#Three posts in and already it's getting dark~ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lanadelspray02 · 13 hours ago

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HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 22

paige x azzi

Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the long wait. This chapter isn't the longest, but I think you'll still enjoy it. I'll be back to posting frequently again. I hope y'all like the chapter :) let me know ur thoughts

if we lose to the fever.... im crashing out.

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 4052

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

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just brushing the edge of the horizon in pale watercolor streaks, when Paige zipped the last duffel bag shut. The house was quiet around them, soft and dark in that familiar way of early morning, where the walls seemed to exhale sleep and the silence felt a little sacred. Ruby was curled up in Paige’s sweatshirt on the couch, Sparklehorn clutched under one arm, the ends of her hair curling damply around her cheeks from last night’s bath. She stirred every so often but didn’t wake, one leg flopped over a pillow like she owned the whole couch.

Azzi moved through the house with slow, quiet steps. She hadn’t slept much, though she’d pretended well enough when Paige curled around her in bed a few hours earlier. Her mind had been too loud. She’d checked her phone three times between midnight and four, staring at the same message each time.

Darshay: I know I messed up. But I want to talk. Please.

She hadn’t responded.

Bob was already up when they came downstairs, his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, coffee mug in hand. He didn’t say much, just offered Azzi a nod and Paige a warm smile, and helped them carry the bags out to the car while the morning stayed quiet.

Drew emerged right before they were about to leave, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his pajama pants twisted like he’d fought a blanket in his dreams. He hugged Ruby goodbye with dramatic flair and gave her a folded piece of notebook paper with a big crayon drawing on it, the five of them in front of a castle, Sparklehorn huge and smiling in the sky.

"So you won’t forget us," he said, very seriously.

Ruby nodded solemnly. "Never ever."

Bob pulled Paige in for a hug, murmured something in her ear that made her eyes go soft, then turned to Azzi and wrapped her in the same kind of quiet strength.

"Anytime," he said. "You don’t need a reason."

Azzi swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Thank you. For everything."

The drive to the airport was sleepy and uneventful. Ruby dozed again in the backseat, her hoodie pulled over her head, feet curled beneath her. Paige sat beside Azzi with one hand rested on her thigh.

"You okay?" Paige asked eventually, voice low.

Azzi hesitated, then pulled her phone from her pocket. She turned it screen-out toward Paige.

Darshay: I know I messed up. But I want to talk. Please.

Paige's jaw flexed. She didn’t speak for a beat.

"When did he send that?"

"Yesterday. I didn’t want to ruin our last day."

"You didn’t ruin anything," Paige said. "He doesn’t get to have that kind of power anymore."

Azzi looked out the window. Her voice came out quiet. "What if he tries something? Like showing up? Or going to court? He’s not on the birth certificate, but still."

Paige squeezed her hand. "Then we fight. And we don’t do it alone. You have me now. And Ruby has both of us."

Azzi didn’t answer, just nodded slightly and turned her gaze back to the window.

At the airport, they moved through security slowly, Ruby still groggy but cooperative, Sparklehorn getting her own bin at TSA. Paige got them coffee and orange juice while Azzi sat with Ruby tucked into her lap at the gate.

When Paige returned, Azzi was staring at her phone again.

"You thinking about responding?" Paige asked.

Azzi shook her head. "I don’t know. He might not stop unless I do."

"Then let’s hear what he wants. On our terms."

They boarded the plane in quiet coordination, Ruby taking the window seat and immediately plastering her drawing to it with the little roll of tape Paige had stashed in her backpack. Halfway through the flight, Ruby fell asleep with her head on Paige’s lap, Sparklehorn tucked like a pillow under her chin.

Azzi leaned close, whispering. "He didn’t want her when I begged. But now that she’s growing up, now that she’s happy… now he’s curious?"

"You built a world without him," Paige whispered back. "He doesn’t get to step into it like he’s owed something."

Azzi rested her forehead to Paige’s shoulder. "I want to believe that."

"Then start here. With me."

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

By the time they landed, the light outside had turned gray and overcast. Familiar.

The drive back to Azzi’s house was quiet, Ruby dozing in her car seat with Sparklehorn hugged tightly to her chest. The clouds hung low, and everything outside the window looked washed in silver.

When they pulled into the driveway, the porch light was already on even though it was still afternoon. Katie opened the front door before they even rang the bell, a warm smile on her face and her arms immediately reaching for Ruby.

"There’s my girl," she whispered as Ruby melted into her arms. "And Sparklehorn too, of course."

Tim appeared a second later, taller than the doorway, his smile soft. "Welcome home."

Azzi hugged them both, lingering longer than usual. Paige followed, quiet but present, and received hugs of her own, Katie holding her tight like she’d always belonged, Tim ruffling her hair with a quiet chuckle.

Inside, the house smelled like roasted vegetables and something sweet cooling on the counter. It was warm in the way only homes lived in by love could be. Azzi helped Ruby out of her coat while Paige dropped the bags by the stairs.

They all moved into the kitchen, exchanging travel stories and small laughter, the kind that covers the quiet beneath. Ruby curled up on the couch with a blanket and was out within minutes, Sparklehorn tucked under her chin.

After a while, Katie took Tim by the hand and said they'd let them rest, leaving the girls in the kitchen alone.

Azzi stood by the counter, phone in hand, staring at the voicemail icon.

Paige entered silently, watching her.

"You gonna listen?"

Azzi nodded once, barely.

She pressed play.

Darshay’s voice came through low, clipped, and defensive.

"You’ve kept her from me long enough. I don’t care what excuses you’ve made. She’s my kid too. I got a right to see her. Don’t think I won’t do what I have to if you try to keep playing house without me."

The message ended.

Azzi stood still. Then slowly, she set the phone down on the counter.

Paige crossed the room and pulled her into a hug without saying anything.

Azzi leaned into her, breath shaky.

"I don’t know what I’m going to do."

"Whatever it is," Paige said, steady, sure, "we do it together."

Azzi closed her eyes. Her arms came around Paige like muscle memory. Like home.

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

The house had quieted after dinner, the kind of hush that settles after too much food and just enough warmth. Ruby was upstairs in the bath with Katie, her voice floating faintly through the floorboards in high-pitched little bursts of song. Tim had disappeared into the living room with a blanket and the remote, mumbling something about his nightly routine. Azzi stood in the hallway near her old bedroom, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it owed her answers. The air felt thicker here, maybe because it still held pieces of who she used to be. Maybe because the voicemail still hadn’t left her body.

Paige moved softly down the hall, slow like she knew how easily the wrong step might shatter the quiet. She didn’t say anything when she reached Azzi, just slid in behind her, wrapped both arms around her waist, and rested her cheek on Azzi’s shoulder like they’d always fit this way. Azzi leaned back without hesitation. She didn’t need to say thank you. Paige already knew.

“I’m fine,” Azzi murmured, voice low and thin.

“Sure,” Paige replied, not letting go. “And I’m training to box.”

Azzi blinked, half-turning her head. “You’re what now?”

Paige didn’t miss a beat. “Boxing. Gonna join a gym. Learn to punch. Maybe get one of those mouthguards that makes me look cool but also slightly unapproachable.”

Azzi tilted her head. “For what purpose?”

Paige’s voice dropped into a dry mutter. “For when certain people forget how replaceable they are.”

Azzi huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t far. “You’re gonna beat up a grown man?”

“If I have to. I already play forty minutes a game and lift three times a week. All I need is footwork.”

Azzi turned fully this time, hips still pressed to Paige’s as she faced her. She didn’t smile yet. But she did let her hands slip up, palms skating under the hem of Paige’s hoodie until they found warm skin and the hard lines of her stomach.

“These abs,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along them, “are not for boxing.”

“They could be,” Paige said, chin tilting up a little smug. “They’re functional.”

Azzi’s hands lingered, slow and deliberate now. “They’re dangerous.”

“I hope so.”

“Just not in a boxing way,” Azzi said, thumbs brushing slow circles against Paige’s ribs, her voice a little lower now, a little warmer. “More in a… you walk into a room and I forget how to think way.”

Paige leaned in, forehead almost touching hers, smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “Is that what happens?”

“Frequently.”

“I like it when you flirt with me,” Paige whispered.

Azzi’s voice was barely audible. “I like it when you let me.”

Paige was already leaning in when the soft sound of footsteps padded down the stairs. Both of them stilled, heads turning as Ruby’s small figure appeared at the bottom step. She had damp curls sticking to her forehead, pajama pants that nearly swallowed her feet, and Sparklehorn tucked beneath one arm like a personal bodyguard. She blinked at them, sleepy and pink-cheeked, before padding over with the kind of gentle certainty that only toddlers and house cats could get away with.

“I done with bath,” she announced softly. “Can we all cuddle now?”

Azzi dropped to one knee immediately, arms opening. “Of course we can, baby.”

Ruby folded into her like she’d been waiting to all day, Sparklehorn squished between them. Paige crouched beside them, brushing a damp curl off Ruby’s temple, and watched the way Azzi’s whole body softened when she held her daughter close.

Ruby looked up at both of them, voice smaller now. “We can cuddle in the bed?”

Paige kissed the top of her head. “Wherever you want.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. She just stood slowly, Ruby balanced on her hip with an ease that looked effortless but wasn’t, not really. It had taken years to make it look like that. Paige followed them into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click, the kind of quiet that made the room feel like a secret.

They curled up together without words, all limbs and blankets and Sparklehorn somewhere in the middle. Paige’s arm draped over both of them, fingers resting lightly against the curve of Azzi’s hip, and Azzi didn’t even pretend she didn’t need it. Ruby squirmed once, then settled, sighing like a content little furnace tucked between their bodies.

Paige didn’t say anything about the voicemail. She didn’t ask for more or try to fix it. She just stayed close, her touch steady, the rise and fall of her breath anchoring the space between them.

And when Ruby reached out in her sleep and curled one small hand around Paige’s shirt, neither of them moved.

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

The morning was already moving too fast. Katie had packed their breakfast into foil-wrapped bundles for the road, handing them off with a kiss to Azzi’s temple and a reminder to breathe. Tim had offered a silent nod and a thermos of coffee. Ruby was in the backseat, humming to herself, one sock half-off and Sparklehorn buckled in beside her with her own seatbelt looped around a glittery horn. Paige drove. Azzi sat beside her, scrolling through texts she wasn’t reading, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check on Ruby. The car was quiet in that way mornings often were — everyone halfway between asleep and alert, the day still waiting to fully begin.

They pulled into the small gravel lot beside the daycare just before eight. A couple of other parents were walking toward the entrance with lunchboxes and sleepy toddlers. Paige was halfway into a gentle hum when she saw him.

Darshay.

He was standing near the gate, hoodie pulled low over his head, arms crossed. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right to be there.

Paige’s whole body stiffened. She slammed the gearshift into park and sat frozen for half a second. Azzi followed her gaze and immediately went still. Her breath caught with an audible hitch.

Ruby, oblivious in the back, was singing quietly to herself, stringing together lyrics she didn’t understand.

Paige was already reaching for the door handle. “Stay here,” she said, low and tense.

Azzi opened her door before she could finish the sentence. “I can’t stay here.”

Paige rounded the car fast, meeting her on the other side, voice still low but urgent. “Azzi, you don’t have to talk to him. He has no right”

“I know. But Ruby—he’s here for her.”

They both turned as Ruby climbed down from her car seat, dragging Sparklehorn behind her by the tail. “We here?” she asked, still yawning. “I bringed my backpack.”

“Yeah, baby,” Azzi said softly. “We’re here.”

Paige stepped in closer, putting herself slightly ahead of Azzi and Ruby as they walked. She didn’t make it obvious, she just shifted forward enough to be between them and Darshay.

He saw them immediately. Started walking toward them like he hadn’t vanished for three years. Like he hadn’t missed birthdays and fevers and first words. Like this wasn’t trespassing.

Azzi stopped walking.

Paige mirrored her.

Ruby tugged on Azzi’s sleeve. “I go in now?”

Darshay’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “So you just gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?”

Paige stepped fully in front of them now, squared her shoulders. “Back off.”

“I’m talkin’ to her,” he said, nodding past Paige. “She’s the mother of my kid.”

Ruby blinked up at them, confused. “Mama? Who’s that?”

Azzi knelt down beside her. “It’s okay, baby. Just stay close to me.”

But Darshay kept coming. “You kept her from me long enough,” he snapped. “I don’t care what lies you told. She’s mine too.”

Paige moved again, blocking his path with her whole body. “Leave. Now.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he spat. “You’re just playing house. You think because you wear the jersey and sleep in her bed, you get to be her daddy now?”

Azzi stood slowly, her hand holding tight to Ruby’s.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just stop.”

Darshay looked down at Ruby then, and it was like a bomb went off.

“Ruby,” he said, loud and deliberate. “I’m your daddy.”

Everything stopped.

Ruby’s little body stiffened.

“No,” she said, voice small. “No you not.”

Darshay kept talking. “Yes, I am. I’m your real dad. I’m supposed to be—”

“No!” Ruby screamed. Her face twisted up like she didn’t have words for the panic surging through her. “No! No! I don’t got no daddy!”

Paige reached for her, but Ruby jerked away, tears already rolling down her cheeks. “I got two mummys! I don’t want you! I don’t want you! Go ‘way!”

People were looking now. Other parents slowing. Teachers coming out to the curb.

Azzi dropped to her knees and pulled Ruby into her chest. “Shh, baby, shh, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay, he’s leaving.”

“No!” Ruby sobbed, fists pounding against Azzi’s chest. “He scary! He lie! He not my daddy! I got you and Paigey, that’s all I got!”

Paige stood frozen for a second. The words, two mummys, echoed in her head like a siren. Not because of what they meant, but because of how Ruby had said them. Screamed them. Claimed them.

Azzi was rocking now, whispering into Ruby’s hair, trying to breathe through the storm.

Darshay looked around and realised everyone was watching. He backed up, muttered something under his breath, and then he turned and walked down the street, around the corner, gone like smoke.

Paige blinked, came back to herself, and dropped down beside them.

“I’ve got you,” she said, voice trembling now. “I’ve got both of you. Let’s go.”

She helped Azzi lift Ruby, who clung to her with desperate, shaking limbs, her face buried in Azzi’s neck. Paige wrapped her arms around them both, pressing a kiss to the back of Ruby’s head, and another to Azzi’s temple.

“C’mon,” she whispered. “We’re going home.”

Azzi nodded, eyes still locked on the space where Darshay had disappeared.

Paige didn’t look back.

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

The drive back to Azzi’s house was quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken. Ruby was tucked into Azzi’s arms in the backseat, her face pressed into her shoulder, one small fist still clutching Sparklehorn’s mane like a lifeline. Her sobs had faded into hiccups, then into breathy whimpers, but her body stayed curled tight, like she was trying to shrink into safety.

Paige didn’t say a word the whole way. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh, fingers twitching now and then like she didn’t trust herself not to fall apart. Her jaw was clenched the entire time, but her eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, checking on Azzi, checking on Ruby. Every glance only made her chest hurt worse.

Katie opened the front door before they even knocked, Tim appearing just behind her, concern already carved into both of their faces. Katie took one look at her daughter holding a trembling Ruby and didn’t hesitate, she reached out, arms wide.

Azzi didn’t speak. She just stepped into her mother’s arms and let herself be held, Ruby still wrapped tight between them.

“It’s okay, baby,” Katie whispered, rocking both of them gently. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Tim looked at Paige, who gave a short, stiff nod. “Darshay showed up,” she said, voice flat.

Tim didn’t respond with words. He just exhaled hard and gave a slow, heavy nod. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need to.

Katie coaxed Ruby from Azzi’s arms like it was second nature. “C’mon, little one. Let’s get you cozy. You wanna sit with Grandma on the couch? I’ll put Sparklehorn’s blanket in the dryer so she warm-warm, yeah?”

Ruby nodded into her chest without speaking, eyes still glassy and tired.

As they disappeared down the hallway, Azzi turned to Paige, but Paige was already gone.

She’d slipped away sometime in the hand-off, and by the time Azzi noticed, her bedroom door was already shut.

Paige sat on the edge of Azzi’s bed, both hands pressed hard to her eyes, trying to breathe through it. The moment had been too much. Seeing Azzi like that. Hearing Ruby scream like she’d been betrayed. Watching the man who caused it all walk up like he had any claim at all. She hadn’t cried when it happened. Hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t breathed.

But now that they were safe, now that Ruby was tucked into Katie’s arms and Azzi had let out that first, broken exhale. Paige couldn’t hold it anymore.

She pressed her fists to her eyes and curled forward, elbows on her knees. The tears came fast and hot, burning her throat, tightening her chest. She didn’t sob. She just shook, silently, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she couldn’t say out loud.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the tiny footsteps.

She only noticed Ruby when she felt a small hand brush her knee.

Paige jerked her head up, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, trying to gather herself. “Hey, Roo, hi, baby sorry, I just needed a minute—”

Ruby looked at her with big, worried eyes, then silently climbed into her lap.

Paige froze. “You okay?” she whispered.

Ruby nodded, then reached up and touched her cheek with a still-damp hand. “You cryin’?”

Paige swallowed. “A little.”

“You sad?”

“Yeah.”

Ruby snuggled in closer, resting her head against Paige’s chest. “I sad too.”

Paige wrapped her arms around her instinctively, holding her tight, letting Ruby’s warmth ground her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ruby lifted her head, peered up at Paige, and asked, quiet and careful, “Paigey… you my mummy too, right?”

Paige blinked, caught between breath and something breaking open. “What?”

Ruby nodded, serious and small. “I got two mummys. You and Mama. That’s right, huh?”

Paige stared at her, the breath gone from her lungs. “Yeah,” she managed, voice shaking. “Yeah, baby. That’s right.”

Ruby leaned in again, arms wrapping around Paige’s neck like she’d done it a thousand times. “Okay. You don’t be sad, ‘kay? We safe now.”

Paige held her tighter, kissing her head, tears slipping silently down her cheek. “Yeah, baby,” she whispered. “We’re safe now.”

She didn’t notice Azzi standing in the doorway.

Azzi hadn’t meant to follow. Had only stepped down the hallway when something in her chest said Paige had been gone too long. But when she reached the door, slightly ajar, she froze.

She heard it all.

Saw the way Ruby curled into Paige’s lap like she belonged there, like she always had.

Heard the softness in Paige’s voice, the way it broke and steadied in the same breath.

She didn’t move. Just stood still, heart in her throat, watching the love of her life be called something she’d never dared say out loud, not even in the safest moments.

“Mummy.”

And then Ruby looked up and saw her.

“Mama!” she shouted happily, bouncing in Paige’s lap like she hadn’t been crying an hour ago. “Mama, I told Paigey somethin’!”

Azzi stepped in, her voice gentle. “Yeah? What did you tell her?”

Ruby grinned, proud and wide-eyed. “I said she my other mummy! ‘Cause I got two!”

Azzi’s chest ached with the force of it.

She knelt beside them, resting a hand on Paige’s back, pressing a kiss to Ruby’s forehead. “You do, baby. You really do.”

Paige looked at her, eyes still shining, lips parted like she didn’t know what to do with the moment.

So Azzi kissed her too, soft, grounding, forehead to forehead. No words. Just breath.

Then Ruby wiggled between them and announced, “Cuddle time!”

Azzi let out a short laugh and slid into bed beside them. Paige followed, letting Ruby climb onto both of their chests like she was the bridge keeping them upright. Sparklehorn was wedged between pillows. Ruby yawned and stretched and then sighed like she had solved every problem in the universe.

And then Azzi turned toward Paige like she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She kissed her cheek. Then her jaw. Then the tip of her nose. “I love you,” she whispered between each kiss. “So much. You’re—God—you’re everything.” She kissed her again, longer this time, lips pressing warm and sure against Paige’s as her hand slipped up her back.

Ruby giggled. “More kisses!”

Azzi laughed into Paige’s mouth, then pulled back just enough for Ruby to wiggle up beside her.

“Mwah!” Ruby declared, planting an exaggerated kiss on Paige’s cheek. “One more!”

“Mwah!” Another, right on Paige’s forehead.

Paige was laughing now, breathless, wrapped up in the weight and joy of both of them piled on top of her, covered in kisses and the kind of love that left no room for doubt.

“Okay,” Paige said between laughs. “You two are gonna smother me.”

“Love smother!” Ruby yelled.

Azzi leaned in again and kissed the side of her neck. “We’re not sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

They lay there tangled up, warm and full and clinging to each other like the storm had passed, like they were still alive inside the eye of something beautiful.

And if Paige cried a little more with both of them in her arms, no one said a word.

Because now it wasn’t fear. It was a relief. Ruby had said it out loud. She saw Paige as her mummy. And that was everything.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #paige x azzi #wlw

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camficdiner · 3 days ago

Note

hi queen!! i love your fics so much!! could i pls get 1.1, 2.4, 3.6, 4.3??

Cam’s Fic Diner - order 036

🍒 thank you

To the angel who sent in “fake dating at a wedding” — you had no idea what kind of chaos you were about to unleash. This request started as a fun trope and turned into a full-blown summer saga with soft launches, PR contracts, and a very real Jack Hughes confession under silk sheets 😮‍💨

You lit the match — I just followed the fire.

Thank you for trusting Cam’s Fic Diner with your brilliant prompt. You’re always welcome back for another round 💌

💬 “The Golden Hour Contract”

✨ Description and prompts:

Character: Jack Hughes

Prompt: fake dating for PR, athlete!reader

Word count: ~2.1k

Type: Mixed smut/fluff

🛼🍒✨🧁

You were used to headlines. But never the good kind.

Tennis’s “dark darling.” The “racket-throwing riot.” Uncoachable. Cold. Impossible to brand. Your last post-match conference ended with a water bottle launched into a camera lens. Your agent nearly quit. Again.

So when you got the call — We’ve got a meeting in Jersey. Pack for two nights. Big opportunity — you assumed it was a last-ditch sponsorship fix. A new racquet deal. Maybe some lifestyle brand willing to gamble on your bite.

You did not expect to be sitting in a conference room at the Prudential Center, staring across the table at Jack Hughes.

He looked… exactly like he did in the media.

Lean, clean-shaven, collared shirt rolled up at the forearms. One chain. One dimple. Arms crossed, smile faint. Like this wasn’t the weirdest meeting of his life.

Your manager cleared his throat.

“So here’s the pitch.”

You blinked. “Pitch?”

“You and Jack,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “are going to date.”

You turned to Jack. His expression didn’t change.

“For… PR,” your manager added.

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” you said.

The Devils’ team rep slid a folder toward you. “Public sentiment’s down across both sides. You’re polarizing. Jack’s too clean. This is mutually beneficial. It’s… strategic.”

Jack’s voice was dry. “We take a few pictures. Couple events. Look cozy. Maybe smile at each other once or twice.”

You glared. “You want this?”

“I want the media to get off my ass about not being interesting,” he said. “And apparently, you’re chaos incarnate.”

You stood up. “Absolutely not.”

But your manager didn’t flinch. “You’ve got three fines and zero endorsements this quarter.”

“And you,” the Devils’ rep added, turning to Jack, “keep getting accused of being too soft. Too vanilla.”

Jack raised a brow. “So now I’m supposed to date a girl who threw a racquet at a ref?”

You snorted. “He deserved it.”

Jack’s lips twitched.

“And,” the rep added with venomous calm, “you’ll both be attending a wedding together next month. In Capri.”

You froze.

Jack blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“A destination wedding,” your agent said, chipper now. “Very photogenic. We’ve already RSVPed.”

You sat back down slowly.

Your fingers tapped the table. You looked at Jack.

He met your eyes.

Smug. Calm. Challenging.

“You game, Hughes?” you asked.

His grin spread. “Always.”

—

The press release dropped two weeks later.

BREAKING: Hockey’s Golden Boy Jack Hughes Spotted Courtside With Tennis’s Baddest Bitch

Jack Hughes’ New Flame? Fans Lose It Over PR Power Couple

Your post? A cryptic Instagram story: a pasta dish, expensive sunglasses on the table.

Caption: you wish you were invited to this dinner.

Jack reposted it.

With a heart emoji.

That’s when Quinn called.

“You’re dating her?”

Jack held the phone away from his ear. “Good to hear from you too, Quinn.”

“Jack. Be serious. You’ve seen what they write about her. She threw a racquet at a judge—”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Jack.”

“I’ve met worse.”

“Jack.”

“She makes it interesting, okay?”

A pause. Then: “This is about Lily, isn’t it?”

Jack’s jaw ticked.

“Jesus,” Quinn muttered. “You’re soft-launching a PR girlfriend to recover from a real breakup?”

Jack hung up.

Luke was worse.

He just sent a screenshot of the article with a voice note: bro… bro. Her? Seriously?

Jack deleted it without opening.

Because here’s the thing — he hadn’t been able to shake the way you looked at him that day in the conference room. Like you didn’t care who he was. Like you were two seconds away from biting his head off.

And maybe… maybe that was the whole point.

Because the media had spent months dissecting his last breakup — saying he wasn’t passionate enough, wasn’t bold, wasn’t interesting.

He was tired of being branded the sweet one. The safe one. The boring one.

So he posted the pasta story. Reposted your story. Let the storm roll in.

Let them all talk.

Let them wonder why Jack Hughes, Mr. Perfect, had suddenly gone rogue.

—

The villa was drenched in sunlight.

Capri looked fake — like someone had turned the saturation too high. Every terrace dripped bougainvillea. Every window was open, catching sea breeze and whispering silk curtains.

You stood on the marble balcony in a lemon-colored dress, sipping something bubbly, sunglasses low on your nose. You didn’t turn when Jack stepped beside you.

“You clean up,” he said slowly, “terrifyingly well.”

You let him look.

Low back. Tiny straps. Bronze skin. Tattoos catching golden hour light.

“You look like you should come with a warning,” he muttered.

“I do,” you said, sipping. “Your brothers read it out loud to you.”

Jack laughed under his breath. “They’re not over it, by the way.”

“Shocker.”

He pulled out his phone. “Quinn sent me: ‘please remind your fake girlfriend not to curse out the flower girl.’”

You grinned. “Did you?”

“I told him to worry about his own plus one.”

You turned. “He didn’t bring one.”

He met your eyes. “Exactly.”

Your heart stuttered.

It’s fake, you reminded yourself.

But then he leaned in and fixed your strap, fingers grazing your skin like he meant it — and everything fake felt far too real.

—

You made it exactly nineteen minutes into the rehearsal dinner before Jack’s hand slid to your thigh under the table.

You nearly choked on your wine.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, smile still plastered for the couple across from you.

He murmured, “Just playing the part.”

His fingers stayed there.

Warm. Heavy. Possessive.

You didn’t move.

Not even when his thumb slowly traced a circle.

Later, when you stood for pictures, he rested his chin on your shoulder like it was nothing. Like his breath wasn’t brushing your skin. Like your body hadn’t just betrayed you entirely.

Your smile for the camera was dangerous.

His? Infuriatingly perfect.

—

The suite was stunning.

Which almost made up for the single bed.

Jack raised a brow. “Seriously?”

The host had given you the honeymoon room. As a gesture.

He turned to you. “You want the right or the left side?”

You kicked off your heels. “I want sleep and zero conversation.”

“You got it, princess.”

You brushed your teeth.

He undressed.

And when you emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, skin clean, you found him shirtless, reading a book on the bed like he didn’t just ruin your night with a bare torso and low-slung sweatpants.

He looked up.

And his eyes… didn’t leave your legs.

Or your oversized tee that didn’t quite hide the shape beneath.

“Problem?” you asked.

His jaw twitched.

“Nope.”

He turned off the light.

But the heat between you stayed on full flame.

—

It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake.

That’s what you told yourself the next day — while you danced in the sun, smiled in designer heels, and let Jack rest a hand on your back in every photo.

That’s what you reminded yourself when people whispered “they’re kind of perfect together” and your cheeks flushed hot.

And that’s what you screamed inside your head when you saw him talking to the bride’s cousin — some blonde with a backless dress and a fake giggle — and felt your stomach burn.

You didn’t even realize you were staring until Jack looked across the garden, eyes narrowing.

He excused himself from the girl mid-sentence.

Stormed toward you.

Grabbed your hand.

Pulled you around the corner, into a hallway off the terrace, near the powder room.

The music faded.

His back hit the wall.

He pulled you with him.

“Are you jealous?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” you lied, furious.

He grinned.

You grabbed his collar.

His mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t careful.

It was everything the contract said you couldn’t do.

And it was the only real thing you’d felt in weeks.

His hands found your waist. Yours tangled in his curls. He kissed like he wanted it — like he needed it — like he’d been holding it in since New Jersey.

You moaned into his mouth.

He cursed into yours.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, dizzy, ruined—

He said, “Tell me it’s fake now.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because your hand was already unbuckling his belt.

And he was already backing you into the guest bathroom.

And the wedding music kept playing, far away — like you weren’t breaking every rule you’d signed.

—

The next morning was quiet.

You ate breakfast on the terrace.

He sat across from you.

Sunglasses. Bed hair. Barefoot.

He didn’t speak until you looked at him.

Then, calmly, softly, he said, “Stay with me. Even after the wedding.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” he said. “Come with me to Quinn’s birthday party”

Your breath caught.

And maybe for the first time in your life — you didn’t feel like the scandal.

You felt like the story.

You land in Vancouver two days before Quinn’s birthday.

Jack insists on flying you in himself. First class. Quiet flight. Shared headphones. Champagne you barely touch.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move for the entire six-hour flight.

—

The party is small.

Just family, close friends, a few Devils and Canucks teammates in vacation mode. The restaurant is candlelit, tucked in a private upstairs floor, music soft and jazzed.

You wear silk. Emerald green.

He wears black. No tie. Hair messy like he never even tried.

He can’t stop looking at you.

Everyone else tries not to stare.

Quinn gives a speech. So does Luke.

Someone clinks a glass. The cake comes out.

Jack stands suddenly. “Wait—one second.”

The whole room quiets.

He clears his throat. Nervous.

You blink.

“I just—uh. Wanted to say thanks to Quinn for being the best older brother a guy could ask for. And also—” he turns, finds your hand on the table, links your fingers like it’s instinct “—also for not strangling me when I brought her to the wedding.”

Laughter. Lighthearted groans. Quinn raises his glass with a smirk.

You squeeze Jack’s fingers under the table.

He doesn’t let go.

—

You leave early.

Too many cameras. Too much press.

Jack says he’s tired.

You say nothing.

But when he pushes you into the wall of the hotel suite, mouth already crashing into yours, you understand why he really left.

You taste champagne and heat and everything you’ve been holding in for weeks.

He pulls your dress up, hands rough. “Been thinking about this all night.”

“You mean all month,” you pant.

His laugh is low, wrecked. “Touché.”

You reach for his belt.

He catches your wrist.

“No.”

You look up, startled.

“I want to see you first.”

You blink. “You see me now.”

“No.” His voice softens, deepens. “Not like that. I want the lights on. I want to remember all of it.”

Your heart trips.

He unzips your dress slowly.

Lets it fall.

He peels it off like it’s a promise — not a distraction.

And when you’re left in nothing but your heels and breathless silence, he just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“You’re unreal,” he says. “Like… how are you real?”

You laugh. “Jack—”

He cuts you off with a kiss. Long. Deep. Hungry.

When you reach for him again, this time he lets you.

Clothes come off in silence.

Except for the moan he lets out when you drop to your knees and taste him — slow, teasing, cruel.

He doesn’t last long.

You don’t want him to.

He tugs you up, pulls you into his lap on the edge of the bed.

“No games this time,” he whispers. “I want to be inside you. Real. No pretending.”

You nod, lips parted.

He pushes in — slow, inch by inch, until you’re full.

You both breathe hard.

He holds your face.

“This isn’t PR anymore.”

You nod again.

“I don’t want the contract. I want you.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first — maddeningly slow — like he’s memorizing every sound you make, every twitch of your hips.

His mouth finds your neck, your chest, your collarbone.

His fingers dig into your waist.

Your nails scratch his back.

“Tell me it’s real,” he begs.

“It’s real,” you say.

He moves faster.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He thrusts harder.

You fall apart in his arms, shaking, breathless, overwhelmed.

He follows seconds later, forehead pressed to yours, hand still tangled in your hair.

After, he wraps you in the sheets, chest to chest, heart to heart.

You lie there, tangled.

Breathing.

You think it’s over.

It’s not.

He leans up on one elbow.

Looks down at you.

And says softly, “Come to New Jersey.”

You blink.

“Stay with me. Let them talk. Let them say whatever. I don’t care if it started fake. I want you. At my games. In my house. In my bed.”

You swallow.

“Make it real,” he whispers. “Let’s do this for real.”

You say nothing.

Just pull him down and kiss him like a yes.

—

#camficdiner #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes #jack hughes smut #jh86 #jack hughes fic #jack hughes imagine #jh86 imagine #jh86 x reader

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lxstxr · 13 hours ago

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all in | e. prentiss

summary: An innocent girls night ends with you and Emily stuck in a game of strip poker.

word count: 2.0k

tags: 18+ nsfw, dom!emily, fem!reader, oral (r receiving), please lmk if i forgot anything!

a/n: this is my first time writing actual smut and im incredibly nervous to post this (what, who said that??)

Emily’s living room glows under soft lamps and the flicker of a half-burnt candle on the coffee table. Penelope flops onto the couch with dramatic flair, draping herself over JJ. “Okay,” Penelope declares, cheeks flushed and hair wild from the three classes of Cabernet Sauvignon she’d already had. “One more round. 'Never Have I Ever.' Let’s go. I want confessions.”

JJ groans, already holding up three fingers. “I swear, if this turns into another ‘Penelope has done everything’ game.”

“You’re just mad I’ve lived more lives than you, blondie.”

You chuckle and glance over at Emily, who’s lounging in an armchair with her glass balanced perfectly in one hand, legs folded underneath her.

JJ’s eyes gleam. “Never have I ever... hooked up with someone from the Bureau.”

Penelope rolls her eyes and drops a finger. You and Emily glance at each other, and then both stay still. Suspiciously still.

JJ catches it instantly. “You both paused.”

“I was thinking,” Emily says smoothly.

“I was lying,” you admit, just to watch Emily’s expression twitch into a smirk.

“Ha!” Penelope shrieks, pointing between you two. “I knew there was weird tension!”

“There’s no tension,” Emily says too quickly.

“None at all,” you echo, matching her tone with mock innocence.

JJ just snorts into her wine. “If I have to watch you two flirt anymore, I’m going to gouge my own eyes out.”

Emily raises a brow at you. “Do you call this flirting?”

“I call it beating you at every game so far,” you say sweetly.

“Ouch.” Emily grins. “Don’t get cocky. You haven’t played me at poker yet.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope groans, gathering her purse. “I’m tapping out. I can’t watch this slow-burn enemies-to-lovers crap happen in real time.”

JJ stands, stretching. “Henry’s got soccer in the morning. I’m out too.”

You glance between them. “Wait, really? You’re leaving us?”

Penelope shrugs on her jacket and smirks. “You’ll manage. Or you won’t.”

JJ, already halfway out the door, throws a wink over her shoulder. “Try not to kill each other with your sexual tension.”

You and Emily look at each other. And then away. And then back again.

The door clicks shut. The room is quiet.

Emily swirls the wine in her glass, not looking at you. “So…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Poker?”

She smirks. “Only if you’re not afraid to lose.”

The apartment is quieter now. The mellow jazz from Emily’s endless vinyl collection has softened into the background, and the candle on the table burns low, casting shadows across the walls. You’re perched on the couch, one knee tucked under you, wine glass cradled in your hands. Emily refills hers, then yours, without asking. You watch her move deliberately and unhurried, like she has nowhere else to be. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and her dark hair’s fallen a little looser than it was earlier. She’s flushed from the wine. Or maybe it’s the company.

“Do I need to worry about getting hustled?” you say, swirling your glass.

She raises an eyebrow. “Please. If I were trying to hustle you, I would have already done it.”

You smile over the rim of your glass. “Okay, Prentiss.”

Emily walks over with a deck of cards and a dangerous glint in her eye. “Strip poker?”

You arch a brow. “You’d like that too much.”

She shrugs. “We could play for pretzels.”

You glance at the half-empty snack bowl, then at her, matching her smirk. “Fine. Strip poker. But I should warn you, I play dirty.”

Emily sits across from you, cross-legged on the carpet, and starts to shuffle the deck with practiced ease. “So do I.”

The cards slap crisply as she deals. “Basic five-card draw?”

“Works for me,” you say, stretching out, deliberately casual. “House rules?”

Emily looks up through her lashes. “One item per loss. Nothing too scandalous at first.”

Your laugh is low and warm. “Trying to ease me in?”

“Trying to give you a fighting chance,” she deadpans.

You shoot her a mock glare and glance down at your hand. Not terrible. Not great. But the point isn’t winning, and you’re pretty sure Emily knows that too.

First round, she loses. Off comes her bracelet.

Second round, you lose. Your hoodie joins the growing pile beside you.

By the third round, things are heating up. Your smiles are slower, and the pauses between glances feel more loaded.

“You’re stalling,” she says, watching you frown at your cards.

“I’m considering my options,” you reply. “Some of us don’t have tell-free poker faces.”

She smirks. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about your face.”

You shoot her a look, but your pulse skips anyway. She wins again. Off comes your sock. You toss it at her, and she catches it with a grin. “This is the most undignified strip poker I’ve ever played,” you mutter.

“Oh?” Emily leans back on her hands, all long legs and quiet confidence. “How many games have you played?” You take a sip of wine and don’t answer. Her smile deepens.

The game goes on. Layer by layer, piece by piece. The room feels warmer. The silence between jokes starts to stretch. She’s watching you now, really watching. You’re both down to your last couple of layers. Emily’s in a tank top and black lace underwear. You’re not far behind. Your knees have migrated closer during the last hand, somewhere in the middle of a story she told about her days at Yale.

You lean in, elbows on your knees. “You’re stalling now,” you say.

“I’m considering my options.” She mimics you and raises her eyebrows. You smile. She matches your smile, slow and unreadable. She deals another hand, but her gaze flicks up too often to be casual. The cards barely hit the floor before she’s watching you again over the edge of her wine glass.

You’re both tipsy. Not drunk. Just buzzed enough that your inhibitions are softer at the edges. Just enough that neither of you feels like pretending this is still just about cards.

“Your poker face is slipping,” she says as she plays her hand.

You scoff. “So is your shirt.”

She glances down at the thin tank top clinging to her, then back at you with a half-smile. “I’m not the one losing.”

You lay your cards down slowly. Full house.

Her eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “Okay, that’s annoying.”

“Off with the top, Prentiss.”

Emily eyes you like she’s debating whether to obey or find some loophole. Then, with a long exhale and an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she pulls the tank top over her head and tosses it aside, leaving her in nothing but black lace you’re definitely not supposed to be staring at. “Happy?” she asks.

You take a deliberate sip of wine. “Ecstatic.”

She smiles, slow and knowing. “You’re blushing.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. It’s just the wine. Deal.” She does. Neither of you looks away.

You lose the next hand. Of course you do. You half suspect she threw the game before just to lull you into a false sense of security. You pull your shirt off, matching her now in nothing but underwear. You sit back on your heels, hair messy, skin flushed, and try to look unaffected. Emily doesn’t bother pretending. Her eyes drag over you like she’s savoring every inch, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“You want to call it?” she asks.

You tilt your head. “Giving up?”

She smiles. “Just checking if you’re ready to lose.”

You reach forward, grabbing the deck from her hands. “Let’s raise the stakes.”

Her brows lift, but she lets you take it. “Oh?”

You lean in, close enough that your knees are touching. “Last hand. Winner decides what the loser takes off.”

Emily stares at you. You stare back. The air feels thick. Charged. “Okay, deal,” she says, voice low.

The cards are almost secondary now. Neither of you is really watching them. You both lay your hands down at the same time. Emily wins. You don’t flinch. You don’t even blink. Instead, you meet her gaze and murmur, “Well? What’s it gonna be?”

Her mouth curves. “Your panties,” she says softly.

You don’t break eye contact. You don’t joke. You don’t stall. You rise slowly onto your knees, hands slipping to your waistband, and with deliberate grace, you slide them down and off.

Emily watches, stone still. And when you sit back down in front of her, completely bare and more emboldened than you thought you’d be, you ask in a whisper, “Now what?”

Emily sets her glass down with a soft clink. And then she leans in, lips brushing yours, and says against your mouth. “Your turn to win.”

Emily’s lips brush yours once more, soft, almost tentative, but the heat of it coils low in your belly. You chase her mouth before she can pull back, hand sliding into her hair to anchor her as you kiss her like it’s something you’ve been holding back for too long. You have.

She tastes like wine and something dangerous. She kisses like she means to unravel you. Her hands are on your waist, firm and sure, fingers splayed across your bare skin as she pulls you into her lap. You straddle her thighs without hesitation, gasping as your bare skin makes contact with her.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against your neck. “You’re gorgeous.”

You smile, breathless. “Took you long enough to notice.”

She nips at your collarbone in response, then soothes it with her tongue. “Oh, I noticed. I just have excellent self-control.”

“Not anymore.”

Emily hums, low in her throat, and slides her hands up your back, pulling you closer. You rock your hips without meaning to, the pressure sweet and maddening as you grind down on the lace between you. Her breath catches. Her head falls back slightly.

You kiss your way down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, the edge of her control. She lets you explore for a moment, but then her grip tightens, and suddenly you’re on your back on the carpet, blinking up at her as she hovers over you, hair wild and eyes dark.

“You like being in control?” she asks, voice rough.

“Sometimes.”

She leans down, brushing her lips along your jaw. “Not tonight.”

You shiver as her mouth trails down your body, over your chest, between your breasts, and lower until she’s settled between your thighs, spreading them with her hands like she owns you. Her eyes flick up once, checking.

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

That’s all she needs.

She kisses the inside of your thigh first, slow and maddening, then the other. She doesn’t rush. Emily Prentiss doesn’t do anything halfway. When her mouth finally finds you, you gasp, sharp and loud, hands flying to her hair as she licks into you like she’s starving.

She moans softly when you tug at her, and the sound vibrates through you like electricity.

Your hips roll into her mouth without permission. She holds you down, one arm across your hips, the other hand spreading you open so she can keep working you apart with her tongue. Every flick is precise. Every stroke is calculated.

You’re babbling her name before long, thighs trembling, nails digging into the carpet. She murmurs praise between licks until it’s too much. “That’s it, so good for me,” she hums, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

You break. Hard. The orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sharp and blinding. You cry out, back arching and thighs clenching around her as she rides it out with you, unrelenting until you’re gasping her name and pulling her up into your arms.

She kisses you again, deeper this time, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. You’re still trembling. Still dazed. “Holy shit,” you whisper.

Emily laughs softly against your mouth. “Told you, I play to win.”

You bury your face in her neck, catching your breath. “I want a rematch.”

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader

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ducktracy · 2 days ago

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What do you think are the most cynical Looney Tunes shorts?

anything directed by Friz Freleng and/or Chuck Jones LOL

SUCH AN INTERESTING QUESTION!! i KNOW for certain i'm missing a bunch, because there's so much casual cynicism EVERYWHERE that it can be hard to sort them. BUT there are definitely some that come to mind...

Fresh Airedale may be one of the most cynical cartoons i've ever seen in my life LOL. it's a brilliant short! but very bleak--i posted some clips of it a few years ago and talked about it briefly, but the short, which has a guy abusing his poor helpless cat and fawning over his dog who is also abusing the cat and taking credit for the good deeds that the cat is trying to do for his owner to win him over, ends a very unsubtle metaphor with the scale of justice toppling over and landing on the cat's head to basically say that justice never serves those who need it most

every one of the Three Bears shorts LOL. if i recall correctly, the Bears shorts weren't received well by audiences at the time because they missed the appeal of what should be a cloyingly cute family being completely dysfunctional and miserable. Bear Feat may be the most cynical considering it has Papa Bear gleefully attempting to commit suicide by jumping off a cliff... and also has this LMAO

ON THE TOPIC OF SUICIDE! Porky has attempted suicide in two cartoons and is heavily implied to have succeeded in one, the ending to Notes to You, which i posted here in discussing some of the darkest endings to a LT short.

but as a whole, Porky's Romance is definitely the more top to bottom cynical short in that Petunia rejects his marriage proposal by laughing in his face (thanks to her shitty dog that trips him), Porky tries to hang himself, can't even get that because the tree snaps beneath his weight and so he instead has a concussion-induced nightmare where he marries Petunia who is abusive and slovenly and awful. AND his license plate calls him a boob. and i know this is hard to believe, but Frank Tashlin, who directed this film, has talked about how he hated working with "the damn pig". shocking! and yet this short is what made me fall in love with Porky by being my introduction to him as an adult. guilty pleasure short because it's definitely Misogyny the Cartoon but i love it. i'm reclaiming it

plus it gave us one of my favorite endings to any cartoon (Porky punting her shitty dog)

Porky's Bear Facts is maybe the most cynical adaptation of The Grasshopper and the Ant, which basically has the moral "if people haven’t earned their keep, then they’re not worth helping at all seeing as they’ll only take advantage of your hospitality and will be complicit in any potential sloth that arises thereafter, running the risk of repeating the entire ordeal all over again, so why bother?". but, also, it is ridiculously entertaining and another short i love ferociously. maybe the ending linked below (6:18 if timestamp doesn't work) makes more sense within the context of the short (which you should watch) but the bookend to the beginning with the song is just. chef's kiss

youtube

the end of Catch as Cats Can is so dark that they ended up cutting it, probably because it's like... cruel LOL BUT I WISH THEY KEPT IT IN SOOOOO MUCH. but the short is about a Bing Crosby parrot trying to trick Sylvester into eating a Frank Sinatra parrot. the tables are turned and Sylvester ends up eating the Crosby parrot--there's a gag that was cut that was gonna have a shot of the Crosby parrot's tombstone that read "CAME IN BEFORE HIS HORSE"--there are a ton of jokes in various WB shorts about Bing Crosby's horse coming in last and being very slow (such as in The Old Gray Hare where Elmer and Bugs travel to the futuristic year of 2000 and it's revealed that Crosby's horse still hasn't come in yet). Bing already tried to sue them for two cartoons in the '30s so i guess they felt the ending was pushing it, but DAMN do i wish they kept it because it's SO FUNNY

i was very surprised to find people saying that Canned Feud was mean and cynical on Letterboxd when i recently rewatched it!! that's one of my all time favorite Sylvester shorts and one of his best, i think it's absolutely hilarious but i guess i can see why people are put off by it... a mouse keeps purposefully depriving Sylvester of the can opener when he's stuck in the house with only canned food for two weeks. it doesn't have the dark bite as other shorts mentioned here, at least to me, but i'll bring it up anyway since some people were evidently very chafed by it

Each Dawn I Crow is worth mentioning, and i'm SO HAPPY IT GOT RESTORED BECAUSE IT IS A MASTERPIECE. it's a very unique LT short that plays out like a radio play--a neurotic rooster thinks that Elmer is planning to kill him, and the tone of the short mimics that neuroticism all throughout. very suspenseful and dark and SO FUNNY, because it devolves into the rooster trying to get Elmer killed. there's this amazing bit where the rooster fashions a hat for Elmer that has a duck decoy on top, intending for a bunch of duck hunters to shoot Elmer full of holes, and Elmer just completely accepts it with no thought in his head and i can't articulate it it's just so funny and i lose it every time i see it.

i sadly don't have the full clip on me, but this is just masterful

THERE ARE MANY MORE I CAN LIST, mostly Freleng cartoons LOL but i've spent too long typing this up! Chuck Jones' Chow Hound and Freleng's Stooge for a Mouse (another one of my favorite Sylvesters) also come to mind. they're definitely the two directors who excelled at cynicism the most, and there is no shortage of it to be found

#anonymous #asks #lt

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chrono-chaos-spirit · 2 days ago

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the dark room

a humans are space oddities fic (i got this from another post that had a base idea of it, but not the full thing, and i can't find the post, so... sorry!)

it's been years since the humans have joined the age of space, and yet, new things are learnt nearly every other day. for example, not three days ago, something happened that went a little like this.

zek, a plasmoid, was walking towards the storage room, as he required some bolts for a project the was starting. unbeknowst to him, one of the humans, james, was already in there, just... sitting. no lights, no noise, just... sitting. so, zek walks in, and when he realizes the lights are off, he just... stays. sits down and just chills. people start arriving one by one. mostly humans, but a few dark-inclined aliens as well. then, an alien by the name of jksni walks in and turns on the light to look for something, only to find multiple things flying at him, malong with quite a bit of hissing and yelling. "oi!" "arrgh!" "what the hell man?!" "turn the damn light off!" then, he is pelted with everything from shoes, to phones, to... is that a LEG?! as quickly as he can, he turns the light off, and decides to fumble his way to what he needs, grab it, then get out. as he walks out, another guy comes in. "hey, quick warning, don't turn the light on in there," jksni warns before running off. aklinesa is confused, but decides to follow the advice, and walks in, where she is greeted with the sight of around a huindred or so beings inside the room, just... sitting there. she navigates through the room, grabbing the thing she needs, then warning the human who was going in next, "don't turn on the light." the human, archer, looks confused at first, then his eyes widen and he rushes in, grabbing a paper and marker, which he uses to write "DARK ROOM BEYOND THIS POINT! (FOR ALL UNFAMILIAR WITH A DARK ROOM, IT MEANS DON'T TURN ON THE LIGHTS UNLESS YOU WANT VARIOUS OBJECTS THROWN AT YOU AT VARYTING SPEEDS)"

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities

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eodred · 2 days ago

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Day Three – Level: “This is no longer just a box”

Thank you all for your support and kind words (especially @emmathefanficgal @lucifers-legions @theshakespearetrash @erathena @lady-of-ithilien @konartiste ) — you seriously give me so much energy to keep going, not give up, and keep sharing!(Tumblr, please don’t ban me, I’m just building a box 😭)

Yesterday I went on a bit of a shopping spree and ordered all the decorative extras for my Middle-earth masterpiece:

a latch,

hinges,

antique-style feet and corner protectors,

dark oak wood stain,

vintage-style tacks (to hide outer joints and give it that old-world charm).

Also, my velvet and jute still haven’t arrived — and honestly, I have no idea how well jute and “vintage” are going to get along.

Also grabbed some basics — PVA glue, dowels, and… looks like I’ll need to buy 4 more wooden beams.

This time I’m dragging my husband with me — one solo trip was more than enough. I am not a cargo elf.

I also brought clamps from the garage. Things are getting serious.

(My husband is slightly panicking about not being able to come up with a worthy gift in return —

“I don’t know what to get you, you do SO much to me…”

Silly man. He’s already the best gift I have.)

I finally sketched a new cutting plan.

And I had an idea — I’m adding a hidden compartment! That’s where I’ll place a secret gift and a letter.

It won’t have velvet, just some straw filler for that rustic vibe. I’ll seal it with a plywood panel — either woodburn a design on it or cover it with fabric. The horn will go in the main top compartment — dramatic reveal style.

Today’s plan:

Check which beams I can use right away

Maybe head to the market for the rest

If there’s time, start cutting and assembling!

P.S.

It’s worth noting that I’m picking up the main part of the gifts — the ones that determine the size of the box — on Saturday and Sunday. (And of course it would make sense to wait and not cut the wood just yet… but where’s the fun in that???)

I’ll definitely take a picture of the horn and post it — but the second item is a secret and way too personal, so it’ll fit perfectly into the hidden compartment 🤣

#middleearthcrafts #tolkienwife #woodworkingjourney #engineerlife #handmadegift #nerdcouple #diygift #boromir #lotr

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onlyangel4 · 3 days ago

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neighbours know my name. grayson waller. smau.

grayson waller x girlfriend!reader

synopsis: they said love was patient and quiet. gryayson waller said hell no to both.

when wwe’s loudest mouth moves in with his even louder girlfriend, the neighbours get more than just secondhand spotify playlists. they get every moan, thump, headboard bang, and "harder, baby" echoing through the paper-thin walls, and that’s just on a Monday.

you and grayson are what happens when a toxic-hot fwb situation turns into a relationship built on sex, selfies, and the kind of chemistry that turns their entire apartment complex into unwilling fans. you become social media’s horniest it-couple, with zero shame and zero plans to quiet down.

warnings: mature. 18+. dom!grayson. oral sex (female receiving). unprotected p in v in an established relationship

y/ninsta posted a story tagging graysonwallerwwe

written: first apartment with my love

y/ninsta posted a story

written: we have been her three weeks and he already broke the bed

graysonwallerwwe posted a story

written: oops btw her back is also broken

he didn’t say a word when the door opened. just grabbed your chin, kissed you like he was trying to prove a point with his tongue, and slammed it shut behind him with his foot. the second it clicked, you were pressed against it, his body full weight, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other snatching your thighs around his waist.

"you good?", he asked, his voice low, breath hot against your ear.

you nodded.

"use your words, baby."

"yes."

"good", he growled. "now scream ‘em."

he carried you to the kitchen like you weighed nothing. Sat you on the counter and shoved your shirt up, panties already soaked through. He pulled them off with his teeth, dragging the fabric slow just to watch your thighs twitch.

"bet 3b’s ears are burning", he muttered as he spread your legs wide. "let’s give ‘em a fuckin’ show."

he went down on you like he had something to prove, like your moans were a weapon, and he wanted to cock and fire them straight through the wall. his tongue was greedy, filthy, everywhere. he didn’t stop when you bucked. didn’t stop when your hand fisted his hair. didn’t stop when you cried out his name so loud the cabinet shook.

when you came, he didn’t let up. just groaned into your pussy like he liked the way you squirmed, messy, overstimulated, wrecked.

then he stood, mouth shiny, eyes dark. "turn around. bend over."

you didn’t even need direction. you braced on the counter, legs trembling, ass out, still gasping for breath when you heard the click of his belt.

the first thrust knocked the air from your lungs. the second had you clawing the marble. and the third? you screamed. loud. on purpose. just for him.

"that’s right, baby", he groaned behind you, hips slamming hard enough to rattle the drawer handles. "let them fuckin’ listen."

he was feral. gripping your hips like he owned them, fucking into you so deep the headboard might’ve been jealous. he reached around, rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles, whispering in your ear between growled curses and the sound of skin slapping skin.

"you’re mine, yeah?"

"yes, fuck, yes."

"no one talks to my girl like that. no one yells at you. only one who gets to make you scream is me. you understand?"

you couldn’t even form words, just nodded, cried out, begged.

and when you came again, harder, messier, louder than you ever had, he followed with a low, broken growl right into your neck, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you.

silence after. except the sound of your combined breathing.

then a knock on the wall.

grayson grinned against your shoulder.

"think they heard us?"

you laughed, wrecked. "oh, they fuckin’ felt it."

y/ninsta posted a story tagging graysonwallerwwe

written: we will never be quiet

#wwe #wwe fic #wwe fandom #wwe fanfiction #wwe smackdown #wwe raw #grayson waller #grayson waller smau #grayson waller x reader #grayson waller smut #wwe smut #wwe fanfic

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deanobear67 · 1 day ago

Text

acting quickly

——————————————————————————

-scouting out a place where a suspect lives, you have to act fast as security approaches you two

Mark!Meachum x reader

warnings - reader is called she once, and wears a tank top, no actual kissing (sorry :/ ) neck/jaw nipping, straddling, I think that’s it!

authors note - sorry this isn’t the best, I came up with this after watching the show and decided why not post it. I’m used to writing fluff, and haven’t wrote anything in awhile so I apologize. Also I use Meachum instead of mark because I felt like they aren’t on a first name basis..LMAO

lmk what you think! ——————————————————————

It was the one of the most boring parts of the job, sitting outside an apartment building, scouting for a suspect. You weren’t alone…unfortunately you got paired with the insufferable, stubborn, and extremely hot headed man child, Mark Meachum.

He already talked your ear off, non-stop, for the first three hours about random ass stories from being undercover or from his early days as a cop. Finally, he’d shut up around the fourth hour and you were starting to enjoying the silence, but that never lasts long.

Amber’s voice cuts through the radio, “Heads up, you’ve got company.” Luckily for her, she was in the office, just watching through the cameras. Meachum sighed out a small curse, to the left of us, a security car pulls into the parking lot.

We watched as it slowly made its way through the cars. You were parked in the way back, hours earlier, both times they didn’t patrol this spot, but now of course at night, they do. The car disappeared out of vision for a minute, but with the headlights getting closer both of you were screwed.

“Shit, of course they’re coming over here when we only got a few hours left.” Meachum cursed out quickly He leaned forward, now tense instead of man spreading in the drivers seat. You watch as his hand goes to the keys, getting ready to turn on the car. You grab his wrist pulling his hand away. “If you drive off now it will be even more suspicious, dumbass,” you muttered out as you looked at the car finally rounding the corner.

“You got any ideas then? I mean- fuck it’s not like we can both hide in this small ass car.” Meachum said, turning his head towards you. “Let me think for a minute,” you said quietly, watching the car stop as it notices our silhouette in the windows. Thankfully this rental has tinted windows- you get cut off from your own thoughts when you hear Meachum curse again.

One idea pops into your head, you don’t really have any other options at the moment. Before you can spit out the idea, Meachum leans forward again getting ready to start the car as the security guard parks. You act quick, putting your hand on his shoulder, pushing him back more rough than attended.

“What the fuck are you-“ He starts to mutter but you cut him off. “Just shut the hell up for once and follow my lead,” you say as you lean over the center console, sliding your legs over his the best you could in the tight spot. Your right hand goes to the side of the seat, pulling the lever to lean the seat back.

You can feel your cheeks burn in the darkness, as he watches. Why does he have to look so good at doing nothing…you shake your thoughts away, no time for those. You put your hands on his wrists, bringing them to your hips. “Shh” you muttered as you leaned forward, nipping his bearded jawline.

You listened as you hear the car outside shut off, you shifted yourself closer to him trying to make it more believable. Meachum still muttering to himself in your ear as you continued to gently nip at his skin. “Belt…” you muttered quietly, but he didn’t you. “Huh?” You pulled back slightly from his jaw, “your belt” You whispered, it was digging into your thigh to the point of pain.

Since you can’t shift your leg over more, you slide your left hand in between your bodies, trying to move the buckle to the side. You feel him tense, shit what are you doing, you thought to yourself. One of his hands leaves your hip, he takes your hand away, now it’s time to ask what the hell he’s doing. You can feel him start to unbuckle it.

You finally hear the car door slam outside. It shakes you out of your mind, you’ve got a role to play. As you lean forward again, Meachum takes his right hand and puts it on the back of your neck. You hear footsteps outside getting closer, you move to his earlobe, gently giving it a tug. Probably going a bit too far, but trying to make it look believable, like you’ve been going at it for awhile.

You hear him take in a breath, both of you get startle as a knock hits the window. You pull away looking out the window. Meachum turns the key forward so he can roll it down. A bright ass light gets shined in your face, the night time air feels great on your skin though.

“…Hi..officer?” You try to act surprised, but not sure what to call him. The older man, probably in his early sixty’s, looks between both of you. He already knows what’s going on, you feel his eyes drift over to your tank top strap as it slides off of your shoulder.

You feel uncomfortable as his eyes stay there, you tense going to put it back up, but Meachum causally fixes it for you. The heat coming off of his fingers as they brush with your cool skin, from the window being down. “Sorry about that…” he fakes a laugh as he looks at the guy. “We doin’ something wrong officer or?…”

His left hand moves from your shoulder down to your back. You shivered slightly but smile softly at the guard. “You two can’t sit out here this late at night,” the security guard stated in a monotone voice.

“Yeah sorry about that..” Meachum chuckled rubbing your back slightly. “You know how date nights can go..” You laughed quietly pushing his shoulder as your face burns again. “We’re sorry sir-“ you get cut off by him.

“Still can’t be here….as I said.” You frown slightly at his tone but understood. Feeling Meachum tense under you, his thumb tapped your back as he began to talk with a firm tone. “As she said we’re sorry…” Meachum clears his throat moving slightly beneath you. “We’re getting ready leave, don’t worry.”

You nod leaning back slightly to adjust a cramp in your back, trying not to hit the steering wheel. As you do that, the light from the security guards flashlight flash’s on Meachums belt buckle. It creates a glare in the car, the man clears his throat and raises his eyebrows.

Both of you look down, shit, this is a little too believable….you think to yourself. Meachum laughs taking his hands from you to re-buckle his belt. “Sorry about that…..she’s something else isn’t she.” He leaned forward suddenly nipping at your jaw, then earlobe as you did too him minutes prior.

You let out a small squeak before playing it off as a hum. You can’t believe he’s going this far into the role. You smile at the security guard, putting your hands onto Meachum shoulders.

The guard taps his hand on the car shaking his head. “Alright you two…” He looks down at his watch before he talks again, as he pauses Meachum pulls back and looks at you before looking at him with a smirk. “I’ll give a few minutes to…urm collect yourself but you have to be gone in eight minutes”

Meachum’s hands slide around your lower back, just above your ass. “I think we can do that can’t we…baby?” He said turning towards you, his face way too close to yours, voice raspy and low.

You smirk back trying to calm yourself before speaking. “I know I can…not so sure about you” Biting your lip slightly to stop your smirk growing more. Meachum hummed back with a smirk, his hands tapping on your back.

The guard tapped the car again, “Eight minutes you two.” He finally backed away, Meachum rolling up the window. You sighed looking at him as he leaned back against the seat with his signature smirk. His hands were still on you, you lightly hit his arm but realized the cop was watching by his car…just waiting.

You smiled before turning back to Meachum, grabbing his cheek with your right hand. Positioning it so it covers the view of your mouth slightly. You lean in, acting like you’re giving him a final kiss. Meachum probably thinks you’re actually going to kiss him, no matter how much you may want to, you back out.

You lightly press your lips to the corner of his mouth, his beard poking your face lightly. You pressed another below his lips, you pulled away, the air between you two heavy now. The tip of your nose brush against each other as you turned to get out of his lap.

He offered his hand to help hold you up as you struggled to get your legs back in the passenger seat. You buckled yourself in before he did the same, shifting it into drive He waved at the guard a final time before pulling away.

His hand landing on your knee, it startled you for a moment, not sure why he was still playing the role. It was a quiet drive back the radio quiet, you rolled down your window slightly to get some cold air in your face.

Eventually Meachum moved his hand as you got closer to the building. No words were spoken as he parked in the parking garage, he turned the car off. It was silent again but this time it stayed for awhile longer.

———————————————————————————

#fanfic #countdown #mark meachum #mark meachum x reader #s1 countdown #jensen ackles

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msriri030 · 2 days ago

Text

SBH Part 7: The Storm

Mobster König x Doctor Reader

Previously -> Part 6 Next -> Part 8

The storm had already begun.

Thunder cracked like distant artillery across the horizon, echoing over the soaked concrete jungle. The sky roared with fury, mirroring the storm inside König. Sheets of rain poured over his body armor, water tracing the curves of hardened metal and soaked fabric, but he didn’t feel the cold.

He moved like death, silent and swift. Tactical gear clung to him like a second skin. The red smeared on his gloves—blood, old and fresh—seemed to pulse with his rage. His fists clenched, jaw tight beneath his mask, his vision tunneled around a single thought:

You.

You, bound. You, afraid. You, hurt by hands that weren’t his.

Each step was thunder. Each breath, a countdown. He hadn’t spoken since the moment the chopper hit the ground. Ghost had tried—muttering intel about enemy placements, the number of men inside, the likelihood of traps—but König’s silence was deafening. His mind was already deep inside that warehouse, envisioning every possible way you were suffering.

Every time he imagined your face bruised, your voice crying out, his grip on the rifle tightened.

They had dared to touch what belonged to him. They would die for it.

The warehouse rose from the shadows, rusted steel ribs like the carcass of some giant beast. Flickering floodlights painted the structure in jaundiced yellow, casting long, grotesque shadows. König's boots splashed through puddles, his breath fogging as he passed under broken security cameras.

From his post above, Soap’s fingers flicked in a silent signal: three enemies east side, armed, patrol formation.

König didn’t blink.

He wasn’t here to follow protocol. He wasn’t here for war. He was here for retribution.

He adjusted his grip on his custom rifle, the suppressor gleaming dully under the rain. He cracked his neck once, the motion slow and deliberate. The comms buzzed to life in his ear.

“Ready?” Ghost’s voice.

“…No.” König’s reply was low. Barely human. A pause. Then, he exhaled. “But I’ll finish it. Get them out. I’ll handle the mutt.”

He fixed his mask to make sure it was over his face, the soaked fabric molding to his skin like warpaint. And then—he ran.

Through the rain. Through the guards.

Steel screamed. Muffled gunshots cracked the night. A body slammed into the pavement with a sickening crunch. Another crumpled, throat cut before he could scream. König didn’t stop. Not when a bullet grazed his shoulder, slicing through skin and kevlar. Not when blood soaked into his glove. Not when pain clawed up his arm.

He was a beast with only one destination. And then—he reached it.

The warehouse. One final step. One brutal kick.

The door exploded inward. Splinters flew like shrapnel.

And across the darkened room— There you were.

Huddled against the far wall, limbs bound, bruises painting your skin like cruel fingerprints. A handprint, dark around your throat. Ankles red and raw from restraints. You clutched Price’s tattered jacket to your chest like a lifeline.

Your eyes lifted—saw him—and widened.

“König…?”

Everything in him broke. The blood roared in his ears. The rage howling in his chest. All of it shattered at the sound of your voice. Something raw and feral tore out of him—not a scream, not a word. A sound no one could name.

You weren't on a mission. You were his heart.

Don Shepherd turned, startled—his weapon halfway raised. Too late.

König shot out the lights. The warehouse plunged into darkness, and chaos swallowed everything.

Gunfire erupted like thunder. Sparks crackled as bullets shredded steel. A flash of steel from König’s knife followed by a strangled scream. Blood painted the walls black in the flickering muzzle light.

Ghost ducked low, dodging a blast of shrapnel, sliding across the slick floor until he reached your side. His hand grasped your shoulder.

“(Y/N),” he rasped. “We need to move now.”

You blinked up at Ghost, dazed and trembling. Your breath came in ragged pulls, fogging in the cold air, and your body felt like it had been carved from ice and left to crack. But even through the blur of exhaustion, you knew.

He was here.

König.

The man who haunted your dreams and stitched hope into every second of your captivity. He was real. He was close. And just beyond those blood-drenched shadows, he was about to make Shepherd pay.

“Come on,” Ghost muttered, tightening his grip on your arm as he dragged you toward the exit. Your legs barely moved under you—raw, scraped, half-frozen from hours of abuse. The warehouse door yawned open like the mouth of a grave, thunder rattling outside as rain slashed the concrete in angry bursts.

But your feet stopped.

Your heart screamed louder than the storm.

“N-No…” Your voice came out a hoarse sob. “I don’t want to leave him. He may need—he might—”

Ghost didn’t slow, but his jaw flexed.

“You are in no condition for it,” he snapped. “You know that.”

You flinched.

He wasn’t wrong. You knew. The chill in your veins was no longer just from the cold—it was the telltale burn of hypothermia. Your skin ached like it belonged to someone else. Even blinking hurt. The bruises blooming down your sides, the stiffness in your shoulders, the burning throb around your throat where Shepherd’s hand had crushed against your windpipe… you didn’t need a diagnosis. You were failing.

But what if he was too?

“I can’t leave him, Ghost…” you whimpered. “Please…”

He didn’t respond. Just keep moving, dragging your crumpled form through the torrential rain until the van headlights cut through the fog like salvation. Soap had the door open, shouting something you couldn’t hear over the ringing in your ears. Horangi was already behind the wheel, knuckling white as he gripped it.

Still, Ghost hesitated.

He helped you into the van like you were made of glass, his movements gentle but hurried. You sank into the seat, your bare feet instantly stinging on the rubber floor, Price’s jacket clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

He was halfway out when you whispered, barely audible over the storm:

“Will you help him, Ghost?”

His back stiffened. The question froze him.

Then you hiccupped, a small and broken sound that carried more weight than any gunfire. Your eyes, glazed with tears and lit with the last flicker of defiance, locked onto his.

“Please, Ghost…” A long silence.

Then he sighed. One hand grazed the door as if it might be the last time he touched it. And without another word, he turned and vanished back into the downpour.

You were alone again. Except… not really.

Soap slammed the van door shut, locking it. Horangi peeled off into the night, tires kicking up sheets of rain. You shivered violently, curling into yourself as the warmth of the van barely registered. Everything inside you was screaming backward—toward that warehouse, toward the man who once kissed you like he could devour your soul.

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

Inside, König was a storm contained in flesh.

He stood in the flickering gloom of the warehouse, chest rising and falling like a war drum. Rain dripped off his mask in slow rivulets, mixing with blood—his, theirs, it didn’t matter anymore.

The air was choked with smoke and sweat, a harsh metallic tang biting at his tongue as his muscles coiled like a drawn bow. His ears rang with the echo of gunfire, boots stomping through puddles, radio static and sharp commands that barely cut through the thick tension.

And yet—he was quiet.

Too quiet.

Shepherd’s men began to encircle him, fanning out through the rafters and shadows like jackals scenting wounded prey. Flashlights snapped on, catching glimpses of his silhouette—a massive, looming figure slick with rain and gore, rifle still in hand.

But König didn’t move.

Not yet.

He saw it in their eyes: the fear they tried to mask with bravado. Their commander’s orders kept them moving, but not one of them wanted to be the first to engage. Not after what he had done. Not after the trail of shattered bone and silenced screams he'd left in his wake from the front gate to here.

They wanted him caged.

He would die before he let that happen.

From the shadows, one of them shouted, “Put it down, soldier!”

Another chimed in, “It’s over, monster! We’ve got you surrounded!”

But König wasn’t listening.

He couldn’t hear them over the roar building in his chest.

He could only hear your voice—weak and breaking—pleading for him in the dark. He could only see your trembling hands clutching Price’s jacket, your bruised body fighting not to collapse. And worse, that moment—the look on your face—when you first saw him. That whisper: “König…?”

It cracked something in him.

And now, nothing would stop the breaking.

He slowly straightened, towering and unflinching, and let the rifle fall to the floor with a heavy metallic clatter—not a surrender. No. Just an exchange.

Because the next moment, his hand was already drawing the long combat knife sheathed across his back.

He struck the first man so fast, the body didn’t drop until he’d already reached the next. The screams were short—wet and final. Chaos danced with death in that room, and König was both the music and the blade.

Shepherd, hidden somewhere deeper in the dark, shouted over his comms, “Take him down! Do not let him reach me”

König moved like a force of nature—untamed, unstoppable. Blood slicked his gloves, his blade heavy with bodies. He was no longer a man, not really. He was fury and grief and vengeance made flesh, carving through Shepherd’s men like paper. Their cries echoed in the darkened warehouse, swallowed by the roar of rain and the wet thuds of bodies hitting concrete.

He panted, each breath ragged. His heart thundered in his ears—not fear, not exhaustion, but adrenaline, coursing like fire through his veins.

"Where are you, crowd?” he growled beneath his breath, voice distorted through the mask, laced with bloodlust.

His pet name for Shepherd—a cruel twist of irony in German. Abschaum. Trash.

He stepped over another crumpled corpse, eyes scanning, breath misting in the cold air. For the briefest moment—a single second—he let his guard drop. He tilted his head, listening, his mind flickering to you. Wondering if Ghost got you safely away. Wondering if he’d see you again.

CRACK.

A gunshot tore through the chaos.

The impact slammed into his side, just under the rib. Hot pain exploded through his torso. He staggered, breath catching. Blood immediately soaked through his tactical gear, a sticky warmth spreading beneath the fabric.

“Ngh—Scheiße…”

He dropped to one knee, teeth gritting behind the mask. His hand clamped over the wound, crimson oozing between his fingers. The world spun—but he forced it still.

From the shadows ahead, Shepherd emerged, flanked by two remaining guards, weapons still raised. He wore that smug, wolfish grin, like a man who believed he'd finally cornered the beast.

“Funny,” he sneered, lowering the smoking barrel. “Didn’t think the great König could bleed.”

König didn’t answer.

He just stared, hunched but not broken, eyes burning through the slits of his mask. Still a predator—even wounded.

Shepherd took a step closer, circling. “It’s over. You should’ve stayed a ghost. Instead, you let her make you soft.”

A growl rumbled deep in König’s chest—low, feral, primal. His breath came ragged through clenched teeth, each inhale a knife dragging across his ribs. His side throbbed where the bullet had torn through, hot blood soaking the fabric beneath his vest, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Not while Shepherd still drew breath.

Shepherd stood backlit by the flickering warehouse lights, barking orders, pistol raised, eyes hunting for another target. He thought he had control. Thought König was down for good.

Then—crack. Crack.

The twin pops of suppressed gunfire shattered the standoff like glass.

Two of Shepherd’s guards dropped instantly—one with a gurgle, the other without even a sound. Their bodies hit the concrete floor like sacks of wet meat, twitching once before going still.

Shepherd spun around in fury and disbelief—just in time to lock eyes with Ghost.

From the upper catwalk, Ghost stood like a reaper in the shadows, smoke still curling from the muzzle of his sidearm. His stance was calm. Controlled. Deadly. The expression beneath the mask unreadable—but the eyes said everything.

You’re next.

Shepherd’s jaw tightened, rage flaring behind his eyes. But before he could raise his gun, movement in the corner of his vision snapped his attention back—

König.

He was standing again.

The Austrian towered over the bloodied battlefield like a god of war risen from the dirt, blood trailing down his arm, the whites of his eyes glowing like embers behind his mask. His breath came in low growls, boots crunching over broken glass and spent shell casings.

“You should’ve run,” König hissed.

Shepherd raised his weapon—too slow.

König charged, body slamming into the commander with enough force to send him crashing into a steel beam. The gun skittered across the floor, out of reach.

The next second was a blur of fists and fury—König’s fists hammering down like war drums, each blow punishing. Bones cracked. Teeth split flesh. Shepherd managed one weak punch to König’s ribs—but it was like striking iron. Ineffective. Useless.

Ghost dropped from the catwalk, boots landing with a thud. He didn’t intervene. He didn’t need to.

This was König’s justice.

And it was far from over.

Shepherd’s face was a ruin—bloodied, split, barely recognizable. He coughed thickly, spitting red across the concrete as he tried to crawl backward, fingers scrabbling for anything. His legs trembled beneath him, too weak to carry his weight, too broken to run.

But König didn’t stop.

He followed, slow and methodical. Each step echoed like a war drum across the battered warehouse floor. The storm outside howled through shattered windows, wind whipping his torn hood, rain hissing as it hit his skin.

“You touched what was mine,” König growled, voice a rasp of violence and pain. “You hurt them.”

Shepherd reached for the fallen sidearm just beyond his fingertips.

König stepped on his hand.

The crunch was sickening—bone snapping under his boot like dry wood. Shepherd screamed, high and sharp, but König didn’t flinch.

He crouched, looming over the dying man, pulling out his combat knife—one forged for silence and swift death. Its blackened blade gleamed beneath the warehouse lights, slick with rain and blood.

“You’ll never lay a hand on them again.”

The blade drove in hard—just beneath the ribs, angled up toward the heart. Shepherd’s breath hitched, a garbled gasp escaping as blood bubbled from his lips. König held the knife there, staring into his eyes as the light drained from them.

When he finally pulled it free, Shepherd collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Motionless. Lifeless.

For a long moment, König stood over him, panting. Blood dripped from the blade, steam curling off his skin in the cold.

Then he rose—slowly—and turned to Ghost, who had been watching silently the entire time.

“It’s done,” König said hoarsely.

Ghost gave a small nod. “Let’s get you home.”

König didn’t answer. His eyes, hard as stone moments ago, flickered with only one thought now:

You.

tag-list: @sigmamelisa @beautifuleaglealpaca

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twiceeshy · 9 hours ago

Text

3% [chapter 4/?]

Read and view tags on ao3.

Summary: Three percent was the chance that suppressants would fail to protect from pregnancy, if a fertile Omega had sex with an Alpha during heat. It was non-negligible, but low.

Chapter summary: Marc returns a missed call.

E, rosquez, 4.6k words.

[start] [prev chapter]

The sun had finally risen when Marc woke up for the third time the next morning. He crawled out from his nest alone and didn't bother to make the bed. His thought that if the scents there wove themselves into one throughout the day, he might miss the absent one less.

Laia's cries had to be addressed first, by changing and feeding her, then rocking her back into slumber. After that, he was free to start his day.

Marc combed his hair before the bathroom mirror and pressed the pad of an index finger into the dark pouch under his eye. Pregnancy had increased his body fat percentage, but new shadows turned his face gaunt. A lack of sleep did not suit him well. He tested a smile because he was not the type to wallow, and was confronted with a slightly rabid creature.

Well, Marc didn't feel the need to hide it. He had never been a particularly tame Omega, and the past months had only succeeded in making him less lovely. If Valentino could resist him at his best, it was not a mystery that he had not been compelled to work harder with him the day before.

Marc's unclaimed neck hurt overnight and his palms were hot. Pregnancy's one mercy was a reprieve from lonely heats, and they would spare him no more.

He wrenched his eyes away from the mirror. His head spun with the prospect of his tasks ahead. Time pressed down on him with more pressure than it used to, but he banished the stress to the back of his mind. It had always been his way to make sure that good days followed bad days.

Valentino's blue shirt beckoned to him from its safe spot in the closet when he went to retrieve a change of clothes, laying prominently in its plastic bag. Marc considered indulging in a sniff, but he decided that he would close the day that way instead.

Amusingly, Alex remained terrible at waking up to his alarm. He pretended to be asleep when Marc walked into his room without knocking.

"Get up Alex, I heard you snooze your phone," Marc said.

Alex groaned and turned over. His head was buried under a pillow. "Later," he mumbled.

Marc wrestled the pillow away from him. "I want to cycle," he said. He wasn't supposed to so soon after childbirth, but he wasn't supposed to do fucking anything and he couldn't live that way anymore.

"You always want to cycle," Alex said. He covered his eyes with his forearm and yawned.

"It's late," Marc said belligerently. He was dressed in cycling gear and he didn't want to be left hanging like an idiot. His brother also didn't tend to neglect him when he really wanted to do something.

A loud sigh sounded. "You don't even like waking up before nine."

It was true, but Marc hadn't been able to train with his brother once he started waddling. This was the first time that Alex was home since Marc felt well enough to be vaguely useful as a training partner. Granted, it had only been a handful of days.

He prodded his brother on the forearm and grinned widely when Alex jerked his arm away. Marc already knew that he looked like an animal that day. "MotoGP riders have to stay fit. I'm going to boil eggs," he said.

Alex took one look at his expression and gave in, though he put up the act of resistance for a while longer. "Fuck off," he whined.

Marc did, but he knew they were sure to leave the house soon.

It chipped at the edges of Marc's tolerance with himself that Alex treated their morning exercise as a leisurely bit of post-race exertion, because Marc found the ride heinously uncomfortable. His body had become unaccustomed to being pushed. The one benefit was that the ache helped him to temper down some remnant anger from the night before.

He thought he was frustrated. On the other hand, if his scent was anything to go by, he was deliriously happy. What could stop him now?

Marc was meant for wheels. Rushing down a downhill slope gave him back his life. He stopped paddling and let gravity take him where it desired. Alex gloated rather unkindly when he nearly lost his balance. Marc appreciated not being suddenly handled with kid gloves.

Sweat beaded at Marc's temple and rolled down to the crook of his neck. He sought enjoyment in the discomfort and wished pregnancy had struck at any other time, so he could be his brother's teammate. They could have been doing this all the time, on tracks, all around Europe.

The reservoir they had taken their bikes to was a pretty sight that morning, though summer had brought water levels down quite drastically. Marc was uncaged. He'd been avoiding the outdoors for months as far as he could tolerate, because the prospect of being taken by illness while carrying a baby was unthinkable. To be absolved of that responsibility was freeing, to degrees that Marc did not know existed.

He wanted to seize the opportunity to discuss the major changes in Alex's career, but Alex brought up Marc's personal life instead.

"Must Valentino really come back?" Alex asked, as they slowed down to take a bend at the path.

"He will, he said he would," Marc answered. Belatedly, he noted Alex's phrasing. "You don't want him to?"

"I don't know," Alex said, with a frown. "He should, for your sake and Laia's anyway, but he's being stupid. I don't him. He never defends you."

"Maybe he used to be better at it," Marc said, though he didn't believe himself. He did not conflate the good memories with something more important. When it mattered, Valentino stepped aside and let his fans burn effigies in Marc's image.

He dwelled shortly on the past and understood Valentino's reticence a little bit. The prospect of all those people knowing that he and Valentino shared a baby was...he was not scared, but it was foreboding. Being famous was so often an inconvenience.

"He was never good at that," Alex said. "I know you don't need help, but what kind of Alpha lets that happen? Aren't you guys half bonded?"

"I never let him finish," Marc said. And Alex was right. Marc didn't need Valentino's help.

His neck ached again, punishing him for his past choices. He had always been the one to put a stop to it from going all the way when they were younger - when Valentino would mouth at his neck during his ruts, and Marc had to snap himself out of Omega docility to stop him.

The memory of Valentino's blue eyes still haunted him, rut-drunk and accusing, as though Marc had chosen to hurt him on purpose. "Why?" he would rasp plaintively, when Marc covered his mouth and pushed him away from his neck.

Sometimes Marc wondered what would have become of them had he just rolled over and given in. Maybe they would be better, or ten times worse.

Alex braked to chat properly. Marc stopped alongside him for a conversation that he really wanted to move past.

"Because he's old as fuck, right? You were twenty," Alex said, aggrieved. He was so protective for a little brother.

"And twenty-one, and twenty-two," Marc corrected. It always fell to him to play devil's advocate, though he agreed.

"I'm twenty-four now," Alex said sharply. Marc winced. There was no arguing against that.

Alex touched a hand to the crook of Marc's elbow. "It doesn't have to be him. There are a lot of better people out there," he said.

"I know," Marc, tetchy. He had given himself years to fall in love with someone else, and did not think it was his fault that nobody came his way. Some things couldn't be forced. The faceless, kind-hearted person he hoped for never arrived to whisk him away from all of his bad decisions.

Alex looked at Marc too perceptively. They always knew most things about each other - not everything, but it was near. When they spoke, their words overlapped. When they suffered, they found empathy. When Marc started wishing that the Valentino from his posters would kiss him, Alex had been the first to sulk. Marc had to coax the reason out of him and promise to never leave him behind.

"What do you really want?" Alex asked, with a slight air of resignation.

Marc quirked up a corner of his lip. What he wanted was always aspirational. "A nice family for Laia, a new neighbour for you, a new house for me, Valentino will live here, and I have more championships."

People always said that Marc had a way of getting what he wanted. Maybe his worst trait was that he always had to want things that were just short of impossible. But nothing was truly impossible.

"Marc," Alex said, annoyed with him because he never let himself be too stricken.

Marc didn't like to upset him.

He put his feet back on the pedals and kicked off. "Crazy right? Race you to the tree stump, last one will wash the dishes," he said brightly, and sped up before his words registered. The morning had been going too well to be distracted like this.

"You can't even win now," Alex shouted after him.

"You'll feel worse when I beat you again," Marc yelled back over his shoulder. His bike swerved from the action. He followed its trajectory so he wouldn't fall.

Had Marc been a superstitious person, he would have considered his ability to miss all of Valentino's calls to be an omen about their destiny. Back when things would good, Valentino would seemingly call at specific moments when Marc was at a technical meeting, or had left his phone behind for the briefest of toilet breaks.

Marc once brought up this strange coincidence when they had snuck around the paddock for a clandestine meet-up, far as possible from the media centre. He had been sitting on Valentino's lap, taller for once when he faced him.

"Why do you always look for me when I pee?" he had asked candidly. This was before he learned to run all of his words through a filter in his head, and he had felt perfectly safe coming across a little childish in front of Valentino.

Valentino laughed as though Marc was funny. The affectionate sound made Marc's hair stand pleasantly on end. "You're the one always pissing. Do you have an infection?"

"No," Marc said, affronted, then laughed at himself. It was hard to stay offended when Valentino was smiling like that and trying to work his hand down the front of Marc's trousers. He liked to get his fingers wet, did Valentino; had an open reverence for pussy. Not that Marc hadn't been flattered to help.

A warm hand also held him steady from behind. Marc felt a bit important, even though it also felt wrong to besmirch the sanctity of the paddock like this.

Valentino kissed his forehead adoringly. "Think like this, it is easy for you. When you want my attention, you only have to drink some water."

"Like it's that easy," Marc scoffed. Valentino was always busy, with his team and his brand and ranch. Marc was busy too, however, so he couldn't complain.

"Isn't it?" Valentino asked airily. "I find you very distracting. It's not normal. Uccio says I'm becoming more like a woman. You win my races, and I still come here with you."

He pressed a fingertip firmly into the tense opening of Marc's cunt. Marc shuddered.

A comeback line came to him a little too late. He said it anyway. "If I have an infection, it's 'cos your hands are dirty," he said.

Valentino laughed and withdrew some of the pressure. He tweaked Marc's clit clumsily. The corners of his eyes were crinkled in genuine amusement.

Common wisdom dictated that Marc disparate meetings revolving around sex did not constitute romance, but Marc was sure that the new, intense feeling that took up too much space in his own body had to be love.

The kiss that followed affirmed it; searching, hot, and consuming. Then a firm hand on Marc's jaw, a gaze that hungered, and a chastening bite on the skin below Marc's lip.

"It's not normal, what you do to me," Valentino repeated. His grip around Marc's waist was possessive. If anyone walked in on them, Marc's body was shielded by Valentino's own, for no one else's eyes.

It was love, dysfunctional though it may be. None of their discord had ever dissuaded Marc of this.

Marc was not all that surprised to see several missed call notifications on his phone after he cycled home. Cosmic forces that Marc didn't believe in continued to put Valentino and him at the wrong places and the wrong time for each other.

Call me when you're free please, it's important, read the lone text.

Marc shooed Alex away from the garage to shower first, and sat on the seat of his motorbike for an uncomfortable conversation. Change started from himself. He was going to talk properly.

Valentino must have been camping by his phone, with how quickly he answered.

"Hi Valentino," Marc said, expecting hostility.

But Valentino surprised him. "Marc," he said, in a tone that seemed almost jovial. Marc clutched his phone to his ear. Valentino didn't sound angry or even put-out.

"Did you have trouble going home?" Marc asked.

Valentino answered warmly. "Don't worry about me. I'm having breakfast with my mother. Did I mention that she came to stay with me for a few months?"

Marc swallowed. He could easily imagine him - barefoot, relaxed in a kitchen, in a comfortable T-shirt with an unknown logo printed on it, slicing into exotic fruit with a knife. Maybe stressed and sleep-deprived. Neither of their hometowns were that accessible.

"You didn't. You told her?"

Valentino laughed, the sharp, bright sound pierced Marc's eardrums and caused him to jerk the speaker away. He pulled it back quickly so he wouldn't miss anything. "She gave me a scolding." He pitched his voice higher. "Vale, I would have smacked you. You don't know what a mother goes through."

She knew. Presumably everyone else would soon know, and Valentino would never be able to shake off the label of being Laia's father.

Valentino was taking responsibility. Marc chose to be grateful, because the alternative was to be jealous of his own kid.

He settled into the strange conversation.

"Well, you don't. And she doesn't talk like that," he said, more amused than he wanted to be. Valentino was entertaining, but all this cheerful banter felt a bit unnatural. Less than twelve hours ago, Valentino had been downcast and regretful. It was disorienting to talk again and find him neither contrite nor begrudging. Last night's argument went like a passing shower.

Marc supposed it was better than continuing to fight. Whatever Valentino's strategy was, they tended to be worth a try.

"Pah, you and my mother, acting like you know each other better than me," Valentino said. Marc could almost see him waving it off with his majestic, horrible slouch.

"You should try being pregnant. You would look great. Most people have a pregnancy glow," Marc said, returning a joke. And they would still share a baby that way. He caught himself twirling a curl of hair around his finger and put it down.

Valentino made an audibly horrified sound. "Never, and I will always be grateful that it is not possible. I am astounded that you did it."

"Worst days of my life. I wouldn't do it again," Marc answered. He ran his hands over the front fairing of his bike to cool down his hot palms. If a heat was going to descend upon him, he needed to take this bike out now.

"But you chose to keep her," Valentino said, suddenly serious. His voice softened. Marc had to raise the volume to listen to him clearly. "I will always thank you, Marc. No matter what."

"Oh," Marc said, in barely a whisper.

He didn't know what to do with Valentino's sincerity. He had never really faced it before. Neither of them liked when things got too serious. They talked in touches, smiles, and unforgivable collisions.

"I'm not sure if I could have done it," Valentino admitted. His words were thick, choked, syllables catching on his tongue before they made a sound.

Marc had asked himself before while suffering through pregnancy, whether Valentino would have considered it a worthwhile sacrifice, had it been possible for him to be carry the baby instead. He mostly concluded that he would be the only one of them stupid and stubborn enough for this, and even he nearly had not been.

But Valentino said he wasn't sure, and that uncertainty was priceless to Marc. That was how his decision had started too - a moment of hesitation, then another, until he didn't have a choice. No athlete would volunteer for this. Uncertainty meant that Valentino would have wanted her, at least enough to consider forsaking himself, and he would try for her.

"You know why I had to?" Marc asked. He wanted to match what Valentino was giving to him. "It's- three percent, Vale. She shouldn't exist, but she must have wanted to. I had to meet her. Even we make another one, it's a different person. And she's yours."

Marc was bad at letting go, and worse when he knew it would be permanent. He wouldn't ever go off suppressants while he was still fertile and competitive. Valentino may well never want to fuck him again, and regardless of whether he wanted to, Marc felt an instinctive recoil at the thought of his body being breached. There wouldn't be another baby for them think about keeping. They had just this one.

Valentino exhaled heavily over the line. Marc's knuckles were strained with how hard he was gripping his phone to his ear.

"Marc darling, I am sorry. Let me see you."

Darling. Whatever that meant; if it was significant at all. Sorry, but for what?

"You first," Marc said.

Valentino turned on camera, and be looked more dreadful than Marc imagined. His voice betrayed little of the darkness on his image. Stress of conflict aged him, and the camera brought out his wrinkles.

The jokes meant nothing. Marc was crushingly relieved.

He let Valentino see him. They made a pair, guarded and weary, sizing each other up.

Invisible to Valentino, Marc brushed his thumb against his face. With the angle at which Valentino held his phone, Marc could only see the top of his band shirt. It was the same one he had intended to wear to sleep in Marc's house.

"Say it again," Marc demanded.

He saw the stubborn jump of a muscle at the crook of Valentino's jaw as he gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride. "I am sorry," he said, as though Marc stood before him with a shiv to his chest.

He was. Valentino was perfectly capable of acting, if he wished to put on a show. This was better.

Marc went quiet.

"You're still angry," Valentino remarked, misunderstanding Marc's silence. He shook his head. "Of course, I expect it."

"Yeah," Marc said, though he found rage difficult to sustain. It always came and went in waves, and now that half a day had passed since their conflict, he did not retain the same measure of emotion. It no longer dripped from his tongue and lashed out to protect. More sharply, his body reminded him that he was bereft. Even the cold silence of his womb tugged at his sub conscience, though he did not want it to be filled again.

Valentino pressed on. Marc begrudgingly admired his refusal to grovel. "About the announcement," he said directly, unabashed. Marc raised an eyebrow, and Valentino smiled. "Relax. I know we have to tell people. I wrote my own message, I want you to read it for me."

"Perfect," Marc said. He had been about to propose the same the night before. "Check my Italian?" he asked.

"Of course," Valentino said - in what Marc thought of as his Alpha voice, warm and certain. He wanted Valentino to say more so that he could evaluate with some degree of accuracy, but their days of being able to talk for hours were long gone.

He wondered what Valentino thought about him now. It had been obvious before Laia was born, but these days, Valentino might as well have been moored on an island and communicating in light signals.

"Vale," Marc said without thinking, seeking to cut through the bullshit. Thinking had not gotten him anywhere thus far. He could see Valentino's eyes widen in attention at the sound of his nickname. "Don't stay away too long."

Marc had sent him away in the first place and Valentino could nitpick on the hypocrisy of that if he wanted. But instead, his face fell, open and vulnerable for split second before he composed it back into beautiful impish charm that jarred with his eyebags. "Of course," he said again, as though there was anything that Marc could take for granted. "You miss me?" he asked, in a softer variation of Marc's taunt from the day before.

Maybe it wasn't a taunt. Maybe Marc had just wanted an answer, like Valentino might now.

"I always miss you," Marc said frankly. It didn't stop him from knocking Valentino into the gravel, or hating him, or hungering to chew him up at every opportunity that presented itself. He put a hand to the crook of his neck to massage the ache, and watched Valentino's gaze drift to follow the action. "I want Laia to see you smile like this, so be nice okay? My parents were always happy when I was young."

Valentino tilted his head and blinked his eyelids. He was so expressive, but Marc wasn't good at interpreting what the expressions meant. If only they could read each other's minds, they would finally decide if they were meant to love or not.

"Anything for you," Valentino said, voice like velvet and a face of stone. He continued to smile stiffly, and Marc pulled on a similar expression to end the call. The feral animal look should have followed him through the day. He caught Valentino's intense stare looking back before the connection was cut.

Marc dropped the phone on his lap. Between the lines, it felt as though they had accomplished something. Still, the conversation made him feel stupid.

Laia was crying when Marc entered the house.

"Don't worry, I'm handling it," Roser said as she bustled around with an empty milk bottle in hand. She was waiting for Marc's milk to thaw, he realised.

Marc grimaced at the reminder that he was a lactating animal. "Is she hungry again?" he snapped, then felt immediately guilty. Laia was just a infant. She wouldn't want to be difficult either, if she had a choice.

He went over to the mobile hammock to look at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get mad," he said gently.

He didn't want to touch her when he had exposed himself to germs from the outside elements, so he knelt down and bounced her from the bottom of the hammock. Her wails tapered off into softer cries as he cooed. She still obviously had a favourite.

"You've been moody lately," Roser said chided, as she approached with the bottle. She never let him get away with anything.

"Yeah," Marc said. He ginned apologetically. "Thanks mama."

Roser huffed, pretending to be grumpy. She gathered Laia to rest on her arm and carried her back to the neat sofa - which was once again a sofa, with the pull-out bed tucked back in, and the bedding folded neatly on one side.

Laia fed peacefully, bundled in a fuzzy purple outfit and white mittens. Marc's heart softened by watching her, still little and blissfully unaware of the world.

He sat down next to his mother and shook his restless limbs. Valentino had rested on the sofa, though Marc had not seen him doing so. His scent was there, just a gentle touch of it going to Marc's head.

His mother was seemingly oblivious, for which Marc was grateful. Being the only Omega in a household of Betas allowed him to live out his chaos with relative dignity.

"Vale left, didn't he?" Roser asked. The slight tremor in her voice betrayed her feelings.

"I sent him home because he didn't tell anyone about Laia yet. It's settled now, we're making an announcement today," Marc said. He fiddled with some skin that peeled off his hands. His callouses were softer now, but he did not have delicate hands. It was good - meant that he hadn't rested his body for as long as he thought.

"And is he coming back?"

"Yes," Marc said, confident about this. "After Brno latest. I think he will be back earlier." He looked at his hands again. "I'm going to take the bike out later to ride around the roads. My shoulder isn't that bad, just a dislocation," he added, as an aside.

"Marc," Roser said his name pointedly. Marc turned to meet her eyes. He had been half lost in his own mind, occupied with thoughts of Valentino and regaining his physical form. "Is everything really okay?"

Usually, he would be callous and downplay her concern. Perhaps the newness of parenthood made it impossible for him. He understood that she would suffer more for being kept in the dark. She would know when he lied.

He slouched against her side and stopped shaking his limbs incessantly. She elbowed away his dead weight. "You stink," she said, so he leaned in even closer. She was soft and comfortable, which he associated with the concept of mothers, save for himself.

"Valentino is a difficult person, right?" he remarked, a non sequitur.

"Worse than difficult," Roser said gravely.

Marc hummed consideringly. "And I am also difficult, and people will say a lot of things about us. I'm not sure when things will be okay."

The corners of his mouth tilted up, however, and found that the expression came easily to him. In spite of everything, it didn't feel like the end of the world.

She observed him with her arms full Laia. "Why do you smile? I don't understand what you are thinking sometimes," she said tiredly.

He sat up straight and crossed his legs in front of him. "Then just believe me," he said with earnest assurance. "I want to be happy."

From his years of growing up, he knew that his mother would have hands smoothing over his hair or tugging his ear had she not been busy. She gave him an affectionate, long-suffering look instead. "Idiot child. What do you mean?"

"I don't know yet," Marc said, and laughed because he knew that it sounded as though he was talking shit. He meant it though. He was good at taking miles when there were inches, and Valentino was leaving him a gap for the first time in years.

And if it desperately came to it, he could make things work without Valentino too. He had a child and a loving family, and he would take back his career at the earliest opportunity. He had all the options he needed.

#shu's fics #motogp rpf #rosquez #hii it's finally here

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