#Skeptical Spectacles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mischievoushiddleston · 5 months ago

Text

Jealous? Never.

Tim Bradford x Reader

Materlist Here!

The sun warmed Y/N's skin as she got out of her patrol car. She paused for a moment, letting the stress of the day fall away and simply enjoying the peace and quiet. Her eyes closed for a split second before she was suddenly snapped out of her thoughts by a familiar, teasing voice.

“Daydreaming, Officer Y/L/N?” The words were accompanied by an unmistakable scent that enveloped her, as it often did, before she even turned around.

Y/N slowly lifted her gaze and met Sergeant Bradford's piercing blue eyes, which, as always, scrutinized her impassively.

“No, Sergeant Bradford,” she replied with a slight smile that emphasized her own teasing. “I was just enjoying the peace and quiet ... at least until you showed up.” She closed the patrol car door with a soft click before pushing past him and walking over to the table where Angela and Harper were already seated.

“No food?” Harper looked at her with raised eyebrows, her voice carrying a hint of surprise.

Y/N shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "My rookie will take care of it. There's something reassuring about it. Now I understand why Tim always let me do it." She gave Tim an amused sideways glance, while he merely shook his head and made a skeptical sound.

Angela, who was watching the spectacle with a broad grin, leaned forward and changed the subject. “Anyway,” she began, "I heard you had a date yesterday? How did it go?"

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by her Rookie, who appeared just in time with a tray of food. She gave him a grateful nod, waited until he was out of earshot again, and then took a deep breath. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she let the tension of Angela's question slide through her body.

“So?” Angela urged with a knowing glint in her eye.

“It wasn't as satisfying as I expected...” she admitted slowly.

“Go on,” Angela urged as she casually took a bite and looked at Y/N curiously.

Y/N sighed softly before she began to recount the disastrous date. The man she had gone out with turned out to be a completely incompetent jerk, and the whole date was a bust from start to finish. As she recounted the most embarrassing details, she secretly vowed never to go on a date again - at least not if it was just to distract herself from her own feelings.

Because deep down, she knew that she always found herself thinking about someone else. Someone who was unattainable. A man who was far too present in her fantasies and completely taboo in reality: Tim Bradford, her supervisor.

She kept talking, but the more she said, the more she became aware of the unusual silence emanating from the side where Tim was sitting. Normally, he could hardly resist a sarcastic comment or a biting remark when she complained about something. But this time there was nothing. Not a word.

Maybe she was just imagining things? Maybe he just didn't feel like taking part in the conversation. But the longer the moment went on, the heavier the tension became. She risked a furtive glance at him, only to find him silent and with an indefinable expression in his eyes.

Was it disinterest? Or perhaps something else? Uncertainty gnawed at her, and she had to force herself to turn her attention back to Angela and Harper, even though she was already beginning to rethink her words.

Eventually the topic drifted, and Y/N tried to concentrate, to really listen, as Angela and Harper took the conversation in a new direction. But as much as she wanted to, her thoughts seemed to keep wandering back to Tim. His silence, his look - everything suddenly seemed more meaningful than it probably was.

“I could set you up with one of my cousins,” Angela suddenly interjected with an amused smile, as if she'd had a flash of inspiration.

The words had barely been spoken when Tim stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly across the floor and he reached for his barely touched food.

“Break over,” he explained curtly, but there was an underlying growl in his voice that Y/N heard all too clearly. It was so quiet that Harper and Angela might have missed it, but Y/N sensed the tension in his words.

She frowned involuntarily, watching as he marched away with quick steps and finally got into his car. The door slammed so hard that the bang echoed through the air.

“Someone's in a bad mood,” Harper muttered, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth without taking his eyes off Tim's car.

Y/N just hummed softly, an indeterminate response, as she replayed the scene over and over in her head. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his behavior. Eventually, she rose as well and set off, but her heart beat faster as she approached her car.

The rest of the shift passed without incident, but Y/N struggled to really concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to Tim, his unusual tension and the unspoken words that hung between them. When the shift finally ended, she was both relieved and uneasy.

At the station, she dropped off her gear and began to get ready for the end of the shift. As she walked down the corridor, her gaze fell into the distance, where she saw Tim disappearing towards the changing rooms. Even from a distance, she could see his tense posture - the stiff shoulders, the quick steps. It was obvious that something was bothering him.

Y/N sighed softly, almost unconsciously, and followed him. As she came closer, their eyes crossed for a brief moment. She smiled cautiously, hoping to lighten the mood, but he didn't return it. His face remained expressionless, perhaps even more withdrawn than before, and he disappeared behind the door without a word.

An unpleasant feeling spread through her. Had she said or done something wrong? She went over the day's events in her mind, but couldn't find an obvious reason.

Suddenly John passed her and she took the opportunity to stop him. “Is something wrong with Tim?” Her voice sounded quiet, almost hesitant, but the concern in it was unmistakable.

John paused and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know... He's been like this since lunch,” he said casually before moving on, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Y/N sighed again, deeper this time, feeling even more at a loss than before. But she decided not to just go home without at least trying to figure things out. Reluctantly, she walked towards the changing rooms, her steps slower than usual. Maybe, just maybe, she would be fast enough to intercept him in the parking lot. It was a weak plan, but she knew she wouldn't get any rest all night otherwise.

When Y/N arrived at the parking lot, the disappointment was not long in coming. Tim's car had already disappeared, and with a frustrated sigh, she finally made her way home as well. The day had drained her, but the uncertainty and unspoken feelings weighed heavily on her.

As soon as she entered her apartment, she dropped her keys in the bowl in the hallway and ran a hand through her hair. Another disappointing day. Why did everything always have to be so complicated? The men she dated always turned out to be disappointments - idiots who couldn't come close to matching the man who was constantly on her mind.

Tim.

Why couldn't anyone be like him? Strong, resolute, reliable - and at the same time with an unconscious gentleness that touched her more than she would ever admit. These thoughts accompanied her to the bathroom, where she undressed with a sigh and stepped into the shower.

The warm water washed over her body, relieving the tension of the day, and she hung her head briefly before leaning against the tiles. Tim. His image forced itself into her mind again, so vividly that she could almost grasp it.

At first it had only been respect. His authority, his experience, his incomparable instinct - all that had made a deep impression on her. But over time, it had become something deeper, a feeling she could no longer ignore.

The water ran over her skin and she hummed softly to herself, enjoying how the heat relaxed her muscles. But then her thoughts drifted in a different direction. She imagined him looking at her - with that penetrating, all-encompassing gaze that always upset her.

Involuntarily, her hand slid to her breasts. In her imagination, it was his rough hands touching her sensitive skin, his fingers taking her nipple between them while he whispered soft, dirty words in her ear. A soft moan escaped her lips and a tingling sensation ran through her.

Her legs instinctively pressed together as she imagined his hard, muscular body pressed against hers, his erection rubbing firmly against her ass. His hands wandering determinedly over her stomach, sliding lower until they reached her pussy.

In her mind, it was Tim forcing her to open her legs with his knee, feeling her so intensely that she could barely breathe. Her hand followed her thoughts, touching her where she wanted to feel him, where the heat was strongest.

But before she could lose herself further in her fantasy, the sudden ringing of the doorbell snapped her out of her daydream.

Y/N paused, her hand trembling slightly as she found her way back to reality, breathing heavily. Whoever it was had ruined the perfect moment - and yet she wasn't sure if she was grateful or angry about it.

Y/N turned off the water, grabbed the towel and hastily wrapped it around her still damp body. The sudden ringing still echoed in her ears as she walked with quick, annoyed steps to the front door. Whoever it was had chosen miserable timing.

As she opened the door, ready to vent her frustration, she froze instantly. Her lips remained slightly parted, but no words came over her as she realized who stood before her.

“T-Tim?” Her voice trembled and her thoughts seemed to stop completely for a moment. The man in front of her, soaked from the rain, his blue eyes more intense than ever, left her unable to think clearly.

But before she could even understand what was happening, Tim closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was raw, demanding and full of suppressed emotion. Y/N stood transfixed for a moment, surprised by the sudden passion that overtook her.

But it didn't take long for her body to react. Her heart raced as she took the initiative, returning his touch and pulling him resolutely into the house. The door slammed shut behind them, the soft click drowned out by the sound of her own pulse.

Tim's hands were everywhere. They explored her body with an urgency that made her tremble. His fingers ran over her back, pulling her closer to him as he pressed her body against the cool wall. The thin towel covering her almost naked body suddenly felt like a barrier that they both wanted to get rid of immediately.

Their lips parted for a moment, and Y/N gasped for air before Tim planted hot kisses on the line of her neck, hitting her most sensitive spot and eliciting a soft gasp. His touch was firm yet demanding, his hands running over her waist, leaving her in no doubt as to how much he wanted her.

Her thoughts were blotted out, only the here and now mattered. And Tim. Only Tim.

With trembling hands, Y/N reached for the hem of his shirt. Her fingers touched his skin as she slowly pulled it over his head. The garment landed carelessly on the floor, but her attention was focused only on him. Her eyes slid over his muscular chest, sculpted by years of hard work and discipline.

With a mixture of awe and desire, her fingers traced the contours of his muscles, tracing each hard ridge of his chest and abs. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, as she felt his muscles tense under her fingers.

“Please... Tim,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper, but full of desire. Her hands traveled upward, caressing his shoulders and finally his neck, where she reached into his dark hair. She pulled him gently towards her while her body leaned longingly against his.

Tim paused for a moment, his penetrating eyes searching her gaze as if to make sure she was as devoted to the moment as he was. Then, without a word, he untied the towel that was wrapped around her body.

The fabric fell silently to the floor and the cool air of the room brushed against her now bare skin. Tim took half a step back, his eyes slowly gliding over her body. His gaze was intense, admiring, and his chest rose and fell noticeably faster as he looked at her.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely before leaning forward again. His lips found their way to her breast and a soft gasp escaped Y/N as he encircled one of her sensitive nipples with his mouth.

The warmth of his tongue, the gentle but determined way he spoiled her, made her heart beat faster. She placed one hand on his head, holding him there, while her other hand pressed against the wall behind her to keep her footing. His teeth brushed lightly over her sensitive skin, sending a shiver through her body.

Tim didn't give her a moment to think, his hands finding their way onto her hips, pulling her even closer to him as his lips left her breast and sought their way lower. Y/N's breathing became heavier, her thoughts blurred, and she lost herself in the sheer intensity of his touch.

Y/N's breath came in gasps as Tim released his lips from her breast. His hands remained firmly on her hips, his fingers leaving a burning desire on her skin. For a moment he looked at her, his gaze dark and full of passion. Without a word, he bent down slightly, lifting her up with ease and carrying her in his arms.

Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her face close to his. Her lips found his, and she kissed him hungrily as he walked down the hallway with firm steps. The intensity of the moment made her forget everything else - the soft creaking of the wooden floor, the distant sound of the rain outside. All that mattered was Tim.

Once in the bedroom, he pushed the door open with his foot and gently laid her on the bed. Y/N felt the cool sheets against her skin, but it was the heat of his body that she really sensed. He leaned over her, supporting himself with his arms while his face was only inches away from hers.

“Tim...” she whispered and placed her hands on his chest. Her fingers slid over the hard contours of his muscles before holding onto his pants. “Take your clothes off,” she added softly, her gaze urgent and full of desire.

A wry smile played around his lips, but his eyes remained serious, almost hungry. “As you wish,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

He straightened up as Y/N lay on the bed, watching his every movement with an impatient tingle. His hands reached for his belt, slowly undoing it before he slid his pants over his hips and let them slide carelessly to the floor. Underneath, he was only wearing a pair of tight-fitting boxer shorts that barely concealed how much he wanted her.

Y/N's gaze traveled over his body, over the definition of his muscles, the strong line of his thighs, and she bit her lower lip slightly. “Anything,” she whispered demandingly, a shy smile on her lips, but her eyes betrayed that she was serious.

Tim slowly removed his boxers, and Y/N's breath caught as he stood completely naked in front of her. His body was a perfect blend of strength and masculinity, and her thoughts were momentarily blotted out.

He stepped closer to the bed, bent down to her again and placed a hand on her cheek. “Are you sure?” he asked softly, his voice gentle but imbued with passion.

“Yes,” Y/N replied without hesitation, pulling him close until his body was once again close to hers. The moment was unstoppable, and she knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Tim let his gaze slide slowly over her body until it finally lingered between her spread thighs. His eyes were dark, almost devouring, and the expression on his face made Y/N's heart beat faster. With a slight squeeze of his knee, he pushed her legs even further apart and she willingly obeyed him, opening herself completely to him.

“So good,” he murmured in a low, raspy tone that sent a shiver down her spine. “You're perfect...all over.”

Y/N's breath hitched as she felt his hand stroke her thigh, slowly, almost torturously. His fingers traced small circles on her skin as his gaze deepened between her thighs. He shook his head slightly, a smug, crooked smile on his lips.

“Do you have any idea how crazy you're driving me?” His voice was husky, and as he spoke, he let his fingers trail higher, just below her most intimate spot. Y/N's body tensed in anticipation, a soft gasp escaping her.

“Tim...” she pleaded softly, her voice full of longing, but he seemed to be taking his time tormenting her.

“So impatient,” he teased her, leaning forward until his face was close to hers. "I've been thinking about you all day. About what you'd look like if I had you right in front of me... naked, ready, and all for me."

His words made her tremble, and another gasp escaped her lips as his fingers finally slipped between her legs. The contact was gentle, almost teasing, but it was enough to drive her mad.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice almost a growl as his fingers explored her further. "How hot you are? How wet?"

Y/N could only nod, unable to form words as her body arched toward him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, clawing into his skin as he slid one finger inside her and then added a second.

“You want more, don't you?” he asked as he slowly pleasured her with his fingers, driving her to the brink of madness. "Tell me. Tell me how much you want me."

“I ... I want you,” she gasped, her voice trembling with desire. “I need you, Tim ... please.”

The smile on his lips widened and his movements became faster, more intense. “Good start,” he murmured as he continued to work her, giving her pleasure and demanding at the same time: "But I want to hear everything. Tell me what you feel. What you want."

His body was now close to hers and she could feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his muscles as he drew her into a world of pure ecstasy with words and touch.

Tim watched her every reaction, her unsteady breaths, the trembling of her body under his fingers, and a self-satisfied smile flitted across his lips. “You're so sensitive, Y/N,” he murmured as his fingers moved in a slow circular rhythm, deep inside her. “I could spend all evening tormenting you like this.”

Y/N writhed slightly beneath him, her hands seeking support on his arms, her head pressed lightly into the pillows. “Tim...” she gasped, her voice pleading. “Please stop teasing me ... I need you.”

His blue eyes fixed her, a dangerous gleam in them that made her tremble even more. “That urgent?” he asked, lowering his head to let her feel his hot breath on her neck. His lips brushed her skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail as he nibbled on her most sensitive spot.

His fingers suddenly left her, eliciting a soft, disappointed gasp from Y/N. But before she could protest, he knelt between her legs and pushed them further apart so that she presented herself fully to him. His gaze traveled slowly over her body, lingering on the heat between her legs, and his tongue ran over his lips as if he intended to devour her.

“You have no idea what you're doing to me,” he said hoarsely, his voice full of passion and possessiveness. "I want to hear you scream, Y/N. I want you to shout my name so loud that everyone knows who owns you."

Before she could answer, he leaned forward and his tongue stroked slowly and firmly over her most sensitive spot. Y/N's whole body tensed, a loud moan escaping her lips as he worked her with his mouth. His tongue found the perfect rhythm, alternating between gentle and more intense movements until Y/N began to squirm against him.

“So, so sweet,” he murmured as he paused briefly to savor her reaction. His hands gripped her hips, holding her tightly as she moved uncontrollably. "Stay still, baby. Let me finish you off."

Y/N could do nothing but obey him. Her fingers dug into the sheets, her chest rising and falling frantically as the waves of pleasure rolled over her. “Tim... I...” she gasped, unable to finish the sentence as he slid his tongue deeper, exploring her until she seemed to dissolve.

“I know, babe,” he whispered, pulling back a little to use his fingers again as his thumb teased her most sensitive spot. "I know exactly what you need. Tell me. Let me hear everything."

“I want you inside me,” she gasped, her voice rough with desire. “I can't take any more ... please, Tim.”

A dangerous smile appeared on his lips, and he straightened up, his imposing presence over her like a burning flame. “Suit yourself, baby,” he murmured as he wrapped her legs around his hips, positioning himself and filling her with a single, deep thrust.

The sensation made them both gasp out loud, and Y/N clutched at his shoulders, her nails leaving red marks on his skin. Tim moved slowly, enjoying seeing her beneath him, completely at his mercy and overwhelmed with lust.

“So tight... so perfect,” he moaned as he increased the rhythm, getting deeper and harder, each movement accompanied by a soft, dirty whisper. "Tell me how good I make you feel, Y/N. Tell me no one else will ever be enough for you again."

Y/N moaned his name, her voice rough and full of devotion as she clung to him as if she was finding support in him. His every movement sent waves of pleasure through her body, and with each powerful thrust, he rolled his hips with such precision that he hit the spot inside her that nearly made her lose her mind. Her fingers clawed instinctively into his back, leaving fine red marks that bore witness to the intensity of the moment.

His movements were a perfect blend of control and passion - possessive, as if he wanted to mark her as his forever, and yet tender, almost reverent, as if he was savoring every second with her. The alternation between demanding intensity and gentle devotion brought her to the brink of madness.

“You're so perfect, Y/N,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice vibrating deep in her chest as he looked at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Every inch of you is mine. And only mine."

His pace increased, his hips moving in a powerful rhythm as his hands gripped her hips as if he could pull her even closer. Y/N's body responded to his every touch, her back instinctively lifting off the bed as she arched towards him, completely lost in the thrill of his nearness.

Y/N felt the heat growing in her body, but she wanted more - she wanted to overpower him as much as he wanted to overpower her. With a sudden jerk, she spun around, using the momentum to push Tim onto his back. Surprised, he let himself fall, his eyes wandering up to her, full of desire and slight amusement.

“So you're taking the lead?” he asked, his voice dark and raspy as a crooked smile graced his lips.

“Oh, I will,” she replied breathlessly, her eyes sparkling with determination. She pushed her hair back and sat on top of him, her hands resting on his muscular chest, her nails scraping lightly over his skin, eliciting a low, rough moan from him.

Y/N moved her hips slowly, teasingly, letting him feel her heat without immediately giving him everything. His hands gripped her thighs, trying to guide her rhythm, but she stopped him with a challenging look.

“Patience, Sergeant,” she whispered with a confident smile. “Now it's your turn to be tortured.”

She leaned forward, her lips grazing his collarbone before she let her tongue glide over his skin. Her movements remained slow, provocative, and she savored the way his body responded beneath her - his tense muscles, the deep, raspy breathing coming from his chest.

As she began to move her hips in a deeper, steadier rhythm, a throaty moan escaped him. His hands slid over her body, holding her as if he wanted to regain control, but Y/N wouldn't let him. She moved faster, letting herself be driven by his desire and her own lust.

“You look so good when you give up control,” she whispered as she leaned back slightly, her movements becoming even more intense. “Tell me how it feels, Tim.”

“It feels like you're killing me,” he growled, his voice rough with arousal. “And I love it.”

His words drove her on, her movements becoming more demanding until they were both on the edge of a climax they reached together - their names mingling in a symphony of passion that filled the room.

Tim let her enjoy the control for a moment, but then something changed in his gaze - a mixture of challenge and burning desire. With a sudden movement, he grabbed her hips, held her tight and began to thrust into her from below. The unexpected depth made Y/N gasp loudly, her head falling back as her hands clutched at his torso.

“Did you think I was going to let you do all the work?” he murmured with a dangerous smile, his breathing heavy and erratic. His hips moved in a powerful rhythm, each thrust deeper and more intense than the last, until she could barely breathe.

Y/N's body shook above him, and she couldn't stop another moan from escaping her throat. But that wasn't enough for him. One of his hands let go of her hip and slowly moved forward until his fingers found the most sensitive spot between her legs. With skillful movements, he began to rub them as he continued to thrust into her from below.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze fixed on her face, which was contorted with lust. "I want you to explode. I want you to remember who you belong to."

His words and the intensity of his touch drove her to the brink of madness. Her fingernails scratched across his chest, leaving red lines as she moved towards him, taking him even deeper inside her.

“Tim, I...” she gasped, her voice breaking as she felt the climax inevitably approaching.

"Don't talk. Feel," he interrupted her in a raspy voice as he pressed his thumb harder against her sensitive spot, the movements of his fingers and hips perfectly synchronized.

Y/N's body tensed, her breath hitched, and then the wave of ecstasy overtook her with an intensity that made her tremble. Tim held her tightly, letting her enjoy the moment to the full without letting up for even a second.

As her breathing slowly calmed down, he pulled her closer to him, his movements becoming slower, but no less demanding. “I'm not done with you yet,” he whispered against her lips before kissing her passionately again and beginning to explain the next peak.

Tim held her body tightly, his movements deep and controlled, but the urge to reach his own climax began to make itself felt in every thrust. Y/N felt him tense inside her, his breathing becoming heavier, his rhythmic movements more erratic but just as intense.

“Y/N...” he gasped, his face buried in the hollow between her neck and shoulder as he pulled her against him, as if he wanted to feel her even deeper. His hips met her body so perfectly with each thrust that she thought she could feel the tension rising inside her again.

“I'm with you,” she whispered, her hands running through his hair and clutching the back of his neck. She could feel his muscles trembling, holding back hard to hold on a little longer.

“You feel so incredibly good,” he groaned, his voice rough and full of passion. “I want ... you to feel everything ... until the last moment.”

Y/N wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him even deeper inside her, and the sound of his throaty, low moans made her body tremble again. His movements became more uncontrolled, more intense, until he finally remained deep inside her and the tension was released.

A loud, harsh sound escaped him as he finally reached his climax. His grip on her hips tightened, his body vibrating as he released everything into her. Seconds passed in a frenzy, his breathing heavy and erratic, and his forehead rested against hers as they both tried to regain their senses.

“Y/N...” he finally murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he gently lowered her into the mattress. His eyes met hers, and for a moment the world seemed to stand still.

She smiled faintly, her fingers stroking his cheek. “That was...”

“Perfect,” he finished the sentence for her, pulled her closer and let his body sink against hers. Their breaths melded together and all that remained was the heat of their bodies and the unspoken words hanging in the air.

He held her gently in his arms, his fingers sliding soothingly through her hair as their breaths slowly found a steady rhythm again. Y/N snuggled up to him, her head resting on his chest, which was still rising and falling slightly from the exertion.

“That was... unexpected,” she finally breathed, a soft giggle accompanying her words as she let her lips brush tenderly across his chest.

Tim let out a low, satisfied hum as he lightly brushed her neck with his lips. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you first,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm, “but when I saw you in just that towel...” He interrupted himself, a slightly guilty but amused smile crossing his face. “I just couldn't stop myself.”

Y/N lifted her head slightly, resting her chin on his chest and facing him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “What did you want to say?” she asked curiously as her fingers brushed playfully over the line of his jaw.

He took a deep breath as if to gather himself for the words to come. His eyes met hers, full of honesty and determination. "You're mine ... whether I'm your superior or not. I don't want to hide that any longer, Y/N. I'm in love with you."

His words made her heart beat faster. She searched his eyes for a hint that he was hesitant or unsure, but instead all she found was sincere emotion. A warm smile spread across her lips and she leaned in to kiss him gently.

“I love you too,” she whispered against his lips before smirking slightly. “Or rather, I'm in love with you.”

Tim raised his eyebrows and grinned mischievously. “I liked the first one better - with the ‘I love you’,” he teased and pulled her towards him for another kiss. Their lips met, passionate and intimate, as if the tension of the last few months had finally dissolved into something tangible.

When she pulled away, he looked at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Just so we're clear, you're not going on any more dates. Unless they're with me."

Y/N laughed softly, raised an eyebrow challengingly and asked pointedly, “Oh yeah? And what if I do?”

His grin widened, and before she knew it, he had turned her onto her back with a smooth jerk. A surprised sound escaped her as he leaned over her, his hands on her wrists, his gaze intense and playful at the same time.

“Then I'll remind you every time who you really belong to,” he whispered harshly, before his lips found hers again and the world around them faded away.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford smut #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford #the rookie #eric winter smut #eric winter #eric winter x reader

869 notes · View notes

orangeblossomsintheair · 6 months ago

Text

DON’T BE A STRANGER | CS55

summary : faceless driver + secretly royalty carlos sainz w leclerc!reader

wc : 2k

an : ring ding ding ding- its me again >:)) what an amazing week this has been on the website, thxx everyone. i mostly just wrote this so the idea could stop bludgeoning me

The faceless driver of Ferrari steps onto the paddock like a rumor, all sharp lines and shadows, the prickle of something not quite real. They call him Sainz, only Sainz, as if a single name could hold the weight of everything unknown.

His helmet never comes off.

Never.

Not on the podium, not in interviews, not in moments of victory or failure.

A flawless red shell.

And the rumors?

They twist through the paddock like smoke from an invisible fire, impossible to pin down but inescapable all the same. Louder than the engines sometimes, they cling to the corners of conversations, the edges of glances, until the air is thick with questions no one can answer.

After all, the motorsports world is small, excruciatingly tight-knit, and talent doesn’t spring from nowhere. It has roots. And roots, as everyone in the paddock knows, have a way of surfacing when you dig deep enough.

Surely, he belongs to someone.

People don’t just rise to the pinnacle of Formula 1 without a trail to follow, without whispers of their origin. There are always breadcrumbs: the karting academy, the private sponsors, the family connections that weave a web so tight it’s impossible to escape.

And yet, with Sainz, the web feels intentionally erased.

Which is why the theories have grown, wild and unruly, feeding on the silence Ferrari so fiercely maintains.

Some say he’s royalty.

“Think about it,” one engineer murmured late one evening over drinks at the hospitality tent. “It makes sense. Why else would Ferrari go to such lengths to protect him? Royals love their secrets.”

“Royals?” The mechanic across from him snorted into his beer. “You’ve been reading too many tabloids. Royals don’t hide. They thrive on attention.”

“Not if they’ve got something to lose.”

“Like what? A throne?”

The first engineer leaned back, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why not? Formula 1’s full of money, right? What’s the difference between a billionaire’s kid and a prince? Nothing. Except one of them has a crown.”

The argument has traction, though. The idea that Sainz is an heir to a European throne, Spanish, most likely, has fueled countless debates, forums, and conspiracy threads.

“Think about it,” fans say online, dissecting every detail like forensic scientists. “A prince could afford the best. He’d have access to elite training, connections, and anonymity if he wanted it. He’d be untouchable.”

And yet, skeptics roll their eyes at the notion. “If he were a prince,” they argue, “you think Ferrari wouldn’t plaster that all over their marketing? A royal in the red? They’d be printing posters and selling merch faster than the car hits 200 miles an hour.”

It’s a fair point. Ferrari doesn’t just protect Sainz, they shield him, encase him in layers of secrecy that feel deliberate, almost sacred.

Why? That’s the question that eats at everyone.

They defend him like he’s the crown jewel of Maranello, and when it comes to Ferrari, you don’t defend just anyone like that. The Scuderia doesn’t go to bat for drivers like they go to bat for Sainz.

Why would Ferrari, a team known for its relentless media machine, its flair for drama, its love of spectacle, choose to keep someone like Sainz hidden?

Why fight tooth and nail to keep his helmet on, even when the FIA itself came knocking?

The fight with the FIA was the turning point.

It started with whispers, rumblings that the governing body was “concerned” about Sainz’s anonymity. Drivers, after all, are public figures. Fans deserve transparency, or so the FIA claimed. There were rumors of mandatory press appearances without helmets, of new regulations aimed squarely at pulling Sainz into the light.

Ferrari’s response was swift, brutal, and uncompromising.

“The helmet stays on,” Luca, Ferrari’s head of PR, told the press during a heated exchange after qualifying in Monaco. His tone brooked no argument. “His performance speaks for itself. His identity is irrelevant.”

When pressed further, Luca leaned into the microphone, his voice like steel. “We protect our drivers. Always. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the board in Maranello.”

Behind closed doors, it was said that Ferrari’s lawyers were already drafting lawsuits before the FIA even made their first official statement. Confidential documents circulated among team principals hinted at Ferrari’s threat to pull out of the championship entirely if Sainz’s privacy was breached.

“They’d never leave,” Toto Wolff scoffed during a press conference. “Ferrari is Formula 1.”

But the threat worked.

The FIA backed down, releasing a carefully worded statement about “respecting driver boundaries” and “valuing individual choices.” And just like that, Sainz’s helmet remained firmly in place, untouchable once more.

It was the kind of move that convinced everyone that Sainz wasn’t just another driver. Ferrari doesn’t go to war for nobodies. They don’t risk their reputation, their legacy, for just anyone.

“He must be someone important,” a junior driver muttered once, staring at Sainz’s car as it glided into the garage. “You don’t get that kind of protection unless you’re…”

“Unless you’re what?”

The driver hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

But here’s the thing: it’s never enough.

The rumors spread, and with them, the obsession. The more they try to pin him down, the more he slips through their fingers. It’s the perfect magic trick. Sainz isn’t just a driver.

He’s a myth, an idea, a story unfolding with every lap.

He is both the question and the answer.

—-

The paddock is a sensory overload: cameras flashing, fans yelling, mechanics rushing around like their lives depend on it. The heat and humidity press down on you like a second skin.

You weave through the chaos, dodging a camera crew and a gaggle of reporters, the noise too loud, the air too thick.

All you want is a quiet place to breathe.

You pull your phone out and fire off a quick text to Charles. Where are you?

The reply comes almost instantly. Driver’s room. Come here.

Relief washes over you.

Finally, somewhere away from all this madness.

You know the layout of the Ferrari paddock well enough to navigate without issue, your access pass swinging from your neck giving you clearance to move unbothered.

You round a corner and spot a door, slightly ajar, with a sign you swear reads “Leclerc.” Close enough. Without thinking, you push it open and step inside.

It’s quieter in here, the noise from outside muffled by thick walls. You let out a breath, already feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. But as you glance around, something feels… off.

This isn’t Charles’s room.

The walls are too clean, the floor too pristine. There’s no sign of your brother’s clutter: no jacket thrown over a chair, no half-finished water bottle on the counter. Instead, everything is painfully organized, the space clinical in its perfection. And the overwhelming Ferrari red, too much of it, everywhere, makes your stomach twist.

Before you can retreat, you hear footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful. Coming right toward you.

Your pulse spikes. You freeze, too startled to even turn around. When the figure emerges, it’s not Charles, or a mechanic, or anyone you recognize.

It’s a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a kind of quiet intensity that instantly sets you on edge. He’s already pulling a balaclava over his head, but not quickly enough, you catch a glimpse of his sharp jawline, his piercing dark eyes. He stops when he sees you, his body going rigid like a predator caught off guard.

His voice slices through the silence, sharp and low. “Who the fuck are you?”

You flinch, your throat dry as you scramble to explain. “I- uh- this is-”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, cutting you off. His accent is Spanish, his tone icy. “How did you even get in?”

Your brain short-circuits. The balaclava, his tense posture, the way he’s blocking the door—it all screams danger.

Your fingers move before your brain catches up, fumbling for your phone.

“I- uh- just stay right there!” you stammer, raising the phone like it’s a shield. “I’m recording this! You’re not gonna- uh- get away with- whatever you’re doing!”

The man’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then, with terrifying speed, he lunges forward and snatches the phone out of your hand.

“Are you serious?” he growls, holding your phone up like it’s a toy. His voice drips with disdain. “You barge into my space, and now you’re trying to record me? Do you even know who I am?”

“No! Do you know who I am?” you snap back, panic making your voice louder than you intended. “You’re the creep in my brother’s driver room! I should be suing you!”

He pauses, his head tilting slightly, confusion flashing across his face. “Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother!” you shout, emboldened by your growing irritation. “Charles Leclerc? Ring a bell?”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place- amusement? Annoyance?

“Leclerc,” he repeats, almost like he’s tasting the name.

“Yes! And he’s going to be so pissed when he finds out- ”

“This isn’t his room.”

His words are slow, deliberate, and laced with sarcasm. They hit you like a bucket of cold water.

You blink, your bravado evaporating. “What?”

He gestures lazily toward the door. “The name on the sign. Read it.”

Your stomach churns as you turn to look. There, in bold letters, is a name that definitely isn’t “Leclerc.”

Sainz.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, the realization crashing down on you.

“Anything else you want to accuse me of?”

You stammer out a garbled apology, your face burning with embarrassment. “I- uh- thought- I mean- oh god, I’m so sorry- ”

“You thought,” Sainz interrupts, his voice flat, “so now I’m the creep in your brother’s room? Really?”

Your tongue feels like lead. Every molecule of bravery evaporates under the weight of his piercing stare. “I didn’t- I mean, I-”

He sighs, glancing at the phone in his hand. “Did you take any photos?”

“What?” you squeak.

“Photos.” His tone sharpens, patience wearing thin. “Did you take any?”

“No!” you exclaim, horrified by the implication. “Why would I-”

“Because if you did,” he cuts you off, leaning in slightly, “I’ll sue you.”

You take an involuntary step back. “Sue me? For what?”

“For trespassing,” he replies coolly. “For invading my privacy. For whatever the hell I decide to call it. Take your pick.”

“I didn’t even know this was your room!” you blurt out, frustration bubbling over. “I wasn’t trying to invade anything! And you’re the one wearing a balaclava like some kind of-”

“Like some kind of what?” he challenges, his eyes narrowing.

“Like some kind of criminal!” you fire back, your voice rising in pitch.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick in the air. His lips twitch, almost like he’s trying not to laugh, but his gaze stays icy.

“I wear this because I’m a driver,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining it to a child. “Not because I’m robbing a bank.”

You press your lips together, mortified and furious at the same time. “Look,” you say, holding out your hand for your phone, “this was a mistake. I didn’t mean to walk in here, and I didn’t take any photos. Can I just have my phone back so I can leave?”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally handing it over. “If I find out you lied,” he warns, “I will sue.”

“Noted,” you mutter, clutching your phone like it’s your lifeline.

You spin on your heel, desperate to escape this nightmare, but his voice stops you just as you reach the door.

“And maybe next time,” he calls after you, “learn how to read a sign.”

You don’t turn back. You can’t. Your face is burning, your heart is racing, and the humiliation is seared into your memory forever.

404 notes · View notes

odileeclipse · 20 days ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 30

<<<Previous Next>>>

You leaned over the table with an intensity that rivaled pre-exam week, ink smudged on your fingertips and the edge of your sleeve. Parchment covered in hasty scrawl sat in front of you, each paragraph dripping with formal logic, magical ethics, a dash of heartfelt plea, and a surprising amount of literary flourish.

You slid the page toward Chai Latte Cookie first. “Alright. I need you to… Chai-ify it. Make it poetic or profound or something.”

Chai, practically vibrating with glee, took the parchment in both hands. “Oh, yes. Let me just elevate this rhetoric.”

She pulled a quill from behind her ear like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “I’m going to add a line about the transformation of truth through form. And maybe a metaphor about moonlight as mutable identity.”

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Chai said, flourishing her quill. “But it sounds so convincing.”

You chuckled as she scribbled. “Make sure it still sounds like me though. I don’t want him to think I was possessed mid-sentence.”

Chai looked up with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it your voice. Just slightly more dramatic.”

After she was satisfied, you passed the updated version across the table to Earl Grey Cookie.

He scanned it with surgical precision, eyes flicking left to right, pausing only to make corrections with his fountain pen that seemed designed to make every edit sting with dignity.

“Your thesis is strong,” he murmured. “But tighten the second paragraph. You’re leaning too much into emotional leverage. Balance it with academic precedent.”

“You say that like he isn’t already emotionally compromised,” you muttered.

Earl didn’t look up. “All the more reason to prove you’re serious.”

He handed it off with a final flick. “The final paragraph is surprisingly elegant. That must’ve been Chai.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, twirling a strand of her hair.

Then it was Hazelnut’s turn.

You slid the parchment over, watching as he read through it at a pace both cautious and skeptical. He frowned at a few spots but said nothing until the end.

Finally, he leaned back and scratched his chin. “Alright… it’s convincing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hazelnut shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but if someone handed me a scroll like this, I’d be too impressed to say no. It’s half spell theory, half love letter to magical curiosity.”

“That’s the vibe I was going for,” you said, relieved.

Earl nodded. “Then I’d say it’s ready.”

You looked down at the page revised, refined, and full of lines like

Let this transformation not be a spectacle, but a symbol that even truth, immutable and enduring, has the capacity for grace in change.

…Yeah. You were definitely not getting out of this without compromising some dignity.

Chai grinned. “So… when are you giving it to him?”

You swallowed.

“Tomorrow.”

Your friends exchanged glances.

“Stars help him,” Hazelnut said dryly.

“Stars help you,” Chai added, practically glowing. “Because if he says yes… I need to be there.”

You covered your face with both hands, already regretting everything.

But also?

Kind of excited.

You peeked through your fingers, face still buried in your hands, and muttered, “I think he’d be a lot less convinced if there were an audience.”

Chai immediately gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “You’re not going to let me witness history?”

“Do you want him to say yes or turn into mist and vanish?” you deadpanned, lifting your head.

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “They have a point.”

“Exactly!” You gestured toward him. “If I walk in there with all three of you breathing down his neck from the doorway, he’s going to think it’s a prank or some kind of social experiment.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea calmly. “It is a social experiment. But your hypothesis requires solitude.”

Chai groaned dramatically. “Fine. But if he does it if you have to tell me everything.”

“I will write a report. With citations.”

Chai brightened instantly. “Deal.”

Hazelnut smirked. “Just don’t die from embarrassment when you hand it to him.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take… for science.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “And unhinged curiosity.”

“And possibly love,” Chai added with a wink.

You groaned. “I hate it here.”

They all laughed, and Chai nudged your arm affectionately, you couldn’t help but smile again, nervous, yes, but genuinely excited.

Because the scroll in your bag might just be your most ambitious experiment yet. You twirled your spoon slowly in your cup, watching the last of the honey swirl into your tea before lifting your gaze, more hesitant than before.

The parchment containing your “essay” sat folded neatly in your bag, safe and final. But the laughter had settled, and the buzz of the dining hall had faded into the quiet hum of content students and clinking cutlery. For a moment, your thoughts shifted somewhere else somewhere more uncertain.

“…Hey,” you said softly, glancing around the table. “Can I ask something kind of serious?”

Chai leaned forward immediately. “Of course.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up mid-sip, nodding once.

But your eyes turned to Earl Grey Cookie.

“Do you think this is… love?” you asked carefully. “And I don’t mean that in a sad way I’m not trying to self-deprecate. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Earl Grey froze mid-reach for his napkin, caught completely off guard for what might’ve been the first time ever.

You continued before he could speak. “I mean, how do you know if it’s too soon? Like, maybe it’s just care. Or affection. Or something like love but not really it.”

He stared at you, brows furrowing slightly not in judgment, but in rare, genuine contemplation.

You gestured vaguely in the air, trying to explain. “I’m not unhappy. We’re… partners now, I think. He hasn’t said anything overly poetic since, which is weirdly comforting. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just… quiet. Natural. Like we’re two close friends who occasionally kiss and study theory together. And that feels normal. But should it?”

The table was silent now your friends watching, not with pity, but with care. No one laughed or brushed it off.

“I just… don’t know if it’s supposed to feel like more. Or maybe it’s supposed to feel like this. Like something calm. Familiar. Comfortable. And I don’t know if that’s love or something else.”

You turned back to Earl Grey, eyes steady. “You always give me the most concise answers. So. Do you know what love feels like?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he set his napkin aside.

“I think,” he said, voice softer than usual, “that love doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows in quiet hours and shared routines. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s gentle. But in all its forms, it’s not about how much it feels like something.”

He looked at you directly.

“It’s about whether it makes you more yourself. Whether you feel safer, more curious, more seen. Not just when it’s easy, but also when it’s hard. When you're not at your best. If someone still chooses to understand you in those moments, even when it would be easier not to… that might be love.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

Earl leaned back again, adjusting his sleeve. “But even then, love is not static. It changes. Grows. What it feels like now may not be what it feels like in a year.”

Chai exhaled, leaning her chin on her palm. “That was… beautiful.”

Hazelnut frowned a little. “I mean, yeah. I guess I agree.”

You sat there, letting his words settle in the space between your ribs.

Not an answer. But maybe something better.

A starting point. You stared at Earl Grey Cookie, the words he had just spoken echoing in your chest like a soft chime struck in the heart of a quiet cathedral. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Earl…” you murmured, eyes wide, “how did you word that so beautifully?”

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, he stared off slightly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a distant look creeping into his normally unreadable expression. The tea in his cup had long since cooled, but his fingers remained wrapped around it like a tether to the present.

“…I thought once I felt it,” he said, his voice low not quite guarded, but measured.

Not for your sake.

For his.

You felt your heart still, your own breath quieter now as his words unraveled something more vulnerable than you had expected.

“Of course love changes,” he continued, almost to himself. “That’s what makes it so impossible to define. It grows, recedes, reshapes… But I know what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

Chai, for once, didn’t fill the space with teasing. She just watched him with the same awe-struck softness you felt creeping into your own chest.

Hazelnut Biscotti lowered his gaze slightly, respectful.

You didn’t ask who it had been. You didn’t have to. Somewhere between the distance in his voice and the strength in his words… you knew the answer wasn’t meant to be named.

It just was.

And that was enough.

You smiled gently at him, not pressing further.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded once, composed again, the moment sealed away behind his usual mask but not gone.

Not forgotten.

And somehow… it made the question in your heart feel a little less impossible. The conversation had drifted, as all good ones did softly, like mist curling away from morning tea.

No dramatic shifts. No clean cuts between topics or time. Just shared laughter, the slow stacking of empty plates, the warmth of familiarity, and the comfort of being surrounded by those who knew when to speak and when to simply be.

Somewhere between Earl Grey’s quiet reflection and Hazelnut’s reluctant second dessert, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the dining hall’s stone archways. The air had taken on that dimmer, cooler quality that meant class hours had long passed, and free time had become scarce once more.

The anticipation of tomorrow left a sour taste in your mouth. You didn’t think anything bad would come out of it but who knows. The next day was like any other and the hours seemed to slip away from you. Even during lunch, you were absent, caught up in your thoughts that seemed endless. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by your friends, which is why Chai insisted they drop you off with the sage himself. Something about ‘Knights can’t go without their steeds”.

And now, here you were.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quiet again, washed in lantern light and the faint rustling of ancient banners. You stood before the carved door you knew too well, parchment scroll clutched in both hands like it was sacred, dangerous, or perhaps… deeply personal.

Chai Latte Cookie bounced on her heels beside you, practically glowing. “Okay, so remember shoulders back, voice steady, don’t crumple the scroll in panic”

“I won’t,” you muttered, eyes locked on the door. “Probably.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised an eyebrow. “If he doesn’t agree, I’ll eat the dining hall’s jelly meatloaf for a week.”

Earl Grey Cookie offered a dignified nod. “You’ve edited it thoroughly. It’s a compelling argument.”

Chai smiled softly, squeezing your arm. “And it’s very you. If he says no… it’s not because it’s not good. It just means he’s being cryptic and annoying. You’ve got this.”

You took a slow breath, nodding. “Right.”

This wasn’t just an essay.

It was your most current fascination with him. One that started with curiosity, twisted into wonder, and now shimmered somewhere on the horizon between truth and vulnerability.

You weren’t sure what he’d say.

But you were ready to find out.

You turned toward the door.

Looked towards your friends for courage.

And knocked three times.

You heard his voice from the other side of the door smooth, composed, as always.

“Come in.”

You stepped through the threshold before your nerves had the chance to revolt, before your heart could second-guess the weight of the scroll in your hands or the practiced way you had folded it three times to make it feel more formal than it was. You moved past the threshold, into the warm glow of parchment and starlight that always seemed to fill his office.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked up from his notes, one hand still curled around a quill, the other resting near an open book. His gaze lifted to you, curious but not unkind his expression expectant.

But before he could say anything, you moved.

With every ounce of the determination your friends had just poured into you, you strode forward and held out the scroll between both hands.

He blinked.

Your expression was steady. Unflinching.

Like you were handing him something that could very well decide the future of magic itself.

He set his quill down with slow precision and took the scroll from your hands. The parchment barely made a sound between your fingers, but in your chest, your heart thudded like it echoed across stone halls.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel.

And marched to the chair across from his desk.

But instead of sitting, you bent down and grabbed the legs of the chair with both hands.

You began to drag.

The wood groaned in protest as you struggled to maneuver it around the polished corner of the desk and just as you were halfway through gritting your teeth and about to commit to dragging it all the way-

It moved.

Soundlessly. Cleanly. As though the stone beneath it had turned to air.

You blinked. Your hands hovered in the air for a moment before you looked up.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside his desk now, parchment scroll in one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping through his nose.

He didn’t say a word.

You offered a grin and settled into the chair now neatly aligned beside his, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Thank you. You're getting faster at that.”

“I was trying to save the floor.”

“I was trying to make a point,” you replied, folding your hands with faux dignity. “That this is a co-investigator level interaction.”

He arched a brow, gaze lowering to the scroll.

You nudged him slightly with your elbow. “Now read it carefully. Every word. Analyze it like it’s critical spell theory. This is very important.”

He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly with a glimmer of suspicion. “For science, I assume?”

“Exactly,” you said solemnly. “For science.”

He exhaled softly.

Then, without another word, he began to unroll the scroll.

You sat beside him, doing your best to appear calm, collected, and completely unaware of the fact that you were sitting next to the most unreadable person in the entire Academy with a ticking time bomb of magical curiosity in his hands.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You just… might pass out a little.

But for science? Worth it. You folded your hands in your lap to stop yourself from fidgeting, but it didn’t help much. Your knee still bounced the smallest bit, your shoulders tense despite your best efforts.

There was something deeply embarrassing about having someone read your work always had been. Even when it wasn’t personal.

Even when it was just a simple analysis on mana circuits or historical transmutations, there was always that flicker of vulnerability. That tiny voice whispering, What if it’s not good enough? What if they think it’s silly?

But this?

This wasn’t just coursework.

This was you asking the Sage of Truth to shapeshift.

This was every spiraling thought and late-night curiosity packed neatly into metaphors, magic theory, and if you were being honest at least two and a half emotionally compromised flourishes courtesy of Chai Latte Cookie.

And he was reading it.

Right next to you.

His eyes moved slowly down the page, calm and steady. His posture unchanged, expression unreadable. Not a twitch of an eyebrow. Not a quirk of his lips. Just the soft rustle of parchment as he unrolled a bit more, and the occasional pause that made your heart leap into your throat.

You tried to steal a glance at his face just a peek.

But there was nothing.

Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just… silence.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were. Every second felt like it stretched too long, too wide.

Still, you waited.

Because despite the silence, despite the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck… you wanted him to see it.

Because this wasn’t just for science.

This was yours.

And right now, that had to be enough. You waited.

Not the impatient kind of waiting, the fidgeting, time-checking, foot-tapping sort but the quiet, breath-held kind. The kind of stillness that only happened when something delicate was unfolding, and you didn’t want to move in case it shattered.

You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat as he reached the end of the scroll. His eyes lingered on the final line Chai’s idea, something about “truth reshaping itself not to deceive, but to reveal what curiosity dares to ask.” It felt too dramatic when you wrote it. It still did now.

And then he looked at you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just regarded you with that steady, deep gaze mismatched eyes so calm they made the silence feel like part of the conversation.

You braced yourself.

“This is…” He paused, folding the parchment carefully with deliberate hands. “Remarkably structured.”

You blinked. “Wait structured?” You knew it was but to hear it from him was another thing.

“A logical progression. Efficient use of magical precedent. Clear intent.” He placed the scroll down on the desk with reverence, as though it were a thesis submitted to a higher council.

You stared at him, unblinking. “That’s all you got from it?”

He turned to you fully now, his expression softening just slightly.

“And charming,” he added.

Your heart skipped.

“I did read every word. Including the parts where you tried to convince me this was purely academic,” he said, lips curling just faintly.

You opened your mouth to object but he held up a hand.

“No need to deny it. I appreciate the effort. And the… scholarly fervor.” He leaned back a little in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been curious. But this kind of curiosity is… different. More personal.”

You looked down, fingers twitching in your lap. “Well, yeah. I guess… I just wanted to see. To know. It’s not like I’d publish a paper on it or anything.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I am not dismissing the request.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, really?”

His smile was small. But it was real.

“I’m merely considering my terms.”

You gawked. “Terms?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t expect something like this to be without cost.”

You blinked. “Are you saying I have to pay you to shapeshift?”

“Not in gold,” he mused. “But perhaps in kind. One trade of curiosity for another.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You huffed, slouching in your seat. “I can’t believe you’re making this into a negotiation.”

He raised a brow. “It’s what scholars do.”

You exhaled sharply… but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

“Fine,” you said. “But I want it noted that this began with you withholding cosmic-level shapeshifting powers and me just wanting to observe.”

“And now,” he said softly, “we’re here. At the edge of something new.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

And, just beneath your breath, you said, “I can live with that.”

You leaned in a little, eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with the kind of sharpened curiosity that always surfaced when he dangled something just out of reach. It was like he’d placed a rare tome on the top shelf and was waiting to see if you’d dare climb for it.

“…Alright,” you said, voice low but certain. “What are your terms?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked almost too pleased. Not smug. Not condescending. Just… quietly, profoundly satisfied, like he’d known you would ask from the moment you handed him the scroll.

He folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression measured but still touched with that unreadable warmth that always seemed to creep in when he thought you weren’t looking.

“My terms,” he repeated slowly, “are quite simple.”

You raised a brow. “Simple for you or for me?”

He inclined his head, ignoring the jab entirely.

“One; You must allow me to ask a question of equal weight.”

You blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“Precisely,” he said, tone maddeningly light. “You may not know when I’ll ask. Or what it will be.”

“So you’re setting a trap.”

“I’m offering balance.”

You gave him a long look. “Fine. One mysterious, possibly ominous question to be determined later. What else?”

“Two…” He reached for a quill, idly spinning it between his fingers. “You must promise not to run.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I run?”

He glanced at you not with teasing, not with challenge. Just… something steadier. Something deeper.

“Because,” he said softly, “when truth is given form, it often changes the one who sought it.”

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest tightened just a little.

Still, you nodded. “Okay. I won’t run.”

He considered you, as if weighing whether to believe you.

Then, slowly, he nodded once in return.

“That’s it?” you asked, your voice quiet now. “Just those two things?”

“Is that not enough?”

You hesitated then exhaled.

“…No. It’s fair.”

He said nothing for a moment.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then the terms are accepted.”

And somewhere, beneath all the words exchanged between you, a quiet agreement settled. Not signed in ink or blood but in trust.

And maybe something a little closer to wonder. You stared at him, your curiosity prickling again, even sharper now that you’d agreed to his cryptic little bargain.

“…What is it you wish to know?” you asked, voice steady but soft. “If I’m agreeing to answer one question of equal weight… then what is it you’re so eager to ask?”

You expected him to deflect. Maybe lean back in his chair, say something evasive like in time or you’ll know when it matters. Maybe arch a brow and smirk like he so often did when you wandered too close to truths he wasn’t ready to name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you.

And then

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

That stopped you.

You blinked. “You… don’t know?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I will.”

You tilted your head, wary. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“I could lie,” he offered, lips curling slightly.

“Please don’t. You’re the last person I need lying to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You sat back, the weight of that truth settling into your chest like something warm and strangely grounding. There was no game here. No dramatic setup. Just honesty clear, rare, and a little too vulnerable if you thought about it for too long.

You looked down at your hands, thumbs brushing over each other.

“And when you do figure out the question?”

“I’ll ask it.”

“And I’ll have to answer.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

You met his gaze again, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I hope it’s something good.”

“It will be,” he said, and somehow it felt like a promise not of comfort or safety, but of knowing. Of being seen in a way that went past observation and into belief.

You nodded once.

And sat there beside him, heart full of stars and questions. You rested your elbow on the desk, cheek in your hand, still watching him carefully half wary, half fascinated. The scroll between you was no longer just a scroll. It was a pact. One sealed with curiosity and trust, and maybe a little too much emotional investment for your comfort.

“…So,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’ll only get to see you shapeshift after you ask your mysterious life-altering question?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time of course he did fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the parchment, as if rereading your words in silence.

You waited, trying not to fidget.

Eventually, he spoke, voice calm. “That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“On whether I think you’re ready to see me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Like what?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “As something unfamiliar. As something outside the image you’ve grown used to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in his tone.

“I don’t want to unsettle you,” he added, more gently now. “That’s not the point of this. You asked out of curiosity. But if I do this, if I show you a version of myself that’s entirely unlike what you’ve known… I want you to understand it’s still me. That the truth doesn’t vanish just because the form changes.”

You swallowed, your voice barely audible. “I would still know you.”

He watched you a moment longer, as if searching for the depth of your certainty.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Then no. You will not have to wait until I ask the question.”

Your heart fluttered.

“But,” he added, with a glint of amusement now dancing at the edges of his lips, “I reserve the right to make you wait just long enough to drive you mildly mad.”

You groaned, slumping forward with your forehead on the desk. “I knew there was a catch.”

His chuckle rippled through the air like warm silk.

And somehow, the idea of waiting didn’t seem so terrible after all. You lifted your head off the desk just enough to glare at him, squinting like you were trying to set his robes on fire with sheer willpower.

“You’re being unfair,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I put together a well-researched, carefully-worded, academically sound paper with citations, by the way and you’re going to tease me? After all that?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, lips threatening the faintest smirk. “You also included a metaphor about truth wearing earrings.”

“Poetic license!” you snapped. “Chai said it was evocative.”

“It was certainly something.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically back into your seat with your arms folded. “I deserve better.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You believe scholarly diligence should be rewarded with spectacle.”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I believe me being very nice, very respectful, and putting my soul into that scroll means I should absolutely get to see you shapeshift, like, today. Or now. Or, better yet yesterday.”

He watched you silently for a moment, a trace of that fond, unreadable amusement still hovering in his eyes.

“You truly are relentless when you want something,” he said finally.

“I’m a scholar,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s my job to question the universe. And also… you.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He set the scroll aside, folding his hands. “The universe is duly questioned.”

“And?”

“And I never said no,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately maddening.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, arms still crossed. “I’m going to file an academic grievance.”

“I’ll be sure to grade it personally.”

You shot him a look, but you were already smiling again, despite yourself.

Because as much as he was teasing you he hadn’t said no.

And that, more than anything, meant it was only a matter of time. You glanced sideways at him, still slouched in your chair, your arms crossed in a dramatic show of indignation. But after a beat after the laughter had softened and his smirk still lingered you let the question slip.

“…What if we run out of time?”

You said it lightly, jokingly, like it was just another thing to throw into the endless back-and-forth between you. Like you were still riding the high of teasing him. Like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

The silence that followed was subtle, but immediate.

He turned his head toward you fully now, the low golden lamplight casting a soft shadow across the edge of his face. His expression wasn’t unreadable not this time. It was something else.

Still.

Quiet.

Serious.

“Then I will regret,” he said slowly, “not showing you sooner.”

Your breath caught, the shift in atmosphere pulling the words right out of your chest. The weight of his voice was different now, not sharp, not heavy, but true. Like something ancient being spoken for the first time in a very long time.

“I may live longer,” he went on, his gaze unwavering, “but that doesn’t mean I am exempt from time. Or from what it takes.”

You sat up straighter.

“…Takes?”

He nodded once. “Patience. Intention. Restraint. All things I wield because I have to because I must maintain control. Because if I give in to every impulse, then I become no different than the truths I’ve warned others about: overwhelming. Dangerous. Absolute.”

You swallowed.

He looked down briefly, folding his hands together again. “But if I ever did run out of time… I would rather be remembered by you as known, than as a mystery you never had the chance to understand.”

The quiet between you stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was reverent.

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

“…You’re not a mystery,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

“Not to me,” you added, quieter now. “Not anymore.” This of course was a lie but it felt right to say.

He exhaled slowly, gaze warm and distant at once. “Then perhaps time is not the thing we should fear.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, unsure of what to say. What could be said, really?

So instead, you whispered “Then don’t wait too long.” The weight of the moment lingered in the air between you soft, thick, impossible to ignore.

His words still echoed in your chest. “Then I will regret not showing you sooner.” And the way he said it not with drama, but with sincerity lodged somewhere too close to your heart for comfort.

Which was exactly why you did what you always did.

You reached over, grabbed the scroll you’d painstakingly written and edited with your friends’ help, and waved it in the air dramatically.

“Well,” you said, voice suddenly bright, “if you do run out of time, I’m keeping this and publishing it under ‘Unfulfilled Magical Requests and the Tragedy of Teasing Professors.’ Subtitle; Why Saying ‘Maybe’ Is Emotional Warfare.”

He blinked, visibly caught off guard for a second not at the words, but at the sharp shift.

And then, as expected, he exhaled a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. Barely there. But real.

Your tone only got more theatrical. “I’ll submit it to the Academy archive. It’ll become required reading in Magical Ethics courses. You’ll go down in history as the Sage of Selective Silence.”

He arched a brow, amused again, watching you with that knowing gaze of his the one that always saw a little too much.

“You always do this,” he murmured, not unkindly.

You froze mid-rant. “Do what?”

“When emotions get too close.” He tilted his head, gently, like he was observing you the way one observes the stars curious, fascinated, never quite needing to name what they are.

“You run. Not with your feet. But with your words.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “I… I don’t run. I sidestep. Gracefully.”

He gave you that faint, insufferable smile. “You deflect.”

You threw your arms up. “Okay, fine, I deflect. But I do it charmingly.”

“And with purpose,” he said softly. “I’m not blaming you.”

That shut you up again.

Just for a second.

You looked away, hands lowering to your lap.

“I just…” you mumbled, “I’m not always sure how to hold things like that. The big stuff. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It… gets too quiet. Too real. So if I make it lighter, I can breathe again.”

There was no judgment in his silence.

Only understanding.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, “before I show you.”

You looked up.

“Before I shift,” he clarified. “So that you’re not caught by something too heavy.”

You smiled, soft and crooked. “See? That’s why you’re the best mentor-slash-possibly-more-than-that-but-we’re-still-not-labelling-it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

And just like that, the weight in the room eased dissolved into something warmer, lighter.

Exactly how you liked it. He let the quiet linger a moment longer, eyes still on you not dissecting, not calculating, just… aware. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back slightly and tapped a nearby stack of parchment with the edge of his finger, drawing the moment to a gentle close.

“But,” he said, voice smoothing back into his usual scholar’s tone cool, calm, gently chiding, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing with you…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks. So romantic.”

He ignored the comment entirely. “...Your academics come first.”

You groaned, already slumping in your seat. “Nooooo.”

“Yes,” he said with a little more firmness now. “Your finals are approaching. You will need to revise elemental stabilization matrices, temporal layering, and the ethics of magical application Professor Almond Custard’s section in particular will be weighed heavily.”

You tried to groan louder, but he continued smoothly.

“You should also be prepared to interpret dream-sequence transcriptions and disprove flawed magical constructs. There will be case studies. And likely, one open-ended essay.”

“Can’t I just write about how emotionally repressed you are and pass with extra credit?” you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you can do so with proper citations.”

You let your head thunk against the back of the chair dramatically. “I miss when this was about shapeshifting.”

He smirked. “This is about preparing you for the world beyond me.”

You blinked, then squinted at him. “That… sounded way more ominous than you meant it to.”

He gave a small, amused nod. “Possibly.”

Still half-draped across the chair, you sighed loudly but turned your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Fine. Academics first.”

His voice softened just slightly again, enough to make it linger. “Always.”

You looked away, smiling faintly.

Always… but maybe not forever. And just like that, the mood shifted not in the jarring way, but with the smooth precision of turning a page in a very familiar book.

He began going over the foundational elements again: temporal layering and how unstable weaves behave when disrupted by external magical sources, the difference between intention-led spellcraft and reflexive casting, how to analyze illusory magic without being misled by form.

You sat up straighter, less slouch and more scholar now, drawn into the rhythm of it. It wasn’t like lecture. It was quieter. Closer. The kind of exchange where your thoughts could unravel safely where you could be wrong, get messy, ask without embarrassment.

He would correct you, sure, but never harshly.

You got through the key points on stabilizing enchantments, and you were halfway through the philosophy behind magical ethics debating the fine line between intention and consequence when something in your brain clicked into place.

“Oh! Wait!” you straightened suddenly, eyes brightening. “That reminds me of something Almond Custard said last week during lecture, about layered intention in temporal folds! I thought it was going to be boring, but it wasn’t it was actually kind of brilliant”

He paused mid-note, already familiar with your tone. “Go on.”

“Okay, so,” you said, already talking with your hands, “he was going on about the theory that when you perform a time-anchored spell, the intent you embed in it doesn't just affect the spell in that moment, it actually reverberates backward into the framework of the spell. It influences how the spell began forming even before you consciously made it! Isn’t that wild? Like, magic reaching backwards through your own process of thought!”

You barely registered that he’d stopped writing and was now watching you just listening.

“So technically, that means spells are always a little bit alive, right? Not just in how they act, but in how they echo. Which also made me think, what about spells that go wrong because the caster’s intent wasn’t stable to begin with? Not because they didn’t mean to do it right, but because their emotions were split? Can you even fix that if it’s embedded into the foundation of the magic before you even consciously realize it?”

You leaned forward, completely lost in your own spiraling fascination now. “And then I wondered does that mean if someone has really conflicting emotions, they’re always casting unstable magic? And what if the magic responds by changing in ways we don’t even detect because the system we use to measure it doesn’t account for the emotional resonance inp”

“You memorized all of this?” he asked, quietly.

You blinked mid-ramble, realizing you hadn’t taken a breath in quite some time. “Uh. Yeah? Sort of. Not intentionally. I just thought it was really cool, and I kept thinking about it, and then suddenly I was writing notes in the margin of my spellbook and-”

He nodded slowly.

You hesitated, glancing at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual, teasing sort of smile. Not even the fond one he sometimes wore when you said something accidentally poetic.

This was softer. Subtler.

So you took a breath. Sat back.

And kept going. You didn’t mean to keep going.

You really didn’t.

But once the words started, once the thought had begun to spill forward, there was no stopping it. The idea kept unraveling, tugging at every half-formed theory you’d scribbled in the margins of your notebook, every late-night thought you hadn’t been able to let go of. And he just sat there, quietly, without so much as a breath of interruption.

“-and I mean, if magical intention does retroactively shape a spell’s formation, then that would explain why some spells collapse even when the mechanics are perfect, right? Because the caster isn’t emotionally consistent. So the spell reflects that instability, and maybe that’s why certain enchantments degrade faster in emotionally charged environments especially in collaborative spellcasting! Because two people means two layers of intent, and if they’re not aligned, then the foundation is compromised before it even stabilizes-"

You paused only to breathe, your hands gesturing in sweeping arcs as your brain tumbled faster than your words could follow.

"and what if that’s why ancient spells needed entire rituals to stabilize emotional intent? Like, not just precision of word or motion, but the actual state of the person casting. They knew it, right? That the heart informs the spell just as much as the incantation? What if that’s what we’re missing in modern instruction-”

You stopped.

Not because you’d run out of thoughts, stars, you had so many more but because you finally noticed the silence again. The kind that meant you were being watched, and not just watched, but heard.

You turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat beside you, one arm resting on the desk, the other relaxed in his lap. His expression wasn’t the usual calm, unreadable veil you’d grown used to.

He looked…

Content.

Not the fleeting contentment that came from a good book or a solved problem. No, it was something deeper. Something that settled quietly into the space between you. As if he had been waiting not for you to stop talking, but simply to be there while you did.

Not once had he tried to redirect you. Not once had he told you to focus or stay on topic.

He had let you speak. Let you spill, without judgment, without impatience. Just listened, as though every spiraling tangent was worthy of his time.

And when your voice finally trailed off, breathless and wide-eyed, he simply said “You’ve thought about this deeply.”

You flushed, suddenly self-conscious now that the adrenaline had burned off. “yeah. Sorry. I know I talk too much sometimes. When something gets stuck in my head, it stays there until I-”

“I know.”

You blinked.

He looked at you again, gaze unwavering.

“And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

The words hit soft, but true like all his truths did. Not loud. Not showy.

But deep enough to echo.

And for a moment, you forgot the embarrassment entirely.

Because being heard like that?

That felt like magic too. You shifted in your seat, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the desk as your thoughts, still fired up from your last tangent, began to circle back to something else you hadn’t planned on bringing up. You hesitated but only for a second.

“So… um.” You glanced at him. “Not that I was looking for your papers specifically, but I-sort of ran into a few. On purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly. “On purpose?”

“Not in a weird way!” you said quickly. “I just… yours were the most detailed. They cited things no one else did, and you reference primary sources everyone else avoids because they’re obscure or out of translation. So I kind of... leaned toward them. That’s all.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tugged in the faintest way that suggested he was either amused, flattered, or both.

You cleared your throat and pushed forward. “One of them the one on emotionally synchronized casting you mentioned that intention and magical efficiency increase when the spellcaster’s emotional state aligns with the elemental resonance of the spell being cast. I wanted to ask what you meant in the part where you talked about ‘harmonic temperance as a conduit of magical fidelity’ because I kind of get it, but also kind of didn’t. I think you were saying the more regulated the emotion, the stronger the anchor, but…”

You trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. “That’s a fair interpretation. But it’s less about regulation and more about clarity. If you’re angry and know you’re angry, and the spell is born of that emotion, it’s clearer than if you’re conflicted and trying to hide that anger while casting.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Right. That makes sense. And I actually tried it.”

He blinked. “You what?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I tried using the same spell basic levitation but in different moods. I kept everything else consistent. Stance, intent, recitation speed. But one time I did it while I was really upset. Another time when I was focused. Another time when I was… not thrilled but not miserable. Just a little sad.”

He stared at you now, expression unreadable again but in the way that meant he was definitely reading everything.

“And I know I probably shouldn’t have,” you added quickly, panic creeping into your tone as you waved your hands. “I mean, I know it’s unstable casting while upset is basically asking for backlash. I didn’t do anything dangerous, I swear! But I just… wanted to see. I kept it small. Nothing got flung across the room! Just… you know. Some unexpected hover-jitters.”

You winced. “I forgot I didn’t want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean, I know you’re going to say it was reckless and dumb and you’d be right but-”

“I’m not angry.”

You froze mid-babble.

“…You’re not?”

He shook his head, voice calm. “Curious. And mildly exasperated.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s fine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ve lived with exasperation before. I can handle that.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk as he studied you.

“You shouldn’t test unstable casting conditions without supervision,” he said, “but your observation was not without merit. And your control, evidently, was sufficient.”

“…So you’re not going to scold me?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” His voice was sharp, but his expression softened again. “But later. For now…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Tell me what else you found.”

And just like that, you forgot you were supposed to be nervous.

Because there was something about the way he said it quiet, steady, and open that reminded you this wasn’t just your curiosity anymore.

It was shared.

So you did.

You told him everything. Of course, it didn’t last.

The moment the last of your excited words trailed off, the Sage of Truth went perfectly still. Too still.

You knew that stillness. You recognized it.

It was the calm before the storm, not the shouting kind, but the quieter, more dangerous kind. The kind that came with controlled words and an expression that said, You’re lucky I like you, because otherwise this would be a formal disciplinary hearing.

He closed the parchment he had been idly referencing, set it aside, and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.

“I want to be very clear,” he began, his voice calm too calm. “You’re telling me you willingly cast spells while emotionally compromised. Alone. Repeatedly. Without consulting anyone. Without recording your safeguards. Without a controlled environment. And without protective wards.”

You blinked. “...Okay when you say it like that-”

“Because that is exactly how I’m going to say it,” he interrupted, expression firm. “Do you know how many recorded magical accidents come from spells cast in a state of emotional instability?”

You slumped slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you know how often those spells backfire in ways that don’t harm the caster, but others around them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“I had wards!” you insisted. “Not strong ones, but I was careful! I picked a classroom no one was using! I triple-checked the threshold sigils!”

He gave you that look again the one that felt like he was peeling back every layer of your argument in silence.

And you did what you always did when confronted by well-earned disappointment.

You tuned him out.

Not fully. Not rudely. You just… let your focus drift. You knew the consequences. You knew it had been risky. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t regret it either, but you knew it wasn’t something he could condone.

Still, as he went on listing magical theory, emotional resonance thresholds, the dangers of internal misalignment you found yourself staring at the edge of his desk, at the way his fingers moved when he spoke, the way his voice dipped not with anger, but worry.

That’s what stung most.

The fact that beneath the precise scolding and the well-structured warnings, what you heard clearest was: you could have been hurt.

“…And if anything had gone wrong,” he said, at last finishing, “do you think I would have forgiven myself?”

Your head lifted at that, a little startled.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But the weight behind those words that got your attention.

You blinked slowly.

“…No,” you said, a little quieter. “I guess not.”

His shoulders eased slightly, just enough to suggest he hadn’t even realized they’d tensed.

He looked at you. And now his tone was soft. Controlled. But not cold.

“Next time,” he said, “you don’t do it alone.”

You nodded, subdued now, guilt settling in with a quiet sort of ache. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like you’d aged him a century.

You offered a tentative smile. “You done?”

“For now.”

You smirked faintly. “You sure?”

“I could assign a research essay on magical misfires.”

You gasped. “Cruelty.”

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes did. You had barely begun to relax sinking ever so slightly into your chair with that tentative sense of okay, he’s done, I survived when you heard him shift.

Not a dramatic shift.

Just a quiet repositioning of his posture, the slight realignment of his spine, the way he folded his hands again with renewed purpose.

Oh no.

You straightened instantly. “Wait there’s more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You groaned. “But you just said-”

“I said I was done for now. That ‘now’ has passed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already on a roll.

“You treat magic like it’s something pliable,” he said calmly. “Something that will always bend around your curiosity. But it doesn’t bend. Not without cost. The difference between exploration and recklessness lies in preparation. You know better.”

You winced slightly, eyes darting away. “It was just levitation-”

“It could have been anything.”

You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, muttering under your breath, “Truth doesn’t punish the seeker for being curious. It simply demands they be prepared.”

He paused.

A long pause.

You slowly looked up at him.

His expression was flat. Deadpan.

“…Did you just quote me at me?” he asked.

You tried very hard not to smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “You’re the one who said it.”

“And you’re using it to dodge accountability.”

“I’m using it to highlight that I was seeking knowledge with intention and poetic integrity.”

He stared at you.

You gave him a small, helpless shrug. “For science?”

“...You are infuriating,” he said, and somehow despite the words his voice was so fond it made your stomach flip.

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I keep hoping it won’t be,” he muttered.

And then, because you were shameless: “You said hope was an enduring trait of scholars.”

He gave a slow exhale, leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with one hand.

“…Stars preserve me.” You watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers pressed lightly to his temple like you were the cause of every headache he’d ever had past, present, and hypothetical future. The silence stretched long enough that you dared to hope.

“...So,” you said, lifting your chin, daring to test the waters, “are you done lecturing me now?”

His hand dropped.

He gave you a look. The kind that should’ve turned you to stone if magical eye-rolling were a real curse. “No,” he said flatly.

You groaned. “Come on-”

But he was already on his feet, pacing behind his desk now not dramatically, not angrily. Just with that purposeful stride he got when his thoughts were lining up like dominoes ready to fall.

“You cast unsupervised magic while emotionally compromised,” he began, holding up one finger. “In an unsecured setting,” another finger “without proper safeguards or documentation-”

“I had thresholds-”

“without proper safeguards,” he repeated, louder this time, “and you withheld that information from me until it accidentally slipped during a completely unrelated tangent.”

You huffed. “I wasn’t trying to hide it! I just… didn’t want to hear the lecture!”

“Then why would you remind me to keep going?” he demanded, clearly bewildered by your logic.

“Because I thought we reached the natural conclusion!”

“There is no natural conclusion when you treat magic like an emotional experiment and use yourself as the test subject!”

“I was safe!”

“You were lucky!” His voice was sharper now, not loud but edged. It cut more because it wasn’t fury. It was something closer to fear, pressed down into composure. “Luck is not a framework. It is not a shield. It is not something I want you relying on. You-”

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then, much quieter, under his breath but loud enough for you to hear:

“Stars, I could’ve lost you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t let the weight linger this time.

He turned back toward you, more composed now, drawing in a breath that steadied him like it had steadied you so many times before.

“I’m lecturing you,” he said, “because I care.”

He crossed his arms, the motion calm, firm. “Because you’re not just a scholar. You’re my scholar. And if anything happened to you because of something preventable because you pushed too far, too fast, without thinking I wouldn’t just be furious. I would be devastated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t being dramatic. Or manipulative. Or even theatrical.

He was being honest.

And that somehow hurt more than any scolding could have.

“…Okay,” you said softly, after a beat.

And you meant it this time.

He watched you for a moment longer, his jaw tight but slowly, his shoulders eased.

Still, he wasn’t quite done.

“You’ll come to me next time,” he said, voice even. “If you want to experiment. If something upsets you. If you need supervision. Or help. Or… anything.”

You nodded again, smaller. “I will.”

He exhaled.

Then sat back down beside you.

“…Good.”

And for a few seconds, neither of you said a word.

You just sat there. Both a little overwhelmed. Both still holding onto the edges of something fragile. The rest of the tutoring session passed with a kind of soft, deliberate quiet.

You returned to the notes event manipulation, cross-channel mana resonance, comparative theory between willed enchantments and reflexive charmcraft. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too simple. Just enough to fill the space between you, to let things settle without pressing too hard on what had just been said.

He explained things clearly, as he always did. You asked your questions, less playful now, but no less curious. He corrected your diagrams with gentle precision, sometimes conjuring a flicker of light to demonstrate, other times just guiding your hand across the page.

It all felt normal.

Mostly.

But not entirely.

The echoes of his words from earlier still clung to the edges of your awareness. Not in a sharp or stinging way but like the faint warmth of a fire that had already burned through its most dangerous heat. That lingering feeling of something having mattered.

And you knew he felt it too.

Because even though he returned to his composed rhythm, he didn’t move quite the same. He sat a little closer than usual. Watched you a little longer between your thoughts. And when your brow furrowed at one particularly dense passage, his hand came to rest gently on the edge of your parchment steadying, grounding without comment.

By the time you reached the end of the session, you’d covered more than you expected to. You’d understood more than you thought you would.

And yet, underneath it all, that earlier moment still pulsed.

As if some invisible line between you had been redrawn.

Not a boundary crossed.

But something acknowledged.

As you gathered your notes and slid them back into your bag, he said nothing but you could feel his gaze on you again.

You glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly.

He inclined his head. “And I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and looked toward the door. Then back to him.

“I guess we’re even.”

He didn’t smile, not really.

But the look he gave you then the soft glint in his eyes, the way his head tilted just so, like he was considering something precious was more than enough.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

You nodded once.

And left with more than just your notes. By the time you made it to dinner, the smell of baked cheese rolls and grilled rosemary vegetables hit you like a sigh of relief.

The hall was already buzzing with familiar chatter, forks clinking, laughter echoing between rows of stone pillars and there, in your usual corner, sat your friends. Chai Latte Cookie was already waving frantically the moment she spotted you, nearly knocking over her cup of tea in the process.

“You’re late,” she said the moment you dropped into the seat beside her. “We were this close to staging a recovery mission. Again.”

Earl Grey Cookie looked up from his notes, though his expression betrayed only mild concern. “You missed the raspberry lemonade. It went fast.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, across from you, handed you a roll before you even asked. “Rough tutoring session?” You sighed, resting your arms on the table. “You have no idea.”

A/N So apparently this didn't get posted I clicked post now yesterday night but I checked my page and it's not there... So late upload MY BAD GUYS

also I just want to note there is no reason why mc would run my thinking for why I did that is just because he's making sure to cover all his bases because quite honestly the reasoning he provides isn't great if I'm being honest.

Also just completed my first work week woohoo!!!

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

281 notes · View notes

solnyshko-moyo · 11 days ago

Text

wrong place, wrong time, right person

prompt: paul imprints on the clearwaters' friend, unfortunately she's not the biggest fan of the pack's alpha or his imprint

pairing: paul x reader

wc: 2.2k

You follow Seth through the house a little annoyed you have to be here after vowing to never step foot in it after what Sam and Emily did to Leah. On principle and loyalty to your friend who had her heart broken by her cousin and ex-fiance you never wanted to see either of them ever again, let alone be in their house. You wonder how Leah stands it, being here and still socializing with them when you know it still bothers her. You still can’t believe she was in their wedding, that viper asking her to be her maid of honor. You still remember being in Leah’s room while she found out they’d been sneaking around together after Sam suddenly broke things off with her. Your friend was never the same after that.

The voices you heard when stepping through their front door grow louder as you near the kitchen, a shirtless man stands in the doorway leaning against the doorframe. Seth bumps shoulders with him as he passes by, completely comfortable around these people. You wonder how he’s okay with all of this as well. Unfurrowing your brow, you follow him through the door hoping this doesn’t take long.

“This is Y/N, mine and Leah’s friend from Forks.” Seth gestures to you and you give a tight smile and small wave. There are a few more boys loitering around the room, mainly at the dining area where Leah is sitting looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hey guys. Leah, your bags in my car.” She nods her head and there’s an awkward silence, Sam looking over at Leah as her face pinches and her eyes unfocus like she’s thinking hard about something. You look at the guy she’s sitting next to, not knowing what else to do. He looks back at you, his eyes widening a little and you take it as a ‘well this is awkward’ expression and offer him a small grin in return. You look back over to Leah who looks surprised, turning in her chair to look at the man next to her. Everyone turns to look at him like he’s suddenly a spectacle to them.

“All right Paul!” The guy leaning on the doorframe exclaims excitedly. Seth turns to grin at you to your utter confusion.

“She’s not going to believe any of you.” Leah mutters and turns back to look at you, a look on her face you can't quite place.

“Believe what?” You say slowly, suspiciously. You have a feeling you’re about to be the butt of a practical joke.

“That we’re wolf shifters. Paul imprinted on you.” Sam says flatly, he knows you don’t like him and that you still resent him for what he did to Leah. He still remembers when you had slammed the door in his face when he came by the Clearwater house one time to speak with Harry and then made him wait out on the porch. In the rain.

You don’t say anything just turning to Leah for confirmation. She nods her head solemnly, confirming what Sam said. You aren’t sure you want to believe that the Quillute legends are true. Wolves? Vampires?

“All of you?” You ask dryly, suddenly aware you are in the middle of the room of supposed wolves. The rumors about Sam’s cult makes a lot more sense now.

“I’m not.” Emily says and you ignore her. It would explain why Seth and Leah are both in this god damned house if Sam and them are wolves. You still feel skeptical about all of this.

“And imprinting?” You ask looking back at the guy you’re guessing is Paul. This is not what you signed up for earlier when Seth said he’d take you to Leah. You thought you’d just be picking her up, you didn’t even want to come inside.

“It’s a bond. The wolf’s spirit is bound to you.” Sam begins to explain seeing the skepticism written on your face. A little help Paul, Sam growls in the mind link. Paul’s just staring at you, open mouth like a fish. It seems to snap him out of his jumbled thoughts.

“You can choose whatever kind of relationship the bond is, it doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be a close friendship. The wolf just wants to protect you and make sure you’re happy and taken care of.” Paul tries to explain earnestly. “I’ll go with whatever you choose.” He watches the wheels turning in your mind as you try and process this.

A calculating gleam in your expression as your eyes drift over to Emily, then Sam, then back to Emily before sliding over to land on Leah. “I see…” The tone of your voice is light and innocent as something ugly crosses your face, your nose wrinkling and brows furrowing as you come to a conclusion Paul suspects is about Sam and Emily’s imprint bond.

Emily turns to busy herself with something at the sink, uncomfortable and a little pink in the face. Sam frowns at you, not liking the direction this is going. No one else in the room says a word, everyone suddenly focused on something other than the tension rapidly mounting and trying not to think too hard in the mind link. Paul doesn’t know what to say, does he defend Sam and Emily since you don’t know what the imprint bond feels like and risk you rejecting him outright for it? He thinks he should probably remove you from the situation before it gets worse. You take a few steps towards him, looking down at him where he’s sitting at the table.

“You got a girlfriend?” Too late, he blinks up at you and shakes his head slowly. “Sweet, I’d hate to homewreck something you’ve already got going on.” You drop yourself down on his lap, turning towards where Leah is sitting leaving him stunned. “So anyways,” You continue like nothing’s happened. Seth’s eyes widen in horror as he continues to focus on picking at his fingernails. He regrets bringing you here, he should’ve known it was a bad idea. Sam’s nostrils flare as the mind link goes crazy with people trying and failing to keep their reactions to themselves. He sees Emily pause and stiffen for a second before continuing rinsing the vegetables she was holding. “Everyone’s just staying for the weekend but Tilly said if we wanted to stay longer her and Jackson don’t care and to just lock up when we leave.”

Paul doesn’t know what to do or where to put his hands. He looks at Jared for help but Jared just smirks at him from the doorway. He knows you were just taking a jab at Emily but does this also mean you’re open to the idea of the imprint bond?

In truth, you don’t know what to believe and deciding to just roll with it for now seems like a good idea. Seth and Leah wouldn’t lie to you like this but it’s still difficult to wrap your head around. You can feel the heat radiating off of Paul as he sits under you, stiff as a board. It would explain why both Leah and Seth were suddenly hot to the touch out of nowhere. It could be worse you guess, Paul’s cute and seems like a nice guy. You can’t wait to interrogate Leah on the drive out of here.

You twist around to look at Paul who stiffens even further under your gaze. “You got a phone?” He nods his head quickly, ignoring Jared’s snort as he accepts your phone to put his number in. He watches over your shoulder as you send him a text with your name and a smiley face before sliding your phone back into your jacket pocket.

“Ready to go Leah?” His throat tightens with a whine he won’t let escape as you rise off his lap. Leah side eyes him as she nods as she stands, ready to follow you out. “Bye Paul.” You sing flirtatiously over your shoulder as you begin moving towards the door. You ruffle Seth’s hair as you pass by him and the man leaning against the doorframe moves out of your way as you pass by him. Paul watches you go bewildered at the events of the last five minutes and upset that you’re leaving. He doesn’t like the idea of you immediately leaving but he knows he can’t expect you to drop everything suddenly. And you’ll be with Leah, so you’ll be safe and he can bug her through the mindlink. It’ll give him time to clean up his house and hound Seth for more information about you.

This was not what you had in mind for how your day would be going at all. Werewolves? Crazy. Someone claiming you’re bonded to them? Crazy. Leah’s got a lot of explaining to do and you have a feeling you’re coming back from this weekend to a completely different life than you had before.

You last about five seconds after the Uley house is gone from your rearview mirror before groaning, “Does this mean I have to be nice to them?” You look long suffering at Leah.

She barks out a laugh, not thinking this is what you’d lead with. “Sam’s the Alpha and everyone loves Sam and Emily. They don’t like me because I’m the bitter ex that can’t get over what happened and now they have to hear all my angry thoughts about it.”

“What the hell? Who wouldn’t be angry about that? Emily swore to you nothing was going on between her and Sam but come to find out weeks later they’d been secretly seeing each other. How can they not see the betrayal in that?” Your hold on the steering wheel tightens so hard the leather creaks under the white knuckle grip you have on it. You hate her so much for what she did to you friend.

“Sam couldn’t help it, he didn’t have a choice. I understand that now. It hurts that I couldn’t be that for him. It should’ve been me, not her. But yeah. Emily had a choice. And she chose to be with him romantically. She chose to give into their bond. She could’ve rejected him after what he did to her but she didn’t. She stayed. That’s what hurts me the most. She chose to hurt me further. She chose to live the life that Sam and I planned together. And now I can’t even get away from them.” Leah shakes her head, miserable that this is how her life turned out. In a year she lost everything but somehow asking for a little compassion or understanding from the people she’s in a pack with is too much to ask.

“God, what a fucking slimy bitch.” You mutter to yourself seething with anger. Leah doesn’t doubt that your rage could rival Paul’s quick temper. She almost feels bad for him, knowing how serious you carry your grudges.

“I’m glad I’ll at least have you there now.” She grins at you, “Paul’s already grilling Seth for information about you.” She laughs glad to be leaving for the weekend with you and not having to deal with that like Seth is.

“How do you know?” You ask a little curious. It’s still crazy to you that the legends are true and that your best friend is a wolf shifter. A lot of things make more sense but it’s still a wild concept that makes you feel a little crazy believing.

“We can hear each other’s thoughts.” Leah says glumly.

“Oh, you meant that literally.” You were a little stunned. That must suck, not being able to have a private thought or opinion without everyone else knowing about it. Leah hums in assertion and closes her eyes. She breathes in deeply and exhales slowly, pushing the pack’s thoughts back into the recesses of her mind.

“Well, imprint bond or not I expect to be woo’ed. He doesn’t get an easy pass just because it’s fate or whatever.” You think for a second and add, “and he has to be nice to you.” Leah laughs again knowing you’ll have Paul wrapped around your finger in no time. She’s happy for you, glad that you’ll have someone love you unconditionally and wholly. Maybe you’ll move to the Rez and she’ll get to see you all the time and life won’t be so glum anymore.

“Oh! I almost forgot! Jackson’s brother’s coming and he’s siinngglllee. And your tyyppee.” You grin at Leah who rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. It’ll be a fun weekend even if you don’t get your back blown out.” Leah groans, covering her face with her hands as you laugh at her. She knows you’re right, it will be a fun weekend away from the pack and her responsibilities.

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket wondering if it’s Paul already. Waiting until a stop light to check, a giddy feeling overtakes your body when you see it is. I’ll be ready to woo you when you get back from your trip. Have fun.

#reader insert #twilight x reader #twilight imagine #twilight #paul lahote #reader x paul #quileute #x reader

171 notes · View notes

mothhball · 1 year ago

Text

Beneath me

Pairing || professor!Jonathan Crane x student!Reader

Warnings || 18+ SMUT, NON-CON, DUB-CON, forced breeding, fingering, p in v sex, housewife kink(?), humiliation, dumbification, misogyny, unprotected sex, age gap (professor and student, everyone’s an adult), brief dacryphilia, condescending use of petnames, jon is a prick in this but gets better towards the end (if you squint hard enough)

Summary || The professor suspects you cheated on your exam, but you’re determined to prove him wrong.

Words || 3.7k

Notes || First ever fic and it’s smut because I love suffering. English isn’t my first language, so I hope everything makes sense. Please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with anything mentioned in the warnings

Afternoon lectures. The bane of many students’ existence, yours included. You’d been on campus since 9 am, trying to catch up on homework and study material for the most dreaded class of the day. Abnormal Psychology, presented by none other than Professor Jonathan Crane. Crane with his smart suits and piercing eyes. Crane with his condescending remarks and off-handed insults. Crane with his ridiculously handsome face and –

“Are you even listening to me?” The man in question is now standing in front of you, staring you down with narrowed eyes as his lips pull down into a frown. Yes, right. It’s 5 pm now, almost the end of the lecture and time to get your exam results back. You shake yourself out of your stupor, glancing down at the paper he left on your desk. But instead of a grade, you only see a bold red question mark which takes up almost a fourth of the entire first page. Crane clears his throat impatiently, and his mood sours more and more the longer he has to stand next to your seat.

“I said, you will meet me in my office after class. Is that understood? And I’d suggest you get your head in order until then,” he hisses, icy blue eyes filled with disdain. Your heart sinks, and you can feel the blood leaving your face as you manage to nod rather stiffly.

“Of course… Professor Crane, “ you murmur in reply, and upon hearing that, the professor quickly resumes his round around the lecture hall, handing back grades to your fellow students. As the first people pack up their things and begin to file out of the room, you slowly pack up as well. Your hands are cold from anxiety as you zip up your bag and get up from your seat. Meeting Professor Crane in his office was the last thing you wanted to do right now. The plan was to go home, grab takeout on the way and curl up in bed with a movie starring this forty-something year old actor you have the hots for. But God forbit anyone in Gotham wants to have a nice time.

Soon enough, you find yourself in Crane’s office, taking the seat in front of his desk and folding your hands in your lap to keep from fidgeting. The professor runs a hand through his hair, looking you over with a skeptical glare before he straightens his posture and gets to the point.

“I’m disappointed, shocked and quite frankly, I feel personally insulted.”

Your brows furrow, but before you can speak, he pulls out two stacks of paper, smacking them down on the desk. You quickly recognize one stack as a copy of your exam, but as you look over at the other, it feels like someone froze time for a moment. It’s someone else’s exam, but they wrote down the same answers. Not word for word, but in a way and structure that’s quite obviously plagiarized. Squinting at the name, you remember the guy sitting next to you, and anger bubbles up inside of your chest.

“He cheated off of me,” you mutter, trying to stay calm.

“Brennan said the same thing. Funny how that works, huh? And in case it went over your head, I don’t find it funny at all. But I will have to fail one of you. The question is, which one will it be?”

He takes his glasses off, gingerly setting the spectacles aside before he pinches the bridge of his nose. A little dramatic, but very much expected from him.

“Look, I’m not saying you were the one cheating off of Brennan,” He starts, sounding exhausted and absent at the same time. Like this is all beneath him. Like your future in his class has as much importance as the piece of lint he’s picking off of his sweater vest. “But there’s no real proof that he cheated off of you either. It’s a case of ‘he said, she said’. And it’s not like Brennan had much reason to cheat. He has had consistently good grades, whereas you-“

“I’ll prove it, “ you interrupt him without thinking, clenching your hands so tightly that your nails dig into the skin of your palms. Crane looks visibly taken aback, perplexed that you have the gall to intercept before he could expose your rather mediocre academic history in his class. You know you’re average. A face in the crowd; one of many names on an attendance sheet he barely pays attention to.

“I’ll prove it to you,” you repeat, swallowing dryly. Your mouth suddenly feels like you ate sand, and you really want to clear your throat, but you’ve done so thrice within the past five minutes, and you can tell it’s starting to piss him off. “Give me a chance, please. Please, Professor Crane. I know the material, I swear.”

Crane’s eyes briefly dart down to your lips, and his eyebrows furrow in thought before he nods slowly, thoughtfully. He’s making a show of it. Portraying himself as the generous teacher while you’re desperate for even the smallest chance of passing this goddamn class.

“Alright,” He sighs, and the weight seems to lift off of your shoulders. A smile begins to spread on your face, and –

“Get out a pen. And paper. You’re going to write an essay.”

Eyebrows raised in confusion, you tilt your head a little. You almost feel stupid to ask.

“What, right now?”

“Of course, right now. At home, you’d get the chance to cheat again, wouldn’t you?”

Again. He’s still convinced you were the one to cheat on your exam. His tone is bitingly condescending and he doesn’t bother to elaborate further as he gets up from his chair to head over to the almost overflowing bookshelf next to his desk. You’re still sitting there, hands in your lap until he lets out an exasperated sigh, signaling for you to get a move on. Not wanting to incur even more of his wrath, you dig through your bag to get out a pen and some loose sheets of paper.

In the meantime, Crane has chosen a book from his shelf, and he’s wordlessly flipping through the pages until he lands on a fitting topic for an essay. He snaps the book shut and returns to his desk, fixing his tie as he nods to himself.

“Alright. I want 5 pages on fear conditioning. If you truly studied for the exam, this should be a piece of cake. If you didn’t, this will be an embarrassing little lecture you’re in dire need of learning.”

Your eyes widen, and you stammer for a moment, unable to find the words while staying respectful.

“That many? But it’s already –“

“Five-thirty pm? I hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight. And you should be grateful that I don’t have plans either. I’m staying late for your sake. Because you convinced me to give you a chance. I don’t have to do this, you know? I could just fail you and go home. So, I think a little gratitude would be more than appropriate.” There’s an odd expression in his eyes. Halfway between hunger and conflict. He’s usually so composed. You must really be testing his patience.

“Thank you, Prof –“ “Thank me by getting to it already.”

You nod meekly, grabbing the pen and beginning to jot down the date and your name in the corner of the first page. While you’re focused on the introduction part of your essay, you miss the way that Crane folds his hands on the desk, gripping so hard his knuckles turn white. His icy gaze is focused on every twitch of your muscles, every swoop of your handwriting, every time you softly bite your lips in thought. If only you’d look up. You’d see the way his jaw is set and his pupils expand. You’d realize the situation you’re in. A bunny with its neck in the jaws of the wolf.

You’re about two thirds done with the first page when he wheels his chair around the desk, closer to yours. Once his arm brushes against you, you pause to lift your gaze, looking at him with equal parts confusion and curiosity.

“Uhm… professor? What are you doing?”

“Checking on your progress,” Is his curt reply, but he leans in even closer, staring down at your half-baked essay. “Eyes on the paper.”

You comply, getting back to writing after a short second of sorting your thoughts. It’s more difficult to write with him basically breathing down your neck, and your heart skips a beat when he scoots even closer. Despite this, you keep on writing. Until his hand lands on your thigh.

You tense, looking up at him. Your lips part, and you’re about to say something before he speaks first.

“Eyes. On. The. Paper. We’re going to simulate a stressful, distracting environment. Not unlike a lecture hall during an exam. If you can keep your cool, I’ll know you didn’t cheat.”

You bite your lip, hesitating.

“Or I could fail you right now, and you’ll prove me and my suspicions right.”

Back to writing it is. Your hand is a little shakier during the next few sentences while the warmth of his fingers seeps through the fabric of your skirt into your skin. But you get back into the motions, almost able to ignore him until his hand flexes and begins to wander. A shiver runs down your spine as his touch slips underneath your skirt, feeling the soft flesh on the inside of your thigh.

“That’s it. Keep writing. Try to show me how smart you are.”

Crane’s voice is a snide whisper right next to your ear. His breath sends a shiver down your spine, but you keep your focus on the essay. Well, at least some of it. Once his fingers brush over the crotch of your panties, your breath hitches as heat builds in your core. But you can’t even get a word in.

“Run your mouth and your final grade drops to an F. You’re on my time now, understood? Not a fucking word to anyone or else a failed class will be the least of your worries.”

You’ve never heard him curse before. The man sitting beside you, the man with his hand under your skirt isn’t the professor you’ve known throughout the semester. No, at this point, the mask is slipping and the difference is startling. Crane pushes your skirt up with one hand and your legs apart with the other, letting out a low, appreciative hum at the sight of your wet panties.

“Fuck. You’re soaking through the lace, aren’t you? I didn’t even touch you yet… Are you always this easy? Almost adorable… Keep writing for me.”

His words make your ears burn with embarrassment, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek as you get back to your essay. It’s getting harder to think. Especially once his fingers slip underneath your panties, running between your glistening folds. Crane quickly finds your clit, rubbing circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves for a deliciously brief moment before he moves his hand further down to your entrance.

“Now you’re being grateful, hm? Is this what you were thinking about while everyone else was making an effort during my lectures? While everyone else was busy doing their work… you were getting worked up in your seat thinking about me. Thinking about me playing with your little cunt.”

The corners of his lips pull up into a self-satisfied grin as he plunges a finger inside of you, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure. You’re so wet that he’s not meeting any resistance from your sweet pussy, so he quickly adds a second one. The slick noises are obscene, and you duck your head in an attempt to hide your flushed face and focus on the essay, but it’s futile. You’re writing complete and utter nonsense at this point, and he knows it. Crane scoots his chair even closer, pressing up against your side as he works his fingers inside of you, caressing that spongy spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. As he looks over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your writing, he scoffs out a laugh.

“Goodness, sweetie. That’s what your pretty little head managed to come up with so far? All this talk about wanting to prove yourself, and you deliver this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more pathetic attempt at an essay in all my years of teaching.”

Tears well up in your eyes at the harshness of his words, and the sight of it makes Crane’s cock harden in his slacks. He licks his lips, curling his fingers inside of you with a little more urgency as he leans in to whisper into the crook of your neck.

“Let out those noises. I guarantee they’re worth more than every brainless contribution you’ve ever made in my class.”

It’s an order, not a request, and you find yourself unable to keep quiet anymore as his thumb comes up to rub your clit again. Your wetness is starting to drip down onto the seat below you while you let out a breathy moan, and you begin to doubt yourself. Maybe you really are as empty-headed as he says. To your dismay, this thought only causes the tension in your core to build up even faster.

“There we go. Close to cumming from being fingered by your professor. You’re so needy, so eager for the slightest bit of attention. A toy that needs to be played with 24/7. Aren’t you ashamed?”

You let out another moan of pleasure and humiliation, clenching around his digits as he stretches you open. When did you forget how to speak?

“Trying to play in the big leagues while you’re just a dumb little fuckpet for my enjoyment,” he hisses, before he sinks his teeth into your earlobe, causing you to squeak. It hurts. But that’s the point. You’re so close to the edge, toes curling inside of your shoes. And then suddenly, he withdraws his hand. You catch a glimpse of his glistening fingers, and you turn your head just in time to watch him lick your juices off of them. He lets out a groan, satisfied by your taste.

“Get up. Hands on the desk.”

You scramble to get up, standing on wobbly legs as you bend over Crane’s desk. The professor wastes no time, grabbing onto your sopping wet panties and ripping them off of you. The fabric shreds beneath his hands, leaving your skin stinging where it cut slightly into the soft flesh of your thighs. Your skirt is flipped up, exposing your rear to him, and he moans out another sound of appreciation. His hands come up to grab onto the meat of your ass, spreading them apart to allow him a perfect view of your dripping cunt.

“Lord knows you’re not made for higher education.”

Crane leans in, licking a stripe up between your folds, and you bite down on a knuckle to keep in the pathetic moan that hangs on your lips. Your body is desperately begging you to just let him take what he wants from you, but your mind clings onto the last shred of dignity you have. When the sound of his belt being undone tears you from your thoughts, you turn your head, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“Wait –“ You start, suddenly struck by the reality of it all.

Crane chuckles at the expression of wide-eyed apprehension on your face.

“You’re not braindead already, are you? What did you think was going to be the logical conclusion of this? Of course, I’m going to bury my dick in you. Fuck, if you were this tight around my fingers, I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock….”

“No, I –“

“Shh, no need to worry. Judging by your essay, you don’t have the mental capacity anyway.”

Crane roughly grabs a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down until your cheek meets the wooden surface of his desk while he hurriedly unzips his slacks. He’s painfully hard at this point, straining against the fabric of his boxers, and he lets out a relieved hiss once he’s finally freed himself. He leans over you, pressing his weight into your back and aligning himself with your tight hole before he pushes his hips forward. You’re immobilized under him, squished against the desk as he fills you with his length. Crane’s lips find your pulse, licking and nibbling at your neck as he bottoms out inside of you, shuddering from the sensation of your plush walls around his cock.

“Good girl… you’re so wet. All for me, huh? Yes… just for me.” He moans through his teeth, leaning back a little to watch as your pussy stretches around him when he begins to slowly thrust into you. You let out a soft whine in response, not quite adjusted to him yet. But if you know anything about him at this point, it’s that he doesn’t care.

“I know, sweetheart, it’s a lot. Just relax – shh, shh, that’s it. You feel so good, squeezing me like a proper toy. All obedient and sweet… you really were built for this.“

He lifts his hand, landing a smack on your ass before he pulls out all the way and pushes back in, letting out a condescending laugh at the way you shiver. You can feel how deep he reaches, hitting every spot while he stretches you out with calculated thrusts. His pace begins to speed up, and his other hand wraps around your throat to keep you close as he pounds into you. Coherent thought becomes difficult for you, and even if you did want to say something, it’s suddenly made impossible when Crane pushes two fingers into your mouth, almost making you gag.

“Needy little thing. Bent over and babbling like a whore. But you -fuuuck - you take me so well, don’t you? All tight and sopping wet for my cock to stretch you out...”

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, yanking you back by your hair to make you lift your torso up from the desk. The carefully crafted persona of a calm, reasonable Professor Dr. Jonathan Crane has completely slipped from his face now and shattered by his feet like Fine China. His hands move quickly, urgently as his rhythm begins to stutter. The fingers that are now soaked with your saliva make their way back between your legs to circle your clit while his other hand leaves your hair to tear open your blouse, sending the buttons flying everywhere.

His teeth find your neck again as he grabs at your chest, kneading your soft breasts as he marks you up. Hickeys, bruises, bite marks. He leaves them behind to claim. To own. Your climax hits you like a truck, knocking the air from your lungs as he fucks you through your orgasm, not faltering for a second. Stars fill your vision for a moment, and you’re only vaguely aware of the kisses that he’s pressing to your cheek. Your walls are clenching him tightly, causing him to curse under his breath.

Crane swallows heavily, rasping into your ear between shallow breaths.

“Tell you what… No more thinking about essays. In fact, I don’t want you to think ever again. No more exams… no more studies. As if you’d ever be someone of importance in this field to begin with. No, no… I won’t let you waste your time on a silly little Bachelor’s anymore... Fuckpets like you only need to be bred. I’m gonna be generous and fuck a child into you.”

Your eyes snap wide open, and even with your cock-drunken brain, you realize just how serious he is about this. In an attempt to get away, you begin to struggle in his grasp, but he replies by kicking your legs further apart, forcing you down against the desk again. The wooden edge digs against your thighs, keeping your hips in place for him as he plows you into the piece of furniture. Your cheek is pressed up against your unfinished essay, reminding you of your failure on all accounts as you drool onto the paper.

Your hands are clawing at the desk, trying to find purchase when his own hands find yours, linking your fingers together in a frighteningly intimate gesture. Crane continues to moan your name, pressing his face into the crook of your neck before he pushes his cock as deep as he can into your poor cunt, filling you with his hot cum. He lazily rocks his hips back and forth a few more times, trying to push in his load as far as he can before he finally stills, panting against your skin. He stays on your back for another few moments, breathing in your scent and idly squeezing your hands with his.

Once his breathing has evened out once more, he straightens up, kissing the top of your head before he pulls out. Crane watches as his seed drips out of you, a glint of amusement and possessiveness in his eyes as he pushes it back into you with two fingers. You feel completely boneless, crumpled on the desk as you try to make sense of what happened and what will happen. The silence doesn’t last long before Crane speaks up again.

“In the morning, you’ll make me breakfast, and in the evening, you’ll cream on my cock. Like a proper little housewife. And I’ll get to see your tits swell and your belly expand as our kid grows inside of you,” He muses, running his hands over your shoulders and down your back, a gesture that’s more meant to ground himself than it is meant to soothe you.

His voice is soft, yet eerily determined. A man that’s planning the future out loud. Unbeknownst to you, he’s reaching into his suit pocket behind you, pulling out a small syringe filled with a clear liquid.

“And if you get bored again and your mind starts to wander, I’ll knock you up again and again until you know your place. Face down, ass up. Beneath me.”

#jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane #batman begins #nolanverse #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane x y/n #.moth writes

2K notes · View notes

hiddenfolk · 26 days ago

Text

Ok so after getting to see the events of this timeline Sayaka in scene 0, I thought it might be interesting to analyse the variations in her barrier!

In timeline 3, Sayaka's conflict seems to primarily revolve around Madoka, and the shifting dynamics of her friend group. Initially, she is hurt and confused that Madoka seems to be ditching them for Homura, a girl who she's literally just met. When she discovers the truth, she is upset with Madoka for keeping her in the dark, and Homura and Mami, who she struggles to trust can keep Madoka, her eternally kind yet naive friend, safe. I think this is why this Oktavia is much pinker in palette overall.

Imo, Oktavia's timeline 3 barrier reflects Sayaka's scattering loyalties. On top, is a laser show lit in her magical girl friend's colours. On the ground are her hitomi-like familiars dancing away. Just like how these lights shift and intersect with each other, so do the magical girls constantly clash with each other. As a group, the quintet are scattered and prone to infighting. The fact they are represented with beams of light seems to reflect how thin and tenuous the bonds of these magical girls are.

Meanwhile the ground is filled with hitomis (well, klarissas but yknow). If we take the ground to represent the 'grounded' world, ie her non magical life, well that's been entirely taken over by a girl who's now dancing all over her chance at happiness. When it comes to her friend group, she has lost madoka to the other magical girls, and hitomi to romance. Essentially Oktavia is stuck between an unstable nebulous scattered world of magical girls, and a regular world that has no place for her.

I also feel like the large lantern on the ceiling strongly resembles a soul gem. Unlike in the main timeline where the revelation is what kicks off her emotional decline, in this timeline she learns it very late, when she was already close to her limit. Because she learns this fact so late, and also went into magical girling with slightly more skepticism compared to the main timeline, i feel like this Sayaka didn't experience as much of an identity breakdown, explaining Oktavia's overall lighter colours. However the fact this fixture quite literally hangs over her head like that definitely shows it was on her mind.

When Sayaka makes the decision to become a magical girl, mami is still alive. Unlike in the main timeline where she sees it as her moral duty to take up the mantle thats been left empty, in this timeline she isn't burdened by that. Rather, her decision to fight seems to be spurred on by the desire to protect Madoka- during the HN elly fight, we see her look homura in the eye, and decide she isn't someone she can rely on.

Overall while main timeline Oktavia seems to have been born from misery, timeline 3's Sayaka is much more motivated by anger. That's why she has 2 swords, and has a much more rock-like barrier. This Oktavia isn't born from a quiet tragedy and broken identity- this one's a girl on the warpath.

The throne Oktavia sits on is now yellow- perhaps because she blames mami for placing her into this position?

"You're going to tell me you just wish for other people's happiness? For nothing in return? (...) That's not how the world works."

Sayaka has become disillusioned with the ways of the world. She perceives all the 'hopes and dreams' stuff as nothing but a farce, that isn't how things actually work. I think it makes sense in this case that her barrier is a performance stage. When you look at the stage/background itself, it's actually quite a plain room- yet its being flashily blasted with lights and filled with neon quintet-coloured lasers. This whole magical girl things all just lights and spectacle, really.

Unlike in the main timeline where Madoka isn't a magical girl, in this one she is. Because of that she exists as a much more visible point of comparison for Sayaka, who still very much values being a hero of justice in this timeline. She SEES madoka happily embrace this thankless self-sacrificial existence and is deeply frustrated by her. Sayaka is upset that her wish to help Kyousuke went unnoticed and unappreciated, but this time round she has an example of someone who takes that reality well, someone who is happy to be a magical girl for the sake of it, and she feels her own dissatisfaction even more bitterly.

So yeah tldr: this timelines sayaka has more of a grasp of her own identity, and is motivated more by anger than sadness, leading to a louder, rock-ier barrier that reflects her eventual distrust of her entire friend group

#pmmm #Hidden talks #Sayaka miki #Scene 0 #Magia exedra #puella magi madoka magica #Sorry if this makes no sense i dont proofread lol

177 notes · View notes

talesfromawannabewriter · 26 days ago

Text

Submissive, Respectful, and above all Obedient

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Lucifer sighed out for the thousandth time as he tapped his claws anxiously on the meeting table he was seated at.

Awaiting for none other than representatives of Heaven to meet with him to discuss a grave matter.

According to the letter they sent they wished to discuss the exterminations. They claimed that wanted nothing more than to claim a ceasefire.

However Lucifer was skeptical of what their intentions were.

When his daughter had come back from her disaster of a court hearing with the Heavenly council she explained what they told her.

They would make no hasty decisions and they would keep all their options open until they were able to decide on what was best.

Which was now he supposed.

He had to say that it was quite a spectacle for him to have been the one to arrive first. Usually they were always on his ass about punctuality.

Even Adam would jump on him like a wolf if he was even a second late. But then again he was Heaven’s prized lapdog.

Always doing what they request of him without even a hint of hesitation on his end. It was disappointing to say the least.

Even after being given free will this was what he chose to do with it. Serving out Heaven’s grace and commands.

There was a sudden light that appeared before him as he was graced with the presence of none other than an angel he hadn’t seen since his fall.

Ezekiel.

An elder of Heaven that had been around since the very beginning. He was a throne who never bothered in hiding his true form.

Lucifer was surprised by his presence as it was this angel who was the first to support the extermination to happen.

Beside him was a young seraphim that he had never seen before. She appeared to be around Charlie’s age.

What caught his attention about her was how she was shivering. Not from coldness but what he saw as possible fear as she tried to hold back her tears.

Ezekiel: Lucifer Morningstar, we have much to discuss.

Lucifer: That we do Ezekiel, you claimed that you wish to stop the exterminations?

Ezekiel: Yes, I think it’s time we come up with a more productive approach to this whole issue of overpopulation.

Lucifer: What would that be?

Ezekiel: First allow me to ask you, how long has it been since you’ve been without a queen?

Lucifer: …..Almost eight years.

Ezekiel: What if I told you that Heaven will compensate the loss of your old queen for a new one?

Lucifer: What?

Ezekiel: In exchange for keeping your sinners and Hellborn in check and never even suggesting the idea of an uprising amongst them we shall give you a wife. One that would satisfy any desire you have or wish for.

Ezekiel clicked his fingers and the shaking seraphim’s head snapped over to the throne.

Ezekiel: Emily would you please retrieve the girl.

That wasn’t a question and the seraphim knew it as she tried not to choke on her own tears while standing up and leaving.

For a few minutes it was only tense silence as Lucifer tried to stare at anything BUT Ezekiel and his multiple eyes.

When Emily had arrived he almost breathed out a sigh of relief. But stopped when he saw the woman next to him.

She appeared to be a mortal woman with not even a hint of divinity or damnation.

She was simply human.

But she was oh so beautiful. Possibly the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

She was wearing a pure white robe like dress. Her figure was generously curvaceous. A head full of long curly brown locks. Her head was bowed as if she dared not to look up.

Ezekiel: Lucifer meet Ada, she is everything that a husband could wish for in a wife and more. She will do your every bidding without complaint and be at your back and call. Isn’t that right child?

Ada: Yes my lord, I will gladly serve my husband and master.

It was then that finally the woman turned her head upwards. Though they didn’t reach his own he could still see her eyes.

But what made her stand out were her brown eyes. They reminded him of the healthy soil of Eden. Which in turn reminded him of……..

No, it couldn’t be….

Lucifer: A, Adam?

#adamsapple #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lucifer #female adam

179 notes · View notes

ruinofchimera · 10 months ago

Text

Lily Evans was far from a white knight in shining armor in the confrontations between James & Co. and Severus. And if you want to talk about her toxic friendship with Snape, don’t try to erase her contribution to the equation.

Apparently, her close friend is lifted upside down by a spell that causes his robes to fall and expose his underwear. As he helplessly struggles, flailing to free himself, a crowd gathers to watch the spectacle. His wand is out of reach, and he is being mocked and threatened. Of course, as a true friend, she finds this picture amusing enough that she has to hold back her laughter. You know, absolutely reasonable behavior for someone who cares for you deeply. Moreover, imagine if Remus were in a similar situation—no doubt his friends' first reaction would be to laugh, or perhaps yell at his bullies to put him down. With his wand in hand, James Potter would stand by and wait for his friend to be released.

Definitely a turning point in Lily and Severus's friendship. Though Severus's behavior was heavily dictated by a strong sense of hurt after such a public humiliation and violation of his privacy, as you all say, these circumstances justify nothing when it comes to throwing those kinds of insults. Fine.

Oh, but what explains her response, then? Was she hurt too? Humiliated? If you’re saying that the mental state after such a traumatic experience as the one James inflicted upon Severus shouldn’t have affected his words, what justifies Lily’s behavior? What made such a saintly person as she join in the ridicule of her so-called friend in an instant? Not only did she join in by calling him the insulting nickname used by his abusers, but she also added another mockery of Severus to the rotten pile as if it weren’t enough already. And I want to remind you once again that Lily lost control of her emotions before she had even gone through half the humiliation that Snape had endured, for the record.

Thus, it appears that there is a precedent of hypocrisy here. Why do you make this situation appear as a one-sided insult (Severus is the big bad wolf and Lily is the victim) rather than a mutual emotional outburst? Why is Lily allowed to feel hurt but Snape isn’t, though Severus’s emotional damage is at least double? Fine. Let’s move on to the approach both of them took in their apologies.

So, apparently, Severus felt guilty after committing such an atrocity as calling Lily a Mudblood. He made a sincere attempt to apologize. Lily didn’t feel guilty for her contribution to his public humiliation; she was sure the only villain here was Severus.

Lily had every right imaginable to reject his attempts to make amends, but the thing is, Severus reconsidered his behavior—she never did. Moreover, she expressed absolute skepticism about his redemption. Should I even mention that she later started dating his bully? The one who never even tried to apologise for his assaults on Snape?

Somehow, she believed in James's redemption even without him admitting his wrongs. Let it be. That’s not the main point of discussion. What I really struggle to understand is how, given all these circumstances, Lily becomes a cheered, glorious friend, and Severus is commonly believed to be the villain in their dynamic.

Did I overlook something? Prove me wrong, if you please. Open my eyes to where exactly Lily is a saint or martyr. Where is she even a good friend in the first place? I’m all ears.

#harry potter #lily evans #severus snape #marauders #james potter

409 notes · View notes

verstappensrealwife · 1 year ago

Text

"Because he likes you!" - Lando Norris x Reader

[lando norris masterlist / f1 masterlist]

ʚɞ in which... lando bullies the reader, "because he likes her,". ʚɞ fluff, angst, smut. ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 2800 words ʚɞ warnings: slow burn, sex, tiny hint of carlos sainz jr x reader, sex. Reader “rewarding” Lando for winning!

-୨♡୧-

From the earliest memories of childhood, Lando Norris was a constant presence—a thorn in your side, a tormentor, a source of frustration. He revelled in teasing, in taunting, in making your life just a little bit harder. Your parents' dismissive explanation, "It's because he likes you," grated against your nerves, a feeble attempt to rationalize the torment. You did not like Lando Norris. Not at all. Not even the littlest bit. Not at all.

But hate was a strong word.

In your teenage years, Lando's torment took on a different form. The physical assaults of hair pulling and tripping you onto your face may have ceased, but the verbal jabs and the mocking laughter persisted, carving deeper wounds into your already fragile heart. It was as if he revelled in your discomfort, delighting in every opportunity to belittle and humiliate you, all under the guise of adolescent affection—a twisted notion that your parents foolishly labelled as "liking you."

Your family received the coveted invitation to his Formula One debut in Australia—an event that filled you with a conflicting mix of emotions. The pits pulsed with an electric energy, a cacophony of roaring engines and frenetic activity, cameras capturing every moment of the spectacle.

AUSTRALIA, 2019 With the guest pass draped around your neck, you navigated the bustling pits, your younger brother trailing behind you, wide-eyed with excitement. His adoration for Lando bordered on obsession, his youthful enthusiasm a stark contrast to the simmering resentment that burned within you.

Blehh!

You finally located the Orange garage, the vibrant hue catching your eye amidst the bustling chaos of the pits. With determination in your step, you made your way over, anticipation building with each stride. But as you reached out to tap the shoulder of the figure clad in orange- he was not the man you thought he was.

"Lando— Oh, hi, not Lando,"

The man before you exuded an undeniable charm, his smile lighting up his features and drawing you in despite yourself. There was an aura of confidence about him, a magnetic presence that commanded attention and left you momentarily breathless.

"Hello," he replied, his voice smooth and warm, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "I could be Lando for you," he flirted, his words tinged with playful intent.

"Would rather you not, he's not my type," you quipped.

But before you could dwell on the awkwardness of the moment, your younger brother, who had been tugging on your hand impatiently, finally spoke up, his excitement palpable. "HI CARLOS!"

Carlos.

"Hi, little man." He looked down- not even noticing the young boy when you approached. "Is he...?"

"Not mine! Brother." You cleared up.

He smiled softly before turning his attention back to entertaining the 5-year-old, leaving you to absorb Lando's sudden presence with a mixture of surprise and nonchalance.

"Didn't think my biggest hater would come," Lando remarked, his hand landing on your shoulder with a familiarity that made you bristle.

"I'm not here for you," you replied with a smile, gesturing towards Carlos who stood nearby, engrossed in conversation with your brother.

"Him? Why?" Lando's skepticism was palpable.

"Well, just look at him—those eyes, that accent, not to mention those muscles," you teased, unable to resist the opportunity to indulge in some light-hearted banter.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop you right there," Lando interjected, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "He's not that hot," he insisted, though his tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

You chuckled in response. "Oh, believe me, he is," you insisted, your gaze lingering on Carlos as he interacted with your brother. "I would," you added casually, shrugging off Lando's incredulity.

"You would?" Lando's brow furrowed with genuine curiosity. "What would you do?"

Ignoring his question, you watched as your brother returned, proudly displaying Carlos' autograph adorning his shirt. "Bye, Carlos," you called out, offering a warm smile and a nearly imperceptible lip bite, to which Carlos responded in kind. Then, without sparing Lando another glance, you turned and walked away, leaving his unanswered question hanging in the air.

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO?!" his voice echoed after you, but you were already lost in the crowd, your thoughts drifting back to the captivating Spaniard you had just left behind.

After the race, as Lando jogged over to his and your families, the tension from the race began to dissipate, replaced by a mix of relief and begrudging acknowledgment. You couldn't deny his skill on the track, but that didn't mean you had to like him.

When he approached, surrounded by congratulations and well-wishes, you offered a lukewarm response, the bare minimum required to acknowledge his achievement. "Well, I mean I'm glad you didn't die?" you quipped, injecting just enough sarcasm to deflect any further attention.

Lando nodded in your direction, his own smile tempered by your evident lack of enthusiasm. You responded with a tight-lipped smile of your own, a silent reminder that while you might share the same space, any camaraderie between you remained strictly superficial.

SILVERSTONE, 2019

As Lando finished the race at Silverstone, notching an 11th place, you couldn't resist a playful jab at his performance. "Maybe one day you can get points!" you teased, your tone dripping with faux enthusiasm.

Lando's comeback was quick, his words laced with sarcasm, "Maybe one day you can stop being such a virgin." You burst into laughter, thoroughly amused by his attempt at banter, though he seemed puzzled by your reaction. His confusion only deepened when he followed your gaze to Carlos, who was nearby.

"Oh my god! Him?" Lando exclaimed, catching on to your playful insinuation.

Lando's playful challenge caught you off guard, his smirk daring you to match his boldness. "So if I DNF, you'll sleep with me?!" he quipped, his tone teasing but tinged with a hint of curiosity.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, suppressing a laugh at his audacity. "Pfft! You do that plenty! Win first maybe?" you retorted, firing back with equal parts sass and amusement. The banter between you continued, each remark a playful exchange that danced on the line between rivalry and camaraderie, reminding you both that despite any differences, there was still room for light-hearted teasing and mutual respect.

But you still didn't like him.

MIAMI, 2024

What a mistake! Because here you were, in the Miami heat, watching Lando beat Max by 5 seconds.

Honestly, you had forgotten that deal long ago.

Lando had not. He had thought about it at every close call of winning, every podium, every late night...

You were scared for him, you didn't like him- you just didn't want to see him fail... You don't like him...

When he passed the finish line he was shouting into his radio, thanking alot of people before you heard your own name.

"...and Y/N, I hope you remember Silverstone 2019!"

People looked at you for answers but you had none.

Until he got out the car, sweaty, tired, hot– warm! Because of the heat...You didn't think he was hot.

That was when you had the answer.

Gosh... Long day ahead.

As he practically flew out of the car, his eagerness palpable, he landed amidst a bustling crowd, his body unexpectedly colliding with yours. The force of the impact nearly sent you stumbling, but before you could fully register what had happened, his arms encircled you in a tight embrace. In that moment, amidst the chaos of the surroundings, there was a brief interlude of serenity as you found solace in his warmth.

But the tranquillity was short-lived. His whispered words shattered the fragile bubble of peace, leaving you reeling in disbelief. "Gonna fuck you so good tonight," he murmured, the unexpectedness of his crude remark contrasting sharply with the tender embrace moments before.

A mixture of emotions surged within you, a turbulent storm of confusion, disgust, and an unsettling flicker of attraction. It was a disorienting mixture, leaving you struggling to make sense of the conflicting feelings swirling within.

When he finally released you, his touch lingered, his hands reluctant to part from your waist. His gaze held yours for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of unspoken words passing between you, before he abruptly moved on to greet the next person in the crowd. Left standing there, you couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that had settled over you like a heavy fog.

Hours later, as you walked briskly towards the hotel, he trailed behind you, his presence an unsettling reminder of the encounter earlier. Unsure whether to match your pace or maintain a discreet distance, he hovered awkwardly, his uncertainty palpable in the air between you.

"This feels creepy, Lando," you remarked, casting a sidelong glance at him. "Just catch up with me; you look like a stalker."

"It's not creepy!" he protested, his cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment. "We're heading to the same room... for the same... things."

You raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Things," you echoed with a wry chuckle. "You can say sex, Lando."

His blush deepened, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sex... with you. Wow."

"I... I thought the crush I had on you since I was, like, born, was pretty obvious," he confessed, his hand gently resting on the small of your back, a tentative gesture of intimacy.

The admission hung heavy in the air, an unspoken confession of long-held desires and hidden emotions. Caught off guard, you stumbled over your words, struggling to process the revelation.

You halted in your tracks, the weight of his words sinking in. "Huh."

"Yeah..." he murmured, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. "Well, Repunzel was right—mothers do know best."

A bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you resumed walking, his hand still lingering at your back. "It wasn't Repunzel; it was Mother Gothel," you corrected, a playful glint in your eyes. "And yeah—I'm a Repunzel fan, so what?"

His laughter echoed in the night air, a shared moment of levity amidst the weight of the conversation. "Shut up," he teased, gently nudging you as you walked side by side.

"Make me," you shot back, a playful challenge laced with a hint of something deeper—an unspoken invitation to explore the tangled emotions that lingered between you.

His laughter danced in the night air, a melody that seemed to weave around the unspoken tension between you. As his gaze met yours, there was a flicker of something more profound, a silent invitation lingering in the air.

A playful grin tugged at his lips as he leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. "Challenge accepted," he murmured, his voice low and husky with anticipation.

In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you suspended in a timeless embrace. His fingers traced a delicate path along your jawline, igniting a trail of sparks that seemed to dance beneath your skin.

With a gentle tug, he drew you closer, his lips brushing against yours in a tender caress. It was a delicate dance of longing and desire, a silent symphony of unspoken emotions finally finding their voice in the touch of his lips against yours.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you melted away, leaving only the sensation of his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer with each passing moment. In that fleeting instant, there was no room for doubt or hesitation, only the overwhelming rush of love and longing that seemed to bind your souls together as one.

And as you finally pulled away, breathless and exhilarated, there was a silent understanding that lingered between you— upstairs. Now.

The kiss continued unabated, an unrelenting torrent of passion that seemed to consume every ounce of your being. With each step towards his room, his touch ignited a fire within you, sending waves of desire coursing through your veins.

In the confined space of the elevator, his hands roamed freely, exploring every curve and contour of your body with an insatiable hunger. The air crackled with electricity as his touch lingered on the curve of your ass, his fingers tracing patterns of longing and desire against your skin.

The journey to his room was a blur of messy kisses and frantic touches, the urgency of his desire palpable in every brush of his lips against yours. His cock strained against the confines of his jeans, a silent plea for release that echoed the longing pulsing through your veins.

As he fumbled with the keycard, his impatience was palpable, his focus solely on the tantalizing promise of what awaited behind closed doors. The moment the door swung open, you were both consumed by a primal need that eclipsed all rational thought.

With a forceful push, you tumbled onto the bed, the weight of his body pressing against yours as the door slammed shut behind you. In that moment, there was no room for hesitation or restraint, only the raw intensity of two souls drawn together in a frenzied embrace.

–

"Was that Lando?" George asked, with popcorn and a bottle of water in his hands, looking over at Alex who held the same.

"What the fuck-"

–

His movements were urgent, desperate, as he sought to satisfy the burning desire that raged within him. He had barely been able to put the condom on with how shaky his hands were.

With each thrust of his hips, there was a raw intensity that bordered on reckless abandon, the rhythm erratic and frenzied. The sound of skin against skin filled the air, punctuated by the rhythm of your ragged breaths and the soft, breathy moans that escaped his lips.

His forehead was damp with sweat, pressed against yours with an almost possessive fervor. The heat of his breath mingled with yours, creating a heady cocktail of desire that hung thick in the air between you.

Every touch was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands roamed your body with a fevered urgency, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as he traced every curve and contour with a hunger that bordered on obsession.

In that moment, there was no room for restraint or inhibition, only the primal need to be one with you, to lose himself entirely in the depths of your passion. And as he surrendered to the intoxicating frenzy of desire, he found himself consumed by a blissful oblivion, lost in the heady rush of ecstasy that washed over him like a tidal wave.

You were a mess, a writhing wreck, unable to keep still as he pushed his entire cock into you. In and out, hitting the perfect spot every time. Each thrust earning another lewd moan from you. He was so proud he could make you feel so so good. But he couldn't keep going any longer after you came on his cock, the feeling making him so overwhelmed he couldn't keep it together as he came.

Not able to keep himself up anymore, he fell ontop of you.

"Ouch!" You giggle as he rolled off, beside you. You lay there, breathless and trembling, your body still pulsating with the aftershocks of pleasure as he collapsed beside you. His weight pressed against your side, a comforting presence amidst the disarray of tangled sheets and scattered clothing.

"So, how was that..." he ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a hint of uncertainty.

You turned to him, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you met his gaze. "Surprisingly good," you admitted, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Surprising?!" he exclaimed, his brows furrowing in mock offense. "What, do I not seem like I'd be good?"

You couldn't help but laugh at his incredulous expression, reaching out to playfully tousle his hair. "Oh, you were good," you assured him, your voice laced with affection. "More than good, actually."

His lips curved into a satisfied smile, a sense of pride flickering in his eyes. "Well, I aim to please," he quipped, his tone light and playful. "Does this mean you'll go on a real date with me?"

"Maybe win again and we'll see!" You joked, making him playfully smack your leg. "Joking.. I suppose I can," You shrug.

"You won't regret it, I promise," he vowed, his tone earnest and sincere.

He led you to a charming café nestled in the heart of Miami a few days later, the bustling streets alive with the vibrant energy of the city. As you settled into a cozy corner booth, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the tantalizing scent of pastries, creating a welcoming ambiance that enveloped you in its warmth.

"So, you and Carlos..." he began, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he leaned in closer.

Your brow furrowed in confusion at the sudden topic of conversation. "What about him?" you questioned, the curiosity evident in your voice. "If it's about 2019, we didn't actually do anything," you clarified with a casual shrug. "Did go on a few dates though, but he met another girl he liked," you added, your tone nonchalant and unaffected.

The playful smirk on his lips faltered slightly, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. "You didn't even— You didn't even sleep with him," he whispered, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief that drew the attention of a few nearby patrons.

Your smile remained unwavering as you shook your head. "Nope," you confirmed.

"I guess its because 'I liked you' or whatever..."

Okay so maybe you did like Lando Norris... Just a little- maybe a lot.

907 notes · View notes

xichilie · 4 months ago

Note

I LOVE YPUR BRANT FICS SO MUCH

Your the only one feeding us here 😭

Please keep that up

Please

Can we get reader getting kidnapped because they want Brants ransome

And he saves her

Then he gets all emotional

And kisses her accidentally he gets flustered

Please

Ofc I will continue feeding you, we need more brant ♡

Brant x (fem)reader

"The Fool’s Ransom"

The air was warm, the scent of wildflowers drifting lazily through the breeze as Y/N wandered through the outskirts of Fool’s Elysium. She had always found solace in moments like this—where the world was quiet, untouched by the chaos of the Troupe’s performances, the danger of their notoriety.

Her hands grazed over delicate petals, plucking a few blossoms with care. A vibrant mix of red and gold—Brant’s colors, she realized absently, lips twitching in amusement.

She could already imagine his reaction.

"For me? Ah, darling, you shouldn’t have! Though, of course, I deserve nothing less than the most beautiful bouquet, picked by the most enchanting hands—"

Y/N snorted at the thought, shaking her head. The man was ridiculous. Endearing, but ridiculous.

A rustling noise behind her snapped her out of her thoughts.

She barely had time to react before the world shifted.

Shadows moved. Figures emerged from behind the trees, stepping into the dappled light of the forest. Five, maybe six of them—dressed in rough leathers and battered armor, the kind worn by mercenaries and bounty hunters.

Y/N’s muscles tensed. Not good.

“Well, well,” one of the men drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “Looks like we caught ourselves a little bird.”

Y/N’s fingers curled around the stems of the flowers. She forced herself to stay calm. Think. Assess. Find an opening.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, “but I don’t recall asking to be caught.”

The leader chuckled, stepping closer. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something calculating. “We know who you run with, girl.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Brant.

This wasn’t about her. It was never about her.

“You’re making a mistake,” she said carefully, shifting her weight, searching for a possible escape.

“Don’t think so,” the man replied. “See, there’s a hefty price on Brant’s head, but the bastard’s tricky. Slippery. We figure—why chase a fox when you can catch the thing he won’t leave behind?”

Y/N felt cold steel against her wrist before she could react. A pair of rough hands wrenched her arms behind her back, securing them with thick rope.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing.

The leader grinned, watching her struggle. “That’s right. You’re coming with us, sweetheart. Let’s see how much the Fool is willing to pay.”

And just like that, the world blurred as they dragged her away.

The crowd roared, their cheers bouncing off the stone walls of Ragunna’s marketplace, filling the night with electricity. The Fool’s Troupe thrived on such energy, reveling in the spotlight as they danced, spun, and weaved their illusions.

Brant, of course, was at the center of it all.

With a flourish of his coat and a flick of his wrist, he sent a cascade of golden sparks into the air, a final dazzling spectacle that left the audience gasping in awe. The trick was nothing new—sleight of hand, a little bit of Tacet magic—but paired with the way he grinned, the way he owned the stage, it was enough to leave even the most skeptical onlookers enchanted.

The music reached its crescendo. The finale.

With a deep, exaggerated bow, Brant tipped his hat and let the applause wash over him.

Another successful night.

And yet—something felt wrong.

Even as he basked in the adoration, his sharp gaze swept over the crowd, searching.

And that’s when he saw him.

A man, standing near the back, half-shrouded in shadow.

He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t smiling.

No, he was staring.

At him.

Brant had been in the game long enough to recognize that look.

A smirk that held no joy, only intent.

A predator sizing up its prey.

Brant’s usual bravado didn’t falter—he twirled his hat between his fingers, flashing the crowd one last charming wink before stepping off the stage. But inside, his mind was already racing.

He knew better than to ignore a threat.

And so, as the rest of the Troupe celebrated, Brant slipped through the back of the makeshift stage, where the night air was cool and the lanterns burned lower.

That’s when he saw it.

A single piece of parchment.

Tucked neatly into the folds of his coat.

Brant’s smirk wavered, just slightly.

He hadn’t felt anyone slip it in. Which meant whoever had done it was good.

Tina’s voice called from behind him. “Brant? What’s with that face?”

Brant ignored her for a moment, fingers tightening around the parchment. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, scanning the words scrawled in sharp, uneven ink.

"We have her.

Come alone.

You know why."

His heart stopped.

Her.

His grip tightened, crumpling the edges of the letter.

Tina must have seen the way his posture changed, the subtle shift from playful to deadly serious. She stepped closer, her usual smirk gone. “Brant. What is it?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His mind was already spiraling.

Y/N.

She had nothing to do with this life. She wasn’t a Fool, wasn’t wrapped up in the chaos that followed him like a shadow.

He had kept it that way on purpose.

Because she was his only place of quiet. His only bit of peace in a world of games and deception.

And now, because of him, because of the bounty on his head—

They had her.

Brant inhaled slowly, forcing a smirk back onto his face before turning toward Tina. “Well, darling, looks like I’ve got a little errand to run.”

Tina didn’t buy it for a second. “Brant. What the hell is going on?”

He twirled the parchment between his fingers before tucking it into his coat, straightening as if the weight of the message hadn’t just settled into his bones. “Nothing a bit of Fool’s charm can’t fix.”

And then, before she could stop him, before she could see the flicker of raw, unfiltered fear in his eyes—

Brant was gone.

Y/N’s wrists ached from the rough rope binding her to the wooden support beam, the coarse fibers digging into her skin with every movement. The damp, musty air of the abandoned warehouse filled her lungs, thick with the scent of rotting wood and old metal. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the sneering faces of the men surrounding her.

She had been walking, minding her own business, when they struck—too many, too fast—grabbing her before she even had the chance to fight back. Now, she was here, held captive by a group of bounty hunters with the collective stench of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.

One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with greasy hair and a scar running down his cheek, leaned against a crate, flipping a dagger between his fingers. He smirked.

"Never thought the famous Brant would be stupid enough to get himself a little sweetheart," he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. "Guess the rumors were true. Fool’s got a soft spot."

Another man, lankier but with the same cruel glint in his eyes, chuckled. "Soft spot’s gonna cost him big. That bounty on his head could set us up for life."

Y/N stayed silent, glaring at them with steady defiance. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

That didn’t stop them from trying to get under her skin.

A third man, smaller but no less disgusting, crouched beside her, reaching out with dirty fingers to trace the curve of her cheek.

Y/N flinched at the unwanted touch, disgust coiling in her stomach like a snake.

“Shame, really,” he mused, tilting his head. “A pretty thing like you, wasting your time on a fool like him. What’s he got that we don’t?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. Her first instinct was to spit in his face.

But instead, she did something worse.

She smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

It unnerved him, just a little.

Enough that his fingers hesitated against her skin.

“Oh, you poor, stupid man,” she murmured, her voice dripping with mock pity. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"

The man scowled. “The hell does that mean?”

Y/N only tilted her head, her expression almost amused now.

“Brant is a lot of things,” she said. “A scoundrel. A trickster. A Fool. But there’s one thing you should never forget—”

She leaned forward as much as the restraints allowed, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"A Fool always has the last laugh."

A moment of silence.

Then—CRASH.

Something shattered in the distance.

Y/N grinned.

He was here.

The bounty hunters barely had time to register the movement before a streak of violet light came swinging down from the upper beams like a phantom descending from the heavens.

Brant landed in a graceful arc of motion, boots hitting the wooden floor with a resounding thud. The dim lantern light caught the gleam of his sword as he twirled it effortlessly, the blade wreathed in flickering purple flames. His coat billowed dramatically behind him, his smirk infuriatingly confident despite the fact that he was surrounded.

“Gentlemen!” he called out, his voice carrying that same silken charisma that could charm an audience—or in this case, send shivers of fear down a man’s spine. “I do believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Y/N, still tied to the beam, rolled her eyes. “Took you long enough.”

Brant turned to her, flashing a cocky grin. “What can I say? Had to make an entrance.”

One of the bounty hunters finally snapped out of his shock. “It’s the Fool! Get him!”

Steel hissed from its sheath.

Brant moved before the first man could even blink.

With a single flick of his wrist, his sword slashed through the air, knocking the hunter’s weapon clean from his grip. The man barely had time to yelp before Brant twisted around him in a blur of motion, using his momentum to knock him out with a sharp, well-placed elbow.

The other hunters sprang into action, rushing him at once.

Brant’s grin widened. Perfect.

With a flourish of his blade, he leaped into the air, twisting above them in an almost impossible display of acrobatics. The purple flames around his rapier flared, trailing after him like a comet as he struck down three men in a series of fluid, calculated strikes.

Someone shouted, “Call for reinforcements!”

Brant clicked his tongue.

“Oh, no need for that,” he mused, suddenly vaulting upward. His boots landed lightly on one of the upper rafters, balancing as if he were performing on stage rather than engaged in battle. He tilted his head, finger tapping his chin.

“I was going to keep things simple, but since you’re all so eager…”

His hand lifted toward the ceiling.

The air rippled around him.

A deep rumble began to shake the very foundation of the warehouse.

The bounty hunters froze.

Then they saw it.

A giant, spectral anchor materialized above them, its heavy chains rattling as it hovered menacingly in midair. The sheer weight of it groaned against reality, as if waiting for its master’s command.

Brant snapped his fingers.

“Anchors away.”

The anchor plummeted.

The bounty hunters screamed.

The entire warehouse shook as the anchor slammed into the ground, sending a shockwave that knocked every single enemy off their feet. The force of the impact splintered the wooden floorboards, cracks spiderwebbing outward from where it landed.

Silence.

Then a low groan from one of the surviving men.

Brant dusted off his coat, grinning down at them. “I’d say that’s your cue to stay down.”

Y/N let out an exasperated sigh from where she was still tied. “Brant,”

Brant turned toward her, smirk still in place as he approached. “My dear, your savior arrived.”

And with a theatrical flourish, he cut her ropes.

The moment Y/N’s bindings hit the ground, she barely had time to react before Brant was pulling her close.

Not gently. Desperately.

His arms wrapped around her in a crushing embrace, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he let go. She could feel the erratic rise and fall of his chest, the way his entire body trembled—not from exhaustion, not from battle, but from something deeper.

Something raw.

Brant, her Brant, was shaking.

Y/N barely had time to process it before she heard it.

A sound so small, so unlike him, that it stopped her heart.

A shaky, broken laugh.

“sweetheart,” he whispered, voice hoarse and uneven. “You—you scared me.”

Y/N blinked. Brant, scared?

She’d seen him dance on the edge of blades without flinching. Laugh in the face of danger, throw himself into reckless stunts without so much as a second thought. He was the one who always smiled, who always made it look easy.

But now, here he was, burying his face into her shoulder, gripping her like a lifeline, voice breaking on the edges of words he couldn’t say.

Her stomach twisted.

She slowly brought her arms up, pressing her hands against his back.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Brant, I’m okay.”

His grip only tightened.

“I thought—” He let out another weak, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Theatrics were second nature to Brant, but this wasn’t a performance.

This wasn’t a grand declaration, or a dramatic monologue. This was real.

And it terrified him.

She felt it in the way his fingers curled into her hair, the way he clung to her as though he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

Brant, the Fool of the Troupe, the man who laughed in the face of death, had been petrified at the thought of losing her.

Y/N let out a slow breath, running a hand through his wild hair, her fingers brushing against the beads and charms tangled in the mess of blue strands.

“Brant,” she murmured, voice soft, gentle. “Look at me.”

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

His eyes—those brilliant, star-swept pinks—were red at the edges, shimmering with something dangerously close to tears.

Brant never cried. He’d joke, he’d tease, he’d brush off pain with a grin and a flourish, but now…

Now, he looked at her like a man who had almost lost everything.

Y/N cupped his face with both hands, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

Brant let out another weak, breathy laugh, leaning into her touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something—but then, he just sighed.

A long, shuddering sigh, like he was exhaling all the fear that had built up inside him.

And then, when he finally opened his eyes again—he smiled.

Not his usual, cocky smirk.

Not the confident grin he used to mask uncertainty.

Something real.

Something softer.

His hands slid down to her waist, fingers still trembling slightly as he pulled her against him once more, this time resting his forehead against hers.

“Guess this means I have to keep you closer now, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was no bravado this time. No false confidence.

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, smoothing his hair back. “That might be hard, considering you already keep me close.”

Brant chuckled, a little steadier now. “Not close enough, apparently.”

Y/N smiled, running a hand down his arm before threading her fingers through his.

Brant stared down at their joined hands, his expression softening even further.

Then, suddenly—his entire body sagged.

“Ohhhh, stars, Y/N, I think I’m gonna faint.”

Y/N barely had time to react before he dramatically collapsed against her, arms still wrapped around her but now in a ridiculous, over-the-top swoon.

Y/N groaned. “Brant.”

“My heart, my poor, delicate heart!” he wailed, burying his face into her shoulder again, except this time she could feel him grinning.

“You idiot.” She smacked his arm lightly, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.

Brant peeked up at her, eyes twinkling. “Ah! There it is. The laugh of my beloved rescuer.” He sighed dreamily, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Truly, I am at your mercy, my darling.”

Y/N shook her head, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

Brant grinned wider, then—without warning—pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to her lips.

Y/N froze.

Brant blinked, like even he hadn’t expected to do that. Then, ever so slowly, his face turned a bright, burning red.

“...Oh.”

Y/N stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you just—”

“NOPE. DIDN’T HAPPEN.” Brant immediately turned on his heel, still holding her hand but now practically dragging her away from the scene.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh. “You are impossible.”

Brant’s ears were still red as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still here.”

Y/N squeezed his hand.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I am.”

Brant glanced at her then, and for just a second—beneath all the theatrics, all the teasing—there was something else.

Something deep.

Something real.

And then, of course—

“WELL, I SUPPOSE I SHOULD WHISK YOU OFF INTO THE SUNSET NOW.” Brant threw an arm around her shoulders, twirling them both dramatically as they headed back toward town. “THAT’S WHAT HEROES DO, RIGHT?”

Y/N laughed, leaning into his side. “Sure, Brant. Whatever you say.”

And for the first time that night, Brant let out a breath that was truly, finally, free.

#wuwa brant #brant wuwa #brant x reader #wuthering waves brant #x reader #oc x character #x y/n #x you #brant #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #wuwa

245 notes · View notes

trippinsorrows · 4 months ago

Text

looking through your eyes + thirty six

authors note: see at end of chapter.

cw/tw: angst, graphic violence, gore, torture, attempted and real violence against women and children, scenes depicting sexual assault.

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

***gif credit goes to @romanreigns ***

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 16k

The minute the call with Domingo Lopez ends, the shock of the unexpected alliance and support weighs only for a couple minutes among the group. And, then it's gone. They can process that shit later. Roman can process that shit later. Right now, it’s time to plan and strategize.

And, they do, Steve eventually coming back in the room, only to remind them that whatever weapons, whatever guns, whatever they need from his massive collection, is theirs for the taking.

It’s deeply appreciated.

And, the assistance doesn’t stop there.

Because as the group begins to gather around the table, the front door is opened, an almost deep yet feminine voice sounding from the foyer. “Dad, why the fuck are there—”

Roman takes in the sight of a young woman, tall in stature, defined muscles evident in the all black, gothic outfit she wears. Short black hair frames a pale face that’s covered in dark makeup. She looks skeptical of the group until she sets her gaze on Dwayne, of all people, smiling almost immediately. “Uncle Dwayne.”

At that, Roman scowls.

Uncle Dwayne?

What the fuck?

Dwayne chuckles, stepping forward offering a hug to the witch looking kid. “Rhea.” He pulls back, shooting her a wink. “You brutalize anyone lately?”

“Among other things,” she smirks, gesturing to the group. “What’s all this?”

Putting two and two together, Roman would gather that this Rhea woman is Steve’s daughter. How, given she has a thick ass British or Australian sounding accent, and Steve is a country boy from Texas through and through, Roman hasn’t the slightest clue.

Nor does he really care enough to try to figure shit out.

“I’m in.”

Rhea’s statement directs his attention back to the scene at hand. He looks over at Dwayne. “What?”

“Women and children have been taken, right?” She asks, looking directly at Roman, not an ounce of fear or trepidation in sight. If not for the nature of his current situation, Roman might be a little impressed. Elvira's long lost daughter has got some balls. Rhea scowls. “Men already piss me the fuck off, but men who go after the innocent deserve a special place in hell.”

She looks between Dwayne and Roman, vowing, “you need an extra killer. You got one.”

Roman’s reluctance is clearly evident, as his older cousin gives him a slow, knowing nod. She’s good.

Once more, Roman finds himself having to lower his defenses, accepting and allowing help from the least expected sources.

“Fine.”

Not even twenty minutes later, the group, including Rhea, sans Austin, hover around the dining room table, planning and strategizing. “Alright,” Dwayne starts, iPad in hand showing a dated map and layout of the plant. The same layout that’s on the screen of both laptops on the table, providing all with a view. “Looks like there’s a couple entrances in and out of this place, but this one right here…..” He points to the largest space that provides a direct line to the biggest building on the property. “That’ll be our best way in. The core group.”

Santos is in deep thought, offering a valid question. “You don’t think we should utilize the the other entrances.” All eyes settle on him as he clarifies, “feels too obvious to use the front door. We’d be stepping right into heavy fire.”

“No, we won’t,” Roman supplies. It’s the first thing he’s said in a good ten minutes. “He wouldn’t risk killing me on the spot. He wants to make a spectacle of it.”

No one needs to ask who the he is.

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Cody speaks up, and Roman makes zero effort in hiding his displeasure. “Bron and Solo want an audience. Killing us the minute we step foot there would deprive them of that.”

Dwayne nods, continuing to strategize. “Main team uses the front door. Several other teams will use the alternative entrances, work their way in to take out as many men as possible.”

“We’ll need snipers,” Matteo speaks up, arms crossed as he too carefully studies the map. “Solo might be stupid to underestimate Roman, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll have snipers in place.”

Roman says nothing, silently agreeing.

The Bloodline has some of the best goddamn snipers around. If Solo was too dumb to think they’d be useful, he can almost bet Rikishi talked him into it.

“That won’t be a problem,” Santos speaks up, gesturing to the two men who arrived with him. “Angel and Berto are some of the best long range shooters you could ever come across. They don’t miss.”

“Neither do I,” Afia chimes, a knowing, telling, almost graceful smirk on her face as she looks over at Rhea. “How’s your aim?”

Rhea smirks, answering without a beat and with all the confidence that seems to match. She just looks like a person who can back up anything and everything she says. “You give me a target. I’ll get you a hit.”

Afia nods, saying nothing but believing it fully. The young woman reminds her a lot of herself in her youth. Ravenous and blood thirsty.

She’ll be a great asset for the mission.

“Looks like we got that sorted,” Matteo chuckles darkly, though not surprised at his wife’s proposal. As much as Afia enjoys motherhood and her retirement, he can’t imagine her spending as much time as she did out in the field and not missing some aspect of it. Not to mention, this is personal. He knows how close his wife has gotten to Solana, and she would be torn up if something happened to her.

But, even more, she’s livid that Solana was taken in the first place and wants her pound of flesh.

A shared sentiment.

“We still need to figure out our teams,” Dwayne announces, keeping everyone on track. A necessity, as the reinforcements should be arriving in a little under an hour. “Obviously, myself, Roman, and Matteo—Afia, you and Rhea can join us when you’re done lighting up the bastards from the sky.”

The two women share a smirk and fist bump, the younger of the two acknowledging, “with pleasure.”

Dwayne shakes his head, keeping his comment to himself as he continues to plan, “Rhodes, you’ll also be with us—”

“The fuck he will.” Roman shuts that shit down immediately, all sets of eyes on him as she practically growls, “he’s not fucking coming with us.”

“The fuck I’m not,” Cody is quick with the rebuttal, not allowing anyone else time to intercede and defuse. “Bron has my wife and daughter!”

Words that go in one ear and out the other, the true Tribal Chief acridly dismissing, “you think I give a fuck about that?” There’s a level of complete disinterest Roman has in anything regarding Rhodes and the Rhodes family right about now. His one and only concern is Solana, and he reiterates as such. “They could fucking die for all I care. This is about rescuing my wife. Not your family.”

And without skipping or missing a beat, Cody’s dark, chilly retort is delivered without any hesitation. “The same way you rescued your family that night?”

It’s nothing short of a miracle the way Dwayne is able to intercede, blocking Roman from flipping over the table and using Rhodes as target practice for what he plans to do to Solo.

Matteo extends an arm across Cody, who stupidly seems unaffected or bothered by Roman’s full intent to murder him right here on the spot.

“That’s enough,” Afia’s voice cuts through the chaos of Roman working to break free from his older cousin and wipe that smug smirk off Rhodes fucking face.

Or just blow his head off altogether.

Either option is equally acceptable.

She says something in a language he can’t understand but can guess by the scowl on her face is nothing nice. “You’re acting like children. Now, there’s clearly a story here, but I don’t give two fucks about that story. Do you want to know why?” She points to the table where the laptops remain open. “Because three innocent lives are at stake. Your families have been taken. The women you love.” Her gaze softens a bit. “Children.”

It’s that last single word that has Roman’s full attention. It could easily be a reference to Cody’s daughter. A general statement, but Roman knows better.

Afia knows Solana is pregnant.

Knows that Roman stands to not only lose his wife but his unborn daughters.

It’s a brutal but necessary reminder of what’s at stake and the importance of the situation.

“She’s right,” Matteo speaks up, taking over for his wife, lowering his arm at the same time Dwayne releases Roman. “You two can hate each other until kingdom come after all of this is over, but until then, shut the fuck up, swallow your fucking pride, and let’s get back to business.”

There’s something about Matteo’s tone, final and almost parental, that reels in the divergence from the main goal at hand.

He’s right. Roman knows as such.

He will forever hold a special, unhealthy amount of hatred in his heart toward the man across from him, but that’s not important right now.

He can’t allow that unforgiving, unrelenting, pulsing hatred to distract him from what’s most important. And, what’s most important is bringing Solana back home, safe and sound.

Alive.

Bringing her back alive.

Dwayne continues to spearhead in a sense, with occasional suggestions and ideas from the group, with Roman only chiming in when someone mentions Solo.

“He’s mine.”

A command that no one dares to defy. No one questions, and no one objects. Universal recognition that the only one who will spill Solo’s blood and be the one to cause him to take his final breath is the man most harmed in all of this.

Roman.

This is Roman’s kill to make.

A life for his to take.

In every brutal, gruesome way he can imagine.

Other than Roman’s one interjection, occasional head nods of agreement or acknowledgment, he’s silent and remains that way as he slips away while Steve offers the group their selection of whatever firearms and weapons they feel appropriate from his sizable armory. A separate building on the property.

But, Roman remains in the main house, finding his way outside as he sits on the steps and looks at his phone for the first time.

A phone that’s been lit up with unaddressed notifications all day. Primarily from two people.

Jimmy and Naomi.

Calls, texts, voicemail messages. Several, multiple, outreach attempts, a brief perusing of some of the texts revealing intense and urgent concern. From the messages alone, it would appear that they have no idea what’s happened.

The betrayal that’s occurred.

A part of Roman believes it. A part of him can’t. He can’t because Roman knows how close that family is. They’ve always been close-knit. Primarily Rikishi and his sons. Thus, Roman can’t conceptualize how Jimmy could truly be in the dark, even Naomi.

He wonders if it’s a ruse of sorts but can’t figure out why and for what reason. Solo knows Roman is coming. He wants Roman to come, so what reason would there be for him to have his brother play dumb, borderline harassing Roman with question after question about what’s just going on.

It’s confusing as shit, and while he hates to admit it, it bothers him.

It shouldn’t, but it does, and Roman knows that he needs answers. He needs answers to melt away the cloudy haze that sidetracks his vision.

He has to know if the betrayal truly was full circle. If everyone he once thought he could trust is now forever stamped with the bleeding, red letters that spell out traitor.

Roman navigates to Jimmy’s contact, hitting dial without second thought.

Time is not on his side, and he needs to get this done. He needs to get it done now.

Two rings later and a flustered, panicked sounding Jimmy. “Roman?”

The Tribal Chief hesitates, eventually offering a simple, “it’s me.”

Jimmy curses on the other end, immediately shouting for Naomi before returning his focus. “Man, I been trying to reach you all damn day. What the hell is going on?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, anxiously listing off all the things. “ I went to your office, and all they could tell me is you left this morning and ain’t nobody seen or heard from you since. We saw there was an attack at the library where Solana works, and we tried to go over there, but wasn’t nothing but bodies. Solana ain’t answering the phone, and Naomi is worried sick. I can’t get in contact with—”

“Did you know?”

Simple. Straight to the point. Necessary.

Jimmy pauses on the other end. “Know what?”

Roman runs his hands over his face, switching to speaker so he can rest it on the step next to him as he tries his best to compose himself. A difficult task, to say the least.

“It’s a coup,” he supplies. Roman isn’t exactly sure why he’s telling Jimmy from the start what’s occurred. What’s happening. In a more perfect world, he’d wait it out, see if his cousin would inadvertently reveal his own hand. But, this is far from a perfect world, and mentally, Roman is all over the damn place.

He doesn’t have the fortitude to navigate that shit right now.

He just wants to know.

He wants an answer.

“Rikishi, Solo, Jey, and what feels like the entire fucking Bloodline are trying to overthrow me. They’ve all turned on me and have kidnapped Solana in order to draw me out.” Roman leaves out the part where they’ve formed an alliance with the Nightmare Factory, wanting to keep some things to himself, to not reveal everything that he knows. “And, I need to know if you fucking knew about this shit. If you’ve betrayed me, too.”

Because that’s what this whole phone call is about. It’s not necessarily about scoping out information or alleviating concerns, it’s about finding out the truth, once and for all.

Jimmy scoffs, as if in disbelief. “What?”

And then a more frantic voice, feminine and familiar. Naomi. “What do you mean they’ve kidnapped her?” Roman says nothing, providing no additional information as Naomi continues to pry for information. Maybe from genuine concern. Maybe from and for an entirely different reason.

Because, he hasn’t forgotten about the argument she’d had with Solana while on the girls trip. An argument that resulted in Solana asking her to leave.

And now, Solana has been kidnapped.

“Oh my God, is she hurt? Why would they take her?” Naomi continues to shoot out question after question, her voice cracking. “We—we have to get her back!”

“We will,” Jimmy assures, clearly trying to console her on the other end. “Roman, where are you? What’s the pla—”

“Answer the question, Jimmy,” is Roman’s harsh, cold interruption. A reminder of his initial statement. “Did you know?”

“Wait a minute…” Jimmy trails off, voice shifting to something close to anger. “You think I had something to do with this?”

Roman doesn’t skip a beat with his reply. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Roman…” Naomi sounds hurt almost. Not that he cares. Her feelings are of no concern to him. “You know us. You know Jimmy. How could you even think—”

“I don’t know anything anymore!” Roman snaps, the tight grip he had on his emotions for this conversation starting to loosen. “All I know is that my wife has been taken, my fucking family has betrayed me, and the people who were supposed to be on my side have turned on me!” He closes his eyes, head tilted back as he rolls his neck and regains his composure. “I’m only going to ask one more time….did you know?”

Roman isn’t quite sure what kind of answer he expected from his cousin. He just knows he wants an answer. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter at this point.

The truth is all that matters.

“I knew….I knew they were thinking it was time you stepped down.” Jimmy finally answers after a good minute of silence. “Mostly Solo and my pops. They thought you’d become too distracted and wanted to meet with the Elders about stripping you of the ula fala.” Roman closes his eyes, doing his best to not allow the blow of Jimmy’s answer to extract from him another blow-up. “They wanted me and Jey to come with them, to go along with them, but I said hell no. I said—”

“So, you knew.” Because, that’s all Roman is hearing right now. He’s hearing that Jimmy knew tensions were high enough to where his dad and brothers wanted to see Roman dethroned, and he said nothing.

“I ain’t know they were planning this shit!” Jimmy defends, clearly emotional and frustrated.

It’s going around.

“Roman, we would never do anything to hurt you or Solana—”

“You should have told me. You should have fucking said something.” Roman completely dismisses Naomi. This isn’t even about her. This is about Roman and the man he thought he could trust.

The family he thought he could trust.

“Roman, I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I had no idea they were planning to do this.” To be fair, Jimmy sounds as genuine as he probably looks right now, but if there’s anything this experience has taught Roman, it’s that it’s sometimes the people closest to you who can say exactly what they know you want to need and hear.

All while stabbing you in the back.

Jimmy had continued talking, while Roman sort of tuned him out in a sense, only to latch onto one attention-grabbing sentence. “....I thought my pops let this go years ago….”

Now, Roman is the one pausing. “What?” Silence. “What are you talking about?”

A heavy sigh followed by a clearly reluctant answer. “When we was younger, my dad used to talk to us about how it would be an honor if one of his sons could be Tribal Chief. He thought…he thought we should have challenged you for the ula fala.”

Roman’s jaw clenches, his chest a tight cage for all things heavy and uncomfortable.

The shit just gets worse minute by minute.

“Is that why Jey did?” Roman asks, though something tells him he already knows the answer.

“Yes.” Fuck. “My dad put a lot of pressure on him, encouraged him that he could do it, but when he lost, I thought pops had moved on from that. I had no idea—”

Whatever Jimmy planned to say next will never be known. It’ll never be known because Roman hits the end button.

And, he sits there. Alone. Thinking. Dwelling. Ruminating. All cognitive roads leading to one damning answer.

Traitors.

They’re all traitors.

For years, seeds and discussions of dissension have occurred, plans to dethrone him made and disregarded until one finally came to fruition.

And, no one said a damn thing.

Dead.

They’re all dead to him.

—------

Thinking is a difficult, arduous task when every path one conceives could lead to an untimely demise.

It’s a heavy realization Solana is slowly coming to as she sits propped up against the wall, gently stroking Brandi's hair as she sleeps on her lap. An unexpected position and situation that few would expect the women to be in. But, it was in Brandi waking up and screaming, clearly reliving her recent trauma, that Solana moved to console and comfort her.

She’s been there.

She knows exactly what Brandi is experiencing, thus Solana working to soothe her back to sleep.

Solana doesn’t mind, because while she sympathizes with the trauma from the assault, she can’t imagine how devastated Brandi must be at being separated from her daughter. Not knowing where she is.

What’s being done to her.

It’s awful.

And, it’s why Solana is currently wracking her brain, trying to come up with a plan, preferably one that helps them get to Emma.

To Solana, that’s the most important thing. Protecting the children.

It just unfortunately happens to be the hardest thing as well.

To the best of her abilities, Solana tried to observe and memorize the halls and make of the building. Tried to commit them to memory, but with each possible path to a rescue and escape, she was met with guards.

Armed guards.

And, with a pocket knife being her only available weapon, Solana knows it won’t get her far. She needs one as well. A gun, at the very least.

Both herself and Brandi. If they’re going to escape this, and they will escape this, they have to be armed, too.

It’s just the how of it all that keeps stumping her.

Solana jumps and is immediately alert and cautious when the door turns, and though unsure, she's unwilling to show any fear at whoever it is entering.

Especially if it’s Solo or Rikishi.

It’s not.

But, it's still that same level of anger and resentment she holds and feels staring at the person who remains in the doorway, tray of food in hand, guilty, almost contrite expression on his face.

Jey says nothing at first, closing the door behind him as he walks in. “Ya’ll should be hungry.”

Solana remains quiet, offering no reply as he moves closer, and she holds onto Brandi. Protectively.

Jey sighs, walking over to the desk, carefully placing the tray down. “You should probably eat—”

“How could you do this?” Jey’s nonverbal expression is an immediate, immense amount of guilt. And, that only pisses Solana off even more, makes her fist form at her side. “How could you betray Roman like this?”

Because as much as she hates this for herself, she hates it for her husband more.

Hates that someone he viewed as a brother could do this to him. Could betray him like this.

“Solana, you gotta believe that I had no idea they were planning to do all this,” Jey tries to explain, running his hands through his short hair, gesturing to a still sleeping Brandi. Solana hopes she remains asleep for the whole conversation. She needs the rest. So does Solana, but she needs to know the why more than she needs sleep. “Kidnapping innocent women and kids? That’s not me.”

“Isn’t it?” Solana challenges, jutting to the tray. “Because instead of bringing us food, you should be trying to help us out of here. That’s the Jey I know. Not some henchman bitch for his evil dad and brother.”

He’s initially quiet, Solana knowing she hit below the belt, but it’s hard to care in this situation. It’s hard to care anything about the man before her.

And then, a reply. “They got Nicki.”

Solana pauses. “What?”

She hates to admit it, hates to acknowledge it, but she can see it. Can see the distress that marks his features. Can hear how distraught he is. “Apparently, they had a feeling I would “turn” on them, so they took Nicki to make sure I “don’t forget” which side I chose.”

It’s a lot to take in. The last thing Solana expected to hear was that another innocent woman has been dragged into this nightmare, let alone Jey’s wife. But, while her heart goes out to Nicki, Solana has a hard time not focusing on Jey’s words.

“Exactly.” She finally speaks, voice low, heavy with exhaustion. Mental and physical. “You chose your side.” She lifts her chin, her tone leveled and solemn. “Now, you have to live with the consequences.”

Solana is well aware that Jey is able to read in between the lines of her response. As much as she feels for Nicki, she can’t think about that. Can’t be concerned when she already has so much on her plate.

Jey did this. Now, he has to deal with it.

A grave realization that clearly overcomes the man as he leaves out without another word.

—------

Roman has never feared death.

Not really.

Come close to it a handful of times in his almost 40 years on this earth, but the closest and maybe the only time he was ever really scared was the night his family was murdered.

After that, fear became an emotion he had to bury when it comes to the end of life.

It’s not even something he’s really thought about, even in those moments where a brush with death was putting it lightly. He’s just never really cared. It’s also so systematic for him.

You’re born, you live, and you die. That’s just the order of things, and as a pragmatic person, he accepts that. It makes sense to him.

But, for the first time, in a long time, there’s a thought, a feeling, about finally meeting his maker—or not—that feels a lot more of a reality than it’s ever been.

Feels like it could very well be a possibility. An outcome.

And, it’s something he’s accepted.

He’s accepted it, because he’s also accepted that there’s nothing he won’t do to make sure Solana makes it out of this alive.

That’s what’s most important to him. That’s the goal he has to have and keep in mind.

Nothing else matters.

He can’t and won’t be concerned with himself. That’s secondary. His wife and unborn daughters are his only concern, because he can’t conceptualize or even allow himself to think about any alternative.

He just can’t.

After grabbing an extra magazine and loading it into his vest, Roman’s heavy footsteps carry him from one room to another. And, the door is barely opened when Dulce lifts her head from where she lays on the bed. Tail wagging, her ears flop down when he moves over to the end of said bed.

Roman chuckles, seeing the way her eyes close after he walks over to her, and she licks his hand, settling and laying back down. “You ended up being not so bad, after all, you know that?” Dulce shifts, rolling onto her back, exposing her stomach, her way of requesting a belly rub.

He obliges.

One last time.

“You’ve always looked out for her…” He trails off, incapable of thinking back to how this tiny little creature potentially saved Solana’s life in more ways than one realizes. “Don’t ever stop that, alright?”

Dulce, innocent and oblivious, just continues to enjoy the belly rubs until they stop. Roman stands up and goes to walk away, only to hear her tiny bark. He turns around to see her jump off the bed, walking in his direction. “No. Stay.”

Instantly, her ears are back down as she whimpers, laying down, watery eyes never leaving his.

Roman swallows, offering a quiet, “bye, Dulce” before shutting the door.

Moving down the hall and over to the stairs, another familiar face waits for him at the bottom.

Ava waits until he’s right across from her to speak. “I should be going with you.”

Maybe. Roman can’t deny she’d be a valuable asset, but it was ultimately decided she would stay here with the children, them feeling significantly more comfortable with her and Austin versus just a strange man they don’t even know.

“You’re needed here,” is the only reply Roman offers as he adjusts his vest, rolling his shoulders.

Ava watches him. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Roman.” He looks at her. She offers a small smile. “Okay?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he does reciprocate the hug she offers. Squeezes her a little tighter than usual.

When they pull apart, she hits him on his arm, half joking, half serious. “Go fuck em’ up, big ears.”

He chuckles, appreciative of her. Of all their times together. “Still not as big as that big ass forehead.”

Ava’s response is to flip him off as he walks out the house and onto the porch where Dwayne stands, also in full tactical gear, watching as Matteo, Rhodes, and Santos work together to instruct the recently arrived reinforcements on the game plan.

In the distance, Rhea, Angel, Berto, and Afia converse, also ironing out their strategy.

Roman says nothing at first, eventually swallowing, voice heavy. “Dwayne.” When nothing is said in response, Roman moves right into it. “I need you to promise me some—”

“No.”

An unexpected, blunt single word response. Not entirely unsurprising. Roman closes his eyes. “Dwayne.”

“I already know what you’re going to say. What you want to ask me.” Dwayne crosses his arms, turning toward Roman. “You want me to promise you that once we get Solana, we leave, even if that means leaving you.” The silence is all the answer needed. “And, I’m telling you no, because I can tell you that wife of yours would rather see us all dead before she lets us leave you behind.” He takes a step forward, comforting hand on Roman’s shoulder. “We go in together. We leave together. Aiga.”

Roman’s jaw clenches.

Family.

Aiga means family in Samoan.

The only problem is that Roman just isn’t quite sure just what family means to him anymore.

Not with all the betrayal.

Nevertheless, he can’t think of that right now.

He needs to be focused.

Matteo soon walks over, one foot on the step, the other on the ground. He directs his statement between the two men. “We’re ready.”

Two words.

One meaning.

Roman rolls his shoulders, walking down and forward, a man on a deadly brutal mission.

“Let’s go.”

—--------

Solana is startled awake when the heavy door across from her is sprung open with an unfamiliar level of aggression. She’s partially expecting Jey or even Rikishi only to be met with the cold blue eyes of the Caucasian man seen earlier in the day.

Brandi sits up, also startled, scooting back against the wall. “What do you—”

“Not you,” he dismisses. It’s only then as he moves toward the two women that Solana notices he walks with a sort of limp.

But, that’s farthest from her mind when he leans over and yanks Solana up by her arm.

Goosebumps sprout up all over her, Brandi beating her with the question. “Where are you taking her?”

“Mind your business,” he grunts, Solana looking back at Brandi, partially trying to tug out of his grasp, only to fail epically. Her tug is no match for his brute strength.

Solana sees Brandi’s eyes fill with tears. “Don’t hurt her!”

The door slams shut too soon for Solana to try to console her, let her know that it’s going to be okay, even if Solana feels the complete opposite.

She knows something is wrong. Can detect, even feel, as such while being led down the hall. She does her best to distract her tingling spidey senses by examining the space. Still no cameras. None that she can spot, anyway. Expected given the obvious age of the building.

That could help a ton.

For what exactly, she doesn’t quite know. But, it’s one less thing for her to worry about when she does finally formulate a good, solid plan. And, she needs to do so sooner rather than later.

Stopping outside a door, Solana hesitates when he opens it and motions for her to go in. She doesn't, which clearly upsets him, as he shoves her in there. Improved balance prevents her from falling, Solana looking around the room to see it’s not much unlike the one she was just snatched from, including the cot in the corner that’s a bit neater than the one in her cell.

Like someone had prepped it a bit.

The sound of the door closing redirects Solana’s attention as she turns around and realizes he’s staring at her.

And, it’s unnerving as hell, to say the least.

Naturally, she does her best to put as much distance between them as possible, slowly backing away.

He makes a sound and whistles. “Ya know, Bron kept going on and on about Rhodes girl, and she’s pretty alright, but me?” An unexpected country voice is tinged with something borderline malicious and eerie. He gives her an uncomfortable one-over. “I always liked me a girl with some meat on the bones.”

And, it’s in that one sentence, Solana realizes her spidey senses weren’t just tingling just to tingle.

They were a warning sign.

Her heart is beating through her chest as she somehow manages a shaky, “what are you doing?”

He says nothing at first, just steps forward, continuing to undress her with his eyes. Solana’s anxiety goes from bad to catastrophic when her back collides with the old, gritty wall.

She has nowhere else to go.

Disgust fills her when he spits off in the corner. “That husband of yours fucked up and ruined my life, ya know.” There’s something about that statement along with his country accent and big build that reminds Solana of something. A conversation. A conversation with Roman she had not too long ago.

Brock.

This man has to be the Brock they’d talked about in bed that day.

She gasps loudly, realizing he’s directly in front of her. “Seems only right I fuck and ruin his pretty little wife as payback, don’t you think?”

No.

Solana’s first instinct is the one she works on. Foolishly, she attempts to dart past him, screaming out when he grabs her and picks her up.

“NO! LET ME GO!” Fighting and thrashing against him, Solana is a mess of nerves, terror, and determination. “HELP!”

Her screams feel like they fall to the void, and she winces loudly when thrown onto the ground.

On the cot.

Solana briefly shuts her eyes, having to ignore the pain in the back of her head. But, she’s forced to return to the terrifying scene unfolding before her when Brock straddles her.

“A feisty thing, ain’t you?” Words that send chills down her spine and travel her back to an earlier time in life. Easily, one of the darkest days of her life.

The day she was raped.

His statement is eerily similar to the same thing her rapist said to her as he started ripping off her clothes, while the other one held her down.

Something that forever changed her life in all of the worst ways.

Something that she swore would never happen to her again.

Solana promised herself that she would never let another man hurt her, and she meant that shit.

It’s a promise she can’t break.

Borck’s disgusting, meaty hands groping at her breast through her sweater, Solana knows she has to think fast, think smart, and without even realizing it, she’s stammering. “I’m—I’m on my period!”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and she’s immediately regretting it, because no way will he believe that.

She needs something else.

Solana has never felt as much disgust when she forces herself to offer, “but, I—I can—I can give you head.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle that she doesn’t throw up on the spot. A desire that grows exponentially seeing him smirk and his eyes light up at the offer of her doing something she hasn’t even done with her own husband.

But, it’s the only thing that comes to mind that will get them to switch positions, that will allow Solana to be on top.

Because she knows what she has to do to keep that promise.

To save herself.

Wordlessly, Brock climbs off her, relieving the weight Solana didn’t realize was settling on her chest. She scrambles to her knees, again praying with everything in her that she can continue to hold back the vomit begging to be released as he moves in front of her, his crotch uncomfortably close to her face. His musty scent does nothing to help that nausea, Solana shutting her eyes and blinking the tears back.

This is the only way.

Disgust isn’t the right word, but it’s an accurate one nonetheless. Solana wills herself to place her hand on the buckle of his jeans, her eyes darting up to see him looking down at her with excitement and anticipation.

It’s revolting.

But, the moment he tilts his head back, rolling his neck, as if preparing for the pleasure that will consume him by defiling her, Solana takes it.

She takes the opportunity.

With impressive speed, she slides the pocket knife secretly tucked in the back pocket of her jeans out, unsheathes it and hesitates not one second to drive it into his crotch.

His roar of pain is music to her ears as she yanks the knife out, quickly remembering the, now, most important part of the conversation she had with her husband.

The unknowingly key part he’d shared.

“.....I speared him, he went down badly on his right leg, the dominant one, and fucked it up real good…..”

That same right leg she drives the knife into. Close to his knee, carefully avoiding bone but effectively severing muscle. More cries of agony as blood seeps out of both the orifices, and Solana retracts her knife, quickly jumping back to her feet.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch!” He shouts, going to grab for her, only to fall down when she moves out the way, paving the way for said fall.

Somehow, someway, Brock rolls over to his back, revealing the blood that stains his pants, continuing to pour out of him at an abnormal pace. A pulsing blood flow.

Good.

A sense of joy fills Solana as she realizes she was effective in her aim. His artery. She went for his femoral artery. A major blood vessel.

A critical one.

The same way she once again doesn’t hesitate as she hovers over him, lifts her knife once more and rams it into the side of his neck, not stopping until it reaches the hilt. She watches his eyes bulge from his head and expertly dodges the spurt of blood that shoots out of his gaping wound when she removes said knife.

Panting, heart racing, Solana stumbles backward, watching how his mouth opens, as if he’s trying to issue one last threatening, hateful message before bulging eyes shift into nothingness followed by a stillness of his body.

Solana waits a good minute, ensuring he’s clearly dead before reaching and snatching the gun off his holster. Moving back once more, bloody knife in one hand, gun in the other, the reality of what’s just happened smashes into her with all the weight of finality.

She killed him.

Solana killed this man.

And though her eyes fill with tears, and that weight on her chest returns, it’s not exactly what she expected to experience after taking a life.

He was going to hurt her.

He was going to rape her.

She had no choice.

She did what she had to do to protect herself.

To protect her babies.

There’s pain and trauma but also relief at carrying through on her promise.

No man will ever hurt her again. She said that shit, and she meant it.

She stood on it.

She stood on business.

Solana nearly jumps out of her bones when the door is suddenly open, prompting her to aim the gun in one hand and lift the knife in the other up, as if ready to attack the person who enters.

And someone does. A man of a stocky build, with a complexion similar to that of her husband and his family members. Red and black locs that hang freely, blocking some of his face, but it’s the way he immediately lifts his hand, as if defensively that has her intrigued.

“Hey, look, I’m not here to hurt you,” he starts off, gaze falling to Brock’s bloodied, dead body. He scoffs. “Good. I was gon’ make sure his ass ain’t make it out here alive anyway.”

A statement that both shocks and confuses Solana, but she doesn’t show it. Neither does she lower either of her weapons, all the while keeping the gun specifically aimed for the middle of his head.

“Look….” Gaze back on her, this unknown man continues to speak, sounding almost desperate. “I know you probably not gon’ believe me, and I don’t blame you. But, I had no idea none of this shit was gon’ happen. Tribal Chief had me shadowing and working with Jey the past few months, and he just told me to come along with him, cause Solo had some shit to share with us. But, I had no idea—” He stops, looking off into the corner. “Roman gave me another chance to prove myself after I fucked up a few years ago. None of this shit is right. Solo ain’t no damn Tribal Chief. Roman is the Tribal Chief, and to team up with the Nightmare Factory after what Rhodes did to our family?” Anger fills his eyes and voice. “To go after women and kids? We don’t do that shit. I got 5 daughters. I would lose my shit if someone did something like this to them.”

Words. They’re a bunch of words stringed together that Solana is following but not fully comprehending. Not sure what to believe, if any of it. Eventually, she finds herself asking, never lowering her only forms of defense. “Why….why are you telling me this?”

He maintains his repentant expression. “Cause, it’s not the whole Bloodline in on this shit. Just the weak-minded motherfuckers who ain’t got no spine. It’s a group of us that ain’t with this shit, cause ain’t no way Roman not about to come up in here and rain fire.” The first sentence to leave his mouth that makes her feel something. A sense of pride. A lot of fear. A level of hope. He vows, placing his fist over his heart. “We loyal to the only Tribal Chief, and that’s Roman Reigns.” He juts his chin in her direction, adding on almost proudly, “And that includes the Faletua.”

It only takes Solana a minute to realize why the term, though not in a language she’s fluent in, is a word she knows.

She remembers Dwayne referring to her as such before.

The wife of the Tribal Chief.

“Our job is to protect you, so that’s what we gon’ do.” He rolls his shoulders, nodding to himself. “That’s what I’m gon’ do.”

Solana isn’t sure just why or how, but at some point in his explanation, the suspicion settled into relief. The doubt at his words was chewed out and tipped away by belief. She doesn’t know how or why, but she believes him.

Believes that he truly means her no harm.

And, that’s a relieving feeling to have when surrounded by the complete opposite.

Finally lowering the gun and knife, she asks, probing. “And Jey?”

Regret fills his face. He looks and sounds a bit torn with his answer. “Jey seem like he ain’t know it was gon be all this, but he knew it was gon’ be something.” Solana doesn’t say it or show it, but she feels the same way. Maybe he didn’t know the full plan of this coup, but he knew something was being concocted. And, he did nothing to stop it.

That makes him just as complicit in her book.

The man whose name she still doesn’t know continues, adding almost regretfully. “Regardless, I don’t think we can trust Jey to be on our side, cause Solo got his wife.”

Solana’s stomach drops. A part of her wondered if Jey was just saying that as a manipulation ploy. But, obviously, that wasn’t the case. “Nicki really is here?”

He nods. “I guess Solo had a feeling Jey might be on some shit, cause he got her locked up somewhere. Jey been trying to find her.”

Solana nods. She understands. It makes sense Jey would want to find and free his wife from this nightmare.

The thought urges her to make something clear. “Brandi and Emma need to get out of here.”

As somewhat expected, he looks at her with obvious disagreement. “All due respect, ma’am, you’re the pri—”

“I’m the Faletua, right?” He nods. “Well, Roman isn’t here right now. I am. So that means you answer to me, and I say the priority is getting that little girl and her mother the hell out of here.” And, she means that.

Solana knows she also needs to find a way out, but her heart aches with knowing Brandi has been violated and traumatized in the worst way possible while simultaneously being separated from her only child. It’s a bit of maternal instinct and empathy that has her prioritizing the mother/daughter duo over herself.

They have to get out.

“Aight’,” he finally agrees. Solana is slightly confused when he steps out the door only to return with something black in hand. “You gon need this.” He steps forward, Solana handing him the gun—she keeps the knife—in exchange for what she realizes is a vest.

A bulletproof vest.

“You know how to shoot?” He suddenly asks, turning around and allotting her the privacy to change. She’s appreciative, lifting her sweatshirt off to put on the vest. Over her sweater would work, but something about it being concealed seems to make more sense.

“Well enough,” is her answer. She takes a second to feel her belly, eyes briefly closing as she once again reminds herself why.

Why she has to fight.

Finished changing, vest secure, sweater on again, it’s only then she asks, telling him he can turn around, “what’s your name?”

“Jacob,” he answers. Jacob. She commits it to memory, because when they make it out of this, and they will make it out of this, she owes him.

She owes him her life.

—------

By the time the groups arrive, it’s nighttime, the dark of night aiding in the arrival of heavily armored trucks and equally armed men. Soldiers ready for battle, for a war that they have full intentions on winning. For Roman, it’s less a war, and more of an extermination.

The map found online serves as an accurate, helpful guide, allowing the carefully cultivated plan, tactical and methodical, to proceed just as planned. The plant, as predicted, is heavily guarded and secured. The perimeter swarmed by both Bloodline and Nightmare Factory men. It all makes no difference to the groups.

Targets.

They’re all nothing but intended targets.

It’s why they send in a number of men, elite Cartel assassins to sweep the outside perimeter, the use of silencers aiding in their silent takedown. Bodies dropping, aiding in the undetected entrance of the group of snipers to aid in taking down men from above, while the rest make their way through on the ground.

Ready and hungry for blood, Bayley rolls her shoulders, looking over at the group, questioning, “everyone knows what the plan is, right?”

A number of various types of acknowledgment, Santos speaking in Spanish to Angel and Berto before looking amongst the group of them, specifically the faction of snipers. “It’ll only be a matter of time before the pendejos make their way up to you.”

Afia’s eyes burn with the bloodlust. “I’m counting on it.”

Matteo chuckles. It truly is a tossup as to who will leave tonight with the highest kill count. His wife or his brother. Something tells him Afia might tip the scale in her favor.

Not only did the bastards enter her home, but they’ve gone after someone who she fully considers to be family. A sister.

A dire, lethal mistake.

Cody speaks up, Roman intentionally drowning him out, still deeply disliking the fact that he’s even present. Avoidance is the best and only way, however, to deal with that. “We need to be prepared for….injuries.”

A general statement that needs no elaboration. He’s talking about Solana, Brandi, and Emma. It’s truly a hope for the best, prepare for the worst when it comes to that. Especially given they all witnessed how Solo had zero hesitation in order Solana to be waterboarded.

To be tortured.

“I have that handled.” Santos supplies, offering nothing more, a shared look and nod between himself and Dwayne and Matteo.

That much Roman notices, but he says nothing, because he needs to make something clear.

Something he’s not willing to compromise on.

“If any of you get to Solana before I do, you all take her and you get the hell out of here.”

It’s a bold, demanding statement that draws several looks of skepticism.

Bayley is the first to speak, or to try, at least. “What about yo—”

“You heard what I said.”

Another valorous, brazen reiteration, the fierce, dark look in his eyes—and voice—indicating there is no room for objection or argument. And Roman confirms as such, directing his next statement solely to Matteo and Dwayne, “that’s an order.”

It’s a final statement.

A last decree.

Still an order that’s met with reluctant acceptance, none of which can be moved beyond disagreement because Santos presses a finger to the comm in his ear, earpieces they all have to aid in communication. He nods, expression spoiling his next statement. “It’s clear.”

Afia nods, sharing a look with Rhea as the women fist bump. “Let’s go.” She shoots her husband one last look, an unspoken be careful, before the group moves out, disappearing into the night, each already knowing which building they intend to enter and climb, moving to the top to settle into position.

Restlessness is felt and slightly visible for everyone except for Roman and Cody. An irritating similarity but one Roman can’t deny nor can he entirely not understand.

They’re both men on missions, determined to rescue and right the egregious wrongs that have been done between them.

Vengeance.

And, minutes later, when a single sniper shot enters the night, the restlessness slips into something of dangerous silence.

Go time.

It’s a slow, steady thing as the remaining men, led by Roman, Dwayne, and Matteo guide the core group and fleet of soldiers by foot. The Tribal Chief is the one to issue the first shot, to see the body plop to the ground. Several more follow as gunshots rain from the sky, aiming and hitting Bloodline and Nightmare Factory men alike.

And when the numbers even off just enough, Roman ditches the gun, opting for something more brutal.

Something that fills him with a sick sense of satisfaction, that eases into the bloodlust that consumes him.

With brutal and gory efficiency, Roman advances through the men, knife slicing deep, hitting bone in some instances. Blood squirts from his expert cuts, the sick sound of them choking on their own blood silenced by the stomp of his boot on their neck, a sickening crunch sound deafened under the hail of gunshots and mayhem surrounding him.

Roman is all machine and no human, as he brutally disarms and murders man after man, soldier after soldier, uncaring and unwilling to give a single fuck whether they wear the Bloodline or Nightmare insignia. It doesn’t matter.

They’re all fucking traitors, no matter what way one looks at it.

They all deserve to fucking burn.

Around him, the brutality he extends to his comrades, is reflected in those fighting alongside him. Out the corner of his eyes, he sees Bayley yank a man backwards as she puts the gun to his head, pulling the trigger, brain splatter flying across, landing on other men who continue to drop, falling against the onslaught of the elite killers.

It’s a bloodbath.

At some point the gunfire from the top ceases, indicating Afia and company have been reached, and it’s confirmed as such when a body comes flying from the sky, landing grotesquely, limbs distorted, face grotesque from being blown off.

Another of many victims the night still has yet to claim.

Roman can even spot Rhodes, deranged look on his face as he yanks a bloodied knife out of someone’s eye socket only to lodge it in the throat of a man honing in on him. Dwayne and Matteo work almost in synch, covering each other, gunning down man after man, resorting to lethal combat when necessary.

A loud battle cry of sorts is all Roman overhears as he turns just in time to seeing Afia use a hunched over, injured soldier as a makeshift spring board as she contorts hers body, legs wrapped around another man, flipping him over onto his back. She slices a large hunting knife across his throat, blood spurting out, flying wildly at the same time she uses the gun in her other hand to take down three other men.

Not even seconds later, she’s back on her feet, brutally murdering another set of several men in under a single minute.

The Opo has truly arrived.

Similarly, Rhea clears an almost path of sorts, expertly gunning down bastards, the dagger in her other hand suddenly being thrown across the way, somehow perfectly landing in throat of yet another dead fucker.

She smiles in sick satisfaction.

The same satisfaction that's seen on Santos face as he yanks a knife out of one dead man only to lodge it into yet another, now, dead man.

It’s obvious everyone is on the page.

Extermination.

This is a fucking extermination.

—-----

For Solana, the first order of business is getting to Emma, making sure she’s safe. Once she has Emma, they can retrieve Brandi and proceed with whatever plan Jacob has for trying to get them the hell out of dodge. She’s skeptical but somewhat eased by the other Bloodline guards who seem to have loyalty still to her husband, given their going along with Jacob using the excuse of Solo wanting to see the abductees.

Solana is slightly surprised at how he’s believed, but she doesn’t question it.

What other option does she have?

Her heart is beating through her chest when they arrive at a door, Jacob dapping up and speaking in Samoan to the two guards who shoot her nasty looks. Solana diverts her gaze to the ground, recognizing her glare or look of indifference could potentially set them off or attract the wrong kind of attention.

She has to continue to play the role of the scared, taken woman. And to be fair, it’s not entirely an act. She is scared. This is unfamiliar territory. Truly life or death.

It’s just that Solana has decided to give death the middle finger.

She’s not ready to die.

Not tonight.

Not anytime soon.

Especially not like this.

The door opens, and she has to stop herself from pushing past Jacob to go in and gently coax Emma out. But, she can’t. Again, if this is going to work, she has to play her role, and it has to work.

But, the minute Jacob comes out with a crying, sniffling Emma, Solana can’t help herself. She instantly reaches for and pulls Emma into her chest, eyes shutting when she the little girl hold onto her.

“I want my mommy and daddy,” she cries, and Solana has to force back the tears.

“I know, sweetie. It’s gonna be okay.” She strokes the top of Emma’s head, vowing. “I promise.”

Because not only is she not dying tonight, Solana refuses to let anything happen to the little girl in her arms.

No matter what.

“Let’s go,” Jacob barks, forcing the two apart. Solana can see the unspoken apology in his eyes as he guides them down the hall in a different direction from where they came. Solana holds Emma’s hand, whispering words of comfort, doing her best to offer any type of solace she has to give.

However, the more they walk, the more audible sound becomes. Muffled, clearer with each step they take. An altercation, a brawl of some sort, but then it becomes evident it’s a lot more than just a brawl.

Gunshots.

Solana hears gunshots.

Naturally, she moves to duck, covering Emma with her body as the men around her begin to shout, most speaking in Samoan until an English voice calls out with all the panic.

“Roman is here!”

And just like that, Solana’s stomach drops.

He’s here.

Roman is here.

She doesn’t have much time to think or process this piece of information, because Jacob is shouting at her, telling her to follow him. She does so, never once letting go of Emma’s hand as he leads them to a place unknown.

But, they’re stopped, two guards questioning Jacob about where he’s taking her and Emma, and he gives the same answer he gave before. Except this time, it’s not believed. Solana can tell the moment the man looks at her, neutral expression morphing into a glare.

And then she's suddenly being shoved out of the way, almost knocking Emma onto the ground. Seconds later, a gunshot.

But, it’s not in the distance. It’s right before her.

“Get Brandi and get them out of here!” Jacob yells, gun in hand, walking over the body, two men flanking him as he shouts, shooting down and effectively dodging the onslaught of bullets.

Still, Solana is in fight or flight mode as three Bloodline guards keep a sort of circle around herself and Emma, leading them away from the shooting, away from the violence. Emma’s cries of terror absolutely gut Solana, and she’d give anything to try to comfort her right now, but that’s not the priority. They have to get out of here first.

Led down a staircase, the door is kicked open, and a left is made, leading to a large space filled with rusted equipment and other dated, deteriorated machines and items. Solana is about to pick Emma up, her little legs unable to keep up at a proper pace, when more gunshots ring out.

Solana shouts and moves to tug Emma near her when she’s suddenly thrown shoved down, something, someone ramming into her. Solana’s head bounces off the ground, an instant, sharp pain slicing the back of her head.

Cut.

She’s been cut on something. Unsurprising given this space seems full and filled with potential hazards.

“Got you now, you little bitch,” Eyes shut, Solana trying to ignore the pain, she doesn’t need to use her vision the person to know who it is. “I’ve been waiting for this day a long ass time,” Samantha hisses, Solana finally willing her eyes open to see the woman standing over her, gun in her hand. She smirks, looking up and walking away, “but first, I kill the kid.”

Seconds. It takes only seconds for Solana to register what’s happening. What’s about to happen.

In the distance, guards continue to spar, allies versus traitors, too consumed in their own battle to help her.

She’s on her own.

With a sudden, burning rage, Solana moves up off the ground and runs behind Samantha, grabbing her by her hair and slamming her face into a nearby pillar.

Samanath cries out in pain, falling to the floor, the gun also tumbling out of her hand. Solana is quick to kick it to the side, chest heaving, fist forming, rage boiling.

Marching over to her, Solana sneers, eyes burning with unbridled determination. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, hoe.” Jumping on top of her, one hand takes a fist full of Samantha’s hair to hold her still, the other rains a direct punch onto her face, aiming for her nose.

Samantha continues to cry out, to try to push Solana off as she rains hit after hit onto her, grabbing her by her face and slamming her head repeatedly into the ground. The anger, the rage, the hurt, the everything Solana has felt in the past twenty-four hours racing through her veins, serving as fuel.

The desire to survive.

The desire to protect.

The desire to live.

Samantha manages to move her arm just enough, grabbing some inanimate object and bashing Solana over the head with it.

Solana gasps, eyes clenching shut from the pain. It’s not sharp like the cut was, but it’s dull and heavy and forces her to roll off the other woman onto her side, as she grips her head.

Samantha stumbles off the ground, landing a kick into Solana’s back. "You took everything from me!" Naturally, Solana moves into a fetal position, protecting herself. "Now, it's your turn to suffer."

A nearsighted Samantha opts for a more final method of assault, turning away, wide, crazed eyes searching for the gun. Blood drips down from scalp, onto the cotton of her shirt. Her lip is busted open, also bleeding, the evidence of the brutal assault visible for all to see.

Solana, however, rolls onto her back, sitting up and seeing Samantha. Seeing her trajectory. Solana also sees the location of the gun, and she times it. It’s all done so quickly, too quickly for most people, but she’s a woman determined. And with that determination, lip curled, a loud roar of sorts leaves her mouth as she moves to her feet, charging for the other woman. Samantha is barely able to turn around when she's knocked to the ground from the impact of Solana’s spear.

Quickly, Solana rolls off of Sam, grabbing for the gun that’s now in her hands. And the minute Sam tries to scramble to her feet, Solana aims, shoots, and lodges three bullets into her.

One in the shoulder.

One in the chest.

And one in the head.

Samantha’s dead body crumples to the ground, still and unmoving.

Solana closes her eyes, placing her free hand over her chest, taking a deep breath. The pain of the fight, the throbbing in her cheek something she has to set aside as she throws the gun to the side, needing to find Emma. Opening her eyes and moving back to her feet, she sees all of the guards previously fighting all laying dead, too.

She swallows.

It’s just her and Emma now.

Solana’s anxiety spikes a bit as she prays Emma didn’t wander off too far. She starts walking in the direction she saw the little girl run.

“Emma!” She shouts, hoping the violence she displayed didn’t cause the girl to fear her as well. That’s the last thing needed right now, but it could very well be the case for such a young child. “Emma, it’s ok–”

Solana is both interrupted and silenced when someone grabs her from behind and slams her up against a nearby pillar. She tries to scream, but a hand is wrapped around her throat and something else is pressed against her stomach.

Eyes open, she’s met with vicious, burning glare and snarl of a man she immediately recognizes as the person who intended to waterboard her. On Solo’s orders, but still.

Her fingers attempt to pry at his grip as he cuts off her oxygen, but true fear fills her when she drops her eyes to see what’s pressed against her.

A gun.

He has a gun pressed against her stomach.

“I just watched my brother get his brains blown out because of you,” he hisses, warm breath fanning her face. “All of this chaos for an ugly scarred bitch like you?” Solana closes her eyes, feeling the most helpless she’s felt all day.

Please. Her brain cries out for mercy what cannot leave her mouth. Her heart aches for Emma, aches for herself, aches for her husband, aches for her dog, aches for her daughters.

It can’t end like this.

It can’t.

“You—” He stops, snarling and shouting. “Take any step closer, and she’s a dead bitch!”

Confused at why he’s shouting, the confusion is short-lived when she’s instantly spun around, his grip on her throat releasing, his forearm covering her neck as the gun is lifted from her stomach and pressed into her temple.

She would cry out if not for the fact that she’s now face to face with none other than Matteo. His gun is aimed toward her, but his eyes speak what he cannot verbalize.

You’re safe.

“Easy,” he cautions, and Solana clenches her eyes shut, needing to calm her nervous system from her anxiety that’s all over the place at this point. “I’m not here to kill you.” He pauses. “Just to distract you.”

At that, her eyes shoot open at the same time a loud gunshot sounds out. One that’s closer than anything she’s ever experienced. Naturally, she drops to the ground, covering hands over her ears as she coughs violently, gasping for the air that was previously deprived.

And suddenly, hands are on her, prompting Solana to scream, fists beating at and trying to pull away from whoever is trying to pull her close. A natural, normal response. Something she continues to do until the ringing in her ears settles, and she can hear it. Can make out not only that something is being said but what is being said.

“Look at me.”

It’s not a threat of unspeakable violence, it’s not a violent declaration or a promise of pain. It’s a plead, almost pained plea, of the most simplest nature.

So, she obliges and nearly falls apart.

It’s not void, dark eyes intent on murder. It’s warmth.

It’s home.

She can barely breathe, her voice hoarse and battered from hours of screaming and crying. “Roman?”

He doesn’t move, just continues to stare at her, stroking the top of her head, willing her to calm down. “You’re safe.” Her eyes shut. “I’ve got you.”

It’s that last statement that nearly strikes up a panic attack, the emotions of the day tumbling over as she throws her arms around him, holding him, cradling him by the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” he continues to reassure her, kissing her cheek, holding her. It’s a type of relief and comfort that she could never describe. Not accurately.

Her face pressed into his chest, hands grabbing at shirt. "You're here," she cries. "You came." He’s holding her, tightly, and she makes no effort to move away.

To let go.

Never.

Never again.

He’s saying something, gently, but she can’t make it out. Not with her current emotional state.

Eventually, he’s able to stand them up, separating them just to brush her tears away. A deep scowl falls on his face, as he assesses her, one hand feeling the back of her head where she’s still bleeding. His other hand goes to her stomach where he lifts her sweater just enough to see the bulletproof best.

“You’re hurt.” He frowns, anger and regret dancing in his eyes. “Listen to me.” His eyes are now scanning over her, surveying her injuries no doubt. Solana can see his rage amplifying. “You’re gonna go with Matteo—”

She’s instantly protesting, shaking her head, “N-no–” It’s then Solana realizes and remembers, breaking away, only to call out, “Emma!” She can feel Roman and Matteo close behind her, not allowing too much distance be created between them. “Emma, it’s okay—it’s—it’s safe!” She points to Roman, “this is my husband. He’s—he’s here to save us, sweetie.”

It’s then quiet footsteps and sniffling can be heard, Emma’s little body emerging from the shadows.

“Oh honey,” Solana walks over, leaning down hugging her. “It’s okay.”

Emma cries into her as Solana lifts her up, walking her back over to where Matteo and Roman, each wearing different expressions. Matteo seems sympathetic. Roman seems torn. He's not looking at a little girl.

He's just looking at a Rhodes, and while she can understand why, it causes her to ask him a simple but powerful question.

“What if it was one of our daughters?”

Roman closes his eyes, nodding, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth. With reluctance acceptance, he turns, speaking to Matteo. “Get them both out of here.”

But, it's his lack of self-inclusion that has Solana frowning and shaking her head. “You’re coming with us.”

He walks over, his hand goes to the back of her neck, caressing her skin. “I have to finish this, Solana.”

Solo.

He’s talking about Solo.

He has to kill him.

All of this she understands, except for the fact that it makes Solana literally sick to think about walking out of this place without her husband. Her eyes start watering all over again as Emma continues to cry quietly into her shoulder. “Roman….”

He steps forward, kissing her temple, “I’ll be fine.” She wants to believe that. She wants more than anything to believe that, but there’s a niggling feeling in the pit of her belly that she can’t shake. “I’ll meet you all in a bit.” He looks over at Matteo, the two sharing some kind of unspoken exchange.

Her voice cracks. “Roman—”

“I love you.”

His hand lingers on her cheek, his eyes burning into hers once more all of his adoration and devotion. And then, he’s gone, turning on his heel, seeking to end this once and for all.

Solana has a hard time looking away, has an even harder time walking away, even at Matteo’s gentle hand on her shoulder, urging her to follow him. She does, never once letting Emma down, but her mind remains focused on Roman.

She can’t shake the thought that a dire mistake is being made in letting him go alone. She knows he’s just as capable as any when it comes to fighting, but this day has been unlike any other. While she knows she’ll have her fair share of trauma to process from the experience, something tells her his hasn’t been any easier.

As Matteo leads them into turning a corner, Solana is met with yet another unexpected sight.

A group of people.

There’s too many of them to focus in on just one. Dwayne. Afia. Bayley. Santos.

Cody Rhodes?

And, it’s the latter of which who is the first to speak, his previously fierce gaze softening when he sees his daughter. “Emma…”

Emma’s head lifts up, as she turns around, her crying intensifying all over again. “Daddy!”

Solana offers no protest when the little girl starts wiggling in her arms, wanting to get down. The minute her feet hit the ground, she’s rushing over to her father who takes her, picking her up, eyes shut as he cradles the back of her head. “Emma.”

It’s a heartwarming sight for sure, Solana seconds later being pulled into a hug by Bayley.

Solana sniffles, shaking her head, assuring, “I’m okay.”

“Hell yeah, you are,” Bayley squeezes a little tighter before Afia tackles her with a hug, pulling back a bit sooner than anticipated.

She brings her hand to Solana’s face. “I told you that you were a fighter.”

A powerful little reminder. But, not just her. The people surrounding her by now all came together to help her, to help Roman.

Family.

This is her family.

And, family sticks together.

Matteo nods, taking the lead. “We need to get go—”

“We’re going back,” Solana announces, drawing all sets of eyes on her. Her focus though, is primarily on Matteo and Dwayne. “We’re not leaving Roman.”

There’s something close to agreement that flashes in Matteo’s eyes, but his words contrast that. “Solana, Roman made his wishes clear. Once we got you—”

“I don’t care what he said,” Solana dismisses. Because, she doesn’t. Roman’s priority, she’s almost certain, was rescuing her. And now that he’s done that with obvious help, he thinks he has to handle the rest of it on his own. But, he doesn’t. And, he won’t.

Chin raised, Solana motions to herself. “He’s not here right now, but I am.” A look of pride comes over Afia and Bayley, even Santos who looks almost impressed by her display of assertiveness. Of authority. “I am the the Faletua. I make the call, and I said we’re going back.” A beat. “That’s an order.”

It’s not familiar territory for Solana, speaking so boldly and authoritatively to such a set of people. Of some of the best, trained killers in the world. But, for her husband, she’ll do it.

She’ll do anything for the man she loves.

Because not only does she have no plans to die tonight, she has no plans on him dying either.

Dwayne suddenly makes a sound, rolling his shoulders, rallying the group. “You all heard her. The Faletua has spoken.”

Solana smiles, grateful for the nods of approval and agreement. She then turns to Cody, voice softening as Emma continues to cry into his shoulder now.

Her heart breaks for the years it will take for her to heal from this trauma.

She swallows, directing almost sympathetically. “Get Brandi and get out of here.” A bit of emotion fills her as she offers a small, sad smile. “Take them home.”

Shock flashes in his eyes, as well as something else she can’t place her hand on. But, he nods, swallowing deeply. “Thank you.”

Solana says nothing, simply walking closer to gently stroke Emma’s cheek. “You are one brave little girl.”

Emma doesn’t say anything, but Solana doesn’t expect her to. She just needs her to know that. To know that in all of this, she possessed strength and courage.

That she survived.

As Cody walks away, Solana looks around at the faces of those staying and remaining, willing to stand with and by her.

Friends.

Family.

She nods, determination and adrenaline racing through her blood while accepting the knife from Afia extends to her.

“Let’s go.”

—--------

Not an iota of shock fills Roman when he finds Solo in a large open space in the building similar to where he found Solana.

No, he knew Solo would be waiting for him the second his younger cousin realized that not only had he come, but he came with an army. An army that’s almost entirely decimated the traitorous bastards who chose to stand against Roman.

A fatal decision, clearly.

“Gotta hand it you,” Solo starts, standing up from the chair where he sits. “Well played.”

Roman says nothing. He simply starts removing his vest, ridding himself of what is not needed.

No weapons are required for this. This is deeper than two enemies coming to face off in a final round.

For all intents and purposes, this is tribal combat, and the only things needed for that are anger, motivation, and determination.

All of which Roman has an abundance of.

Solo stands up and also starts to remove his tactical gear as well as the red ula fala around his neck. Both men rid of the necessities, there’s a sort of predatory dance that occurs between them. Solo chuckles. “You know it’s not too late.” He has the fucking audacity to raise his chin, a sense of faux supremacy lacing his voice. “Acknowledge me, and I might spare your ass.”

If not for the rage that almost feels too much for Roman to function properly, he might laugh. This fucker is straight up delusional.

The hell would he ever acknowledge this son of a bitch.

It’s difficult for Roman to not lunge first, his fist burning at his side to break every bone in Solo’s body. He will, he most definitely will, but it’s always worked best for Roman to allow his opponents to get the first hit. To make them think they have the upper hand by landing the first blow.

And, Solo is no different.

He charges at Roman, the older, taller man allowing him a punch to the face.

And nothing more.

Roman returns the blow, Solo’s body nearly jerking back to the floor from the single hit that’s effectively broken his nose. It doesn’t stop there, because Solo’s second of delay, that moment where he’s frazzled from such a powerful punch, is all the in that Roman needs.

Spearing him down to the floor, Roman channels all of his emotions—heavy, light, somewhere in between—into the onslaught of violence being directed toward the man he once considered family.

Roman’s expertise and experience is blatantly obvious. He moves methodically, predatory, and borderline animalistic. He uses anything in the vicinity to slam Solo’s body into, enjoying the cuts and blood that starts to mar his cousin. His blows are brutal, Roman’s blood boiling with every crunch and crack sound that echoes throughout the space.

He’s every bit focused on maximizing the pain and prolonging the torture, knowing he can’t make this son of a bitch suffer as much as he deserves, but with the time he does have, he’ll use every bit of it.

One hand wrapped around his neck, Roman slams Solo down into a nearby, deteriorating wood table, Solo’s shout of pain from the splinters that enter his body from the collapse of the desk under his weight are music to Roman’s ears. He could bottle that shit up and play it for all eternity, because no amount of physical pain could ever equate to the pain that son of a bitch has caused him.

Roman’s big body heaves as he notices a slab of wood with nails and other sharp objects. His next source of torture that he stalks toward, fully intending to break it off into Solo’s fat ass.

“It was me, you know.” A new voice, familiar but not present. Not previously, at least. Roman spins around to see none other than a smirking Rikishi. Roman starts stalking toward him, instantly adding him next to the chop block list. “I helped Dusty plan the hit on your family.”

It takes a lot to pull Roman from his focus, to deter him from his mission, to get him off his game.

And that….that is most definitely one of the things.

“What?” He takes another step, confusion mixing with anger. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Rikishi smiles. “Might as well have said I killed them. Killed them all. Well, everyone except you and that bitch, Fetu.” Each word that leaves his mouth is like a dagger to Roman’s chest. He doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t want to believe him. But, it makes sense.

Rikishi’s hatred has to be beyond the incident with Solana. It’s deeper than that. It has to be.

But, if what he’s saying is true, if he was a part of the plan that killed Roman’s family, that almost killed him, there’s a certain hurt and pain with that that cuts almost deeper than any of this.

A sort of evil Roman can’t truly comprehend in this moment.

“Your father was a weak man who didn’t deserve to be Tribal Chief. Just like you don’t.” Riksihi laughs, salt on an open wound, drawing Roman’s attention back to him. “Tell me, is it true you could hear your sisters screaming for help as they burned alive?”

Roman moves to lunge forward when something sudden, sharp, and piercing stops him. He grunts, pain shooting through his body when he looks down to see Solo holding the knife that he just stabbed into Roman’s side. A knife he jerks out, prompting Roman to fall to his hands and knees, face turned up in pain.

Pain that intensifies as Solo kicks him on his side, forcing him onto his back. Solo lands a blow onto Roman, but that adrenaline fuels the older man as he gains the upper hand, fighting through his pain and landing a blow on top of Solo when a loud sound and another type of pain hits him.

Gunshot. He’s been shot through the shoulder. A loud curse tumbles out of his mouth as he moves his hand over the area where he was shot only months earlier.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees a smirking Rikishi, gun in hand, but it’s a temporary focus point, because seconds later, there’s something pressed against the back of his head.

Another gun.

“Don’t make me do this, uce.”

The situation drastically shifts, taking yet another turn and twist that Roman could have never anticipated.

Jey’s voice drips with regret, but he remains unmoved, standing with a gun to the back of Roman’s head.

His cousin.

His supposed brother.

“You son of a bitch,” Roman grits, groaning from the pain of both sets of injuries, feeling the blood from where he was stabbed soaking his shirt.

“Pull the trigger, Jey,” Solo goads, coughing up blood from where Roman remains straddled on top of him, pinning him down. “Blow—blow his fucking head off.”

“You embarrassed me once, Jey,” Rikishi scolds from behind, voice cold and uncaring. “Don’t do it again.”

At that, Roman’s eyes shut, they shut from a lot of things. From the information told, from the information learned, from all that’s happened. But, they shut mostly because of one person.

Solana.

Her face is the only thing he sees. The only thing he thinks about in such a moment when maybe his focus should be elsewhere, like how to get out of this situation. But, it’s nearly impossible. He’s hurt. Badly. And, he’s cornered.

This realization, this forced acceptance of some sort leaves him one desire and one desire only. His wife. He thinks of his wife. She’s safe. His daughters are safe. And for Roman, that’s all that matters.

He fulfilled his goal, upheld his promise.

His wife and children will live.

So, if this is truly it, if this is truly the moment where he meets his end, he can die content.

He can die happy.

“What the fuck are you waiting on, Jey?” Rikishi scolds, frustration brewing. “Fucking ki–” His demand is cut off, the sound of the gun clanking to the floor accompanied by his head tilted and forced back due to the knife pressed dangerously close to his throat.

“One fucking move, and I can cut your jugular vein, leaving you dead in minutes,” Solana hisses, pressing the knife she has aimed into his back further in, cutting through the material of his suit jacket. “Or, I can sever your artery of Adamkiewicz, which could also leave you dead in minutes. Plain and simple? You move as much as an inch, and I’ll gut you like a fish.” She swears, pushing the knife just a little deeper, mouth near his ear, voice mocking, “how’s that for an uneducated, stupid bitch?”

Roman tenses, floored but mostly confused at his wife’s presence. She shouldn’t be here. He told them to get her the hell out of here. Out of harms way.

Now, she stands directly in the line of fucking fire. His stomach drops, physical pain dulled by a newfound sense of concern. “Solana—”

“You drop that gun from my husband’s head right now, Jey, or I swear to God, I’ll kill him.” She threatens, completely ignoring Roman, entirely focused on Jey and maintaining the deadly corner she has Rikishi in. “Drop the fucking gun, Jey!”

One look at Jey, and torn isn’t the right word to describe what’s written all over his face. Nevertheless, he doesn’t drop the gun. “Solana—”

She screams, her shout echoing throughout the room, slamming and bouncing off the walls. “DROP IT!”

Rikishi suddenly chuckles, voice haughty and mocking. “You don’t have the guts—” He winces loud enough to gather the attention of both sons as Solana presses the knife at his back just enough to draw blood.

“You have no idea what I'd do, the lengths I'd go to, to protect that man,” she vows, never once stuttering or wavering as she gives Jey one final warning. “I’m not gonna fucking say it again, drop—”

This time, Solana is the one whose silenced, dread filling Roman as he sees Nia appear behind her, gun in hand.

The same gun she has pressed against the back of his wife’s head.

And, she’s not alone, several sets of Bloodline guards, traitors, hone in, guns drawn on both the true Tribal Chief and his wife.

“You should have stayed your ass outside, Princess.” She sneers, smile evil and malicious. “Coming in here alone? What kind of stupid are you?”

Roman can’t look away, can’t bring himself to do so, even as he feels his body weakening on him. And, it’s because he can’t look away, he sees the almost smirk on Solana’s face as she asks in the calmest voice, “who said I was alone?”

Not even seconds later, Nia is jerked back, her big body falling to the floor from the emergence of Afia. Afia, who is suddenly on top of her, large knife in hand that she slashes across Nia’s throat. Nia is barely able to process what’s just happened when Afia pulls out her gun and shoots her directly in the middle of the head, killing her instantly.

It’s not the only death that occurs. Bayley, Santos, Matteo and Dwayne, all appear, taking down the guards by both bullets, knives, and the sickening sound of a neck snapping. Courtesy of Bayley.

Rikishi's forehead is glazed with sweat, as is Solo’s, revealing strong indicators of growing nerves. Of the reality of the situation setting in.

And yet, Jey still hasn’t dropped the gun.

Hence why Dwayne has his aimed directly at his cousin. “You don’t want to do this, Jey.” He’s slowly stepping forward. “Put the gun down, son.”

Jey’s expression is one of pure indecision, his voice frazzled sounding as he informs, “they got Nicki, Roman.” He informs, as if this makes it right. As if it gives him a reason for his betrayal. “My kids can’t lose their mother, uce.”

“We can find her, Jey,” Bayley pleads, knife in hand as she moves close to Solana, same as Afia, both women serving as buffers. “This isn’t the way.”

Jey’s bottom lip trembles, the weight of this moment weighing on him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, man!”

“It doesn’t have to be, Jey,” Matteo’s voice is dangerously calm as he zeroes in on Jey from another angle. “Just put the gun down, and we can—”

It all happens so fast. Rikishi attempts to reach for the gun on the floor near his feet, an arrogant, fatal mistake, because it’s a mere matter of seconds that pass in between the time he’s reaching and when he’s gasping for breath, one hand over his now cut throat as blood streams out. In two areas, because there’s also a large wound in his back where Solana ran the knife through, making good on her threat.

“Dad!”

Jey shouts, finally lowering the gun and moving towards Solana and Rikishi, whose big body drops onto the floor as he continues to look wide eyed, unable to speak nor process what’s just occurred. He seems entirely focused on his father, on his father who now lies dying in his arms.

But, it’s a risk no one is willing to take.

Not with the move he just pulled.

A shot rings out and Jey jerks back, cursing loudly, falling to the floor, holding onto his shoulder where he’s been hit.

Hit by Dwayne.

Non-fatal, but grounding.

And with both his dad and brother now down, one with mortal wounds, Solo is also distracted long enough, aiding the true Tribal Chief with exactly what he needs.

Roman easily grabs the knife out Solo’s hand and juts it into his shoulder, intentionally avoiding a fatal spot, joy filling him at the howl released.

Jey grunts, holding onto his bleeding shoulder, sitting near his gasping for breath father. “Roman, please—”

But, it’s the Tribal Chief, not Roman, who methodically, lowers and lifts the knife over and over into Solo’s face and body, severing off his nose, practically sawing off his lips, cutting off his ears, Solo’s agonizing sounds of pain only silenced when Roman lands the knife directly into Solo’s heart.

His body jerks, a sound, a gasp is made, and then nothing.

Just the stillness of death.

Only then does Roman drop the knife and roll over onto his back, exhaustion from his injuries catching up to him.

“Roman!”

Solana shouts, running over to him. On her knees, she pulls him up, face paling with a devastating realization. “No….”

She’s not certain, can’t be sure, but by the amount of blood he's losing, he was stabbed close to an artery.

If not in an artery.

Her eyes water, as she caresses his face. “You’re gonna be okay, mi amor.”

Solana moves quickly, pulling off her sweater, leaving just the bullet proof vest covering her thin blood stained tank top. She uses it to apply pressure to stop or hold off as much of the bleeding as possible from the stab wound. Gaze lifted to Dwayne and Matteo, she pleads, “help me get him up.” An unnecessary request as they were already moving to do so, helping a weakened Roman stand.

As she goes to walk behind them, staying close to Roman, she overhears Jey’s loud curses at Afia, Bayley, and Santos who only try to help him up. He swats them away, denying their assistance, remaining with his now deceased father and brother.

Alone.

—-------

Getting Roman outside the building and loaded into a truck takes much longer than Solana likes. It all takes too long. Dwayne and Matteo opting to go with her, the former driving as Matteo sits in the front seat after they help Roman into the back where he leans into Solana. The time it takes for her shaking hands to remove her bulletproof vest, wanting to feel her husband against her, body to body.

Even the rushed goodbyes as the others load into different SUVs heading elsewhere or maybe following them. Solana isn’t sure. She just knows it all takes too long when time is not on their side.

She holds him, his large, heavy body leaning into her, his breathing haggard, both his shirt and her own soaked and drenched with blood, the same as her sweater that she keeps pressed against his wound, doing her best to buy them as much time.

She doesn’t ask how far they are away from the hospital.

She won’t.

Roman’s voice is pained and weakened almost. “Solana—”

“No.” The most perfect combination of emotional and stern. A single word that’s the equivalent of someone standing in front of a door that’s threatening to burst at the seams, completely overwhelmed to the point of explosion. And, the explosion would be Solana’s calm, her sanity, because she cannot fathom nor will she even entertain what he might be trying to tell her. “Just–just rest.”

Trembling hands move up and down his shoulders. “Don’t talk. Just—just listen.” A quiet, still stern command that’s both for his physical wellbeing and her mental stability. And, while his silence might be the worst thing ever for most people, for her, it’s calming in a sense.

Solana moves her hands to his head, stroking his hair, loose and wild. She keeps it out of the way, makes sure none of the blood that seeps through his shirt and onto her own clothing makes its way onto his silky mane. “It’s tonight,” her voice cracks, as she reminds him, “I–I told you I would tell you tonight.”

A night unlike any she’s ever experienced, she won’t let it pass without making good on her promise.

She doesn’t care about the presence of the other two men, doesn’t care what they overhear, what they learn.

It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matters is keeping Roman awake.

He can’t lose consciousness.

“I—I wanna use the money to create a foundation,” she starts off, having to revisit the many exciting realizations she’d stumbled across while on her trip. A trip that seems so long ago now. “I want to open up domestic violence shelters for women and children. One here and one in Mexico.” Solana holds him a little tighter, does her best to make him as comfortable as one can be in this situation. She knows the friction of the truck speeding through uneven terrain doesn’t help, but she hopes her words and information can allot him some type of solace. “And, I—I wanna name the foundation after my mother.”

That last part was something that took her a minute to settle on, the confusing, unresolved feelings of hurt, anger, and resentment towards the woman who loved and cared for her for the first ten years of her life, partially clouding her judgment. Solana had almost forgotten why that was an area she’s so passionate about.

Because while her mother wasn’t perfect and didn’t make all the right decisions, she was still a victim, too. She, like so many other women, lost her life in trying to make a better life for her daughter. For Solana. Alma didn’t do everything right, but in the end, she made the ultimate sacrifice.

And, Solana knows countless other women like her mother are out there, and she wants to use the time she has left on this earth to make it so that the number of women trapped in domestic violent relationships, along with their kids, have the help and resources Alma didn’t.

“I’m gonna double major in nursing and business, so I have that business knowledge, too.” She strokes his lightly bruised cheek, adding in a light voice. “You might have to help me sometimes with homework and stuff.”

Roman’s quiet chuckle is hard to appreciate with the grimace that follows it. He’s in pain. She knows it, and she hates it. Hates that she can’t miraculously heal him from his injuries. Can’t make the truck go any faster than it’s already going. All she can do is continue to try to soothe him with her words, distracting and informative.

Another wave of emotion hits as Solana transitions to the more sentimental realizations. “Cataleya….I want…I want her middle name to be Alma, after….after my mother.” Scenes and flashes from the dreams of the quieter of their girls, her soft smile and warm eyes. “Because she…she has my mother’s gentle, pure aura about her.” Solana shifts just enough, moving in sync with Roman who groans quietly. “Catalina…” Solana is the one to chuckle this time, sharing, “her middle name will be Fetu.” Solana can feel it, she doesn’t know how or why, but she can feel the way he tenses almost in her arms. A tension that melts into something close to calm. “Because she has that fire in her like her daddy and her great aunt.” Flashes of their brave, strong little girl with nothing but determination and resilience.

Just like her daddy.

“And our son.” Her voice cracking reveals the toll of the situation that’s finally making its impact on her known, but Solana shoves it away. Forces it back. Not right now. “I want to name our son after you.” Solana angles her head to look at him as she gently caresses his cheek. “I wanna name him Tamasa.”

Roman’s eyes are shut, a small almost solemn smile on his face. "Yeah?"

She nods, eyes watering once more. "Yeah."

Because, she can't think of a better, stronger, kinder man than to name their firstborn son after.

It would be an honor. Truly.

Something settles in Roman's gaze, something distant and somber. His eyes close, his voice low and exhausted. “I love you.”

For the first in her life, those are the three words she doesn’t enjoy hearing. Not from him.

Because she knows exactly what he’s saying.

He’s saying goodbye.

“No.” Solana can’t breathe. She can only shake her head, moving her hands to his face, slapping him lightly. “Roman, stay with me.” She’s only slightly relieved to see his eyes fluttering, a sign that he’s still fighting, still breathing. “You can’t leave me, okay?” He says nothing, just continues to look at her with that sad, solemn grin on his handsome face. “We have to build our house, remember? We—we have to have our big family.” Lips trembling, she presses against his temple, murmuring and crying against him, “you’re going to be okay.”

A promise to him. A promise for herself.

For their daughters in her stomach and the children they’ll have after.

Because, Solana refuses to accept anything else.

She’s been through hell.

Roman has been through hell.

Their story won’t end this way. She won’t let it.

But, then the truck stops. Stops moving altogether, and she nearly loses it.

“What are you doing?” Solana sounds every bit as frantic as she feels. “Drive! He’s losing too much blood, we have to—we have to get him to the hospital!" Speaking aloud the uncomfortable truth and reality is a crushing, cumbersome thing. Because the reality is that while her words soothed him in some ways, it didn’t stop nor slow down the blood that continues to soak him, her, and the seat of the car.

A devastating reminder that time is most definitely not on their side. Every fucking second is precious, and she won’t stand for any of it being wasted.

“Drive!” She screams once more, nearly hyperventilating when both Matteo and Dwayne hop out of the truck. A nervous breakdown is right around the corner until the side door is ripped open, and a blinding light forces Solana to look away, protectively cradling her husband.

But, it’s not just the light, there’s sound. It’s loud. Familiar. Chipped, intermittent. Deafening in some ways.

The light is eclipsed by two bulky figures, Matteo and Dwayne.

Solana realizes they’re pulling Roman away from her.

And, the panic sets in.

“No!”

“Solana, look!” Matteo’s voice is urgent and pressing, one hand restricting her, which only exacerbates her anxiety and anger.

But, she does look, and when she does, it’s an instant switch.

The panic that filled and threatened to overwhelm her is melted into an abundance of relief as she takes in the scene before her, nothing short of a miracle.

A helicopter with the same color patterns as the local hospital, the star of life, blades moving rapidly, as if ready to take off at any moment. Bright lights on and doors opened, two medical professionals rush out to meet Dwayne who’s helping Roman remain upright and on his feet.

“We knew someone would be needing medical attention,” Matteo informs, as she looks over at him wide eyed and bursting with appreciation. "So, we prepared ahead of time." He gestures to where Dwayne can be seen talking to the paramedic, likely explaining the nature of Roman’s injuries.

If not for the situation, Solana would 1000% express to Matteo her immense gratitude. For everything. For it all.

But, in this moment, her only concern, the only thing she can think about, is being with her husband.

Solana is once again a frantic mess as she moves to climb out the truck, her legs carrying her over just in time as she tells, not asks, the flight paramedic, “I’m going with him.”

She’s met with zero protests despite the tight space, Roman’s big body taking up more space than the average person. Of that, she’s sure.

But, none of that matters.

There’s a bit of a blur around her, as they work to get an IV into Roman, talks of tourniquets, hemostatic dressings, blood transfusions, while they work to get him as stable as possible as the helicopter lifts off, carrying them to the hospital where he’ll get the medical treatment he needs.

The treatment that will save his life.

And, that’s what matters to Solana. That’s what has her finally sobbing, her hand in his, both caked in old and fresh blood, the same blood that stains her clothing and body, some splatters on her face. It’s all irrelevant. All immaterial.

They’re safe.

Roman is safe.

He’s going to be alright.

He’s going to live.

She’s safe.

She’s going to be alright.

And most importantly, their babies are safe.

The girls are going to be alright.

It’s a welcomed, cherished, moving thing and scene that contrasts the backdrop of a sudden loud boom, a painting of orange and yellow hues that paint the night sky miles behind and under. An explosion at the same plant where they just were.

Where some still remain.

--------

a/n: these two have been through enough. to kill off either of them would be trauma porn. not to mention, neither would ever really, truly recover if they lost one another. it would make all their progress null and void.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

231 notes · View notes

improbable-outset · 1 year ago

Note

I recently became an auntie/uncle! (yay!) My little nibling was overdue by a week and the funny thing is, as a way to induce labor, sib and their lovely s/o tried the whole sexy times to get baby moving. And it worked! So how about Miguel and their s/o in that same scenario and Miguel convinces his loving wife to try it out seeing as their kid is a few days overdue? Bonus if it works! That man def be looking at his heavily pregnant wife with hungry eyes lol!

Pregnant!Reader smut 😍😍 yes please! (Also congrats on your new addition to the family anon, and sorry this took so long)

📄 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐉𝐨𝐲

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Wife!Reader, gross talks of placenta lmao, SMUT, Pregnancy sex, spooning position, virginal fingering, unprotected sex, brief mentions of the labour phase, breastfeeding and lots and lots of fluff.

𝐀/𝐍: I would’ve been lost if it wasn’t for @lazyjellyfish300 (Thank you bestie!!)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It has been a week past your baby girl’s due date, and Miguel thinks it’s the perfect time to explore some natural methods to induce labour.

Miguel watched you anxiously as you tried to walk hand in hand down the street with him. One of your hands rested on your baby bump, while the other clung to his.

It was a quiet night as you both made your way back home, but even in an absence of a crowd, Miguel still felt an extra precaution over you.

He leaned over and nuzzled his face against your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah…I’m good,” you replied, struggling to sound convincing. Miguel knew you were concealing your stiffness. With the baby fully developed, you were ready to give birth at any given moment.

It had been a week past your due date, and you hadn’t felt any contractions. Miguel had adviced you to stay home to avoid any potential issues or emergencies while out.

But you were growing tired of being indoors all day and, after pleading with him, had finally secured a dinner date at one of your go-to restaurants.

The city was more beautiful at night, with the spectacle of lights and holograms illuminating the cityscape. Fortunately, it was within walking distance from your house, so you didn’t have to travel far.

Still, you found it difficult to manoeuvre around, struggling with your new, cumbersome, body. His eyes darted between you and the path ahead.

“Are you sure?” He asked, his voice showing his skepticism as he noticed the slight tremor in your steps.

“Mhmm,” you were starting to sound breathless now.

He noticed how you were stuggling to keep up with his pace, even while holding hands. He slowed down to match your steps.

“You’re having trouble again,” Miguel said with a hint of concern. “Why didn’t you tell me to slow down earlier?”

You huffed. “I’m just a little disappointed that I couldn’t have the sushi,”

Miguel gave a small smile. He knew how much you had been craving the sushi from the restaurant and felt bad that you couldn’t have it.

He tried to sooth your disappointment. “Lo sé, amor,” he said. “But we have to think about the baby. Your health comes first,”

He gently pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around you and supporting your back as you continued to walk. “I know it’s hard, but it won’t be long now. Just a few more weeks and you’ll be able to eat all the sushi you want,”

“Yeah…this baby really doesn’t want to come out,” you sighed, glancing down at the bump. Miguel’s eyes followed, imagining your daughter inside.

He can already sense that she would inherit his stubbornness if she didn’t want to leave the comfort of the womb for the outside world— he smiled at the thought.

“I know. But she’ll come out when she’s ready. And she’ll be worth the wait, I promise,” Miguel felt the tension from your shoulders ease up at the thought. Thinking about holding your baby for the first time still felt surreal, even while you were fully developed.

“You know, I was kinda hoping I would start contracting back in the restaurant,” you mused.

“You’re that eager for the baby to come out, huh?”

“Uh huh, I think it’d be a pretty memorable experience,”

“It definitely will be memorable,” he imagined what it would be like if you suddenly writhe in pain the moment you get into labour while dining together. It didn’t seem like a pleasant scenario, however. “But I don’t think the other patrons would appreciate a surprise birth in the middle of dinner,”

“Right, of course,” you said. “But the food was still good though,”

“Yeah, it was.” He continued to walk by your side. “But I bet that sushi would’ve been tastier,” he added with a tease.

You rolled your eyes and pouted. “Urgh, don’t remind me,”

“Heh, I’m sorry amor,” he chuckled, his instinct quickly went on high alert again, focusing on your well-being.

His fingers traced circles on your back, a comforting reminder of his presence and support. He wanted to make sure he was there for you.

“I’ve heard women eat their own placenta,” you commented casually, breaking the comfortable silence.

Miguel couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust. He didn’t understand why you would bring it up, especially after a nice dinner. Knowing how easily queasy you could get, especially during your pregnancy, he was taken aback by your comment.

“Okay, that is gross,” he responded “I don’t want to think about eating your own placenta. Besides, there is no way that’s healthy, right?”

He knew you’d never entertain such an idea , especially if it’s people doing things online. He shook his head, trying to banish the unpleasant image.

“I don’t know, you’re the scientist here,” you said with a shrug

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He loved it when you would always remind him of his science background, something that he took pride in.

“Well, from a science perspective, I can tell you there’s no real evidence that eating your own placenta has any benefits.” He glanced at you before looking forward again. “I can imagine it being little too gritty and chewy like granola,”

“Eww I don’t think I can have granola the same now…” You scrunch your own face in disgust, mirroring Miguel's earlier reaction.

“Oh come on, mi vida. Don’t let the idea of eating a placenta ruin granola for you. There are plenty of other healthy food options like…uhm kale?”

“Kale?”

He couldn’t stop the grin from forming on his lips, clearly enjoying prodding you. “Yeah you know, the leafy stuff that tastes like grass.”

“Grass is appetising to you?”

He was clearly just milking it now out of spite and further teasing the conversation. “You don’t like the taste of grass? It boosts your immune system and gives you a healthy gut biome. You should definitely try it sometime,”

“Oh ok, cow.”

“Cow? Is that what you're gonna call me from now on?”

“Mooooo,” you mimicked, leaning into the joke.

“Okay okay I get it. I guess I’m a cow who likes eating grass and kale. You win this one, amor,” Miguel conceded.

Though he felt a swell of admiration towards you at that moment. Despite the discomfort you must’ve been feeling right now, you still managed to bring light into the situation.

You were definitely ready to be a mother and he couldn’t wait to see the more maternal nature from you.

Though in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if you’re doing it to distract yourself or, worse, distract him from your unease.

He really hoped it was just the former; at least that would be more reasonable. He knew how stubborn you could be when it came to your well-being, and now wasn’t the best time for that, given your vulnerable state.

Memories of the last time you pushed yourself too hard, refusing to talk to him about your stress until you reached burnout, were still fresh in his mind.

“Next thing you know, you’re gonna say you smoke grass too,” And there was more of that smartass mouth of yours.

He set the earlier concerns aside and focused on coming up with a response to match your sarcasm. “Well I wouldn’t rule it out, maybe I’ll try some kale-wrapped placenta. Who knows?”

“Eww okay stop,” you wrinkled your nose in mock horror.

“Heh, you started it with the placenta talk, amor.”

“Yes, and you somehow made it worse,” you resorted, shaking your head. You both moved on from the placenta talk, shifting to a more pleasant topic the rest of the way home.

Miguel felt a wave of relief wash over him as he stepped foot into the house. The familiar surroundings offered a sense of security that eased his mind; knowing you were safe within these walls and away from any disturbance or danger from outside.

He watched as you padded over to the living room, your gait slowed by the weight of your baby bump. You sank onto the couch with a sigh. Despite the safety of indoors, Miguel’s protective instincts kept him alert with his eyes following your every move.

Ever since your due date had passed, Miguel had been anticipating the moment you would feel your first contraction.

Your hospital bag had been so packed for days, sitting in the corner of the room like a silent sentinel. It was filled with extra clothes, thick pads and everything else you might need. He was determined to be prepared for any eventuality.

But it seemed as though time stretched to a crawl as the days dragged on past your due date. Despite his effort to remain patient, he couldn’t help but feel a little restless yet excited for the baby’s arrival.

He settled onto the couch beside you and held the baby bump, feeling the gentle movements of your daughter inside. He wondered how you were feeling physically, sensing that must be feeling a mix of discomfort and anticipation.

Part of him wished for the labour to start soon, not just to end your pain but to finally see you hold your baby for the first time. He knew that moment would be etched in his memory forever.

He wanted nothing more than to come back into the apartment finally being a family of three. His eyes fell on you again; you looked worn out but you still looked stunning.

He had heard about the pregnancy glow but never truly believed it until he saw you. Your beauty seemed to shine even brighter through the fatigue and the physical toll of motherhood.

He felt you shift slightly, seeking a more comfortable position. “How are you feeling, amor? Do you need anything?” He asked softly.

You shook your head, offering a tired smile. “No, I’m okay. Just a little achy,”

“I can imagine…” he replied.

No, I don’t think I could even remotely imagine.

He could sense your aches, even if you were trying to downplay it. “How about we call it a night and get ready for bed? I can bring you some tea to help you relax,”

“That would be nice, actually. Thank you.” You said. Miguel stood to his feet and extended his hand to you. Once you grabbed it, he gently helped you to get to your feet too.

You headed over to the bedroom, the house hushed to a comfortable silence, while Miguel moved to the kitchen to prepare a cup of chamomile tea.

As the water heated on the stove, his mind drifted to the idea of different ways to induce labour. He had heard about more natural methods that could help get the baby moving.

But he was unsure how you would feel about the subject. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable and get you to do something that you were not too sure with.

Natural inducing was a delicate topic and he didn’t know how he was going to bring it up. Yet, with the increasing tension you must’ve been experiencing, he felt an urgency to find a solution. The sooner the better, right?

Once the tea was prepared he headed to the bedroom too and found you already nestled under the covers. He handed you the cup and settled beside you on the bed. “Here you go, sip it slowly.”

“Thank you, Miguel.” you said, taking the cup with a grateful smile.

Miguel took a moment to appreciate the sight of you. In your cozy pajamas, with your baby bump showing and your expression relaxed, you looked more radiant than ever.

He shook off his awe and focused on the topic that had been on his mind. The timing felt right but he decided to wait until you finished your tea before he spoke.

Once you’ve drained the cup, he took a deep breath. “I was thinking…I know we’re both anxious about when the baby will come. I think I might know something that could help induce labour.”

You placed the cup on the nightstand before turning to him. “You do?”

He leaned a little closer so he could study your face. “Yeah, it involves some…physical activities,”

Immediately you twisted your face, recalling a past memory. “Oh, please don’t make me use that exercise ball again,”

“No, not the exercise ball,” he chuckled before he retained his gentle tone.“There are some excerises, but we don’t need to do that now. I was thinking of something more intimate.”

Your eyebrows arched in understanding.“I’ve heard of that too, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

Relief and excitement swirled in Miguel’s heart at your openness. Though he didn’t want to put everything on you now. “Only if you’re comfortable. I know you're tired right now so we don’t need to do it tonight,”

You chewed on your lower lip, suppressing your grin from growing wide.“Oh well, I might have a little spare energy for this.”

“Oh? Too impatient for the baby to come out?”

“That and…you’re looking pretty irresistible right now,” he saw a flicker of something familiar in your eyes as you said that and it was too tempting not to give him.

He leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a deep kiss. He felt you respond back eagerly, your lips parted slightly as his tongue traced the contours of your mouth, silently asking for entry.

You opened up to him and he took that opportunity to map out your tongue to taste more of you. After pulling his lips away, he soaked in the sight of you and how flushed your lips were right now.

His voice dropped to a more soothing tone as he spoke. “Let me do the work, okay? You just lay back for me.”

He carefully stripped off your pants, with your undies remaining, before he removed his own. He gently guided you to lie on your side before he climbed onto the bed behind you. His chest was pressed against your back now and he wrapped an arm around you and caressed your bump.

“Comfortable?” He asked in a whisper.

“Yeah, are you?”

“Very.” he pressed up closer to you, molding his body against yours.

One of his hands reached lower to trace the edge of your undies between your thighs. He felt your twitch slightly at the touch and he couldn’t help the grin against your neck.

He reached lower until he felt the damp patch of the fabric and gently rubbed in a circular motion over your clothed folds and the clit.

“Mig—” you gasped, writhing under his touch. You were more sensitive now with your hormones flaring.

He groaned softly at the sound of you saying his name like that, so needy and desperate for him. “You’re so wet for me, amor.” He murmured.

You could only moan lowly in response as he dug his fingers through the panties to feel more of your wetness. Your panties cling to your core from your wetness as he lowered the fabric to expose the delicate area.

The undies were only pulled down up to your upper thighs but it was enough room for him to delve his fingers into your cunt, drawing in and out at a shallow pace.

You were so responsive and your pregnant bump made you look even more enticing right now. He added a second finger, increasing his pace ever so slightly while using the right amount of pressure to drive you wild.

He heard you gasp, loving how easily he could make you moan and forget about everything other than him. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he moaned against your ear.

You flushed again this chest, squirming until you rubbed against his groin and over his hard on. His breath caught against his throat, suddenly feeling his urges getting stronger. He wanted to be buried deep inside you right now but he didn’t want to rush things just yet.

“You’re making it hard for me to hold back,” his voice was strained as he breathed.

“Miguel, please—” you whined, rubbing your thigh desperately for some friction against the bundle of nerves.

Miguel’s control was hanging by a thread by now as he heard your plea. He slowly withdrew his fingers from you and shifted his body. He quickly lapped up your wetness from his digits before he started grinding his hard on against the rear.

His hands slip up your stomach again. He was infatuated by your bump and he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Are you sure you’re ready for me?” He breathed against your ear. He was aware of how more sensitive you were now and he wanted to make sure he prepped.

“Yes…please, I need you Miguel.” You begged further. The desperation in your voice pushed him to his breaking point.

He pulled away momentarily to lower his boxers and freed his aching cock. He stroked it a few times before he located your core between your thighs.

Once he found the jackpot, he slowly pushed himself inside. Immediately he was overwhelmed by you and your walls squeezing around him. You clenched onto the bed sheets beside you as he pushed further.

Once he had bottomed out, he felt his eagerness heighten and there was a hopefulness that this might be the chance to finally bring about the beginning of your labour, leading to the birth of your baby.

But at the same time, he couldn’t ignore the lingering nervousness on what’s to come and the significant changes that would happen.

But for tonight, he didn’t allow himself to focus on that— instead he wanted to bring you the bliss that you needed now before those hours of labour.

He let out a low groan into your neck before he started to drag himself out and slipped back in again, all while watching your face with a close eye.

He wanted to be able to pick up on your reaction through your micro facial expressions, even if he did only have a vantage view of your face from his position. Your mouth was parted open with the sound of your whine slipping from your lips.

His pace started off slow and steady so you both could get in the swing of things— and so he could adjust to the position. He had never made love to you like this so this was all new to him, especially with your new body.

He felt you tighten around him as he thrusted in and out of you, milking more moans and sweet sounds out of you. He kept his hands around your stomach, feeling the activity of the baby inside as he slowly increased his pace.

Your moans were becoming more frantic and high pitched from the mounted pleasure and how sensitive you were now. He could sense the familiar trance of your climax from the sounds you were making and how breathingless you were right now.

He moved his hand from your stomach to reach for your hand and threaded his fingers through yours. His lips remained near your ear and he kept his voice hushed. “That’s it, amor. Let yourself go.”

He heard you cry out his name in pure ecstasy as you reached your peak, sending a shiver down his spine. He continued to move inside you, helping you ride out your orgasm. His thrusts became more sporadic and jerky now as he felt his own peak crawl up to him.

With one finally thrust, he reached his own orgasm, coming hard inside of you and filling you with his release. He moaned your name, like it was painted on his tongue, as his body shuddered against yours.

He slowly pulled out from you and felt the withdrawal. Your bodies were still clung onto each other as both of you came down from your high. Miguel shuffled away to give you some room to breathe, with the sweat cooling his skin.

You turned your body over so you were facing him again before you wrapped yourself around him. “Do you think it worked?” You asked.

Miguel pulled you as close as you bump will allow. “Well, I don’t know for certain, but it was definitely worth a try. And even if it doesn't, we can keep trying.”

The thought did excite him, but he really hoped that it would work the first time. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Miguel’s hand continued to trace gentle patterns on your skin. A sense of satisfaction washed over him, and it blended seamlessly with the lingering pleasure of your intimacy.

“You know, after everything I’ve lost, I never thought I’d ever find happiness. I never thought I’d ever find someone who makes me feel alive again, someone to start a family with.” He sighed, tracing his fingers over the back of your neck affectionately. “Yet…here I am, married to the most incredible woman,”

“Well, I never thought I’d be married to Spiderman,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

Of course you would bring that up.

“Oh God, please don’t refer to me as that, not while I’m off the clock anyways,” he said, though internally your words felt like a warm embrace, filling him with a sense of fulfillment. “I’m not some special entity or idol, just a man who loves his wife,” he added.

“And a man who keeps the Multiverse intact,” you reminded him. He wasn’t always fond of his role as the leader of the Society, but the way you said it made it sound almost noble.

“Urgh, don’t remind me, you make it sound like I’m some sort of superhero. Can’t you just call me your husband for tonight,” there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice that he couldn’t hide, even if he was joking.

You looked up at him, your expression softened with affection, “You are, and you’re my hero too,”

Miguel felt his heart quicken seeing the way you looked at him. It wasn’t every day that he received the recognition that he deserved; but even when he did receive some praises here and there, it would never give the deep sense of gratification that he felt when hearing it from you.

You always knew how to make him feel not only noticed but appreciated too. It was almost surreal having someone like you to wake up to everyday. “You’re really giving me a big head you know that, but it’s nice to hear you say it,”

“Yeah…and you’ll be this little one’s hero too,” your gaze fell to your bump.

Miguel couldn’t stop himself from gently caressing your stomach, feeling the kicks from your daughter.

Any moment now.

Miguel kissed your forehead. “Let’s get some rest, tomorrow is another big day,” You were both lulled to sleep with your synced heartbeats.

The following morning, Miguel felt you gently shaking him awake. Blinking against the morning light, he focused on your excited expression. He was still defrosting from his slumber so he didn’t pick up on what you said until he heard the word contraction.

Immediately he felt his heart rate spike and he bolted upright. “Are you sure? When did you feel it?”

You beamed at him. “Just a few minutes ago. I tried to wake you but you were in a deep sleep. Should we get ready to go to the hospital?”

Miguel didn’t need to be asked twice before he was out of bed and freshening up in the bathroom. The entire morning, he was on high alert, making sure everything was in place, carrying the hospital bag to the car and making sure you were feeling okay, reminding you to focus on your breathing.

As you both stepped out of the front door, he halted as his mind started racing. He looked back at the house and realised the next time he walked through these doors and back inside, you would be a family of three.

This was something you’ve both been dreaming for a long time and having to experience it in real time still didn’t sink in yet. He stepped further out the house and locked the doors before he climbed into the car, taking his place behind the wheel.

Several hours of ice chips later, the first cry of your baby girl tore through the room. At that moment, time seemed to stand still. Everything and everyone else faded into the background and all Miguel could focus on was you and the baby.

When it was his turn to hold her, Miguel couldn’t form a single word until he saw her big eyes open for the first time, looking up at him. She probably recognised his voice as he offered soft words of comfort.

“Mi pequeña princesa,”

He felt a fierce sense of protectiveness over the baby. He wanted to hold her close, to keep her safe, but he was also aware of her fragility. So he found a careful balance, making sure she felt his warmth in his arms.

When it was time for your baby’s first feeding, Miguel watched you as you nursed your daughter for the first time. The nurse helped with the latching and the positioning so you would be more comfortable.

You brought the baby closer to your body, aligning her head with your nipple. You got the hang of it pretty quickly and soon, she got a good latch, with her tiny lips flared out.

Miguel watched in awe as she started to suck and draw out the milk. “She’s feeding, amor. You’re a natural at this,”

Once the baby’s feeding was done, you slowly guided her off your nipple and held her against your chest.

“Miguel, I did it!” You exclaimed, the excitement shining in your eyes.

“¡Por supuesto que lo hiciste! You did an amazing job.” He pulled you close and kissed the crown of your head.

“I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.” You confessed.

“That's not true. You're the one who gave birth to our little girl, and you're the one who is nursing her, giving her the best possible start in life. You're the strong, amazing, beautiful mother of our child. I'm just here to support you every step of the way.” Miguel quickly wiped the mist in his eyes, overcome with emotion.

“True, but I would be a mess without you,”

“And I would be lost without you. You may be the one bringing our baby into the world and feeding her, but I’m right here besides you,” he said, voice steady and reassuring. “I’ll do everything I can to make this journey easy for you,”

And he sealed his promise with a kiss on your forehead.

I shit you not, there are women out there who actually talk ab eating their own placenta on TikTok (TW if you get easily squeamish) ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @thealleydog @mybvalentine @prettygirleli @enneadec @aisajustwannaread

@babeyling @monarchberrysblog @saintdiior

#★— ayrus writes #★— inbox missions #❤︎ scientist husband ❤︎#♦︎— sinful encounters #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman miguel #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse

732 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 1 month ago

Note

Comforting reader after they get a really bad hair cut. They are so pissed about it, they want to buzz their hair so bad just to get rid of the bad cut. But ultimately doesn't thanks to lovely calming words, actions and whatnot. Mainly with Boothill, Itto, Argenti and maybe Aventurine. Or whoever else might fit!

(Totally not based on a thing that actually happened, totally not...)

Chopping Away the Anger

Tags: Argenti x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Itto x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Self-Image, Emotional Support, Emotional Growth, Character Development, Mentions of Frustration, Gentle Guidance, Healing.

Warnings: Mild frustration, Body-image issues, Self-doubt.

A/N: I'm sorry to hear that 😭🙏

You storm into the room, frustration radiating off you as you run your fingers through your messed-up hair. The mirror told the cruel truth. It was nothing like the picture you’d shown the stylist. It was chopped, uneven, and nothing short of a disaster. The urge to just grab the clippers and shave it all off was overwhelming. You hated it so much.

Boothill, who had been sitting by the window, watching the stars flicker in the sky, turned his head at your sudden entrance. His sharp gaze scanned you for a moment, sensing the tension in your stance.

"You look like a rattlesnake that got caught in a blender," he commented with a smirk. "But somethin’ tells me it ain’t the hair that’s botherin’ you."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "It’s just... I hate it, Boothill. I hate it so much. I wanna buzz it all off. I don’t even care anymore."

He stood up, walking over slowly, his tall, mechanical form casting a shadow over you. With his shark-like teeth, he gave a soft chuckle, though there was a warmth to it. "Well, if you’re thinkin’ of buzzin’ it, then I reckon I might just get a front row seat to that spectacle."

You turned your head, locking eyes with him. His black eyes glinted in the low light, aim symbols flickering in them like a sign of his sharp, calculated mind. He gently reached up, brushing some of your hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly tender despite his rugged exterior.

"I ain’t sayin' you ain’t got the right to be mad about it," Boothill said, his tone softening. "But sometimes the things we don’t like... can still be part of what makes us who we are."

He ran his fingers through your hair, carefully examining the cut. "Ain't so bad if you ask me. Maybe not the way you planned, but ain't that the way life goes sometimes? Messes with ya, but you learn to work around it."

You gave him a skeptical look, but his words, accompanied by the calm of his presence, began to soften your frustration. The need to buzz it off felt less pressing now, even though the hair still felt like a tangled mess.

"Besides," he continued, his voice low and calm, "you’ll look back and laugh about this one day. You’re still you, with or without the perfect cut."

Boothill’s smile widened, showing just a hint of his shark-like teeth, and in that moment, the thought of grabbing the clippers seemed less urgent.

You sighed, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders as Boothill’s presence surrounded you. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

You walked into the room, hair disheveled and a fiery anger in your eyes. Itto looked up from where he was lounging, his giant horns poking out from behind the couch as he raised an eyebrow.

"Hey! What happened to your hair?" he asked, sitting up with a grin.

You flopped down on the couch, practically fuming. "I don’t want to talk about it. I hate it, Itto. I look like a mess. I’m honestly thinking of just buzzing it all off."

Itto's playful expression softened, and he sat up properly, giving you his full attention. He could tell the frustration in your tone was genuine.

"Alright, alright, calm down," he said with a chuckle, coming closer. "I get it, you’re mad. But you know what? Buzzing it off ain't gonna solve anything."

You crossed your arms. "I don’t care. It’s awful. What else can I do?"

Itto put a big, warm hand on your shoulder, the kind of gesture that made you feel safe despite his boisterous nature. His big, goofy smile was comforting, and his words were laced with sincerity.

"Look," he started, his voice more serious now. "We all have days where things don’t go the way we want. I get that. You can always change things, but sometimes, you gotta give yourself a little time. You don’t gotta make big decisions when you’re mad."

He nudged your hair gently, the way he would pet his own own when it was feeling down. "You got a lot of beautiful stuff goin’ on already. Why not let the bad haircut be a funny story? You can always fix it later, but this moment, right here? It's yours."

You looked up at him, your annoyance slowly melting away. The comforting presence of Itto, so simple and genuine, reminded you that it was okay to embrace the imperfection. It was just hair, after all.

"Okay, fine," you sighed, finally cracking a smile. "But next time I’m picking the stylist."

Itto grinned, giving you a thumbs-up. "Deal! And hey, no buzz cuts yet, alright? You can pull it off. I’ll help you fix it—just not with a razor."

You stormed into the room, hair a mess from a botched haircut. You barely even cared about how it looked, feeling like it was the end of the world. Argenti, ever the epitome of grace and composure, raised an eyebrow at your entrance.

"What’s the matter, my dear? Your expression looks like you’ve seen a ghost."

"I hate it, Argenti. I look terrible!" You ran your fingers through your hair again, growing more frustrated. "I should just buzz it all off. At least then it’d be uniform."

Argenti stood up from his elegant chair, his movement fluid like a dancer’s. He walked toward you, his eyes warm with understanding. "Ah, I see. A sudden transformation of your appearance has left you in distress. But I implore you to consider... beauty is never merely a reflection of perfection. It’s found in the very imperfection itself."

You looked at him, not sure what he meant. "What are you talking about? My hair looks like a disaster."

Argenti took your hand gently, his touch light as he guided your fingers through your hair. "In our world, it’s the flaws that make things unique. It’s the things that are unexpected and raw that carry the most beauty."

He tilted your chin up slightly, his gaze soft. "What others might see as imperfection... I see as a chance for something new. A challenge for you to redefine beauty in your own image."

You met his gaze, slowly beginning to understand. His calm presence, his dedication to beauty in every form, made you rethink your initial reaction.

"You have a gift for seeing things differently," you whispered, a smile starting to form.

"Ah, but it is not a gift," Argenti replied, his voice full of quiet confidence. "It is merely the nature of those who have walked the path of Beauty. It’s about seeing beyond the surface and embracing what is. Your hair? It can still be beautiful."

His words were enough to quiet the storm inside you. The idea of buzzing it off seemed less appealing now, especially with his calming influence at your side.

"Thank you, Argenti," you murmured, feeling the frustration lift.

"Of course," he said, his smile a perfect blend of kindness and serenity. "Let it grow. Let it become part of your story."

You entered the room, your anger palpable. Your hair, which you had been so excited to get styled, now lay in disarray, hacked unevenly. You paced back and forth, hands tangled in your messy locks. "I can’t take it. I’m so done. I should just buzz it all off. It’s a joke."

Aventurine, ever the one to watch with careful eyes, raised his eyebrows, though his lips twitched upward in that signature, enigmatic smile. "A disaster, I presume?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing.

You nodded vehemently. "I look ridiculous. I can’t stand it."

He stood from his chair, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding. "I’ve known risk-takers, gamblers, but hair... now that’s a new wager," he said with a chuckle, his voice smooth and almost hypnotic.

He stepped closer, his presence calming and intense. "If I may, allow me to remind you of the game you’re playing, my dear. The beauty of a thing is not always immediate. Sometimes, it’s in how we adjust, adapt, and evolve. It’s in waiting for the perfect moment."

You stopped pacing, the words settling in your mind.

"You may think of buzzing it all off, but would that truly be the move you want to make? Is that what you would want if you weren’t so caught up in the frustration?" His voice softened, a touch of sincerity slipping through. "Sometimes, the greatest strategy is to pause and allow things to evolve on their own. You might find that the answer to this 'disaster' is simply time."

You looked up at him, the weight of his words taking hold. "You’re right. Maybe I’ve been too hasty."

He smiled, a rare and genuine expression. "Patience, my dear. The game is not yet finished."

As you sat down and let out a deep breath, you realized that the impulsive desire to buzz it off had passed, replaced by the quiet confidence in Aventurine’s words.

94 notes · View notes

comicnerd557 · 15 hours ago

Text

The one where Jake tells the squad how he met his wife

Jake Seresin x reader

A/N: Sooooo, this was supposed to be a blurb and it's almost 6k words. It's fine. Enjoy! There may be a part two if there's interest, just let me know!

Warnings: Jake is accidentally an asshole, plus sized!reader, reader is a female, cursing, sexual innuendos and dirty thoughts but no smut, even then, MDNI!!!

as always, a thanks to my bestie @dalamjisung who introduced me to Top Gun Maverick in the first place. Love you boo!!

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

Okay but like, imagine Hangman, cocky, badass, can’t-wipe-the-smirk-off-his-face, Hangman, married

Most would probably picture a woman equally as badass as he is, tough as nails, spits literal fire and can’t go an hour without jumping her hubby’s bones

That’s certainly what the rest of the Dagger Squad thought when Hangman let it slip he was married

“Someone married you, Seresin?” Payback was both shocked and horrified. Shocked someone accepted his proposal, horrified they hadn’t changed their fucking mind yet

It was no secret Hangman was a lot to be around, and while, yes, he had relaxed a bit with age, he was still a goddamn handful. He had stopped flirting with every skirt he saw about three years back, but….the squad just assumed he got tired of the playboy life and decided to go bachelor

“You don’t wear a ring.” Phoenix was skeptical, as usual, sipping her beer with narrowed, observant eyes. Without wasting a beat, Jake reached under the collar of his shirt, grabbed his dog tags, and held them up

Sure enough, in between the tags sat a simple silver band. “I wanted gold, but, the Mrs said she would sooner rip her finger off than wear gold. Clashes with her skin tone apparently.” He snorted

More shocked silence. It was all true. Jake Seresin was married. “How long?” Bob questioned. He hid his shock much better than the others, something Jake was thankful for

Hangman paused to think. “It’ll be 11 months in two weeks.” Jaws dropped. Jake’s ego took a hit. He laughed, a bit awkward. “I’m a bit offended, y'all are so surprised. I took a month off for the honeymoon…You guys didn’t think anything of it?”

“Honestly, thought you were on a mission, I swear to go-Wait, hang on, why the hell didn’t we get invites?!” Coyote’s protest was met with rallied cries of confusion. The entire squad was upset. “It was just me, her, and our folks. Private, small, quiet.”

Hangman? Quiet? Private? The man was like a walking disco ball. He fucking loved attention. Whenever the thought of Jake getting married crossed through heads, it was always assumed it would be a huge spectacle with fireworks and maybe a dance crew

The squad was silent for a full minute, processing the information they had just learned. It was a quiet night at the Hard Deck too, meaning there wasn’t even the chatter of strangers to fill the void. “Oh my god, someone say something! It’s not that big of a deal! I’m fucking 34, none of you expected me to be married? Really?!” Jake threw his hands up, laughing

Finally, shockingly, Rooster spoke. “We’re happy for you, really bro, just…What’s she like? How’d you guys meet? Name, age, job, we wanna know.”

How did they meet? A smile spread across Jake’s face before he could stop it. It wasn’t Jake Seresin’s usual cocky, condescending smirk. It was a genuine smile, sappy, sweet…and weirdly soft. None of them had ever seen anything like it

“Alright little ones,” Jake teased, sitting down across from the squad. Part of him worshiped the attention. “Gather around and Papa Jake will spill the beans.” Dramatically clearing his throat, Hangman started his story. “It all started three years ago…”

Jake had been absolutely fucking beat. The San Francisco sun was nothing to laugh about, and Maverick had, once again, kicked their ass in training. Hangman only added fuel to the fire, running his mouth, and as a consequence, he had to do double the amount of pushups the others did

“Fuckin’ ridiculous.” He grumbled, slamming the door of his truck shut with a huff, head falling forward onto the steering wheel dramatically. He had spent the entire day working his ass off, didn’t even have time to eat. Jake was fucking starving

Too lazy to cook, the pilot grabbed his phone, googled ‘food near me’, and clicked on the very first one, allowing the directions to guide him without even check where the hell he was going

Imagine his delight, then, when GPS led him to a quaint, soft looking bakery. The parking lot was empty, causing Jake to mumble a quiet thanks to the Big Guy upstairs before hopping out of his truck, making his way inside

The bell on the door jingled as he pushed it open, and the rush of ice cold air conditioning felt like the sweetest relief hitting him square in the face. He groaned aloud, content, tense muscles slowly relaxing the more the scent of baked goods invaded his nose

It wasn’t overly sweet, thank god, but just sweet enough to lure even the pickiest eater through those doors. Why this place wasn’t crowded, Jake didn’t know. Were the workers rude? Ugly? Maybe the food was unsafe to eat, leaving people glued to their toilets for hours on end

“Hi there!” A voice chirped from behind the counter, causing Jake to finally reopen his eyes after closing them in bliss. Like Cupid’s arrow had struck him, Hangman froze in place. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.

Never before had Jake Seresin, Hangman himself, been rendered speechless by a woman. Until now. “....Are you okay sir?” The heat had been especially brutal today…Maybe this guy had heat stroke and was just wandering, confused?

Jake managed to put one foot in front of the other and make his way up to the register. Thank fucking god he didn’t trip. Now, it was time to flirt. “....Doughnut.” His brain had been left at the base, clearly, cause that was the only fucking word Jake managed to squeeze out

You smiled, barely biting back a giggle. “Did you want a doughnut or…?” Jake blinked, forcing himself to fucking think. “Your dress. It has doughnuts. It’s cute, very fitting. Are you the owner or just a really dedicated employee?” Yes. Yes! The AC had finally cooled his head enough to think straight

“The owner.” You answered, smile turning a bit shy, hands soothing down the front of your dress. “It’s actually one of many pastry themed dresses I own. Today we have a special on doughnuts, so I figured my doughnut dress would be a good way to advertise that.”

“I’ll take 'em all.” Excuse you? Huh? Jake’s brain was screaming at his mouth for moving too quick. It seemed you were just as shocked, eyes going wide like dinner plates, and fuck, Jake’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of your visible excitement. “Really?! You haven’t even tried them yet!” You had fussed over him in a way that had Jake making up his mind. He would buy every single fucking doughnut if it kept that smile on your face

He just nodded. “Yes ma’am. I’m actually a Navy Pilot, and my squad just got back from a highly classified, super dangerous mission, so, we’re celebrating.” He explained, taking the chance to brag about how super cool awesome brave he was. “Feeding soldiers is like feeding a damn zoo. It’ll take all these doughnuts and more to fill ‘em.” Again, your smile grew, now fully beaming

“Take a seat! Here, you can have this one on the house while you wait. I’ll get everything packed up and I can help you carry them out to your ca-Oh i’m gonna need to build more boxes.” Now a busy bee, Jake watched as you hurried around behind the counter, packing up every single doughnut you had in the store, including some fresh from the oven. By the time you finished the pile of boxes was almost as tall as you

His wallet would hate him for a while, but the crew would be eternally grateful, especially if the rest of the doughnuts were as good as the one you had given him to munch on while he waited. “I knew this area was filled with pilots, but I hadn’t had any visit yet. Thank you for your service!” You giggled, grinning ear to ear. “I added a military discount, and combined with our sale, you saved a lot of money! Your total is…” The number was in the triple digits. Jake still didn’t hesitate as he tapped his card. After the beep, he reached into his wallet, pulled out a stack of cash, and dumped it into the tip jar

“Oh, oh no!” You immediately protested. “I can’t accept that! You’re really saving me, if the doughnuts don’t sell, they get tossed and it’s a really big waste. Honestly, I can’t take th-” You reached into the jar to take the cash out. Jake reached out, grabbing your wrist, and fuck, the instant zap was felt by the both of you

He smiled, sweet, calm. “Keep it. These are the best damn doughnuts I’ve had in my life. I owe it to ya.” Hangman managed to wink before grabbing half the pile of boxes, promising to come back for the second half after he loaded them up

The next day, when he showed up to work, he made the new trainees carry the doughnuts into the break room. Why the hell should he do the work? He bought the damn things after all

“Is it someone’s birthday or something? Someone die?” Rooster asked, pink sprinkles falling from his frosting covered mustache. “Whatever it is, I hope it happens again. These fucking rock.” Fanboy groaned, mouth full. Jake just smirked. “You’re welcome. I was feeling generous, figured I would remind all of you why you love me so much.” He mused. Everyone stopped chewing

“...They’re poisoned. Everyone go throw up.” Phoenix, despite her words, finished the doughnut she had in hand

Jake just rolled his eyes. “I think you mean “Thank you Jake, you’re so handsome and kind and funny and smart, oh my god any girl would be lucky to have you!” Right?” Maverick saved her from having to respond, calling for the team to gather up for a meeting

That afternoon, Jake returned to the little bake shop on the corner, prepared to ask for Doughnut Girl’s number…Except she wasn’t there. Someone else was behind the counter. Jake ended up just buying a single cookie before leaving, head hung low

The routine continued for a week straight. It got to the point where Jake asked about the owner. The teenage employee behind the counter just grinned. “Oh she works morning shift most of the time! Usually gets off by three.” Fuck. Jake almost never got off before six. Another cookie bought, another disappointed look as he walked out

For a few days, Hangman tried to move on. He really did. After picking up three skirts in three days, he still had you on his mind. The girls moaning obnoxiously under him looked nothing like you. They were tiny, practically toothpicks. You filled out your dress, body soft and curved. They had a thigh gap. Yours jiggled with every step in a way that hypnotized Jake. He gave up after the third night

He woke up extra early the next morning and set out, determined to complete his mission. He was gonna get your number, take you out, and fuck, maybe even marry you one day, who knew? He was feeling a little crazy

So, at 5:45 the next morning, Jake pulled into the parking lot of your bakery, turned off the engine of his truck, fixed his hair, and walked inside. “Welcome to The Cozy Oven!” Your voice was like music to his ears. No more bored teens or sweet but confused old ladies. Finally, he was reunited with his baker

“Oh it’s you! Mira said you came looking for me.” Was he delusional or were you teasing him? There was a glint in your eyes Jake couldn’t quite place, and the way you leaned over the counter seemed to prove his theory. You were so teasing him. Oh it was on. “You got me hooked on your sweets then disappeared on me.” He mused, smirking, palms flat against the counter. “The sweets have still been here.” You point out, giggling

Again. Fucking music his ears. “Tastes a bit sweeter when I’m looking at you.” Jake’s voice dipped low, leaning in a little closer. In an instant, your cheeks went hot, the tips of your ears darker in color from all the blood rushing to your face at once. “O-oh, you think so?” No longer could you meet Jake’s eyes, though, the smile didn’t leave your face. “Don’t tell me you’re a shy thing. Guys must come in every hour to beg for your number.”

At first, you laughed, like Jake had just told a super funny joke. When you noticed he wasn’t laughing, you stopped. “Oh, you were serious?” You weren’t being sarcastic or rude. Just genuinely confused. “I can count the times I’ve been hit on by strangers on one hand. I mean, my best friend calls me her wife, but, that’s just her thing. She’s married.”

Now, it was Jake’s turn to be confused. How the hell were you not married with three kids and another on the way? He wouldn’t say it aloud (yet) but fuck, you were like, ideal wife material. He had only recently started thinking about settling down and getting married and you checked off his checklist fucking perfectly

And god those hips were down right sinful, and fucking meant for holding and having babies. Not that Jake’s head was filled with thoughts of bending you over the counter and stuffing you full of cream instead of you stuffing the doughnuts. Definitely not

If his standard issue pants were a little tighter than usual, that’s not his fault

“Are they blind, or am I the first single man to walk into this bakery?” This man was single? Fucking. How. He had made your entire month buying every doughnut in the bakery and had done so with a grin and a sweet, somehow not creepy, wink. The bakery was doing…okay. You had just opened your doors a few months ago, and while your head was still above water, you were getting tired of treading really quickly

The pilot had the biggest order you had received so far, and holy hell that tip was enough to even buy that new super fancy cat food for your cat. Sniffles had been almost as grateful as you had. Almost. She never said as much, obviously

“Well, single men walk into this bakery often, so…You must be blind.” You giggled again. Jake laughed, tossing his head back. “I assure you, sweets, my eyes are just fine. They wouldn’t let me fly if they weren’t. I’d be stuck on the ground, or worse, the backseat.” He shuttered with over exaggerated disgust, playing it up to hear you laugh again

It worked. He beamed. “At the risk of making myself look like a complete jackass…” Jake leaned in, dramatically serious. “Can I have your number? I’d like to prove to you exactly why those men are blind as bats.” Jake let his eyes wander, slow, drinking in your frame like he was sipping the finest whiskey in the world. Just as slow, your smile dropped

As sweet as he seemed, the way he stared…Men usually wanted one thing. “I don’t even know your name.” You responded, voice quieter than he had heard it before. Jake, being Jake, chalked it up to your close proximity, so distracted by those pretty lips moving he failed to hear the cautious, almost anxious tone in your voice. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin. At your service.” There it was. His secret weapon. Every woman he ever met (Phoenix didn’t count she’s weird) had practically tossed their panties at him whenever he dropped that line

Women went nuts for men in uniform. One mention of his rank and they would fall to their knees. “I fly for Top Gun. Have you heard of it?” Everyone had. Jake was really pulling out the big guns now, but if he went to work without your number, he may just fly into the mountains for fun. Much to his shock, and dismay, you shook your head. Gone was that cute, sunny smile from before. Now, you just seemed…withdrawn

“I thank you again for your service, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid I don’t give out my personal number to customers.” A fatal shot. You went for the kill by reaching for the business card on the counter. “But if you ever need catering, please don’t hesitate to call the shop and put in your order. Would you like to buy something? I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat.”

A lie. You had all the time in the world. Mornings were always a bit slow. But with Jake’s intentions clear, you weren’t interested in entertaining his chubby chaser fantasies anymore. What other reason would he have for asking you out? Most girls around this area were tiny gym babes the size of twigs. While many preferred that, there were always men out there who thought you’d be a nice easy lay due to your size. They didn’t have to put in effort, clearly you would be desperate enough

Though you didn’t get hit on often, a blind person could see the hunger in Jake’s eyes as he stared at your body. In his eyes, he was admiring fine art. In yours, he was thinking of how easy it would be to hit and quit. Besides, he had another thing working against him. Military men never really wanted a relationship. They wanted a fuck, a stress reliever

Admittedly, it was a little upsetting. Jake had seemed so kind, but, the more you thought about it, the more you realized how his pretty face and sweet words had tricked you into assuming his entire personality after one fucking meeting. Pathetic. Maybe you did need to get laid. How long had it been since you pulled that little box out from under your bed again?

Jake’s grin dropped. He hadn’t been turned down in….well, ever. Honestly. Maybe when he was freshly twenty and still learning how to flirt? What had he done wrong? “Oh yeah, of course.” He stood up straight, smile now much less flirty and much more polite. “Uh, I’ll just…Take one of those.” He pointed to a random pastry in the case, tapping his card before, once again, leaving a hefty tip in the jar

“Have a good one, miss.” Jake walked out of the bakery in a daze, a frown tugging at his lips. He knew you were different, he knew that the minute your hand grazed his and pure electricity filled the air, but not even a number? Really? He wasn’t upset with you, of course, just confused and disappointed in himself

Maybe it was delusional, maybe the lack of oxygen to his brain had gotten to him, but Jake had already been imagining the second, third, and fourth date before the first one had even taken place. He made it to work ten minutes early with an uneaten cookie in hand. He passed it to Coyote the moment he asked about it, claiming he wasn’t that hungry anymore

Everyone noticed Jake was a little quieter that day. He wasn’t as cocky or boisterous, keeping his comments to a minimum, not even complaining when Maverick had him with a tone within the first half hour of their dog fight, didn’t push back when Phoenix made fun of him

“Alright what the hell is wrong with you?” Bradley had been trying to rile Jake up all day. Jake hadn’t indulged the man once. They were in the shower room now, Maverick having ordered them all to hose off after they had spent nearly an hour running through a mud soaked obstacle course, part of a new training program meant to help agility just in case they were out of their planes and behind enemy lines

Payback shut his locker, towel wrapped around his waist. “You didn’t even take the bait when Bob tripped over his own feet. Bob. You love teasing Bob!” Jake just sighed, head leaned back against his locker, annoyance clear on his face. “What’d you strike out or something? Get shot down?” Rooster had, unknowingly, hit the nail on the head. He realized as much as soon as the look in Hangman’s eyes turned murderous

“Oh my god he did. Our Hangman is heartbroken. He’s grown up so much.” Bradley sniffled dramatically. “Remember when a rejection just meant he moved on to the next girl?”

“I don’t get rejected.” Jake huffed, slamming open his locker, grabbing his comb to fix his hair, not because it needed fixing, but because he couldn’t look at that stupid smug look on Rooster’s face anymore. “Bradley,” Javy, his best friend of over ten years, finally spoke up. “Leave him be. Clearly this girl isn’t just a girl. Wanna tell us about it bro?”

Not really, if he were being honest. Jake kept his mouth closed, weighing the pros and cons of telling the truth versus denying everything. On one hand, the guys on his squad lived for teasing each other, digging under the others skin with glee. On the other, there was no one on earth Jake trusted more than the men in the locker room with him. They had saved his ass time and time again, and he had done the same for them. Maybe, just maybe, they could offer some solid advice

“There’s this woman, she ain’t no girl, this is a full bodied, grown woman, and she’s nothing like the skirts I usually chase. But she’s in my fuckin’ head and I asked for her number this morning. She turned me down. Turned me down cold.” He huffed, tossing his comb back into his locker with a frown. “And I ain’t mad at her. It’s my own fault, I think I came across a bit…”

“Pervy?”

“Sex addicted?”

“Menacing?”

“Okay everyone but Bob can go fuck themselves.” Jake scowled. “But, yeah. I guess. I don’t know. I gave her the line that usually makes panties fly off and she just shut down.” Bradley snorted, rolling his eyes. “The Lieutenant line? Really? Look man, we all use our uniforms to get into beds, but if you want something more you’re gonna have to actually work for it. Flowers, chocolates, sweet talk about something other than her ass. That sort of shit.”

Jake had never felt so fucking old. He had to learn how to pitch woo now? Really? “She worth the effort?” Bob asked quietly. Jake paused before shrugging. “My heart gets funny around her. Yeah, she makes me hard in my fuckin’ cargo pants,” Payback groaned in disgust. “But it’s more than that.” Silence took over the room. Once again, Jake was left with his thoughts

“We’ll help.” Reuben nodded, determined. Jake let out a loud groan. “Oh my god, I cannot get help picking up a woman from you guys, you’re supposed to come to me for that.” His ego would never recover from this. Ever. “We come to you for help getting laid, you come to us for help getting a date. Seems fair to me.”

And so, Operation Get-Hangman-His-Date started. They looped Phoenix in almost immediately, rightly deciding her female perspective might just be useful. They spent the night at the Hard Deck coaching Hangman on how to be a true gentleman. Bob got the honor of spraying him with a spray bottle every time he so much as glanced away from a woman’s face after winning a game of pool

The next morning, Jake was ready. He had the day off from training, his only commitment was a beach day with the squad around two, but until then, he was free to charm his way into your heart. He was dressed in his civilian clothes, his hair styled to look like he had just rolled out of bed despite having worked on it for nearly half an hour

In his hand, there was a bouquet of flowers, small, just five or so. Natasha suggested they start simple. “She’s gonna think you’re a stalker otherwise.” She explained. “Or some majorly obsessed creep, which, you are, but, at least you’re not the murder and dump the body type.”

The bell jingled as he stepped inside. Today’s dress was pie themed, and in the display counter were a handful of different flavored pies. The flavor of the day was apple, apparently. You were in the middle of bringing out new product, making everything neat and perfect. When you locked eyes with Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your sweet, cheery smile turned awkward. Great. He was back

“Ma’am,” He greeted, the southern drawl more obvious in his words. “Women love a southern accent.” Javy had explained. “Use it.” So he did. Jake didn’t work to hide the Texas drawl. “I think I maybe came off a bit strong yesterday.” You snorted quietly, amused. A bit? The guy was practically making eye contact with your nipples

Still, you let him continue…Mainly because he was a good customer who could bring a whole lot of business if he ever decided to order catering. “I wanted to apologize.” Jake paused, trying to remember what he had been instructed to say last night. “You’re very, very attractive, and god knows I would love to take you back to my place and-”

He was losing you again. Jake stopped himself, clearing his throat with a bashful smile. “Anyway, that’s not why I asked for your number.” You looked at him skeptically, cautious. “You wouldn’t look at my eyes, just my body.” Though your words cut deep, mainly because of the truth behind them, your voice was soft like a cloud

No matter how nervous or upset you were, you spoke to Jake like he would cry if you yelled. He had never been approached so….softly before. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just, I ain’t ever been interested in a woman like you before and-” Immediately, your face dropped into a sharp scowl. No more soft. No more gentle. “A woman like me?”

Jake knew that tone. That was the tone of an angry woman. Alarm bells went off in his head. “T-that’s not how I meant to say it. I just meant you’re not my usual type.”

Fuck

Oh my god

Did he just say that?

You looked…irate. To say the very least

“Okay mr, I can tolerate you staring at my tits, I can tolerate you coming back in here sniffling with flowers in hand trying to make up for staring, but I won’t tolerate this. I get it, you’ve never been with a fat chick before, not used to putting in all this effort for a lay. You will not come into my bakery, my business, and tell me you’re acting like this because you don’t know how to handle a woman my size. I’m gonna respectfully ask you to leave.”

Somehow, in the span of just mere moments, Jake had fucked everything up. Now, as he sat on the beach, beer in hand, he did everything he could to ignore the scolding from Phoenix. He had told Javy what happened in private, but, of course, Payback had overheard everything, and within minutes, news had spread to the whole goddamn squad

“I cannot believe you, Hangman! You basically just admitted you’d never usually go for her! I mean, I knew you could say some dumb shit but you’re not a dumb guy, so why the hell did you act like a fucking Florida frat boy?”

Why did he? Jake didn’t know. The look of hurt that had flashed over your face before the anger set in had been haunting him since this morning

Jake stood, mumbled something about grabbing another beer, before taking a walk down the beach. He needed some time by himself, some time to think, to breathe without the squad shaming him for his fuck up. It was the third drink in that an idea hit him square in the face…Right as he walked into a sign advertising the 50th anniversary of the Hard Deck

Vaguely, he remembered Penny mentioning that she needed to find a good bakery to make a cake and enough cupcakes to feed an army. He stood, shaking the sand off, and ran top speed into the Hard Deck. “Penny! My favorite bartender!” He beamed, tossing an arm over her shoulders. “Hangman, my favorite headache. Why are you here? We aren’t technically open, you know.”

That never mattered. The Dagger Squad was always welcome, they knew that. Penny had an open door policy when it came to her team. “You still looking for a caterer?” He asked, smile wide and confident. Penny nodded. “Yeah, I’m having a hell of a time finding someone willing and able to make so much on my budget. I can’t afford to break the bank.” Hangman’s grin grew wider

“What if I told you, I know a place?”

It was almost 6 pm when you got the call. Eight dozen cupcakes, and a two tiered cake celebrating the anniversary of the most popular Navy bar in Cali. Their budget was low, but the woman on the phone was just too sweet to turn down, and this was the perfect chance to get the Cozy Oven’s name out there and known

A deal was made, the money was sent over, and two days later, you and your entire team were baking like mad men, scrambling around to get everything ready and fresh for the hungry customers at the Hard Deck. At the same time, the Dagger Squad was running around getting the bar ready. Maverick had asked them to help, and none of them even considered refusing

An hour before opening, the Cozy Oven delivery van pulled up in front of the hard deck. Jake, Javy and Bradley had all gone on a run for the last bit of party supplies they needed, leaving Bob, Reuben, Natasha and Mickey to finish setting up what they could. Penny had told you not to worry about bringing a team to carry all the sweets in. She had her own.

Within minutes, everything was carried in, and while you knew there were dozens of Navy bars around, part of you was still nervous Jake would show up. “I can’t thank you enough.” Penny had trapped you in a conversation, seemingly unaware of how eager you were to leave

“Honestly, when Jake recommended you, I wasn’t sure but then he went on ranting and raving about your food and-” You stopped her, confused. “Jake…Recommended my bakery?” You had honestly figured he wouldn’t ever bring up the bakery again after how harsh you had turned him down. Penny nodded. “Oh yeah, he loves your doughnuts, says he’s put on ten pounds since finding you. Does him some good, I think.”

You left a few minutes later, confused, and very, very conflicted. Had you misjudged the whole situation? Had you misjudged Jake entirely? Why the hell would he recommend you for catering after everything?

The rest of your night was spent cleaning the bakery top to bottom. You couldn’t sleep when your head was so full of thoughts and when you couldn’t sleep, you needed to do something productive, or you would loose your fucking mind

By opening the next morning, you still hadn’t slept. Your hands were raw from scrubbing, back sore from mopping, but you still opened the bakery with a smile on your face, no matter how painted on that smile was

For a fourth time, Jake Seresin walked into the Cozy Oven. This time, he had no flowers, no styled hair and no practiced words. He approached the counter calmly. “Can I have a dozen doughnuts please?” He requested, perfectly polite

This could have been a perfectly normal customer interaction, an average experience…But there was one question burning the tip of your tongue. “Why did you tell Penny to cater from my bakery?” Half way through loading the doughnuts, you blurted it out

Jake paused, blinking rapidly before furrowing his brows. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re an amazing baker. I was the idiot. My friend needed a good baker and I knew one. Just cause I got rejected don’t mean I’m gonna go around bad mouthing the best bakery in California.”

The look on your face softened. Fuck. Stupid Jake and his stupid effect on your stupid heart. “And I am really, really sorry for what I said the other day. I uh…My friends tried to coach me on how to romance a woman instead of seduce. Guess I’m not a very good student.”

“You wanted to romance me?” The thought seemed shocking to you. Jake nodded. “I wasn’t lying when I told you, you’re damn beautiful. I’m just an idiot who never even thought about how to ask a lady on a date. I didn’t mean it in a bad way, when I told you I’d never gone after a woman like you before. I haven’t, and yet, you’re the only damn woman that’s been stuck in my mind this long.”

Jake hadn’t come here to bear his soul, but here he was, unable to stop talking, rambling like some nervous teenager all over again. He was stopped by a soft hand over his mouth. “Jake,” Slowly, your smile grew. “Ask me for my number again.”

His eyes went wide. Your hand moved away, allowing him to speak again. Heart racing like a horse in the Kentucky Derby, Jake did as asked. “Can I have your number, sweets?”

You reached behind the counter, grabbed that same business card that had shut him down so harshly before, and scribbled something on the back. “Ask me on a date.” You instructed him again. Hangman smirked. “You’re certainly a bossy thing, aren’t you?” He teased lightly

“Would you like to go on a real, romantic date with me, Sweetheart?” Your heart melted. Fuck. That accent really did something. Combined with those soft green eyes and there was no way you could deny him again. “Give me an hour notice before you pick me up, and I’ll be there.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, smiling. He had finished his story, and now, the Dagger’s knew exactly how he had met his wife. Three beats of silence passed before chaos exploded.

“THE GIRL YOU NEEDED ADVICE ON IS YOUR WIFE?!”

“I DIDN’T THINK ANYTHING CAME FROM THAT MAN YOU NEVER SAID ANYTHING.”

“How the fuck did he get married before Bob? Bob is prime husband material.”

Jake just smirked, finishing his drink. “Sorry boys, Phoenix, but I gotta get home. The Mrs gets real grumpy if she falls asleep alone, and I’m too good of a husband to make my wife unhappy.”

#Jake Seresin x reader #Hangman x reader #Top Gun Maverick #Hangman #Jake Seresin #top gun maverick fic #Top Gun Maverick X reader

77 notes · View notes