve described: losing chunks of memory, zoning out under stress, feeling disconnected from your body and surroundings at times it seems like you’re experiencing symptoms of a dissociative disorder. We’d have to do a comprehensive assessment to be sure but I think that’s what we’re looking at here.”

Paige’s jaw flexed as her eyes dropped again.

“This disorder can include depersonalization—you feeling like you’re experiencing moments from outside of your body—and derealization—where things around you feel foggy, distorted, or unreal.”

Paige didn’t speak so the psychologist kept going, explaining it softly knowing how jarringly some people take this sort of information.

“You mentioned you zone out more when you’re emotional. When you’re upset or overstimulated, your mind pulls away as a form of protection. But that form of protection can start to hurt you and those around you if it happens at the wrong time.”

She paused to let Paige grasp what she was saying, then she asked, “Have you ever been diagnosed with depression or anxiety at any point in your life?”

“No.”

“But do you feel low sometimes? Tense? On edge?”

“Who doesn’t,” she mumbled.

“Have you ever had a panic attack?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “I’ve had...moments. Where I feel like I can’t breathe. Where everything feels too loud. But I don’t like calling it that, seems dramatic.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist nodded. “That’s fair.”

The psychiatrist let a moment pass before continuing her line of questioning as she probed for a little more information. “Have you ever had thoughts about hurting yourself?”

Paige looked up for the first time in a while, seeming to be a little insulted at the question. “No. Never.”

The therapist nodded once, accepting that answer without pushing further. “I’m glad.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“Paige I want you to understand that this isn’t about labeling you. It’s about giving you the tools to stay present in your life. What you’re experiencing isn’t a weakness you need to beat out of yourself.” She corrects herself saying, “You can’t beat it out of yourself. It’s trauma that’s been misfiled and ignored long enough that it’s started running its own course.”

Paige exhaled deeply and rubbed the side of her jaw as she listened.

“There are options,” the psychiatrist said. “Continued psychotherapy, of course. We could also talk about medication for any possible anxiety or depression symptoms…if you have trouble sleeping. There’s EMDR or somatic therapy which is something that gets into the body as much as the mind. Whatever route you choose will take time and effort but this isn’t something that you have to deal with for the rest of your life Paige.”

Paige let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I gotta talk to Azzi.”

The psychiatrist paused at the name, her head tilting slightly as she looked at Paige. “You haven’t mentioned that name today.”

Paige blinked slowly, then smiled softly. “She’s my girlfriend.” As she said that the psychiatrist noticed there was a warmth in her voice for the first time since they’ve started speaking. Almost like she was relieved to mention her.

“She sounds important to you. How long have you two been together?”

Paige leaned back against the couch cushion. “Officially? Like two and a half months.” She scratched her eyebrow before adding, “But she’d been trying to get me to talk to her before that. Kept showing up, kept...bothering me.” The corner of her mouth curved up at the memory. “We were seeing each other for a few months before we made it official.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as her pen hovered over the notepad even though she wasn’t writing. “Tell me about her.”

Paige narrowed her eyes a little. “Why?”

“If she’s important,” the psychiatrist said plainly, “it’s worth understanding what role she plays in your life.”

Paige hesitated, not wanting to offer up information about Azzi to a stranger.

The psychiatrist tilted her head when she noticed her reluctance. “Why didn’t you mention her earlier?”

Paige stared at the floor for a moment. “Because I don’t know she’s—she’s the only one I don’t feel any of this around. The zoning out, the urge to disconnect.” She pulled her eyes from the floor to add, “She’s the only thing that feels real for me all the time.”

The psychiatrist set her notepad on the arm of her chair. “Can you explain that a little more for me? What does she do that helps?”

“I don’t think she purposefully does anything, she doesn’t have to try,” Paige said. “She just pulls me out of my head without even realizing it. Her voice, the way she touches me, her laugh. It’s like—” she stopped herself, embarrassed by how much she wanted to say.

Paige swallowed, her eyes tracking something invisible. “It’s like, she’ll notice something’s off and just sit next to me. Put a hand on my leg. Say something stupid to make me laugh.”

“You feel grounded around her.”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded slowly. “Like my head goes quiet when I’m with her.”

The psychiatrist gave a small nod. “And does she know about the dissociating? The memory gaps?”

Paige hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Yeah she does now.”

“What changed?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “We had a fight about a month before my last fight.”

“The one you can’t remember?”

Paige nods in confirmation.

“What happened?”

Paige takes her time explaining some of the backstory of the fight, not going fully into detail but giving the psychiatrist enough to understand the situation.

“Then it just spiraled and she was worked up and I tried to grab her face, like to calm her down to get us both to take a moment but then she flinched.”

The psychiatrist’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened as she processed the implications of that .

“She looked scared for a second,” Paige said, her voice changing just a bit as she talked about it. “Seeing that messed me up a little bit and I just had to leave. I told her to stay even though it was my place but I just couldn’t—I couldn’t look at her after that.”

The psychiatrist waited a second before asking, “Do you think you scared her?”

“I know I did, not physically but—” Paige stops herself not wanting to talk about the intricate parts of her relationship. “We’ve talked about it and we're good now.” Paige clarifies. “But after that I just didn’t want to fight. I thought she’d look at me differently after our argument, and be more weary.”

“Did she?”

Paige shook her head. “No. She was there after the fight. When I realized I didn’t remember any of it, I freaked out a little, I was shaking and I threw up in the locker room. Just felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my nerves we’re firing in every direction. She didn’t even say anything, she just opened her arms and sat with me. Made everything seem less loud, less chaotic.”

“And that helped?”

Paige nodded.

The psychiatrist sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “It sounds like she’s a soft spot for you.”

Paige’s eyes lifted, a little guarded again.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” the psychiatrist clarified. “We all have them. People or places where our nervous system feels safe, where our brain allows us to finally just exhale without being in fight or flight. That’s important for someone to have, it’s a form of healing. It’s healthy.”

Paige looked down, something about the words tugging at her chest.

“But,” the psychiatrist added gently, “it can also be unhealthy, if she becomes the only place you know how to go to when you need to feel okay.”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

“Because then,” the psychiatrist went on carefully, “if things are ever rocky between you, if you’re in a disagreement or disconnected, like last time then you’re more vulnerable to slipping. Into dissociation, into memory loss, anxiousness, etcetera, without even realizing it.”

Paige frowned, becoming a little defensive. “So what, you’re saying she’s a problem now too? I can’t have anything?”

“No,” the psychiatrist said quickly but plainly, not allowing that thought to settle in Paige’s psyche. “I’m not saying she’s bad for you. From everything you’ve said, she sounds amazing for you.”

Paige sat back, the tension still sitting on her shoulders as she tried to take a few deep breaths to stop herself from getting upset.

“She seems to ground you,” the psychiatrist said. “She shows up when you’re unraveling. She doesn’t try to fix you, she’s accepting you for who you are without asking for anything other than that. You’ve been living with this for years, Paige. Years…and she’s only been in your life for a few months, and yet somehow, she’s the reason you’re finally sitting here in front of me.”

Paige blinked, her throat suddenly feeling dry.

“That says a lot about her,” the psychiatrist continued her thought process, “but it also says a lot about you. You want to be better for yourself and for her, for your relationship. And that's the first real step.”

Paige nodded a few times as she let the words settle in her brain.

After spending some time speaking with one another the air in the room was softer than when they started. Paige was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and her fingers were loosely laced. “I just don’t like waking up and the first thing on my mind is about what’s going wrong instead of what’s going right. I try to live in a state of gratitude but waking up like that everyday makes it harder.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as she listened, her notepad lines now filled with notes for herself. They had passed the hour mark a while ago, but she opted to not say anything when she noticed Paige starting to open up. Not when her voice cracked describing the club fight in detail that left her in Azzi in a weird spot and not now, with the sheen of tears glinting in her eyes.

They both looked up at the sound of the front door opening and laughter echoing from the foyer. First it was Dijonai’s, then Azzi’s voice trailing close behind her, teasing each other about something neither of them caught from the living room.

Azzi walked in the room first and she clocked the scene instantly. The notebook still on the table, the faint wetness Paige was blinking away. Azzi stopped in her tracks. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize you were still going.”

Paige looked away blinking a few times as she swallowed. The psychiatrist stood quietly, smoothing down her skirt as she offered a reassuring smile to Azzi.

“It’s alright,” she said gently, gathering her things. “We were just finishing up.”

Paige still hadn’t moved so the psychiatrist lingered for a moment, looking at her, then said her name warmly, “Paige.”

When Paige glanced up, her eyes were red but she still looked composed.

“We’ll find a time to meet again?” the psychiatrist asked.

Paige offered her a nod before looking away again.

The psychiatrist gave a final look between the two of them, smiling at Azzi kindly before heading toward the door.

As the door clicked shut behind the psychiatrist, Paige stood up and moved around the room without saying anything. She started off with picking up a glass off the table and taking it to the kitchen before coming back and adjusting the throw blanket. She shifted coasters that didn’t need to be moved and it was obvious to anyone tha looked that the session had her off kilter. Like she needed to do something with her hands before her thoughts swallowed her.

Dijonai caught Azzi’s eye from the hallway, and nodded toward the stairs. “Imma be in the guest room,” and she disappeared down the hall without waiting for Azzi to reply.

Azzi stayed where she was standing for a few more seconds, watching Paige adjust a candle that was already straight. Then, softly, she said, “Hey, beautiful.”

Paige didn’t stop moving at the sound of Azzi’s voice, she crossed the room, reaching to fix one of her small lego sets that sat on the table just outside of the living room. “I need to get rid of that clock in the front,” she mumbled, not looking at her. “It’s annoying. The ticking, every time it’s quiet, it’s just there and it drives me crazy sometimes.”

Azzi nodded slowly, moving toward the couch and sitting down. “Okay. That’s fine,” she said gently. “You wanna come sit with me? Talk to me?”

“I’m fine,” Paige responded quickly, still not facing her. She shifted the lego in her hands wiping some of the dust off then bent down to tuck something under the table, moving like she had a list of things to do, like something would fall apart if she stopped.

Azzi stood up again and walked over to where Paige was standing to come up behind her. Carefully, she reached out and took the lego’s from Paige’s hands, setting it down on the nearby shelf. She circled her arms around Paige’s waist from behind and just held her for a second.

Paige’s first reaction was to tense up. Her body going a little rigid under the familiar touch that was too gentle for all the thoughts swirling inside of her.

Azzi leaned in despite this, resting her chin against Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “You don’t have to hold it all by yourself, baby. I’m right here. Just let me be here.”

A shaky breath slipped from Paige’s chest as she heard these words as a single tear slipped down her cheek and dropped soundlessly on the floor. Her shoulders jerked slightly as she took another sharp breath, almost like she was surprised by the tear coming out without permission.

Azzi held her, keeping her chest pressed gently against Paige’s back, before slowly turning her around. She kept one hand on Paige’s waist, and used the other to move up to her jaw, guiding her to look at her.

Paige’s eyes met Azzi’s for the first time since the front door opened and they were glassy, another tear having already gathered at the bottom of her lash line. Before it could fall, Azzi reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

“I promise you don’t have to be okay.”

Paige blinked again, her mouth twitching like she wanted to argue but she decided against it.

Azzi took her hand to interlace their fingers before stepping back toward the couch, gently pulling her. Paige let herself be led without saying anything. Each step for her seemed to be heavy, like her body was finally starting to physically feel the weight of what her mind had been carrying for so many years.

Azzi sat down first, guiding Paige between her legs. Paige hesitated for a second before sinking down so her back was resting against Azzi’s chest. Her body curled slightly into her like she didn’t know how to soften herself, but she was trying. Azzi wrapped her arms around her as soon as she got settled, one sliding across Paige’s torso while the other traced circles over her thigh.

Paige closed her eyes and let her head rest back on Azzi’s shoulder.

They didn’t speak for a while, the only sound filling the space was their quiet breathing and the ticking of the clock that didn’t seem so annoying anymore, Paige’s hand had found Azzi’s at one point and she held it tightly, using it to ground herself in the moment.

Eventually, Paige whispered with her eyes still closed, “I love basketball Az.”

Azzi smiled softly and nodded, her chin resting against the top of Paige’s head. “I know you do baby.”

“And I think…” Paige swallowed, “I think I hated my dad more than I hated my mom sometimes.”

Azzi’s arms tightened around her to keep her present while she talked. “That’s okay.”

Paige kept her eyes shut, but her voice got quieter with each confession, like each one took a little weight off her chest.

“Sometimes I used to sit on the floor in my room and hope they’d both disappear. I felt like life would be easier that way.”

Azzi nodded as she started to trace circles into Paige’s arm. “That’s okay.”

“I hated myself for being mad at them, for feeling that way even when I had a right to be.”

Azzi just nodded as she placed a kiss to the top of Paige’s head.

“I used to wish every night that I was someone else. Anyone else and I felt so ungrateful.”

Azzi pressed another soft kiss to her temple whispering, “That’s okay baby.”

Paige’s voice cracked slightly. “I thought something was wrong with me. That I was broken.”

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She just held her tighter, letting her feel it before she whispered, “That’s okay too. We aren’t perfect.”

Paige exhaled as tears slipped down her face again. This time they felt a little more freeing, like she was letting herself accept her thoughts for the first time instead of burying them.

At some point, they shifted on the couch and now Paige lay stretched out between Azzi’s legs, with her head resting in the soft space between Azzi’s thighs. Azzi still sat back against the couch cushions and her fingers were gently weaving through Paige’s hair over and over, like she was memorizing every strand.

The room had gone silent and Paige dozed off for maybe twenty minutes, easily lulled by Azzi’s fingers in her hair and the softness of her presence.

When she felt Paige stir and tighten her arms around her waist Azzi looked down and whispered, “You back?”

Paige hummed, but kept her eyes closed. “Think so.”

Azzi smiled down at her, brushing her fingers along Paige’s temple. “Good. You were twitching. I thought you were fighting someone in your dream.”

A huff escaped from Paige’s nose as she chuckled. “Probably my dad. Not his biggest fan right now.”

Azzi’s smile grew a little. “Hope you knocked him out.”

Paige cracked one eye open to look up at Azzi. “That’s crazy to say.”

“Just supportive,” Azzi argued as her thumb traced a slow line across Paige’s cheek. “I’m Team Paige all day no matter who's on the other side.”

Paige turned her head, nuzzling her cheek into Azzi’s thigh. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ll be annoying all day if that means you’ll smile.”

A small snort echoed from Paige, and she tightened her arms around Azzi’s waist, pressing herself closer into the space between her thighs.

Azzi glanced down, raising her eyebrow. “Alright now…”

Paige smirked, already knowing exactly what Azzi was talking about. She leaned in and placed a wet kiss on the inside of Azzi’s thigh causing her eyes to flutter shut. Without thinking, Azzi’s legs shifted, opening slightly.

Paige could only smile wider at this. “You such a good girl for me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes hard and pushed Paige’s forehead, laughing despite herself. “Get off me, big head, go find some business.”

Paige laughed, letting herself be pushed back as she swatted at Azzi’s ass to the best of her ability. Of course, that’s when Dijonai came walking into the room.

She stopped and raised her eyebrow before she just shook her head and pretended not to have seen anything. “You know what I don’t even want to know.”

Azzi’s eyes widened. “We’re not—”

“I said I don’t want to know!” Dijonai repeated, her voice echoing a little. “I was just trying to see if y’all wanted to go out tonight. I’m in L.A. and haven’t been out yet, feels real grimy.”

Azzi laughed, her fingers starting to brush through Paige’s hair again as the blonde adjusted herself, fluttering her eyes closed and tucking herself back into the space between Azzi’s thighs.

“Where you wanna go?” Azzi asked, looking over.

DiJonai shrugged. “You tell me. You live here.”

Azzi snorted. “You gotta ask Cam and them. I just go where they tell me.”

“But you’re down to go out?”

Azzi looked down at Paige, clearly about to ask when Dijonai cut her off. “She’s going.”

“No m’not,” Paige mumbled into Azzi’s thigh.

Dijonai grabbed the closest throw pillow and lobbed it at Paige’s back.

Paige groaned dramatically when it bounced off her and looked up at Azzi with her lower lip jutted out in a pout, fully expecting her girlfriend to defend her.

Azzi looked down, trying to hide her grin, while Dijonai burst out laughing. “The irony of a whole MMA fighter pouting up at her girlfriend for backup is insane Paige.”

Paige groaned again and buried her head deeper into Azzi like she was trying to disappear.

“I’m thinking we head out at like ten,” Dijonai yelled over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs. “So start getting ready soon, or I’m dragging your dramatic ass out in whatever you’re wearing now.”

Paige just mumbled out, “Whatever.”

Azzi laughed quietly, her hands returning to Paige’s hair, as she smiled at her. “You okay with going out?” she asked softly. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Paige hummed when Azzi’s thumb brushed against her temple. “I’ll be okay, baby. Least I can do for her.”

Azzi’s smile grew as she nodded, leaning down to kiss Paige's forehead. “If you wanna go home at any point just say the word. I got you.”

Paige nodded and then tugged on her arm with her eyes still closed. “Mmm ok, now come take a nap wimme real quick.”

Azzi laughed as she shifted and slid down onto the couch, letting Paige maneuver her until they were tangled up, Paige spooning her from behind with one leg draped lazily over Azzi’s hip.

“Better?” Azzi whispered.

“Mmhmm,” Paige said, grinning with her eyes still shut. She kissed the back of Azzi’s neck, then the spot just below her ear, holding her tighter. “You so perfect,” she whispered.

Azzi reached down to squeeze Paige’s hand where it rested on her stomach. “You make it real easy to be.”

…

Later that night, the three of them were ready to leave Paige’s house, the buzz of city nightlife already wild at the bottom of the hill.

Azzi had her braids and loose goddess curls swooped to one side. She wore a black halter top that accentuated her chest and showed off her stomach and back with a black embellished mini skirt that shimmered when she walked past a light. Paige had definitely stared a little too long when Azzi first walked out of the bathroom wearing it; long enough for Azzi to smile and ask, “You good, baby?” like she didn’t already know the answer.

Paige was more laid back with her outfit. A black tank top paired with lilac Nike sweats that sat perfectly on her hips. Her hair was down in its natural waves, just like Azzi asked and around her neck was one of her flashier cuban diamond chains, catching and throwing off every bit of light it met.

When Paige reached for her car keys near the door, Dijonai held a hand out in front of her. “Nope,” she said plainly. “I’m getting you fucked up tonight. I already called the Uber.”

Paige blinked. “What? I’m not—”

“Nope,” Dijoni cut her off again, turning to Azzi. “You ever seen her drunk at the club?”

Azzi tilted her head like she had to think about it, not counting that one time they got drunk in the house by themselves. “Now that I think about it, no.”

Dijonai raised her eyebrows, looking back at Paige and easily resting her case. “Exactly.”

Paige sighed dramatically, sliding her phone in her pocket as she opened the door for them. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

…

When they walked in the club, the bass, and heat radiating off of the sea of bodies hit them all at once. The place was packed wall to wall, sweat and perfume in the air as they eased their way through the crowd.

Heads turned as the three of them moved through the crowd. A trio of tall women, each at least 5'10", commanding attention in their own way. Azzi, with her bare collarbones and gleaming skin under the club lights, had heads swiveling and Dijonai walked in the front like she wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but everyone should move anyway. Paige who had a sleepy eyed indifference about everything as she let Azzi walk in front of her with one of their hands laced drew attention like gravity.

Men and women glanced over their shoulders at Azzi and Dijonai. While women openly ogled Paige, some of them were already drunk enough to be bold. One woman brushed her fingers down Paige’s arm as they passed, leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You here with somebody?” she slurred.

Paige kept walking but she leaned down to whisper something to Azzi, her mouth brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear. Azzi let out a laugh, shaking her head as she looked over her shoulder at the woman Paige was talking about.

By the time they made it to the section in the back, the heat from the crowd had them all glistening. Rae, Rickea, and Cam were already there with drinks in their hands.

“Took y’all long enough,” Rickea said.

Before they could even fully settle into the couch, Dijonai was already passing Azzi a shot and pushing two towards Paige

Paige raised her eyebrow, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Two?”

Dijonai shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Let’s not act like your tolerance isn’t high as hell.”

From the other side of the couch Cam leaned in, catching the tail end of the exchange. “We getting Paige drunk tonight?” DiJonai nodded and Cam’s smile spread across her whole face.

Paige shook her head as she grabbed both shots and threw them back like water before leaning back into the couch. She looked over at Azzi and caught her mid shot with a lime wedge pinched between her lips, her eyes squinting a little from the burn of the tequila. Paige couldn’t help but smile as she watched her.

Azzi looked at her, still sucking lightly on the lime, and raised an eyebrow silently asking ‘what’ with soft eyes.

Paige just shook her head, continuing to smile as her gaze lingered on Azzi before drifting across the club, soaking in the energy.

The lights were flashing white and blue above them, pulsing in tandem with the beat. Their section was dimly lit, giving them just enough separation from the dance floor to feel like they had their own corner carved out.

A bottle girl in a glittery two-piece stepped into their section a few minutes later, balancing a glowing tray of drinks, placing them down one by one. “Let me know if y’all need anything else.”

Rickea handed everybody a drink and once Azzi had hers she settled deeper into the couch cushions, crossing one leg over the other and letting her calf rest in the space between Paige’s open legs.

A few drinks in, the group had started to relax into the setting more. Dijonai was cracking jokes and Rae and Rickea were halfway through a story about something that happened when they were shopping the other day when a fan made her way over tentatively.

“Excuse me,” she called, raising her voice over the music. “Sorry, I just—are y’all Sparks players?”

Cam nodded. “Guilty.”

“Oh my God, I knew it,” the girl gushed, her eyes darting between all of them “Y’all are amazing. I’m a huge fan. Is it okay if I get a picture?”

“Of course,” Rickea said, already getting up.

One by one, the players posed with her, Azzi perching herself on Paige’s knees for the group picture, not wanting to bend over fully in her mini skirt.

When the fan left Azzi sat back down, keeping her leg thrown on top of Paige’s thigh. Paige moved her hand to rest on top of Azzi’s thigh, her fingers tracing light shapes.

“You good?” Azzi asked her softly, leaning closer to her ear so she could hear.

Paige nodded. “Mmhmm. You look good.”

Azzi gave her a knowing look over the rim of her glass as she took another sip. “You do too.”

…

After a few more drinks the booth was buzzing. Voices had gotten a little louder, laughs a little messier and eyes glassier than they’d been an hour and a half ago. The bottle girl had made a few rounds, each one welcomed with louder cheers and heavier pours.

Dijonai raised another shot glass toward the middle of the group and everyone raised their glasses. When they were done Paige picked hers up and tossed it back in sync with everyone else, the liquid burning in a way that didn’t faze her anymore, indicating how tipsy she was. Still, she looked relaxed. Her eyes were heavy but her limbs were looser as her body started to buzz with the alcohol.

After a few minutes, Cam signaled the bottle girl again. “Let’s keep it going,” she said with a tipsy grin, already pulling three more glasses toward herself, two of which she slid in front of Paige.

Paige shook her head. “I just had one.”

“So did everybody,” Cam said, putting her chin in her palm as she grinned. “We’re balancing the scales.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, at the flawed logic. “I feel like y’all plotting.”

Dijonai was already pouring herself another one too. “We are,” she said. “Let us live.”

Without saying anything else Paige knocked both back, barely blinking.

It wasn’t immediate, but with each extra drink that was snuck her way, Paige’s laugh got a little looser, and her posture relaxed more. She shifted deeper into the cushions, spreading her legs comfortably as she lounged and listened to everyone around her.

Paige’s hand found Azzi’s calf absently at first, resting there to keep her leg from slipping off her thigh but after a minute or two, her fingers started to move. Slow strokes up and down, almost in rhythm with the music.

Azzi glanced at her.

“Wassup?” Paige asked, pretending not to notice.

Azzi gave her a look. “I know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t know anything,” Paige said, grinning more than usual.

Her fingers slid higher up Azzi’s leg, her thumb rubbing softly at the inside of her knee. Azzi exhaled through her nose, trying to stop herself from smiling at Paige’s obvious horniness.

Cam clocked the moment and pointed across the table. “That’s how you know Paige is officially drunk.”

“Shut up,” Paige said, grinning without looking away from Azzi. “I’m chillin’.”

“Mmhm,” Dijonai hummed, pouring another shot and handing it to Azzi. “You’re gonna need this.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but took it, clinking glasses with Rae before downing it.

Another thirty minutes passed in a blur. Everyone in the group was definitely on the far end of tipsy or drunk. Paige was drunk in the best way. She wasn’t a messy or sloppy drunk; just loose and her cheeks flushed, that specific kind of buzz where she felt untouchable, her guard completely lowered.

“Alright, I need to dance,” Rickea announced suddenly, standing up with Cam already rising next to her.

“You read my mind,” Cam said, adjusting her dress. “Nai, you coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Dijonai grinned, finishing the rest of her drink before following them out of the section and into the packed crowd.

Azzi leaned in closer to Paige, smiling against her ear. “You gonna be okay if I go for a minute?”

Paige’s hand came up, her fingertips tracing Azzi’s jaw lightly, and then her lips brushed against Azzi’s ear like she was about to whisper something but before she could respond Rae stepped over. “Come dance with me, pretty,” she said, tugging Azzi by her wrist.

Azzi glanced at Paige for permission. Paige just gave her a small nod, still smiling up at her like she hung the stars before Rae was pulling her toward the dance floor.

Left alone in the section, Paige sank deeper into the plush couch. Her legs were spread wide with her arms thrown on the back of the couch. She was sitting in the way where if a man did it a woman might be disgusted, but because it was her it was attractive and it drew eyes.

The lights shifted over the crowd, catching the shimmer in Azzi’s skirt as she walked hand in hand with Rae until they reached everyone else. Her braids swung down one shoulder as she danced, laughing at something Rickea said. She looked amazing in any element and Paige felt the flutter in her chest deepen, settling comfortably beneath her ribs.

Paige didn’t smile with her mouth, but her eyes were completely soft in adoration, tracking every move Azzi made. Paige was the textbook definition of a woman watching the love of her life from across the room.

Two songs passed before a slower track came on, smoother and a little sultrier in tone. Azzi turned with everyone else back toward the section, clearly about to walk back but she took a step before Paige stopped her with her eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly asking a silent question.

Paige didn’t move much, just lifted her hips in her seat, in the eyes of, ‘adjusting,’ but her smirk and her legs spreading wider as she sat back carried an entirely different message.

Azzi caught it and she chewed her bottom lip for a second, thinking about it, before gently wrapping her fingers around Rae’s wrist just as she started to follow Cam, Rickea, and Dijonai back toward the section. Rae paused, lifting her eyebrows curiously, but Azzi didn’t say anything, she just gave her a subtle tug towards herself, and Rae followed her pull.

The bass slowed into something heavier, the synths melting into the background while the low beat pulled bodies into a new rhythm. Azzi moved first, stepping back until her back was against Rae’s chest, her arms lifting to rearrange her braids down one shoulder as she started to roll her hips.

Rae caught the rhythm easily, hovering her hands over Azzi’s waist without gripping them, letting her lead the tempo. Their bodies rocked together fluidly, skin gleaming faintly in the soft sheen of sweat that caught the flashing blue and purple lights. Every few seconds, the strobes would hit them just right, illuminating the shimmer of Azzi’s skirt, the soft flex in Rae’s thighs, the movements between them made visible for a flash before it was swallowed again by the darkness of the club.

Across the room, still in the same spot, Paige hadn’t moved. She looked calm as her gaze raked shamelessly over Azzi’s body. She watched the way Azzi rolled her hips, the slight arch of her back, the way her hands lifted above her head for a moment before they came down to rest on top of Rae’s. Paige’s eyes dragged over every inch of her exposed skin, down to the valley of Azzi’s chest where the halter dipped.

Azzi smiled as she watched Paige’s reaction, sliding down Rae’s body with the same controlled grace she carried on the court. She moved slowly, her back arching as her hands grazed down Rae’s sides before she rose again.

Paige’s jaw tensed as she watched, tapping her fingers against the leather cushion behind her. Her diamond necklace flashed every time the lights hit it, but it didn’t compare to the look in her blue eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly at her silently asking ‘you still good, baby?’

Paige smirked, nodding her head just a little bit, approving what Azzi was doing.

Azzi wasn’t trying to make Paige feel jealous. She just wanted to remind her of what she could do to her without touching her, what she could make her feel. That while no Paige’s body didn’t belong to her, but her control over it. Her ability to unravel her, to seduce her, to fuck up her composure with just looking at her from across the room.

That was all Azzi and Paige knew.

Paige didn’t blink when Azzi grabbed Rae’s hands and guided them down her body. Trailing them over her stomach, then down the curve of her thighs as she rolled her hips deeper into Rae. Paige’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the couch as she followed their hands, the leather creaking faintly beneath her grip.

Another strobe of light came fast and it lit up the small shine of sweat along Rae’s collarbone as she leaned down, her mouth hovering near Azzi’s shoulder as she leaned into her. The glow hit the inside of Azzi’s thigh where her skirt had ridden up, exposing the strong line of her quad, a soft glisten tracing along her skin where Rae’s hand rested.

As Paige watched this Cam appeared next to her, laughing breathlessly at something that Paige couldn’t hear and handed Paige a shot. Paige took it while keeping her eyes glued to Azzi. She tossed it back smoothly, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallowed it, the strobe catching on her collarbone, her arms, the diamonds dancing on her chain, the ridges of her toned abdomen beneath her black tank top.

Azzi saw every flash of light catching the controlled tension in Paige’s frame the way her muscles flexed when she threw the shot back and couldn’t help but bite her lip as she rolled her hips.

She didn’t have to tell Paige to come, the blonde stood slowly and stepped down from the section like she’d been waiting for the cue. She moved fluidly through the sea of bodies, cutting through the crowd easily as the bass pulsed around her.

Azzi stood a little straighter when she saw her coming out of satisfaction of winning whatever silent game they had been playing. She couldn’t help but smile because this was what she wanted, Paige being pulled forward by nothing but her desire to touch Azzi, already a puddle for her before she even got near her.

Azzi’s eyes tracked Paige’s steps until she was right in front of her. Without saying anything she reached out and hooked two fingers underneath the thick chain resting against Paige’s collarbone, tugging her forward.

Paige stepped into Azzi’s gravity willingly, her expression unreadable but her eyes saying everything like usual.

Azzi smiled as she slipped her arms around Paige’s neck, her wrists resting loosely behind her. Her body didn’t stop moving as she kept her hips rolling in sync with the beat, her back still pressed against Rae, who hadn’t stepped away. Azzi stood between them, caged in by the warmth radiating off of both of them, by their hands, by Paige’s attention.

Paige’s palms settled against Azzi’s waist, like she was silently claiming her space. “Don’t stop,” Paige whispered as her lips brushed against Azzi’s jaw.

Azzi’s smile grew, her mouth close enough to brush the shell of Paige’s ear. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Rae chuckled behind Azzi, her hands briefly grazing Azzi’s hips before she backed off with a smirk, giving them space as she slipped away.

“You come all the way over here just to stand still?”

Paige licked her lips, as she tightened her hands around Azzi’s waist. “I came over here ‘cause you were showing out.”

Azzi laughed, her forehead almost touching Paige’s. “You liked it.”

Paige’s mouth curved up, not quite a smile yet, but close. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

Their bodies swayed in sync now, not dancing so much as moving together, lost in the tension that lived between them. The music continued around them, lights flashing hot against Azzi’s glistening skin and making the diamonds at Paige’s neck glitter.

Azzi leaned in, her breath warm against Paige’s ear. “You wanna go home?”

Paige shook her head, her nose brushing Azzi’s cheek. “Not yet beautiful.”

The beat changed and something slower took its place. The unmistakable sound of “Lovers and Friends” echoing through the club speakers like a slow exhale, as the energy in the room changed. Around them, people softened as hips started to move slower, touches growing more intimate and loudness giving way to soft whispers as people’s flushed skin pressed against one another.

And in the middle of it all, was Azzi and Paige.

Without needing to be told and without breaking their rhythm, Azzi turned in Paige’s arms. Her back met Paige’s chest, and for a second, they just stood there to be close to one another.

Then Azzi reached for Paige’s hands, guiding them around her waist. She let out the softest sigh, something just barely audible, as Paige’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her back. The way she did it wasn’t possessive. It was like Paige was just letting herself feel Azzi in this moment, letting herself fully realize that Azzi was real and hers.

They started to move as Azzi rolled her hips slowly, letting her body guide their movement, letting the beat dictate how she pressed into Paige.

Paige followed her without thinking, without needing to really. She just swayed with her, melting against her back, their bodies moving like they’d done this a hundred times before.

But they hadn’t or at least not like this in public.

Not in the open where flashing strobe lights caught every one of their movements. As they let themselves be pulled into the haze of the club, the low ceiling of smoke and perfume and bass that made the world feel blurred, like they were underwater.

Paige exhaled against the back of Azzi’s neck before dipping her head down and pressing a lingering kiss just beneath her ear. Azzi swallowed and she tilted her head to the side, giving Paige space, silently inviting more. So Paige kissed her again. Then again a little messier.

Still wrapped tightly around Azzi, Paige’s palms started to move. Azzi took one of them and put her hand palm on top of Paige’s, intertwining their fingers before sliding Paige’s hand upward, dragging it across the front of her own body.

She guided Paige’s hand to her chest, letting Paige settle there and palm her breast as her back pressed harder into her. Paige’s other hand followed suit, dragging down to Azzi’s stomach where Azzi’s fingers pressed on top of hers, applying just enough pressure to encourage her to explore.

Paige’s palms glided across every part of Azzi’s bare skin and Azzi breathed deeply through it all, her body responding to every touch. When Paige’s fingers ghosted over the curve of her hip and slid lower, Azzi’s legs spread subtly, letting her press against her thighs, giving silent permission in everything she did.

Azzi leaned her head back, resting it against Paige’s shoulder as her lips parted. For a moment Paige let herself close her eyes. She let herself fully relax and let her guard down to be in this moment with Azzi in a room full of people. She breathed Azzi in, felt every inch of Azzi’s skin pressing against her own and just let her feel.

She realized that right now, in this version of her life this was all she needed.

The song played on and Paige and Azzi danced like no one else in the room existed.

From the section tucked off to the side, Rae let out a whistle and Rickea gasped before laughing, clutching her chest while she playfully fanned her hand like the scene in front of them had her hot. While Cam grabbed DiJonai’s arm and pointed toward the dance floor.

Paige’s body was flush with Azzi’s back, her hands now confidently roaming, fingers splayed over Azzi’s abdomen, moving slowly as they followed the arc of each of her ribs down to her hips. Azzi’s breath hitched when Paige’s thumb dragged beneath the edge of her skirt to tease the soft skin there. She caught her own lip between her teeth, her fingers gripping Paige’s at the wrist to hold her there.

There were a few times where Azzi had to whisper something to herself. To remind herself to not grab Paige’s hand and slide it between her legs. Her thighs clenching a few times with thoughts of doing it. The ache she was feeling had been building all night, a buzzing heat that pressed into her everytime she rolled her hips, every time Paige dragged her lips along her neck.

It didn’t help that she could feel Paige’s restraint, too. The tension in her arms or the way her jaw flexed. How her hands would hesitate for too long in certain places, like she was barely holding herself back from touching Azzi in the middle of the club.

Azzi leaned back harder into her, pressing their bodies together. She felt like every inch of her needed Paige. Her back burned from the heat radiating off of Paige, her skin practically humming for her. Paige dipped her head down again, her lips grazing Azzi’s shoulder, dragging across the curve of her neck with a kiss that barely connected.

Azzi’s breath stuttered and her knees almost buckled, so she turned in Paige’s arms to keep herself upright. Her hands slid up Paige’s arms as she turned, dragging her palms over the muscles she’d admired a hundred times but could never get enough of. Paige looked fucked up in the most beautiful way. Her hair was slightly tousled from the heat of the club and all their dancing, waves tumbling messily around her face. Her pale skin shimmered under the lights, accentuated by sweat and the liquor in her system.

The lilac sweats were lower on her hips from dancing and her black tank top stuck to her body in a way that made Azzi want to pull it off. She still smelled like her luxury cologne, having that soft bite of the vanilla Valentino that clung to her no matter how many hours they’d been out.

Azzi exhaled, shakily as she closed her eyes for a second.

“Wassup, beautiful,” Paige whispered, like she already knew Azzi was hers to have whenever she wanted.

Azzi didn’t say anything, she just stepped closer until her braids were brushing against Paige’s collarbones. Then she leaned up, brushing her lips against Paige’s ear. “You look so fucking good it hurts.”

Then, without warning, Azzi took Paige’s earlobe between her lips, she bit it before soothing it with her tongue and sucking on it gently.

Paige’s hands flexed at Azzi’s hips.

Azzi let go and smiled against Paige’s cheek as she leaned back far enough to see the reaction on Paige’s face. The look in Paige’s eyes made her thighs press together again to search for friction involuntarily.

Her breath hitched when Paige’s hand slid to the back of her thigh, her fingertips grazing her skin deliberately. Even as the hem of her skirt was adjusted back into place, Azzi felt so much in such a simple touch. It was possessive in the softest way. Then Paige’s hand was at her jaw, her thumb and index finger guiding her chin up with a softness that made Azzi’s heart stutter.

It always did. For all the strength in Paige’s arms, all the bite in her personality, she never handled Azzi with anything less than gentleness. Even now, completely drunk off liquor, with heat pulsing between their bodies and sweat slicking their skin, Paige still touched her like she was something she needed to be gentle with.

Paige leaned in close, her breath feathering across Azzi’s lips. “I can feel you dripping down your thighs for me.”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut for the briefest second at the words before Paige’s lips brushed hers to tease her before Azzi forced the space between them to vanish.

The kiss started slowly. Like they hadn’t been eye fucking each other from across the room. Like they weren’t on the verge of losing themselves in the middle of a packed club.

Paige’s lips moved against Azzi’s mouth with precision, coaxing a low moan from Azzi’s throat as their mouths opened wider. Their tongues met in soft, deliberate swipes, both of them tasting the night on each other: the drinks, the sweat, everything.

Azzi bit down on Paige’s bottom lip, just hard enough to make her groan into the kiss, and Paige returned the favor moments later, tugging on Azzi’s with her teeth before licking into her mouth again. Their tongues tangled making the kiss wet as they kept the pace slow.

Azzi let her lips close around Paige’s tongue, sucking it into her mouth gently, her fingers curling into the sides of Paige’s tank top. She could feel the subtle flex of Paige’s abs under her fingers.

Eventually, Azzi pulled back, and the sound that came when their lips parted was almost as obscene as the kiss itself. Paige’s mouth was swollen, the glossy sheen of Azzi’s lipgloss smeared across her lips.

Azzi caught her breath, and with a smirk, she raised her thumb to Paige’s mouth. Gently wiping the smudged lip color from her lips, dragging her thumb slowly across the bottom one on purpose. Paige’s jaw was slightly parted, her eyes soft and locked on Azzi like she was seeing the stars for the first time.

At that moment, she looked completely in love.

Azzi had seen every version of Paige. The secretly cocky one, the closed-off one, the one who could barely breathe through panic; but this version, the tender version who looked at her like the world disappeared around them? That version broke something open in Azzi every single time.

Paige opened her mouth like she was about to speak, her voice catching in her throat. “Azzi baby…”

Azzi tilted her head, keeping her hand on Paige’s face. “Yes?”

Paige hesitated for half a second, her throat working as she swallowed down words she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to say out loud yet and replaced them with something else as she whispered over the bass of the music, “Lemme take you home. I needa taste you before I lose my mind, baby.”

Azzi smiled faintly at this, her lashes fluttering as she tilted her head to the side. “I want another drink first.”

Paige couldn’t help but shake her head and chuckle a little, already clocking the look Azzi gave her when she was being a brat on purpose. Still even though she noticed, with a soft exhale, Paige reached into her pocket and pulled out a fifty. She held it between her index and middle fingers, letting it dangle as she said, “One more.”

Azzi pouted, pursing her lips as she leaned closer. “Maybe two?” As she said this she traced her finger over the waistline of Paige’s boxers.

Paige just looked at her, dropping her eyes to Azzi’s hand before looking back up and saying, “I’ll think about it.”

Azzi smiles as she kisses Paige’s lips before walking away knowing Paige was watching as she swapped her hips making the hem of her skirt shift with every step she took. Paige had to blink a few times just to ground herself, resisting the urge to follow her before going toward the section.

When she got there, Paige pulled out a small stack of cash and counted out more than enough to cover the night. She handed it to Dijonai. “Use that when y’all ready.”

Dijonai raised an eyebrow, her gaze moving between the money and the flush that still lingered on Paige’s cheeks and neck. She took the bills without saying anything. “Say less. See y’all at home.”

When Paige turned back around, she saw exactly what she expected, somebody had slid up next to Azzi at the bar. Some girl in a denim button-up and a chain that was definitely fake. She was saying something that might have sounded nice in her head, but Azzi didn’t bother hiding her disinterest. Her body language couldn’t have been clearer and Paige liked that.

Paige made a quick stop on the way, grabbing a shot off a server’s tray and tossing it back, the liquor burning down her throat as she handed her a twenty.

As Paige walked across the floor, the bass from the speakers seemed to sync with the heat rushing through her bloodstream. That last shot hit fast, like it bypassed everything else and went straight to her chest, igniting a fresh wave of warmth that spread outward. Her cheeks flushed deeper, her eyes becoming more hooded, like each blink was slower than the last.

Azzi was perched on the edge of the barstool, with one leg crossed over the other, her black mini skirt riding high enough that Paige groaned on sight, her boxers getting warmer. Azzi’s braids were still swept to one side causing her neck to be exposed and glowing underneath the club lights. Paige’s gaze raked over the soft curve of her thighs, the glint of sweat that caught under the flashing strobes, the shape of her features even from behind.

Azzi felt Paige before she heard her. Felt the heat radiating off of her, smelled her cologne that was distinctly Paige in her brain so without hesitating, she leaned back into the body behind her with a grin like she’d been waiting.

Paige leaned in, keeping her eyes locked on the woman next to Azzi like she wasn’t worth real attention. “Why can’t I ever leave you alone for two seconds?”

Azzi tilted her head smiling back at Paige. “It’s cause I’m pretty baby.”

Before Paige could respond, the woman next to Azzi, the one still trying to linger in a conversation that never started, spoke up. “Damn she didn’t seem taken a minute ago. That’s you? ”

A few months ago, Paige would’ve had something to say back to that. Her jaw would’ve tightened and she would’ve said something that caused an unnecessary scene.”

But today Paige just leaned lower, letting her hand slide around Azzi’s neck to angle her face toward her, guiding her like she should’ve been looking at her in the first place.

When she was satisfied with the angle Paige kissed her. It was a messy kiss, as her lips parted lazily as she tasted Azzi like she’d been starving all night. Azzi opened her mouth for her, sucking her tongue into her mouth before biting her bottom lip and pulling it back into her mouth with a quiet moan that Paige swallowed. Paige hummed into it, tightening her hand slightly as she bit Azzi’s lip right back.

Azzi smirked against her mouth before pulling away, a thin spit line stretching between them as her head stayed tipped back in Paige’s hand.. Paige brought her thumb to Azzi’s mouth and wiped away the glisten of spit delicately.

“Finish your drink so we can go,” Paige said plainly.

Azzi nodded up at her, obediently and that quiet submission made something in Paige tighten.

She swallowed around it, her throat moving visibly as her eyes lingered on Azzi’s face. She looked so soft, so ready to do whatever Paige wanted. Paige didn’t know which version of Azzi messed her up more. The one who talked back and tested her on purpose, or the one who looked up at her like this, pliant and completely trusting, like she was already halfway home.

It was a dumb comparison, really. A pointless one because Paige loved every version of her girlfriend. Every look. Every mood. Every part of Azzi Fudd made her ache in a way she’d never known she could feel.

Instead of blurting out something too big, something that had been sitting on the edge of her tongue for what felt like months she stepped forward.

Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi from behind, tucking her face into the crook of Azzi’s neck. She pressed her lips softly against warm skin, then another. One was beneath her ear, the other one lower, just above her collarbone.

“You smell so fucking good,” she whispered, brushing her nose against Azzi’s neck. “So beautiful. Every time I look at you I forget how to breathe, I swear you’re the most perfect woman I ever met.”

Azzi let out a soft hum, sipping her drink while Paige’s voice curled around her.

Paige didn’t rush her to finish her drink, she just held her. Kissed her softly. Spent time whispering the softest compliments she could fathom instead of whispering what she couldn’t say out loud for the first time in a club in LA. She knew the moment was coming but not here.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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imagineastrology · 9 months ago

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moon sign observations

Aries Moon:

Argumentative

Becomes recalcitrant under stress (beware)

Has no problem asserting themselves

Resourceful af and knows how to use adverse situations to their advantage

Supportive and hearty

Taurus Moon:

Becomes hedonistic under stress (no rules)

Desires and hopes to embody loyalty

Seems cool, but keeps grudges

Unyielding and independent

Cautious of new situations/experiences

Gemini Moon:

Struggles to stay in a ‘deep’ state of mind for too long (needs change, don’t worry they’ll get back to it later)

Approaches everything with intellectualism

Feelings are confusing if they can’t be rationally understood

Grows when in a learning environment

Reacts to most things in a jokey way to cope and can be forgetful

Cancer Moon:

Can turn cold when you don’t react the way they want

Enterprising

Will humiliate you if upset or angry

Insightful and internally aware

When put to productive use, has an intense inner focus

Leo Moon:

Actually suffers from many episodes of burn out

Guarded and self-protective

One of the most sensitive moon signs imo

They let nothing (I mean NOTHING) stop them from shining their light

Bossy and feels like they need to be in control all the time

Virgo Moon:

CEO of worriers inc.

Rumination leads them to depression and anxiety

Helpful and enjoys communicating their worries (moreso in a notepad than speaking)

Conscientious and wants to do meaningful things with their life

Never takes things at face value; will 100% analyse everything said and shown to them

Libra Moon:

Manifests love because it’s a major topic in their lives that they focus on

They are your go-to when it comes to aesthetics

Approaches most things with grace and fairness

Intelligent, can handle debates and many sides to a conversation

Heavily influenced and motivated by femininity and women

Scorpio Moon:

Major psychologist/counsellor vibes from this placement, can handle any topic thrown at them

Can guess how you’re feeling without you having to say anything

More sensitive than they let on

Very caring and affectionate

Seeks out truth and intimacy in their relationships

Sagittarius Moon:

Can be oblivious to people’s emotions

Restless emotionally, runner up to gemini moon (not quite 1st place)

Adventurous

Can easily manifest in the physical due to Jupiter’s influence

Actually very intuitive

Capricorn Moon:

Either in control of their emotions or let their emotions run wild

Artistic

Seems to be a sadness to them

Responsible

Uses humour as a defense mechanism

Aquarius Moon:

Will rationalize their emotions to the point of no return

Friendly!!

Sharp and intelligent

Loners at heart

They learn and grow a lot from their friends

Pisces Moon:

Can actually be cold and turn nasty if they feel like it

Lets their emotions rule their behaviour

Sensitive

Boundaries are blurred when they need something

Philosophical

#astrology #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #capricorn #sagittarius #aquarius #pisces #moon #moon sign #moon sign observations #astrology observations #astro notes

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lovebugism · 11 months ago

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✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind.

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still.

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad.

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up.

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face.

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall.

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt.

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you.

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch.

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret.

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream.

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming.

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes.

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it.

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger.

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice.

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy.

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them.

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway.

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect.

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.”

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over:

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too.

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you.

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own.

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him.

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world.

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his.

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder.

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you.

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other.

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you.

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light.

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers.

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan.

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with.

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there.

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him.

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins.

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is.

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry.

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you.

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him.

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it.

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you.

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs.

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry.

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum.

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes.

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it.

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you.

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head.

But he knows what you really mean.

#published by bug #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #eric a quiet place x you #eric x reader #eric x you #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #eric aqpdo #eric aqpdo x reader #a quiet place day one #misc oneshots

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