#two months ago... time flies

[chibigaia-art]

card illustration I made for a school project!

[thatonecrazysidekick]

When the brainrot is so bad that I start seeing my favorite character in the skeins of yarn my mom bought to make hats with

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

It's been a few days over a year since I started reading stone ocean????? Time flies ig. I'm pretty sure I watched the anime first but idk how to date that. jojo brainrot is real even if its mostly ocs for me. I need to reread stone ocean<3

[okaratauri]

lol forgot to post this but I drew myself and my friend (Juicebox, the one I’ve been playing lethal company with) as if we were in the style of Rick and Morty. I did this back in June loll

[tainkirrahe]

so Ruby Sunday was likely meant to be Desiderium before behind the scenes stuff made the show go to all hell.

This is an expansion of the theory I posted on Bluesky (kicked off by this Reddit thread), and maybe I am just copin' and seethin' but. like. even Charles Dickens would think this is all too much of a coincidence to not be Something.

Here's how I think it probably went down before Millie and Ncuti decided to leave early: The Rani kidnaps the God of Wishes and places her with a normal foster family, moving in next door to keep tabs on her, and when the time comes engineers things for the Doctor to take an interest in her (Church on Ruby Road). Ruby's DNA scans as human because she was born to human parents, but cannot be traced in the UK because she was born 180 years ago in Bavaria. And also her mum is flowers.

In Space Babies Fifteen wishes he and Ruby could be Poppy's parents within earshot of the God of Wishes, who unintentionally makes this true when Wish World opens with Ruby and John Smith having Poppy as their kid. Series 1 then plays out much as it had done before, with Ruby's ability to recognise something is wrong with the Doctorless universe in 73 Yards and Maestro's fear of her hidden song because she's a powerful member of the Pantheon. I think the rewrites only began with the ending of Empire of Death - in the original cut, it turns out even the fash DNA supercomputer doesn't know who she is and we're left on a cliffhanger with regards to this.

Ruby decides to take time out of the TARDIS after seeing the whole universe end and whilst Fifteen is off having adventures in Joy to the World she briefly dates Alan Budd before dumping him due to his controlling behaviour during a date where he gifts her a star certificate. She rejoins Fifteen after she is kidnapped by robots from Missrubysunday (with Ruby replacing Belinda this season the star certificate thing is centred on her) and he rescues her, with the time fracture in that episode reversing the events of the episode but leaving Alan's memory intact. He's dumped back on Earth where he becomes determined to ruin Ruby's life and so Lucky Day is about Alan, not Conrad, attacking UNIT/Ruby. At the end of the episode Alan is picked up by an ecstatic Rani who now has the God of Wishes and her ex boyfriend who has a serious grudge against her and wants to change the world for the worst.

Season two remains pretty much the same as well. We then hit the finale which also plays out the same initially - sorry guys I think Omega was always going to be a skeleton baby :( - but with Ruby ending the fake reality by breaking into where Alan is holding her as a baby and touching her baby self's hand, just like the resolution with the certificate in Robot Revolution. The universe resets but Ruby notices Poppy is missing, able to remember her because a) she was the one who cast the wish; b) her experience with parallel universes (73 Yards); and c) her characterisation as an "abandoned" baby who wants everyone to have a home. She uses her powers one final time to bring Poppy back and decides to leave the TARDIS for good and raise her new daughter.

The episode ends with Ruby donning the Rani's cloak and leaving her baby self outside the church on Ruby Road to ensure the timeloop is maintained, changing Fifteen's memory by pointing at the Doctor just as we saw in Empire in order to keep that mystery intact as well.

Fifteen, touched by Ruby's decision, flies off in the TARDIS determined to find Susan. and also rescue Rogue from Superb Hell I guess #justiceforrogue

The end.

(To be clear I adore Belinda, the above was not written to write her out of the show - I think she deserved better in her own story, when clearly she was simply recycled from story beats taken from Ruby).

Some supporting evidence -

• Desiderium is the seventh child of a seventh child. Ruby Sunday's name alludes to both: rubies are the birthstone of July, the seventh month, and Sunday is the seventh day of the week.

• the Goblins in Church on Ruby Road fed on coincidences. Desiderium was born to the Zufall family. Zufall in German means "coincidence".

• The Rani talks about having to keep track of the Doctor's companions to make her plan to summon Omega work, but only actually references Ruby by making a slight about blonde girls. Belinda also has absolutely no impact on The Rani's plan whatsoever, to the extent she was locked in a box for the whole finale, so The Rani's interest in her feels utterly pointless. (Because it was).

• Strong themes of motherhood, childhood abandonment, and adoption paralleling what happened with the Doctor as per Timeless Child revelations throughout the series that make absolutely no sense for Belinda, who came from a home with both parents present. Ruby was always meant to complement Fifteen's recent discovery of his adopted status and help him work through it as he helped her work through hers.

• Space Babies also literally opens the show on a spaceship misinterpreting stories and making them real.

• The odd duplication of fashy boys Conrad and Alan - it makes more narrative sense if they were both once the same character who got sawed in half during hasty rewrites.

• Ruby's name being tied to sevens is similar to River Song, Melody Pond, and Amy Pond being related to water, hinting at their connection.

maybe I am wrong, maybe the show was always meant to be written this way but like. theorising. is also fun!

[sparklingchim]

game on 03 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x oc

word count: 2.7k

tropes: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warnings: jk is a huge flirt, mentions of jk's past fights in school, lots of hand holding, paparazzi!!!, mentions of jk's flings 🫢, they love to bicker <3

summary: your fake relationship goes public - cue the unexpected butterflies.

a/n: she's finally back !!!! n i rlly hope u like it 😋

masterlist

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So many nights spent wondering about the future, but you never imagined yourself in this scenario.

“I can see someone across the street.”

“That’s good – that's perfect.” Jungkook doesn’t even look back to catch a glimpse of what’s happening outside when he says, “Let them get their little shots. We’ll pretend we don’t notice.” He leans closer, elbows on the table. A grin lights his eyes. “Maybe we can even start the show right here.”

Jungkook begins to play with your fingers, gently tracing his fingertips along yours. Slowly, he lifts your hand, your elbow grazing the edge of the table, and links your fingers with his in the air.

You hesitantly mimic his smile. “Sure you don’t wanna switch paths and become an actor?”

“Hmm, maybe in my next life,” he ponders. “But only if you’re the co-star.”

“Can’t even leave me alone in our next life? I’d categorise that as obsessive behaviour, Jungkook.”

Kind of like the way most people in this café are obsessively watching you two.

The plan is simple: sit in a café with Jungkook, pretend you’re lost in your own little world, play the part of a love-struck couple – and wait. Wait until people become suspicious that this isn’t just another casual lunch between childhood friends, but that maybe there’s something more. Wait until a few more onlookers gather outside, cameras ready, eager to capture the moment your friendship seems to blur into something else.

“That’s just how a boyfriend would act, no? Be obsessed with his girl.”

“I guess? No one’s ever been obsessed with me.”

“Wasn’t Junwoo?”

You sigh deeply at the mention of your high-school ex-boyfriend. “Yeah, after I broke up with him.” If a two-month thing even qualifies as a relationship.

“Should’ve let me punch that fucker for treating you that way, seriously.” He says it with such contempt dripping from his voice, you’d think this happened recently and not nearly three years ago.

When Junwoo and you got official and had your first time, suddenly that’s all he was interested in. No more fun dates or random calls just to talk. Just a guy who liked the idea of you more than actually spending time with you. And once you called him out on it, he pretended it wasn’t true at all and tried to win you back with cute letters, random gifts or cringey apologies over voice notes.

“You got into trouble for that way too many times,” you remind him pointedly.

Whether it was for the sake of protecting you or losing his temper on the field – Jungkook had squared up to other guys more times than you could count. And still continues to do so on the field. Boys.

Jungkook’s sweet, charming, total golden retriever, until you piss him off.

“Ah, I really miss it,” Jungkook mumbles, wistfully brushing his thumb over your skin.

“Fighting?”

“No, just school in general. It was a silly time back then.”

“Don’t remind me. Life was so carefree.”

“Was it really for you, though?” Jungkook asks, tilting his head like he already knows the answer. “You were, and still are, a study maniac. Dragged me to the library so many times.” Jungkook rolls his eyes at the memory of the times you’ve spent in the library to study for exams and you nearly swat his arm for that.

You were stressed out and trying to survive under all the pressure of acing your exams. He was there for the vibes. You hunched over textbooks with color-coded tabs, he sprawled across the seat next to you, nearly falling asleep from boredom. Jungkook used to doodle on your notes while you crammed for midterms. At the time, it drove you up the wall. You’d flick his pen away, scold him for distracting you, threaten to ban him from ever coming again.

He always came anyway. And you always let him.

Now, whenever you’re studying – whether alone or with a study group – you catch yourself having memories popping up in your mind of Jungkook sitting next to you, twirling a pen, asking dumb questions like do you think mitochondria ever get tired of being the powerhouse?

You don’t miss the stress of high school. God, no. But you do miss that. Him in those moments. The silly distractions. The way he annoyed you so much it looped around into comfort.

“And you got us kicked out so many times,” you argue. “I get your hatred for studying, but you were doing too much.”

Jungkook shrugs, unbothered. “I did the best I could, honestly.”

Right then, the waitress appears with your drinks. Two iced americanos, his with an extra shot, yours with oat milk. She places them on the table with a polite smile before vanishing again. Jungkook thanks her absently, stirring his coffee with the paper straw.

“Kinda wish we could go back for a day. Just one,” he says, eyes fixed on the swirling coffee. “Walk the halls, eat lunch together, annoy each other in class.”

“You just want to relive the time you sneaked off with Hyejin and made out behind the gym hall.” You sip on your drink, eyeing him.

Jungkook nearly chokes on his coffee. “You know what, I wouldn’t say no to that,” he replies, a sly smirk forming on his face. But then he recoils dramatically. “No, ___. How dare you say that when we’re on a date? I don’t wanna go back in time to kiss other girls.”

You quirk your eyebrow, but he doesn’t budge from that statement. "You just said you wouldn’t say no.”

“Slip of the tongue.” He waves it off. “I’m – we’re still new to this,” he adds, eyes wide with mock innocence. “But I’m fully reformed now. Monogamous. Loyal. Emotionally available.”

“Oh wow. All three?”

“All three.” He nods solemnly. “All for you.” Jungkook leans closer, conspiratorially. “Do you wanna sneak off and kiss behind the building?” he teases, voice dropping the tiniest bit. A soft, short chuckle escapes him like he’s proud of his flirty jab.

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You wish.”

He sips on his drink, sparkling eyes trained on you. “Should we really, though?” he asks more seriously. “Maybe not in the back of the café but my car or something?”

“I don’t know. Is hand holding enough? Did Taesung tell you something about a kiss?”

“Lemme just ask him.”

Jungkook lets go of your hand. He grabs his phone and types.

You squint suspiciously. “What did you text him?”

Without a hint of shame, he flips the screen around.

should we kiss?

You nearly laugh. What an unprofessional, unhinged text message to your manager. But then you catch sight of his grin behind his phone – that wide, dimpled, full-teeth kind of grin that makes him look way too pleased with himself – and annoyance melts away.

“You’re so lucky he puts up with your shit.”

“I just add a little fun to his job. He needs it.” His phone pings. He reads the message aloud. “He said it’s not necessary. Do what you’re comfortable with.”

Suddenly, worry tightens your chest. “Do you think they’ll follow us? To your car?” you ask, voice low as your eyes flick to the café window, though you force yourself not to actually look.

“They’ll keep their distance,” Jungkook says calmly.

Your worry turns out to be nothing more than a fleeting flicker. Here one second, gone the next. Especially when he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I told you not to stress over these things. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I can’t stop the worrying.” You tap a finger to your temple. “This thing won’t shut up.”

“It doesn’t have to work when I’m around.”

“I believe you when we survive the day.”

“Yah,” Jungkook breathes out affronted, his shoulders sagging dramatically like you just wounded him. “Do I not take care of you?” he pouts, the expression softening every line of his face.

“I’m just joking,” you giggle, nudging his foot under the table with yours. “Don’t be upset.”

Jungkook crosses his arms, lips still pursed in that exaggerated pout. “I’m not upset,” he says, clearly upset. Or pretending to be. His foot nudges yours back, a petty little kick that barely has any force behind it.

“Thank you for risking your life in public with me,” you try, waiting for his reaction.

“Risking my life is crazy, no?” he says, drinking his coffee. “We’re just having overpriced americanos.”

“So you do still know the value of money and have a concept of what’s normal. We haven’t completely lost you yet.”

“Yeah, what can I say. I’m still grounded.”

“You’re paying a monthly fee for a dog-walking app, and you don’t even have a dog. I don’t think that’s exactly grounded.”

“I just like to know what’s going on in the dog community. Sue me.”

“That’s called being rich,” you shoot back, lifting your drink. “Meanwhile, I was checking my bank app before I said yes to this fake date.”

“You wound me again.” A disappointed sigh slips past his mouth as he slouches back in his seat. “It’s those boys you hang out with at university, isn’t it?” he asks, shaking his head slowly, dramatically. “Feeding you cafeteria food and making you split Ubers.” He tuts, tongue clicking. “You’ve been through so much.”

Jungkook is ridiculous. But he also has a point.

“Maybe this fake dating situation won’t be only beneficial for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you how a man treats his girl properly.” He leans forward slightly.

“You don’t even date.” And yet, throughout your friendship, he still manages to do better than half the boys you’ve talked to.

“Exactly.” He shrugs like it proves something. “And I’m still ahead of the curve.” On a more serious note, he adds, “It’s not that hard to not be weird.”

“Low bar, huh.”

“Painfully low.” Jungkook winks at you. “But I’ll raise it for you. Temporarily.”

“Until you send me off to the college boys?”

“The finance bros you’ve been collecting?” At least Jungkook has the decency to try and hide the smile that threatens to break across his face, but it’s a miserable attempt.

“It was one date,” you groan, slumping back in your chair. “Will you ever stop annoying me about it?”

“I fear I can’t.” He reaches out, fingers brushing yours before he gently takes your hand. He gives a light tug, coaxing you to lean forward again, and you do. “How long did it take him to bring up crypto again?” Your fingers end up loosely threaded with his, resting on the table. The contact makes the teasing a little less annoying.

“I think he made it a whole five minutes before he went into a deep dive of explaining cryptocurrency to me.” You swirl your straw in slow, disappointed circles. Whoever started the myth of meeting the love of your life at university is a big, fat liar. Or maybe just works in admissions. And definitely deserves jail time.

“Wow.” Jungkook nods impressed. “Do you want a moment of silence for your brain cells?”

“I’m surrounded by idiots. I’m used to it.”

“You’re a med student. How does that work?”

“Men. Lots of emotionally unintelligent men.”

“But now you have me!” Jungkook exclaims, eyes big and sparkly. He squeezes your hand as he triumphantly holds them up a little. “Isn’t that fun?”

You laugh at his silly antics. “It’s an upgrade, for sure.”

Jungkook drinks up your words with a huge smile. “I’m so honoured. You’re, like, the smartest girl I’ve ever had.” he says. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Do you even know anything about the girls you’ve been with?”

“They’re pretty?” he answers hesitantly. “And they have amazing taste.”

“Finish your drink before I throw up, please.”

“Wanna end our date already?”

“Didn’t you want to head to the gym after this?” You take a final sip of your coffee, pushing the empty glass away from you.

“I can cancel.”

“For me?”

“For us.”

“All it took for you to spend more time with me is fake date you?”

“Says you,” he shoots back. “The one who always bails on me because she has to study.” He mimics your voice when he says it and does a terrible job at that. It’s awful, but he still manages to pull a little laugh from you.

“Speaking of,” you say, glancing at the time. “I actually have a study date in an hour. So I don’t have time to hang that long.”

“This relationship’s doomed to fail,” he says flatly.

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

“Fully admitting to going on another date during our first date?”

“A study date,” you clarify, rolling your eyes at his theatrics. “With my study buddy.”

“Side chick, you mean.”

“I should accuse you of that, not the other way around.”

“Doubting my loyalty already, I see.” Jungkook taps his fingers against his glass. “I told you, I’m a brand-new man. I’ve got the big three now.” He raises a finger for each one: “Loyal. Monogamous. Emotionally available.”

“I truly love that for you, Jungkook. Growth looks good on you. But I still need to study.”

Jungkook finishes his coffee, sighing when he places his glass on the table. “Lets go then.” But then suddenly he goes, “Hold on – what would you rate this date? One to ten.”

You ponder. “Like, maybe a seven?”

“Seven? Damn.” Jungkook exclaims. “What are you deducting three points for?” He tilts his head with a genuine confused pout.

“It was a cute date. Conversation was fun, good banter but...” You trail off, thinking. Jungkook raises his eyebrows expectantly. “The butterflies were missing.”

He scoffs. “I can give you lots of butterflies if you let me.”

“Don’t make me deduct more points,” you warn, unfazed.

“Ah, okay.” He bows his head in apology, muttering, “I’ll do better next time.”

You giggle, comforting him with small pats on his head. “Don’t feel too burdened. I really liked it.”

~

Leaving the cafe hand in hand, a shy smile playing on your lips, you walk beside Jungkook towards his car. Your shoulders are tense, awareness prickling at your skin as you feel the distant hums of cameras capturing every step.

You try to play it cool, telling yourself that this isn’t different from any other day, but the little waves of anxiety still roll through you.

Jungkook seems unfazed. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you, the edge of his mouth curved upward. He pulls you closer, his body shifting ever so slightly to shield you from curious eyes.

Once you reach his black Bugatti tucked away in a quiet street, he opens the door for you, his hand brushing lightly against your back as you slide in.

He rounds the car and settles in beside you.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Are you?”

Concern flickers over his face. “Yeah, as long as you are okay.”

“No, I am. Really. Just worried that they would be more annoying about following us, but it’s all good.”

“They know better.”

“Think we did good?” You turn your body a little towards him as he starts the car.

“Of course we did,” he replies. “You looked like you were seconds away from falling in love with me. Got excited for a sec.”

“Delusional and confident.”

Jungkook checks the rearview mirror, his gaze flickering over the street behind you. “They’re probably still around.”

“You think?”

“Probably. But let them look. We are kinda adorable.”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Jungkook’s fingers rest lazily on the steering wheel. He turns his head to you again, eyes twinkling like he’s had an idea.

“Maybe we could do a bit better?”

“Better how?”

He leans a little closer, his cologne wrapping around you. His voice drops slightly when he says, “Come here.”

Jungkook cups your cheek, gently guiding you towards him. You lean into it without a second thought. Your eyes fall close, and you wait, expecting him to kiss you just like you had practised it at your place, but you don’t feel the gentle touch of his lips against your mouth.

Instead, you feel him press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

Your chest stirs at his unexpected move.

There they are.

Butterflies.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

a little extra from me to u 😋:

[danidrabbles]

Throw Away The Oars

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader | 6k words | explicit

Summary: You feel like Robby’s distancing himself from you. A slip of the tongue to the wrong person when you visit the pitt feels like it could be the final nail in the coffin of your undefined relationship.

Tags/Warnings: female reader (female anatomy), semi-follow up to Home Again but you can read this as a standalone, semi-established relationship, feelings/angst/fluff, insecurity, miscommunication but like with a fun outcome?, swearing, therapy (mentioned), emergency department horrors (mentioned), blood (mentioned), rats (mentioned), other pitt characters, smut (fingering f receiving, unprotected piv, public sex, dirty talk, creampie, spanking) – let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: Two fics in as many weeks? Unheard of. Genuinely feel like I was possessed when I wrote this, so if it isn’t good or sexy or fun, blame the Demon. I think the song is pretty obvious from the title, but it's mentioned more in the story. Hope you enjoy! Huge thank you to @javier-pena for proofreading, general enthusiasm, and for saying there's a line in this that should get an Academy Award for Hottest Line in a Fic.

– – – – –

Pittsburgh looks sad tonight. It isn’t particularly cold, but it rained all day and there are at least six different dark shades in the sky, like it’s saying, Hey, give me a good enough reason and I’ll have it pouring in no time. 

From the row of red taillights to the left of the sidewalk you’re on, you gather most people are making their way home right now. It’s approaching seven, it makes sense for the time. You find yourself discreetly looking into people’s cars, keeping yourself entertained with all the different characters, imagining what kind of life they have and what plans they made for the night. It’s like the weather knows about yours, because more dark clouds roll in, and you cease your people watching in favour of picking up your pace and getting you to your destination faster. 

You round the corner, the daunting height of that destination appearing in your eyeline. It’s almost like a lighthouse, with nearly every little window having that yellow-white shine to it. A helicopter flies overhead, the sound of the blades whirring making you look up, following it as it approaches the building's roof, and you’re reminded that for some people, the day is only just beginning.

You approach Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feeling like there’s lead in your shoes for a different reason, and you actually kind of feel like an asshole about it.

This particular feeling should be reserved for people that are genuinely going through something. You know that inside that building, there are patients who are on the brink of death, holding hands with the people they love for the final time. There are patients receiving life altering, devastating diagnosis. Family members gently being guided into quiet rooms, where doctors explain how they did everything they could, but to no avail. It shouldn’t be felt by someone who is borrowing grief from the future over something as trivial as a two month relationship.

Things between you and Robby are different lately - or, well, they feel different anyway.

Admittedly, it’s all circumstantial, in the eye of the beholder, but that’s what’s fucking you up about it the most. First it was the little changes in the inflection in his voice whenever he says your name; last week it was him not wanting to meet up at his place, only yours; two days ago it was him drilling you into the mattress while looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, then leaving afterwards under the bullshit guise of an appointment be had with his fellow attending about rats in the emergency department.

You know Robby’s… complicated. He has his things going on, but who doesn’t? Plus, he’s actually working on it; you never see him on Wednesdays because that’s his therapy day and he’s focussed–dedicated. And you’re proud of him, but every time it's on the tip of your tongue to voice that, it hits you that you don’t know if you have any right to say it, if the role of supportive… whatever you are, is what he wants from you. No matter how patient you want to be, and you have been very patient, very willing to go at this at whichever pace he liked, it’s kind of like he’s freewheeling. Which is unlike him. Which only fucks you up more.

Safe to say, it’s messing with your head more than you care to admit. 

It’s just that you slipped into a sense of familiarity so fast that you never really had a conversation about where this is all going. You know he isn’t seeing other people, he made that clear a few weeks in, when you asked and he laughed, because where would he find the time for that, and yeah, that was a good point. He knows you’re not seeing anyone else thanks to a very in the heat of the moment exchange, with him, on the verge of coming, asking you, because he needed to know. When you said no, he pulled out, ripped off his condom, and finished on your stomach with a rough, “Good.”

(When you mentioned that he should do that inside next time, he made a sound, slid back in, and came a second time, like the admission had given him some sort of feral, possessive second wind.)

So all things considered, mixed signals. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be here, picking him up like you agreed you would a week ago, when you made plans to go to the movies together. Maybe you should have also made up a stupid excuse, let him figure his shit out, and wait for him to call you once he did. But you’re an adult, who realizes manipulation tactics are futile, and childish. Eventually, for better or for worse, you’re going to have to tell him how you feel about him.

Unfortunately for you, you’ve been known to make choices that aren’t the best for your heart.

You enter PTMC with as much confidence as you can muster up, then make a beeline for the elevator. You wait after calling it, and while you do, you study the plaque above the button you just pressed, eyes lingering at the very bottom of it.

Basement. Emergency department.

The pitt.

The high-pitched ding! comes faster than you thought it would, and you step aside as the elevator doors slide open to let a handful of people step off. You give the people still inside a polite, “Evening,” and a nod as you get on, then press the button for the basement.

Naturally, and for no other reason than to fuck with you personally, the elevator slides up first.

You close your eyes, braving the sensation of the semi-gentle start-stop as you pass each floor going up - then again going down. By the time you reach the basement, it’s just you and a doctor - female, red hair, frizzy bangs, looking tired as all hell. She rushes past you, file in hand, and you make your way down the hall after her. 

The waiting room is packed, and you’re taken aback by the sheer volume of the voices echoing off the walls, making you feel a bit disoriented as you try to find a way to get where you need to be. Several registration nurses are seated behind reinforced glass and your chest tightens over the fact that that is protection health care providers need. You approach a window that one of the patients just walked away from, clear your throat, and say,

“Um, excuse me–”

“Please, fill this out,” the woman says, pushing a clipboard through the slot at the bottom of the window, “and bring it back to me when you’re ready.”

Gently, you push the clipboard back. “I don’t need medical treatment,” debatable after the overthinking from earlier–

“Then what can I do for ya, hon?” she asks, briefly looking over her shoulder when another staff member sails through the doors behind her. He’s wearing the same charcoal coloured scrubs Robby always wears, and is struggling to pull off a very bloodied pair of gloves.

“I’m looking for, um… Doctor Robinavitch?” 

“Why?” The doctor pipes up from behind the nurse. He finally pulls the gloves off his hands, tosses them into a clinical waste bin and looks at you expectantly as he brushes his fingers through his silvery curls.

Before you elaborate, you raise an eyebrow at the confrontational tone. “I’m here to pick him up.”

The man looks at you, narrows his eyes, then juts his chin out. “And how do you know Doctor Robinavitch?”

“Robby,” you find yourself saying like you’re proving some sort of point about how well you know him, “is…” You pause, try to think of how to convey that he is the guy you decided to shoot your shot with in a record shop and who you’ve been sleeping with for the better part of two months in a way that’s acceptable for the workplace. But there’s steady beeping, the wailing of a baby behind you, a distant scream coming out of the emergency department, the two sets of expectant eyes on you from people who clearly have something better to do than wait for you to- Are you sweating? It feels like you’re sweating. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up so far it would’ve made you laugh if the weight of your words hadn’t just hit you like a fucking truck. For the past week, you had been questioning everything about your relationship and you cracked under the slightest bit of pressure and labeled Robby your boyfriend like you’re two teenagers. 

And at his workplace.

“Is he now?” the doctor asks, a lopsided grin appearing on his face afterwards.

“Abbot,” the nurse says sharply. 

The warning makes your stomach twist. This is just great. As if your panicked slip of the tongue alone wasn’t bad enough, it had to be in front of frequently mentioned fellow attending slash close friend Jack Abbot.

“You know what,” you begin, swallowing thickly and jutting your thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside–”

“Hey, hey, hey, no,” Abbot says, his voice gone gentle, raising his hands and looking more like he’s calming an escaped horse than an embarrassed human being. “He’s just finishing up with some patients, I’ll go get him for ya.” And as quickly as he arrived, he disappears again.

“Just take a seat, doll,” the nurse says. You think she’s aiming for pity, but the words are dripping with delight at this turn of events at what’s no doubt the very end of her shift. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

You thank her and turn around, looking for an empty chair, but are once again confronted with the sheer amount of people waiting to be seen - it’s fine, you’ll just settle for a hole in the ground to disappear into. Before you have time to rethink every course of action you had taken to get you to this point, starting with frequenting a record shop, Robby sails through the flap doors with Abbot in tow. 

One looks cautious. The other looks endlessly amused. 

Robby’s eyes find you in the crowd in a flash, and he reaches you so quickly it seems like he’s floating, taking you by the arm and dragging you along with him.

“Hi,” you manage while you stumble to keep up.

“Let’s leave?” He says it like a question, but his voice leaves no room for discussion. Moving his hand to the small of your back, he leads you down a different path than you came, out a security door that he opens with a swipe of his badge, into a stairwell marked ‘A’, and quickly up the first flight of stairs.

The moment you’re alone with him, you can practically feel the words making their way up your throat, and before you can stop it, you begin explaining yourself, “You’re upset, I get it. I’m sorry I said… that in front of Abbot. Shouldn’t have done it, definitely will not happen again.” 

Robby’s hand flexes and your words seem to stop him dead in his tracks, feet coming to a halt in the middle of the landing between the staircases. He says nothing, and aside from the way his frown deepens, he stays very still. 

“Listen,” you begin, trying and failing to keep your voice steady and void of sadness, “if you’re really that upset about it, maybe we should–”

“I’m not upset,” he says, turning to face you while he shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

You scoff, frustrated. Not upset? Sure. In a sweeping manner, you gesture at him from his feet to his crown, and back again, “Then what’s this?”

“I just worked a 12 hour shift in the emergency department, I think I’m allowed to look a little upset,” he scoffs back. “But this…,” he tries to gesture at himself the way you just did, but mostly just gets his face, which, to his credit, does worry you the most, “...is not because I’m upset with you.”

It makes your shoulders slump, but the short-lived sense of relief quickly makes room for guilt. Christ, he’s right. Today alone he’s probably seen things no other human being would see in a lifetime–should see in a lifetime. You should cut him some slack. Another apology is on the tip of your tongue, but Robby speaks first, 

“Saw Abbot’s shit-eating grin and wanted to get you out of there before he started asking you a million annoying que–” His voice dies down, and you can practically see the penny drop. He puts his hands on his hips, narrows his eyes at you, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before demanding, “Tell me.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

Didn’t Abbot tell him? Is Robby messing with you?

You could really use that hole to disappear into right about now…

You shuffle your feet. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me…” Robby takes a step closer so you’re standing toe-to-toe and looks at you expectantly, “…what you told Abbot.”

“I just said I was here to pick you up,” you try to save face, but you can recognize it’s a pathetic attempt; you literally can’t even look at him while you say it.

Robby’s arms cross, his shoulders drawing up as he bows his head and shakes it with an amused huff. “Liar.”

You gasp, “Fuck you, I did say that.”

“Fine,” he’s laughing now, “what else did you say?”

You know you have no choice but to be honest; if you don’t tell him, Abbot will. The mirth on his face helps, maybe he’ll take it as a joke and your crisis of relationship will be averted for the time being. 

“He asked how I knew you. And I… I might have said, ‘He’s… my boyfriend’.” You make your voice go up at the end, purposefully formulating it as a semi-question, like even you don’t remember exactly what you said, then throw in a chuckle for good measure, all in an attempt to take more weight off the revelation.

The silence that follows is deafening; even the emergency department waiting room past the door at the foot of the stairs seems to have gone quiet. A myriad of expressions pass Robby’s face, before it settles on something completely new to you–something completely unreadable. But this time, it’s impossible to look away, not when he swallows thickly, not when his defensive pose falls and his hands ball to fists, clenching and unclenching at his side. Your mind is already formulating its third planned apology of the day, but Robby foils it again. 

“You said that?” His voice is so fucking deep it’s more of a rumble, a slight tremble on the word said.

“Yes.”

“In those words?” he presses. “To Abbot?”

You nod with a sigh, realizing you might as well put all your cards on the table, “And the nur–”

“Am I?” 

Dropping your hands by your side, you sigh. “I don’t know, Robby. You tell me.” Your voice sounds so small, “Are you?”

There’s a sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor - his backpack, you realize - and then he surges forward, a hand anchoring itself at your waist while the other slips behind your head to cushion the way he crashes the both of you into the wall. He kisses you like he never has, with utter desperation, and bite, his teeth closing around your bottom lip before letting his tongue map you out like it’s the first time he gets to do it. Stunned, you clutch onto his arms, try to follow along with him, but he doesn’t give you a chance to catch up. 

“Yeah, I am,” the words come out more like a growl, “I’m your fucking boyfriend.” The ball of anxiety that’s been making a home in your gut explodes, melting into arousal so fast you’d think you did hit your head. It takes you another moment to move with him, moaning at the scrape of his beard against your chin and the flick of his tongue behind your teeth. 

Once your brain finds its connection to your body, all you want is more. So you take, with newfound vigor, a swipe of your tongue along his and a palm cupping the side of his neck, applying pressure in a way that makes him grunt. He pushes you back harder, plastering himself to your front. When he tries to wiggle his hand between your bodies and into your pants, it brings you back to reality for a split second. 

“Robby, fuck, wait–”

“No one’s gonna see,” he slurs. He sounds wrecked already, and you haven’t even done anything but kiss. You would be kind of proud of it if your brain wasn’t melting out of your ears with lust. Spreading your legs to give him more room, you– Wait, shit, focus.

Second split second. 

Closing your hand around his wrist, you start again, “Robby–” 

“No one fucking comes here, need a badge and they all take the elevator, I swear.” He kisses your neck, scrapes his teeth along that spot that makes you sigh. He’s playing so incredibly dirty– “Just… let me finger my girlfriend.”

It’s like you go boneless at the word, the hand he’s been wringing into your jeans slipping under your underwear with ease now that you’ve stopped fighting it. The shriek you let out when his fingers roll roughly over your clit echoes through the empty stairwell before you muffle it by clamping a hand over your mouth. It’s a lot, the emotional whiplash so severe that tears spring into your eyes when a finger dips into your entrance to test the waters.

Robby pulls away, hand and mouth, then brings one to the other. You might actually whine at the loss, and the way he sucks two fingers into his mouth, the thick digits coming back shiny and slick when he pulls them out, all without ever breaking eye contact. Then he’s back to frantic, dry hand pulling at your fly and zipper, and you help him with hurried, awkward moves, all but ripping your pants open to give him more room.

“Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to hold back around you? When you... say stuff like that to people when I’m not around like it’s fucking… easy?” Robby pushes his middle finger into you as far as it’ll go, grunting like he’s enjoying it more than you are. His head tips down, watching how his hand is stuffed beneath the tight, rigid denim; yours falls back, panting up at the spiralling staircases above you, clutching onto the open ends of Robby’s hoodie for dear life when his finger starts pumping inside of you. “When you look so sweet and then get this wet for me?”

You clench around him, leaking into his palm while a groan rumbles from your chest when he adds a second finger. “Then don’t–” he bends them, finds something that makes you quiver, “Fuck, Robby, that’s good. Stop holding back around me.”

His hand curls around your jaw, pulling until your eyes meet; his are wild, pupils blown so wide his irises appear black even in the bright fluorescent hospital lighting.

You take the jump, your stomach flipping in a way that makes it feel like you’re actually in freefall, the admission somehow taking more vulnerability than letting him finger fuck you here of all places. “Stop holding back,” you say, desperately trying to convey that this is bigger than just this moment between you.

And when his hand stills, and he plants a dizzying kiss on your lips, it feels like he does, like he pours everything he can’t say into the simple, long press. You attempt to return the sentiment, slinging your arm around his neck, palming his nape that’s damp with sweat and holding him to you. You stay like this for a long moment, your heart beating so hard and fast that you wonder if Robby can feel it with how tightly you’re pressed together.

You don’t get time to think about if you can feel his, because his fingers slowly start up again between your legs, and he fucks you on his hand, palm grinding up against your clit until you’re crying out into his open mouth, coming hot, and hard, tears of pleasure spilling over your waterline while you tremble in his hold.

There’s nothing but him, his scent, the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside you coming even easier with your orgasm. You can’t breathe but it feels secondary to everything else when he grinds against your thigh, thick and heavy and fucking pulsing with need, trapped behind those cargo pants, and despite the fact that you just came, you feel like you need him more than air.

“Are you gonna put it in?” you ask, voice a little drowsy. “Please?”

The combination of his lazy grin and the flush along his cheeks makes him look somewhat boyish. “Give her one good orgasm and the fear of getting caught is fucked riiiight out, huh?” Robby says - anything but boyish - gently pulling his hand from between your legs while working his own pants open with his free one.

But it sobers you up a little from the lust you had overdosed on from the moment he crashed you into the wall. You go rigid against it now. “Wait. You said–”

“Relax,” he says, and embarrassingly, it’s enough to make you. Enough that you let him spin you around, yank your hips back and pull your pants and underwear down to mid thigh while your palms find the wall. “Wasn’t lying. No one comes here,” you hear him spit, followed by the unmistakably lewd sound of him spreading it around, “except,” he swipes the head of his cock through your messy folds, “for me.” The final word comes out with a punch of air and an oof! from you when he slides all the way inside in one go. He smiles to himself, pauses in consideration, then adds, “Well, and you.”

You laugh at the double entendre–you actually, properly laugh, when you should be focussing on adjusting to the thick spread of his cock. The soft walls of your cunt flutter around him, the plaster under your palms warming under your touch. “Shut up,” you say, but it lacks any bite or threat when your voice is still vibrating with laughter underneath it all. 

“Hmm, no, I– Jesus, your laugh is making it… tight. This isn’t gonna take long.” Something between a chuckle and a grunt comes out when you clench more at his words, and you swear you can feel him shake with it. 

“Then stop laughing,” you beg, a smile of your own spreading across your face when you look at him over your shoulder. “I had something far hotter planned, something like, Please, Robby, I want to walk out of here with your come dripping out of me.”

That gets him, his expression morphing into something a little more concentrated. It definitely breaks his giggles, because he looks down to where you’re connected and groans instead, a little involuntary stutter of his hips making him slide out just a fraction. 

Using your grip on the wall, you arch your back and push against him. “Yeah? Is that doing it for you?” you ask, continuing the gentle ebb and flow of pulling off and pushing back, reveling in the slow drag of him along your sensitive walls, the way his fingers dig into your heated skin.

Robby scoffs. “The mental image of you walking out of here dripping with my come, knowing I’m gonna think about it each time I walk up and down these goddamn stairs, which is only every fucking time I’m at work?” He grunts when you slowly let him fill you again. “Yeah, sweetheart, that’ll… that’ll do it.” 

Well, that shouldn’t make you feel as gooey as it does, but after everything, that might as well happen. 

Biting your lip, you lean your forearms, temple resting where your wrists cross, head twisted back to watch him. There’s a sliver of his belly visible over the swell off your ass, and you can see it tensing as you keep your rhythm steady. 

When he starts meeting you halfway, you wonder briefly if no one else truly comes here, or if at any moment, someone could sail around the corner and find you bouncing your ass off a doctor’s pelvis. It sends a rush of tingles up your body, and maybe you can admit to yourself that at this point, it really wouldn't faze you. The only thing that matters to you now, in this very moment, is the pulse of his cock and the promise of getting filled.

There’s another rush of wetness between your legs at the idea, and Robby inhales sharply through his nose when it makes him slide just a bit deeper, throat bobbing around a heavy swallow… and then he’s right there, with a curse, a groan that rises in volume and a pull of your hips back against his, where he holds you still. You can’t help but whimper at the warm sensation, at how fucking deep he gets as he comes and comes and comes. Heat spreads through your body, something that isn’t exactly an orgasm, but isn’t far off either, and makes your eyes roll back.

It takes a while for both of you to stop pulsing. With a deep sigh, you let your head fall forward, hanging down to observe the squished-together, naked tops of your thighs, your scrunched up pants, and your shoed feet with Robby’s larger ones planted on the outside of them. His hand has drifted up, tracing soft patterns across your back under your shirt that make goosebumps rise across your skin. There is absolutely no fucking reason for this to be so tender right now, but it is, and you kind of don’t want it to end.

But this is a hospital, and not the safe cocoon of either of your apartments, so it has to.

“C’mon,” Robby encourages softly, patting the small of your back, “we should get out of here.” 

Your pussy protests when he pulls out slowly, and you can’t blame her, especially not when you feel achingly empty after. It starts the slow trickle of his spend out of you, the angle you’re bent over at making it slide over your clit. Your body reacts with a lewd squelch, and it only results in more leaking. 

“Fuck, that’s…” Robby lets out a breath that sounds like a whistle, using his thumb and forefinger to spread you open a little more, “...pretty.”

Something disgustingly wrong with him for settling on that word. And with you for enjoying it so much. 

His fingers slide downward, dangerously close to your clit– “God, do not do that if you don’t want it going everywhere,” you warn.

The sound he makes is fond, and he’s quick to listen, letting you go in favour of helping you pull your underwear back up your hips. “Trusting you to keep it right there,” he says, before giving you a flat-handed tap between your legs that covers your entire pussy, the swat landing with the obscene, soppy sound of wet fabric meeting skin. 

A shock of pleasure shoots through your body, making you gasp and rise to your toes. You want to curse him for doing this to you here, where you can’t beg him to do it again until you come a second time - third? - because you could, you absolutely could. Instead, you’re forced to bend down and pull your pants back up your legs with an indignant little wiggle.

When you twist back around, fumbling with the button of your jeans, Robby’s already waiting, ready, safely tucked back into his cargo pants and with his backpack hanging off one of his shoulders. You sniff, hoping-praying that you look even a fraction as composed as he looks so you can leave the place with some dignity at least. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, before he stretches his hand out to you. His comment makes you heat up, your own hand no doubt clammy when you accept. As you let him lead you up the stairs, you try, and fail, to not think about how the fingers he interlocks with yours were deep inside you just minutes ago.

Practiced, routined steps lead you through hallways and corridors, weaving and bobbing through groups of patients, visitors and colleagues alike, until you reach gold-coloured revolving doors and step out into the evening. 

“Will you promise me something?” you ask as you start your trek, joined hands swinging between your bodies. 

You notice that above you, the skies have cleared.

“Just one thing?” Robby asks. “You’re lowballing, I like it.”

You roll your eyes. Your belly flutters. “One thing now.” 

He hums in affirmation.

“I can handle not seeing you on Wednesdays, I don’t mind seeing you at my place more often than at yours, but next time you want to ditch me for Abbot, make up a better excuse than rats.”

Robby lets out a laugh that’s basically just a punch of air. “Oh, I… Yeah. That was not an excuse. Those bad boys are actually down there.”

“What?” It comes out so much more indignant than you want to sound. “No they’re not.”

“Oh, I really do wish they weren’t,” he says, face scrunching up like he suddenly remembers the rats are in the emergency department, and he’s in charge of the emergency department, and this is a problem for tomorrow-Robby.

“Rats? Plural?”

“Plural.”

Immediately, your mind provides you with the mental image of rats in tiny hospital beds. You shake your head with a chuckle, “No wonder your wait times are insane.” Then, looking at him, you ask, “How does that work? Do they come in with wads of cash or do they have a tiny little insurance card? And why do I feel like rats probably have it better, like in general but definitely insurance wise, than we humans do?”

One corner of Robby’s mouth curls up, and he looks at you like he could kiss you. He doesn’t. He doesn’t answer either. Not that you expected him to. Instead, he says, “I didn’t see Jack just for the rat problem. I also talked to him… about you.”

You can feel yourself straightening up. That explains why the good doctor’s eyebrows nearly flew off. The rush of vindication nearly makes you sing, “Ohhhhh-ho-ho, now this I have to hear.” 

Robby closes his eyes, lips pursing slightly with a small shake of his head.

“C’mon, I had to spill,” you tug him against your side, “now you have to spill.”

“I think I spilled plenty.” He leans in, mouth at your ear, “Can you still feel it?”

You groan, your poor cunt clenching around nothing. Yes, you can still feel it. “You never play fair.”

“You like it,” he says.

“I can recognize that my wants and needs in a blindly horny state are not always most beneficial to my well-being once said horny state subsides.”

He snorts. “If it ever does. I think it’s chronic.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor Robinavitch?”

“‘fraid so. There’s nothing we can feasibly do except for managing the symptoms to make you more comfortable.”

You give him a playful shove, before pressing yourself back against his arm, “You like that I like it. In fact, you like it so much that you didn’t even have the patience to get out of here before–”

“I like you,” he cuts in quietly.

Oh, what the fuck. Case in point, he does not play fair.

Robby trails out a little ahead from where you’re frozen in place, until your arms are stretched out as far as they can go without letting go of each other. The streetlamp just behind him perfectly accentuates the silhouette of his profile as his head tips down: his little quiff, the point of his nose, the scruff around his lips. He retraces his steps until he can face you.

“Told him that I have feelings for someone, but that I was… scared of it. Scared of fucking it up, because that’s what I always do, and that made me actually fuck it up, and I couldn’t stand seeing how I made you feel, but I couldn’t–”

“Robby, stop.” You shake your head, letting go of him to try and find your bearings. “You think I’m not scared?”

“It’s easy for you. You are,” he lets out a bitter laugh, “so much better at this than I am.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you deadpan. Guess he missed the point spectacularly in the stairwell earlier. How someone, someone who is a doctor, can be so smart and so dumb at the same time, you don’t know. “I almost didn’t show up tonight because I was sure you were about to break things off with me because of how you’ve been acting.”

Robby’s head tilts, his jaw ticking as he looks at you with soft, guilty eyes. “Really?”

It takes everything in you to stay focused, because he looks at you as if you’ve wounded him, like you’ve just kicked him while he’s down. 

“It isn’t easy for me,” you redirect the conversation. “None of this ever is, but… when you find something that’s worth it, you try, and… this thing with you makes me want to try.” Satisfied, you nod firmly at your own words, then add, “You like me, I like you, I think we should be together. Like, officially. But if you don’t, you should tell me now.”

The thin line his lips had formed wobbles, before a smile that’s big enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle in that way you love spreads out across his face. “Look at you, giving me a big speech.”

You deflate with disbelief at how smug he looks. This fucking guy. “Wasn’t that big.”

“You are sooooo better at this than me,” he says, cupping your cheeks with both hands to bring your faces together. The kiss he presses to your lips is soft, so fucking tender that it makes your toes curl in your shoes. “I want to be together,” he says, staying close enough that you can feel his lips brush over yours when he says it. With a teasing lilt that mimics your voice, he adds, “Like, officially.”

“Don’t mock me right now or I’ll break up with you,” you threaten, half-heartedly poking him in the chest, unable to keep the sheer happiness that rockets through your body from creeping into your stern expression.

Robby’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering something. Then he says, “Should we ditch the cinema–?”

You scoff, quickly changing gears, “No.”

“–take a hot shower, order some food–” He kisses you.

“I am never ditching the cinema.”

Another kiss. “–let me eat your pussy until you come at least twice.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “But I think I can make an exception just this once.”

Robby throws his head back and barks out a laugh, “See? Chronic.”

You have to twist your face to the side to keep yourself from laughing, too. Your cheeks already hurt too much from the stupid, happy grin that’s been plastered on your face intermittently throughout this rollercoaster of an evening. Turning your nose up to the sky and closing your eyes like you’re dismissing him, you push past him. 

With a little jog, he catches up to you, slinging an arm around your neck, and using it as leverage to press a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know someone very capable of managing your symptoms.”

“Pretty sure he’s my enabler,” you grin, reaching for his hand where it hangs off your shoulder. “Hey, so what’s the big plan you and Abbot came up with to solve the rat problem?”

“Exterminator, once they find the time,” Robby sighs. “Until then, Whitaker, one of the medical students on rotation. He caught a couple of them,” he snickers, “Santos calls him the Pied Piper of Pittsburgh.”

You snort, listening as Robby talks more, about his co-workers, about the curious cases that were wheeled into the emergency department today, and you let him lead you into the opposite direction of the cinema and towards his apartment instead. 

In a quieter alley, you pass one of the street-level apartments, music bleeding from one of the windows and into the street. There’s soft, twinkling sounds, cresting drums and piano parts, an electric guitar that cuts in, 

…and I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might…

Your mouth curves into a smile at the song.

Yeah.

Fitting.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! Also, if you have any song suggestions for my Dr. Robby playlist, send them over, I’d love to add them!

[darkmatilda]

𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: who would’ve thought a drunken vegas wedding would have consequences? well, definitely not spencer—at least not in the moment he went through with it. but now he has to do something about it, sign the right papers, and overcome the dozens of excuses that, for some unknown reason, are starting to form in his head.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, aftermath of The One In Vegas fic — but you don’t need to read that one first, all you need to know is that the imbeciles got married in vegas, reader’s cat is seriously ill :(( but pulls through and they take care of her together hihi you know the secretly dating trope what about secretly married trope??

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.2k

𝐚/𝐧: request masterlist

It's been two months.

Time flies right? Bullshit. You can say it about some fresh relationship with an intensive honeymoon phase where one day you wake up thinking, oh, it's been two months already! Or about a cat you adopted. Who at the beginning was a tiny little crumb, a speck of sweet cake and suddenly as if overnight transformed into a dignified, refined lady cat looking at everything with alert little eyes (Spencer, as a cat dad himself could confirm)

But you couldn't say that about a wedding you took two months ago in Vegas by mistake. With a woman you hated could barely stand tolerated enjoyed being around just sometimes. And you still hadn't gotten a divorce.

And, as it turned out, you weren’t planning to.

But how Spencer and his irreplaceable, gorgeous friend from work came to that decision, you’ll find out in a moment.

*

“Avoiding me?”

Spencer had just poured the last spoonful of sugar into his coffee, grabbed it, and the moment he turned around, he ran into her and her question. He hadn’t even heard her approach, nor sensed her presence behind his back. So, of course he jumped, and a few drops of coffee landed on the sleeve of his shirt. He cursed.

“Am I that terrifying?” she asked with a snort.

Spencer shot her a look full of frustration. It was his favorite shirt!

“No, you just for some unknown reason have to sneak up on me. Like you’re planning to slip arsenic into my coffee.”

“You think I’m in such a hurry to become a widow?”

Hearing those words, he stopped worrying about the stain on his shirt and froze in place, catching her gaze. She also suddenly turned serious—actually, in a split second—which made him start to suspect that she had been that way ever since she walked up to him, just hiding it behind a few sarcastic remarks. She stood in front of him, perfectly straight posture, arms crossed over her chest, and as always, her chin slightly tilted up. Yes, she was deadly serious. But it was hard to expect any other attitude from her, considering what they finally had to talk about.

It was the first time they’d seen each other after returning from Vegas. At work. In the morning. She was right, he had been avoiding her a bit. The weight of the whole situation turned out to be too much, and besides, he needed time to figure out whether all of it hadn’t just been a dream he’d had during some deathly serious fever.

Confronted, Spencer looked at her face not very intelligently, his mind filled with black. He had no idea how they were supposed to have this conversation. She suddenly nodded slightly.

“If that’s what you think, you’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’m in a hurry to become a widow. That’s why I came to talk to you, because we have to finally do something about this…”

“I think you meant to say divorcée. Not widow. The word widow clearly suggests…”

“Whereas the word husband means you don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking…”

“Since when…”

“Since always. Shows I’m your first wife if you don’t know such basics.”

Reid’s brain fogged up like he’d stumbled upon some mysterious equation whose solution was beyond even his math skills. And that didn’t happen often.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t use the word wife in our context.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I’m your wife now, even if it’s only temporary.”

He set his coffee mug back on the counter so he could cross his arms over his chest and fixed her with an analytical look, which she had no problem returning.

“Careful. Or I’ll start thinking that somewhere deep down you actually like the way this is turning out.” 

First, she parted her lips, automatically, ready to answer immediately, sharply. Then the words must have really hit her, because she closed them again. But Spencer didn’t even have time to relish the triumph of having successfully silenced her (something he practically never managed to do, unless his own mouth also stayed shut) when her eyes widened, and her brows shot to the middle of her forehead. With pity.

“Now that was brilliant, genius,” she snorted, shaking her head slightly from side to side. Right after, she snorted again. “Go on, say I dragged you by force to that Vegas chapel. The beginning of my master plan, poor Spencer fell victim to it. And then, from grief and devastation, went to bed with me...”

He held out his hand in a stopping gesture, to steer the conversation back to its original course because they didn’t have much time, yeah, that was the reason.

“We’re getting off topic,” he noted instructively, ignoring her next snort that followed right after his words. He drew more air into his lungs, as for a short moment they both fell silent, and the air in the empty kitchen thickened.

When he spoke again, he made sure his voice was quieter. Not just because he wanted to give it the proper seriousness—but also because he didn’t want, couldn’t allow anyone to accidentally overhear it. On that, at least, they agreed.

“We’re getting a divorce, right? Like we agreed on…y’know, back then.”

He was fully ready to take the hit of her ironic no, let’s stay married till death do us part, but it didn’t come, which was enough to tell him that she, too, wanted out of this complicated, stupid mess they’d gotten themselves into.

She nodded once, but firmly.

“As soon as I get home, I’ll print the paperwork,” she announced. “So, we’ll just meet later, all we need is both our signatures since we both want it and don’t have any kids or anything like that. Then we file it with the court and we’re free. We don’t even have to dress up, but personally, I think we should as we never got the chance to go all out for our wedding outfit—”

Spencer cut her off, inhaling a huge gulp of air through his nose, realizing something.

 “I can’t,” he said.

 Her eyebrows rose at him.

 ‘What do you mean you can’t...’

“I can’t meet with you today,” he clarified, as he had meant to from the start. He rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “We have another case, and we’re flying out…literally in half an hour. I just wanted to grab a coffee before we left. We might even be gone for a few days.”

His voice softened unintentionally, like he was trying to cushion the potential explosion from her end—oh, it was definitely coming. One look at her clenched jaw was enough.

 And it wasn’t even his fault!

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” the woman began through gritted teeth, but didn’t finish—

because someone else cut her off mid-sentence.

“Good morning, guys. How’s your day going? ’Cause mine’s just fantastic,” Morgan strolled into the kitchen with a near-dance in his step—one that hadn’t left him since his girlfriend said yes to his proposal. He paused, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze drifted over their faces. “Okay, clearly not that fantastic. Sparks are flying around your heads. What’s it this time?”

“None of your business,” they snapped at the exact same time.

His eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t offended. He looked at them more like he was observing some strange behavioral exhibit.

“Two of my friends are fighting, so yeah it kinda is my business. At least to some degree. But seriously now, what’s going on with you two? You’ve been acting weird ever since we got back from Vegas.”

Like the worst actors in the world, they whipped their panicked gazes toward each other.

Spencer’s look screamed he knows! He knows! Do something!

Hers, on the other hand, was clearly yelling stop making it so obvious, don’t panic like a little boy!

And actually, she was the first to pull herself together, squaring her shoulders and shifting her gaze to Morgan with stoic calm.

“We’re acting weird?” she asked, tilting her head toward him, accusatorially. “You’re the one acting weird. Walking around all sunshine and rainbows. Only thing missing are the little hearts floating over your head.”

Unfazed, Morgan spread his arms.

“Happy relationship, happy man,” he summarized.

She gave him a sarcastic smile.

“Don’t worry, it all fades after the wedding.”

He smiled back, just as sarcastically.

 “And what would you know about that?”

“Well,” Spencer began, feeling obligated to take his temporary wife’s side, “if you look at it statistically…”

“What would either of you know about that?”

This time, they waited until he left the kitchen before exchanging a silent look.

*

Another two weeks had passed and it was only just starting to sink in for Spencer that he had a wife — and what’s more, he was finding himself more and more fascinated by that fact.

Okay, he didn’t want to sound silly, but sometimes he did imagine what his life would look like after getting married, and usually those visions were shaped by what he saw around him, the people he knew, what he’d read in books or seen in movies. Either way, he had never expected that 1) it would be someone he wasn’t even in a relationship with, and 2) they wouldn’t actually see each other after the wedding!

The case they had been working on dragged on horribly, and once it was wrapped up, they both got swept away by their own responsibilities. And if they saw each other at all, it was exactly because of that. The topic of divorce just hovered above them, somewhere in the back of their minds.

Just like in the back of his mind there was always wow, you're a married guy now, Reid. All the time — even though the marriage was literally just a piece of paper — he kept catching himself directing those words at himself.

How many times had he sat on the jet with the team, in total silence, staring at each of his friends in turn while thinking none of them know I have a wife!

He didn’t flirt with women, didn’t go on dates, but he knew that if he did decide to — or even tried — he’d feel bad about it.

One time he and Morgan were sent to a bar to talk to some witnesses, and one of the women there kept getting closer to him, accidentally brushing against his arm or shoulder, trying to catch his eye — and he didn’t respond, because he was too busy dissociating and wondering whether, theoretically speaking this would count as cheating?

He wondered if she ever felt the same way, at least sometimes. It really made him wonder, and after a while he came to the conclusion that there was a significant chance she didn’t.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that left him with an unpleasant feeling.

Spencer eventually came to the conclusion that the whole marriage situation was simply too overwhelming for his overanalyzing brain, so when they finally managed to schedule a time to sign the divorce papers, he accepted it with a certain sense of relief.

He hadn’t even made it to her apartment — hadn’t even left his own — when he got an unexpected call from her, suggesting that their plans for the evening were going to be a little different.

Because divorce didn’t usually involve a veterinary clinic…right?

When he arrived, any thoughts of signing anything were quickly — very quickly — pushed aside, not just because of the circumstances, but also because of the look on her face when they finally came face to face.

“What happened?” he asked, not even trying to hide his concern. Her cat was also his cat — the one he’d personally pulled out of a dumpster a few months ago and since neither of them had much time on their hands, they’d decided to care for her together.

Her arms were crossed, not in a dominant way but more as if seeking some semblance of comfort, and one of her legs was bouncing slightly in place,a detail he noticed in passing.

“Marie was acting strange since the morning,” she began. Her voice wasn’t trembling, but it was significantly lacking its usual strength. The same went for her expression — tense, clearly balancing on the edge between deep worry and fear, crossing that line over and over again. She took a shallow breath and forced herself to continue with a slight nod of her head, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“She was apathetic, didn’t want to eat. Then the vomiting started and…I don’t know, it seemed really serious. And don’t look at me like that, it’s not like last time.”

Last time they’d gone to the vet and it had turned out the cat was fine, the whole thing just her premature panic. But Spencer flinched, surprised she snapped at him, since not for a moment had he looked at her with suspicion or condescension — still, he felt guilty anyway and quickly protested, shaking his head.

“I know,” he assured her honestly, even meeting her gaze, which quickly caught onto the contact with some surprise, but also a bit of softening. “Even if it’s a false alarm, it’s good that you’re here. Do we know anything?”

She shook her head with another anxious breath.

So they waited together, not breaking the silence even once — not when they sat there, not even when they were leaving the clinic an hour later, having found out that Marie would have to stay for at least a few days because she had contracted feline panleukopenia.

A dangerous disease in cats.

Spencer glanced uncertainly at her profile while she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, and he wondered whether she was scanning the parking lot for their car or if her thoughts had drifted somewhere far away. He had no idea what to say—he didn’t want to throw out a casual hey, everything’s gonna be fine because he knew it would sound dishonest when he himself wasn’t sure, and besides, it would definitely earn him one of her hard looks that clearly meant shut up.

So he cleared his throat and decided to go with something that always resonated with both of them. Science.

“Panleukopenia has a very high mortality rate, that’s true,” he began, making sure to follow up quickly before the weight of that first sentence could fully land. “But the older the cat, the better they fight it. The worst cases are usually in kittens under five months, and Marie’s over a year old, she’s well nourished, actually, she eats better than I do thanks to you. Besides, she’s a strong cat, remember when she…oh, okay—”

She hugged him. The kind of hug one gives a pillow after a cruel day, wrapping her arms around him, and he was almost sure she locked them behind his back. At first, he must have made a terrible pillow, stiff with surprise and general lack of practice at being touched, but he quickly found it in himself to get better at it. Surprisingly better, placing a hand on the back of her head where it rested against him, and started to wonder if maybe he was generally better at giving hugs than he’d always thought he was.

“When she gets better I’m adopting her fully,” she said, the words muffled against his body and clothing. He furrowed his brows, not quite sure what she meant. “Marie. I’ll even quit my job. Become a full-time cat mom. “

Spencer, recognizing the tension still in her voice but catching the self-soothing joke beneath it, let out a short snort and added, “Of course you will. Giving up partying too?”

“You bet I will.”

He nodded, signaling he didn’t believe her. Then realized she couldn’t see that. Right.

But before she pulled away — which he wasn’t rushing her to do — one last thing came to his mind. He decided to bring it up, taking advantage of the slightly lighter mood, because well, they had to eventually.

“About those divorce papers, we could sign them to-”

She didn’t let go of him, but jerked her head up abruptly to shoot him a disbelieving, angry look.

“How dare you think about divorce when our baby might be dying?”

Spencer blinked, not very intelligently.

The woman pulled away from him, crossing her arms over her chest — this time in an authoritative, offended gesture.

 “I don’t even want to hear about it until she gets better,” she snapped. “All the way better. I’ve got enough on my plate, and I’m not going to think about it right now.”

She walked off toward her car and sat in the driver’s seat without looking back. Spencer stood still, processing her words. I don’t want to hear about it until she gets better?Did that mean she wanted them to stay married for at least a few more weeks — since that’s how long the cat’s recovery might take?

She leaned her head out of the car, looking at him questioningly.

 “You coming or not?”

*

Did that mean she wanted them to stay married for at least a few more weeks — since that’s how long the cat’s recovery might take?

Exactly that’s what she meant. And, amusingly, over time, he completely came to understand the decision.

The following weeks turned into a true marathon for both of them at work, on top of caring for a sick cat. Especially after she was discharged from the veterinary clinic and required an even stricter diet and supervision than before. And even when they did have a spare moment or day off, they preferred to spend it resting, catching their breath — not dealing with a divorce.

Because, when it came down to it, it was just a piece of paper. It didn’t mean anything. It would be a different matter if one of them were dating someone else, maybe planning a real wedding of their own — then they’d have to deal with it. But for now? No one besides them even knew it had happened, and they could simply pretend it hadn’t.

Marriage — even an unserious one (though it was, without question, a real one) — had its perks. And it wasn’t just about taxes or health insurance; it was about something Spencer had never even thought about before, because it had never concerned him. Something he now discovered with genuine surprise.

For example, the nearby gym offered a very attractive discount for married couples.

And okay, right, he didn’t go to the gym. But what if he intended to? Maybe it was a sign from the universe to take care of his fitness, which would be a smart idea considering his job? When he had access to that discount, he had fewer reasons to postpone it. 

And he mostly mentioned that gym and the discount because the day he found out about it, they both happened to have the day off and he was considering taking care of the paperwork that very day. To get it over with before they got caught up in work again and put it off for another week.

He even printed the proper papers, but then he saw the gym poster and put them in the drawer for another half a month.

He remembered them when he was staring at how she was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch in his apartment with the cat on her lap, who kept hitting her in the face with its tail, making her close her eyes. Since their cat was recovering from illness, they decided not to stress her out further with constant changes of location, so for a while she would stay in his apartment. So when she wanted to spend time with Marie, she would just drop by, something he had already gotten used to.

Was this a good moment for a divorce? He had been thinking about it for over ten minutes, but finally sighed, acknowledging that they had to do it at some point anyway. What was even stopping him? A potential discount at a potential future gym? Oh, what an idiot he was.

"Since we're already here, just the two of us," he began. He waited until the woman opened her eyes and looked at him over the cat’s body, questioningly. He cleared his throat. "I have the divorce papers in the desk, we could sign them and get it over with. Then we’ll just need to file them in court..."

"Do you want to sign them now?" she asked.

He had expected more eagerness in her voice. Relief that they were finally getting out of that stupid drunken decision they had made almost two months ago. But he found none of that in her voice—instead, he watched as she doubtfully pushed out her lower lip.

"I was just about to leave," she announced. "I have a manicure in literally ten minutes. And you know, I’d rather read them first. Make sure that what you're putting in front of me is actually divorce papers and not, I don’t know. A pact to enslave me."

Spencer realized he was nodding enthusiastically.

"Completely understandable," he admitted, because her explanation really did make sense. It truly did. She had an appointment with her manicurist, and being late would be a bit disrespectful of her time. The next client would have to wait ten minutes longer. What if the next client had a booked flight to Italy for their cousin’s wedding? And had scheduled the manicure just in time and those ten minutes could make them late. Why should random strangers have to pay the price for their divorce? Besides, he genuinely supported reading documents before signing them. "So, well. Next time."

“Mhm,” she agreed with a hum, planting an aggressive kiss on Marie’s head before getting up from the couch and slipping her shoes back on. “Sure. Next time.”

She was already heading for the door, and Spencer pretended not to be watching her, but when she turned and caught his gaze, it instantly became clear that he had been following her with his eyes. She waited a moment before speaking.

“I added you to my car insurance policy. As my husband,” she said. Spencer’s eyes widened. “I figured you wouldn’t mind, especially considering how many times I’ve given you a ride to work lately. And, well, I’ll have to find out how this works in case of a divorce. Before we actually get one.”

Spencer was surprised, that’s true, but he adapted surprisingly quickly to this reality. After all, he wanted to use their marriage for a gym discount. Cheaper insurance wasn’t much different.

“All right,” he replied thoughtfully, biting the inside of his cheek. “No, actually, all right. That makes sense. We don’t have to do it today either, although, I don’t know when I’ll next have free time to sort it out.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “But someday we’ll have to do it.”

“So, are you planning a wedding anytime soon?” he asked, half joking, half earnestly hoping she wasn’t, since so far he believed she wasn’t seeing anyone. If she was, things could get complicated.

“No,” she answered seriously. “You?”

He let his shrugged arms be his silent answer to that obvious question.

They stayed silent for a moment, looking at each other. Meanwhile, someone was running late for a cousin’s wedding in Italy, but that wasn’t important right now. The question was probably burning on his tongue, but he was afraid to ask it. He wasn’t even sure if he really wanted to ask it himself.

Finally, she moved, and he panicked, thinking she was going to leave — which only confirmed to him that he really wanted to ask it. But instead of changing her position, she said, “We don’t have to get this divorce.”

He stared at her even more intensely than before, not even blinking.

“Face it, Spencer,” she continued with surprising dignity, considering what they were talking about. “It’s been two months. It hasn’t affected our lives in any way. At least not negatively, because the insurance is a plus. And neither of us really has time right now to deal with it. Sure, we could sign it, but then we’d have to file it in court…”

“So you’re suggesting we just stay married?” he asked, swallowing hard.

She nodded slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing herself.

“Until we can calmly deal with it,” she clarified. “Besides, it’s not exactly a marriage. You know what I mean. I’m suggesting we stay that way in our civil records for a while.”

“And reap the benefits,” he blurted out. “Insurance. Gym.”

“Gym?”

He shook his head, hoping she’d forget that part.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked again.

She didn’t move for a moment — he liked that she was actually taking a moment to think. Then she shrugged.

“I guess I am,” she said at last. “But if you change your mind in a few days, that’s your right. I’m not going to keep you as my husband by force,” she added with a snort.

He nodded quickly, signaling he understood.

“Same goes for you.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment longer, searching for any doubt on each other’s faces. There was a bit of it, he couldn’t deny. But in the end, neither of them said a word.

[booksandteaandtears]

Building something

Michael 'Dr. Robby' Robinavitch x f!prosecutor!reader

continuation of Teaching Hospital (was meant to be a short, but now I can't stop myself from turning it into a mini-series)

summary: something starts building between the two. quite literally. ft. chaotic mornings, highly interested colleagues, furniture and a very stubborn reader

genre: pure fluff, a few shorter snippets, an overview of them falling in love, Robby is a simp

about 2.1k words

masterlist

You hadn't expected Dr. Robby to call you literally fifteen minutes after you left the hospital, but that wasn't to say you weren't happy with it. He'd opened the bottle of wine two days later, seated on your balcony, heaps of Indian food in front of you, Elle Fitzgerald playing in the background -your choice.

He'd been a real gentleman, especially because your arm was still in the sling: pulling back your chair, cutting pieces that were too big, insisting you were not allowed to do the dishes. There were jokes and prolonged eye contact, subtle touches when reaching for the wine bottle and flirty remarks.

When he was saying goodbye on your doorstep, you promised him you'd cook next time. "Next time?" He asked. You nodded at him. "I'll pick you up when your shift ends Friday. Try not to be too late. Emphasis on try." Then you kissed him on his cheek, turned around and closed the door. Robby was stunned on the step for a minute, unaware that you were squealing on the other side of the door.

All your dates flowed easily, conversation was great, the banter even better. The second date (where he had been late, because a trauma had come in ten minutes before he was supposed to leave), had earned Robby a peck on his lips. By the third date he couldn't help himself, and pulled you against him when you tried to make it a quick kiss again. After a second he could feel you melt into his chest, hands gripping the hair in his neck. When you both came up for air he leaned his forehead against yours, noses touching. "Sorry," he whispered. "I've been wanting to do that since you came into my ER. Couldn't stop myself this time." You smile back at him, turning you lips towards his ear. "I know." You whispered. "I was trying to test when you'd finally make a move. Took you two dates longer that I thought." Upon hearing this, his hands shot towards your jaw and his lips found yours again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dana tried to be subtle. Keyword: tried. It just did not come naturally to her. So when Robby turned up to work with a smile on his face after date three, she could not help herself. "Did you help the lady with her wine? Got your hoodie back yet? You're looking less of a sad boy every week." By some unfortunate miracle both Langdon and Abbot were near enough to hear her ask, and they abandoned whatever they were doing to join the questioning committee. "The lady? What lady?" "You gave your hoodie away? You never allow me near the thing." Robby sighed. "Thanks Dana. I'll be withdrawing your wingwoman title." He turned towards the break room, the two men stalking behind him.

"Come on, brother. You can't keep this stuff to yourself." Abbot was saying as Robby poured himself some coffee. "I can, and I will." "What can't he keep to himself?" Collins had chosen that moment to join them. Robby sighed. Timing was not on his side today. Collins grabbed the coffee from his hand and took a sip. "Is this about the patient wearing your hoodie a couple weeks ago? The one with the pretty face? How did your flirting turn out?" "Fli-flirting?" Langdon stuttered, "In the ER? With a PATIENT?" Robby sighed, again. "Yes, Langdon. Flirting. In the ER. With a patient. Did you think I had forgotten how to?" Then Robby turned out the door and fled from his residents.

Half an hour later a betting pool was started on when exactly Dr. Robby would admit he had a girlfriend. Dana's money was on four months, Jack's on five.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning after date four Robby had woken in your bed. He smiled to himself when he realised where he was and pulled you closer against him, breathing in your hair. There had been no awkwardness, not the night before, not that morning as you took a shower while he made breakfast. He was fascinated by your morning ritual, the speed at which you shoved eggs into your mouth, while somehow simultaneously applying mascara and reading emails. He leaned back in his chair, calmly sipping coffee. "You know, you told me you hated mornings, but now I see why. I know women can multitask, but this is too much too handle at once, for anyone." You smirked. "You caught me on a good day, Michael. If it'd been a court day there would be stacks of paper everywhere. And I would have taken an extra fifteen minutes getting dressed." It had taken you a good half an hour already today. Robby blinked and mumbled something about efficiency. When the last of breakfast had disappeared you sprinted upstairs, grabbing you bag and heels, and came charging down the stairs again. "Right," you mumbled as you sifted through your bag, "Keys, laptop, charger, phone, wallet." You wobbled on one heel as you tried to put on the other. Robby stepped in and stabilised you. "Thanks," you smiled at him. "Thanks for last night, and for breakfast. It was calm this morning because of you." Robby chuckled at you. "This was calm? I can't wait to catch you on a bad day." You pulled him towards yourself and kissed him, closer to his lips now you were on heels. "Sleep over again tonight and you might experience it tomorrow. I'll be back around 8, you up for some Chinese food tonight?" Robby smiled and kissed her again. "Text me when you leave, I'll take care of the food." With another peck she bolted out the door.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

By month three of dating you decided Robby needed some wardrobe space in your house. He'd started taking extra clothes to work so he'd have a chance to change after he'd spend the night, but you hated that. You wanted him to feel at home in your place. Robby argued that he felt quite at home, as he'd spend almost every night of the past two weeks there, but you wouldn't hear it. You had decided on it, and nothing an nobody could steer you from it now. Robby was learning to work with that stubbornness, so he'd agreed on it eventually. There was, however, the small issue of actually making space in your wardrobe. It should have been easy, having a massive walk-in, but it had been filled to the brim for years, piling over into other rooms recently.

At the moment you were both staring at the walk-in. Robby tried to keep the smirk of his face. Your eyes pinched in determination and gestured towards a cabinet at the back. "If I fit more shoes into the right side of that cabinet, I can give you a plank on the left." As you opened the right side, shoes fell out and you were nearly buried beneath them. Robby was working hard on keeping a poker-face, knowing you'd stop being stubborn when you were ready for it, but not before. He kept his distance in the doorway. After you'd opened two more cabinets and the floor was littered with clothes and shoes, he'd had enough of it. You were sat amid the chaos, feeling defeated. He shuffled in front of you, knees groaning as he sat down. His back was leaning against one of the closet doors that wasn't opened. "I think," he started carefully, "You might have a few too many clothes to be making space." You pouted at him. "How about you pick out an extra wardrobe, we put it in your spare bedroom and I take a drawer there? You can fill the rest with your overflow. Might even be able to buy that new dress you've been eyeing since we saw it in town last week." You shuffled yourself towards his laps and straddled him. "Excellent problem solving skills, Dr. Robinavitch. I can see why you're good in an ER." You laughed and kissed him, his hands finding your waist. "But you'll be the one putting that wardrobe together, cause I've got two left hands and I don't want to end up in your Pitt." "Deal." He whispered against your lips and pulled you closer towards him on his lap. The two of you stayed in that wardrobe quite some time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

While Robby had thought a new wardrobe would mean a trip to IKEA, you had tastes that pointed you the opposite way. That was how Robby was now stood in you spare room, looking at the pieces of an antique wardrobe you had picked out. You were in court all day, and he had a day of, so he'd decided that this would be the day he'd try to build the thing. No audience when he'd inevitably end up cursing at the wardrobe. IKEA building he could do, that was as easy as following the manual, but this required actual skill in carpentry. After ten minutes of staring at the heavy wood he decided he'd need to call in back up.

Court was adjourned for fifteen minutes when you finally dared to take a peek at your phone. Your background was still a picture of a trip to the Alps a couple years back, but you were debating on changing it to the close up picture you took of you and Robby holding hands at the farmers market last weekend.

Robby: So, I'd rather not admit it, but I need to call in back up for that wardrobe of yours. You okay with me inviting a friend into your home? 😅

You: As long as you serve him the good coffee I'm all for it! 😉 Top cabinet next to the mugs.

You: And with a friend you mean Jack, right?

Robby: Yep, he's coming over in ten

You: Will said friend stay for dinner? I'd like to meet him. Planning on making pasta alla norma! 🍝

Robby: He'd be delighted 😘

And so there were three of you on the balcony that evening. Abbot had saved the day. As a reward, you had taken a nice, Italian red from your stash and were enjoying it slightly chilled. Robby had learned early on that he had nog choice in wines, not at home, nor at a restaurant. He had picked up a very sour white wine once and was banned from ever choosing wine again.

He'd been worried about you meeting his best friend, but in all honesty, not a second had been awkward between the two of you. You were in excited conversation about the workmanship that had gone into your new wardrobe, Abbot apparently got just as animated about good carpentry as you, so Robby had zoned out of the conversation a while ago. He was quite content looking at the view, hearing you and his friend go on about dovetail joints and how to best treat mahogany. At some point you stood up to get more wine, leaving Abbot and Robby.

"So," began Jack. "Why the hell have you been hiding her from us all these months?" Robby rolled his eyes. "It's been barely three months, give me a break." Jack laughed. "She's a catch, brother. And you know it. She gets it, doesn't she? Your life? How work overtakes it all some days?" Robby nodded. "It's not the same, being a prosecutor, but it's similar in some things. Work never stops, the responsibilities are massive, making mistakes hurts people. She understands the pressure, the stakes. She knows the hurt people can bring about, the terror a human being can bring onto someone else." It was Jack's turn to nod. Robby looked at his friend and smiled. "It hasn't diluted her though, that life, she's so bright and happy and sure. She's strong." "And Dana approved of her." Jack replied. Robby laughed, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. "Yes, that she did."

When Jack had left, the two of you were sat on the sofa, staring out of the balcony doors, enjoying the end of a lovely evening. You had snuggled up into Robby, head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of your head. "Michael," You whispered, "I think I love you." You looked up at him. A warmth filled his heart. "I know I love you." He whispered back.

[puck-luck]

hi pooks i would like to order an americano with peppermint and cold foam with luke hughes pls pls pls thinking new relationship (1-2 months) where luke is on a roadie and is …doing his thang (ur words not mine)😛😛 i will leave the rest for the private dms to keep this short ok love u

-mattias anon

dedicated to my queen mattias anon and to the birthday girl star2fishmeg!!!! my lukey girls <3 this is for u two (luke is soooooo and i need him soooooooooooooo)

Luke scrolls to the next image of you, phone balanced precariously in his right hand. His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, saliva gathering on his tongue that he has to swallow down. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, gaze fixed on the image of you. It’s been about a week since he saw you last, with both of your schedules as busy as they are, and Luke just wanted to look at you. That’s why he’s stalking your Instagram. He’s not a creep. Just ignore what his left hand is doing.

You’ve been going out with Luke for about two months now. The relationship is new and you’re barely official, simply exclusive. When he’s around more, he’ll lock you down. In the meantime, you guys text and FaceTime and meet up when you can and Luke will continue looking at your pictures when it’s too late at night to send you a message. He doesn’t want you to know he’s thinking about you so late. You’ll know and it’s too early for that.

The picture on his screen is of you in your bathroom last summer. You posted it to your story and added it to your highlights and Luke sees why– you’re tan, your hair is blown out, your makeup is done, and your outfit is incredible. Your shirt ties in the front and accentuates your boobs and holy hell Luke likes your tits. He wishes he could touch them, play with them, suck on them, put his cock between them and thrust… the possibilities are endless.

He stares at the line of your cleavage and strokes himself faster, spreading the precum from his slit all over his tip and speeding up even more. His arm flies with motion, constantly providing friction to his pulsating cock, and he throws his head back onto his pillow, moaning to an empty room.

There’s a slick sound that accompanies his moaning, rhythmically matching his pace. Luke holds himself firmly in his left hand, picking his head up and looking again at the image on the screen. He should’ve gone to bed a long time ago, with the clock on his phone showing that it’s nearly midnight, but he had to do this. He couldn’t stop thinking about you and his cock grew too hard to ignore.

Your tits– fuck, Luke imagines how they’d bounce in front of his face as you ride him, and that makes him drop his phone to his side. Your mouth would be open, panting and telling him that it’s so good, Luke, fuck, your cock is so big. He’d be looking up at you, trying not to come before you because he’s a gentleman, damn it, and he wants to make you feel good before he focuses on his own pleasure. Luke would look at your chest by mistake and become mesmerized, tongue heavy with a need to mark and suck the unblemished skin. Your pussy would feel so, so good around him, he can’t wait to experience it in real life, you’d be so fucking perfect for him–

His stomach flexes, abs clenching and straining because of the pressure in the pit of his abdomen, and Luke feels himself snap like a guitar string. His climax bursts from his slit in long white strips, landing all over his knuckles, stomach, and up to his ribcage. His hips chase after the pleasure, fucking into his fist in aborted movements because Luke can’t stop himself, can’t control his body when he feels so good. 

His groan is haggard as he forces himself to slow down. He runs his hand along his cock, desperately seeking out any remaining pleasure, but it’s all faded into a dim glow that surrounds him. He feels cocooned, warm in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

In his hazy bliss, he picks his phone up and looks at your picture again. His hand moves before his mind does, thumb going to the bottom corner of the screen and pressing the little heart.

The second after he does it, his brain catches up. Luke’s heart drops so far into his stomach that he thinks he might pass it like a kidney stone the next time he goes to the bathroom. He just liked a picture of yours from your highlights, from before he even met you, late at night. He’s fucking screwed. Even if he unlikes the picture now, which he does as if he can reverse his actions, you’ll still get the notification that he interacted with you.

It’s so over. Luke is done for. He throws his phone in his bedside drawer and moves to clean himself up, riddled with shame over his actions now that he accidentally revealed himself. You’re going to think he’s a weirdo and you’re never going to want to see him again. Luke understands, to be honest. He did something stupid and he’ll pay for it.

He dares one last peek at his phone before he goes to bed, hoping the shame will be gone when he wakes up in the morning. He freezes again– there’s a text from you.

Liking my thirst trap so late, Lu? U know u can just call me next time ;)

[onsomenewsht]

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

���You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

[ravenslvt]

☆ choso kamo x f!reader ☆

cw: smut! college au! virgin choso! kinda pervy choso! unprotected sex! mutual pining!

masterlist

busy thinking about your college classmate choso who has the biggest crush on you.

the pretty girl who sits next to him in his math lecture.

when you spoke to him for the first time asking for the notes from your class, he practically scrambled to get out his notebook for you to copy off of.

and when you asked for his number with a sweet smile on your pretty face (for homework! of course!) he got so nervous, going over the number over and over in his head praying he didn’t accidentally hit the wrong digit.

his breath hitches when his phone lights up a day or two later.

‘hey!! i’m so behind in math, wondering if you’d like to help me study later :)’

he blinked a couple times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks or if you meant to text someone else. but all his worries dispersed when another text comes through.

‘this is choso, right?’

he has no idea how he ended up in your dorm room, sitting on your cute little bed with open textbooks surrounding you two.

you sigh, leaning your back against the headboard while stretching out your arms.

you were sure your brain was fried from all this mind numbing work.

“this is boring, why don’t we do something else.” your gaze falls on the dark haired boy in front of you, his eyes meeting your own. he gulped, an eyebrow quirked.

“like what?” he asks, sitting up.

you only just met him two months ago, so you didn't know a lot about the man.

you think for a second, lips pursing together as you drum your fingers along your thigh.

“you ever kiss a girl before, choso?” you ask, head tilting to the side as you watch for his reaction.

his eyes widen at your question.

“i-“ he opens his mouth to speak, nervous under your gaze.

you patiently wait for him to gather his thoughts, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

“choso?” you softly ask. he didn’t even notice the way you were sitting closer to him, your thighs brushing against eachother.

he finally looks up at you, pink dusting on his cheeks.

“i-no, i haven’t.” he sheepishly admits, emberassed you would make fun of him or even kick him out of your room.

but instead you give him a shocked look.

“really? but you’re- i mean you’re hot.” you honestly say, making him chuckle. the anxiety built up in his body instantly relieving.

he knew he wasn’t ugly by any means, but your forwardness made his heart flutter. you always made him so nervous.

sure, he was pretty inexperienced, but he wasn’t innocent by any means. he’s watched a fair amount of porn, especially in his single dorm room at night.

he just spent most of his life watching over and taking care of his younger brothers. he was never really interested in finding a girlfriend. that was until he saw you on the first day of classes.

but the way you sat next to him on that first day, introducing yourself with a cute smile. you never left his mind since.

“could i- shit, can i-“ he stutters.

you giggle at his sudden shyness.

“you wanna kiss me, cho?” he shudders when you lean up by his ear to basically whisper to him.

“fuck, yes. so badly” all his shame flies out the window when your pretty little hand rests on his thigh.

his breath hitches when you crawl atop his lap, straddling him. fuck he was hoping you couldn’t feel how he instantly got hard from it.

you start slow, not wanting to overwhelm him. gently cupping his cheek with your hand, you lean in, slowly brushing your lips against his, testing the waters.

one of his hands go to tangle themself in your hair, while his other held your waist gently. practically forcing you closer to him.

your lips move together, slowly at first, but eventually getting more and more aggressive. almost needy.

when you give his mouth an experimental lick, his tongue fighting with yours, you unconsciously roll your hips into him, making him moan into the kiss.

you pulled back, embarrassed you could barely control yourself from a make out session.

“s-sorry.”

fuck you were cute when you’re flustered.

“don’t be sorry. it’s hot.” he smiles, holding you by the back of your neck to bring you back into another kiss. your hands rest on his chest.

with all the baggy clothes he wears, it's hard to tell what a good body he has.

his hands move to your hips, grinding you against his clothed cock.

you whine when your clothed clit rubs against him just right.

“please, can i taste you. wanna eat you out.” he begs, kissing down your jaw down to your neck.

“are you sure? you really don’t have to.” you say, his kisses never ceasing.

“been dreaming of eating your pussy, baby.” he murmurs against your neck, biting down in a few spots. he reluctantly pulls back, letting you lie comfortably against your pillow.

your heart races as you peel your bottoms off, leaving you in your cute little panties. he crawls between your thighs, groaning at the sight.

“did you know this was gonna happen?” he smirks at the sight of your lacy panties. you smile. of course you did

“lucky guess.” you shrug.

he smirks, eyes drawn to your damp panties. he experiments with a lick over the wet patch, eliciting a small gasp from you.

“don’t tease” you pout down at him, making him chuckle. he pulls your panties to the side, revealing your wet cunt.

a wave of nervousness washes over you when he just stares in awe. you thought maybe he was gonna back out.

“even prettier than i imagined” he sighs, immediately delving in, making your gasp turn into a soft moan.

your mind wanders for a moment at the thought of him imagining this before. your hands finding themselves reaching under your shirt to play with your tits as he goes down on you.

he tries his hardest to do to you what he’s seen in porn. goes from flicking his tongue over your sensitive clit, to sucking on it which made your thighs tighten around his head.

he knew he found your most sensitive spot when his tongue flicked over a certain area, making you buck your hips up into him.

your hands move to grip in his messy dark hair, unconsciously tugging as he eats you out like a mad man.

you can’t see the way he slowly grinds his hips into the mattress, his cock straining almost painfully through his sweatpants.

your mind is in a frenzy, body squirming trying to escape how good it felt, but also rutting your hips up into his mouth because you really didn’t want him to stop.

not that he even would, he's in heaven right now. eating the pussy of the girl he’s jerked off too at least several times at this point.

his hands grip at the bottom of your thighs, pulling you closer to his face as he prods his tongue into your tight hole, nose brushing against your clit. you moan, tugging at his hair for more and he groans at the harsh tug. he fucking loves it.

you were sure you were so close as he fucks you with his tongue. toes curling so hard you're scared you’re gonna get a cramp.

“choso, please don’t stop” you beg, grinding up into his unrelenting mouth.

he just hums into your cunt in acknowledgement, his movements never stopping as you coat his tongue.

your heels dig into his back, hands tugging at his dark locs, the vibration of his groan making you moan out his name as you cum on his mouth.

you were sure he was lying about being inexperienced with how hard he made you cum. but the way he stared at you like you were a fucking goddess made you think otherwise.

you whine when you realize he still hasn’t stopped lapping at your sensitive pussy. your hips jolt up in overstimulation, making him come back to earth and pulling away.

“sorry” he pants, wiping off his lower face with the sleeve of his hoodie, licking his lips.

“don’t be sorry” you giggle, pulling him up so he’s hovering over you, strong arms on either side of your head. kissing you again. your essence surrounding his tongue.

he grinds his clothed erection into you, making you feel a little bad for neglecting him.

you reach your hand down to graze over him, making him groan and buck into you.

you pat his arm, signalling for him to switch places with you. he nods, sitting against the headboard.

you crawl into his lap, straddling him so you’re face to face. you smile, admiring how pretty he is.

“off?” you ask, tugging at his nice oversized hoodie. he nods, you lean back to let him pull it off of his frame, throwing the hoodie somewhere on your floor.

you made a mental note to defiantly steal that later.

it is so fucked up this man hides this monster of a body behind all those baggy clothes.

you can’t help but stare at his defined chest, running a hand down his stomach and to his hard cock. he moans when you rub him over the fabric of his pants, the heat of your hand making him go lightheaded.

your thumbs hook in his waistband, tugging down his hips, he helps you, bringing them down to his ankles.

you watch the way his thick, pale cock sits so pretty standing up against his stomach, the tip raging and pink from all the teasing.

you reach down to run your thumb over his slit, making him shiver. you felt bad teasing, but his reactions were so adorable.

you kiss and suck marks down his neck, down to his defined chest that you just wanted to bite.

his eyes go down to your throbbing pussy, his thumb innocently pulls apart your folds, rubbing at your clit generously. you mewl against him, hand gripping tighter against his cock.

if just your hand felt this good, he was imagining how amazing your cunt is gonna feel.

he was embarrassingly close, but he didn’t wanna cum like this.

“please” he pants, pushing your hand away. you lean in to kiss his cheek.

“hmm?” you look at him, curiously.

“wanna fuck you so bad, pretty. please let me fuck you, you’re so perfect i-“ he begs. you shut him up with a heated kiss, tongues clashing together as you give him mercy.

you set your knees on either side of his thighs, hovering over his cock.

“tell me if you wanna stop, ok?” you sweetly smile at him.

‘doubt it’ he thought. but he nods, promising.

you line him up with your entrance, very slowly sinking down on him, your face scrunches up a bit from the stretch of his sheer size.

you sigh when you’re finally seated on his pulsing cock, his hands gripping hard at your waist. his head against your shoulder in concentration of not cumming on the spot.

on instinct he bucks up into your heat, making you groan and squeeze around him, hips rolling.

“f-fuck, don’t do that or i’m gonna cum” he moans, hands holding you in place so you don’t squirm.

you giggle, kissing his cheek down his jaw, letting him collect himself.

after a few moments he does an experimental roll upwards, making you softly gasp. he keeps doing this. wanting more friction, you start bouncing yourself up and down his cock.

"s'big" you whine.

he moans, hands groping at your ass to help you ride him. he looks up at you, tits bouncing through your thin little top.

“so pretty” he lifts up the bottom of your shirt to uncover your tits, taking one into his mouth. you whine, leaning into him to feel him closer.

he nibbles and sucks on your tits, pulling off to stare at your fucked out face. you stare down at him, eyes half lidded and mouth slightly open.

“kiss” you mumble to him.

he leans in, giving you a messy kiss as you fuck each other with a need for more. the way his dick fit deliciously inside of your snug pussy, almost sucking him in completely.

your hands tangle in the back of his hair, tugging and making his hips sputter. you try to do it again, but he removes your hands and puts them back on his shoulders.

"next time, g-god, m'gonna fuck you for hours, baby. promise." he pants, sucking dark red purplish marks into your poor neck.

you moan at the idea of a next time. maybe he'd take you out first on a cute date, make sweet dinner or lunch plans for you two.

or maybe he'd just take you to his dorm room and fuck you into his desk like he's been dreaming of for months. marking you up so everyone can see your matching hickies in lecture, knowing how pussy whipped you have him.

either way works.

he uses his strength to flip you back under him, never pulling out of you. he knew he was gonna cum soon, he was trying to put it off for so long but you’re making it too hard.

your head lolls back into the soft pillow, moaning as the flimsy bed frame of the dorm room squeaking like crazy. if his dick wasn't hitting every good spot right now perfectly, you'd probably give a fuck if the people next door heard.

he pumps into you as your legs wrap around his hips, bringing him closer. he fucks into you at a needy pace, his head in your neck as he whines into your ear which you could barely hear over the filthy sounds of skin slapping.

“m’sorry, gonna cum, baby” he moans. your hands go back into his hair, humming.

“please cum in me, choso. need it.” you mewl, eyes threatening to roll back at the way the tip of his cock kisses your sweet spot with every harsh thrust.

you bring a hand to your neglected clit, rubbing furiously to catch up with him, legs shivering and cunt clenching.

he groans as he spills inside of you at the feeling of your walls contracting around him sending him over the edge.

“f-fuck! feels s'good choso.” you cry, cumming so hard you practically milk his cock.

you’re both panting, his body going stiff.

you push at his arm to make him get off of you since he was practically crushing you.

“sorry” he mumbles, his voice groggy. he reluctantly pulls out of you with a hiss, pulling his boxers back on and collapsing next to you.

“hand me that towel, please?” you point to the pile of clean laundry next to your nightstand, a fresh new towel sitting atop.

“yeah, shit, sorry.” he hands you the towel as you wipe down your inner thighs.

you put your now ruined panties back in place, noticing the way he's staring at you.

"what?" you smile, covering yourself with a throw blanket you keep on your bed.

he just shakes his head in a silent chuckle, plopping down onto the bed next to you. he moves a loose strand of your hair out of your face, finger running down your jaw to your kissed out lips.

your breath hitches at his gentle touch, his thumb dragging down your lower lip.

"nothing i just..." his eyes meet yours, your stomach fluttering with anticipation.

"really like you" he sheepishly admits. you smiled at how cute he is. he just came inside of you and he was still nervous around you. how sweet.

"well i'd sure hope so." you giggle, feeling the dull throb between your legs from a few minutes ago.

it wasn't like your intentions weren't completely innocent upon inviting him here. you always thought the quiet guy in your class was hot.

you thought it was so cute whenever you'd 'accidentally' brush against him and he'd either tense up or his face would turn pink.

"but if it makes you feel better..." you cuddle up next to him, head nuzzling into his shoulder as his strong arm wraps around your waist.

"i really like you too"

you also showed up to class the next day wearing his hoodie that you successfully stole. he acted annoyed, but secretly fucking loved it.

a/n: i'm alive y'all i got my wisdom teeth out so i was not in a mood to write but i'm back!! hope u enjoy! sorry if the ending got a lil cheesy i'm trying to get better at dialogue since i usually just write pure porn.

(in need of jjk prompts i want the men so bad)

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami. 

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left. 

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it. 

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit. 

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said. 

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond. 

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already. 

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal. 

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt. 

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive. 

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it. 

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood. 

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all. 

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me. 

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”  

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out. 

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit. 

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch. 

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached. 

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in. 

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I? 

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.” 

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.” 

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you. 

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?” 

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!” 

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?” 

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?” 

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first. 

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued. 

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at. 

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?” 

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction. 

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it. 

Interesting. 

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you. 

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite. 

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.” 

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already. 

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer. 

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

[ab4eva]

‘The Three of Us’

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Fully co-authored with: @therealslimshakespeare

Thanks to: My incomparable co-author & sweetheart Marina, for being willing to follow this rabbit hole with me and explore this little trio! And for the gorgeous mood board and vibes, I’m obsessed. And to Ashley, for being the best damn cheerleader we could ask for. ♥️

Warnings: All the sex, 18+ only

Word count: 8k

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Sometimes in Hollywood, magic happens behind the scenes - in a dark corner of Bar Lubitsch or a little poolside bungalow at the Chateau Marmont. Things that are only whispered about in certain circles or sent to Deuxmoi with the stipulation of “anon please.” The blurry flash of a hand, littered with telltale rings, on her Instagram story. The paparazzi photos of a drunken night out before the three of them disappeared into the balmy Los Angeles evening. The fandom set ablaze by rumors as they combed over every sign, every possibility, every look that they took for god’s honest truth. A myth in the making, never confirmed, never denied.

When a ballsy journalist had the gumption to ask Callum about the rumors some months down the road, he just grinned his Cheshire smile and shook his head, the slightest blush hinting at the corners of his already ruddy cheeks.

“Nah, mate, can’t believe everyfing you read in Hollywood, can ya.” A statement, no trace of question in his ice blue eyes as he licked his cherry lips and stared the journalist down, daring them to dig deeper. His heart may have started pounding a little too hard but only he knew that. Nothing belied the steely gaze he turned on the journalist - not a flex in his jaw or a slight blink or the whisper of a breath. Needless to say, that journalist had no desire to go toe-to-toe with all six feet two inches of Chelsea’s finest lad. They let the subject drop, though the air had already been sucked out of the tiny interview room. Callum noted with suppressed glee the way the journalist shifted in their seat uncomfortably, trying to regain the upper hand.

Serves ya right, ya wanker, floated through Cal’s head and it took all his energy to focus his thoughts on the next question being asked of him. Now that the taboo subject had been brought up, he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting back towards that fateful night, like the breach in a ship’s hull the memories flooded in. The soft give of her flesh beneath his fingers as he dug them into her hips, needing her closer, closer. The salty taste of Austin’s skin on his tongue as he dragged it slowly across his friend’s collarbone, the streak of wetness left behind shimmering in the moonlight. The mingled sighs and shared breaths, overpowering and heady in that dark little bungalow. That was the night he couldn’t get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. It didn’t matter how many books he read or women he kissed or bloody hikes he took in Runyon Canyon, he was always going back to the night when everything changed.

-

“Didn’t I see you at the Luchino Visconti retrospective a couple nights ago? At the Academy?” The very definition of tall, dark and handsome has just walked in the room, smiling down at you and waiting expectantly for your answer. This is Callum Turner, the new client you’re working with for Masters of the Air press (alongside Austin Butler, your regular client and current boyfriend-adjacent…guy. It’s casual, you’re both keeping it casual. For now.).

“Oh! Were you there? Wasn’t it amazing?” you gush, a little flustered.

“It’s kind of rare to meet another Visconti fan. You must be one of the good ones.” He grins at you, all warmth and puppy dog eagerness. A kindred spirit, an instant connection. You would be very charmed by him, if you weren’t already attached to someone else. Who are you kidding, you’re charmed by him anyway. Talking with him comes easily, and the time flies by as you style his hair, moisturize his skin, add a bit of concealer here and there. He’s funny, sweet, intelligent. Austin has told you a bit about him, about his friend who helped him during one of the most confusing times of his life. But this - this is more than you were expecting. He’s more than you were expecting. And you’re pretty sure he’s flirting with you. When he asks you out for a drink later, you’re absolutely certain. It is with no small amount of regret that you turn him down.

-

The first time you noticed something akin to a spark between the man you’d casually been dating and his co-star was during press interviews for their new television series, Masters of the Air. As Austin and Callum’s groomer and makeup artist, you were allowed a seat at the back of the room, near the video monitors, ready to jump into action if one of Austin’s curls needed to be twisted back into place or if Callum’s nose got too shiny and needed a bit of powder. You glanced up from your phone to see the two of them leaned so close together their shoulders touched, just barely. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Callum’s mouth looked as if it might graze the shell of Austin’s ear, a smirk playing at the edges, as his dark, curly head bent conspiratorially towards his friend’s blonde one. Silly boys, you thought, smiling to yourself as you watched them. You’d seen that look on Austin’s face before…it was almost one of… adoration.

Without warning your mind flashed back to last night, Austin gazing up at you through your thighs, a look of devotion on his face, his sandy hair ruffled and his eyes slightly dazed. The very same look that he’s now turned on Callum… Nah… You laughed at yourself quietly and shook your head to clear your thoughts, silently scolding yourself. You’d been reading too many spicy novels recently and clearly your imagination was running wild. It made sense that he and Callum were close. Austin had been lost as a newborn calf without a mother after Elvis had wrapped and Masters of the Air had started filming. A brotherhood, that’s what Austin had called it. And Callum had been his right hand man. And that’s all, you were sure. Pretty sure.

-

Bar Lubitsch is dim and noisy, crowded with cast and crew of Masters for an impromptu celebration while so many of them are in town. Austin hasn’t been here in years, always remembered it being a good time. He wants to show you and Callum a good time, after all the hard work you three have been putting in for press the past couple of weeks. That was two hours and three drinks ago, and you watch them now from your perch at the bar and how much they feed each other’s souls, like displaced brothers, reunited after years apart. The evening is starting to shift and blur, so many drinks and people and noise and singing. You never knew Callum loved to sing so much, until he was singing karaoke at the top of his lungs and the whole bar was gathered around the little stage in the back room, jumping to the beat while he sang the most risqué lyrics right to Austin, like they were the only two people in the room:

Even when the cold comes crashing through

I'm putting all my bets on you

I hope they never understand us

I put my heart inside your palms

My home in your arms

Now we know nothing matters

Nothing matters

And you can hold me like he held her

And I will fuck you like nothing matters

You’re not sure you’ll ever be over Callum pinching Austin’s cheeks, channeling his inner Egan, and singing right at him with drunken gusto while Austin is too tipsy to remember not to bask in it and it’s probably the cutest, and hottest, thing you’ve ever seen. It’s only afterwards that you start to feel a tiny flicker of jealousy. There’s something between them, a connection that time and distance hasn’t untethered. Later, you drag Austin into one of the faded velvet booths, snuggling up to him as he pulls you into a one-armed embrace, kissing your temple with glassy eyes and a crooked smile. His heady mix of sweat and cologne mingle, along with the alcohol, and suddenly you’re lightheaded. Not to mention the fact that his soft lips have seemed to have move, with lightning speed, from your temple to your neck. You gently push him away, and he gives you a questioning look but you need to see his face when you ask him this.

“Hey…what’s going on with Callum? Because, it’s clearly something? And whatever it is, it’s ok, really it is…but…I do have eyes, Austin,” you blurt out, biting your lip. You see a dozen different emotions cross his features, like a movie playing out in real time - surprise, guilt, defensiveness, longing, acceptance. His face goes all red and he leans his head back, his tan throat open and inviting, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down as he swallows thickly. It takes everything in you not to kiss him right this second.

“It’s…complicated. Kind of,” he sighs as he stares up at the ceiling and you can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it and that’s answer enough for you. You don’t push him further as you quietly turn his mouth to yours and make him forget anything and everyone but you.

-

“Come on Aus, it’ll be just like old times,” Cal goads drunkenly, placing a proprietary hand on Austin’s belly, his words laden with meaning and a hint of pleading. It’s not like he’s missed Austin or anything…not like that. Not that he’d admit anyway, hell no. Couldn’t two dudes have a consensual thing and not be weird about it? It must be liquid courage that made him suggest it aloud. That and the fact Austin keeps looking at him like he hung the damn moon.

“Swear you’ll shut up? If I say yes, will you just…chill?” Austin’s eyes are trained on you and it takes everything in him to play it cool, keep a calm head. Cal’s hand is still on Austin’s stomach and he starts to pet him, just above the belt and it makes Austin lurch in sudden need. He licks his lips, they’re suddenly parched, and swallows hard. He hears Cal snicker softly in his ear.

“Now, see, as I recall, you wouldn’t stop asking me to keep sayin’ shit last time.” Callum’s voice floats above the music, scratchy from gin and karaoke, hot breath tickling the shell of Austin’s ear. His hand moves to squeeze Austin’s neck, and if Austin didn’t know any better he’d swear it was a subconscious power move, Callum trying to literally bend Austin to his will. There’s an all too familiar twitch down Austin’s pant leg, and oh god he wishes- he thought, he was so sure, he was past that phase of responding like one of Pavlov’s dogs to Callum’s adoration and teasing.

Maybe it’s just the notion, his suggestion. That’s what’s suddenly making Austin’s blood feel hot and his eyes hazy, it’s the idea of her…and him! But mostly her, just her, and sharing her and- None of that explains the way he wants to bend to that firm hand squeezing in drunken cajoling at the base of his neck, makes him want to knock noses and yank at the stupid collar of Callum’s sweater until there’s collarbones to see and a draft under the wool. This is winter in Los Angeles, heating inside is state of the art, there’s no reason for such coziness and it’s making the man sweat and all Austin can think of from the smell is memories of an English summer, worn out and floating in his own body, biting down on Callum’s upper arm, tangy, sweaty flesh to keep an awfully strange escapade quiet.

That does it. What is he even thinking? He must’ve drank more than he realized but then, oh god, there Cal goes, throwing his hands up in defeat, shrugging his shoulders like a kid caught trying to push his luck. The arm around his shoulder is suddenly gone, and he’d give anything to have it back again. He shakes his head - he really must’ve had too much to drink. It was making him melancholy and sobering him up fast. Funny how alcohol will do that to you.

“Scouts honor, Butler, I’ll-I’ll-I’ll,” he seems to search the ceiling in drunken concentration for the correct wording most likely to open the doors to the kingdom, “I’ll be- it’ll be: HER, YOU and a um, uh mannequin. How ‘bout that, mate? Good enough for ya? You’d probably like that, wouldn’t ya? Ya little freak!” He lands a playful right hook to Austin’s jaw, hard knuckles digging into soft cheeks.

The usually inflammatory epithet of ‘freak’, coming as it does from a man begging for a threesome with himself and his girl, is nothing short of rabidly complementary. Callum’s shit-eating, triumphant grin could light up the whole damn room in this moment. He knows he’s got Austin right where he wants him and starts to count down silently in his head - three…two…

Austin finds himself grinning, a warning, measured thing but a condoning of the sentiment all the same.

“One,” Cal says out loud, his arm going back around Austin’s shoulders, squeezing so hard Austin winces a little. It’s a reflective motion then, done almost without thinking, when Austin slaps Callum’s thigh, not realizing there’s a boner bent down that trouser leg. A wounded hiss leaves Callum’s lips as he caves in on himself a little bit and Austin freezes, his face turning crimson and he feels another twitch down his own trousers.

“Steady on mate,” Callum coughs, shaking a leg, trying to discreetly readjust. “And I thought I was the eager beaver here.” Austin wants to wipe that smirk right off Callum’s smug little face but the moment their eyes meet they can’t help but start to laugh. Giggles, really, which turn into loud guffaws that has the whole bar turning to see what the commotion is about.

Your head whips around at the sound you’ve grown to know well over the past few weeks, the loud and boisterous laughter of two friends who seem forget that anyone else exists when they’re together. You spot them, huddled close as they always seem to be, and shake your head. A grin tugs at your lips and threatens to spill out the feelings fluttering around in your chest, no your stomach, no…somewhere else, lower. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about the two of them…together. Sometimes you’re with them, sometimes you’re not, in these little fantasies of yours. You catch yourself biting your lip and staring at them a little too longingly. You wonder what they’re saying now, both of them look flustered and awkward, just slightly. You can actually feel the tension rolling off of them in waves from where you stand across the bar.

Austin chooses that moment to look up and catch your eye. There’s a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there earlier and what is that look on his face? You’ve never seen it before…shy and almost…guilty? He looks just like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Your eyes question him across the dim bar, an unspoken tether ties you together wherever you are, and uncertainty about the deal he’s just struck with Callum comes creeping in. What has gotten into him? He’s just agreed to share you, with another man. And not just any man, one he has a rather interesting history with. The thought of Callum touching you, kissing you, fucking you…suddenly he’s stone cold sober and beginning to regret letting Cal sway his decision. Because there sure as hell won’t be any take backs, not with Callum. He’s like a dog with a bone once he gets what he wants.

-

“Dude no, there’s chemical flavoring in there, that shit’s bad for you and it’ll give her irritation!” Austin looks slightly perturbed, not for the first time this evening. He sways slightly under the florecent lights of the drugstore, the constant buzzing adding to the pounding in his head.

“What if it’s not intended to go on her? Hmm? Thought of that Butler?” Callum murmurs under his breath, his eyes focused solely on the lube he’s holding, a pink blush creeping up his neck to his ears. Has a blush under drugstore fluorescents ever looked so lovely? And Austin hasn’t stopped biting that lower lip since you walked into this place. It hasn’t stopped him from grinning, though, his excitement bubbling through in little ticks and tells, the nervous turning over of the vaseline jar in his large hands.

“You haven’t even bought me dinner Cal, just straight to the flavored lube,” Austin bemoans, faking offense. “’Sides, she’s already sweet enough, aren’t you baby? I’ve had my fair share of licks,” Austin’s shoulder bumps yours as he sends you a smoldering look, his eyes flickering down your body briefly before his cheeks turn a slight rosy color you can see blooming up from his chest through his open shirt collar.

“Austin!” you hiss, slapping his arm playfully and hiding your face in his neck, embarrassed.

“Leave it to you two twig Bettie’s and we’d be down to nothin’ but socks and coconut oil,” Cal snarks, not at all inaccurately.

“I don’t remember you minding coconut oil last time,” Austin says under his breath, clearly meant for Callum’s ears only, but you manage to catch it, and your heart starts to pound at the implied meaning.

“Mmm, and it was bitter so - mojito,” Callum says decidedly, leaving no room for argument. Austin smiles at you, lifting his shoulder in a shrug and rolling his eyes heavenward. You giggle nervously, wondering for the first time just what you’re getting yourself into.

“I saw that! Listen mate, feel free to shut me up at any time. This would do nicely, ya reckon?” Callum lifts a silk sleeping mask with one, long finger and swings it around seductively, waggling his eyebrows up and down comically. You laugh and the butterflies making a home in your ribcage start to settle down again.

-

The whimpers emanating from between your parted lips take you by surprise and you promptly shut your mouth, unexpectedly embarrassed to be mewling so wantonly. You bite your lip as it becomes harder and harder to hold them in with every slow thrust of Austin’s velvety cock filling you, his swollen tip hitting just the right spot, and every flick of Callum’s tongue as he laves at your tender little clit with vigor. You feel Austin tense slightly beneath you as Cal swirls his tongue down to your opening to lap at where you and Austin join, sloppy and wet. A soft moan floats past your left ear, Austin’s hot breath sending a shiver through you, and it seems to invigorate Callum as he doubles down on his efforts to have his tongue cover as much surface area as possible. He chuckles and it jolts through you as your back arches, your fingers finding his dark curls and yanking him closer, demanding something you aren’t even aware of. He understands what you need even if you don’t and as his lips close around your sensitive bud you can no longer keep quiet, keening softly. You practically buck off of Austin’s lap and his arm tightens around your waist to keep you in place. The harder Callum sucks, the more Austin starts to whine - you’ve gotten so tight around him he can hardly thrust.

“Oh fuck, what’re you doing? Cal…what…” you slur as you pull at his hair, trying to dislodge him from your clit. You feel him grin against your heat as he slowly slips two fingers in you, resting them alongside Austin’s length. You hiss at the stretch and Austin starts to pick up his pace again. Your head is too hazy with pleasure to register fully what is happening as Callum gently slides another finger in next to the first two. His mouth works your clit, sucking and pulling, harder then soft again.

“More…more more more,” you beg hoarsely. You feel as if you might fly away and the only thing anchoring you to earth are these two men and their hands and their mouths on your body. Callum cocks an eyebrow at you and his eyes shift to Austin. You feel him nod, barely, and then another burning stretch as Cal slips his pinkie in next to his other fingers. It drives you insane and you feel yourself clenching and coming, harder than you can ever remember. You stop breathing for a moment, your mind going numb with rapture as you come apart at the seams.

“Oh fuck,” Austin whispers, biting your shoulder, his hand absentmindedly palming your breasts, pinching your hardened nipple. “Come on baby, I know you’ve got more, give us another one. Cal, can’t thrust with you in there…give me some room, huh?”

Callum let’s go of your clit with a wet pop and gently slides his fingers out. His nose and chin are shiny with your juices, even his eyebrows look a little damp and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Go on then, Butler, show us what you got.” He stands, knees popping as he does. From up here he can see your faces clearly, yours and Austin’s. He watches, rapt, as Austin nuzzles your neck, nipping at your earlobe as he speeds up his thrusts, toying with your nipples mercilessly. Your eyes flutter closed and your head drops back onto his shoulder. Callum shakes his head, dazed and pussy drunk - why was he on his knees so long?? He coulda been watching this the whole time? But he knows why- fresh, homegrown pussy. And he means to have his fill. He can’t take being on the sidelines, watching Austin move in and out of you at a punishing pace, having all the fun. One of Callum’s massive palms descends onto your clit, slapping and rubbing cruelly, back and forth, faster and faster. And then you’re gushing everywhere, all over Callum’s hand and Austin’s cock and the bed, soaking everything.

“Come on then girl, give us all you’ve got,” Cal encourages, his raspy voice driven to the point of hoarseness. He grabs his painfully hard, throbbing cock and roughly starts to slap your clit. You gasp, jerking in Austin’s arms as you fall apart again. And then Callum gets a thought, because his dick is doing most of the thinking just now, and it’s been sadly neglected thus far. He’s just had four fingers in you and now you’re literally flinging droplets with each swipe, it’s a goddamn swamp down there it’s so wet. He slows his slaps and starts to rub soft circles against your clit, stopping every once in a while to try your entrance gently, just to see. You moan breathlessly and his heart speeds up as he looks at Austin questioningly.

“I recognize that gleam in your eye, Turner…spit it out,” Austin says in a slightly strangled voice.

“Think you can take us both, angel? At the same time?” Callum directs his question to you, ignoring Austin.

You can’t take your poor abused clit getting ground on anymore, it’s just too intense, anything to give it a break. You nod your head so fast he thinks it might fly off. Your trembling little hand reaches down with disjointed begs of “Put it in baby, put it, please Cal, it’s burning.”

Your sloppy wet pussy hole visibly clenches with a tiny space of room left each time Austin digs in. Callum drunkenly wonders if they should have a medical professional on standby for this sorta shit, like it’s gotta be a crime to wedge two boys into a girl, especially when Butler’s packing like that. But your whine suggests you need it and he’d really like to not be left out. FOMO -that’s what he’ll blame when he’s driving the ambulance or else coming down from the craziest high he’s ever had with a pool of cum drying on his belly.

Austin goes still as a statue under you and drags your sweaty hair across to the other shoulder so he can really see your face and ask, “You sure? Baby, talk to me, you really wanna try?” His hand gently grips your chin, forcing you to focus on his eyes, his question.

“I’ll die if I don’t have you both,” you plead, your voice barely above a whisper, but Austin still looks concerned and slightly perturbed. Is the girl he knows even in there? But you want something, you want this and he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t give you anything you want that’s within his power to give. And if there’s one thing he loves about you it’s your love of a challenge. He bites his cheek, trying not to blow his load over your sweet determination.

“Ok ok.” Austin takes a deep, steadying breath, kissing your wet temple and gives Callum a very familiar look of admonishment and also trust in his good intentions. “Careful, man, really careful,” he instructs as Callum nods his silent assent.

“No safe words, just if somebody says stop we stop, ok?” Austin’s starting to pant, as he can feel the poofy mushroom head of Cal’s cock brushing his sack at your entrance. “Anybody who says stop,” he clarifies, half thinking he might be the first to wimp out and do it.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” Cal actually looks sober as fuck except for the sheen of sweat that always seems to come with his pints and somehow the eye contact he makes lights a fire in Austin’s belly.

“I might say no,” you squeak, “I won’t mean it though, just a heads up. I’ll say stop- if I need to stop.”

“No?” Cal laughs nervously. “That might make me feel a little…bad,” he admits, still rubbing maddening circles around where Austin’s been practically cockwarming you for ages.

“Stop getting all existential and give her what she wants, man,” Austin rebuts.

“It’ll make me feel bad if she says no,” Cal blurts, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“Then I’ll do it.” Austin’s voice is rough in your ear and your nipples harden into peaks as he gently pulls out of you and pats the bed. “Tell Cal to lay his big ass self down.”

You giggle as Callum dives onto the bed, bouncing for a moment until he settles, turning over onto his back, head propped on a lazy forearm. He pats his meaty thighs and you roll your eyes but can’t deny the flip flop your stomach does at the thought of those thighs and what a nice cradle they’ll make while you’re railed within an inch of you’re life. And then you’re hovering over him, Cal kneading your hip encouragingly while running an admiring hand up and down your spine, like you’re a skittish horse in need of calming. You hesitate, momentarily unsure, but Austin nods at you reassuringly from the foot of the bed and ever the gentleman, gives you his hands to hold as you sink slowly down on Callum. Though his gentlemanly hands are gripping yours tightly, his eyes are glued to your pussy taking every inch of uncut Brit cock that he’s maybe gagged on once.

“Earth to Butler!” comes from behind you because Austin’s zoned out a little and it’s been a hot minute and you’re somewhat situated now.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, uh, ok, ok…”

Cal snickers before crunching up behind you, his chest hot against your back as he wraps his arms around you. “You feel lovely, darlin’, wanna lay back wif’ me? Don’t mind him, he’s lost it. Always goes a bit soft in the head around a pretty pussy or my cock.”

It’s a lot from this position and laying back against Callum’s chest is intense. You feel like he’s fully in your belly and it stretches your womb over him. He feels different…his isn’t as wet as Austin’s little water fountain but it throbs more noticeably, sending little shocks of pleasure through you. Cal pets your belly soothingly and spreads your pussy lips for Austin to really get a look at. You whine and squirm, realizing again the want for more. Those fingers dabbling at your entrance, threatening to push inside you once more and that’s when Austin breaks, recalling that’s what he and his cock are here for.

“Yeah, ok, ok, present and accounted for. Move your hand,” he murmurs, swiping Cal’s hand away. He thumbs at you himself for a bit, just to be sure and to watch as Cal loses his cool facade for a second when you clench tightly around him.

“Still sure about this, baby?” He asks one more time as he’s pressing at the ring and the burn has you bracing. You feel Cal’s hand move from your waist to your thigh, behind your knee, cupping it and dragging it wide, spreading you apart before you’ve even said your piece. The vote of confidence does you good and you take a deep breath, nodding once, decisively.

“Then put me in, angel,” Austin tells you, fat cockhead already snagged in but there’s a little ripple in his hard cock from the resistance of the tight space. Steeling yourself, you reach down and wrap your fingers around him, tugging him closer and slowly feeding his thickness into you alongside Cal’s, who starts thrashing his head and moaning at the drag like he’s the one getting breached.

“Good girl, good girl, please more…know you can take more.” Cal’s begging for cock by proxy and it alters your brain somehow. Austin’s too, he puts his hips into the effort and soon he’s gotten past the muscles at your command and into the threshold where you can’t manage to push him out if you tried. It makes you panic a little, but Cal is softly shushing in your ear, a distracting thumb stroking behind your knee, other freckled hand mauling a tit and begging you to take more cock so he can get friction.

“She can take it, come on, Austin,” he vouches for you, a little self promotion as you can’t even form words right now. Somewhere about six inches in your vocabulary consists of yelped little “fuck’s”and whimpering “I cant’s”.

Austin caresses your cheek, commanding you to look at him, his blue eyes focused in on yours, “That’s it baby, just a little more. You’re doing so good for us… such a good girl.”

Callum grab’s Austin’s shoulder and brings him fully deeper, which is all well and good when Austin kisses your forehead and insists raggedly, “You are doing it, baby.”

When he finally pushes in that last little bit, you lose any control you thought you had, instantly coming from the stretch and threatening to push Austin out. But he presses nothing less than his full weight on you, keeping you in place and himself snug inside next to Callum. You gasp for air and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, clinging to him. Austin tries to remember to breathe and promptly forgets how when he makes eye contact with Callum for the first time since being balls deep.

“Are you -is that you…twitching?”

“Woulda thought you’d remember that,” Callum smirks. “Coulda sworn I recall you saying something about it jumping like a live wire in your hand?”

“Christ, well it feels different all…snuggled up next to mine,” Austin grits out, coloring slightly.

After a moment or two, when breath has been regained and a few laughs shared and some semblance of sanity restored in right spaces, Cal starts to pepper every inch of your neck and cheeks in kisses. Now that he’s not so desperate he’s become utterly grateful for you, for this. The kisses turn into sloppy, wet groans in your ear as Austin begins to move and Cal’s hand is gripping your jaw, his eyes locked on Austin, your legs thrown wide over his thighs, spread to the max and he’s a perfect recliner. He throws his other arm across your chest in a loving armbar, holding you still on top of him, “So Butler can get a rhythm, baby.”

Austin looms above you both, finding his pace, measured and steady. His beautiful face is flushed full of awe and there’s a heat in his gaze you’ve never seen before. He puts his hand on Callum’s shoulder for leverage, long fingers digging into freckled flesh and Cal promptly lays a little smooch on Austin’s forearm with a cheeky grin. Austin’s eyes shift and change, become a deeper blue and an expression you can’t read flits across his face as he jabs a particularly hard thrust into you. Callum starts to whimper and squirm when he realizes Austin’s thrusts are rubbing him too well, and it's not just you who’s getting their spot hit - that spot being his foreskin being drug back and forth in maddening little drags.

“Y’all like that? Feel good?” Austin growls lowly, rhythmic thrusts pushing you and Callum deeper into the fluffy white sheets, both of your whimpers combining until you can’t tell who they belong to. Austin groans and drives in harder, his white knuckles gripping Callum’s shoulder hard, while he reserves his tenderest touch for you, rubbing his thumb back and forth across your cheek.

“You’re…enjoying this…” you manage to moan between thrusts. His face splits into a grin as he pushes all the way in, pausing for a moment to kiss you hard, all tongues and teeth and desperation.

“Oh, fuck mate, that’s so good. Oh my god,” Callum babbles. “Right there, fuck, right there. You feel so good.”

“Which one, baby girl? Me or her?” Austin smirks.

For once, Callum has no witty response except the heavy panting in your ear. He squeezes your waist harder and his fingernails indent your hip and it gives you something else to focus on while you catch your breath, a tiny escape from the mind-blowing ecstasy you feel and the slight alarm bells ringing in your head. You can feel Callum somehow expanding and growing inside of you, even bigger than he was before. Austin’s eyes go wide and a look of panic crosses his face - his perfect pink mouth forms a perfect “o”.

“Oh shit, what…why is everything so fucking tight again…what is happening,” Austin groans breathlessly, his mouth set in a determined line, teeth ground together so hard you worry momentarily he might break a tooth. He tightens his grip on Callum’s shoulder and Cal’s massive hand encircles Austin’s delicate wrist, knuckles white as he holds on for dear life.

“Faster…faster,” Cal begs, again and again. “Sorry no, mate it’s, it’s fuckin’ happenin’…oh fuck.” His head cranes forward and you can feel his belly and hips flexing beneath you as he tenses over and over, letting out a hoarse sort of howl as he comes. His warmth fills you and it shakes something loose in your head, your own stomach starting to clench as you grab a handful of Austin’s golden hair, urging him on. Callum’s hands are all over you, petting you everywhere as he starts to come down.

“S’ok I came in ya? Yeah? Good, ‘cause I did,” he whispers hoarsely with a remorseful little laugh, back to babbling to you now that Austin’s got him there. He wipes the sweaty hair from your forehead, tucking a piece of it behind your ear and kisses your neck, whispering encouraging words, “That’s it, babe, give us another one.”

Cal’s bitten off little whimpers spur you on, as his soft cock is trapped in there too, getting pummeled. He’s trying to focus on you, with little pets and murmurs of encouragement but you feel his jaw clench as he grits his teeth, taking the pounding Austin is giving the both of you.

“Got me feelin’ like a proper woman, squealin’ n’ shit, Aus.”

You feel another orgasm build and shake through you, one of the many countless times you’ve fallen apart tonight, but this one stands out. It would bring you to your knees if you were unlucky enough to be standing at this moment. You’re sure it has something to do with knowing you’re satisfying two men at once, Callum having found his release and Austin being close to his. You can tell he’s on the verge by the little signs you’ve grown to recognize over the course of your relationship. The way his forehead creases in between his brows - you’ve kissed it away a dozen times in the heat of the moment. The way his pulse beats on the side of his neck, his vein there popping out and becoming more prominent. The short little huffs of breath he inhales, in quick succession - one, two, three, bam, bam, bam, like three shots straight to your heart. It’s your turn to take care of him, the last one standing after he made sure you and Cal got yours.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper, pulling his forehead down to meet yours, thumbing at the hollows of his cheeks as he begins to tremble and his thrusts turn sloppy. He kisses you again, sucking on your tongue before moving to latch onto your neck. Cal wraps a hand around Austin’s throat, pushing his head back and squeezing just enough for his eyes to widen and his mouth to pop open. His blue eyes darken and you think he’s going to put his mouth on you again, but he bypasses you and goes straight for Callum’s collarbone, his perfect, white teeth sinking into Callum’s lovely English skin and biting down, hard. Cal yelps but doesn’t let go of Austin’s neck, and that’s when you feel it, your belly filled with warmth again as Austin pulses and twitches inside you, a stuttered moan muffled into the crook of Callum’s shoulder. He collapses on top of you and Callum, completely and utterly spent, the three of you breathing heavily and unable to move for a few moments. You squirm a tiny bit, trying to take a deep breath with one man plastered to your front and another to your back.

Austin gets the hint and lifts himself back up on shaky arms, slipping out of you with a squelch. You gasp one final time, at the sudden loss of him, and a cold emptiness is left where he once filled you to the brim, almost to breaking. The coldness is replaced quickly by a gushing warmth spilling out of you. You feel Callum suck in a breath, his broad chest expanding beneath you, his right arm still wrapped tightly around your chest.

“Christ, it’s running down my balls,” he wheezes out, taking another shuddering breath.

Austin braces himself against the headboard and slowly disentangles himself, flopping limply beside you on the bed. He looks at you and Cal still entwined, his eyes moving from both of your faces flushed with heat, down to Callum’s arm still tightly wrapped around you, one large, meaty hand gripping your breast, his middle finger absentmindedly pressing the sensitive bud of your nipple down. Austin sucks in breath after breath, and his eyes travel lower, to your legs still splayed wide over Callum’s sturdy thighs, his softening cock still nestled deep inside you, the spend of both men slowly dripping out of you. A sudden flash of possessiveness roars through him - for you, for Callum. For the sacred thing he has with both of you. His face goes numb and his ears start to ring. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

“What is it, Aus?” you whisper, stretching out a hand to him. He looks forlorn, alone on the other side of the bed, his vulnerable face a mix of emotions crashing together all at once, lost and unsure, the gravity of everything settling on his shoulders like a blanket.

“Come back to us.” Your fingertips barely reach to brush his bronzed chest, the little blonde hairs soft against your skin. “Please.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and crawls back over, wrapping his arms around you both and collapsing on top of you again. You’re hilariously squished in the middle of a bear hug now, both men squeezing with all their might, a strange show of masculinity to mask true feelings.

“I can’t breathe….” you manage between giggles. Callum lets out a soft chuckle in your ear, his breath warm against your cheek as his arm shifts beneath you. He digs his fingers into Austin’s armpit and wiggles them around none too gently. Austin bucks against you and squeaks out an uncharacteristically high laugh, trying to squirm out of Cal’s grasp, but it’s too strong and Austin’s body feels like jelly just now.

“Hey! Hey hey, no fair…you know I hate… being… tickled…” Austin grunts out, trying desperately to writhe out of this strange embrace.

-

Bright, cheerful sunshine spills onto the hotel room floor and across the bed, where it has no right to be at this ungodly hour. It shines in unabashedly, through drapes you forgot to close properly in all of your horny desperation. A little sliver of verdant green Hollywood hills is the only signal from the outside world. In here, somewhere between sleeping and waking, in that hazy early morning dreamland, you register Austin tucked up close behind you, his knees pushing the backs of yours and his warm, heavy arm slung over your waist. This is how you wake up every morning and you scoot your bottom back, into the cradle of his hips, momentarily unaware of the pulverization of your insides. But scenes from last night play out like a clip reel inside your head almost as soon as you’re conscious. You squeeze your eyes tight, refusing to give the sun its due. You stretch your legs gingerly, wiggling your toes against Austin’s, and take stock of things. There’s the obvious ache between your legs - more of a throbbing fire, if the truth is to be told. Your nipples seem to remember the previous evening’s activities as well because they immediately harden and stand at attention. And you can’t feel them yet but you’re pretty sure you have a few bruises, too. Ah well, you think as you yawn lazily, that’s what makeup is for.

You blink one eye open (it’s so bright in here!) and the first thing you encounter is a massive arm right next to your nose, tiny, golden hairs glinting in the sunlight. The second thing you see is Cal, on his belly and sans sheets or clothes, his lush and muscular bottom swelling above the white duvet beneath him. His adorable face is pressed into the pillow next to yours, dark curls swirling across his forehead and day’s worth of stubble dots his jaw. He feels your eyes on him, he’s only been snoozing for a bit, waiting for you two to wake up. He cracks one bright, blue eye open and stares back at you a moment. He senses a rush of what he feels everytime he sees you but this time it’s magnified by endearment and gratitude. Then, his face lights up, still smushed into the pillow and a massive, squinty grin splits his face. Your heart gives a funny little leap inside your chest and you find that your fingers are caressing his cheek softly, of their own volition and you resist the urge to kiss the little freckle under his mouth. He grabs your hand and kisses your fingertips, holding them to his warm lips as he smiles. And suddenly, any worry about things being weird has evaporated, as has any possibility of him being a third wheel. He just belongs.

“Hey! Quit making goo-goo eyes at my girl.” Austin’s gravelly morning voice rumbles from behind you playfully, and quick as lightning the arm still draped around your waist reaches over and smacks Callum’s ass, hard. The slap echoes around the room and you see the pale flesh of his bottom bounce and reverberate with the force of it. Cal, and his red, pillow creased face, jolts forward, yelling and jerking in the sheets, which in turn rubs his raw cock. This causes a chain reaction of events which results in him immediately pulling a sore muscle and flopping back down on the bed, moaning and rubbing his reddening backside.

“No fair, bruv,” he groans into the pillow. “That was too fuckin’ close to my balls.”

Austin chuckles and swats your ass gently for good measure. Slowly, everyone starts to shift and stir. First there are whines about soreness and muscles. Then about how sticky it all is. Then about who’s gonna order room service - but more pressingly, who’s gonna walk to the mini bar and grab a water. And then there’s an argument about who’s voice is less hoarse to call for the food - this ends up being you, hilariously. Then there’s moaning arguments about who is intact enough to wobble to the door and tip the server. In between massive amounts of doting and fretting over you, obviously. The boys are ever attentive, fluffing your pillows and making sure you’re comfortable while they feed you omelets and sausage and pancakes until your energy is restored. Over breakfast in bed, the arguments continue about who’s more bruised up - there’s a nasty bite mark on Cal’s collarbone but the fingerprints around Austin’s neck are a fair rival. There’s a panicked and very male discussion about emergency rooms when you admit you can barely move. But you manage to convince them that a nice, hot soak in the tub would do you wonders right about now. So Austin goes to draw you a bath while Callum helps you out of bed, wrapping a protective arm around your waist, and guiding you to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later you’re starting to feel somewhat restored and a little more like yourself. The boys take turns showering, getting ready for the screening event later today. They go about it quietly though, almost reverently, leaving you to relax in peace. You turn the hot water on again, you’ve soaked so long it’s turning tepid but you’re not ready to relinquish this luxury. You ask Austin to bring you your makeup kit, eying the marks on both of them that need covering up. First Austin, then Callum, one after the other they kneel beside the tub in only their dress pants, chest and feet still bare. There are bruises and hickies and bite marks on clavicles and necks and wrists. Poor Callum, with his delicate, reactionary British skin has what looks like beard burn over half his chest and up the side of his throat. You turn sideways in the fancy clawfoot bathtub, gingerly dabbing concealer here and there, doing the best you can to cover up any evidence of last night's revels. Austin sits patiently, a towel underneath his knees to buffer the hard tile floor, and watches you with his kind, enigmatic ocean eyes. They’re distracting, those eyes, as they watch your face, every blink and every smile.

“What is it, Aus? Something on your mind?” you finally murmur, unable to take such naked contemplation any longer.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” He smooths the hair back from your forehead, rubbing a silky piece between his fingers. “I’m so lucky.”

Callum slouches against the doorway and lets out a quiet hum. “I think you mean we’re lucky, mate. The three of us.”

-

The Three of Us: Brat Behavior (part 2)

The Three of Us - Masterlist

-

Tagging some Austin & Callum lovers I know: @jelliedonut @crazymadpassionatelove @elvisabutler @slowsweetlove @stylespresleyhearted @steph-speaks @blurredcolour @pearlparty

[yup-thats-me]

slipping through my fingers • Lee Byung-hun

pairing: husband!Lee Byung-Hun x wife!reader

summary: funny tricks of time; growing old with your husband

warning: growing old, age gap. please, please i beg of you don't think too hard about byung-hun and the reader's ages, please. when I tell you me and my friend had to storm our brains for an hour to calculate their ages. please. also, i suggest you listen to the song while reading this<3

"bye bye, momma!" waved goodbye your little girl. she was in high school now, and you and your husband were grateful that your prized girl was not like most teenagers. she was understanding, gentle.

byung-hun stood beside his wife, eyes on the yellow school bus. "seems like yesterday that she came into this world, doesn't it darling?'' he said as he laid his head on her shoulder.

"Mmm", she nodded. "time is cruel."

it really was. how can it be that your daughter is almost at the age where she'll be leaving home when it barely feels that you've been with your husband for barely two years? oh, at it had been eighteen years when you had met Byung-hun.

Byung-hun was a regular at the cafe y/n worked at. he would go there as soon as he wrapped up filming for the day. from the early days of his acting career, he frequented the cafe but it had only been a few months since the waitress. y/n had joined.

she was so sweet, smiling at everyone, not an ounce of anger or tiredness in her eyes. he knew he was at least twenty years older than the girl but it didn't matter, right?

"can i get your name, sweetheart?"

it'd be a lie if y/n said she didn't feel like melting onto the earth. his voice dripping with honey, his eyes smiling.

"y/n."

that had been their first date. Byung-hun had asked her manager if she could leave early. she of course, agreed. how could anyone would deny Lee Byung-hun anything?

that day was eighteen years ago. how time flies.

Byung-hun kissed his wife goodbye. "when I come back let's go out for a movie? with d/n?" she nodded.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

"you ready, sweetheart?"

y/n asked fixing her daughter's veil. her little girl was getting married, she's truly going into the world, with someone she loves, adores.

no words could explain how y/n felt. this is the same girl she had given birth to, her little fingers had wrapped around her thumb so adoringly. so naturally.

it's time for her little girl to hold someone else.

y/n wiped the corners of her eyes, not wanting to let her daughter see her cry. "your father is waiting outside. let's go?" her voice trembling slightly.

Byung-hun stood outside the doors, his mind replaying the old times. it feels like yesterday that he held his daughter for the first time, only yesterday had he heard his little girl call him 'appa' for the first time. oh how he had felt the world around him stop at that moment. he really missed the old times.

when his wife came outside holding his daughter, he couldn't stop the tears from falling.

"you look so beautiful, princess." he said hugging his girl.

d/n wiped her tears as well. it felt surreal having her father cry while holding her. "appa, I'm still your little girl. I promise."

y/n patted her husband. the rays of sun falling onto the family, making them look ethereal. after they had composed themselves, y/n softly pushed through the doors of the altar.

she held her daughter's hand, her husband linking his arm with d/n. the music wafted through the venue. some of byung-hun and y/n's friends had tears in their eyes too. to them, d/n was also their beloved girl. time really flies.

when the priest pronounced officially d/n and her lover, y/n had intertwined her arms with her husband. it was much very hard for Byung-hun than her. the man saw his girl as the world, ready to bring the world at her feet. he would become so proud at all of d/n's achievement, no matter small or big. he really was d/n's greatest fanboy.

y/n rested her head against Byung-hun's shoulder, comforting him as d/n and her lover kissed.

beautiful.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

"you look so beautiful, my love," came Byung-hun's voice as he handed his wife a cup of coffee as the sat on their porch.

y/n laughed. time had certainly left its marks. "you've been telling me that for the last 35 years, my love."

"and," byung-hun leaned down to kiss y/n's hand. "i would continue to do so till my last breath, sweetheart."

"I love you."

[asapeveryday]

noctuary #5 - p.b x tlou

noc·​tu·​ary ˈnäkchəˌwerē

: a collection of a single night's events, thoughts or dreams

--read pt.4 here

pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader

AU: The Last of Us 2 x Wbb crossover

warnings: canon typical violence, drinking.

synopsis: you meet her on the brink of giving up. she’s suspicious, too nice, too charismatic. you know you should be on guard, but you’ve got nowhere to go, and she’s eager to have nobody to be.

notes: sorry for the long waits between chapters...i forget sometimes that ppl on tumblr aren't used to waiting long periods like ppl on ao3/wattpad are :') honestly really struggled with this chap

YOU CAN HEAR IT, the way it clicks and crackles, mouth open wide, teeth rotting, skin moulding.

It's dark in the warehouse, tables are overturned, spores fly through the air above the light of your lantern. You're waiting behind a knocked over cabinet, knees on the ground, breathing steady.

Your heart hammers like a drum, and you can feel a drop of sweat roll down your forehead. You're used to the fear, used to the feeling of being paralyzed. Despite it, you never are. Not since you almost died a month ago. Now the fear tastes sweeter, it's addictive. Just like it used to be.

You hear it click, low and guttural. It's closer than you thought it'd be, closer than you're prepared for.

Your gun has two bullets left, max. You'll have to make this hasty.

It clicks again, shuffles, croaks and huffs as it inches closer. You can't see it yet, not without getting too close to the edge of the cabinet that shields you.

Water drips from the ceiling somewhere near you. Early morning light starts to peek through the cracked windows.

Another shuffle, another crackle. You see the edge of its head, then its innumerable fungi growths. It scuffles past the cabinet, unable to sense your presence. Its jaw is cracked open, hanging loose. It's smeared with blood.

The blood of those familiar to you. Your teammates had failed to adhere to your warnings again, and this time they'd paid the price. You didn't know whether you should burst into tears or jump for joy.

Neither would work now. Right now, you can hardly even breathe.

It keeps walking. Then stops.

You hold your breath, trying your hardest to stay completely still, trying to will the hands wrapped around your gun to stop shaking.

Its head turns towards you, slow, unconsciously. Without even thinking, you lean back ever so slightly. Dirt from the floor crackles under your boots.

It jerks in your direction.

Shit.

It launches towards you, sprawling with no hesitation. You raise your gun and shoot faster than you can exhale any air, but your aim swerves as you stagger backwards and you miss.

One bullet now. This is do or die.

You scramble to get up but it's too fast, pummeling into you with arms outstretched and ready to tear you to pieces. You let out a broken scream as you hit the ground, frantically hitting it over the head with your gun, cringing as fluid splatters across your face.

You attempt to wrestle with it as its hands claw at your skin, kicking and punching wherever you can. Its head jerks forward to bite and rip with speed you struggle to dodge. Its breath is warm and soured with infection against you, saliva flies from its rotted teeth.

It launches again, you move your head at the right time. You hit it again with the barrel of your gun--hard--and its already slack jaw cracks right off. It's stunned, screaming in pain, and you slip on the damp floor in an attempt to get up on your feet.

You're too slow again, letting out a little squeal as it pulls you back down by your ankles, dragging you beneath it. Its face is even more gruesome now, fungus flowering like poisonous bouquet, jaw attached to its head by a thread. Saliva drips in strings from it's mouth to your body. You try to hit it again with the gun, but it whips your hand away.

Your gun goes flying. You hear it when it hits the ground somewhere behind you. No bullets, no backup, no chance. You brace for the bite, the rip, the tear. You finally breathe out as it lowers over your face like an animal swooping in to maul its prey.

You wait for the agony, the searing fire of pain to cut through your freezing terror, but it doesn't come. In the split second you give yourself to mourn your loss, a loud bang cuts through the air.

You flinch, ears ringing and clouded. Something warm splatters all over you, and a body falls limp atop yours. Your hands fly to your ears on impact, fingers tangled in your hair, eyes screwed shut, heart still hammering. Your breathing quickens, your mind races and stills all at once.

You wait for the ringing to subside. The limp body is lifted, then tossed somewhere beside you.

When you open your eyes your stomach drops.

"You're always in trouble when I find you." Paige grins, face smeared with blood and sweat, hair thrown back in a wild bun. One hand is stretched out to you, the other holds the gun you lost in the tustle.

"You." You mumble, words still numbed by the ringing in your ears. The clicker's body lies beside you, a gaping hole in its head.

"Yeah, me." She scoffs. "Don't sound too excited."

You roll your eyes, slapping her hand away and shakily getting up on your own. She watches you every step of the way, the way she always does.

"Where's my thank you?" Paige cocks her head, taking a daring step towards you.

You take a step back. "I'd rather be put out of my misery than thank you." You chuckle. It’s light hearted, you know she can feel it.

"Bratty as always." She shoots back unphased. You hate how she enjoys this, how she's always there in a moment of desperation, how she never fails to let you forget it. She steps again.

"What do I need to do to get away from you?" You frown. “Always gotta be the saviour, huh?" You step back.

"No hello?" Paige sighs with another step. "No good to see you?"

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You grin, stepping back.

She puts her free hand over heart as she steps forward again. "Awe, I'm so hurt." She pouts.

"I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be in a situation like this again. I hate owing you shit." You step back, letting out a slight gasp as your back hits the wall. She takes one more step towards you, grinning without embarrassment at the look of your face as you realize she's cornered you.

"You had a lot of fun the last time you owed me something." She frowns. "I did too, in case you were wondering."

"Back up." You mutter.

"You don't want that." Paige muffs, her head cocking to the side, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

She gets closer and closer. Her eyes, those icy blue fuckers that always make you squirm, they dart between your eyes and lips in a way too familiar to be real.

Somewhere along the way, you get closer too. And your eyes flutter closed despite the rush of blood keeping you awake. And your stomach flips in pleasure despite the nerves of a near-death experience.

And when you wake in your bed, sheet strewn into a mess, pyjama shorts halfway across the room, you're disgusted, confused and utterly flustered.

It doesn't help that your heart still thumps like it did in your sleep, or that your stomach is still flipping like when that clicker was on you.

Or when she was.

MORNING IS KINDER than night, or perhaps safer. Easier to stomach, harder to be content with. It doesn't hold the uncertainty of darkness, elevated breathing and hightened senses.

You'd think that sunlight would bring hidden feelings to light, but you often found most private thoughts escaped closed mouths under darker skies.

Today, the sun shines through the holes and cracks of the old wooden barn, rays reflecting onto the dirty, hay-covered floor. The yellow material crunches under your feet as you push past the creaky doors. A few of the horses stir. Crickets still chirp from the fields nearby.

You wake up earlier than usual, unable to close your eyes again thanks to your dream. Dreams happened often, so you found yourself coming early to the barn most days. The quiet is nice, nothing but nature and wind and your own thoughts, which prove to be louder than even Kk's heckling or Nika's incessant complaining.

You take your time as the sun grows stronger, smiling when the barn cat purrs against your legs. You dump out old buckets of water, replenish food, and greet each horse with a nod or a gentle hand. It’s only till you reach the last stall that you stop, holding an arm out to the head of Sue, your personal favourite, who willingly nuzzles into your palm.

You open the stall and gently lead her out by the rein, enjoying the clip of her hooves against the old barn floors. She walks with you through the barn and out the creaky doors, pausing by the little cabinet near the exit that holds all of your supplies: brushes, gloves, hoof picks, combs.

In the morning, despite the empty feeling left by the push and shove of a fight, you take pleasure in brushing her hair, her tail and mane. You let yourself breath without urgency as your fingers sew between the strands and weave braids.

And then you see someone in the distance, walking uphill through the green grass by the stables. A small figure at first, that grows familiar with every step. Taller than Kk. Blonder than Nika.

You glance away, focusing on the strands of yellow-white hair between your fingertips. You create a focus too trained to be real, even when the footsteps louden and stop a few feet behind you. You try not to remember what you dreamed the night before.

“Hate to interrupt.” Her voice says lightly. “But I’m gonna need her.”

You don’t break much from that focus, half-heartedly turning your attention towards her. Forced. Intentional.

“Thought you were done with patrol.”

“Where’d you hear that?” She smiles, white teeth bared. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, parted down the middle. Her eyes are bright, she’s in a good mood, grinning the way she always does.

“That’s why we went to smoke yesterday,” you raise a brow, “to celebrate a break.”

She shifts on her feet a bit, eyes glancing down, then back towards you.

“They won’t mind the extra help.”

You nod, letting the air get quiet. She stays still, watches, breathes. You shake away the feeling of that same breath on your neck. Inhale. Exhale. You will yourself back into real life.

“Won’t they be annoyed? Someone’ll be there to replace you.”

“Well, I told you I go off on my own a lot, didn’t I?” Paige hums, head cocked, forcing you to remember those three days you spent in the wild with her, recalling those conversations.

“Yeah,” you mumble. She’d found you alone, and been alone herself despite the decent patrol groups Jackson required. Funnily enough, she was even alone in your dreams.

“Yeah, you did.”

You turn back, finishing the braid you started not long before. Sue leans into your touch, but her eyes are on Paige. She doesn’t stall, doesn’t whinny like horses do when someone they dislike is near.

Paige is quiet, quiet and watching. You feel her blues on your back.

“S’ she your favourite?”

You turn again, fully this time. Your hands graze Sue’s soft coat.

You nod.

She nods in return. “Yeah, mine too.”

Another little grin breaks on her lips, closed mouth, restrained. Less bright, more like a shield for thought. She’s uncomfortable, you see it now despite the glow of the sun on her pale skin, and her talkative chatter. She holds herself too strongly, she questions more than she lets on.

You can see it on her. She has a tendency to run off, and she wants Sue for a reason.

“People here…” you begin, words caught in your throat. You don’t know how to talk to her, how to be her friend yet still be far away.

You shrug it off, swallow, and continue. “People here rely on you a lot, don’t they?”

Her eyes shift this time instead of her feet. Another tell. “I guess they do?” She mumbles, awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck.

“I figured.” You shrug. “They all talk about you like you’re a godsend.”

“They?”

“Your friends, the townspeople, even Geno and Dawn.” You snort.

“Oh.” Paige rubs her mouth, considering your words. That glint in her eye returns, grin turned smirk. “You sound tired of it.”

“I’m not.” You say, too fast. “I’m just saying. It’s a lot of praise, and praise comes with pressure.”

“Pressure is a privilege.” Paige says back, fast as a dart. She says the words like they’ve been uttered a thousand times, not quite rehearsed, but something like muscle memory.

“Privilege can weigh heavy.” You shrug, meeting her eye. “Nika told me something the other day, about how everything we have here is thanks to bloodshed. We can enjoy what we have here without feeling burdened or something. Isn’t it the same?”

Paige nods half heartedly. “Glad to see you’re getting close with her, by the way.”

“We’re not close.” You say, far too quickly once again. “She’s nice. Very…unafraid. It’s new.”

“Are you not friends with her?” Paige raises a brow.

You pause, briefly thinking back to your interactions with her. The sharp glares, the comments dusted with distaste, and the olive branch of weed and companionship in an abandoned theatre.

“I am.” You settle. “Like I said. It’s new.”

“You’ve only been here a month,” Paige chuckles, “of course it’s new.”

You shrug again, turning your attention away, maintaining that distance. Conversation flows with her like fresh water from a waterfall, hard and natural, refreshing with the tendency to throw you under. Part of you sours at her presence. You wonder if her care is a coverup for her pity. The thought makes you sick.

“I haven’t seen you much since we came back.” Paige frowns.

“You patrol a lot. I’m here for most of the day.”

“I looked for you a few times.” She adds, a little edge in her voice. “You run a lot of errands in a lot of places.”

“Why were you looking?” You raise a sharp brow.

“To check up on you? To see how you were holding up?” She snorts.

There it is again, the painful kindness that you can't bring yourself to believe. "Well, why do you feel the need to?" You push.

"Shit, you ask too many questions." Paige groans. "I don't know?"

"This is what I mean by pressure." You scoff. "You don't owe me anything. You saved me, you brought me here, you've helped out. You don't have to feel like you need to make sure I'm okay."

"Do you think I feel obligated?” She huffs, blue eyes going wide. That mischievous glint turns sharper, and her brows furrow. Her mood has sullied, you can see it in the way her body goes rigid.

“I’m not obligated to do shit.” Paige bites, “I’m not going out of my way just to fulfil some fuckin’ checklist, or because I feel like I have to. I know it’s not easy coming here, I know that—that everything you’ve been through can’t make it easier. I just thought…you know, I’m a familiar face, and maybe I could make it a little less hard than it needs to be.”

You watch her, the way her hands stop grazing along Sue’s coat, the way they part and find their place at her sides, fingers clenched. It’s easier to watch her hands than her eyes. You can feel them burn through you, you can feel the slip of vulnerability that she’s unafraid to let escape.

“But whatever. Obviously I overthought it, you’ve got friends and a billion things to do, right?”

"Don't." You frown.

"Don't what?" She cocks a brow, attitude seeping from her words.

"Don't be that way..." you mutter, biting your lip as you try to maneuver through this, "it's not like that."

"Who said it was like anything?" Paige huffs.

The conversation turns redundant. She stands and watches as you braid Sue's mane. You keep your eyes on your fingers, ignoring the burn of her stare.

You want to keep talking, to allow yourself a relationship with her. But last nights dream, the sight of her in that light, changes everything, complicates things even more. That fact alone scares you, makes you cut your words short.

Paige obviously seems bothered, but doesn't allow herself to pry too deep. You realize despite it all, your rude and sudden distance from her despite all she's done for you, she's still being careful, considering your every state.

She only beats around the bush in case her next words could push you away--further than you already are.

"I care about how you're doing, that's it. There's no ulterior motive, no obligation. I'm sorry if it puts you off--it's just how I am." Paige finally says.

“Well, you know I’m okay now.” You conclude. She chews her lip, you watch as the pink flesh writhes between her teeth.

“Did I do something?” Paige sighs, palms facing out, proof of her confusion. “Did I like, offend you in some way? Because if I did, I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t do anything.” You shake your head. “It’s my fault, I should’ve been more grateful. I’m happy you helped me, I’m happy I’m here. I’m just…adjusting.”

She nods, swallowing. “My bad.” she mutters, leaning towards Sue, raising a hand to ghost along the horses lean body. “Dunno why, but it felt like you were avoiding me or sumn.”

“Wasn’t.” You lie curtly, and though she notes your tone she doesn’t push further. You just watch as her eyes take in the beauty of Sue’s braided mane, as they follow the line of your fingers in motion.

"Are you happy?" She asks, shifting on her feet again. Her voice is low, like her words are only meant for you and her.

This question makes you pause.

"I..." you trail off, "I don't know. Things are better here, much better, but different."

Paige nods, encouraging you to keep going. With a swallow, you do.

"I'm not used to, uhm. Spending my time like this, you know?" You ask, and you know for a fact she does. Otherwise she wouldn't be here, ready to patrol despite being told not to.

"Life back home was a constant rush." You continue, eyes still on your fingers. "I was out all the time, fighting all the time. Every day was a fight in one way or another. Now I wake up, I spend the day here in the stables. If I'm lucky I get another job, like helping with trades at the grocery store or running errands for Dawn and Geno. It's not bad, but..."

"Theres no rush." Paige finishes for you. "No adrenaline."

"Yeah." You mumble. "And you might think it's stupid...you'd think I'd be done with all of it. I thought I'd never wanna go out again, too."

"It's not stupid." Paige says quickly. "Hey, look at me."

You do, against your better judgment. Your eyes part from the braids and meet her own. She looks at you seriously.

"It's not stupid." She repeats. "It always feels scary when you're out there, but when you're safe it feels too uniform. It leaves a gap. Makes you feel like somethin's missing."

The look in her eyes, the tone of her words, it all makes it clear that she gets it, that once again she gets you.

"Yeah." You mutter.

"If you're okay with that feeling, then thats fine." Paige shrugs. "But if not then you should patrol with me."

"Today?" Your eyes widen.

"I'm going alone today." She shakes her head. "But take a few days to think about it. Talk to Geno and Dawn. If you make up your mind, come find me when I come back."

You nod, considering her words. The braids are finished now, and you turn to find Sue's saddle. Paige grins a little when she sees you reach for it.

"How long'll you be gone?" You ask, fixing the horse up with the saddle and reins.

"I dunno." She shrugs. "If Geno catches me? A few hours."

You let out a light chuckle, pulling Sue's muzzle tight before handing the reins to Paige. Your fingers brush hers as you pass the rope over.

"You're good at this." She nods, eyeing your work. The braids, the careful manicuring, the quick preparation.

"Thanks." You hum, slightly bashful. "It's all I've been doing this month."

She tightens the reins around her hand, the other grazing over Sue's head in a soft pet. It's quiet when she starts to walk, the horse following behind her. Your head buzzes with thoughts.

"Does the feeling go away?" You call out, the words rushed as Paige turns her head. "The feeling, like something is missing."

Paige's lips purse in thought, then smile a little sadly. "It gets quieter as time goes on." She says, "But I don't think anything can replace the rush of being out there."

You nod. She holds your eye a moment longer. Then she turns, and walks away from the barn. Sue follows behind her, hooves clopping against the grass. You watch Paige's silhouette grow smaller and smaller before turning back into the barn.

The barn cat mews, pushing against your legs in greeting. You bend over to pet it, letting your mind go blank as your fingers caress its short fur. You barely even notice the barn door opening wider behind you.

"Yo." Nika's voice calls out, Kamorea close behind her. "Was that Sue that Paige was taking?"

"Yup." You nod.

"She ain't even s'possed to be patrolling." Kk sighs with exasperation.

Nika comes beside you, smiling when the cat cuddles up to her too.

"What'd she say?" Nika asks you quietly.

"Not much." You shrug, and though Nika gives you her signature piercing stare, you manage not to break.

THE NEXT DAY you wake early again.

You relish the dreamless night. The sunlit barn. The calm, the quiet. You ignore the boredom, the empty feeling left by the rush of fighting for your life.

You don't see Sue back in her stable. You don't hear footsteps approaching the barn.

The next morning is the same, and the next.

Paige is gone for four whole days. And in her absence you live unchanged, waking by the same hour, working through your patend routine, laughing at the right times, keeping quiet when you can.

Nobody asks where she's gone, nobody worries. So you don't either. You swallow back any questions by the first and second day. On the third, you try to forget about her offer altogether.

On the night of the fourth, Nika knocks on your door unannounced again.

"Hi again." She grins, long hair slicked back, teeth bared in a charming grin. "Long time no see."

"Seeing you at the stables is enough Muhl for me." You open your door wider, and she laughs.

"You gonna let me in? Or what?" Nika snorts, stepping inside before you can respond. She walks herself to your room, her combat boots thumping on the wooden floor. You follow her without question, accepting her confidence. It bothers you less these days.

"What now?" You tut, hands on your hips. "You gonna move in? Or are you and your friends getting stoned again."

"If I moved in this shack would be a whole lot cuter." Nika snorts, allowing herself to slump over on your bed. "Get changed."

"I don't feel like smoking." You say.

"We're not. Tonight is bonfire night."

"Uh," You raise a brow. "You say that like I should know what it is."

"Some of the others built a firepit out of some old garbage can a few days back." Nika chirps, blowing a stray strand of her from her face. "We lit it up today, n' everyone's bringing drinks."

“And you decided to drag me along?”

“Precisely.”

You chuckle, turning to your closet to scavenge for something to wear. Summer nights can get chilly, but bonfires made you sweat.

“Shorts?” You ask.

“I think so.” Nika hums from your bed, slapping her bare thighs.

You pick out the rest with no problem, running into your bathroom to change before coming out to Nika standing up, waiting.

“Sexy.” She nods towards you. “Let’s go.”

You follow her up the stairs, stopping by your kitchen to grab a lighter and a pocket knife before leaving the house. The night sky, once dim in evening, has turned a deep blue. Stars twinkle from above. You can faintly smell smoke from afar.

You walk through the neighbourhood with her, eyes on your boots while hers stare straight ahead.

“Y’know, I was thinking.” She says.

“Don’t do that.”

“Shut up for one second.” Nika rolls her eyes, though her lips quirk upward. “Not even like, a week ago, if I’d told you to pick out something cute I think you would’ve kicked my ass.”

“Yeah?” You ask, but you think about it and realize she’s right. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have come out with you. Or I would’ve fought it a little more.”

“That too.” Nika nods. “What changed?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. You feel her stare turn to you as you do so, and her eyes narrow.

“I was surprised as shit to find out you weren’t boring.” She says slyly.

“What does that mean?” You shoot, meeting her stare.

“Like, you were a fuckin’ nobody when we met. Never talked, all that. It wasn’t a big deal, a lot of people come to Jackson that way. S’not like it bothered me that bad. I wanted to push you around, see if it was true. Then you came out and smoked with us, and we realized you weren’t too bad at all.” Nika hums.

“And?” You raise a brow. “I know this already.”

“Well, after that you went right back to being a nobody.” She says, no nonsense-like.

You just narrow your eyes. She sighs.

“You respond like a robot when me n’ Kk talk to you. You spend all your time alone. S’like nothing changed. Then I stop by today n’ you’re cool again.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” You scoff, closing up and honestly feeling a little attacked by her confrontation.

“Sorry if you feel uncomfortable.”Nika shrugs. “But you’re in your head all the time, I never know what to think.”

You don’t respond, and she doesn’t push further. Aside from the occasional sharp glance in your direction, you just keep walking beside her through the night.

“I’m still getting used to all this.” You mutter after a while. “You act like I’m supposed to know what to do all the time.”

“You’re not supposed to know what to do.” Nika frowns. “But I really don’t know how you act. Sometimes you’re cool, sometimes you’re like a robot.”

“We’ll, sorry I’m not cool enough for you and your friends.” You bite.

“Bitch, that’s not what I meant!” She groans, rubbing her face. “Look, I can see that you’re not a fucking robot, okay? You got attitude, and you’ve been through shit. Congrats, join the club. Can you just see how it gives me whiplash when I talk to you the next morning and it’s like you’re on autopilot?”

“Yeah.” You pause. “Yeah. I get it.”

Nika nods, satisfied but waiting.

“I don’t even know.” You sigh, shaking your head. “I feel more myself at night, I guess. Aside from that, I’m not used to interacting with so many people like we’re all friends, like, everyday.” You continue.

“I get that.” She nods, and you can tell she’s serious. “And?”

“And,” you inhale, “I can’t fucking stand how many times Kamorea complains about cleaning the stalls. Okay, we get it. You’re tired of cleaning horse shit. Obviously you did something bad for Geno to put you on stall duty, so suck it up and stop making it my problem.”

“Pfft.” Nika snorts, eyes wide with amusement. “What else?”

“I need you to stop whining everyday about how much you hate working at the barn. Same logic. You did some shit, now you can’t patrol. Maybe work on your raking skills before begging for patrol duty, you clean the place like you should be bedridden.”

“Okay, not sure why I’m apart of this.” Nika laughs. “You done?”

“No, I’m not done.” You shoot back. “You’re not the only person who hates the barn. I’m sick of the barn. You think all I wanna do in life is braid horses and clean saddles? Are you serious?” You laugh, and she genuinely starts to heave with laughter herself. “I used to outrun clickers with cocaine in my backpack in a normal days work, alright? This easy shit where I work like a traumatized child isn’t doing it for me.”

“You miss it?” Nika smiles. “I’m honestly surprised.”

“Yeah, I miss it.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t miss almost dying like, everyday. But I miss actually doing something with my life. I just don’t make it your problem, or Kamorea’s, or Paige’s. I keep it to myself, and then I get your nosy ass begging to get inside my head.”

“You’re lucky you’re funny.” She huffs. “N’ look at that, they started without us.”

Up ahead, surrounded by the businesses and buildings that have grown familiar, glows the bright light of burning fire. Large groups of young faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, huddle close, drinks in hand, laughter echoing through he night.

“Speaking of Paige.” Nika grins, shuddering as you both approach the heat from the fire. “What’d she tell you before she left? You’re the last person she spoke to.”

“Wow, finally someone acknowledges she’s gone.” You raise a brow.

“She dips a lot.” Nika shrugs. “The last couple times she left, we thought she was dead. At this point there’s no reason to worry. Anyways, what’d she say?”

Nika snatches two beers from someone nearby, handing one to you. You pop the lids with her in sync, taking a swig and washing down the fizzy, malted taste without a thought. You internalize the information, Paige’s aptitude for absence, and move on.

“She figured I wasn’t where I wanted to before I had to say it.” You shrug. “Told me to think about asking for patrol.”

“Shit.” Nika raises her brows. “What, did you guys get some mental link while ya’ll were out in the wild? I would’ve kept thinking you were a bot if you hadn’t told me.”

“I don’t even know.” You groan, taking another swing. “She’s too much for me.”

“Why.” Nika snorts. “Cus, she knows you?”

“She thinks she does.” You grunt. “And she’s damn lucky her guesses are right half the time.”

“You like it.” Nika smirks, nudging you.

“Definitely don’t.” You frown.

“You’re just not used to it.” Nika nods. “But I feel like if you hated it, it would be more obvious.”

You just shrug, taking another sip of your beer as you enjoy the warmth of fire on your back. People around you stare, most of them nodding or grinning. You try to reciprocate.

“Plus, I bet you know her too.”

“Barely.” You hum.

“Liar.” Nika shakes her head. “You never ask any questions bout her. Either you don’t care, or you figure it out on your own.”

“First one.” You smile, turning to her.

“Girl,” she snorts, hitting your shoulder lightly, “you always in your head about something. No shame if you figuring her out too.”

“She’s got more problems than I do.” You roll your eyes. “Forgive me if I think about it once in a while.”

“See?” She grins triumphantly. “So, you gonna take her offer?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seriously?” Nika guffaws. “You just shat all over working at the barn on the way here, fuck you mean you don’t know?”

You just drink, finishing the bottle and grabbing another.

“Is it cus’ she’s the one who offered?”

“I guess.” You admit, feeling a little warm inside. A faint buzz starts to settle in your skin. It’s comforting, loosening your tongue in the process.

“You’re so adamant about this distance from her.” Nika huffs. “Just so you know, it isn’t gonna work. I don’t know why, but she’s fuckin’ drawn to you. Not much you can do to shoo her off now.”

“You’re full of shit.” You hum, sipping again. She scoffs, sipping with you.

You and her walk around then, working your way through the groups surrounding the fire. Someone finds a stereo, sliding an old r&b cd in so the music floods the street over the crackling flame.

You stop to talk to the familiar faces: Jana, Ice, Aubrey, Kk, a few of the others. Nika stays by your side, cheeks pinkening with every drink she downs.

The night is still young as she drags you from person to person. Further away, another familiar face returns after four days of silence. Jackson’s gates open wide for her, and she smells the smoke in the air, hears the laughter, and follows.

tagsˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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