#use TEXT and AMUSING ANECDOTES

[unopenablebox]

how come nobody runs skilled and highly technical but also personal and chatty knitting blogs anymore. on tumblr or blogspot, i mean, how come they don't do it there, i don't know instagram and i won't look at it

[arlertwhore]

draft #1: sneaky link series, pt. 7

completed draft - not a part, a draft - meaning there is technically no pt 7. i have no issues with people taking it as pt 7though.

pairing: paige bueckers x fem! “sneaky link” reader.

warning(s): angsty, argument / breakup, fluff, smut, scissoring, pussy eating, fingering, spitting, hair-pulling, unedited.

synopsis: Despite your admission of feelings, Paige still wants to keep you as her secret. However, as the threat of discovery looms and you grow close with someone else, she jealously realizes she doesn't want anyone to think you don't belong to her. Even if you remain a secret, you are undeniably hers.

word count: 7.1k (what happens when ana's creativity fights to not fight)

Author Note: first ever draft i'm dropping AH! i'm so weirded out that i'm leaving this series unfinished (for now) and posting something this trash, but i think its what best for me. like i said, this isn't an official pt . 7, it's just a draft, but i have no issue if i get an inbox we can talk about like its an off pt 7 yk?? you guys are also so free to leave ideas for pt. 8 and 7 in my dms, inbox, etc.. so if i return i can get back into the groove!

Paige, after a week of ghosting, suddenly texts: "Good News", and despite being frustrated with her, you're desperate for a study break in studying for your last exam of the year and some positivity, so you quickly respond: "?"

She tells you her old friend from Minnesota, Serena, is in town for the week at a hotel while her soccer team plays Connecticut, and she's allowing Paige to use the hotel room while she's away due to her losing a bet.

You respond with a terse "Cool", and Paige's response hangs in the air, marked by those ominous three dots. After an agonizing pause, her next text arrives: "See you by tomorrow night?"

And although you're betraying every emotion you've had at the frustration of paige ghosting you the whole week, you say, "yeah."

You felt like a total idiot for believing that perhaps now that she'd confessed, Paige would stop running from it. You should've been wiser, given your history with Paige, but the thrilling days that followed your vulnerable confession of feelings deceived you. They were a dizzying whirlwind of happiness, lulling you into a false sense of security, and masking the reality of her true intentions.

You and Paige had a fast romance, resembling a newlywed couple's bliss. You strolled hand-in-hand through the neighborhood, enjoyed family movie nights, and explored the mall together. She even surprised you with intimate gifts, like delicate lingerie, which she eagerly removed in the privacy of your bedroom. Those days were filled with laughter, love, and a sense of security, free from the fear of rejection that once plagued you. Your connection deepened so much that Paige even let you take her with her strap, a thrilling milestone in your relationship.

The experience was magical, but as the school week began, reality hit hard, and Paige, as she always did, resumed the cycle. She seemed to have perfected the art of creating distance. Her texts became short and infrequent, she stopped answering your calls, and just ghosted you.

You were crushed: you made it clear on the week she did ghost you that you hated when she did that, and the fact she ignored your pleas and chose to cowardly avoid everything was heartbreaking. But at least you had your new roommate, Maggie, to distract you. After growing up with a wayward sister, Maggie was your first taste of what a healthy sibling relationship could be like. She was everything you weren’t—energetic, popular, outgoing, and the life of every party—your polar opposite, and her presence brought a refreshing contrast to your life.

She filled your evenings with wild stories of campus drama and an endless supply of party interesting anecdotes. And also, piping hot gossip that you were more than amused by until one night, when Maggie stumbled into your room back from a party, reeking of alcohol and giggling uncontrollably.

"Paige Bueckers, aka Ms. Hollywood, is allegedly hooking up with some mysterious girl on campus who claims to be straight."

Your heart skipped a beat: you had never claimed to straight before. 

And also, both of your entire life's focus had been on your careers, and this rumor had potentially to be extremely damaging to your professional prospects. Especially for you — you had worked tirelessly to build a respectable image, and the thought of being linked to Paige's scandalous behavior was daunting.

You played it cool, dismissing the rumor with a nonchalant laugh: "Oh, really? People say crazy things." But inside, you were turmoil-stricken, unable to reveal the truth to Maggie due to Paige's strict secrecy and dislike of her for being a blabbermouth.

Maggie shrugged, "Well, Paige is in trouble; social media's onto her, and they're searching for her mystery girl. Apparently, they even go clubbing together." Your heart sank, knowing this was all too true. As exams approached, you pushed aside the rumors and pretended to be too busy to care, all while secretly suffering in silence, worried about the potential fallout on your career.

So, when you pulled up to "Serena's" hotel the next day, really Paige's place, you were exhausted, beaten down by her behavior, the looming rumors, and the fact that you had probably bombed your exam that night. You couldn't have been acting more out of character, bursting through the hotel door and pushing past Paige, who stood awaiting your acknowledgment in the foyer.

"Is there anything to drink? Maggie drank every last drop of alcohol in the house." you called out, voice laced with desperation and a hint of frustration, as if the scarcity of alcohol was the final straw in a long series of disappointments.

"Me?" she whispered softly as she crept up behind you in the kitchen, wrapping her arms around your waist with a gentle kiss to your neck. "Or Rose. In the fridge. You're lucky S I'm sharin'; S got it for us tonight." The warmth of her embrace and the sweetness of her kiss sent a buzz down your spine, momentarily distracting you from the fact she was everything wrong these days too.

"Oh, is that why you've been ignoring me? For Rose, Serena —because Paige, if we're being honest," you said, pulling away from her and striding over to the fridge to grab the coveted bottle, "I don't like sharing either."

There's a tense and awkward momentary silence as you stretch to reach the glass from up-top the shelf, and Paige approaches, her hand resting on your lower back, and her breath on your scalp. "We've both been busy - I'm not ignoring you, alright?" she says in a low, defensive murmur, her gentle touch sparking a flutter in your chest, making it hard to maintain your frustration.

Together, you manage to retrieve the glasses, but her gentle gesture  has already disarmed you, and the tension between you shifts, your  defenses slowly dropping, a fragile facade crumbling under the weight of her.

"I miss you even when we're together." you admit, looking up at her with a vulnerable gaze, your eyes locking onto hers as you bare your soul, the weight of your words conveying the constant fear of losing her, the ache of knowing that external pressures and expectations can tear you apart at any moment, and the desperation to hold on to her, even when she's right in front of you.

"I've had the worst fucking week, and- I spent most of my time in bed and not studying, thinking about why I could make you confess, but not... not stay with me." The pain in your voice as you reveal the turmoil that's been consuming you, and the desperate desire for her presence in your life is felt mutually.

"Okay," you whisper shakily, feeling tears prick at the way Paige looks at you, mutually, like she feels the same, but where you can see her resistance up still. And you know you'll never win. You have to stop thinking you can.

"I'll drink my feelings away, and then we're gonna fuck to get it off my mind, and we're never gonna bring this up again." your voice cracks as you surrender to the defeat, seeking temporary escape. 

You pour the rose in both your glasses, and Paige stands back watching, knowing that this is exactly what's happening. She's suppressing her inner fear and has no choice but to acquiesce, and not say anything because she told you her rules at the beginning, and fears if she says anything, it'll be from her heart because it hurts her as much as it hurts you.

She's trapped in her own emotions, unable to express her true feelings, and resigned to silently follow the script you've both agreed upon.

"Cheers," you say, raising your glass, and she looks confused, but reluctantly clinks your glasses together and watches through a slow sip as you down it and then pour yourself some more. The alcohol burns your throat, but you welcome the numbness, trying to dull the ache in your chest.

Paige's gaze lingers, melancholy, but more neutral, as she silently acknowledges the change in you, trying to read to lightheartedly conversate. 

"I see Maggie's introduced you to the lifestyle. You guys still getting close?'' her voice is subtly clad with a hint of detachment, an attempt to shift the focus away from the tension between you, and onto a more casual topic, but her underlying concern and curiosity are both still evident.

You nod, your eyes focalled on the alchol in your glass. "Yeah, she- we're thinking of doing a double date thing and I was gonna ask you before - y'know, but I guess it's pointless even though she already kinda knows."

You mention the fact - y'know - that you guys just suffered a breakup without even being together in a very odd manner, and that that is the weirdest thing ever. Well, to Paige, the second strangest thing of the night - the third is that how you broached the subject courageously in the first place, and the first: "Maggie knows?" she repeats, "Did you tell her?" a slight accusatory tone to her voice, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sets her glass down, her gaze fixed intently on yours, as if searching for any sign of betrayal or deceit.

"Everything." you whisper, jokingly confessing and shaking your head at her ridiculous pissed face (that's also sorta hot). 

Paige glares back at you, serious and you furrow your brows, feeling the alcohol hitting you already. "Shit, what do they put in here?" you ask, checking the label for the alcohol volume, when Paige snatches it out of your reach and demands, "I'm serious, Y/N, what'd you-" 

"Nothing!" you interrupt, exploding, "Nothing, Paige, there is fucking nothing to tell Maggie because all of this," you notion back and forth between you two, face-to-face, "Is nothing! What would I tell her, huh? That you don't text me for days on end and shit like that?" Your words spill out in a frenzy, the alcohol fueling your emotional release in the opposite sense you wanted it to.

Paige hates how that's supposed to comfort her, but instead makes her feel belittled and trivialized as she processes, now reaching for her own glass to forget about what you just told her - that you guys are "nothing." The word stings, a harsh reminder of the boundaries she's set, and the apparent insignificance of their connection in your eyes. She takes a swig, the rose souring her throat, as she struggles to reconcile the conflicting emotions within her.

Pretty soon, because you guys are weird and perfect for each-other, you're in bed and dealing with your conflicting emotions in a thoroughly unproductive way.

Paige kisses down your neck, hands roaming over you with a fervor in her eyes like she had the day at the bar, but now, times ten, and mixed in with something new. As she's stripping off your pants and kissing down your legs, she's still doing that thing where she murmurs vague stuff she knows she can deny if you try to confront her later. "So pretty, baby," she whispers, spreading your legs apart and kissing your calf, "My pretty baby." If not for the desire you have to get fucked out of your own brain, you would probably tell Paige to stop entirely or just stop saying that, but you can't, especially because it at least feels good to pretend that all just didn't happen.

By now, you've had plenty of rose, a lot more than Paige has, and under the spell of alcohol, every sensation she evokes in you feels better than the last. The room spins, and your senses blur, but Paige's touch is the one thing that feels lucid, the one thing that makes sense in this haze of emotions and alcohol.

Before Paige can put her mouth to use on you, the bedroom door is bursted open, and the once muffled call of her name that you're too tipsy to register becomes audible. "Paige! Bro, practice is cancelled, let's go-" she suddenly crashes in, who you can only assume is Serena, and walks in on the compromising sight and exclaims, "Oh shit!" standing there in awe as Paige scrambles for your clothes to cover yourself, furious, "Get out!"

She storms, jumps out of bed and slams the door in her face. The sudden movement makes your head spin, and you wince, the loudness reeling in your head from the alcohol and the abrupt interruption.

When Paige sees you lying still, eyes shut in what looks like anguish, she rushes over to you, apologetic. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, she's- she's obviously not supposed to be here as you just heard and-" - "It's fine." you interrupt, gathering your clothes hastily and getting out of bed. Once again, Paige has let you down, and it annoys the both of you equally. "Call me," you say, your tone indifferent, "Or don't."

You go to open the door and rush away before Paige can stop you, but Serena awaits on the other side, and you pause, dissecting her.

You were going to be jealous over this girl until you realize she's like Paige, just a little less tall, a lot less blonde, and skinnier. She isn't her type and she's masculine too, to your delight, and not because of Paige and her not being compatible, but at the fact its your type.

"Sorry," she says cheekily, "I thought she was here to take a break from the team." 

Serena smirks, amused. "I mean, I guess she was." and her eyes linger at the hickey on your neck. The implication is clear, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks as you try to brush it off, the alcohol still clouding your judgment.

"Y/N," you laugh, smiling, "I'm sorry, I- I drank all your rose tonight, and you just saw me kind of naked, so probably not a great way to start things off." you chuckle, trying to play off the awkwardness,  and she smiles, exposing pearly whites, and seeming to appreciate your honesty and humor.

"Oh trust me, I couldn't mind less." and you can't figure out which way she means it before she continues again, "But... if you had too much rose, I don't just wanna send you driving home with a stranger. And better yet,  by yourself. You're welcome to stay the night if you want to." her tone is genuine, and you hesitate for a moment, weighing your options, before nodding in agreement, grateful for her kindness.

Paige is forced to watch her Serena clearly court you over the night, dressing you in her oversized t-shirt and shorts, and giving you some cold water as you guys converse on the couch in the living room. She does need time to herself after the alcohol begins to wear off and she begins to think about the consequences of her actions, the weight of her emotions, and the reality of her situation with you, but she can't do that logically while hearing you giggle and laugh at everything Serena says.

When she emerges from the bedroom, realizing she can get a rise out of Serena too, you both glance at her like she's intruding once she plops down at the couch in the living room.  Serena laughs. "Yo, are you- you staying here tonight?" she asks, her tone playful, but also hinting at a sense of not wanting Paige too, as if she's making her rethink her choice, and maybe even staking a claim on you, much to Paige's dismay.

"Well, yeah, that's the plan for the week, S," she says, eyes darting between you two, "Unless you guys want the house all to yourselves." Paige's tone is laced with a hint of sarcasm and a dash of curiosity, as if she's testing the waters, gauging the dynamics between you and Serena, and perhaps even hoping to stir up a reaction from one or both of you.

"Maybe we do," you say, leaning back on your couch, and Serena smirks, Paige rolling her eyes. 

"Well, yeah, we're learning lots about each-other. She's a huge soccer fan, and I'm a soccer player." 

Paige scoffs, shaking her head and laughing, "You hate sports. You're a nerd, what do you mean you're a-" - "I am." you interject, "You just don't care enough to know that." you shoot back, Paige's expression a mix of amusement and disbelief, as if she can't fathom you pretending to be something you're not.

Serena glances at between you both, intrigued, and curious. "So, uhh...before I ask what I do, what are you guys?" she asks as if she's navigating a sensitive topic, and her eyes dart between you and Paige, seeking clarification on your relationship status.

"It's complicated," and "Nothing," you both say in simultaneously, and when Paige's eyes narrow and she falls silent, you learn that the word "nothing" triggers her. The air is thick with tension, and Serena's eyes widen, sensing the underlying dynamics at play.

"Nothing?" she raises an eyebrow at Paige. She pauses. "Uhh... well on that case, why don't all three of us go get dinner tomorrow? Paige can bring somebody!" she suggests, hoping by the proposal, it will soften the blow of tension. 

"And... And so can you, even though I'd prefer if you don't." You smile warmly at her attempt to flirt, and also, keep things equal. "What about my friend Maggie Bowman? She's practically my sister, I think you'll love her. She plays soccer too." You offer, trying to lighten the mood and include Maggie, finally, in your real life.

Paige realizes thats how you must've been able to keep up a sports conversation for so long. "Maggie? I mean, c'mon, I-" "I'd love that!" Serena exclaims, "Who're you bringin' Paige? Maybe another hot model girl?" she teases, referencing you, who does that stupid giggle again and it takes Paige all her might not to lash out as she calmly responds, "I don't know, Azzi maybe." 

Serena nods. "That'd work." and Paige grimaces at the fact she'd try for her best-friend too.

The rest of the night is a blur and you come down from the alcohol, all eventually falling asleep on the couches, yet you awaken in bed, next to Paige, like you had become used to as of a week ago. The familiarity of her presence, the scent of her skin, and the warmth of her body engulfing yours stir up a mix of emotions, from comfort to guilt, as you try to process the events of the previous night and the current state of your relationship.

Your body may crave the comfort of her closeness, but your mind knows that giving in to these desires will only lead to more heartache and confusion in the end, so you nudge her. "Off, Paige." you whisper, your voice gentle but firm, trying to extricate yourself from her embrace without hurting her feelings, and subsequently yours.

"Hmm?" she murmurs from sleep, groggily, "No, stay," she slurs, her voice laced with a hint of desperation, as she tightens her hold on you. She has a bad sleeptalking habit, one that you've struggled with in the past to understand if she's just stupid and asleep or genuine.

It's both. And it also seems like old patterns are dying hard. You force yourself up, you exit her arms, and book an Uber back to your house, where Maggie is waiting at the doorstep with coffee. "Where were you all night? Gosh, I was worried sick, I called everybody you knew. Fuck, your friends are dicks." She scolds, her expression a mix of relief and annoyance, as she hands you a steaming cup of coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in your disheveled appearance.

"Serena's house," you reply, "This friend of mine. She's in for the week while her Soccer team plays Connecticut." 

Maggie's eyes widen. "What? Like The Minnesota Stars playing Connecticut this week? As in the Serena Davis?" She asks, her voice laced with excitement and disbelief, as if she can't quite wrap her head around the fact that you spent the night at the hotel of a famous soccer player.

"I think," you smile, glancing down at your clothes, "I didn't catch her last name, but these are all hers. She's sweet." Maggie's jaw drops, her eyes bulging in utter shock, before she lets out a squeal of excitement, jumping up and down like a teenager at a rock concert. "OH. MY. GOD! You're a groupie! You're a total groupie!" she accuses, laughing and teasing, her hands on her hips. You nod, playing along, "Would this groupie still be one if she was inviting you to dinner with Serena? And Paige Bueckers? And maybe Azzi Fudd?" You ask, grinning mischievously, as Maggie continues to freak out, still in disbelief.

Up until 8:00, the confirmed meetup time, is when Maggie energizes.

She talks endlessly about how you're basically living a double life, how you're "rubbing shoulders with soccer royalty", and asks you what it's like to be with Serena, her questions ranging from serious to absurd. On the drive to the restaurant, you have to lecture Maggie on proper etiquette, reminding her to behave herself, not to fan-girl too hard, and to please, for the love of all things good, not ask Serena for a jersey or autograph.

"Just be chill," you advise, shaking your head in amusement as you walk into the restaurant together. You can feel Maggie's excitement radiating like a force, and you know she's struggling to contain her inner fan-girl. You shoot her a warning glance, silently reminding her to play it cool, as you spot Serena, Paige, and Azzi waiting for you at a table, Serena looking radiant and entirely too comfortable in her celebrity skin.

You underestimate just how famous the girls are, especially Serena, but when even your waiter is a little starstruck to see the three of them, telling them each she's seen them in sports, you realize that you're dining with genuine sports royalty.

You each spend the dinner laughing. Maggie and Azzi talk for some time, both self-proclaimed party-girls with mutual friends, and Paige, you, and Serena—mainly Paige and Serena—do their own thing up until you guys have finished eating and chatting, at which point Serena pays the bill with a flourish, her celebrity status evident in the discreet yet deferential service you received all evening. As you prepare to leave, the waiter lingers, still starstruck, and Serena, Paige, and Azzi graciously autograph a napkin for her before you exit.

The night ends with Maggie inviting you all to a party that you and Paige decline, however, Serena opts to go. "Might as well make the most of it while I'm in town." she says with a grin, "But... if you wanna stay at the hotel, Y/N, we'll all see you guys tonight." She winks, eyes sparkling as she ganders at you hungrily.

Azzi, the only person besides you and Paige who knows your history, a member of the "Paige needs to stay focused" club, and also her best-friend knows exactly what'll happen if you guys are left alone together, and once you say, "I think I will, S," Azzi is quick to interject, "Sure you BOTH don't wanna join us? I mean, Y/N, I remember the first time I met you. At a party." she teases you playfully, coaxing a smile out of you.

"And you remember how I embarrassed myself, Azzi?" you ask, laughing. "How could I forget?" the girl chuckles, "I wanna hear this story tonight," Maggie chimes in, and Serena agrees, "Me too." before Azzi just sighs, knowing there's nothing further she can do, and relents with a playful warning. "Just don't get too distracted, you two. We'll see you tonight."

You don't think you'll get distracted as they disappear into the distance, waiting for their Uber, and you and Paige head towards your car, walking down the street together in silence. The only sounds are the crickets chirping and the occasional passing car, but the air is thick with an underlying tension between you and Paige until you speak up.

"Can you drive? I'm too tired, I wanna take a nap." you ask Paige, tossing her your keys. She catches the keys with a hesitant smile, her eyes searching yours for a moment before she nods. "You done being mad at me?" she asks, her voice soft, playful, and a little vulnerable, like she's feeling her way through the moment, trying to gauge if the chill between you has started to return.

"I was never mad at you," you say with a shrug, avoiding her eyes and sounding utterly nonchalant. "I was mad at myself." Your tone is detached, like you're dismissing the whole thing, and your gaze drifts away from hers, leaving a sense of distance between you.

She decides not to go there with you. "So, Maggie's actually chill," she says, changing the subject, her tone light and conversational. "It's kinda weird it's all falling into place now even though we're not, y'know, 'friends' anymore." her words hang in the air, not probing or accusing, just stating a fact.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs, continuing, "Well, Azzi just accepted the fact I'm staying at a hotel with you, which means they all will because she's my best friend. I like Maggie. You like Azzi. And the net is catching on."

You chuckle, amused, and she smiles, playfully teasing. You can't help but think that if you two were still close, she wouldn't be so nonchalant about this situation. It's as if she's only comfortable with this all coming to you both at once because you're no longer under her control.

The thought crosses your mind that sometimes, it takes losing something to realize its value, and you wonder if she's come to appreciate you only now that you're no longer there. You have to remind her you aren't, because with the way her eyes scan your body, your dress, her favorite color on you, black, accentuating your shape perfectly before she licks her lips, adjusting her gray Nike tech, its obvious.

"I do have to say, I like Serena. How come you never mentioned this 'friend' of yours was hot and also really talented?" you laugh, a low throaty sound, and raise a waggling eyebrow that makes Paige herself chuckle smally.

With her laughter, her inability to go there with you ever, you don't expect it at all when she looks you straight in the eye, and boldly smiles, "No you don't. You like me? Remember? Back at your parents' at the park?" there's a dash of challenge to her tone, as if daring you to admit the truth, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glint that makes your heart race.

And just like that, you fall back in.

You slip up in your words. "The car's here, Paige," but you swallow the last part, jumbling it into, "C'mere Paige," instead of repeating what you had actually meant to say. Your voice is struck with want, your brain foggy with the familiar haze of passion, as you pull her closer, your hands roaming over her body like they used to, like no time has passed at all.

Within seconds, you're inside of your car, making out with Paige as her big hands grasp your hips, and you can't at all believe yourself one bit — that you're doing it again — that Azzi was right — and letting her fuck her way back into your life again, but you did have unfinished business.

And plus, now, with it all out of the way — you didn't mind just being casual, your resistance crumbling like dust as her lips devour yours, the familiar spark between you, consuming all rational thought.

"Fuck, I-... I never wanna see you like that again, do you hear me?" she growls again, staring intensely with her hand gripping your tits, spilling out the top of your dress. "Never," she repeats firmly and pulls you back in roughly by your ass, making you yelp into her mouth as she kisses you fiercely, tongue claiming yours.

Luckily for you guys, the deserted streets are quiet and your windows have a tint. It would be a shame for anybody to witness how Paige pulls you over her lap in the driver's seat, pulling your dress down and popping your tit into her mouth, sucking on you with hungry groans, tongue flicking against your nipple as she murmurs, "You like that?"

It's obvious in the way your body responds to hers, hips bucking against her thigh, and how you moan, "Y-Yes, shit." She holds your hips firmly, guiding you back and forth sensually, and due to how wet you are, she can feel you soak her knee through her sweatpants. She softly whispers into your ear, "No panties, huh? Of course, such a slut," and she grabs your hair, forcing your head to tilt back as she suckles on your neck. "Let me show Serena who you belong to."

Those times you knew Paige would flat out ignore you or deny it when you brought up her possessiveness and control during sex, were far behind you because you knew she couldn't now, and it was clear she didn't want to, and it was the hottest thing ever.

Her passion and intensity were undeniable, and you were swept up in the fervor of the moment, loving every second of her unbridled desire.

Once she's done doing that, you can't take it. "Wait, I-.. home Paige home, it's too tight in here." Your voice is laced with desperation, pleading with her to stop or to slow down, but your words are overtaken by her intense kisses, your body betraying your mind as you succumb to her fervent touch, the confines of the car suffocating you.

You don't know how you guys even manage getting home: the want is that much. You have so much need in your body that you do the most reckless thing ever known to mankind. As Paige slams on the accelerator, you spread your legs and slip your fingers down between your thighs, rubbing on your clit, in your wetness that makes the lewdest sounds ever, second to when you moan her name breathlessly. "Paigeee, fuck…! Wish this was you, P, mmph, gosh."

She tries not to glance and she tries not to react, but when you extend your arm and put your hand right across her lap, fucking your own fingers into you with wet noises and desperate whimpers before you give her a taste of it, it's like she's possessed.

You're rushing through the hotel to get back to the room, and in the elevator, more kissing continues, but at the door, you guys tap in and are making out furiously, for what feels like hours, hotly, both stepping out of your clothes in the corridor.

Your hands are all over each other once you crash in, rekindling the passion that never quite faded as you stumble into the room, locked in a embrace that's hard to break.

You unzip Paige's sweater and remove her Nike tech pants and are upset to find the truth about layering being true now of all times -- underneath, she has a black sports bra and blue basketball shorts.

You drop to your knees, sliding them down her legs, and your mouth is on her cunt in a flash. She's insanely wet—probably the wettest you've ever had her before in all your years of fucking.

"Do I have to be standing for this?" she asks through gritted teeth, and you realize that she's complimenting your head game like that, and smile, smirking as you look up at her and delving into her pussy with a strong flick of your tongue against her clit a couple of times, moaning hungrily.

The teasing gets her weak, her knees buckling.

Your words, your touch, your gaze—all of it has her surrendering, her defenses disappearing as she gives in to the tension that's been building between you two.

It's been ages since you've gotten to do this—melt Paige on your tongue, and she tastes like heaven, and sounds like it too. When you focus on her clit, parting her folds with your fingers to angle your tongue and flick at it, she whimpers.

Your touch is so, so perfect it doesn't even feel real, and though none of it does, Paige can't help but savor the moment. She gazes down at your face, looking deep into your eyes as she grinds her hips against you, in a frenzy riding your face as she moans loudly.

"Fuck, you're so good," she groans, pulling you back up by your hair and onto your feet, eyes blazing. "Tell me you wouldn't do this for Serena. For any other girl," she demands, tugging your hair in a way that turns you on intensely as you murmur, "Just you. Always only you." And she's relentless, spitting into your mouth, her saliva thick and warm, before she pushes your face back into her cunt, making everything a wet mess through the singular action.

You pull back and marvel at her pink folds. "So beautiful," you whisper against her cunt, entranced with desire and by the way her pussy glistens and gleams, sparkles, and you suckle her clit like a connoisseur.

The signs she's going to climax emerge: her eyes shut tightly, her abs contract repeatedly, and her face turns red and redder by the moment as you work your jaw faster, slipping your finger up into her entrance, but she stops you with a yank of your head backwards.

"Seriously, I'll fall over if we—c'mon, let's go to the bed." she pants.

This time, Paige remembers to lock the door behind her before she slips in between your legs, dangling her chain enticingly in your face. "Still wet?" she softly and earnestly inquires, and you chuckle at her ridiculous charm. "Yeah, of course."

She kisses you deeply, hands roaming eagerly. "Lemme check," she whispers, and then she slides up your dress, exhaling in awe at the sight because you're genuinely dripping.

"So fuckin' perfect, fuck," her warm breath against your stomach gives you chills, and you twitch slightly in her embrace, prompting her hand to fly to your hipbone, anchoring you with a desperate gaze, afraid you might slip away. "N-no," she stammers, her voice trembling, "No, just... just stay like this, just like this."  With lustfully hazy eyes, she closes them as she nuzzles her nose against your clit, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. "Ah, Paige-!" you yelp, and she's quick to hush you.

"Shhh, angel, please," she whispers, her eyes meeting yours fleetingly. "Please," she repeats, more firmly this time, before her tongue teases at your clit carefully - like she just wants a small taste.

The shamelessness in her begging — begging for you to be complicit with her, coupled with her mouth, it all makes your head spin.

When you nod, silently giving into her, you watch as she indulges in you, moaning at the faint taste of you on her tongue before she withdraws. "You taste amazing," she mumbles, "Just for me."

Your eyebrows furrow at her words, arousing you further, soaking you thoroughly and making you squirm once more, much to her dismay. "Stay still," she instructs firmly, pausing. "Stay still or you won't get anything out of this… I could do this all night, I promise you."

It took you back to when you first met Paige and she told you the exact same thing. You didn't believe her at first, and then she ended up not letting you cum for half an hour, her fingers inside you changing with every stroke, LITERALLY keeping you on edge.

Your hands laced into her hair, and you tugged lightly. "'s what you get, you bitch… so fuckin' mean to me," you teased, knowing exactly how to get her where you needed her, just like she'd gotten you to where she needed you for what you were about to do. "Serena'd be fucking me good by now. She almost did last night before you came out on the couch."

That was true. You weren't just saying it, and you both knew it. That was true.

"Is that so?"

In moments, you were now both naked, her hands gripping your ass and tits eagerly. Her kisses were urgent and messy as she undressed you, her lips assaulting your neck with hungry fervor. "I'm going to fuck that out of you," she declared, her voice filled with need, her breath heating your skin. "I can't get enough of you."

"Do it."

Paige complied, her hands gently kneading your breasts as she positioned herself between your legs. You gasped softly as she settled against you, the heat of her body melding with yours as she aligned your cunts precisely. The room seemed to fade away as you focused on the exquisite friction between you, the heat intensifying as Paige hooked her leg around your thigh in a sense, drawing you closer with each movement. Her voice was a whisper against your calf, filled with need as she questioned, "Feel my clit, baby? Feel how wet I am for you?"

You whine, overwhelmed. "You're so wet, P, fuck." She had your leg bent back towards your head, her slick heat gliding against yours as she moved forward, inhaling sharply at the exquisite friction between you.

She smirked down at you. "Fuck, you're my slut, baby," she moaned, pupils dilated as she arched her back, pressing her body closer to yours.

With each powerful thrust of her hips, you could see the subtle flexing and rippling of muscles beneath her skin, a testament to her arousal. Her voice was heavy with desire as she lifted your leg higher, craving deeper access. "Fuck me back, baby, come on. Just like that." the last part a near whine as you appeased, meeting her every grind with a fervent thrust of your hips.

"God, you're so wet," she whimpered, biting onto her bottom lip to stifle her moans, "Fucking dripping, aw.. shittt." in the break, she's panting, breathing fast breaths into your ear, and then it falls silent.

The sound that fills the air between you two once it does was raw— carnal. It had grown louder as you complied, truly fucking her back, your clits sliding against each other frenziedly, eliciting a wet sound that mingled with the rhythmic clapping of your skin. Unable to stifle it, a sigh of satisfaction escaped you, breaking the silence. "So deep, Paige," you grunted softly, reaching up to fondle her firm tits, her eyes fluttering shut as she quickened her pace, urging you to keep up.

"Don't… do not fucking stop," your voice cracked with pleasure, urgent and needy without care. "Then fuckin', ohh," testing her resolve, you pinch her nipples mid-sentence, and they perk up, practically begging to be sucked. Her voice trembles so invitingly that your mouth waters.

"Then fuckin' keep up with me, ma. You can do it, angel," she encouraged, brushing your hair from your face just to look you with her glossy from determination, and then she's crying out, "Fuckk, yes!" as her hips buck against yours snugly. You're just about to ask what has her so riled up when you feel it— her nails digging into your skin at the sensation of your clit, rubbing hard against hers and pulsating, driving her insane and making her lose control. It makes you shake with pleasure. It was all just perfect — Paige never fucked you like this often just because in her own words, she didn't like sounding like a bitch.

Moaning like a girl. And... she always warned that she couldn't hold back when it came to your pussy. She'd always lose control if she took you like this, and she knew you secretly liked it when she did.

It was hot watching her internally battle the side of herself that wanted to hold the power and the side that wanted to fuck you stupid and give you all her cum.

Nevertheless, she's spilling more arousal from her hole into the mix, and the glide just gets smoother and smoother, like water on water.

You push your hips up harder, grunting with each forceful thrust, and Paige sounds like she's exerting herself at the gym, groaning gruffly as she fucks you relentlessly, babbling about how badly she wants you to cum in her.

"You do? You want it?" you tease, and she's quick to nod her head vigorously, hair flying free from its bun as she moves. "Mhm," spitting down between you both and pleading, "I want your cum so badly, baby, please give it to me, please let me have it, please make me- make me cum, shit you're gonna-"

Her eyes squeezed shut and she moaned deeply, hips bucking, signaling her impending climax. "Look at me," you urged, "Look at me, Paige, I want to cum, I want to give it to you, look at me."

When she forces her eyes open, glistening with tears, she freezes on the spot at the sight of your tits bouncing and clapping together rhythmically, the way you bite your bottom lip, and how desperate you sound once you climax at the exact same time as her, calling out her name hoarsely. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, Paige, oh—! Oh fuckkk, yes!"

She's whining and crying out listlessly as she collapses over your body, muscles contracting as she spills onto you, and with each slow movement, her cunt feels like glue against yours, so much so that you tremble.

Your skin sticks to each other, a mixture of sweat and arousal making it feel almost impossible to separate, and before you can offer to clean her up again like you so desperately want to — to finish what you started earlier and have her cum on your tongue, a firm knock is heard on your door.

"Guys?!" shouts Maggie, "What the fuck are you doing in there?"

Paige is so thoroughly fucked out that she can't move or speak or react, even though her worst fear has come true, and Maggie knows.

You shake your body, responding cautiously, and inadvertly shaking Paige in the process. "Peanut Butter?" you say. "Yeah?" she manages timidly and you press your hands on her waist, moving her gently, only for her to shudder at the sole movement. 

You chuckle at her sensitivity and general posterior as you disclose, "Secret's out," with a humorous whisper.

And to your collective surprise, realizing Serena is back too, she responds resolutely.

"Good."

MASTERLIST

AUTHOR NOTE #2: i think you just witnessed the fact i can’t write angst — or maybe it’s just the creative slumping idk man show all your fav writers some love it’s rly tough out here lol! as always i am now gonna beg for you to interact with me because ily all sm - ana. ALSO TY FOR NEARLY 900 FOLLOWERS WTF!! love u all my cutiemooties, followers, anons 🤍

[charlosvibesonly]

New Romantics

A Max Verstappen Imagine

Pairing : Max Verstappen x fem! reader

Part 1

A chilly evening at Max's cozy home, lights casting a warm glow on the walls. Max and Y/N are cuddled on the plush couch, their laughter and the occasional purring of the cats creating a comforting atmosphere. The soft hum of the TV plays in the background.

Y/N: (teasingly) "Your cats seem to like me more than you do, Max."

Max: (grinning) "Well, maybe they know something I don't."

Y/N chuckles, leaning in for a kiss, but Max's expression shifts, clouded by the recent media storm.

Max: (sighs) "You know, sometimes I feel like they're right. Like I'm just a guy in a fast car."

Y/N: (softly) "Max, don't let them get to you. You're an incredible driver. Your dad would be proud."

Max: (looking away) "He always pushed me. Said I had to be the best. But lately, it feels like I'm drowning in expectations."

Y/N reaches out, taking Max's hand

Y/N: "My mom was the same. She pushed me to be strong, independent. But it's okay to lean on someone, Max. You don't have to carry the weight alone."

Max: (meeting her gaze) "I want to be the best, for him, for us. But it's hard."

Y/N: "You're already the best, Max. Not just on the track, but in here." She places her hand on his heart.

Max leans in, forehead touching Y/N's

Max: "I don't say it enough, but having you by my side... it makes all of this bearable."

Y/N: (smiling) "That's what partners are for, right?"

They share a lingering kiss, the connection deepening.

Days pass, their love evolving into a comfortable routine. However, the weight of schedules and the lack of spontaneity begin to strain their relationship.

Y/N, dressed in her black dress is enjoying a lively party with friends. Laughter fills the air as they gather in a chic rooftop bar, overlooking the city's skyline.

She runs into Lando.

As the night progresses, Y/N and Lando find themselves engrossed in conversation, reminiscing about races and sharing personal anecdotes.

Lando: "You and Max, huh? The power couple of the track. How's it going?"

Y/N: (grinning) "It's like navigating a racetrack blindfolded, Lando. Fast, unpredictable, and occasionally we hit a few bumps."

Lando: (teasingly) "Well, as long as you're not swapping helmets with anyone else."

Y/N laughs, her eyes flickering with a playful spark.

Y/N: "No helmet swaps, I promise. Just the usual chaos and occasional drama."

Lando: "Drama, you say? Spill the tea, Y/N. I'm all ears."

Y/N leans in, sharing a whispered detail about the media frenzy surrounding Max, her voice mixed with amusement and concern.

Lando: (raising an eyebrow) "Media troubles? That's a new one. But hey, Max can handle it, right?"

Y/N: (nodding) "He's trying, but sometimes the pressure gets to him. And honestly, I miss him when he's away practicing."

They clink glasses, the distant city lights providing a picturesque backdrop.

Lando: "Speaking of which, where is Max tonight? Training hard, I presume?"

Y/N: (sighing) "Yeah, he's in the zone. Sometimes I wish he'd take a breather, but the championship dreams are driving him."

The night unfolds, and Y/N finds herself torn between the joy of her friends' company and the absence of Max.

Later, when the party begins to wind down, Y/N receives a text from Max.

Max: Hey, how's the party? Missing you.

Y/N: It's good, but not the same without you. Miss you too.

Y/N returns to her hotel room, and Max is back from practice. The atmosphere is tense as they face each other.

Max: (looking at his phone) "Care to explain this?"

Y/N: (confused) "What are you talking about?"

Max shows her the viral picture – Y/N whispering into Lando's ear, smiles frozen in a moment of intimacy.

Max: "This, Y/N! People are saying you're cheating on me."

Y/N: (shocked) "What? Max, it's not what it looks like. Lando's a friend, and we were just talking. Someone must've misunderstood."

Max, fueled by the pressure of upcoming races and the online accusations, struggles to control his frustration.

Max: "Misunderstood? You're whispering into his ear! How do you expect me to feel, seeing this crap?"

Y/N: (defensive) "You know I'd never cheat on you, Max. This is ridiculous. We were just having a conversation. It was harmless."

Max, however, finds it hard to brush off the viral image.

Max: (angry) "Harmless? Do you know how it feels to see people question your relationship? To doubt if the person you care about is staying true?"

Y/N: (emotional) "I hate that you're hurting, Max. But I won't let baseless rumors ruin us. We need to trust each other."

Max, in a fit of frustration, paces around the room.

Max: "Trust? Easy for you to say. I'm out there pushing myself to the limit, and this is what I get in return?"

Y/N: (teary-eyed) "This isn't about trust issues, Max. It's about us, about weathering storms together. But if you can't handle that..."

The room falls silent, the weight of their words lingering in the air.

Max: (softening) "Y/N, I... I didn't mean to lash out. It's just, everything's getting to me."

Y/N: (whispers) "I get it, Max. But we can't let the world tear us apart. We have something real."

In a cozy, dimly lit restaurant in London, tucked away from the bustling streets. Max and Y/N sit across from each other, a mixture of emotions in the air.

Max: (nervously playing with his napkin) "Y/N, we've been through a lot. Ups and downs, fights and kisses. And I wouldn't change any of it for the world."

Y/N: (smiling softly) "Me neither. It's been a rollercoaster, but it's been our rollercoaster."

Max takes a deep breath, his eyes locked onto hers.

Max: "I've been thinking a lot about us, about our future. And, well, I can't imagine it without you."

Y/N: (curious) "Max, what are you...?"

Max interrupts her, getting down on one knee, a small velvet box in hand.

Max: "Y/N, I can't promise it'll always be easy. Hell, knowing us, it probably won't be. But I promise to be everything you need and more. Will you marry me?"

Y/N, surprised and overwhelmed, hesitates for a moment before a smile spreads across her face.

Y/N: (teasingly) "Max Verstappen, getting down on one knee? Never thought I'd see the day."

Max: (grinning) "Well, there's a first time for everything."

Y/N chuckles, her eyes sparkling with emotion.

Y/N: "Alright then, Max. You drive me crazy, but... yes, I'll marry you."

Max's face lights up with joy. He slips the ring onto her finger, and they share a passionate kiss, sealing their promise amid the romantic ambiance of the London night.

Max: "To us, Y/N. Ready for whatever comes our way?"

Y/N: "Ready as I'll ever be, Max."

They clink glasses, surrounded by the warmth of their love and the city's twinkling lights, ready to face the new chapter they've just written together.

[donteattheappleshook]

(not so) young, drunk and alone 1/1

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else. Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

(We'll give this a light M)

Oh hey, it's me, neglecting all the WIPs for something new.

This fic is a little birthday present to myself. It's completely ferral and I had very little control over it but I listened to Dial Drunk on repeat for 3 days and then this happened. This fic is unbetaed but thank you @the-darkdragonfly for answering all my texts and rambling calls while I was writing it!

A Silver hook story because apparently everything I write is now...

Read it on Ao3 (where my italics work)

******

(not so) young, drunk and alone

She shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that. Not with a smirk caught between her teeth in a way that makes his throat dry and his pulse race. Not with the barely restrained promise of a laugh he’s sure would come out in different company that makes his face burn and and his eyes unable to meet hers. He can’t look at her when she looks like that, and she’s looking at him like that, and he looks - he assumes not great. 

So he focuses on the floor instead. The floor is safe. The floor doesn’t stir up conflicting and confusing feelings he’s managed to ignore for the better part of a year. The floor doesn’t make him question every terrible decision he’s made in his life that led him to this exact moment. The floor is… moving. It’s not supposed to do that. Although that’s likely the booze, he rationalizes. But the floor isn’t interested in being rational so Killian lets his forehead fall against the bars he’s already holding onto in an attempt to stay upright. The bars are nice, they’re cool and solid and it slows the spinning in his head a fraction.

“Big night?”

He takes a full ten seconds, counted slowly, and a few deep breaths before raising his head again and facing that smirk. It doesn’t help. The absolute delight in her eyes delivers the same gut-punch it always does - even if it’s at his expense - and the soft blonde curls that have fallen from her probably hastily pulled up bun make him ache to reach out and brush them away from her face just so he can feel the strands between his fingers. 

He shouldn’t have called her. He knew it was a mistake when he did it. He should have just let the sheriff keep him in this bloody cell. It’s not as if he hadn’t slept it off a night or two in another cell in another town throughout his youth. But he’s not so youthful now and the sight of the cold, hard bench, the thought of his aching back and the copious amounts of rum still coursing through his blood had been enough to send him over the edge into madness apparently. So he’d pressed the blurry little “absolutely not” in his contacts and called the only person he knew in this whole bloody city.

“Swaann.” He attempts a smile but it turns into a wince as he manages to slur the single word. When he works up to meeting her eyes again - so green, like the sea glass he used to collect on the beach when he was a boy and that takes his breath away every time - there’s a bit of pity mixed in with the amusement. 

He feels pretty pitiful. Forty-five and so stumbling drunk that he’d been tossed out of the pub and into a police car, only to be forced to face the one person he’d hoped the rum would chase from his mind. He’s too old to be acting like this. Even with his wits sloshing around in the drink he’d tried to drown them with he knows he’s too old to be acting like this. When you’re young, it’s funny, an anecdote for another time - spending the night in the drunk tank. When you’re his age, it’s just pathetic. 

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Her voice is sweet, with a laugh still hiding somewhere behind it, and it’s the first sound since he was brought here that hasn’t made his head feel like it was being scratched at from the inside. 

“You shouldn’t’ve come here. S’the middle of the night,” he tells her. She doesn’t belong in this sad little room in this sad little jail with the lightbulb that keeps flickering in and out. Still, he can’t stop the stupid smile that finds residence on his face whenever she’s near - because she is here. She came to get him. 

Emma raises a brow in a way he thinks she may have picked up from him. “You called me three times.”

He blinks. Fuck. He doesn’t remember that. He looks at the sheriff waiting a little ways back who nods in confirmation, giving Killian his own pitying wince like he tried to stop him. Killian sighs. “‘Mm usually much more charming.” 

She rolls her eyes but smirks again as the sheriff slides a key into the ancient looking lock. “Yeah, I know. Come on, Graham’s going to let you off with a warning -” 

He nearly falls flat on his face when the door he’d been leaning against swings open. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay with him, Em?” 

Oh great, they know each other. He’d be more annoyed at her cozy relationship with the unreasonably attractive sheriff if he wasn’t a little bit grateful to the man who caught him and is still holding him up now. If he can just get his legs to go back under him where they belong… 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

Killian feels himself being passed from the man who smells strikingly of the forest, to the woman with the irreplicable scent of honey and drugstore soap that overwhelms him with the memory of every time he’s had his mouth or his hand on her skin. The fingers of his one remaining hand burn with the urge to feel her under them again so he balls them into a fist as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. “What about you?” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s who the question is directed at. “You going to be okay to walk out of here?”

Sheer determination not to make an even greater fool of himself than he already has in front of Emma Swan is the only thing he can attribute to both not falling right over with the nod of his head, and the steadiness of his first step as she leads him out the door. 

He stumbles three times between the building and her car. She catches him every time with a hand on his chest, her head turning so that her hair brushes his cheek and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t do it on purpose after the first time - though he can’t really trust his own thoughts at this point since they have to be yelled at him through an ocean of rum. 

“It’s your bug!” he beams at the old, yellow car. “I love your bug.”

“You hate my bug.” 

Oh, right. He does hate the car that broke down every other time they drove to his hotel in the middle of the night, the one that had broken down the night they met. ‘I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just my car is literally on the side of the road right now and the tow won’t come for another hour at least and there’s… smoke.’ 

It had been an interesting night, getting an Uber in a strange city to go pick up a stranded woman from a dating app who'd been on her way to his hotel for anonymous sex - a woman he found out had lied about her age when she pointed out that the 1993 beetle was older than she was. ‘I didn’t think you’d swipe right if you knew there was a whole high school senior between us.’ ‘Anything else I should know about?’ he’d teased when they were back at his hotel room where she’d managed to get him out of his shirt with impressive speed. ‘Is Anna even your real name?’ ‘Uhhh, about that…’

She leans him up against the aggressive yellow of the door as she fishes in her pockets for her key. Her cheeks have gone red from the cold and it reminds him of the flush that would sometimes come over her skin if he found the right words or the right touch. 

“You’re so lovely.” His thumb is tracing over her cheek though he doesn’t remember raising his hand or reaching for her. 

She snorts. “Yeah, okay, Jones. So not gonna happen tonight, but nice try.” This time her smirk is wicked and if he had any real control over his body or his brain he would kiss it right off her smug mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything!” he swears, prosthetic on his heart as she unlocks the passenger side door. “I’m just grateful you came all the way out here to rescue me. My knight in awful yellow armour.” He gasps. She rescued him from a dungeon. “Bloody hell, Swan -” He speaks slowly, managing to get almost every word out coherently. “I’m the princess.”

He’s waiting for her to come to the same mind-blowing realization as he has, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Get in the car, your highness.” 

It takes an impressive amount of self-control for him to sit still and keep his hand to himself despite his racing heart and thoughts as she leans over to help him secure his seatbelt. Because he’s not supposed to have those thoughts. And his idiot heart can keep its cruel reminders to itself. He shouldn’t have called her. He hasn’t called her - not in months. Not since he realized his mistake and knew this thing between them had to come to an end. 

He’s missed her so bloody much. 

“Killian.” She’s beside him now in the driver’s seat and saying his name like it’s not the first time she’s asked him this question. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I…” Shit. He knows this. He’s got this. Think. There was a hotel. A big hotel with really good room service. Maybe they could go there and he could buy her room service. She always liked that. ‘Listen, I know I came over here for sex and that was great and everything, but there’s a freaking lobster grilled cheese on this menu so do you think I could be here for sex and room service tonight?’ She’d looked at him with that same wicked, eager smile and he was already reaching across her for the phone. ‘I feel like I should be concerned that you seem more turned on by this sandwich than you did by anything else tonight.’ ‘Well, it’ll probably take them a little while to deliver it if you want another go at out-seducing bread and cheese.’

“A hotel,” he tells her finally. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which hotel, Killian? Which hotel am I driving you to?”

“Oh.” He knows this one! “Mine.” 

She sighs, forehead falling against the steering wheel for a long moment. He waits, not sure what he did wrong but positive that he did something. “Okay,” she says, sitting up and starting the car. “It’s late. You can sleep it off on my couch for tonight and I’ll drive you back in the morning when you’re less… wasted.” 

She sounds frustrated and he thinks it might be his fault. He looks at her carefully as she turns out of the parking lot, really looks at her for the first time since she walked back into his life a moment ago. Holding his breath against the eyes and hair and skin that always try to steal it away, he takes note of her messy hair, the lack of any makeup, the grey sweats he knows she likes to sleep in. He looks at the clock next, the late - or rather early - hour shining angry, bright and orange. He can figure this out. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s an idiot. She glances at him before turning back to the dark highway ahead of them.” “I shouldn’t have called you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not.” He hangs his head, hoping he looks sincere and not just as pathetically pissed as he is. “I woke you up.” 

“Really, Killian, it’s fine. I was just going to bed.” He looks at the clock again and he envies her youth not for the first time since meeting her. He supposes he’s up this late as well, but that wasn’t by choice. That was the rum’s decision. The rum always makes bad decisions. 

“But it’s cold.” She must be cold. She’s always cold and he made her go outside. She hates outside. She probably hates him now. ‘Listen, I’m all for this whole hooking up when you’re in town no strings thing.’ She waved a hand in his general direction. ‘Big fan of everything you’ve got going on here. But it’s cold as balls outside, so from now on you can come to mine and I can stay inside where it’s warm, or I’ll see you in the spring.’ 

The smirking curl of her mouth tugs at her cheek but he doesn’t reach for it again. “Yeah, it’s November.” 

November. The last time he saw her it had been the dead of summer, both of them hot and sticky and barely dressed, stretched out in front of the single standing fan by the bed in her little apartment with no bloody air conditioning. 

He misses that apartment. Misses being there with her and letting her make him boxed mac and cheese while he complained about her eating habits. Misses the ridiculous sheets with little Millennium Falcons on them that she’d found when he was running late to meet her that one time. He’d made her wash them before putting them on her bed - ‘fine, mom’ - and then listened to her make Star Wars puns from between her thighs until they tightened so hard against his ears he couldn’t hear anything at all. 

And he misses the way she would smile at him when she opened the door, just before she dragged him inside, asking about his flight between heated kisses and frustrated hands. ‘I hate your stupid ties’. 

He’s a bloody idiot and he should have never stopped calling. Or he should have stopped calling a long time ago, before there was anything to miss. They had a good thing going, an understanding, no strings. He’d reach out when he was in town for work and they would meet for one or however many nights he was staying. No expectations or dates or sleepovers, none of the complicated stuff. And he’d screwed it up.

His feet slip dangerously against the icy ground - at least he’s pretty sure there’s ice, or the ground isn’t staying still again - as Emma practically hoists him out of the car. “You remember the stairs right?” she asks, ducking under his arm again to steady him. She fits well there with her arm wrapped around his waist. 

He hadn’t remembered the stairs. Though he should have, he’d complained about them enough times. ‘What’s so wrong with an apartment with an elevator?’ ‘Aw, can your old knees not handle it?’ He’d caught her as she bolted up the last few flights at his glare, laughing the whole way, and he’d spent enough time on his ‘old knees’ to make her take it back. This time, he’s not so sure he can handle it as he looks up at the rotating stairs that seem unable to settle on a height. 

“It’s either that or you’re sleeping in the lobby, Jones.” 

He considers it. “Is that David guy still your landlord?” The one who was particularly hostile to the man in his forties coming over at random hours of the night to visit his twenty-eight year old tenant. ‘Give him a break, he still thinks I’m the sixteen year old kid he illegally rented to when I first moved here.’ 

In fairness, Killian would probably judge himself too if he were in the landlord's shoes. He has judged himself many times for becoming a stereotype of Dicaprio-sized proportions. But the alternative would have been resisting Emma Swan, something he’s incapable of doing - or at least had been until that morning he ruined everything. 

“Okay.” The stairs are still moving.

“Hold on.” She takes out her phones - there’s definitely two of them - and holds them in front of his face. “I just want to get you on camera saying that I’m not liable if you fall down these stairs and break your neck.” 

“Is that really necessary?” He got that whole sentence out in one try. 

“I know you have a lawyer.” ‘You have a what? Wow, I knew you were older but I didn’t know you were like, old old.’ ‘I don’t think it counts if you’ve stolen from parent’s liquor cabinet.’ 

“Fine. Don’t sue Emma if I die. She’s very nice and doesn’t have any money anyway.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’ll never hold up in court.” 

“That would be way more convincing if you could pronounce all your consonants.” 

The climb takes twice as long as it should and he’s forced to stop once when he makes the mistake of looking down and his stomach rolls violently. ‘I swear to god if you puke in my hallway I’ll leave you here to sleep in it.’

“I don’t remember there being this many floors.”

“It’s four floors. You’ve done two.” 

He might die.

He doesn’t die, but just barely, and when Emma leads him through the door and into the studio, she practically drops him onto the old couch. It’s not her fault; he’d made himself very droppable in the last few minutes. At least he landed on the couch and not the collection of wooden crates she’s glued together next to it. ‘That’s not a coffee table, Swan.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that or is that not your coffee cup on it right now?’

He doesn’t see her for a few minutes, his head too heavy to lift, but he can hear her moving around the apartment and he can picture her, walking through the kitchen on her toes. ‘It’s not weird, shut up.’ ‘I just thought you’d like to know that most people use their whole foot.’ 

When she finally comes back, he forces his eyes open, unsure who exactly glued them shut or how they did it without him noticing. Fuck she’s beautiful. Even through the boozy marinade he’s made of his head he can see that, and he wants to tell her. He could. He could blame it on the rum. But that would be a bad idea. Complicating things between them would be a bad idea. They’d already gotten complicated enough. God, he’s such a fuck up. Things were good, they could have stayed good. He just had to go and ruin a good thing with his stupid, greedy heart. 

“Here.” Two little pills and a frighteningly large bottle of water are set down in front of him. He’s not sure what the pills are but he’s also pretty sure she wouldn’t try to poison him even if he is an asshole who called her in the middle of the night after ghosting her for months. Pretty sure. The water sounds like a good idea. 

“Have you eaten anything or did you have rum for dinner?” 

“There were peanuts at the bar,” he tells her after guzzling down enough water to drown himself with. She shakes her head and walks out of his line of sight again. This time she comes back with a bag of crisps and he thinks maybe she doesn’t hate him as much as he thought because they’re the kind he likes most. 

“Eat that, drink that, and take those,” she orders, pointing to each with a stern look. “And then lie down on your side so I know you won’t choke to death in the night, and get some sleep.” 

“Yes ‘mam,” he salutes.

“Don’t get cute with me.” He wasn’t trying to be cute. But it makes him unreasonably happy that she thinks he is. She rolls her eyes at his probably once again dumb smile and repeats, “eat,” before disappearing where he can’t see her again. 

When she comes back this time her hair is down, falling over the shoulders of her oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt she’s apparently had since she was twelve, and he wants to whine or cry at how desperately he wishes he could reach for her and what an idiot he is for being the reason he can’t. She’s carrying an empty garbage can, a blanket draped over one arm. 

“Do not puke on my rug. It’s the only new thing in this whole apartment and I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” 

Killian leans over from where he’s stretched out on the couch that’s too small for him, running his fingers over the blue and white pattern and nods. “It’s lovely, very soft.” 

She’s silent for long enough that he looks up again, only to find her with her lips pressed so hard together against a laugh that he can see her chest lurch with the force of containing it. He frowns, looking from her to the rug and back again before realizing that he’s been stroking the rug with his prosthetic hand. 

“Emma… I might be drunker than I thought.” 

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and horrible and obnoxious and it’s the best sound he’s heard in a long time. He’s missed that sound, the one that had shocked him so completely the first time he heard it that they’d both ended up on the floor, stomachs hurting and eyes tearing, neither able to remember what had set her off in the first place and unable to stop giggling like teenagers. 

“Aw, babe,” Emma crouches down in front of him with a pitying look before beginning to work the straps of his false hand loose. Her hand settles soft against his cheek once it’s free, smirk still lingering on the corner of her lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been as drunk as you are right now.” 

Her face is so close to his that his heart forgets how it’s meant to work, stopping and racing of its own accord. He wishes she would close the distance, that he could feel her mouth against his for the first time in months, or that she’d simply stay here with him for the rest of the night because the distance and the silence between them has been more than he can take. He doesn't know how he ever convinced himself that staying away would eventually make the ache for her fade. 

She smiles at him again, giving his cheek an affectionate pat before draping the blanket over him, the soft one he knows had been her prized possession before the rug. “Get some sleep, Killian. I don’t think anyone’s ever been as hungover as you’re going to be tomorrow either.” 

He’s not sure whether or not the way his fingers close around hers before she can pull away was his idea or the rum’s, but she’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something and he doesn’t know what he was going to say or what he was thinking. He just knows that he missed her and he screwed it up - and then he screwed it up again, possibly beyond repair the second time. 

Being in this city that he managed to avoid for months in the hopes that he could forget about her has been one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. To think he really believed that he could live here, that he could take the job that was offered and not be haunted by her every waking moment, not dread and hope to see her around every corner. 

Being naive enough to think he could ignore the draw of her is how he ended up in that bar tonight. He’d tried to figure out how many shots of rum it would take to make him forget that he loves Emma Swan, but it seems there isn’t enough rum in the world for that - or at least not enough in that bar. 

She’s still looking at him and he wishes she wasn’t watching him with a hesitation and a carefulness that hadn’t been there before. It had always been so easy between them; he’d never felt less self-conscious with another person in his life and now it’s all consuming. She’s lost the carefree warmth he used to see in her eyes, like he took it with him when he left that morning and didn’t come back. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment in her sigh. “I already told you, it’s fine.”

He shakes his head. “Not for calling you tonight. For not calling you. Every other night. I’ve been an ass and I’ve been a coward. You didn’t deserve that.” By the grace of whatever gods might be listening to his poor apology, he doesn’t slur a single word.

Her pause is long enough that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he can’t read her expression through the haze of booze and exhaustion swimming around in his head. He should let go of her hand, but he’s painfully aware that this could be the last time he gets to touch her and she’s not pulling away. 

She sighs again. “Why don’t we talk about this when you’re feeling better?” 

He lets go. “Aye, Swan, whatever you want.” 

She walks away. Beyond repair then. 

***

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else.”

Killian jumps, heart pounding. He feels like he’s woken from a coma, body so heavy with sleep that parts of it aren't responding to him and never having been more confused than he is in these first few moments. It’s daytime, but it’s not morning, the light is too dim, and he’s asleep but not in his bed or in his hotel room, on a couch he recognizes but can’t really place. He has a vague recollection of things that may or may not have happened while he lay here; the sound of someone moving around the room, someone saying his name, a door shutting, an angry car somewhere far off and the bark of a dog somewhere close, the sound of keys and the strange sensation someone poking him in the face - hard. 

All of it feels like a fever dream now as he looks towards the tinny sound of the belligerent man’s voice coming from the phone in her hand.Oh no. Oh god what the hell had he done last night? He recognizes the room, the soft blanket he’s under, the long legs clad in grey sweatpants perched on the table in front of him. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to look at her.

“Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

If you’d like to save this message, press - there's a loud beep before another message begins to play. Bloody hell. He remembers the pub, and the cop - sort of - and he remembers that little line on his phone screen. ‘Absolutely not’. From the looks of it, he absolutely did. 

“Heey, isme again. I don’t think I told you where I am. Is’not great, Swan. They put me in the jail.”

He winces, sitting up carefully, head still light and disoriented. “Did I…”

“Mhm.” 

Another wince. “Are they all-”

“Oh yeah.”

“‘M not even that drunk. The sherfs just got a commpelex or something.”

“Swan, we really don’t have to -”

“Shh, this is my favourite part.” 

Killian hangs his head. “I - Oy, I’m on the phone, sherirff! Don’ they teach you manners at cop school? The cops in your city are rude, Swan. Hey! No - iss my phone. I can call whoever I want.” There’s a shuffling sound that stirs up a faint memory of trying to back deeper into the cell, then a small shout and he remembers why his ass hurts and that he’s probably got a bruise on his hip the size of the one on his ego. Emma has her lip caught between her teeth again, flashing him the same look she had when she arrived at the station. 

“Hello? Swan? Oh, right. Yur prolly asleep. You should be asleep, that’s good. I jus’ called ‘cus I…” For a blissful minute he thinks he might have had the sense to hang up, the silence on the other end dragging on and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then the message rings out again. “I can't remember why I called you. I think somethin’ made me think of you.” His voice gets softer and so does her expression for just a moment. 

“That happens a lot. I been thinking ‘bout you a lot, all the time, really. And not just in a sexy way and not just yer face.” Killian hangs his head. “Even though I’m a fan of your face. And all your other parts too.” 

He wishes he could just perish right here and now, wishes the dull ache in his head would become an aneurysm and take him out without a fuss. 

“I been thinking about those ridic’lus tiktoks you used to send me and when I was in meetings ‘n I jus’ wanted to be with you. I don’t know anything about Taylor Swift anymore, Swan - I don’t know how to find those myself.” There’s another pause but he knows better than to hope this is over, much of this coming back to him now in mortifying waves. 

“I’ve too many shirts in my closet now - It’s so many shirts. I always brought extra ‘cause I knew you’d steal ‘em an’ then you’d walk ‘round your kitchen in ‘em with no pants like yur a sexy Winnie the Pooh or somethn’ and I had to watch you climb yur counters while I had a heartattack  ‘cuz you wouldn’ jus’ let me get things off the top shelf for you. Bloody stubborn.” There’s a sigh over the machine. “I don’t want this many shirts, Swan…

‘Anyway I - What? Who does? Sorry, Swan the sherf is being rude again. He wants to know if yur picking me up. Are you picking me up?” There’s so much hope in his past self’s voice that he almost feels bad for him. But he also knows what a bloody idiot that man is and it’s hard to feel anything but the overwhelming urge to disappear into this couch and not have to listen to any more of his drunken rambling. “That would be nice. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. Gnight, love.”

To delete this message press - She hits a button. Message saved.

Killian braces himself for the next one. Gods, how many of them are there? But this time it’s not his voice that comes out over the speakerphone, it’s another man, Irish and vaguely familiar through the sleep and the unfortunately returning memories. 

“Hey, Emma, it’s Graham.” Killian’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of another man calling her in the middle of the night. Of course she wouldn’t have sat around pining like he did, not for a man who treated her as carelessly as he had. Of course - “Listen, I don’t know who this guy is but he says he knows you. I thought maybe he was one of your clients but when I asked him how he knows you he just asked me if I’ve ever been in love...”

The brow Emma raises at him is equal parts question, challenge and amusement and he feels the blood rush from his face. Fuck. He wonders whether four floors would be high enough for him to end this misery if he just went out the window. 

“Anyway, just let me know if this is another Walsh situation and I’ll make sure he stays in here, alright? Goodnight, love.” Killian can’t even begrudge the man or the endearment he adds to the end of his message when he’s only looking out for her. Probably a good thing she has someone to keep old, drunk dickheads away from her. 

He hears another beep of her mailbox and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “Hi, love, ‘m sorry for calling so much. I know I made too many ms’takes to be ‘loud to say this, but… I miss you, Swan… And I’d jus’ really like to see you again.”

End of messages. To - 

Emma shuts the phone off, setting it down next to her on the coffee table. She tilts her head to see his face which he’s currently trying to bury in his hands. “Sounds like you had quite the night.” 

“I thought I’d be more hungover.” His head hurts and he’s tired and his mouth is dry but he expected to be near death after the way he threw them back last night.

“It’s four in the afternoon.” Oh. He does the math of how long she’d let him sleep in her apartment after everything he’s done - after she picked him up. 

“At one point I had to make sure you were alive. But I figured if you were able to leave such eloquent voicemails last night that you probably weren’t in danger of alcohol poisoning.”

“Swan, I…” He’s fully aware that he deserves her mocking but he’s too humiliated to even begin to try and explain his behaviour last night. How can he without explaining everything right down to that morning in July where he messed up the best thing in his life.

She takes pity on him, giving a small shrug. “Forget about it. Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re hammered. Everyone calls people they know they shouldn’t.”

“No, Emma -” He finally lifts his head to look at her. “That wasn’t…” He needs her to know that wasn’t what this was, she wasn’t just some drunk dial in the middle of the night. He thinks of how many times in the last three three months he’s looked at that contact in his phone, her name replaced with a reminder that he should not and absolutely could not go there. She mistakes his hesitation. 

“You okay?”

“No.” He needs to talk to her, to apologize and beg her forgiveness. But he can’t find the words in his tired, muddled head to tell her without telling her everything. “I’m a bloody idiot.” 

Emma smirks. “Yeah, we established that last night - a bunch of times.” 

“I mean it. It wasn’t -” He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and avoid looking at her. “I didn’t just call you because I was drunk. I’ve wanted to call you. For months. Last night just gave me an excuse.”

“You needed an excuse to call me?” 

He sighs. “I was coward enough to convince myself I did.” 

When he finally forces himself to face her, he finds her watching her phone, fingers wrung in her lap and lips pressed together tightly the way they always are before she asks something that’s answer matters to her. 

“How much of last night do you actually remember?” 

“Most of it, I think.” It’s been coming back to him in increasingly horrifying details since she played that first voicemail.

“You said a lot of stupid stuff.” 

“I know.” 

“How much of all of that was true?”

“All of it.”

She raises a brow. “All of it?”

“Aye.”

“Sexy Winnie the Pooh?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I stand by what I said.”

He wonders which parts of what he said she’s focusing on as her silence stretches between them, heartbroken when he sees a little wall go up. This is why he stopped calling. He knew this would happen. 

“It’s fine. It’s not like you owed me anything. We weren’t -”

“Don’t do that.” His hand reaches out for her, fingers playing carefully with the fabric of her too-big sweatpants. “We may not have been in a relationship but we weren’t nothing.” He won’t let her excuse his behaviour, not after they spent over a year in each others’ lives only for him to disappear from hers. “I shouldn’t have acted like we were.” 

“So then why did you stop calling?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever heard her sound even though she hides it well and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “I liked what we had going. I liked spending time with you.”

“Aye, so did I.” Too much. 

“I guess I thought - I guess I thought we were friends at least.” 

“We were.” His fingers dance along her calf through the fabric he can’t stop fiddling with and he feels the muscle tense but she doesn’t pull away from him. 

“So then what gives?” The anger in her voice makes his gaze snap up to hers. Finally. He’s been waiting for her to be angry with him, she deserves to be angry and he deserves it too. It gives him that small flicker of hope he’d been unable to find until now, a hope that if she’s angry, it’s because she cared enough to be hurt. “Why did you just…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. Disappear. 

“Because I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“Do what? Hook up? Jesus, Killian, I’m a big girl. You didn’t have to run away because you were over the benefits part of this friendship.” 

“I wasn’t. I left because I broke our rules.” 

“What rules?” 

The ones they’d so carefully established when they decided to continue this arrangement beyond the first and second time he saw her. The ones that were meant to keep either of them from getting hurt like they both were now. 

“The last time I was here, we fell asleep and woke up in the morning still in your bed and I…”

“That’s why you freaked out? Because you accidentally slept over? That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?” He can hear the disbelief in her voice and also the relief but he’s not done. “It wasn’t like a hard and fast rule -”

His fingers curl around the back of her knee, squeezing as he draws her attention. “That’s not why.” He traces his thumb over the fabric covering her shin and he knows he has to tell her because he can’t do this anymore without telling her and he can’t go back to how things were. 

And he thinks that just maybe, she’ll want to hear it. Because as small and insignificant as it may seem, those aren’t her sweatpants, they’re his, lent - stolen - after a rather frantic afternoon in his hotel room six months ago where he may have torn her skirt in his haste to get it off. ‘You need better quality clothes, love.’ ‘Is this you finally offering to be my sugar daddy?’ They have his bloody initials on them - a strange gift from his lawyer friend. And she hasn’t gotten rid of them, didn’t toss them away when he did the same to her. She still sleeps in them. 

“I freaked out because I liked waking up with you, and I started thinking that I’d like to wake up with you every morning.” He’d been hot and sweaty and sore from sleeping on her old mattress but he’d looked down at the woman wrapped around him despite the stifling heat, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hair in his mouth and he knew that he wanted this, wanted her, maybe forever. He hears her small intake of breath, his thumb still stroking her skin though the fabric as though it’ll give him the strength he needs. “And I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since…” He can’t finish and so she does for him. 

“Milah?” 

“Aye.” His reason for never wanting anything more, love lost in the same instant that cost him a piece of himself. He’d told Emma about her, one night when they’d lingered a little too long entangled in the aftermath. He didn’t know the details of her reason, only that she’d been far too young and that he’d hurt her deeply enough to make her wary of anyone who claimed love or devotion. 

“I hoped that if I stayed away for a little while that it would fade away and that we could go back to how things were because I knew that if I told you I would lose you. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed you and the more I wanted you and I realized it wasn’t going to go away - because I loved you.” 

Killian watches her for a reaction as he tells her the truth he’d been hiding from her for months and from himself for far longer, but she remains unreadable, fingers still wringing nervously in her lap, breathing a little shaky. But there’s no abject terror in her gaze as she waits for him to finish.

“And by then I’d avoided you for too long and it was too late to tell you or try to go back to how things were and I lost you anyway. Then I managed to convince myself that it was for the best because this wasn’t what you wanted and you deserved better anyway.” Better than an old widower with a used up heart who’d run the moment things became real. “But I thought you had the right to know that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you. I left because I cared too much.” 

Fabric slips from his hand as she stands, circling the coffee table and leaving him feeling untethered without her and with a barrier set between them. He focuses on the rug, her reaction expected but no less painful, as she paces the length of her glued together crates a few times. 

“Okay two things.” Her tone snaps his gaze up to where she moves anxiously and restlessly in the small space. “First of all, that’s the last time you make a decision for me.” He hadn’t expected this reaction. “I don’t need anyone to decide what I do or don’t deserve or what I can or can’t handle. If you want to know what I want, you ask me. You talk to me like the grownup you keep pretending that you are.” That one hurts but he nods. It’s all rightly earned. 

“You’re right.” 

“Good.” She stops, shoulders squared as she faces him from across the table. “Second.” He waits, the anger from before no longer sustaining her as he sees the wall she hides behind slip just a little. “You said you loved me.”

He’s not sure what answer she wants, but he gives her the truth. “I love you, Swan.” Try as hard as he did not to, he knows it’s not going away. And he’s not willing to attempt another eight shots of rum a second time to make sure. 

She nods. He waits, or she waits, he’s not sure who’s supposed to speak here only that he needs to know how she feels and he’ll wait as long as he needs to. 

“Well? Are you going to ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” He’d give her whatever she asked for at this point as he watches her bite her lip and definitely doesn’t wish he was the one biting it.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Fair enough. 

“Look, I get running away from feelings - I’m very familiar with the concept. But the way you did it was really shitty and -” Her voice goes quiet, arms wrapping around herself in a move so full of self-preservation that it breaks his heart a little. “It hurt, okay?”

Her words, thick with betrayal and rejection, pierce sharp through his chest, painful and deserved as she avoids his gaze as determinantly as he’d avoided hers. God, he’s an ass. He’d pieced together enough about her past from the small glimpses she’d given him late on those nights where they were still tangled naked in her sheets and the dark lent them the boldness to be vulnerable to know that she’d been left before. 

He joins her on her side of the table, reaching to touch the soft, golden waves that he’s spent months wishing he could tangle his fingers in again. “I’m sorry.” He pushes them behind her ear, thumb stroking over her cheek like her skin could break beneath his touch. 

When she looks up at him her eyes are red and wet he pulls her to him without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, Emma feeling fragile in his arms for the first time since he met her. She’s a force, his Swan, a tempest that could devour a thousand ships and it hurts to see her storms wane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, pressing a kiss to her temple as he brings a hand to stroke the hair at the base of her neck, feels her lean into him. “I’m sorry,” he speaks against her brow. “I’m so sorry, love.” His lips brush over the crown of her head and he feels her arms slip around his waist, holding tight to the back of his shirt. He holds her just as tightly, nose settling in the crook of her neck where he presses another kiss and whispers a thousand more apologies. “I’m an ass.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Her voice comes muffled from where her face is pressed against his collarbone and he laughs in relief to hear her tease him. He pulls back enough that she can lift her head to face him, eyes still red as he wipes at the dampness left on her cheeks. All he wants is to kiss her and spend the night and the next day and every day after that making this up to her, but he knows better than to push her.

Her hands slide from his back to his chest as she meets his gaze and takes a steadying breath. “I still don’t know what I want. You’re not the only one who’s bad at dealing with feelings and you just put some pretty big ones out there.”

“I know.” He doesn’t expect to hear the words back, not after three months of silence. But if she gives him the chance to stay and try to win her heart then he’ll spend forever earning back her trust. 

“But maybe, if you’re still in town for a bit, you could stay for dinner.” 

It takes everything he has to contain the ecstatic smile that wells up from his chest, afraid he’ll scare her off. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” He’s not leaving her again. Not unless she sends him away. 

***

“When do you go back?” she asks when they’re sat at the kitchen island. ‘What, exactly, do you have against real furniture? Especially tables. They seem particularly discriminated against.’ ‘Do you see any room in here for a twelve-piece dining set?’ He swallows the bite of the boxed mac and cheese she’d made him cook ‘Because I’m still pissed at you and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer through this.’ ‘Sadist. Can I at least add -’ ‘No.’  

Killian looks at his watch. “My flight was an hour ago.”

“What? You should have said -”

“And miss all the delicacies that Maine has to offer?” he asks, lifting his mismatched bowl. “It’s fine, Swan,” he adds when she looks genuinely concerned. “I’d rather be here.” He can get another flight at the last minute before he’s due back in New York on Monday. Getting his things back from the hotel, however, may be a tad more difficult. 

“That’s sweet and all but I think you’d also rather be employed.”

“Aye, well, I may not be employed there much longer anyhow.” 

Her eyes widen. “Oh god, don’t tell me you left them voicemails too.”

Killian snorts. “No, I’ve just… had another offer.” 

His heart pounds frantically as she asks, “where?” terrified that he’ll scare her off. 

“Here.” 

“Here?”

He nods. “I wasn’t going to take it, not after realizing how much I’d miss you if I was here. But, well, that was before I drank a full bar. And this town does have its benefits.” 

She gapes at him and he can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. “You’re not moving for me, right? You want the job? Because I told you I don’t know what I want or if I can even do… whatever this maybe is and I -” 

He reaches for her hand, calming the rambling that had started. “I do want the job, but of course I’m moving for you, Swan. And I know you’re not ready to decide anything, and I’m not asking you to. But whether you do or don’t decide that what you want is me, I’m going to be right here while you figure it out. I’m not going to leave you twice, Emma. I don’t want to miss you like that again.”

Emma just stares at him, mouth opening and then shutting with questions that don’t find voice and he sits, stewing in the worry that he said too much, asked for too much. He swallows as she jumps out of her seat, his turn to ramble now as she rounds the island.

“I mean, I will have to go home and get my things and resign but I -” 

“Shut up,” she tells him, hands sliding into his hair and mouth colliding with his. 

He’s more than happy to do exactly that, wasting no time in gathering her up in his arms and pulling her close, returning the kiss he’d missed so damn much all these months, missed the feel of her soft and warm against him like this, for the little sound she makes when his own hand tangles in her hair just hard enough that he can keep he there a little longer.  

“Wait,” he breathes and her hands pause where they’d been working the buttons of his shirt free. “Maybe we should slow down.” There’s a part of him screaming at his stupid mouth right now for the words falling out of it. “You said you don’t know if this is what you want. So maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”

She barks out a small laugh. “You’re moving to another city for a ‘maybe’ and you don’t want to rush things?” He doesn’t really have an answer for that. 

Her brow and mouth quirk up in one devastatingly attractive motion that has him ready to go back on everything he just said. “This was never our problem,” she reminds him, fingers tugging the buckle of his belt loose. “We’re good at this part. Everything else is where we get messy.” She works the button of his jeans open next. “So just try not to make any more big confessions while you’re inside me…” She runs her teeth over the skin below his ear as she slides her hand into his jeans and he nearly chokes. “And we should be fine.” 

“Bloody hell.” His rational self may judge him later, but his current self has Emma Swan with her hand around his cock trying to get him out of his clothes and he’s already established that he’s not a very smart man. “I promise.” 

***

It’s a strange feeling to be laying here, wrapped up in an old duvet and Star Wars sheets with Emma’s head on his shoulder and her fingers drawing patterns over his chest. They’ve never done this part, never lingered beyond the time it took them both to catch their breaths before untangling themselves from one another and going about their day - or tangling themselves again. He likes it, but it’s strange, new, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Not with anyone. 

“This is kind of weird right?” she asks, breath warm against his neck. 

Killian laughs. Bloody mind reader. 

“Aye, a bit. I think I’m out of practice.”

“I never practised in the first place.” 

He presses a kiss to her hair. “But, it’s not bad, right?” She can probably hear his stupid heart racing as he waits for her answer. 

“No,” she shakes her head, sliding her arm around his waist and fitting herself more snugly against his side. “It’s not bad.” He can feel her smile against his skin, glad she can’t see the absolutely ridiculous one stretched across his own. They lay there a little longer, the room darkening with the earlier and earlier nights as he begins to dread the fast approaching hour where he’ll have to leave, until Emma shifts. “My neck hurts.” 

“My arm’s asleep.” 

She sits up and his arm is flooded with the sudden relief of no longer being squished, but he misses the warmth and the closeness of her immediately. He has two arms. Who really needs both? He’s done fine with one hand. “Where are you going?” he asks when she rises from the bed, reaching for his shirt that she tossed on the floor and he made himself leave there. ‘Do not fold your clothes while we’re in the middle of having sex or I swear I’ll put mine back on you fucking weirdo.’

“Thirsty,” she says as she finishes buttoning it. “You?”

“Aye, thanks.”

“Water? Or would you prefer rum?”

“Hilarious.” His stomach rolls, not finding her so funny. She certainly seems to think she is, smirking as she fetches two water bottles from the fridge. “You know you’re going to have to give me my shirt back this time. It’s the only one I’ve got.” At least until he finds out if the hotel hung onto his suitcase when he missed his checkout. “Unless you have the others squirrelled away here somewhere.” 

“I thought you had ‘too many shirts, Swan,’” she reminds him in a poor imitation of his accent and he rolls his eyes. She hops back onto the bed, climbing into his lap to sit astride his hips. His hand and wrist settle on her waist, the shirt in question riding up and making him groan at the feel of her pressed against him. 

“Aye well I’ve only got the one to wear out of here tonight and while you look infinitely better in it than I do -” 

“Like a sexy Winnie the Pooh, would you say?”

He sighs. “I’m never living that one down am I?”

“You want to show me your hundred acre wood?” Killian lets his head fall back against the headboard as she laughs herself silly. “I have another solution,” she tells him, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of his shirt. “I was thinking, maybe, since you’ve already missed your flight, and you probably don’t have a hotel room anymore, that you could stay here tonight. And maybe we could give that whole waking up together thing a shot.” 

Her cheeks are flushed, freckles bright against the soft pink as she looks up from her hands to catch his eye. He kisses her hard enough that she’d have fallen right off his lap were it not for his arms holding her steady and close to him. 

“That a yes?” she asks, mouth curling against his and he catches that smirking bottom lip between his teeth like he’s wanted to since she showed up at the station. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She nods and it’s him smiling against her mouth now. “For tonight at least. But I think there’s still a lot of grovelling in your future before it becomes a regular thing.”

He kisses her again, rolls her onto her back beneath him. “Then I’d better get started right away,” he says, lips finding the length of her neck as he begins to work free the buttons of his stolen shirt. 

“Well, you did promise you would write poetry about my boobs.” 

“I what?” He looks up only to see her wearing the same confused frown as himself before her eyes widen with laughter and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Oh my god. You haven’t seen your texts have you?”

Fuck. 

*******

Tagging the usual people but let me know if you want to be removed or added!

@kmomof4​​ @elizabeethan​​ @the-darkdragonfly​  @undercaffinatednightmare​ @jennjenn615​ @dramioneswan​ @gingerchangeling​ @gingerpolyglot​ @kazoo5480​ @lfh1226-linda​ @csalltheway​ @xsajx​ @xarandomdreamx​ @onceratheart18​ @ownedbycaptainswan @teamhook​ @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway​ @zaharadessert​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @spartanguard​ @jonesfandomfanatic @deckerstarblanche​ @jrob64​ @klynn-stormz​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @tiganasummertree​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian @snowbellewells​ @xellewoods​ @sals86​ @karlyfr13s​  @ouatpost @skairipakomtrikru​ @lonelyspectator12​   @anmylica​   @alexa-fangirl-forever @inspiredbystardust​ @marcella2727 @paradiselady19​​ @koryandr​ @killiansprincss​ @goforlaunchcee​​ @motherkatereloyshipper

[flibbertygigget]

Ok so I'm fiddling around with a version of Company in my head that's like,,, still set in the 70s (at the very least implicitly, a la 2006 Company), but one of the girlfriends is a boyfriend. Like, I think it could work.

There's a huge amount of emotional distance between Bobby and the couples in the text - so much of Bobby's arc is wrapped up in his desire for the intimacy that a committed relationship would bring while at the same time he doesn't want the risk that that level of emotional intimacy would bring. "Being Alive" is the resolution of this, obviously - "too close" and "too deep" goes from something to fear to something to want (while still fearing, always fearing, but the fear doesn't overwhelm the want). His friendships and romantic relationships are all surface level - he keeps himself at a distance, an amused observer in his own life to keep from risking the potential hurt that intimacy could bring.

Which, if he's closeted to varying degrees with different friends (and this could easily be shown just through giving a fake name for the boyfriend in some circumstances and not in others), really works well with his arc. Of course he keeps himself at an implicit distance - he's always on the knife's edge of being rejected, both by his friends for his queerness or his partners for his bisexuality. Just watching and asking questions and never talking about himself beyond quips and safe anecdotes is easier and safer, even though it's killing him emotionally.

The boyfriend being Marta or April would work in different ways with the text. Marta because it would be an easy switch - Marty to Marta - that could have him slip with the fake name in ways that the audience would catch but the couples realistically wouldn't. Plus the idea of the one boyfriend being this fun younger twink really Tracks - he finds partners who allow him to put a wall up between him and the idea of commitment: Kathy because what they want out of life is so fundamentally different, April because of her job, and Marta/Marty because they're at fundamentally different stages of life.

April would be a good switch-to-boyfriend because a) the scene where he questions her/him about the roommate would get instantly funnier and more serious all at the same time and b) April is the most serious potential partner during the "present" of Company, which would be an interesting wrinkle considering the time period and Bobby's arc.

And, obviously, the various degrees of closetedness would make act 2 really hit. First with the "homosexual experience scene" - in my head Bobby would be implied to be the most closeted with Peter and Susan, so the fact that Peter's implied to have discussed his gayness with Susan and stayed partners-in-some-respects after the divorce would be wild in terms of Bobby's perception of his friendships with not just them but all the couples. The idea that he might be able to be more emotionally open with all his friends due to the rapidly changing attitudes of the time period and his own misreading of his friends is both devastating, because maybe he didn't have to feel so "alone, not alive" this whole time, but also liberating. Bobby admitting that he has Had A Homosexual Experience goes from kind of a gag to one of the linchpins of his arc.

In my head the Joanne scene after "Ladies Who Lunch" would combine both the OG (better) version of that scene and the 2020 Cuck Me version of that scene. Like,,, if he's been implied to be the most out to Joanne and Larry, combining the two would work - hell, rejig it to be a "hey, want to be poly with us?" kind of thing if that suits your vibe. If the Homosexual Experience scene is a breakthrough in regards to platonic intimacy in this version, the Taking Care scene can be a breakthrough in regards to romantic intimacy, where Bobby finally discovers what he wants in a committed romantic relationship, finally less afraid of what opening up would mean in all aspects of his life. And then he sings "Being Alive".

Idk, I'd have to really work on it irl to figure out exactly how it would work, but I think it would be interesting.

[strangelittlestories]

Today I plan to tell you That I love you.

The words lurk all day Lurching, lost, round my stomach Rattling up my throat Occasionally threatening To rock up early And open themselves to strangers.

I keep them on track Barely.

Finally, After dinner, (Vodka fog from ill-advised cocktails  Thickening in my eyes) I open my mouth Heart pumping pure sincerity And what comes out (those sweet three little words) is:

“I hate buses.”

“What?” You’re not angry (Yet)

“I really mean it.”  This is true. But in a minute My brain will catch up to my heart.

“What?!?” You repeat. Louder. Amused, but perturbed. The bartender is watching us Like dinner theatre.

Currently, this is an amusing non-sequitur. I could brush this off Let the ill-timed thought wend  its lopsided way onwards And this will be a cute anecdote.

Instead, I run after it. I chase that thought down Like I am fleeing justice.

“The thing about buses, right? Is that you never know when they’ll turn up.”

“There are literally schedules On the bus stops.” You reply, Carried along in the slipstream Of my accelerating rant.

“Schedules are at the mercy of traffic And traffic is god of chaos That calls judgement down from uncaring skies In a blare of horn honks. Don’t talk to me about schedules.”

“*Fine*. I won’t.” The tenor of that ‘fiiine’ Is a warning light. I ignore it.

“Buses turn up when they feel like it, They always take longer than you think (Because - again - traffic exists And none of us are free of sin) They don’t go where you think half the time, There is So Much Waiting And every part of the journey Is out of your control. I would rather walk for hours, I would rather cancel plans, I would hire an e-scooter Even though I think they’re Very Silly Rather than take one bus. I’d say that buses are my own personal hell But at least with hell, I know I will *get there* And I’ll be on time.”

“Sweetheart…” You say. And the warning light in your voice Flashes red Klaxons are sounding Someone is calling the president And texting their family To tell them - ironically, given how this started - That they love them. “...what the *flip*?”

I puff myself full of indignance Ready to let these fiery feelings Run their route When the right words Finally wend their weary way To my stop. I deflate And flag them down.

“I got a bus here.” I say. “Even though I hated it. I repeatedly get buses to see you Because you live far away Near no good transport And it’s quicker than walking. Just.”

“What are you trying to say?” You take my hand And it’s like you know The map of me.

“I don’t know my own feelings Most of the time. They roam where they will They keep no schedule They conform neither to the laws Of gods nor mortals

I spent a lot of time waiting for them When I was young And eventually I worked out I’ll only know they exist When they’re taking me somewhere. Often where I don’t want to go.

I know that I love you When I realise I am willing To go out of my way If it brings me to you In the end.

Because love is not just a thing That squats in your chest It’s actions you choose to take And I only notice it When I verb the noun And realise I’ve changed my life To fit it On purpose.

And I took a bus to get here To you Even though I hated it.”

And you say: “Gods you’re so fudging weird. ... I’d get a bus for you too.”

[obliteration-onearth]

( a/n: unedited and hate this lowkey )

---

[ yandere rin x reader ]

when did it begin? you could never tell, you always felt like someone was tailing after you but often convinced yourself you were silly for your absurd fantasies. hell, you weren't even interesting enough to begin with.

that's not what rin thought. everything you did was utterly fascinating to him, he could sit on a table with a cup of coffee and watch you read for hours on end. he'd observe how daintily your fingers wouls flip each page of the book, your small reactions ( like when you bite your lip or gasp quietly to yourself ), he even finds it amusing how you use anything as a book mark. it annoys him sometimes, ( the things you choose ) but his love for you overshadows your questionable quirks or weird antics.

when you'd first even acknowledge rin's existence was at the train station, where he'd deliberately collide your bodies against one another to create an impact where his coffee would spill all over his clothes, drenching him entirely.

embarrassed, you'd sputter out a few words before managing to invite him into your apartment for his shirt to be clean.

you thought it was being nice, he found it a result of his carefully orchestrated scheme to win your heart.

thus would begin his plan, a flawlessly designed set of events where he would have you falling at your feet for the character he'd display, only revealing his true nature once you've gotten together.

within the first few months, everything was normal.. except for the fact that one of your close friends mysteriously died.

during this time, rin would become your solace.

you would cling to him whenever you saw him and he'd encourage your behavior, enable you so you'd cry and ramble on for hours on end about your friend, the friend who's life had been taken by the man you'd trusted to be your lover.

if only you'd known..

with the grief and turmoil you'd been facing with the death of your friend, you wouldn't be able to identify when rin would become manipulative.

you didn't notice that when you'd start talking about your guy friends, rin would be a bit.. peeved. a slight irritated expression would start to appear on his face when you'd mention going out with a few of them or when you'd casually mention a funny anecdote.

soon, his sharp words began hurt you so you'd tell him to knock it off but his response would be perfect. he'd ramble on and on about how he's only worried for your safety and that he'd rather die himself than have his precious darling to be hurt.

and often, you'd find yourself buying into these lies of his. you'd stay home and cuddle with him and eventually, you'd avoid going out altogether to not worry rin.

you'd start asking permission to go out.

---

"hey rin, do you think i should go to this party tomorrow? it's my friend's birthday and-"

a feigned sympathetic expression would fall over his features as he'd sit himself up against the headboard, staring down at you with sympathy and concern.

"y/n.. i know you want to but can't you just text your friend a greeting? who knows what'll happen to you."

his finger would brush a stray strand of your hair away from your forehead as your eyes would meet his. you felt so loved knowing he would care so much for your safety.. not knowing the heinous intent underlying his words.

still, you wanted to go. you haven't been out in so long and you've felt like the last few days you've been spending at rin's place was getting a bit excessive. weren't you overstaying your welcome? not that rin ever said so.

upon noticing the apprehensive look glossing over your eyes, he'd then start to reassure you.

"hey.. it's okay, if you want you can go on the next party."

with a gentle voice, he'd rub your shoulder and assure you that if everything will be okay as long as you stay at home, that your being at you friend's party could potentially bring them in danger because who wouldn't want a pretty girl like you?

sighing, you'd agree to his words and snuggle up closer to him. rin, seeing your affirmation, would press a soft kiss to your forehead as your vision would dart to the television once more.

"it's better to stay with me, y/n. the sooner you learn that, the better."

---

( a/n: kill me.. hehe )

[qierxing]

Yan!Trey x Yan! Succubus Cater x Reader

CW/TW: Noncon, Toxic expectations,Pregnancy mention, Cater's gender and sex is Ambiguous, Reader has AFAB genitalia but is still referred w/ G/N terms & is implied to be infertile, unconsensual polygamy, womb tattoo

Finding prey is rather entertaining sometimes.

—

Imagine being in a loving marriage with Trey.

Or you once were, and now, it's become a shriveled shell of itself.  You don't really...remember where it started going downhill. Maybe it's when he started asking you about how you feel about children and how you have to awkwardly respond that your body physically can't give birth. You starkly remember how his eyes had dimmed that day in disappointment.

Still, you held hope that you didn't need a child to keep your relationship loving. But as each day passes and the way the two of you drift apart, the more you begin to get disheartened. 

You've long resigned yourself to this dead marriage, only barely kept alive by old burnt kindlings of past happy memories. And as Trey spends more time out and away, you're sure it's only a matter of time when he doesn't ever return back to the apartment you two used to call home.

But he does, and not alone. 

Cater's a pretty little thing, you have to admit with a dull ache in your chest as Trey introduces her. Luscious red locks, bright green eyes and a fair complexion to match; it almost seems like she's too perfect. There's only a heavy tiredness in your chest as you watch Trey smile so brightly at her, the way he used to smile at you. 

You can only clench your teeth and nod as Cater holds your hands and asks if she can stay for dinner. Perhaps some part of you should get angry, yell at Trey for cheating on you so blatantly, or tell Cater to get the hell out. But it all fizzles as you catch them fucking each other, in your shared bedroom.

And as you stare down at the divorce papers in your hands, you can only feel relief. Even though you should be angry or sad, you're just…glad that Trey could find someone else to love, to give him what he wants. Cater seems like such a bright and cheerful person. It hurts, more than anything else, that it couldn't be you, but…perhaps it is one last act of love that you couldn't find it in yourself to leave with bad memories. This could give you the clean break you’ve always wanted.

Except, when you return back to the apartment, your husband is nowhere to be found. Only Cater, who beams at the sight of you and immediately dragging you to cook spicy curry together. It's surprising how easy it is to get along with her, even if she is the reason why there's divorce papers stuffed in your raincoat pocket. And the more you spend time with her, the more you begin to like her and realize how lucky Trey was to have found such a wonderful, cheery lady who has the most entertaining stories and anecdotes to pass the time. She doesn’t insult you at all like you expected, instead listening intently to your small talk and complimenting your decoration skills in the apartment.

"I'm glad to have met you." She says with glimmering eyes. And you can only think the same in return when the door opens.

Trey rushes to you, fear and worry clouding his eyes and you're taken back when he asks where you were and why weren't you answering your phone. Trey turns his wrath on Cater for not texting him that you had returned home, and you can only smile in mild amusement at the banter that ensues. 

It's agonizing, quietly inquiring if you could talk to Trey alone for a moment. The two of you sit across from each other at the wooden dining table, but the distance seems to be so long.

When you set down the divorce papers in front of Trey, you had thought of many situations that might occur. Maybe he would also be relieved, perhaps sad, or possibly guilty. But what you never could’ve expected is him getting angry, telling you with a cold voice that you would never be apart from him, tearing the papers into shreds. Something in you snaps, from irritability or having to just endure so many things from the past years, as you scream at Trey to take the damn mercy you were offering him and–

You're cut mid yell as something pinches your neck and you collapse to the floor, rendered immobile. Your eyes frantically swivel to see decorated red diamond converse walking in front of you, with a familiar voice giggling.

“Gosh, you’re lucky I was here, or they would’ve absolutely left you.”

It's the last thing you can recall when you wake up in your bedroom, ankle chained like an animal to a bedpost. As you try desperately to get the iron shackle off, an arm slithers around your waist and tugs you back into Trey's chest. You kick and yell, demanding to know what is going on, as Trey chides you for being so unfaithful.

Your blood runs cold when another voice chimes in. It doesn’t really start to seep in until you see red hair peek into the moonlight, then bright green eyes next. 

No, you aren’t really scared until you look closer.

Her jawline has gotten angular, cheekbones much more prominent and his figure more lean and lithe, all sharp and no softness to be found. Were her arms always that muscular? When Cater leans forward to cage you in and your horror multiplies at how he (?) grins.

“I made some changes, do ya like it?” Poison green eyes glint under the moonlight and you can only get lost in them with a ditzy smile as you’re put under a spell that you can’t explain. It makes you limp in their arms as they take you relentlessly, filling you with endless thick, white cum that spills over your skin and thighs, heating up your stomach and making your brain go empty and blissed out. Their stamina together is relentless, and it only continues when you pass out.

By the time morning comes around, you’re filled with mortification at how the two are still wrapped around you, cocks somehow warming your tight cunt and a foreign marking burned into the skin on your belly.

“Now we’ll actually have a family together…” Trey sleepily mumbles in your ear, sending your world crashing down.

You don’t know how you can escape, both the men and the glowing mark on your womb.

[south-of-heaven]

Do you think you could do a part 2 to the BRE x reader where the reader works at the cafe ?

Dinner and a movie || The BRE x Reader

Summary: After a few more flirty encounters at the cafe you're invited to dinner and a movie at the BRE house. Cafe crush part two.

A/N: I think I have an unhealthy obsession with Jess's accent...

As you closed up the cafe after your shift you still feel the remnants of butterflies in your stomach from the flirty encounters you'd had with four very special women over the last few weeks. Little did you know, these encounters were leading up to something more exciting.

As you were about to lock the door, you looked up to see Shayna, Charlie, Mia, and Jessamyn approaching. Your heart skipped a beat as they greeted you with warm smiles.

"Hey, there!" Shayna's voice was as smooth as ever.

"We were thinking," Charlie chimed in, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "since you've been feeding us amazing coffee for weeks now, how about we feed you dinner tonight?"

Your surprise must have shown on your face, because Mia chuckled. "That's right. We want to treat you."

Jess, who had been quiet so far, stepped forward. "Yeah, it would be great to spend more time together outside of the cafe."

With a little bit of hesitation, you agreed, exchanging numbers with Jessamyn to receive the address. After closing up the cafe, you headed home to get ready for the evening.

In your apartment, you stood before your closet, contemplating what to wear. The evening seemed casual but special, so you opted for a comfortable yet slightly dressy outfit. Once satisfied, you got dressed and took a deep breath before heading out.

Arriving at the address Jessamyn had texted you, your heart pounded as you knocked on the door. It was Charlie who answered, and her welcoming smile immediately put you at ease. She led you inside, and the warm aroma of cooked food filled the air.

The table was beautifully set, and your eyes widened at the spread before you. Shayna and Jess had prepared a delicious dinner, and the dining room felt cozy and inviting.

Conversation flowed easily as you all sat down to eat. You learned more about each other's backgrounds, interests, and even shared a few laughs. Shayna's stoic demeanor was softened as she shared amusing stories, while Jessamyn's southern lilt made you feel at ease.

After dinner, you found yourselves lounging on the couch. A movie played on the television, but your attention was on the lively conversation that continued. It was like you had known each other for ages, and the laughter and connection felt genuine.

As the night grew later, you found yourself leaning back against the couch, surrounded by the BRE members. The movie's audio faded into the background as you exchanged stories, opinions, and even some playful banter.

At one point, Shayna draped an arm over the back of the couch, her fingers brushing against your shoulder. Charlie leaned in closer to share a funny anecdote, and Mia playfully teased Jessamyn about her occasional deadpan humor.

The evening was perfect, and you couldn't help but marvel at how comfortable you felt with these incredible women. It was as if your connection had been instant, and you were grateful for the chance to get to know them on a deeper level.

As the night came to a close, the clock ticking past midnight, you knew that this was just the beginning of something special. You exchanged goodbyes, knowing that the bonds you had formed over the course of the evening were genuine and promising.

Walking back to your car with a heart full of gratitude and excitement, you couldn't help but smile. This unexpected night had turned into a memorable experience, one that you would cherish for a long time to come.

[supergoopersworld]

Hello sickos. Has been a while hasn’t it?

I would like to give you a long string of excuses but my first post turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy because I almost lost my password. ALMOST.

Last time I was here in earnest I said I would take you all for a ride down memory lane and explain the genesis of Quinton Reviews discourse, so let’s get us started.

Part I: Humble beginnings

Warning: Tons of text

While a good deal of Quinton’s early videography has been unlisted or deleted, I’ll start here (2016-2017) to lay some context. The channel started largely as a collection of reviews of (mostly) very niche media done in a style reminiscent of Channel Awesome and early Mr Enter and was (mostly) intended to amuse Q and his friends.

Back then the channel largely served as a creative outlet to cope with the average retail worker experience. Like every person that starts a YouTube channel, the Quinton Reviews gang was largely talking to nobody until they started to beat dead horses other cartoon reviewers back then had beaten into mush like Rapsittie Street Kids: Believe in Santa.

Quinton had managed to garner a small audience but like every other YouTuber that wished to grow around 2014-2017, Q decided to jump into commentary videos in order to avoid having to go back to Dollar General. While a considerable amount of Q’s backlog (both the awkward early days and the riskiest commentary) has been expunged (with no one caring to preserve it) they did help build the first incarnation of the Quinton Reviews fanbase. Funny enough, these videos serve best to showcase why Q became (relatively) popular in the first place: he was a scrubby, greasy Everyman that lucked out in a YouTube landscape that was already showing favoritism towards people with looks and generic content. His (then) predilection for not moralizing the subjects of his videos also made him seem more down-to-earth that most of his contemporaries in commentary, a genre that has always favored outrage over levelheaded discussion.

A good example would be his video on Logan Paul’s apology after the incident that we all know about and doesn’t bear repeating. Quinton is charitable to Logan’s regret of how he presented the situation and believes he does have remorse. Granted, a good deal of those videos that would ironically serve to show a favorable side of his character have been hidden so most of this character profile runs on anecdotes but point stands. Q was quite literally a different guy than the ‘unwilling Nick historian’ he is known as today.

Q’s relation to this era of his channel is complicated. He cringes at it and says that these videos were only made to fund his creative endeavors (read reviews and short films). Retroactively Fallen Titans was explained as marriage of convenience between commentary and reviews of media he grew up with since as the series ran on it became more and more clear he didn’t have some grand point to make outside of he no longer enjoying legacy YouTubers.

All that we need to remember to keep going in that Q has a quite complicated relationship with talking about other YouTubers and passing judgement on their character.

And with context we can finally jump to why a not insignificant amount of people ‘hate his guts’.

So we established Quinton Reviews was a commentary channel like every other YouTube channel was in the mid 2010s. What else did channels that wanted to grow in the mid 2010s do?

Align with the skeptics.

[manuscripts-dontburn]

Foreign Bodies: Pandemics, Vaccines, and the Health of Nations

Author: Simon Schama

First published: 2023

Rating: ★★★☆☆

This is a difficult one to rate. On one hand, the research and language are top-notch, and the story Simon Schama had chosen to tell is extremely interesting. At the same time the book, from its title and synopsis, promises something other (a more or less comprehensive look at pandemics in history and the development of vaccination) than what is eventually given. Instead, the author focuses on several little-known personalities from the medical fields of the 19th/ early 20th century, who saved an incomprehensible number of lives through their discoveries and application of science - yet the world did not thank them. Schama has a talent for telling stories, but more often than not he elaborately explains what could be a footnote, which can be irritating at times. Simply put, there is a great deal to learn from this book, but it is not necessarily the exact lesson that you wanted.

The Marriage Portrait

Author: Maggie O'Farrell

First published: 2022

Rating: ★★★★★

A stunning book that truly feels like a series of paintings. The author, just like she had done it with Hamnet, is capable of creating an extremely sensory experience of capturing a moment in time: it is not just visual but evokes the feelings of touch, smell, and sound. Entrapped in the mind of a young girl, the reader cannot help but follow her at every step with feelings of profound sympathy and worry. Exquisite.

Olga Romanov: Russia's Last Grand Duchess

Author: Patricia Phenix

First published: 1999

Rating: ★★★☆☆

This is one of those books that are rather simplistic in their approach to the subject matter and thus quite easily and quickly readable. It does provide the basics on Olga Alexandrovna and even provides some little-known anecdotes from her life (that I have not yet read anywhere else), but given casual errors and mistakes scattered throughout the text I was a little apprehensive about their validity. Where the book really gives you something new and interesting are the last few chapters, which deal with Olga´s later life and especially behaviour of her sons and other family members. Those parts truly made me sad.

One For My Enemy

Author: Olivie Blake

First published: 2003

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

Once upon a time, for whatever reason (probably because their names sounded cool - and that was also why they were repeated multiple times on every single page), Baba Yaga with her daughters and Koschei the Deathless with his sons ran a drug market in New York. There was some serious hanky-panky between the kids, who would just not stay dead so there is no point in being emotionally invested throughout. And they all talked way too much and it all became extremely, extremely boring. No, seriously, why were these "Russian" people in the US in the first place?

The Little Book of Saints

Author: Various

First published: 2009

Rating: ★★★★★

A lovely collection of vintage pictures of various saints accompanied by short and concise hagiographies. For a non-Catholics a good basic resource on the "saints" part of the Catholic history and a visual study of what our ancestors found appealing to look at. For Catholics, a nice "keep by the bed" or a "Christmas stocking filler" book. For me personally also a souvenir from the Melrose Abbey in Scottland.

The Moonstone

Author: Wilkie Collins

First published: 1868

Rating: ★★★★☆

Probably one of the first (if not the first) "Who Done It" books that I must admit hold up. I very much enjoyed the format, found genuinely amusing places, and did not unravel the mystery myself. that said one should be patient while reading, because the tempo is anything but swift - which I did not mind, since I found being in various heads and meeting the characters intimately, but might grate on the nerves of other readers looking for a thrill instead of a slow unraveling of a secret.

Royal Education: Past, Present and Future

Author: Peter Gordon, Denis Lawton

First published: 1999

Rating: ★★★☆☆

The book introduces the basics about how the English monarchs from the Tudor era to Princes William and Harry were educated, however very little is drawn out as a conclusion of that education. Not bad if you are solely interested in the subject, but if you want to learn more about the monarchs themselves, pick up a biography or two.

Atalanta

Author: Jennifer Saint

First published: 2023

Rating: ★★★★☆

Of the three books by Jennifer Saint, I think I enjoyed this one the most so far. her books are "telling" rather than "re-tellings" of classical Greek myths and Lord knows the Quest of the Golden Fleece had always struck me as an over-long sausage fest (with sausages being mostly rotten), so to see it from the point of view of Atalanta, the only Greek female hero who was allowed to actually hero, was refreshing. On one hand one could decry the fact that Saint sticks to the original story a little too much, not taking the chance to twist the turns and change much more. On the other hand, the same thing could be seen as a positive, and since I found the book very readable and Atalanta´s inner search for herself the main backbone of it all, I can declare myself a satisfied reader.

Cuckoo Song

Author: Frances Hardinge

First published: 2014

Rating: ★★★★☆

I was enticed by the beginning and very curious about how it would all come about, the creepy vibes were present and yet again one is just surprised at how many ideas are born in Frances Hardinge´s head. Unfortunately, I felt the book was a bit too long and the last few chapters made me impatient for the ending.

The Burgundians: A Vanished Empire

Author: Bart Van Loo

First published: 2018

Rating: ★★★★★

Fantastic! Bart Van Loo proudly presents the history of his region, which tends to be overlooked for the sake of "greater" countries and personalities, but as he shows, the Burgundy played an extremely vital role in the historical evolution of European geography and politics for centuries. He skillfully manages to guide the reader through the names, battles and years by doing exactly what a good historian should always do: connect the facts to real people, their culture, and their individual personalities.

[sternenbeleuchtet]

dear bestfriend

E.:

It is only now that I truly appreciate the person you are. You are strong. Despite always having been different and shunned for it, you are remarkably kind, sensitive, and optimistic. You always see the good in people. I have rarely met an individual whose mind and soul is as pure as yours. I don’t think you’re even capable of willfully harming someone, or manipulation.

You are so open minded. You are non judgmental. You’re so compassionate, you understand. Your view of the world is just admirable.

You’re one hell of a lot smarter than some people would give you credit for. Even after I have dumped you and treated you like trash, you were kind to me, as if nothing happened.

I apologize. If I could do things differently, I would. You were a great friend, and you’re a unique person.

I hope you reach your goals. I hope you find happiness. You deserve it.

Please never change. Please remain the joyful person you are. There needs to be more people like you in the world. Thank you. You’re so kind and gentle, I am glad I have met you. In all our years of friendship you’ve always been well meaning towards me. Always.

J.:

I have a lot to say to you. The start of our friendship was an intriguing and unconventional one, and so was the whole time between us. All the philosophical discussions, all of those geeky jokes. I miss it. Truly. I miss talking to you. I miss the lengthy texts. I miss learning about your past.

I miss hearing about the amusing things you’ve done. I miss hearing about your childhood.

You were like a brother. You’re a very unique individual. One of the best people I’ve met.

An outsider would have said that you’re a creep for being friends with such a young girl, but it was never like that. You never saw me in that inappropriate way. You were more like a mentor to me. And in a way I guess I was a mentor to you too despite our age differences. We learned from each other. There was a sort of intellectual bond that was unique. We were very different in some ways, we even agreed on that, but despite of that, we were alike in some way, too. A lot alike.

You’re different. You’re such a mature, well adjusted person. You’re compassionate, progressive in your thinking, you’re amazing. I hope you realize that and I hope you never change. Stay the way you are.

I am sorry for what I’ve done. Now I realize, after all those years, how deeply I care for you. Maybe I’m delusional but at times I think we were soulmates, like soul-siblings. If things had gone differently I think we could’ve been best friends.

I like to envision the time we could’ve spent together. I like to picture how we could have met. We’d go to events together and you’d be taking nearly all the photos because you’re such a good photographer. We’d talk about all sorts of deep stuff and we’d exchange anecdotes of our past, or make geeky jokes. You’d beat the shit out of me at those quiz games because you’re a fucking history dork, who has a whole bloody encyclopedia of history in his head and I can’t keep up with it remotely.

I think we’d travel together, see beautiful places. I’d tell you about the obscure stuff, like the folklore, and you’d go more into detail about the history.

Enough with daydreaming. I guess in another universe that’s how things could’ve went.

I want you to know you’ve been a good friend to me. I want you to know I cared more about you than I used to think. I want you to know you’ll remain part of my memory, that, I appreciate you more than you think. That I miss you. That I appreciate the time we had together.

K.:

You came into my life relatively late, and pretty randomly. I’ve come to realize that all good friendships start pretty randomly. You’re a strong and remarkable person. I think deep down you know you are— and I want you to remember.

Do not doubt yourself. You can overcome your struggles. There’s always a way. You’re passionate. You’re intense. You’re incredibly strong willed. So much shit you’ve seen yet you keep fighting. And the fight will be worth every second. Because I know it will pay out.

I like all of your sides. I like everything that is perhaps unorthodox to another person. I like the way you express your anger so openly. I like how you do not hide who you are. I like how freely you express your emotions. There’s strength in that. I like how despite of everything, you keep going, you keep caring, you keep fighting for others despite your own struggles. I know one day you’ll reach happiness. I think you’ve already arrived at a point much closer to that, than you realize. You’re progressing. And one day, suddenly, before you truly realize it, you’re happy.

I want you to know that you’re a valuable person and the universe has much to offer to you. You’re YOU— and there is no one else like you. Own it.

And I love your beautiful singing voice, btw. Keep writing songs.

[madmaru2010]

Baby Dyke*

How old was she? I don't remember exactly, I only know that I was no older than 10 or 11 years old.

Across the street from my childhood home was a valuable piece of municipal land. Those stretches of land in towns that are like the jokers or the Hogwarts Room of Requirement, a place that becomes whatever you want it to be. A paddock, the setting for learning to ride a bicycle, and from time to time, the temporary home of a traveling circus or amusement park.

I remember, when circuses allowed animals, listening from my bed to the roar of famelic lions that were more sad than scary, or the gray streaks of a rickety elephant. What happened to those critters! The advent of Green Peace and similar organizations, as well as the discovery of ecology, put an end to circuses with Bengal tigers and acrobatic horses. Also with zoos, although don't ask me why I wanted to visit them, the circuses and the zoos. I was fascinated and saddened at the same time to see all those wonderful species, different, magnificent in their eccentricity locked up and condemned to perish.

I don't know why but now I associate that at the same time that the defense of the environment and the species in extinction was taking place in society, coincidentally, homosexuality was no longer considered a disease.

On May 17, 1990, the WHO removed homosexuality from the International Classification of Diseases (ICD), specialists highlighted the widespread consensus that homosexuality is a natural variation of human sexuality and cannot be considered a pathological condition.

Green Peace was born in 1971, when a group of Canadian anti-nuclear activists embarked on board the old fishing boat Phyllis Cormack to protest against the nuclear tests that the United States was carrying out in the Amchitka archipelago, in Alaska. Their goal: to prevent the bomb from being detonated by placing themselves in the center of the test site.

In the summers of 1978 and 1980 the first Rainbow Warrior ship had confronted the whaling fleet still in Spain, trying to prevent their catch.

It always struck me that his ship was named after the same rainbow that represents LGBT rights. And that he was the warrior who defended the most valuable species from the clutches of their predators.

But the memory that this text brings back to me is that of an amusement park that was installed on that property in front of my parents' house when I was still an elementary school student.

I remember the garlands of lights, the creepy music that could be heard every night, a ghost train whose structure, riddled with holes, let so much light into the interior that it was more frightening than frightening, or even scary.

The star of that park that remained in my memory was a huge round-the-world ride. Or at least I remember it as huge. Surely it was a precarious installation, with countless missing or wobbly pieces, with more than one loose screw, a screaming call to the tragedy that we kids from a city with a small-town personality climbed on every summer.

To better understand this anecdote, I suffer from severe vertigo, that is, I get dizzy just getting on the curb. But my best friend, a red-haired girl whose skin was an infinite constellation of freckles, invited me to take the ride around the world and I followed her in rapt attention.

I remember every moment, the two of us sitting on that wobbly stool, holding on to a crossed pipe that acted as a very unconvincing safety bar. I remember getting to the top and staying there, stopped, stranded, shipwrecked. I don't know if it was because of a malfunction or because they were slow in getting people up or down, but I still feel like I'm there.

Vertigo is a kind of painful nausea that strangles your stomach, blurs your vision and your limbs feel like rubber. It's really feeling like you're falling. Any resemblance to falling in love is on the reader.

Up there, in the rocking cart, watching the languid white church tower stand proudly against the blue sky and the evening sun melting into a ruby gold pool on the horizon, vertigo mixed with the happiness of being on top of the world, far away from everything, in that layer of invisibility that height gives, trapped with that red-haired girl who happily laughed at the park, at the experience, and at my vertigo that today more than fear of heights seems like fear of realizing how much I enjoyed that closeness out of sight of everyone, that moment of intimacy with a friend who gave me butterflies in my belly and I didn't know it.

When I think about my approach to women throughout my history nausea was always present. But it's not disgust, I realize today, it's vertigo, it's knowing you're walking through a narrow gap between a land you don't want to belong to and the precipice. That feeling of wanting and fearing to take a leap into that void that is as desirable as it is threatening. It is the irrepressible desire to launch yourself into free fall that beats in every cell. It is knowing that sooner or later you are going to jump.

Vertigo is not the fear of falling, but the desire to jump.” -Milan Kundera

*

Note: *This word is used in slang to refer in pejorative terms to lesbians or lesbianism in general, especially lesbians with appearance or clothing considered far from the cultural canons of femininity. In this sense, we are in line with other derogatory terms such as “machorra”, “camiona”, “marimacho/a”, “chicazo”, “amachada”, “virago”, “chongo” or “butch”. In recent times, however, the lesbian women's collective itself has made this word its own, reappropriating it to use it in a positive sense. Baby dyke: young lesbian or recently out of the closet. It is also used, within the LGBT community, to refer to lesbians who want to be “butch” but do not succeed.

[copypastasforfun]

Dear Guildmates,

I hope this message finds you well. Lately, though, I have noticed a concerning trend within our guild that I feel compelled to address: the overuse of copypastas. While I understand that humor plays a significant role in our interactions, the excessive reliance on copypastas is becoming frustrating and detrimental to our overall experience. Copypastas began as funny one-liners or short anecdotes that added a touch of amusement to our conversations. However, they should not be our main form of communication. The constant bombardment of repetitive, mindless text dilutes meaningful conversations and discourages genuine engagement within our guild. Let's remember that we are a community gathered around our shared passion for the game. Engaging in thoughtful discussions and respectful exchanges will not only strengthen our bond but also enhance our gameplay experiences. While humor has its place, it should not encompass our entire guild culture. I kindly request that we collectively consider reducing the excessive use of copypastas and instead focus on fostering more productive and engaging conversations. Let's strive for balance in our guild interactions and encourage a positive environment where everyone feels valued and heard. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation.

[iln2001contextualstudies]

Modernity Research Report

The Modern Pace of Life in a Digital Era

In a simple statement, Sherry Turkle writes in her essay Alone Together, “Moments of more may leave us with less.” (Turkle, 2011, p.154) It is this concept of having more time, more accessibility, more speed, more connection in the digital era that I wanted to look at because, as we all have experienced first-hand in our daily realities, this seemingly positive advancement carries soaring highs and dire lows. With the ability to be connected so easily and constantly we are able to live and work without constraints of place or physical space. Essentially, we are able to be active in the physical and virtual reality all at once. In fact, I’d say that when Turkle published this in 2011, this concept of the shift from multi-tasking to “multi-lifing” is our natural reality today. It doesn’t feel strange for my generation. It’s a natural way of living each day, able to quickly connect, interact, research, document, etc. It truly is, as Turkle put it, “our twenty-first century alchemy.” (Turkle, 2011, p.155)

But more often, our alchemy, the ability to multitask and respond to life with ease and speed is less a power tool but more a treadmill and we have forgotten where the off button is. We are championed for being quick and efficient: both in our in work and in our social lives. The more you achieve quickly the more time you free up, the more you get done, or the more you can take on. Socially speaking, it’s fascinating to consider the speed of communication from letters, telegrams, quick calls, cellphones and now we are able to send the ultimate quick text as a time saving method, without committing to an entire interaction with another human.

So, the more time we are freeing up, the more time we are filling up. Turkle writes, ‘When psychologists study multitasking, they do not find a story of new efficiencies. Rather, multitaskers don’t perform as well on any of the tasks they are attempting. But multitasking feels good because the body rewards it with neurochemicals that induce a multitasking “high.” We feel the productivity and are addicted to it.

This brings up the question regarding our physical adaptation to this pace change. One would think that with all the activity increase, our physical business would increase as well. But this being busier actually has had the opposite effect on our physical wellbeing and emotional wellbeing. The World Health Organization’s latest released report stated that more than 80% of adolescents and 27% of adults do not meet the recommended levels of physical activity. This type of inactivity physically with an overactive mental state has huge ramifications for us as a whole. We need downtime; time to process and rest, both physiologically and emotionally. Without this time of unplugging, we are more susceptible to fatigue, rash decision making, illness, trouble focusing and social withdrawal, among a plethora of other side effects.

That brings me to the woman I sat and researched for this report: Amy Blankson. She is the Co-founder and CEO of the Digital Wellness Institute, a member of the UN Global Happiness Council and author of The Future of Happiness: 5 Modern Strategies for Balancing Productivity and Well-Being in the Digital Era. In a written review of her book, review author Barry Silverstein writes, “Were it not for her optimism, Amy Blankson’s relationship with the digital era might be easily summed up: “Technology is the biggest disrupter of happiness in human history.” (Silverstein, 2017, p. 80) But Amy holds a refreshing and practical optimism around our digital lives. In her TED Talk presentation in 2019, she opens with an amusing anecdote about being literally held captive by technology. A man, locked inside an ATM machine, unable to call for help, unable to be heard or get out, sends messages out of the money slot. Most people just think it’s a prank and leave, however, someone finally takes it seriously and calls the police.

This ATM anecdote leads to her outlining three simple steps for us to take in regaining control of our digital lives. A: Awareness. A challenge to start being aware of how one tunes in vs. tuning out while using our tech devices, encouraging mindful activity. T: Transformation. Changing our less positive engagements with our technology and resetting the habits. This can be done by a cleanse, a set amount of less hours or blocking of apps and noticing what one misses and feels relieved over having less. This introduces communication vs. burnout, productivity vs. time-wasting. And the final one: M: Magnification. Using the first two, magnification is the setting of these positive interactions with our technology. It gives us the reins back, ie. no longer trying to keep up with our email’s pace, but making our email work for us.

I personally found all these bits of research very helpful and timely. Living here in the center of London, I am experiencing modernity unlike I have before, coming from a very small town in the northern mountains of California. Experiencing life in a metropolis this size, while putting in overtime hours in university and juggling a part time job on top of it all has its hamster wheel days. It is a clear reminder to take the time I need to soak. To process and rest rather than recover.

Sources:

Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other (New York: Basic Books, 2011), pp. 151–170.

Forbes Magazine, Amy Blankson (2022) The Rise Of The ‘Slow Productivity’ Movement, Available at https://www.forbes.com/sites/amyblankson/2022/10/24/the-rise-of-the-slow-productivity-movement/?sh=1184b3c32c1a

World Health Organization, Global status report on physical activity 2022. Available at https://www.who.int/publications/i/item/9789240059153

TEDx Talks, Amy Blankson, The Future of Happiness: Getting Unstuck in the Digital Era. (2019) Available at: https://youtu.be/FZ29nFINxkg?si=BCJrefBT_RLkkbS9

[socialladtech]

Creating Compelling Content: Step-By-Step Method For Writing Intriguing Facebook Stories

Stories on Facebook is a feature that enables users to publish ephemeral content such as images and short films that vanish after 24 hours. It was launched back in 2017 in response to the success of similar services on Snapchat and Instagram. Users can post content to their own Stories by tapping the "Your Story" icon at the top of their Facebook News Feed.

The interactive and engaging aspect of Facebook Stories is one of the key reasons for its success. Users can enhance their artistic expression by adding stickers, filters, and text to their stories. Furthermore, Facebook provides multiple of unique and engaging features such as polls, questions, and swipe-up links that allow users to communicate with their audience more efficiently.

It provides a wonderful chance for businesses and marketers to connect with their audience on a more personal level. Stories can be used by brands to highlight new items, share behind-the-scenes content, etc. Additionally, Facebook provides powerful analytics for Stories, allowing businesses to analyze interaction and evaluate the impact of their content.

However, some users are concerned about their privacy because Stories are viewable to every one of their friends by default. Facebook has incorporated privacy options that allow users to manage who may see their Stories but individuals must be aware of their settings to keep control over the display of their content.

How To Create Eye-Catching Fb Stories?

Creating visually appealing Facebook Stories requires a combination of engaging content, innovative design, and clever use of existing capabilities. 

Here's a step-by-step method for writing intriguing stories that will captivate your audience.

Clear Idea

Begin with a clear concept of what message or story you wish to express or tell: Consider the main idea or message you want to convey before you begin crafting your Facebook Story. It could be about a new product, a personal experience, or something else entirely.

Consider whether your Story's goal is to inform, entertain, advertise, or engage your audience: Recognise the purpose of your Story. Are you attempting to educate your audience on a new product, amuse them with a hilarious anecdote, advertise an event, or engage them with your content? Knowing your purpose will help you create content.

High-Quality Visuals

Capture or choose high-quality photographs and videos for your Story: It is critical to employ clear, high-quality graphics. Images that are blurry or pixelated can turn off viewers.

Make sure your visuals have proper lighting and composition: Proper lighting and composition improve the overall quality of your photographs and movies.

Creative Elements

To make your material more interesting, add stickers, GIFs, emojis, and text overlays: These creative additions add individuality and excitement to your Stories, making them more visually appealing.

To complement your business or personal aesthetic, experiment with different fonts, colors, and styles: Text overlays and design elements can be customized to match your brand's branding or taste. Aside from this, you may also use Ads spy tool for spying on your competitors ads effectively. Aside from this, you may also use Ads spy tool for spying on your competitors ads effectively.

Utilize Filters 

To enhance your visuals, Facebook provides several filters and effects: Investigate the filters and effects available on the Stories of Facebook platform to add a personal touch to your work.

Try the following to make your content stand out: Different filters and effects can help your Stories stand out in viewers' feeds and capture their attention.

Tell a Story

In storytelling, sequencing is essential: arrange your content logically and consistently. There should be a beginning, middle, and end to every story.

Use the "Create" option to incorporate interactive features such as polls, questions, and quizzes: The "Create" mode on Facebook includes interactive tools that might help you engage your audience and keep them interested in your Story.

How Long Do Stories Last On Facebook?

It normally lasts 24 hours after they are posted. This 24-hour window is intended to encourage people to post more spontaneous and time-sensitive content. When a Story reaches the end of its 24-hour lifespan, it is automatically removed from the user's profile and the feeds of their friends. However, there are a few important details to know concerning the duration of Facebook Stories.

Facebook allows you to save Stories to your archive, where you may later revisit and republish them as Highlights on your profile. These Highlights can be viewed after the initial 24-hour period, allowing you to show off your most memorable or important Stories to a larger audience. Also Watch: Revolutionize Advertising with AI-Based Ad Intelligence Tool

Wrapping Up!

Lastly, the Facebook Stories provide a fantastic chance for businesses and marketers to connect with their target audience on a more personal level. Brands can develop true relationships and foster customer loyalty with interactive features, creative tools, and storytelling potential. 

Because of the variety of Stories, there's a place for you in this immersive digital canvas, whether you're an individual looking to connect with friends or a brand hoping to engage your customers.