#sharpest pace

[hoe4hotchner]

the team meeting aaron's lawyer!wife who's personality is similar to his + she's the best in her field

Langston & Bell | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Lawyer wife!reader | WC: 1.2k | CW: Not really anything except for a little law jargon and mentions of a case the BAU is working on.

A/N: My brain hurts from looking up law terminology, and I'm not even sure if I used all the words correctly

The glass doors of Langston & Bell opened as Hotch led the rest of his team inside. The air felt heavy—as they entered—from the scent of freshly brewed coffee and a faint lemony aroma.

The firm itself was one of the most prestigious ones in all of Virginia, and its reputation suited it. Everything about the space was designed to impress—shining marble floors in the lobby, towering bookshelves filled with thick leather-bound volumes of law books and journals, and abstract art that screamed of a space aimed to do business with rich and pretentious people.

Emily glanced around, clearly trying to process how they’d ended up here. “Langston & Bell?” she muttered under her breath. “Isn’t this place out of our league?”

“They’re not dealing with criminal justice,” Spencer pointed out. “They specialize in corporate litigation and high-profile estate law. The firm is known for taking on cases that require absolute discretion.” Emily tried her best not to roll her eyes at Spencer's outburst of knowledge but failed.

Hotch didn’t respond, he kept his pace steady as he approached the front desk. His usual stone-faced demeanor was on full display, his features—although set not completely in a frown—were unreadable. He seemed unbothered by the hushed stares they received from the staff as they had entered with their badges held out in front of them.

The receptionist, a young woman with a straight posture and a sharp smile, greeted them. “Good afternoon. How may I assist you?”

Hotch stepped forward, his voice even. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for the attorney who handled the probate case for Samuel Larkin.”

The receptionist’s fingers danced quickly over her keyboard, her expression unchanged. “That would be Attorney Hotchner.”

Dead silence.

Emily blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say Hotchner?”

“Yes,” the receptionist replied, unfazed, almost on the brink of annoyance. “Would you like me to see if she’s available?”

“She,” Morgan echoed, his brows furrowing a little as his gaze flipped from the receptionist to Hotch.

Before anyone could recover from their shock, the sound of sharp heal clicks echoed through the lobby.

“Aaron,” came a clear voice from behind. “If this is your idea of surprising me, I’ll admit it’s more creative than flowers. But I have a deposition in thirty minutes.”

The team turned as one, their collective gazes landing on the woman who had just entered the room. You were dressed in a tailored navy suit that emphasized your poised demeanor. Your expression was both curious and faintly amused as your eyes locked on Hotch.

“Counselor,” he greeted smoothly, his tone carrying a subtle warmth that the team rarely heard.

“Counselor?” Rossi asked, a slow grin forming as his gaze flicked between you and Hotch.

Your lips quirked up in a small smile as you approached, your heels clicking against the marble with each step. “I assume this is your team?”

“It is,” Hotch confirmed.

You turned your attention to the group, giving them a brief once-over with an expression that wasn’t unkind but clearly measured. “Well, where are my manners? I’m Y/N Hotchner, senior litigation partner here at Langston & Bell. And yes, I can see the wheels turning in all your heads.”

Morgan crossed his arms, already grinning. “Oh, I’ve got a lot of questions right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Feel free to ask them, Agent Morgan. I’ve been cross-examined by some of the sharpest minds in the country—I’m sure I can handle you.”

JJ stepped forward, clearly trying to keep her surprise in check. “Wait, you’re married?”

You tilted your head toward Hotch, your expression softening just a fraction. “You didn’t tell them?”

“It never came up,” Hotch replied with a shrug, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes didn’t escape you.

You shook your head, exhaling a soft laugh. “Aaron’s great at compartmentalizing, isn’t he? Well, to officially answer your question—yes, I’m his wife. And judging by your expressions, this is news to you.”

“Big news,” Emily muttered, still processing.

Hotch cleared his throat, subtly redirecting the conversation. “We need access to the probate records for Samuel Larkin. Anything that might help us build our case.”

Your demeanor shifted instantly, professionalism overtaking the playful edge. “Aaron, you know I can’t just hand over client information without a court order.”

“We’re only asking for publicly available records,” he clarified.

You studied him for a moment, a silent exchange passing between you. Then you turned to your assistant, who stood nearby. “Jane, pull the Larkin docket and bring me all publicly filed documents. Annotate them if you have time, and leave them on my desk before your shift ends.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jane replied, already moving toward the elevator.

“You always find a way around the rules,” Hotch said, his voice was low but carrying a note of fondness.

“And you love that about me,” you shot back with a wink, your eyes glinting with mischief.

Morgan leaned closer to Emily, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t know what’s more surprising—the fact that he’s married, the fact that she's a lawyer, or the fact that she might be scarier than him.”

Although Jane hadn't gone through the records yet, she sent you a digital copy as soon as she had found them. You walked the team through them with ease. Every legal term you used was calculated, giving away as little about your client as you could, while still helping your husband and his team. You made sure to translate every dense legal jargon into actionable insights every time you saw one of their faces pull an expression.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a transaction on the financial statement. “These wire transfers are from an offshore account linked to Larkin. It’s not evidence of criminal activity, but it raises enough red flags to warrant further investigation.” If Larkin found out you had helped the feds, you could be in big trouble, you thought as you revealed the account.

Spencer leaned in, his eyes lighting up with understanding. “If we trace the accounts, we might uncover a connection to our unsub.”

“Precisely,” you replied, offering him a small nod of approval.

By the time the team wrapped up, they had everything they needed to move forward. As they gathered their materials, you leaned against the edge of the table, folding your arms as you looked at Hotch.

“Dinner at seven?” you asked, your voice softer, the edge of professionalism giving way to something more personal.

“Seven,” he confirmed, his tone lighter than usual.

You smiled, leaning in just enough to lower your voice. “Try not to scare anyone off before then, okay?”

“No promises,” he replied, his lips twitching upward in the faintest of smiles.

As the team exited the building, Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “She is definitely scarier than Hotch”

Emily grinned. “I think I like her better.”

“I like her too,” Rossi added with a chuckle.

Hotch walked ahead, the faint smile still playing on his lips, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The team had seen enough to know he’d married his perfect match—an equal who could still challenge him enough to keep him on his toes.

[cherrygirlfriend]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ how to get even

pairing: bsf!rafe x reader synopsis: when reader sees her boyfriend kissing his ex, she decides to get revenge. warnings/tags: smut, drunk sex, PIV, MDNI! a/n; part of my 1k celebration more specifically rafe with revenge sex!! as a scorpio, i always support revenge (especially when women do it!) also inspired by coincidence and sharpest tool by sabrina carpenter (and literally my rl experience) thanks to @cameronsprincess for the req!!

rafe masterlist ♡ 1k masterlist

you felt your heart shatter in your chest as your intoxicated eyes landed on the sight in front of you. he didn't even bother to try and hide, theo's lips locked with his ex-girlfriend's, right in the middle of a fucking party.

you should've known the moment you saw her name on his phone. guess basic decency wasn't something he deemed you deserved.

downing your drink, you felt someone wrap their arms around your shoulders, and if they weren't familiar, adorned with muscles you knew like the back of your head, you would've felt like you were being choked.

"hey, what's wrong?" rafe spoke with a slur as you turned around in his arms, holding onto his torso as tightly as possible, your mascara-tears staining his white button-down. "oh. oh, fuck."

the man pressed a small kiss to the top of your head, "d'you want me to take care of him?" rafe's words making you chuckle as you shook your head, "let's just get out of here, bunny."

rafe took your hand, leading you upstairs into one of the bedrooms. he sat you down at the edge of the bed, cupping your cheeks as your lip wobbled weakly, tears stinging in your eyes, threatening to start running down your cheeks any moment now.

"aw, baby," rafe cooed, stroking your cheek with his thumb, wiping away the tears that managed to escape, "don't cry over that dickhead. he doesn't deserve your pretty little tears."

"yeah?" you look up at him through blurry, glassy eyes, and rafe was sure that you were the prettiest thing on earth, the pad of his thumb brushing against your plump, bottom lip.

"yeah." your best friend smiled down at you, pushing his thumb into your mouth, the act soothing you as you sucked his long digit into your mouth.

somehow, you ended up bent over on the bed, your panties pulled down to your ankles and the hem of your dress pulled up. rafe's thumb was still between your lips, his hips snapping against yours to the rhythm of the music that was playing downstairs.

"he doesn't deserve you..." rafe mumbled against the back of your neck, "never did..."

tears ran down your cheeks as he pounded into you from behind, pressing small kisses to the back of your neck. your mind was muddled, and even though you were still hurting from finding out about your boyfriend, it didn't hold a candle to the way rafe had you folded, his hand holding onto the fat of your ass as his cock was being squeezed by your warm cunt.

"rafe..." his name on your lips was muffled by rafe's hand as you arched your back, your hips meeting his as the boy's hand slid down to meet your clit, electricity running down your spine as your bucked your hips into his hand. "rafe..."

rafe pulled his hand away from your mouth, moving it to grip your hair, pulling your head back. "you're mine."

you let out incomprehensible mumbles as the pace of his hips picked up, the feeling deep in your stomach getting more and more intense as you got lost in him.

[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "you kiss him when he's having a bad day" + one piece men

summary: he's tense. tired. frustrated. on the verge of biting someone’s head off. so you come in and give him a lil forehead kiss.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

He’s behind his desk. Rings off. Fingers clenched. Jaw tight.

Everyone’s been walking on eggshells.

You stroll in, quietly set a folder down, and without a word…

Lean in. Kiss his forehead.

He freezes.

Eyes widen—barely.

You smile, soft and warm, and whisper:

“You’re doing more than enough. I'm proud of you.”

Then you walk away.

He stares at the empty doorway like you just shut his entire system down.

A long pause.

And then—

“...God fucking damn it.”

MIHAWK

He’s staring out the window, jaw clenched, barely breathing.

You walk in. No preamble.

Stand on your toes, gently lift your hand to his cheek—and kiss his forehead.

His eyes close.

You brush your fingers through his hair once and murmur:

“Even the sharpest of swords need rest.”

And then you leave.

He doesn’t move for several minutes.

Just breathes.

Softer than before.

MARCO

He’s leaning over reports, face in his hand, feathers dull, stress in his shoulders.

You step in. Gently put a cup of tea by his elbow.

Then kiss his forehead.

He looks up, startled.

You smile.

“Take five, flamebird.”

And you’re gone.

He exhales.

And you hear him mumble:

“I’d take forever if it meant more of that.”

ACE

He’s pacing. Huffing. Throwing little sparks.

And the air around him is hot.

You sneak up behind him, tug gently on his wrist.

“What?!”

You stand on your tiptoes and kiss his forehead.

He goes silent.

You smile.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore, remember that.”

Then you vanish down the hallway, humming.

He stands there with both hands on his face, vibrating.

“I’m not gonna cry. I’m not gonna fucking cry. I—”

“—FUCK, man.”

SHANKS

He’s unusually quiet. Nursing a bottle. Staring at the night sky.

You walk up to him, slide a little fruit plate in front of him, and tilt his chin up.

He blinks.

You kiss his forehead.

“All these stars and you’re still the brightest light in the sea, know that?”

You ruffle his hair and stroll away like it was nothing.

He leans back in his chair and groans dramatically like it didn't go straight through his soul.

Mutters:

“God fucking help me, I'm gonna marry her at this rate.”

LAW

He’s hunched at his desk. Frustrated. Cold.

You step in, softly touch his shoulder, and when he glances up—

You kiss his forehead.

“You don’t have to fix the world alone.”

And you’re gone.

He stares blankly at the door.

Then slowly leans forward, resting his forehead on the desk like:

“I am not built for this.”

CORAZON

He’s frowning over maps. Hands shaking slightly.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns.

You kiss his forehead. Brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you for always protecting us.”

You squeeze his hand and walk away.

He sits there in stunned silence.

Then tugs his collar over his face and weeps softly into it for the next ten minutes.

Why is it that you always bring out the softness in him so easily?

[maxtermind]

something based on ‘casual’ by chapell roan or ‘sharpest tool’ by sabrina carpenter with f1 drivers 🥹🥹🥹🥹

is it casual now?

★ : summary :: when you mistake your fuckbuddy for a lover ★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris ★ : genre :: ANGST; no hea; kinda smutty ★ : word count:: 6.1k+ ★ : a/n:: im afraid there will be no part 2s to this.. the premise of the song is a vicious cycle so NO happy endings!! hope y/n was smart enough to get him tested and use protection yikes.

MAX VERSTAPPEN

“then, baby, get me off again.”

You watched with hazy eyes as Max moved above you, his body pressing into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping, begging for breath. The pulse under your wrist raced in time with his movements, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your ribs. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin with a desperation that had your mind spinning.

Every time he thrust back into you, it sent a shockwave of pleasure rippling through your body, making your back arch a bit more. You could feel it building, the tension between you teetering on the edge of something explosive.

“Fuck, b-baby,” Max growled, voice thick and raw, the sound of it sending shivers up your spine, making your blood hum. His breath was ragged, his eyes locked onto yours, dark with need as if he was barely holding himself together.

Your heart raced even faster, chest tightening, and you bit your lip, smirking as you shifted slightly running your finger across your lip, driving his attention back to the deep red lipstick you knew was driving him wild. His gaze flicked down, his pupils dilating as he caught sight of it, and you saw the way his breath hitched, his body faltering for just a moment as he fought to keep control.

“That fucking lipstick…” he groaned, the words half-muttered, half-moan, and you could feel his grip tighten on you, his fingers pressing harder into your skin.

Your head was spinning, legs shaky beneath his weight, every nerve in your body alive with sensation as you dragged your nails down his back. “Ins-inside me, Max,” you whispered, your voice a breathless challenge.

The words seemed to push him over the edge, his finger on your clit flattered, his pace becoming erratic as he thrust into you one last time, his entire body tensing as he came undone. The sensation of him finally letting go pulled you under, your own release hitting you in waves so intense it left you trembling beneath him, vision hazy.

For a moment, everything was quiet, the room filled only with the sound of your labored breathing. Your body was heavy, every limb buzzing as you lay there in the afterglow, Max collapsing beside you, his arm still draped over your waist. You turned your head to look at him, the lazy, satisfied smile on your lips reflecting the warmth spreading through your chest.

“That was…” you started, voice soft and shaky, your heart still racing. You couldn’t find the words to finish, but the look in your eyes said enough. It was perfect. It was everything.

Max chuckled, low and rough, turning his head to meet your gaze. “Yeah, baby, it was,” his thumb brushing lightly across your hip, grounding you in the moment. For a second, it felt like nothing could shatter this— like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Then his phone buzzed.

The sharp sound sliced through the room, breaking the intimacy in an instant. You watched as Max reached for it without hesitation, his movements almost casual, but there was something about the way his body shifted- just a little too quickly- that sent a shiver down your spine. Your stomach clenched, heart dropping as you felt that familiar knot of uncertainty begin to form.

You didn’t say anything at first, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest, but when you saw the way his eyes refused to meet yours, how he turned the screen away from you slightly as he checked the message, you couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Who’s that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, but he could hear the edge of insecurity in your tone. Your heart hammered in your chest, blood rushing to your ears as you waited for his response, hoping it wouldn’t be what you feared.

Max glanced at you, too casually, placing the phone down without really answering. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice light, but it felt forced, like he wasn’t taking this seriously. He tried to brush it off, turning back to you with a small smile. “Just a friend.”

Your stomach dropped. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, your whole body felt cold, legs unsteady as you sat up in bed. Your mind raced, the warmth from moments ago replaced by a growing sense of dread. You knew this feeling all too well, the doubt creeping in and wrapping around your heart like a vice.

“A friend?” you echoed, barely able to keep your voice steady as the room spun slightly. Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly, trying to anchor yourself. “What’s just a friend, huh?”

Max sighed, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. “Come on, Y/N, it’s not a big deal,” he said, his tone frustratingly calm. “You know how it is.”

But you didn’t know how it was. Not really. Each beat of your heart sent waves of anger and hurt crashing through you, blood rushing so loud in your ears you could barely hear him. “What do you mean, ‘not a big deal?’” you asked, your voice shaking as your breath quickened. 

You could feel your throat tighten, the sting of tears threatening to form behind your eyes, but you fought them back. You needed answers. This game of guessing and hoping was getting old now.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable now, as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here, dealing with this, dealing with you. “Y/N, we’re not together,” he said, finally, his words blunt, like a slap across the face.

Your world tilted. You froze, unable to process his words for a moment, your chest tightening so painfully it felt like you might not be able to breathe. We’re not together. We’re not together. We’re not together. We’re n- The sentence echoed in your mind again and again, each word hitting harder than the last.

Your vision blurred as you pushed the sheets off your legs and swung them over the edge of the bed, standing on shaky legs that barely supported you. The room felt like it was spinning, and you had to steady yourself against the wall as you tried to hold it together.

“We’re not together?” you repeated, voice barely audible. You felt your heart break in real time, the cracks forming so fast it left you breathless. It was useless, this was all useless but our mouth wouldn’t shut up. “So what the hell have we been doing, Max? What am I to you?”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, just a fleeting second, you thought you saw a flicker of guilt cross his face, but then it was gone, replaced by indifference. “It’s just laid back between us,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm. “Don’t make it more than that.”

Your blood turned to ice, legs almost giving out beneath you. That’s all it was to him. Just fun. You felt sick, a cold wave of nausea rolling over you as your chest tightened, the weight of it making it hard to breathe. You had let yourself believe you meant something more to him, that this connection wasn’t ‘laid back.’

You swallowed hard, fighting the tears that were now almost on the verge of falling. “I can’t do this,” you said, voice barely steady, as you started grabbing your clothes from the floor, your fingers trembling. “I’m not just s-some girl.. I’m not a laid back girl.”

Max sighed, standing up and running a hand through his messy hair. “Y/N, come on, don’t do this,” he said, but there was no urgency in his voice. No real concern. Just a tired resignation, like he’d been through this before ample times and for once, you knew that he has.

Screw your heart for hoping for something better though. You slipped on your shoes, moving toward the door with legs that felt like they could give out at any second, nodding your head as you tried to make sense of what exactly was happening.

As your hand reached for the door handle, you heard him say your name. There was a slight panic in his voice now, but it was too late. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t be the girl who stayed.

Without turning around, you stepped into the hallway, letting the door close behind you. But as soon as the elevator doors shut, trapping you inside, the sobs came. You pressed your back against the cool metal, sliding down to the floor as your legs gave out beneath you, the weight of it all crashing down at once. Your heart was shattered, your mind spinning as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. You had meant nothing to him. Nothing. It was just cruel of him to confirm it instead of comforting you.

Two days later, you stood in front of the mirror in your bathroom, the events of that night replaying in your mind on an endless loop.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced down, seeing his name flash across the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, fingers trembling as you picked it up, the pain still fresh.

You good?

You worked in a haste after that, applying your makeup robotically, working off of muscle memory. till suddenly your handstopped. The lipstick suspended just above your lips. The question seemed so casual, so empty. After everything that had happened, all he could do was leave a text?

Your chest still ached, your eyes red from crying, but your hands were steady as you applied the deep red lipstick that had always drove him crazy. You stared at your reflection, the bright red color a sharp contrast to your pale, tear-stained skin. You felt hollow inside, but you were determined not to show it.

You took a deep breath, staring at yourself in the mirror, and then put the phone down without responding, finishing your lipstick with a steady hand. You didn’ have to text him back to let him know that you were coming over.

LEWIS HAMILTON

“and i try to be the chill girl, that holds her tongue and gives you space, i try to be the chill girl.”

The bathroom was colder than you expected, the chill from the tiles seeping into your skin as you leaned against the sink, your heart racing with anticipation. You gave your reflection a quick once-over, fixing your hair and adjusting the neckline of your dress.

You felt pretty, wanted, and the night felt like it could be perfect—the first real date with Lewis. It wasn’t some glamorous dinner, but he’d asked you out, and that was enough to send butterflies fluttering through your chest.

With one last deep breath, you stepped out of the bathroom and made your way back toward the bar. But as you approached, the sound of his voice- low, smooth, flirtatious- stopped you in your tracks. Your stomach twisted, the butterflies quickly turning into a knot of dread.

“I can’t believe someone like you is single,” Lewis said, his tone dripping with charm, the kind of charm that had reeled you in not so long ago.

Your steps flattered as your feet stopped moving, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You moved closer, just enough to peek around the corner, and there he was. Your Lewis, leaning against the bar, his body angled toward a blonde woman sitting beside him. She was smiling, twirling her hair around her finger, her laughter light and flirtatious. And he wasn’t just letting her do it—he was engaging, smiling that same smile that used to make you feel special.

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched her lean in closer, her fingers brushing against his arm. He didn’t move away. He didn’t stop her. Instead, he laughed, that deep, charming laugh that you had fallen for, and replied to something that woman had said, “Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

It made you want to throw up.

It was a punch to the gut. Your legs felt weak, your head pounding so hard you thought it might burst. You swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotions bubbling up inside you under control. Be cool, be chill. You weren’t going to make a scene. Not here, not now. You were supposed to be the girl who didn’t get jealous, who didn’t lose her cool.

But fuck, it was killing you inside. Lewis was killing you.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over, forcing a smile even though your entire body felt like it was on fire with hurt and jealousy. As you approached, Lewis glanced up and spotted you, his expression shifting for just a moment- was that guilt?- before the charm was back. “Hey,” he said, sliding his arm around your waist firmly, like nothing was wrong.

The blonde woman blinked in surprise, glancing between you and Lewis, clearly caught off guard. “Oh… I didn’t realize you were with someone,” she said, her voice uncertain now, her smile faltering.

Lewis smiled, a little too nonchalant for your liking. “This is Y/N,” he said, his hand still resting on your waist, burning into your skin through the clothes. “She’s just a friend.”

Your throat felt tight, the words hitting you like ice water. Just a friend. The knot in your stomach tightened painfully, but you forced a smile, trying to hold it together. You nodded at the woman, just to acknowledge her.

It was not her fault but fuck you hated her and how pretty she was. Of course, Lewis was picking her over you. You could feel your throat tightening, the sting of tears threatening to blur your vision, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him or her.

The bartender, who had been quietly pouring drinks nearby, glanced at you with a look that made you want to disappear. She looked uncomfortable, like she had just witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to. “Can I get you something?” she asked, clearing her throat, her voice a little awkward.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You needed to get away, to breathe, but you couldn’t move, your legs rooted to the spot as Lewis gave the blonde one last charming smile before turning back to you.

“You good?” he asked, his tone too casual, as if he hadn’t just flirted with someone else right in front of you. His arm tightened around your waist, and you felt like you were going to explode.

Your pulse quickened, blood rushing in your ears as your mind raced. You wanted to scream, to ask him how he could do this, but instead, you bit your tongue, forcing yourself to stay calm. You were supposed to be the chill girl. The one who didn’t make a scene.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything else.

The blonde, sensing the awkward tension, quickly excused herself, slipping away into the crowd. You watched her go, the hurt bubbling up inside you so fast it made you feel dizzy. You turned to face Lewis, your chest tight with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

“Really?” you asked despite every nerve in your body begging you not to, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Just a friend?”

Lewis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly not wanting to deal with this right now. “Come on, darling, don’t be like this,” he said, his tone light, dismissive, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t a big deal.

Your heart twisted painfully, but you forced yourself to keep your voice calm. “You invited me out tonight. We were supposed to spend time together, and I come back and you’re flirting with someone else?”

He shrugged, his expression indifferent. “I was just being friendly. It’s not like we’re together or anything.”

Those words sent a sharp pain shooting through your chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You stared at him, your heart sinking, feeling like the floor had just dropped out from under you. Not together. The truth of it hit you like a slap to the face.

You swallowed hard, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes. “Then what are we doing, Lewis?” you asked, your voice small, almost pleading. “Because I’m not just here to be another girl you take out for fun.”

He sighed again, looking away like he was bored with the conversation already. “We’re having fun, Y/N. Why do you have to make it more complicated than that?”

Your heart broke a little more with every word, but you refused to cry. You refused to let him see how much this was hurting you. “I’m not asking for much,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I just… I thought maybe this was more than just casual.”

Lewis looked at you then, really looked at you, you expecting something- anything, love, affection, misery— hell just regret would’ve worked too. However, you got nothing but a dismissal. “I do like you, Y/N. But you know that I’m not looking for anything serious.”

The final nail in the coffin. Your breath caught in your throat, and you had to look away, your vision blurring as the tears finally threatened to spill over. You felt like you were crumbling from the inside out, but you couldn’t let him see that. You had to hold it together, at least until you were out of here.

“I see,” you whispered, nodding as you tried to swallow the pain, blinking rapidly.

Lewis reached for your hand, his touch warm but not comforting anymore. “Look, I’ll take you home if you want. Or… we can head back to mine. It’s up to you.”

Your heart stuttered, the decision hanging heavily between you. So that’s what today was about? He was giving you an out, a chance to walk away from this before it hurt even more. But deep down, you knew you weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to walk away from the hope, no matter how small, that maybe, just maybe, things could change.

So you nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Your place sounds nice.”

The words felt like a betrayal to yourself, but you couldn’t take them back now. As Lewis led you toward the exit, you glanced back at the bartender, who watched you with a look that seemed to say I’m sorry. But you weren’t sure if she was sorry for what she’d witnessed, or for the fact that you were still walking out with him.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Because tonight, you had again chosen heartbreak over being alone.

CARLOS SAINZ

“i know what you tell your friends, baby, get me off again.”

As you sat on the edge of Carlos’ childhood bed, strapping on your heels, the warm glow of his family’s home lingered in your mind. The day had been a whirlwind of laughter and warmth, filled with his mother’s delicious cooking and moments that made you feel like you truly belonged. You felt hopeful, almost giddy as you shared dessert with his sisters, swapping stories and jokes.

It was a stretch, you knew but the smile wouldn’t get off of your face, imagining a future where you were part of this family.

But now, as you glanced at yourself in the mirror, the reflection staring back felt fragile. The soft makeup you had carefully applied that morning seemed like a mask, hiding the anxiety brewing inside. Your heart raced as you replayed the events of the evening—how comfortable it had been to be with them, how easy it was to laugh and connect.

Just as you finished adjusting your dress, you heard Carlos’ voice float down the hallway, mingled with his sister’s. You froze, your heart sinking as you listened intently.

“Did you really bring her here thinking it wasn’t serious?” his sister’s voice was sharp, filled with disbelief.

“Can you just drop it?” Carlos replied, his tone a mix of irritation and indifference. “It’s not like that with us.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat, a chill running down your spine. It’s not like that with us. The words echoed in your mind, slicing through the warm memories of the evening, leaving only the cold sting of reality.

“She’s so sweet, Carlos. You’re just going to let her think there’s something more?” his sister pressed, concern etched in her voice. You felt thankful, maybe not every single person in this family was heartless after all.

“Not that it concerns you but it’s casual,” he said dismissively. “We’re not together, so just… let it go.”

Your heart dropped at his words, the sound of laughter from earlier now feeling like a cruel joke. You had let yourself believe that maybe this was something real, that you meant more to him than just a passing fling. But hearing him brush off your feelings so easily made you feel sick.

Fueled by anger and hurt, you stood up, shaking off the numbness that threatened to overtake you. You walked down the hallway, heart pounding in your chest, determined to confront him.

As you stepped into the living room, the cheerful atmosphere felt suffocating, his sister was nowhere to be found, probably leaving after her brother’s disgustig actions. 

“Carlos!” you called, cutting through the silence like a knife. He turned, surprised, and you could see the tension in his shoulders as he faced you.

“Hey, ready to go?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knew why you were looking at him in disbelief and he did not know why it made his heart hurt.

You took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “Is this really just casual for you?” Your voice wavered but held an edge of steel.

“You were listening to us?” His expression hardened slightly, reason untold but he didn’t lose his cool, shrugging off with indifference. “You know what I mean. We’re not serious, and you can’t expect me to change that.”

“Why not?” you shot back, feeling the heat rise in your chest. “I spent the entire day with your family, Carlos! I laughed, I connected—I felt like I was part of something. And you’e just shrugging it off like it’s nothing?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you pressed on, needing him to hear you. “You brought me here, made me feel welcomed, and then you act like I’m just some random fling. Do you even realize how that feels?”

Carlos’ eyes softened for a moment, but then he crossed his arms, a defensive gesture. “I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea. You know I like having you around.”

“Like?” The word slipped from your lips like a bitter pill, body shuddering. “Is that all it is to you? Just something you ‘like’?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he replied, his voice steady but distant. This was not the carlos you fell for, this wasn’t your carlos or maybe you were just blind. “I’m not ready for something serious.”

You shook your head, frustration boiling over. “You’re not even trying, Carlos. You keep me at arm’s length and expect me to just accept that? You seriously need to figure out what you want.”

He stared at you, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you two. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wrestled with your words.You knew now that you were wrong to think that he set up this family lunch to introduce you to the family. He was just a clueless asshole in denial of his feelings.

“Maybe I don’t want to figure it out,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe I just want to enjoy what we have without any pressure.”

You scoffed, the pain in your chest feeling like it might burst. “Enjoying something doesn’t mean it has to be casual! It feels like I’m just a placeholder for you, and that’s not fair!”

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read—was it regret? Or was it the realization that you were right?

You stood there, heart pounding, waiting for him to say something, anything. The seconds stretched painfully, each tick of the clock echoing your unspoken feelings.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You know what? I deserve more than this half-hearted relationship. I’ve been here, waiting for you to reach half way while you hold back.”

His eyes softened further, and he stepped closer, but you held your ground. “Don’t. Just… don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I can’t keep doing this if you can’t even acknowledge what we have.”

With that, you slipped away from his reach, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t want to give in to the hurt, but it was too late.

As you walked out to the car, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back, and though you wanted to turn around, to see if he would follow you, you held firm. You had to reclaim your own heart, even if it meant letting go of the warmth that had just started to blossom.

Inside the car, you tried to steady your breath, the silence heavy and charged. You were tired of the uncertainty, tired of being treated like an option.

But as Carlos drove you both back to his apartment, you felt a flicker of something deep inside— a stubborn resolve to protect your heart, even if it meant walking away from him but the need to not let whatever you had of him leave.

So you kept your mouth shut, glad that he didn’t drive to your place to drop you off. That he was still taking you back to his. You deserved more, but maybe, just maybe, tomorrow.

CHARLES LECLERC

“knee deep in the passenger seat, and you're eating me out. is it casual now?”

The warm glow of the restaurant enveloped you as you sat across from Charles, the flickering candlelight casting playful shadows on his handsome face. You were supposed to be enjoying a nice dinner, but the tension crackling between you two had already shifted the mood.

It started innocently enough—Charles's playful banter and the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed made your heart race. But as the night wore on, it took a sharp turn when the waiter, a tall guy with an easy smile, casually slipped his number on a napkin and handed it to you. You could feel the weight of Charles’s gaze burn into you, his expression a mix of surprise and annoyance.

“Seriously?” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that about?”

You rolled your eyes, a smirk dancing on your lips. “’s just a number, Charles. Chill out.”

But he wasn’t chilling out, far from it. “Yeah, right. Like you’d really call him,” he muttered, his voice tight. You could see the jealousy simmering beneath his cool exterior, and a part of you enjoyed it—a small thrill surged through you knowing he cared.

“Relax. It’s harmless,” you replied, but he cut you off, leaning in closer as he spoke over your explanation, his tone sharp. “It’s not harmless when he’s acting like you’re available.”

You took a sip of your drink, trying to mask your amusement. His jealousy was almost cute, and you couldn’t help the flutters all over your body, knowing you could get a reaction out of him. But the moment was fleeting, as he suddenly stood up and grabbed your hand, his grip firm but urgent.

“Let’s get out of here,” he declared, pulling you towards the exit before you could protest. The restaurant faded into the background as he led you outside, his body radiating heat and tension.

Once you reached the car, he didn’t waste a moment. He pushed you into the backseat, his lips crashing against yours with a desperate intensity. The world outside disappeared as you got lost in the way he kissed you, each movement igniting the familiar fire between you.

“Ruined my mood, baby,” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. You could feel the pulse of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the thrill of being caught up in this reckless moment. “Make it up to me now.”

Your vigorous nods made him smirk. But just as you were losing yourself in the heat of it all, Charles shifted his focus. He slid down, his mouth trailing down your body, kissing a path along your thighs, a gasp leaving your lips. 

He made quick work of your clothes before spanking your poor clit, gathering the click. “So wet already, dirty girl.” You moaned softly, arching your back against the seat, your fingers tangling in his hair as he worked his magic.

Yet, amidst the bliss, a flicker of something gnawed at you. He was grumbling under his breath, murmuring words that didn’t quite register at first. “Hope he sees me in between your legs” he muttered, and your heart skipped a beat, a chuckle about to leave your lips.

Suddenly, our foot made contact with Charles- painfully hard- crotch over the clothes and he threw his head back. Nothing could ruin this moment, or so you thought because then you heard it… he name of another girl, whispered low and almost too soft to catch. “Ella…”

Your world shattered in an instant. All the pleasure, all the excitement, evaporated like steam on glass. The warmth that had enveloped you turned cold, leaving you in a frozen moment of realization. Your heart sank as a wave of betrayal washed over you, crashing down with a force that took your breath away.

The name echoed in your mind, each syllable twisting like a knife. All those moments spent in his arms, all the laughter and shared secrets, felt meaningless in the wake of those four letters. The joy you had felt moments ago was replaced with a deep, gnawing pain.

But instead of pushing him away, you took a deep breath, fighting against the urge to crumble. Don’t let it show. Just ignore it for your sake.

“Charles,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You were still here, still caught up in this mess. “Focus on me, okay?”

He looked up, his expression hazy for a moment, the desire in his eyes flickering back to life as he nodded. You didn’t want to show him how much that name hurt. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten under your skin.

So you pushed the hurt aside, letting the pleasure wash over you again. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him back to you, trying to ignore the bitterness in your throat. “Just… just forget about it,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

His lips returned to lips, and for a moment, the world around you faded away once more. You let him kiss you deeply, your heart racing with conflicting emotions. You were here, and he was here with you, and that had to count for something, right?

The tension still lingered, the reminder of ‘Ella,’ echoing in the back of your mind, but you buried it deep, clinging to the heat and the pleasure as if it could erase everything else. You were determined to enjoy this moment, even if it was tainted with uncertainty.

As he moved against you, the line between pleasure and pain blurred, and you surrendered to the chaos of it all. You could be casual, you could be carefree—even if it meant pretending everything was fine when deep down, you knew it was anything but.

LANDO NORRIS

“it’s hard being casual when my favorite bra lives in your dresser.”

The dim light from the early morning filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You lay in Lando’s bed, your head resting on the pillow just inches from his, his arm draped lazily over your body. His breathing was slow and steady, completely at peace. He was asleep, unbothered, while your heart raced, your mind spinning in a thousand directions.

You chose to stare up at the ceiling instead, feeling the emotional high from earlier fading away into something much darker. The night had been passionate, the kind of heat between you two that made you forget, for just a moment, that this wasn’t real. But now, as his warmth settled into the sheets, you were wide awake, the weight of reality crashing down on you.

This isn’t love. The thought hit you like a brick to the chest. The warmth of his arm around you, the way his body curled protectively against yours—it all felt so right, so intimate, but deep down, you knew better. This wasn’t love. This was just another night. For him.

You rolled away from him slowly, the ache in your chest growing unbearable as you slipped out from under his arm. The cool air of the room hit your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. You sat up, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, your hands trembling as you fought the urge to scream. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

You hated yourself for feeling used, for staying, even when you knew he didn’t feel the same. Every time you come back, you let yourself believe—just for a second—that maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time, you would wake up in his arms, and he’d look at you with something more than lust in his eyes.

But that moment never came, it never wil…

Tears stung at the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to cry over this again. You needed to leave. Before he woke up, before he could see the mess inside your head, before you made a fool of yourself once more.

As you quietly gathered your clothes, something caught your eye. There, hanging out of his open closet door, was your favorite bra—the black lace one you thought you’d lost weeks ago. Your chest tightened, a strange mix of relief and unease washing over you. You stepped closer, reaching for it, but as your fingers brushed the delicate fabric, you froze.

There was another bra in there. One that wasn’t yours. Kept in his personal space like a fucking trophy.

The jealousy hit you like a lightning strike, scorching its way through your veins. Your stomach churned, your head spinning with the sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. It wasn’t just the bra—it was everything. The confirmation that you weren’t the only one. That you were just another girl who left pieces of herself behind in his apartment.

Your hands shook as you stared at the unfamiliar piece of clothing, your mind racing with images of Lando, here in this bed, with someone else. All the nights you weren’t with him. All the mornings he woke up with her instead.

Why did you expect anything different? You knew what this was, didn’t you? You were supposed to be casual, nothing serious, just two people having fun. But seeing that other bra, knowing it didn’t belong to you- it shattered whatever illusion you had been holding onto.

Oh God.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you were scrambling back to the bed, desperate to be close to him again. You slid under the covers, pressing your body against his, your hand resting on his chest as if that could make everything feel okay. He stirred slightly, his arm instinctively pulling you back against him, his lips brushing your forehead in a sleepy kiss.

For a moment, you let yourself melt into his touch, pretending that you could belong here, that he could be yours.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You could only have him if you played the part—if you pretended to be okay with being casual. If you could be the girl who didn’t ask for more, who didn’t get jealous, who didn’t care if there was another bra in his closet.

As his breathing evened out again, you closed your eyes, willing yourself to believe that maybe this could be enough. That as long as you stayed, as long as you kept pretending, he could be yours. Even if it was only for moments like this.

Even if it was nothing more than a lie you told yourself.

Because being his- even in this twisted, half-real way- felt better than being without him.

And if playing the part of the dumb lover was the price you had to pay, you would. For as long as you could bear it.

( writing masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request ) ©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

[astrologydray]

Mercury Sign Intelligence Ranking (From Sharpest to Softest Thinkers)🧠✨

Note: Everyone has strengths in different kinds of intelligence (emotional, analytical, spatial, linguistic, etc.). Mercury in Pisces may write the most moving poetry. Mercury in Capricorn might write the best business plan.

1. Mercury in Gemini

Keyword: Mental Gymnastics

This is Mercury’s domicile, meaning it functions at full strength here. Sharp, witty, fast-talking, and excellent at multitasking. Absorbs trivia like a sponge. Thinks in hyperlinks.

2. Mercury in Virgo

Keyword: Precision

Also in domicile and exaltation. Analytical, detail-oriented, and mentally organized. Masters systems, edits flawlessly, and thrives on logic. Their brain is a high-speed filing cabinet.

3. Mercury in Aquarius

Keyword: Genius-Level Pattern Seeker

Independent thinker, visionary mind. Thinks ten steps ahead and outside the box. Often “ahead of their time” — the rebels and inventors of thought.

4. Mercury in Scorpio

Keyword: Psychological Sleuth

Obsessed with depth. Highly intuitive and investigative. Can detect lies, read minds, and process information beneath the surface. Strategic thinker with razor focus.

5. Mercury in Capricorn

Keyword: Strategic Planner

Thinks long-term. Practical, grounded, and goal-oriented. Absorbs knowledge through structure and discipline. Excellent at putting ideas into action.

6. Mercury in Libra

Keyword: Diplomatic Logic

Highly intelligent socially and verbally. They weigh perspectives and speak with poise. Great debaters, lawyers, and artists of articulation.

7. Mercury in Sagittarius

Keyword: Big Picture Thinker

Philosophical, adventurous, and open-minded. Not always detail-oriented, but sees overarching meaning and vision. Brilliant storytellers and educators.

8. Mercury in Aries

Keyword: Quick and Blunt

Snappy thinkers. Acts on impulse and trusts instinct. While not always reflective, they’re sharp, decisive, and quick-witted in arguments.

9. Mercury in Leo

Keyword: Creative Communicator

Thinks with flair and heart. Loves storytelling and spotlight communication. Not the most logical, but brilliant at inspiring and performing.

10. Mercury in Taurus

Keyword: Slow and Steady

Learns at their own pace. Strong memory and focused attention, but slower to process new ideas. Excellent at mastering one subject deeply.

11. Mercury in Cancer

Keyword: Emotional Intelligence

Learns through emotion and memory. Not always linear, but intuitive and empathetic thinkers. More subjective, but deeply wise in a nurturing way.

12. Mercury in Pisces

Keyword: Dream Logic

Highly creative, imaginative, and intuitive — but struggles with linear or rational processes. Their intelligence is spiritual, artistic, and symbolic rather than logical.

[teddybeartoji]

touching your wolf bf's teeth........................................... he's trying to be so patient with you but fuck, it's hard. your eyes are so big and wide and you smell so good and your lips are parted and you keep licking them in excitement and he can see your chest rising and falling a little faster than usual and you're resting your hand on his thigh as you inch closer and closer to him and it's all getting him worked up way more than he'd like to admit.

you drag the pads of your fingers over his teeth and gasp quietly when you finally reach the sharpest ones. your nails dig into his leg muscles and a low growl rumbles in his chest – he doesn't miss the way you squeeze your thighs together at the sound. your eyes meet and the surge of electricity that runs through your body at the sight of his lust-filled eyes is intoxicating.

but he doesn't push you, he lets you take it at your own pace, no matter how tight his pants are getting. when you gently push at his lips, he tugs them back in order to show off his fangs. pride blooms inside him at your awestruck expression and a kind of hunger settles deep inside his stomach – his mouth salivates at the thought of your taste.

a bite wouldn't hurt, right?

[solxamber]

Suddenly, an idea got to me when I read one comic. So, basically, Yuu sits on bench, looking down and all depressed, then Ace and Deuce see them like this and ask what's wrong, Yuu tells them to sit down, so they can tell them, they sit down, then Yuu says to them: "Guys... A bench is freshly painted..." Idk I just felt like it suits them very well. Cue as they proceed to go through 5 states of grief

First Year Trio vs Freshly Painted Bench

sorry for the wait, I hope you like it <3

Ace and Deuce were minding their own business, strolling through the campus courtyard, when they spotted you sitting on a bench. But it wasn’t just the usual “hey, there’s our friend chilling on a bench” type of sitting. No, you were hunched over, elbows on your knees, staring at the ground like life had personally punched you in the gut and stolen your lunch money.

“Hey, are you okay?” Deuce asked, his brow furrowing in concern. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could recognize a sad face when he saw one.

Ace snorted, nudging Deuce. “Pfft, maybe they just lost at UNO again. Come on, it’s not the end of the world.”

You lifted your gaze ever so slightly, giving them both the most soul-crushing, mournful look. A look that said you’d just seen the darkest depths of human existence. It was the kind of expression usually reserved for people in tragic Shakespearean plays, not normal students in the middle of the afternoon.

“What happened?” Deuce asked, his voice soft, like he was bracing himself for some life-altering news. “Did something really bad happen?”

You motioned for them to come closer. “Sit down,” you said quietly, like someone on the verge of revealing the meaning of life itself.

Deuce’s concern deepened. Without hesitation, he plopped himself down on the bench beside you. Ace, less certain but intrigued by the sheer drama of it all, sat on your other side. The three of you formed a solemn row on the bench, like mourners at the world’s saddest funeral.

There was a long, weighted pause. Both Ace and Deuce waited, eyes wide, as if you were about to drop the most earth-shattering truth bomb of all time.

Finally, Ace broke the silence, his curiosity getting the better of him. “So, uh… what’s wrong?”

You sighed. It was a deep, theatrical sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand years of suffering. Slowly, you turned your head toward them and said, in a voice so grave it could’ve been narrating a tragic documentary:

“The bench… is freshly painted.”

There was a beat. A moment of absolute, deafening silence.

Then:

“WHAT?!” Ace yelped, his face immediately scrunching up in horror. He bolted upright like he’d just sat on a beehive, but it was too late. He glanced down, eyes wide, at the back of his pants, and sure enough—a vibrant, shiny streak of wet paint was smeared across his clothes.

Deuce’s reaction was slower, but only because he was in denial. “No, no, no, wait, it can’t be—” He reached a hand back to touch his pants, and the moment his fingers brushed the sticky surface, his face fell into the deepest despair. “Oh no… nooooooo!”

You stayed seated, as calm as a monk who had achieved inner peace. “Yep,” you said softly. “Just freshly painted.”

Ace, now pacing in front of the bench like a man possessed, threw his hands up in disbelief. “WHY DID YOU TELL US TO SIT DOWN?!” His voice cracked somewhere between fury and absolute confusion.

You shrugged, not even looking at him, your voice still deadpan. “I needed you to understand my pain.”

Deuce, still frozen on the bench like a statue, glanced back at his pants, horrified by the neon streak decorating his backside. “But… but why didn’t you just tell us?” His voice was faint, like he’d just witnessed a crime against humanity.

You finally stood up, stretching a little as if your emotional weight had lifted now that you’d successfully shared your burden. “Because misery loves company,” you said, a tiny smirk playing on your lips. “And now… you get it.”

Ace stared at you, hands in his hair, mouth hanging open. “That’s… that’s messed up, man!”

Deuce, however, was too far gone. He wasn’t even mad anymore. His face was a portrait of pure, unfiltered sadness. “I’m gonna have to wash these, aren’t I? Like, scrub them for hours…”

You nodded solemnly, patting him on the back—though you made sure to avoid touching his pants. “Welcome to the club. It’s going to take at least three washes, minimum.”

Deuce whimpered.

Ace, however, wasn’t done venting. “You couldn’t have just given us a heads-up?! ‘Hey guys, don’t sit here, the bench is painted,’ or something?” He waved his arms wildly as if demonstrating the hypothetical conversation.

You just shrugged. “You looked like you needed to sit.”

“And now I’ll never sit again,” Ace groaned, dramatically flopping back down on the other side of the bench in defeat—only to shoot back up in horror, realizing there was even more paint he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t help it. You chuckled.

Ace pointed a finger at you accusingly. “You—this was a trap! A setup! You’re a paint terrorist!”

Deuce, still sitting in quiet despair, muttered, “This is worse than losing at UNO…”

The three of you stood there for a moment in shared misery. Well, you stood. Ace and Deuce just fidgeted around awkwardly, trying to figure out how to move without getting more paint on themselves.

Finally, Deuce sighed. “I guess we’re going to the laundry room, huh?”

Ace groaned, giving you one last betrayed look before shuffling off with Deuce. “This isn’t over. You owe us.”

“Yeah,” Deuce added, still staring forlornly at his pants. “You owe us big time…”

You waved after them, feeling surprisingly lighthearted now that your suffering was mutual. “I’ll buy you guys lunch later!” you called, though you weren’t sure if they even heard you over their grumbling.

As they disappeared into the distance, you sat back down on the cursed bench, content with the knowledge that, while your pants were ruined… at least you weren’t alone.

Masterlist

[theonottsbxtch]

MY BIRTHDAY, MY LOVE | MV1

an: let me preface this by the fact that I AM STILL ON A BREAK!!! this is just something i promised to get written for our blog fav anon! happy birthday sweetheart, thank you for all your requests i hope you have a great day and get everything you wished for! this is short, but its my gift from me to you.

wc: 1.9k

THE MORNING SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the curtains, warm and golden against the white linen sheets. She stirred, reaching out instinctively for Max, only to be met with the cool expanse of an empty mattress. Her fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the absence with a small sigh.

It wasn’t unusual. He kept odd hours—training, traveling, racing. The life of a Formula One driver wasn’t exactly a nine-to-five. She’d grown used to it over the years, though it never stopped the quiet ache of missing him when he wasn’t there. Still, today was her birthday, and a part of her had hoped to wake up to his sleepy smile, his whispered “Happy birthday” against her hair.

Instead, the house was silent, save for the faint hum of the wind outside. She glanced at the clock: 6:13 a.m. Too early to expect much, even for him. He was probably at the gym or out running laps around the back roads.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood and stretched, brushing off the hint of disappointment. She had plans anyway—dressage always helped to clear her mind. A birthday ride through the fields, the crisp winter air biting against her cheeks, was just what she needed to set the day off right.

She pulled on her breeches and boots, tying her hair back into a loose braid. Out at the ranch, the horses would already be awake, tails flicking in anticipation of breakfast. The thought made her smile as she grabbed an apple from the kitchen on her way out.

The crisp morning air hit her cheeks as she stepped into the yard, boots crunching softly against the gravel. Everything was calm, the only sound the occasional whicker of a horse from the stables. But as she approached the barn, something caught her eye: movement.

“Hello?” she called out, confused. It wasn’t like her staff to be here this early without telling her. She stepped inside, blinking against the dim light.

And there he was.

Her heart stalled. Max stood in the center of the stable aisle, dressed in jeans and an old sweater, looking adorably out of place. His light hair was slightly messy, as if he hadn’t slept much, and in his hands, he held a cake—lopsided, candles crooked, but undeniably homemade.

“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice soft but filled with warmth.

She gaped at him, her gaze darting between the cake, the awkward way he shifted on his feet, and the shy smile tugging at his lips.

“I, uh... I thought we could spend the day together,” he continued, glancing around at the horses. “Maybe you could teach me how to ride?”

Her breath caught. No one had ever taken her passion seriously before, not really. It had always been her thing—something separate from the fast-paced, high-octane world he lived in. And yet, here he was, asking to share it with her, standing in her world like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t just a gesture. It was everything.

For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t string together the right words to match the whirlwind of emotions swirling in her chest. Instead, she took a slow step forward, her eyes never leaving his.

“You... want me to teach you?” she finally managed, her voice soft, almost disbelieving.

Max nodded, his smile turning sheepish. “I know it’s not really my thing, but it’s yours. And, well... you put up with my world all the time. I figured it’s about time I tried stepping into yours.”

She felt her heart clench, a mixture of affection and disbelief washing over her. This was the man who navigated the sharpest turns at breakneck speeds, who thrived under the pressure of roaring crowds and flashing cameras. Yet here he was, standing in her stable, with no clue how to handle a horse but every intention of trying.

“Besides,” he added with a wink, “I’m told I’m a quick learner.”

Her lips twitched into a smile despite herself. “We’ll see about that.”

Setting the cake aside carefully on a hay bale, she turned back to him and folded her arms. “Alright, let’s start with the basics. Do you even know which end of the horse is which?”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and she couldn’t help but join in.

“Hey, I’m not that clueless,” Max protested, though his glance toward the stalls betrayed a flicker of doubt. “That one’s the... front, right?”

She shook her head, amused, and led him toward her favorite horse, a sleek bay mare named Willow. As they approached, the horse stretched her neck over the stall door, ears flicking curiously toward him.

“This is Willow,” she said, reaching up to stroke the mare’s nose. “She’s gentle and patient—exactly what you need.”

He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering mid-air. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“She’ll like you,” she said firmly, guiding his hand to rest against Willow’s nose. “Horses can sense people. Just be calm and steady, and she’ll trust you.”

He nodded, his expression serious as he let Willow sniff his hand. When the mare nudged him gently, his face lit up with boyish delight, and she couldn’t suppress her grin.

“See? You’re a natural.”

“Or she’s just being polite,” Max quipped, but there was warmth in his voice as he scratched behind Willow’s ears.

Over the next hour, she guided him through the basics. From leading Willow out of her stall to saddling her, he fumbled with the stirrups and asked a million questions, but his enthusiasm never wavered. She found herself laughing more than she had in weeks, his clumsy attempts and earnest determination filling the barn with a lightness she hadn’t realized she needed.

Finally, it was time to ride. She helped him mount, suppressing a giggle as he wobbled awkwardly in the saddle.

“This feels... weird,” he said, gripping the reins a little too tightly.

“You’ll get used to it,” she assured him, adjusting his posture. “Now, remember what I said—light pressure with your legs, and keep the reins steady. Willow will do the rest.”

He took a deep breath, nodding. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

As Willow began to move in a slow, steady walk, he let out a surprised laugh.

“I’m doing it!”

“You’re doing it,” she echoed, her heart swelling as she watched him. He looked ridiculous—too tall, too tense—but also completely and utterly endearing.

For the first time in a long time, she felt like they weren’t just navigating two separate worlds, trying to make them fit. In this moment, they were here together, in hers, and it felt like magic.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the barnyard in shades of orange and gold, they were both worn out but blissfully happy. He had survived his first riding lesson with only a couple of near tumbles, and she had laughed more in one afternoon than she had in months.

“You’re officially better at this than I expected,” she teased as they walked hand in hand back to the house, their boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Well, I had a great teacher,” he said, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Although I think Willow deserves some of the credit for not throwing me off.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll let her know you’re grateful.”

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, they headed out for dinner at her favorite little countryside restaurant. The cosy atmosphere, filled with the hum of soft conversation and the scent of freshly baked bread, felt like the perfect end to the day. He held her hand across the table, his thumb brushing lazy circles against her skin as they shared stories, memories, and plans for the future.

When they stepped outside, the air was crisp, the stars glittering in the clear night sky. She tilted her head back, taking a deep breath of the cool air, when Max nudged her gently.

“Walk home with me?” he asked, his eyes warm and soft in the moonlight.

“Of course,” she said, lacing her fingers with his.

They strolled down the quiet country road, their laughter blending with the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance. It felt peaceful, perfect—just the two of them, away from the chaos of schedules and flashing cameras.

But then he slowed, his expression shifting from playful to serious. “Hey,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “I’ve got one more surprise for you. Do you trust me?”

She raised a brow but nodded. “Always.”

A smile tugged at his lips as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, dangling them with a little jingle. “Let’s go for a drive.”

Intrigued, she followed him to his sleek black car. As they sped down the empty road, the hum of the engine a low and soothing backdrop, she stole glances at him, trying to read the subtle curve of his smile.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

After about twenty minutes, Max turned onto a smaller, winding lane, flanked by towering trees that cast shadows across the headlights. When the car finally came to a stop, she glanced out the window, her breath catching.

They were parked in front of a stunning patch of land, framed by rolling hills and dotted with wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. At the center of it all stood a newly built stable, its wooden beams glowing softly under the moonlight.

“Wow,” she murmured, stepping out of the car and taking in the scene. “Whoever owns this must really love their horses.”

He walked up behind her, slipping an arm around her waist. “Yeah, she does.”

Her brow furrowed, and she turned to look at him. “You’ve met her?”

His expression softened, and without a word, Max reached into his pocket again and pulled out a small set of keys. He held them up, the faint clink of metal echoing in the quiet.

“She’s standing right in front of me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She froze, the words sinking in as she looked back at the stable, then at him, then back again.

“You... you bought this for me?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He nodded, his own eyes shining. “It’s yours. The land, the stable, everything. I know how much this means to you, how much you’ve dreamed of having a place like this to call your own. I wanted to make it happen.”

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she let out a choked laugh of disbelief. “You’re insane,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning, “but it’s worth it to see you like this.”

She didn’t say another word. Instead, she threw her arms around him, jumping up so he had to catch her, his laughter muffled against her shoulder as she buried her face in his neck.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she murmured through her tears.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “Happy birthday, love.”

She kissed him then, pouring every ounce of gratitude, love, and joy into the moment. When they finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, a tearful smile still playing on her lips.

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” she said softly.

“And it’s only the beginning,” he promised.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[khuzena]

OPERATION: MAKE HIM SMILE!

𐙚 PAIRING: Anaxagoras/gn!reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: You’ve tried everything to make Anaxa smile genuinely, but he stays guarded—until he notices your disappointment and pushes back. You stay patient, telling him to smile for himself or for you. Slowly, he starts opening up, and after a teasing moment, he finally gives you a real, imperfect smile.

𐙚 C.W: fluff, 2% angst (no im not scamming you), comfort, good ending, hopefully not ooc. EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED ANAXA BUT ITS FINE HE'S CUTE ANYWAYS. Please forgiveme

𐙚 A/N: This is my first fluff and comfort for HSR. Be GRATEFUL (/j) I'M GOING TO DROP ANOTHER ANGST BOMB ON YOU PEOPLE. UGHHH…. I'm trying out my old format jssnkw

They say that geniuses are often fated to tread the line of knowledge alone. That the sharpest minds burn the hottest in solitude, curled in on themselves like dying stars—brilliant, collapsing, quiet.

They say that brilliance demands isolation, that the mind sharpens best when no hand dares to hold it.

You’ve heard the quote—etched in old tomes, stitched into the margins of ancient Grove sermons: “Those who gaze too long at the stars forget how to look people in the eyes.”

Which is the problem for your boyfriend, really.

Because Anaxa, one of the Seven Sages of the Grove of Epiphany, founder of the Nousporists, and self-proclaimed “only truth in a world full of lies,” —smirks whenever he's right. Which is always.

You’ve been dating Anaxa for a year now. Long enough to learn his rhythms, his routines, his silences. Long enough to tell the difference between his lecture voice and his real voice. Long enough to know that when he says, “I’m fine,” he means, “I’m unraveling, but I’m too proud to admit it.”

Long enough to know that his smiles aren’t real. Not really.

He smirks when he’s right—which is often. It’s a habitual, sharp little thing, a half-smile curved like a blade. He wears it like armor. You’ve seen him flash it at philosophers three times his age, slicing through arguments with surgical cruelty. You’ve seen it appear when he explains a theory no one else understands, as if daring the world to catch up.

But you’ve never seen him smile for joy. Not the kind that escapes before he can hide it. Not the kind that softens him, or lights him from within. Not the kind that belongs to a young man who deserves to feel more than cold victory.

You’re not sure he knows how.

There’s a strange stillness to his happiness, when it shows. A quiet awe that never reaches his lips. He looks at the stars like he’s trying to read their secrets, not admire their light. He holds your hand sometimes, but it always feels like a negotiation of comfort, not instinct. He’s careful. Always thinking. Always calculating how much of himself he’s allowed to show before it becomes dangerous.

And still, he’s trying. You know that. You feel it, in the small ways. In the way he always memorizes the temperature of your tea. In the way he adjusts his pace to match yours without comment. In the way he lets you call him Anaxa, even though he told you not to.

“Rule number one,” he said when you met, voice crisp with boredom. “Do not call me Anaxa.”

You broke that rule within the week. He narrowed his eyes at you like you were a glitch in a formula. But he didn’t correct you. Never has.

Tonight, he’s curled over a scroll-strewn desk in the observatory, lamplight pooling gold across his shoulders. His long hair is swept over one side, slightly tangled. He hasn’t noticed. Or doesn’t care. One sleeve of his coat hangs off, the black and teal fabric slipping past his elbow. His eyepatch glints faintly in the low light as he leans into a diagram, muttering to himself.

He’s been like this all week. Distant. Frayed. And you know better than to interrupt him mid-thought—but something aches inside your chest when you see the untouched cup of tea beside him, cold.

You settle beside him, quiet. You don’t touch him yet. You just sit, close enough for him to notice, close enough to listen. The silence stretches, and still he doesn’t look up.

“…You’ve stopped smiling again,” you murmur, finally.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just shifts his ink-stained hand an inch to the right, still scribbling. The red tattoo on his knuckles flexes faintly as he writes. For a moment, you think he’s going to ignore you entirely.

Then, softly—deadpan, “Smiling is an inefficient use of facial muscle control. You should know this.”

There’s no venom in it. But no warmth, either.

You glance at his notes, at the way his handwriting has gotten messier. The way the same phrase has been rewritten three times. Your fingers brush his hand lightly, just at the edge where skin meets glove.

“And yet you smirk every time you’re proven right.”

That earns you something—a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting a sigh. Or maybe the urge to explain you away like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet. But he says nothing.

And that silence—that quiet refusal to deflect or push you away—feels like a crack in something deeper.

A small crack. But a crack, nonetheless.

The next time it happens, it’s almost midnight. You find him in the observatory again, this time with the windows fully open to the stars. He doesn’t hear you at first—too focused, too still. The kind of stillness you’ve learned to recognize. Not peace. Not quiet concentration. Just the absence of motion, like the pause between one breath and the next.

His journal lies open beside him. Not his academic one—the personal one, the one he writes in when he thinks no one is looking. The one you’ve only glimpsed once, and never asked about again.

You sit beside him without a word.

Above, the cosmos yawns open. Starlight coats the domed ceiling, cold and brilliant. Anaxa leans forward, elbows on the sill, gloved fingers laced beneath his chin. His eyepatch catches the starlight and turns it to gold.

“They’re quiet tonight,” he murmurs. “The dromases used to get restless under constellations like this.”

You glance at him, surprised by the mention. He rarely brings up his childhood—too rooted in a past he doesn’t like to name.

“I used to lie on the roof with my sister,” he says, voice even. “We made up names for the stars. She liked to say they were watching, like scouts for the gods or something. If you were bad, they'd snitch.”

You smile faintly. “And were you bad?”

He scoffs lightly under his breath. “Statistically? Yes. Repeatedly.”

Silence settles between you, but not uncomfortably. He doesn’t seem tense anymore—just... elsewhere. Distant in the way people get when the past drags too close. His gaze stays locked on the sky.

After a while, his tone shifts. Flatter. Like he’s narrating someone else’s life.

“She died before I got the chance to do anything real. I was five. Maybe six. We didn’t have much, but she tried to give me… something”

You stay still. Breathing quiet. Listening.

“I was already halfway to the Grove when it happened. Black Tide reached our town while I was gone. No one made it out.” He says it plainly. Like a report. “I turned back the moment I heard. Ran the whole way. I kept thinking if I made it in time, if I prayed hard enough. Some divine power might fix it.”

His knuckles tighten. Just slightly. But his voice stays even. “They didn’t. Obviously. No divine rescue. No reversal. Nothing. Just ruins.”

You turn to him, quietly shaken—not by what he says, but by the way he says it. Like it’s a list he’s rehearsed too many times. Like a fact file he’s memorized to avoid feeling it too deeply.

He stares out the window again.

“The universe doesn’t care. You smile at it, and it just keeps moving. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop. Life goes on.”

He’s not angry. Not even bitter. Just tired. Like someone who’s seen too much of nothing.

You reach over, gently placing your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away.

“…You still deserve to smile,” you whisper. “Not for them. Not for the universe. Just for you.”

He doesn’t answer.

But the next morning, the tea is gone again—and there’s a faint circle drawn around your quote in the margin: “Those who cannot weep with their whole heart, cannot laugh either.”

OPERATION: MAKE YOUR GENIUS SMILE!

You don’t tell him, of course. That would defeat the point. But somewhere between seeing that quote circled in ink and the way he stared at the stars like they’d abandoned him, you made a quiet decision.

You were going to make him smile. A real one. One that didn’t look like a smirk hiding behind logic. Not the dry curve of amusement he wore when correcting a student’s idiocy, or the sarcastic twitch when someone asked a redundant question. No. A smile that cracked the ice behind his eyes. A smile that meant he was here, alive and feeling, just for a second.

You start small.

Phase One: Strategic reinforcement.

You catch him between lectures, his hands full of disassembled drone parts. You wordlessly pass him a cup of sweet, hot tea—loose leaves brewed just the way he forgets he likes it. No one else knows how he takes it. He blinks at you, slightly suspicious. You just raise an eyebrow and walk off.

Later, you find the empty cup stacked beside your own in the wash bin.

Progress.

You slide tiny notes into the pages of his workbooks and lecture plans. Quotes. Dumb ones. Beautiful ones. One-liners with bite. Lines you know he’ll hate for being sentimental, but won’t stop thinking about.

“Stars are the scars of the sky—proof it’s survived worse.”

“If life means anything, maybe it means trying again.”

“You don’t have to be useful to be loved.”

He never mentions them. But once, you notice one taped to the inside of his desk drawer. It’s crooked. Poorly ripped. But taped.

Phase Three: Targeted emotional offensives. (is that even a word?...)

You bring in a Droma plushie one day—not his Droma plushie, because he’d combust on the spot—but a newer, fluffier one in teal with a slightly stupid face. You call it "Research assistant #2" and balance it on his shoulder when he’s reading.

He blinks at you like you’ve lost it.

“Is it sentient?” he asks flatly.

“It’s trying its best.” It’s googly eyes stare back at the both of you.

He says nothing. But he doesn’t throw it off.

Three days later, it’s sitting on his bookshelf. Facing outward. Googly eyes and all that.

Phase Four: Relentless exposure therapy.

You laugh around him more. Not loud or fake—just easy, natural. You invite him to small, cozy things: blanket forts in the library, night walks where the fog rolls in thick, clumsy attempts at baking.

He declines. Every time. (did you really expect him to easily agree?)

But you always leave the door open. You always save him a cookie. And once—just once—you find a slice missing before you ever arrive.

Phase Five: Sentimental ambush.

You catch him dozing off over his papers one night. He doesn’t notice you walk in. You could leave. You should. Instead, you find his old journal peeking from under a pile of notes. Just a corner.

You don’t open it. But you gently take the coat from his chair and drape it over his shoulders. He stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Just murmurs something in his sleep that sounds like a name.

You sit across from him and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”

The lights hum. The air smells faintly of tea and ink and solder. For a second, everything is still.

Then his brow furrows. And he mutters, groggy and irritable:

“...Is this part of some experiment?”

You bite back a laugh.

“No,” you say. “This one’s for free.”

You don’t stop.

Even when the days drag on with no change, you keep trying. You keep showing up. You keep loving him in the only ways he seems able to accept. Quiet gestures. Thoughtful notes. The kind of gentleness that doesn’t ask for anything back.

He doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t complain. He just takes everything in like it’s data. Observed, measured, absorbed into some internal archive—and then left there. Unspoken.

Still no smile.

Still no shift.

The tea disappears, but you don’t know if it’s gratitude or just habit. The quotes are sometimes underlined, sometimes not. Sometimes they vanish when he rewrites his notes altogether. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s meticulous. He rewrites everything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But it feels like it does.

You start searching things online.

“How to make your emotionally closed-off partner happy”

“How to tell if someone appreciates you if they never say it”

“Do geniuses have emotions”

“How to date someone emotionally stunted but hot and brilliant”

The results are all the same. Talk to them. Encourage emotional vulnerability. Be patient.

You keep scrolling.

“Love languages of avoidant partners.”

“What if they just don’t feel things the way I do?”

“How to make him smile without forcing it.”

You try again.

“Simple ways to make your boyfriend happy.”

“Daily small acts of kindness.”

“Words of affirmation: examples.”

They all tell you things you’ve already done.

The tea. The notes. The jokes. The long walks. The shoulder touches. The quote about weeping and laughing. The photo of the grinning dromas with the little speech bubble. You’ve even tried singing around him—terribly, on purpose—just to see if it would break through his carefully composed neutrality.

Nothing.

You bookmark five different advice blogs anyway. Close them. Reopen them two days later. They all say the same thing: keep trying. You shorten your search queries.

“How to make him happy”

“Still won’t smile”

“Am I doing something wrong”

Each one leads to the same tired advice. The same bullet points. The same chirpy suggestions written by people who probably haven’t dated anyone like Anaxa. People who don’t know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t flinch when you hold their hand—but doesn’t squeeze back either.

There’s a night where you almost stop.

You’re curled up on your bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring at your dim screen. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type:

“When is it okay to give up—”

You stop.

Delete it.

Shut the lid.

You don’t cry. You just… go still. That same kind of stillness Anaxa has. The kind that isn’t peace. Isn’t calm. Just a long pause where no feelings move, no hope breathes, no words reach you.

But the next morning, you wake up early anyway.

You steep the tea with honey this time. He mentioned once, vaguely, that it helped with his throat. You leave it where you always do. Next to his notes, just far enough not to smudge anything.

You don’t wait around.

You don’t say a word.

You just go.

Because what else is there to do?

You love him.

And you still want to see him smile.

Even if, right now, it’s the only thing he won’t give.

He notices. Not in some dramatic, flashing-neon way, but with the quiet precision of a scholar observing a subtle anomaly. The way your eyes flicker just a fraction too long on nothing. The slight pause before your usual warm greetings. The way your hands tremble slightly when you think no one is watching.

At first, he dismisses it. Maybe you’re tired. Overworked. But as the days pass, the pattern becomes undeniable, and he cannot ignore it.

You don’t realize you’re leaving a trail. You think you’re masking your frustration well, but your careful veneer cracks in small, revealing moments.

He watches, not out of nosiness but out of a habit ingrained over years of studying patterns, systems, and behavior.

It’s different with you, though. There’s no formula. No equation to solve. You’re not an experiment or a puzzle.He’s not used to this—being unsure, feeling uncertain.

And yet, it unsettles him more than he expected.

One evening, you sit by the window, your book forgotten on your lap. Your gaze is distant, your breath a little heavier. You’ve tried to hide it, but not from him.

He steps closer, the silence between you thick, almost fragile.

“Why do you look like you’re carrying something too heavy to hold?” His voice is quiet, edged with something new—a tentative softness.

You startle, caught off guard by the unexpected tenderness.

“I’m not carrying anything,” you say, but the lie falls flat.

He doesn’t push, though. He simply lets the moment linger, letting the silence speak in place of words neither of you knows how to say.

Inside, his mind races.

Is it the tea he never drinks anymore? The careful notes he no longer reads? The efforts you make, that seem to dissolve before they reach him?

He understands logic, consequences, and outcomes. But this? This is unknown territory.

A gnawing realization takes root—he can see your exhaustion, but he doesn’t know how to ease it.

And that scares him.

Because for all his brilliance, for all his sharp wit and unshakable confidence, he has no map for navigating feelings like this. No instructions for letting down his walls, or for showing you the vulnerability he keeps locked away.

The night you almost give up, the air between you is thick with unspoken tension. You’ve been pushing, gently, persistently, trying to crack through the walls Anaxa’s built around his emotions. But the effort feels like banging your head against stone. The tiredness in your bones weighs heavier each day, the smiles you want to see from him still stubbornly out of reach.

He’s been quieter than usual, eyes sharper, gaze more distant. And then one evening, the dam breaks—not in fury, but in a sharpness that cuts.

“You’re trying to fix me,” he says, voice low but edged with something sharp enough to sting. “Like I’m some problem to be solved, an equation with a missing variable. I’m not something you can calibrate or correct. You want me to smile, but you don’t want me. You want the idea of me.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You don’t answer immediately. You want to say so much—how you love all of him, not just the smiles, not just the easy moments. But instead, you do the only thing that feels right.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the quiet rhythm of his breath. “Then don’t smile for the universe,” you say softly, looking him in the eyes. “Smile for yourself. Or me.”

A pause stretches, heavy and fragile. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push you away either. Just lets the silence settle like dust between you.

You’re sure he won’t move past this—he’s never been one to open doors just because you knock. But something shifts. Just a little.

The next day, you find it on your desk: a heavy research book, its spine cracked, pages thick with his handwriting. Notes margin-to-margin, underlines, arrows looping back on themselves like a complicated map. It’s a study on emotional behavioral patterns—awkward, clinical, but unmistakably a reaching-out.

It’s not a grand gesture. No sweeping words, no sudden softness.

Just a book.

But to you, it means everything.

You catch him in the dim light of his study, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book sprawled open before him—the same one he left you days ago, its pages covered in sharp, almost frantic annotations. He’s reading aloud under his breath, words about emotional patterns and human behavior tumbling from his lips like a reluctant confession. You don’t say anything at first, just watch him. The way his fingers absentmindedly trace the edges of the pages, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth that tugs upward when he hits something he finds quietly amusing or absurd.

It’s not a smile, not really, but the tiniest curve—the hint of a softness that wasn’t there before. He notices you then, his pale aqua eyes lifting with a flicker of something close to surprise, but he quickly masks it with that usual guarded expression.

“Don’t look so pleased,” he snaps, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness. “That wasn’t a smile. Just an involuntary tic. I’m not about to let you fool yourself.” There’s a dry humor beneath the words, and for a moment, the walls he’s built around himself seem to tremble just a little.

You inch closer, heart hammering, daring to reach out and brush a loose strand of his light green hair away from his face. His skin is cool beneath your fingertips, but his eyes hold yours longer than usual, unguarded. “Maybe smiling isn’t your nature,” you whisper, “and that’s okay. I just want you to feel safe enough to try.”

He swallows, lips parting as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts again—this time slower, quieter, almost reluctant, as if the very idea of smiling is both foreign and frightening. He glances down at the book again, then back at you, voice low and hesitant. “Don’t mistake it for weakness. It’s... just a twitch. Nothing more.”

You smile softly, willing him to believe you when you say, “It’s closer than before.”

For a moment, the air between you is thick with something unsaid. You don’t need a full smile yet. Just this—a flicker, a crack in the armor—is enough to keep you trying. Because even the smallest curvature of his lips feels like a fragile victory.

You keep your hand lightly resting on his arm, the warmth bridging the quiet between you. “I care,” you say softly, voice steady but full of feeling. “More than I probably should. And if you’re not ready—if you never want to smile like that—then that’s okay. I’ll stay anyway.” You can’t help but grin a little, the kind of goofy, hopeful grin that makes you look a bit foolish, but you don’t care. “Honestly, I probably look stupid right now. Trying so hard to make you smile, like it’s some kind of math problem I can solve.”

Anaxa’s eyes flicker, the faintest shadow of amusement breaking through his usual composed mask. He lets out a low chuckle, that rare sound rolling out like a secret kept too long. It’s not loud or booming, but it’s genuine, and it warms the space between you in a way words never could.

“You do look stupid,” he says with a teasing edge, but his gaze softens. “But... in a good way.” His fingers twitch again, the corner of his mouth betraying the smallest upturn before he looks away, hiding it with a breath.

You feel something bloom inside—a quiet happiness that lingers in your chest like a secret song. This moment isn’t a victory or a full smile, but it’s better. It’s real. It’s him.

You grin, feeling the warmth spread through you after that rare chuckle. “See? You do smile,” you tease, nudging him gently. “But now I want the full thing. Come on, smile for me—just once more.”

Anaxa rolls his eyes, turning away with a sigh like you’re the biggest nuisance. “You really don’t give up, do you?” His voice is low, but there’s no bite in it—only the quiet acknowledgment of your stubbornness.

You laugh softly, stepping closer, “I care. A lot. And if you’re not ready for the big smile, that’s okay. But sometimes, you look so stupid trying not to laugh… and I kind of love it.”

He pauses, the tension in his shoulders easing as his gaze flickers back to you. Then, before you can blink, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. Not the sharp, knowing smirk you’re used to, but something softer. Something that feels like a crack in his armor just for you.

Your chest tightens in that beautiful, hopeful way. “There it is,” you whisper.

Anaxa shakes his head, still smiling just a little, and mutters, “Don’t get used to it.”

But you know better. This one’s real.

Notes: ARGH HHH FIRST FLUFF FIRST FLUFF I REPEAT FIRST FLUFF FOR HSR. UGH. Was this okay? Do you guys want headcanons + fics? I won't take requests rn but suggestions would do. I just cant think of what to write...

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter six, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, day of the games, fast-paced on purpose, anxiety, brief fighting, blood, im giggling im ahead on like 3 parts for this im so excited

main masterlist | tag list | previous next

brutus opens rafe’s door first.

it creaks softly on its hinges as he peeks his head in. the room is dim, the curtains still drawn, morning light barely pushing through the edges. the bed is made, mostly. a corner of the blanket looks slept in, like someone might’ve laid down for a moment, but there’s no sign of rafe anywhere.

brutus squints, leans slightly into the room without stepping over the threshold. his eyes scan once, slow. maybe rafe woke up early. or jeez, maybe he’s one of the tributes who don’t sleep at all before the games.

he doesn’t linger. he closes the door gently behind him and turns toward the next one, knocks once against the wood of your door, then opens it.

you’re still in bed on one side, tucked beneath the blanket, one hand peeking out near your face, eyes closed, lips parted just slightly. you’re sleeping peacefully.

but rafe’s there too. not under the blanket, but there, on the other side of the bed, laying on his side, turned away from you, arms tucked under the pillow that doesn’t belong to him. he’s not close, not really, keeping the distance that made sense last night. still, it’s enough to make brutus stop in the doorway.

he plants his feet a little more firmly and furrows his brow. “rafe. y/n.” his voice is loud enough to cut through the quiet, “‘s time to wake up.”

you stir first, barely. your head shifts, brows twitching before you let out a tiny groan and pull the blanket higher over your chest, still clinging to sleep.

brutus steps in a little more, “did you guys go to sleep late?”

you mumble, half-asleep. “mm-mm.” you push up on your elbows, rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm. “we went to sleep at a reasonable time, stop worrying so much.”

he doesn’t answer, just flicks his eyes over to rafe, who hasn’t moved. there’s a look brutus gives you, one that doesn’t need any words. it’s the look of a man too old to be bothering with teenagers who can’t get up on time, even on the day of their death sentence.

you nod at him wordlessly, so he leaves.

you turn your head toward rafe. his back is still to you. you don’t say anything, but you grab the pillow from behind you, lift it, and slam it straight into his shoulder before tossing it behind you like nothing happened.

he jolts awake with a full-body flinch. there’s this moment where he looks like he forgot where he is, eyes wide, chest rising like he’s holding his breath, and then it all sinks back into him. his jaw tightens slightly as he exhales through his nose, one arm reaching to rub his face.

you sit up a little more as he props himself up on his elbow. neither of you say anything at first.

outside, you can already hear the prep teams chattering. it’s muffled, but the voices are clear enough to know they’re waiting, probably for the avoxes to finish setting up breakfast.

you glance at rafe. he still hasn’t looked at you. you don’t say anything. at least not yet. but there’s a knot forming in your stomach again. not panic, not nerves, not yet. just time catching up.

today’s the day.

you try to eat later that morning, like you actually try. a decent portion, even. toast, some fruit, a bite of eggs. you hope you’re able to trick your brain into thinking it’s just a normal morning. you chew, you swallow, and you try not to look across the table, but you do.

rafe’s barely touched anything. one hand holding his fork like he’s thinking about using it but never follows through. he moves some of the food around like it’s a distraction, like that might be enough to convince brutus or enobaria he’s trying. but it’s not.

you kick his foot. not hard, just enough for him to blink up and meet your eyes. his posture straightens slightly. he gets the message to lock in.

there’s chatter at the table. enobaria’s going over logistics again, brutus is talking about someone he mentored once who didn’t even make it past the bloodbath, but no one’s really listening. not fully.

you think the only reason some of them seem calm is because they’ve done this before. they’ve already learned how to live with the kind of silence that comes with death you can’t stop. and the rest? they’re quiet in the way strangers are quiet around people they don’t care enough to know.

some of them didn’t actually try with you two. at least just not fully. and maybe that was on purpose. maybe it’ll be easier for them if you die in a few days. maybe it won’t ruin their appetite.

the thought makes yours vanish completely. you set your fork down.

after breakfast, you try to slip away before anyone says anything else. there’s still time. and if there’s still time, you want to use it, even if you’re doing nothing, just thinking.

you’re back in your room, alone for maybe three minutes before valis comes in. her face is flushed, eyes red like she’s been holding something in since yesterday, or maybe longer. she doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

you just stare at each other. she stands in the doorway while you still sit on the edge of your bed like you might lie back down. you both know she didn’t come here to talk. the prep team’s hovering outside the door, so you stand up.

you let them in, let them do what they need to do. it’s their job, you get it. you expect nothing less, and honestly, nothing more.

they dress you quietly. no capitol flair, no shimmering fabric or face paint. this isn’t for show. they put you in tawny trousers, a light green shirt. there’s a brown belt wrapped snugly at your waist, a black hooded jacket falling to your thighs, heat-reflective, they tell you. for the cold nights. the boots are soft leather. they’re flexible, built for running, you guess.

they don’t touch your face, but they part your hair into two neat braids, elastic bands wrapped around the ends.

when you leave the room, rafe’s already out in the living room. he looks like he hasn’t blinked in a while. you nod once. he falls into step beside you. and that’s it.

you both walk to the elevator, down to the lobby. there’s a train there to take you. you step inside and ride along the tracks for half an hour, before you’re greeted with some spot for the hovercraft that will take you to the arena, you’re assuming. and when you’re there, the doors open like they’ve been waiting just for you guys.

other tributes are already climbing in. no assigned seating, just first-come, first-pick.

you sit and lean your head back against the cold surface of the seat.

a woman walks up to you. she doesn’t say much, but she takes your arm, rolls up your sleeve, and injects the tracker into your skin like she’s done it a hundred times. probably has. you don’t even flinch. you just hold your arm and stare up at the ceiling, no expression, no reaction.

you hear the others getting theirs. some whimper. some curse. one girl asks if it’ll hurt.

eventually, the woman and the rest of the capitol staff leave the hovercraft. they step off without looking back. the doors seal.

the room shifts slightly as they prepare for lift-off. someone comes by to strap the harness into your chest, clipping it into the seat, making sure you won’t move when they’re in the air.

you glance at rafe across the way. his jaw’s clenched. and you watch everyone.

the hovercraft is either slower than you thought it’d be, or the arena is just really far. either way, it’s been a while.

a girl two seats down starts breathing through her mouth a little too loudly. a boy across from that girl is swallowing every few seconds like it’ll stop whatever’s climbing up his throat. someone next to you coughs into their sleeve like it might hide the fact that they’re dry heaving.

you imagine a few are one second away from throwing up. a dangerous mix: motion sickness and absolute terror.

you shift your eyes, catching a kid near the back who clutches their seatbelt like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. they lean forward once, gag, and you swear they might—

but then the hovercraft lands.

it’s too fast. it hits the ground with a thud that shakes your bones, and the weight of everything slams back into place.

you tug on your restraints immediately. not frantic, just fast. just needing to move. you are not gonna be here if that kid throws up. your eyes flick back to him, still watching.

the doors slide open with a hiss and a gust of cold air enters the space. someone steps in. they don’t say much, just enough. they say just to stay in a line, single file, don’t talk, follow directions. everyone unclips their harnesses and rises on shaky legs. you do the same. and then you notice you’re underground. at least, that’s what it looks like.

the hovercraft’s parked inside some hollowed-out space. it’s not bright, not sterile or high-tech like you imagined. no glaring capitol lights or pristine white walls. it’s dull and dim, and most of the space is rock, smooth stone, compacted dirt.

you follow the others into the large hallway ahead, boots echoing against the ground.

rafe finds you in the shuffle. no words, just his shoulder brushing yours, his steps falling into rhythm with yours like he planned it. it’s only a second, just one glance exchanged, and then someone’s calling out names. you’re separated.

you watch as he’s directed to one hallway. his head turns just slightly in your direction like he’s trying to keep you in his line of sight, but someone’s already ushering you forward.

your name echoes down the corridor, and you hold your head high, even if your chest is collapsing. you don’t say goodbye to him. it’s not a goodbye yet, so you walk.

you and another tribute, some kid you don’t recognize, peel off in the same direction. the hallway is long, the ceiling low. you reach a door that reads your name on some changeable slot. this is for you.

it opens. the room is bare, just a single table, and the platform connected to the tube. it’s right there, just standing in the middle of the room like it’s nothing. like you’re not supposed to step into that thing and let it close around you like a casket.

this is how they do it.

your stomach churns, and for a split second, you hope your arm gets caught if you go in there. you hope you trip. you just hope something snaps, something bleeds out. maybe you just die fast. maybe you don’t have to go.

shut up.

you can’t think like that.

stop being stupid.

the door creaks behind you, and you turn to see enobaria. she leans against the frame and looks at you like this isn’t new. but for you, it’s the end of the world.

you sigh, soft and low, then walk straight toward her. you don’t even wait for words. you just step into her space and wrap your arms around her, tight. and it’s brief, she doesn’t exactly hold you back, but she doesn’t push you away either.

maybe she’s one of those people too. maybe it’s better if she doesn’t get attached.

you step back, brush your palms against your thighs. enobaria doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t comment on the hug or the look on your face. she just starts talking strategy.

long story short, it’s just to watch your back. you need to look for signs in the environment, small changes. don’t trust clear water. don’t trust silence. don’t trust the easy route.

she doesn’t know what the arena looks like either, but on the outside, she and brutus have been working hard apparently, networking, pulling strings, keeping eyes on you and rafe. your names are floating around. sponsors are watching.

she says if you keep playing your cards right, playing them right, you might be able to get something special this year if you need it.

and you just nod through all of it, trying to absorb everything.

enobaria glances toward the hallway. “brutus is in rafe’s room,” she tells you. “other side of the facility. he said to tell you . . .” she pauses like she’s thinking of how to phrase it. “he’s proud of you.”

your lips twitch. it’s barely a smile. you’re not really in the mood for kind gestures. not now. but it still means something. you’d still hug brutus and thank him if he was here.

an alarm sounds from the ceiling. it alerts all mentors to have one final moment with their tribute, it’s time.

enobaria walks with you to the platform. she gives you some last advice, last reminders, no hesitation. “they’re not your friends,” she says. “not in there.”

you nod.

“do what you have to.”

you nod again as you step into the tube. you don’t look away from her. not once.

her words keep coming, even as the glass door begins to close. it seals with a mechanical hum, and suddenly, silence. you can’t hear her anymore, but you can see her.

her mouth stops moving. her eyes soften, just slightly, and then she nods once, firm and slow.

“win.”

you read her lips, and you nod back. you have to win, for yourself, for your district, for your family, for someone else’s sake. you have to do this right.

you have the skill, you have allies. you have a chance. you can’t let anything go wrong. and at the same time, you have to make it look good for the cameras and all of panem, but most important for the capitol, and president snow.

your stomach tightens. and then, the platform moves.

you feel it in your ankles first. it’s a low rumble under your feet, then a slow, steady rise. you can’t see enobaria once you’ve reached past ceiling height. you tilt your head back, watching the tube ascend through the darkness. at some point you can’t tell how far, can’t see the walls anymore.

then there’s light, bright enough to sting your eyes. you squint as the top of the tube opens, the final mechanical clink echoing inside your skull, and then you're rising above the surface.

the platform locks beneath your feet, half a foot of space from the ground it looks like. you blink the light out of your eyes, and then you look. you look at everything.

it looks like a valley. it’s lush, green, almost deceptively peaceful. it’s nestled between towering cliffs, mountains curving jagged in the far distance like broken teeth. you can tell just by looking: they’re not meant to be climbed. they’re walls. you’re boxed in.

but gods, it’s beautiful.

meadows stretch across the land in soft, sweeping waves, dotted with wildflowers that sway gently in the breeze. the sky overhead is clear, blue, impossibly bright. the kind of sky that feels like a lie.

everything here is gentle, quiet, until it won’t be. you’re sure.

you see the lake next, off to the west. it’s wide, reflecting the blue sky like glass. east, there’s the forest. mostly just birch trees, thin and pale like bone. you can see through them. they barely cast a shadow. and then south, the cliffs. they’re uneven, overgrown with tangled green and dark moss, shadows curling in every crack. there are caves, hidden or not-so-hidden, tucked into the rock.

you already know it’s dangerous over there, but it might have the best cover already. you could disappear there. you might have to.

but right now, straight ahead, the cornucopia.

it’s metallic, massive, curved like a horn, jaws split open and offering death like it’s a gift. it’s the centerpiece. everything spirals out from there.

you’re fifty feet out, so is everyone else. you take stock quickly. to your left is someone tall. maybe district six. to your right is someone shorter, lean, face tight with nerves. no threat. not yet.

around the cornucopia, you spot familiar shapes. you see kie, jj. topper, all in different spots. your eyes narrow. you don’t see rafe. not yet. he must be on the opposite end, but it doesn’t matter. you need to focus.

your eyes flick back to the cornucopia, scanning. where are the daggers?

there, on the right side. close, but not too close.

backpacks?

one maybe fifteen feet from you, pale green. medium size. might be worth it. might be a death sentence, but you’re good for it.

above the cornucopia, you see the clock. it’s the countdown. it’s already started by the time you rose from the tube, from sixty, maybe. it’s only at twenty-nine now. time is moving faster than you’d like.

your palms are slick with sweat, and you feel sick, but you don’t show it. you don’t move. cameras are on. this moment is already broadcasting to every corner of panem. they’re probably watching your face, watching your choices, cheering you on, betting on you. so you stay still.

eventually it hits five seconds.

you exhale, slow and even. your knees are bent just slightly, eyes on the cornucopia, the bag, the daggers.

four.

your heartbeat isn’t just in your chest. it’s in your ears, your teeth, your throat. it’s loud. someone sniffles. someone else whispers a prayer. your jaw locks. no prayers. no mercy.

three.

you can almost feel the cameras now, fixed on your face, your hands, your stance. they’re watching to see what kind of girl you are. and you’ll show them.

two.

your fingers twitch. every part of you is humming with readiness. it’s fight or flight. and right now, it’s both.

one.

go.

you explode off the platform, sprinting, flying, feet barely hitting the ground. others burst forward around you, but you’re faster. you have to be.

your fingers snatch a backpack off the ground mid-run. it’s a blur and you don’t even slow down.

the cornucopia swallows you in its shadow. inside, it’s colder. you spot the daggers, three of them, strapped to a wall near the curve. you snatch them fast, greedy, grip tight. your eyes are everywhere. every second counts.

then, there. a mace, sitting all pretty on a metal table like a gift with your name on it.

rafe.

you grab it, one hand around the handle, the other arm curled around the daggers. you ignore the weight and the tremor in your legs. you just move.

you burst out of the cornucopia again, flying through the chaos, and there’s a girl. she’s younger, smaller. she’s got a backpack in her hand, panic stamped across her face. your eyes lock, but hers go wide, and she runs.

you shift your grip, shove all the daggers into one arm with the mace, and yank a single blade into your throwing hand.

you don’t hesitate. you throw.

thunk! dagger lands deep into her shoulder. she cries out, stumbles, falls to her knees.

she’s not dead, not yet. your eyes flick across the field, looking for kie, for jj, for rafe, but there’s nothing. it’s just you and this girl for right now, so you run.

your legs eat the distance like fire across dry grass. the girl’s scrambling, clutching at the dirt with her good arm, trying to crawl away, but you’re already on her.

you toss the mace and your daggers to the side, just somewhere close enough. you’ll get them in a second.

your boot lands between her shoulder blades, pressing her down, pinning her. her scream is raw and ugly, but it doesn’t stop you, so you reach down, fingers wrapping around the dagger lodged in her shoulder, and pull.

it comes out with a slick, wet sound. she shrieks. your grip tightens on the hilt. your breath catches, just for a second, then you shove that feeling down, far down.

you grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back hard. she chokes, still sobbing.

“sorry,” you whisper, maybe for her, maybe for yourself. then you drag the blade across her throat in one clean, fast motion.

blood spills hot and quick. it’s thick and dark. you’ve never seen this much before, but she gurgles, twitches. her hands scrabble at nothing. you let her go.

her body hits the ground with a dull, final thud. you crouch beside her just long enough to wipe your blade on the grass, then move fast, no time to mourn.

you grab your daggers, shove them into the outer pocket of the backpack for easy access, and your fingers wrap around the mace again, grounding you. it’s heavy, but threatening. maybe if people see you coming with it, they’ll honestly just run. you won’t have to shed too much blood, so you follow through and try not to make it look like it’s too heavy for you.

you rise and scan the field. your eyes flick from tree line to rock to corpse to blur of movement.

where is he?

where’s rafe?

you tighten your grip on the mace. you just have to find him before anyone else does. and eventually, you do see him.

the field’s cleared out, mostly. a few bodies lie motionless, others are just gone, fled into the trees or caves, the ones who didn’t want blood on their hands this early.

you’ve learned to tune out the screams, even the wet, final ones. you didn’t think you could.

someone’s on top of another tribute, driving blow after blow into their face, knuckles slick and fast. it’s him.

your heart jumps, and before you even register it, your legs are moving, sprinting again.

he doesn’t even have a weapon, just fists and fury. but then something clicks for him. he glances to the side, sees something nearby, and grabs it. it looks like a sickle. you can’t tell from how much you’re moving.

without missing a beat, he swings it, brutal and clean. it slices through the air, and lands. another cannon sounds, echoing through the arena.

“rafe!” you yell, desperate, maybe too loud. he looks up, disoriented. you think he hears you.

and that’s when a fucking spear slices the air past your head.

you freeze, breath caught in your throat, head snapping toward where it came from. a boy is still lingering near the cornucopia. you don’t recognize him.

he's already winding up to throw something else again, but he never gets the chance.

another spear, this one from behind, bursts through his chest. he gasps, looks down. there’s this split second of horrified disbelief on his face before he drops limp. a cannon booms.

standing behind him, breathing a little heavy but calm, is jj. he pulls the spear out of the boy’s chest like it’s nothing. he doesn’t say a word, just meets your eyes and nods. you nod back. small, but grateful.

then you’re running again. your lungs are burning, your legs aching, but you don’t stop until you reach rafe.

he’s rolling off the boy he just killed, chest rising and falling fast, shirt spattered in blood. you slow, reach for the mace, almost like a gift, and hold it out to him.

he doesn’t even see it at first, too focused on catching his breath. but then his eyes flick to it, and the corner of his mouth pulls up just a little.

“seriously?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“take it,” you say, firm. like you’ll take it back if he doesn’t, even though you won’t. you don’t even use maces. but obviously he could.

he finally grabs it, heavy in his hand. it suits him. he stands, still breathing hard, but more solid on his feet now.

you glance around. jj’s already heading toward topper, the two moving quick. kie even appears not far behind, eyes scanning every shadow the cornucopia still casts. she must’ve been inside to grab everything she needs to since everyone else is gone. no threats here anymore, all probably in the caves or forest by now.

you catch jj and topper’s eyes and nod once toward the east, toward said birch forest. it’s like a subtle signal to say let’s start moving, find camp, see who else is left.

they understand. they start jogging.

you look to rafe again. both of you covered in blood, bits of dirt and sweat smudged across your skin. you raise your hand, shielding your eyes from the harsh glare of the sun, and give him a look. but it’s a quiet one.

like, ‘we made it through the first part.’

‘we did good.’

and maybe even, ‘please don’t die.’

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Hear me out, the "Dr. Abbot and Dr. Reader with a spouse and a son" thing?? What if Reader's spouse is/was in army too? I feel like it would add more tension

Also, I'm begging for a crumb of "the spouse is not that great/ their marriage is not going well, so Reader ends up with Abbot," anything, im starving (nopressure)

(Adore your writing!)

why did this make me sad????????????????? (thank you tho)

Collateral Clarity | Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x Resident!Reader

Jack doesn’t mean to linger.

He should be on his way to rounds. Should be checking labs or reviewing that trauma case from earlier. But something makes him pause near the double doors that look out over the hospital’s rear garden — the little courtyard where visitors sometimes go to talk in private. Where you are now.

You're standing stiffly near one of the benches, arms crossed as your husband paces in front of you, gesturing with the kind of quiet frustration only military men seem to master. Your son sits on the bench, headphones in, head down — clearly used to this.

Jack can’t hear the words, not really. But he doesn’t need to. He sees the tension in your shoulders. The way your husband gets too close. The way your head drops when you speak, like you’re already exhausted before the conversation is even over.

He catches one line, low but hard: “I gave everything for this family. You think this job matters more than being a wife?”

You don’t answer. You don’t flinch. You just stare at him — steady, tired.

Jack's jaw sets. He wants to walk out there, to put himself between you. Not because he thinks your husband would ever do anything — but because he knows what it feels like to be emotionally worn down. And no one should look at you like that. No one should treat you like you’re lucky to be tolerated.

And then something happens.

Your husband notices Jack.

He turns, expression already defensive. “Friend of yours?” he calls, arms crossing.

You don’t look at Jack. You look at your son, hand brushing over his shoulder.

Jack stays where he is. Calm. Measured. Present.

You finally speak, voice cool. “That’s Dr. Abbott. My mentor. My friend.”

There’s a moment — a beat of quiet — where Jack’s eyes meet yours through the glass.

It’s brief, but it’s enough. Your expression softens just slightly. Like you're asking him not to make it worse, even as your eyes plead don’t leave me out here with this alone.

He nods once.

A promise.

Later, you find him in the stairwell. The one place in the hospital no one ever seems to bother him. He’s leaning against the rail, coffee cooling in his hand, brows furrowed like he’s already writing your discharge summary — except it’s you he's trying to assess.

“Thanks,” you say, quietly, sitting beside him on the stairs.

“For what?”

“For not walking away.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. But when he does, it’s gentle. A little sad. A little furious.

“He doesn’t see you.”

The silence says everything you’re not ready to say.

Jack finally breaks it.

“I do.”

It starts small.

Jack doesn’t rush anything. He never does. That’s what makes him so good in trauma — the paradox of steady hands and fast instincts. But with you? He’s even more careful.

After that day in the stairwell, something shifts. You’re not just his favorite resident. Not just the sharpest mind in the OR. You’re the person he looks for when the day gets heavy. You’re the one he finds at the coffee cart with that too-sweet order and tired eyes. And he starts bringing an extra.

Just in case.

You joke like always. Banter, trade jabs, toss around sarcasm like it's sterile gauze. But under it, something’s blooming. Something warm.

Something dangerous.

Your husband deploys again. It’s sudden. Short notice. You barely react. Jack notices that too.

“He’s gone?” he asks softly one evening when you find him alone in the lounge, flipping through patient charts.

You nod, leaning on the counter, your voice calm. “Back overseas for six months.”

“You okay?”

You shrug. “I’m… better.”

He hums, glancing up at you. “You’ve been quieter.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Jack watches you for a long beat before returning to his charts. “That’s dangerous.”

You smile. “Not if I think about the right things.”

Weeks pass.

Late nights turn into early mornings. You walk him through consults; he talks you down after impossible cases. Sometimes, he makes you laugh so hard your mask nearly slips off in the hallway. Sometimes, you catch him watching you with that look — the one he always wipes away too quickly.

Until the night it doesn’t.

It’s after a brutal double trauma. Your adrenaline is crashing. You’re both still scrubbed in, standing too close in the locker room, too tired to care. And when he looks at you, it’s different. Raw.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whisper, chest still heaving.

“Why not?”

You swallow. “Because I might kiss you.”

He steps forward — just enough for his hand to brush yours.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” he says.

You do kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s all pent-up months of longing, unspoken words, and every quiet moment when his fingers lingered a second too long.

When he pulls back, forehead against yours, you say it:

“I don’t think I love him anymore.”

Jack doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t think you ever really did.”

[igotanidea]

Probation : Dick Grayson x reader

part 2 to Shattered

the gif is there on purpose, you'll get it ;)

***

„Y/N!”

„No, Dick, no! We’re done. I’m done! Have a happy life or whatever-!”

She shut the door behind her, walking away from everything they build for the last months and years.

Something that could never been permanent only because the fundaments of their joined life were being successively undermined by a mole in the form of Barbara.

His best friend.

Huh! Even thinking that, was some sort of aberration of her. Best friend, damn it. Best friend who wanted nothing more then to jump his –

No.

No, enough.

Y/N was free. Free from manipulation, free from mind games, from fear, from pain and constant self-questioning her worth.

Free.

And if that freedom came with sense of betrayal, loneliness and stupid aching pain in the chest due to holding back tears – so be it.

***

“I don’t understand…”

Meanwhile Dick was sitting on the couch in his apartment, face hid in hands, shaking head and ruffling his already messed up hair.

At least he had some decency to put on a shirt, cause somewhere deep inside, the last of his braincells whispered that it was sort of inappropriate to sit half-naked alone with Babs.

And honestly, that was the first surprise, cause such thought had never haunted him before.

So why now?

“I know you don’t, Dick…” Barbara whispered sitting cross-legged next to him placing hand on his shoulder – “Me neither. I just don’t get it why she would suddenly get so – vicious and – and mean and – vulgar.”

“That was not my Y/N…” Dick stuttered, barely noticing that Babs started tracing soft, comforting circles on his shoulder.

“Maybe that was the part you didn’t know before?”

“No!” Dick raised his head abruptly. “no! no, of course not! I know her! She can be bossy and mean and tend to want to have things her own way, but she’s not – aggressive!”

“Hey, hey relax, I’m just saying-“ Barbara raised her hands in the air, in the sign of pure intentions and innocence (yeah, right). “- people change you know.”

“but not like this! Not so – abruptly!”

“Dick-“

“I mean it Babs!”

“Ok, ok, relax. How about we’ll make some tea and watch a movie to get some perspective?”

“Tea? Are you being serious right now?”

“Dick-“

He almost jumped off the couch and started pacing around the room, rubbing his face nervously.

‘I’m not going to be drinking tea while Y/N is somewhere, god knows where!”

“But she’s the one who stormed off.”

“Well then maybe I should have done more to make her stay-“

“Dick, you can’t stop a girl when she’s angry-“

“It’s my Y/n!”

“So what?”

“So – so what?! What do you mean so what? She’s my girlfriend!”

“Have you ever considered she may not want to be your girl anymore?”

“What---?”

“Dick, just listen to me-“ Barbara stood up and walked to him, reaching for his hands and squeezing them reassuringly. “she doesn’t respect you-“

“What are you-?”

“She doesn’t cherish you-“

“This is not-“

“She doesn’t love you.” Barbara cupped his cheek and caressed it softly but if her intention was to make Dick lean into the touch it definitely backfired when he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, almost tearing her hand from his skin.

“Don’t.” he almost growled.

“Dick-“

“I said don’t. she loves me. And I love her. Her. You hear me loud and clear now. I love Y/N.”

“She’s not good for you!”

“Not good, huh?” Dick scoffed ‘how would you know what’s good for me? You? With your manipulation? With your tricks and puppet master role?”

“I don’t-“ she tried to defend herself but it was too late. Dick Grayson may have not been the sharpest tool in the shed but if anything he was tuned in on any manifestation of injustice, unfairness or cruelty. Mix that trait with the fact that the object of said behavior was his Y/N and add the sprinkle of guilt of not realizing it sooner and you get an explosive match.

“Enough.”

Dick Grayson, the nightwing, the hero was gone.

All left was a protective and possessive boyfriend, even if a little belated.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But I’m your best-“

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? We’ve known each other since we were kids! You can’t put her over me!”

“That is exactly what I’m doing.”

“You’re gonna regret this.“

“Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, I want you out. Out of here and out of our lives.”

“You are going to regret this. Besides, in case you didn’t notice, you already lost so-called your Y/N. She’s gone and she hates you. So if anything, I half-succeeded and you are left with nothing. When you come knocking at my door, you’ll realize I won.”

Barbara grabbed her clothes and walked out the door, shutting them behind herself in the same way Y/N did some time earlier, leaving Dick with a heavy heart and weighing conscience.

Already masterminding a plan to fix everything.

***

“Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Y/n!”

“What!?” Her colleagues finally managed to throw her out of her reverie, by yelling her name repeatedly, making her awfully angry. “what is so important that you have to resort to screaming match?!”

“Dick is waiting outside, staring at our window.”

“Dick is waiting - what?”

“come on, look for yourself.” One of her friends dragged her towards the window so she could see for herself. The second that Dick caught her silhouette he raised hand in a shy form of greeting. And damn, that smile that always made her knees weak.

“Are you crazy?” Y/N wriggled free and jumped to the other side of the room “we had a fight! I don’t want to see him!”

“How were we supposed to know you had a fight! You never share such things!”

“We’re work colleagues not friends!”

“Oh! Great, now she’s mean. Do not pour your relationship frustrations onto us!”

“I’m not- ugh!” she groaned, throwing hands in the air in frustration, falling onto the nearby chair in a sense of defeat.

“Y/N…”

“Leave me alone….”

“We’re not going to do that.”

“I’m gonna start crying.” She warned.

“Oh god, forbid you have some human emotions in you.”

“Stop making me feel better when I’m feeling bad.” Y/N chuckled “That’s mean…”

“Go talk to him.”

“No!”

“Go!”

“No!”

“You love him!” her friend reminded her. “you love him, you love him, you love him, you-“

“Fine! Fine! I do! I love him! Happy now!’

“Extremely.”

Before Y/N could realize what was happening, she was being wrapped in a coat, with a hat on his head and a scarf over the half her of her face and literally pushed outside to have a conversation with that poor guy who was freezing in the cold.

***

A life lesson worth remembering is that a person should make sure the scarf does not limit one’s field of view before stepping outside onto the snowy, slippery ground.

In the heat of the events Y/N failed to do her homework in that area and found herself tripping over the frozen surface, starting to fall down, her entire life flashing through her eyes, already saying goodbyes to her worries, closing eyes in a wait for eternal bliss –

“I got you.”

She did not meet with the creator and definitely not with any of his angels, but the face she saw was pretty close.

Of course she had to end up like a rom-com heroine, engaged in a seemingly funny but awfully cliché, embarrassing and directed scene of being saved from bruised ass.

“Great….” She muttered, but made no move to free herself from his grasp. “just what I needed.”

“You want me to drop you?” Dick chuckled

“By all means, please do. Just make sure I hit my head hard enough to not remember this.”

“How about I’ll help you hit yourself so hard you won’t remember how much of an idiot I’ve been?”

“Mh. Interesting idea, even if that would mean forgetting quite a few years.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighed and she raised an eyebrow.

“Are you admitting you’ve been wrong in something?”

“Wrong? No! Never. I’ve never been wrong in my whole life!”

“Never? I’ll be merciful and give you five seconds to reconsider. Four… three… two…”

“Fine! Fine! I was wrong….” Dick muttered, looking down, his words barely audible and hardly coherent.

“Better. Please continue.”

“I cast her out.” He muttered

“Your myopia? Poor you, I’m sure you feel lonely now-“

“Y/N!” his grip on her waist tightened, blue eyes threw daggers at her.

“What?”

“You’re making it awfully hard to apologies to you!”

“You were expecting me to make it easy?”

“Nah.” He grinned “Not in the slightest. Though I figured it was appropriate to point out how much effort I’m putting into getting you back.”

“This is not a teenage movie, Richard.”

“Of course not, you are way past your teenage years, love – Ouch! You hit me!?”

“You mocked my respectable age, you dumbass!” she wriggled free and started throwing half-formed snowballs at him.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he attacked right back, grabbing onto her, spinning her around, pushing her hat onto her face (blocking the view again!), and beginning to gradually turn her into a giant snowman.

“Stop it!” she laughed struggling against him, wriggling arms and legs in poor attempt to break free before the snow landed under her coat.

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, not letting go.

“I said stop it!”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“You’re yelling in my ear, I’m practically deaf now!”

“I’m sorry.” He turned her so she was facing him, fixing her hat to meet her eyes “I’m sorry. I should have-“

“Idiot.” She cut him off

“Absolutely.”

“Dumbass.”

“The biggest in the world.” He agreed without missing a beat.

Y/N bit her lip, thinking deeply.

“Fool?” she tried again.

“Without a doubt.” He nodded “But are you going to keep throwing synonyms at me?”

Suddenly she got an idea, the mischief flashing in her eyes as she reached for her phone and flashed the camera in her face.

“What are you doing?” he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Rudolf.” She laughed

“What?”

“No more synonyms. You are so ugly Dick!”

“Ugly? Ok, I get it your mad, but that’s a low blow, even for you and – OH MY GOD!”

The photo she snapped?

With him having red nose, messed up, flat hair  full of snow, crooked scarf and red mark on the cheek?

“Betrayal!” he yelled

“Again – did you expect me to make it easy?”

“Seriously, now you absolutely have to forgive me.” He grabbed both her hands in his.

“I have to?” she smirked

“With that snapshot I suppose we’re even?”

“Dick.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

“I love you.”

“Oh? Do you?” she teased “Since when?”

“No idea. It’s just kind of happened to me. Like a lightning bolt.”

“Bless mother nature for giving us subtle signs. “

“She’s gone. I’m sorry for being blind. You are the most important to me and – “

“and-?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes you have to.”

“You were right…” she sighed “you were right about Barbara all along…” he bore eyes into the ground.

“Eyes up Mr Grayson.”

“Y/N… you are the most important to me…”

“You’re officially on probation now.”

“Really!?” he lighted up immediately “I am? Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He spun her in the air, upon hearing that she was kind enough to put him on probation.

Things were looking good.

@fullbelieverheart @peachmartini @flooofity @gloomysel @disi2507 @marzzrambles @justliving15 @smileysunshinesworld @simpforlanzhan

[ofbatsandballads]

girl is a gun

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: canon typical crime including references to drugs and organ trafficking, nonexplicit sexual harassment from Oswald against reader, Jason’s murderous tendencies pop up a couple times.

a/n: soooo, I am making this a series. I just loved the first fic too much to not continue it, so have part 2! thank you to all the lovely readers that expressed interest in the first part, I humbly offer the continuation.

divider credit: saradika-graphics

Jason’s back at the Iceberg Lounge. He has a good reason to be. That fateful night two weeks ago when you gave him the bracelet stolen from the boutique robbery in the Diamond District provided Bruce with all the evidence he needed to prove that Oswald was back to his old ways. Jason got full authorization to investigate the Penguin’s operations in whatever manner he sees fit. But Oz doesn’t like him—a fact he’s well aware of. So his best (only) shot is you. And, well, he’s not too sure that you like him very much either. But you helped him once and that’s enough to have him coming back for more.

He’s camped out on the roof by the skylight entry. He’s not sure how Oswald hasn’t realized that it’s the entry point for all the vigilantes coming in and out of his club, but then again Jason never took him as the sharpest blade in the armory. He’s watching and waiting patiently for you to arrive. He could’ve just come once the club was open and he knew you were here. He would’ve if he trusted you. Jason doesn't trust anyone. So if he wants to scope out what direction you’re coming from, if he wants to see what you’re like before Cobblepot’s got you under his command, if he wants to see you—not the pretty little doll from the club, but you as you are? Well, he feels entitled to that. It’s all just part of a thorough investigation.

He gets his wish fairly quickly. You appear from nowhere, streetlights glimmering off the glittery black faux fur coat you’re wrapped up in. Jason crouches down, unlatches the window and prepares to drop into the club as he sees you near the entrance. He’s got one leg through the skylight when you stop dead in your tracks, one stiletto clad foot on the first step of the concrete stairway leading to the lounge’s entrance. You stay there for a second fiddling with the fur of your coat before you smile softly and spin on your heel, taking off at a brisk pace down a side alley. Jason scrambles to pull himself back up and shuts the skylight with enough force that the hinges creak in defiance.

He scales the iceberg facade of the lounge to keep his eyes on you and nearly slides off the steep architecture repeatedly. If he gets his hands on Oswald anytime soon, he’s going to wring his goddamn neck. What idiot builds an actual iceberg over a historical building? Nevertheless, Jason manages it. He crests the tip of the iceberg in time to see the flash of black fur dip around another corner. Where on earth are you going? He knows your shift starts when the club opens at eleven, and it’s now a quarter to eleven. He grapples to the roof of the building you disappeared around to get higher ground.

He can’t see you in any of the adjacent alleys or main streets and that coat of yours gleams like a beacon in the streetlamps. He turns back in the direction of the Iceberg and you’re standing right back where you started. And to make matters worse, you’re staring right at him with an arrogant smirk on your face. Jason’s getting really peeved at how you keep spotting him. He trained with the League of Assassins for Christ’s sake. You should not be aware of his presence at any given moment that he doesn’t want you to be. Yet there you are, smugly waving at him before your head tips back in laughter and you disappear into the club. Back to the skylight he goes. He drops down into Oz’s trophy room and sets out to find you.

“For a vigilante, you’re not that hard of a tail to lose.”

Jason doesn’t jump, doesn’t flinch, but his fingers do twitch to the gun holstered at his thigh and that alone irks him. It means he was surprised.

“Or maybe I just like the chase,” Red Hood taunts.

He doesn’t. Jason likes what happens when he catches the bastards he hunts, but the chase is just tedium that he can’t stand.

“No,” you say defiantly, rolling your eyes at him. “You’re the only bat that ever ends the chase. You just couldn’t catch me.”

You’re right and you’re perceptive and he hates it. Your confidence just adds insult to injury, crawls under his skin in a way that has him wanting to shut you up. He crowds you against the glass case you’re leaning against and cocks his head to the side.

“You seem pretty caught to me. Surprised Oz hasn’t locked you up in one of these trophy cases yet.”

If you can get under his skin, he can get under yours. Your eyes flare with anger, made all the more vicious by the sharp cat eye that lines them. You look him up and down in a wicked glare. It’s only his training that has Jason noticing when your eyes land on his guns and your hands twitch toward them. He takes a sudden step back out of your reach. He sees a flash of relief in the way your body untenses, then it’s gone when you straighten up and toss your hair behind your shoulder. That ironclad confidence slides back over your face like a mask and he knows he’s lost the advantage he’d gained when he pressed you into the trophy case.

“Whatever, you can deal with your wounded pride some other time. What do you want?” you sigh in boredom.

“You gave me evidence that Cobblepot was involved in the Diamond District robberies. Why?” he interrogates.

“Did I?” you ask in faux ditziness, tapping your acrylic nails against your cherry colored lips. “Thought I just gave you a gift. All of Ozzie’s guests of honor get gifts.”

Opportunity number one. Jason was raised by the best; he knows a lead when he sees one.

“Guests of honor, huh? Tell me about them,” Hood demands.

You hum thoughtfully and rest against the trophy case with the machine gun umbrella in it. For the first time, Jason gets to take a good look at you. The moonlight shining through the skylight shimmers off the red satin of the dress that falls to your ankles. Just like the last thing he saw you in, this doesn’t really function as it should. Twin slits extend high on both thighs and the deep V of the neck ends just below your sternum. Jason idly thinks that all it would take is one good tug for the dress to come to pieces.

“Oh no, I’m not giving you everything all at once, honey. You need to work for it a bit harder,” you coo at him, a vivid contrast from the mocking way you roll your eyes.

You’re all attitude and it’s really starting to piss him off. His jaw ticks and he steps into your space again. This time you don’t cower. You just straighten your spine and close the little distance he left between you. And, fuck, Jason’s had full blown interrogations go better than this. He waits one beat–two, three, and neither of you back down.

“C’mon, vengeance. Don’t act like you don’t like a good fight,” you whisper in the charged air between you.

He’s had it with your shit. He grabs you by the back of your neck, gentle enough not to hurt but firm enough to keep you in place.

“You lead me astray, and I swear that I’ll make sure you go down right alongside your boss. You understand me?” he growls, the muzzle’s modulator making his voice sound twice as intimidating.

You just smile at him. Your teeth glimmer white behind your blood red lips and under the moonlight the sight is almost entrancing.

“Don't worry, baby. I want Oz to go down just as much as you do,” you say.

It’s the first time he’s heard your voice lose the edges of seduction or venom. It’s the first time he sees your eyes shine with genuine emotion. There she is, there’s the human hiding behind the mask of the perfect doll. He knows he’s got you. Unfortunately for Jason, he also knows that you’ve got him. He knows it when you push him off of you and sidestep him gracefully. He knows it when you turn back to look at him over your shoulder as you pause at the door. He knows it when you grin victoriously at him like you’re well aware that he’s got very little to go on without you.

“Well, you coming, Red?”

So he does the only thing he can. He follows you through the door.

Your little rendezvous consumed more time than he thought. The club is in full operation, neon blue and pink lights shining vibrant against the marble floors. The music blares and the bass booms through the walls. You’re talking to him but he can’t hear you over the speakers. You point up to the same ledge of marble he had been camped out on last time and then to yourself. The message is clear: watch you. Not a hard task. You turn to make your way down the steps when Jason grabs your arm and pulls you back. He wordlessly places a silver ear cuff on your right ear. It looks like an innocuous piece of jewelry, but it’s linked to his comms so he’ll be able to hear every conversation you have. It’s his favorite piece of tech–looks good and functions even better. He tilts your head with his thumb and forefinger to make sure it’s properly in place and he hears your sharp intake of breath through the mic.

“So we can hear each other,” Hood explains.

“And so you can hear everyone else,” you say.

Jason grunts in agreement and releases you. He hops on the marble bannister to climb to the vantage point. He turns to take one last look at you.

“Remember: you fuck with me, I’ll make sure you suffer just as much as Penguin.”

Your eyebrow twitches and Jason can almost see your defenses going back up. Shit.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure I could take whatever you’ve got in mind. But don’t worry, I don’t like Oz enough to find out.”

You turn without another word to him and bounce down the steps to the dance floor. Jason feels deja vu wash over him as you make your rounds. Everyone reacts to you the same way they did before, but at least half of this crowd is different from the previous time. Yet they still part for you, they still take care not to crush you in the dancing bodies or spill their drinks on you. Jason watches as you find the other server he surveilled when he initially came here. His eyes light up when he sees you, the bright blue a contrast with his tan skin and jet black hair. Jason feels a vicious twist of something when he realizes that this guy looks remarkably like Dick. They’ve got the same build, same features, same haircut even. The server’s just an inch or so shorter than his brother.

“Well, if it ain’t the Princess of the Iceberg Lounge,” he chuckles in a faint Gotham accent.

“In the flesh, darling. How’s my favorite boy doing tonight?” you ask as you slide up next to him behind the bar.

“Fuckin’ fantastic. Don’t ever show up late again. Thought Oz was gonna have a heart attack with the way he was screaming,” he mutters, pouring out a shot of vodka.

“Screaming about what? He better not have been screaming at you, El. I swear to God, I’ll tell him to pay you double for tonight if he did,” you say protectively.

“It was me he was screaming at, all right,” he shakes his head, then adopts an accurately raspy English accent. “‘Where the fuck is she at, Elliot? I’ll send out my men to find her if she doesn’t show soon.’”

You cringe hard and it’s now the second time tonight that Jason has seen the person behind the facade. You must be comfortable with this Elliot guy if you’re willing to let it slip. You must be very comfortable with him, Jason thinks with just the slightest bitterness, when he strokes your hair and pulls you under his arm.

“Don’t worry, princess. I told him you were gettin’ yourself all dolled up when I called you last,” Elliot reassures you.

“Thank you. Fuck, I can’t go running from his guys again, El. That shit took me 30 minutes and three subway rides before I lost them last time,” you laugh humorlessly.

Jason's alarm bells ring loud. Penguin’s been having you followed? He suddenly understands how you so easily lost him earlier tonight. You’ve had practice. A pit opens in his stomach when he thinks of just how much practice you’ve probably had running from men following you.

“Anyways, let me get to work. I’ve got regulars to charm,” you say as you untangle yourself from Elliot.

“Oz wants you with the VIPs first. Made it very fuckin’ clear that no one else is allowed within a mile radius of them,” Elliot tells you as you leave the bar.

“Of course not. I’m the very best he’s got, why settle for less?” you tease.

“Fuck off!” Elliot shouts at you over the booming music.

You laugh and weave through the crowded dance floor, heading for the marble grotto spaces where the VIPs sit behind red velvet ropes. So far he’s gotten nothing that he could use while abiding by Bruce’s rules. It infuriates him, because what he’s heard would be enough for a bullet to the head if he were playing by his own. He feels his patience for Bruce’s one rule waning by the minute.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lawyer,” your voice rings sickly sweet in his ears.

“I didn’t know someone could have a favorite lawyer,” a man responds.

Jason analyzes the audio as a sample and all Bruce’s files on the current DA of Gotham, Marcus Ericsson, pop up in his domino lenses.

“I’m sure the devil does. And he’s in his office if you want to see him,” you say flippantly.

The DA laughs boisterously and you giggle faintly as though you weren’t dead serious.

“I need to ask that devil about my campaign contributions,” Ericsson jokes, voice slurring on the last two words like he can’t wrap his tongue around them.

“You know how Oz works,” you whisper to him. “You keep lining his pockets and he’ll line yours.”

Hook, line, sinker.

“Been waiting for that second part, sweetheart. You know how much evidence I hid in that shipping yard raid three weeks ago? I can tell you it doesn’t match the contributions he’s given,” Ericsson complains.

The shipping yard raid in question found two massive shipments of cocaine and ecstasy and one frozen shipment of black market organs. This is as good as gold to Jason.

“He told me all about it,” you coo. “You know I’ve got Oz’s ears all to myself. I’ll make sure you get those contributions, honey. Ozzie’s just cautious. He wants to make sure everything is really gone before he pays up.”

“It’s gone!” the DA shouts.

He must remember he’s in public, because he laughs awkwardly and lowers his voice.

“I deleted the shipping and payment records myself,” he says through gritted teeth.

And there’s the evidence. If the DA deleted it himself, then it’ll be on his hard drives either at home or at work. Jason makes a mental note to ask Tim to break in and steal both when he’s on patrol tonight.

“I know, I know,” you soothe. “And I promise I’ll get Oswald to pay you. You deserve it.”

“How old Oz got an angel like you working for him, I can’t imagine,” the DA says in a poor attempt at flattery.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d want to know how I came to work here. A girl’s gotta have her secrets after all,” you whisper, an edge in your voice that escapes the drunk lawyer.

The rest of the night continues that way. You get either confessions, evidence locations, or both out of Oz’s VIPs in the course of casual conversation. These VIPs included none other than the DA, Gotham’s Chief Justice, two high ranking GCPD detectives, and the nephew of Carmine Falcone. It’s verging on 4AM when Elliot comes to find you as you sit with the nephew.

“Princess, Oz wants to see you,” he says jovially.

Jason hears you rise and the click of your heels as you follow your friend. Then he hears a soft gasp.

“Whatever you do, don’t panic. Keep your cool, keep your head on straight. Don’t. Break,” Elliot says lowly.

“What?” you ask with genuine confusion.

“He’s paranoid about why you were late. And he’s been watching you with Angelo Falcone for the past fifteen minutes. You remember how his relationship with the Falcones started, right? Just…deny whatever he accuses you of. Charm him like you always do,” he instructs you quickly as you both head upstairs to Oswald’s office.

Jason tenses, ready to jump into action and get you out of there if need be. He knows well what Oz does to the people he thinks have betrayed him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine. You don’t do anything stupid, okay?” you say forcefully, a message meant for the man in your ear rather than the one in front of you.

“If he hurts you, if you even think he might, scream. I’ll be there,” Hood promises.

You nod in acknowledgment and push open the ornate double doors of Oswald’s office.

“Well, there’s my pretty girl. You enjoy Angelo’s company?” Oswald’s gruff voice reverberates in the empty office.

“Hardly. But he’s got a shipment of heroin that he says he can get us, so I’ve been real sweet on him,” you say coolly.

“Does he? What’s he want for it?” Cobblepot questions.

The insinuation is obvious. Jason can’t see what’s happening, but he remembers how Oz looked at you the last time. Like a prize, a toy, an object. Objects can be bought and sold at will by their owners. Jason’s skin crawls and his trigger finger itches.

“Money. It’s always money, Oz, you know that,” you murmur submissively.

“And where were you tonight? You showed up thirty minutes late. That’s an awful long time.”

“I was getting myself ready, Ozzie. I slept in a little late. El had me doing shots last night and my headache was killer,” you lie flawlessly.

“I’m sure it was. Did you make any stops on the way here?” Penguin prods.

“No. Where would I go?” you ask with faux innocence.

“GCPD. Falcone Residence. Any-fucking-where a pretty whore like yourself would be welcome for the information she has about this club,” Oz spews viciously.

“Ozzie, no. I would never. You know that. This place is my home,” you say emotionally.

The emotion is real. It’s just you’re pretending like it’s sadness and not fear.

“Mind provin’ it, love?” he asks, a cruel humor in his tone.

“What?” you ask flatly.

“How’m I to know you aren’t recording this? You could be wearing a wire. Those coppers always make their pawns wear wires.”

Jason hears your breathing go shallow and frenetic.

“The only person recording right now is you,” you bite, forgetting the submission that you were exhibiting minutes ago.

“Then show me, doll.”

Jason’s one second away from breaking down those doors and shooting the Penguin between his eyes when your voice echoes under his hood.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Whatever it takes for you to trust me. That’s all I need Oswald, is you to trust me,” you say with complete sincerity.

There’s silence in the room for a few seconds, followed by the clattering of your heels being kicked off.

“Happy? I’m not wearing any wire or recording you in any way. All I have on is my very nice dress which is now crumpled on this dirty floor and my jewelry,” you sigh exasperatedly, but there’s a barely discernible shake to your voice that makes bile rise in Jason’s throat.

“Good. I just needed to make sure, doll. You never know these days,” Oswald says, his voice much closer to you now.

The sound of a kiss reverberates just below the ear that the cuff is on and you finally snap.

“Can I please go back to work now? I’m sure El’s getting slammed at the bar,” you ask shakily.

“Sure, sweetheart. Go make the night worth everyone’s time like you always do.”

As soon as the double doors close behind you, you’re walking quickly down the steps and towards the basement exit. Elliot spots you and goes to talk to you, but you just flash him a concerningly convincing smile and he lets you go.

Jason follows you out to the alleyway where the door lets out into the cool early morning air.

“Did you get what you wanted?” you ask him with a strained voice as you hold your arms tightly against yourself.

Jason’s demeanor softens when he sees the way your eyes shine in the moonlight. He won’t acknowledge your tears. He knows you wouldn’t want him to.

“You did great,” Hood says gently. “Got me more than I ever coulda asked for. I won’t bother you again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you growl as you spin around to face him.

Jason can’t explain the disappointment he feels at how you order him to be gone. He doesn’t even know you all that well, but he knows that you worked well together.

“I won’t, I promi–”

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me with him. Don’t you dare let me not see this through. I gave you what you wanted and I’ll continue to help you, but I want something from you too,” you demand with so much conviction that it short circuits Jason’s mind.

He nods his assent without thinking.

“When you take him down, when all this culminates to whatever conclusion you have planned, I want to be there. I want to watch Oswald crumble. I want him to know it was me that did it. Can you give me that?”

Jason has never admired someone as much as he does in this moment.

“Of course I can give you that.”

And he will. Whatever it takes, he’ll have you by his side when The Penguin’s empire finally topples.

[fallen-w1ngs]

'' LONGING ,,

|| pairing: hawks x gn!reader / keigo takami x gn!reader

|| warnings: hurt/comfort, this is so self indulgent

|| word count: 0.8k

It had been around 2 weeks since Keigo left for his mission. He had told you that he was coming back in a week and a half. You were worried sick for him, pacing around your shared living room as you constantly checked your phone. Though, you knew Keigo wasn't allowed to use his phone on these missions, it'd be too much of a risk. Undercover missions, y'know?

It didn't make it easier, of course it didn't. When the two of you got married, you knew what you were signing up for. You knew that he'd be gone for weeks on end. That his hero work wouldn't be sympathetic towards your relationship.

He'd come home at late hours of the day, leave when daylight barely breaks. It was heart wrenching. And you didn't know what to do but worry. Ah, well, let's hope he'll be home by tomorrow. It was already 2 AM, if he was home he'd probably kill you if he knew you were up at that time. That damn hypocrite.

You changed into your pajama's, it was the matching set that Keigo INSISTED on getting. It was the stupid, childish pj's that had llama prints on the bottoms while the top had some cheesey llama pun. God, it was so stupid.

You climbed into bed, hiding underneath the fluffy comforter that Keigo had hated, yet you absolutely loved it. He claimed his wings were warm enough, which was true. But now that he was out, you needed the comforter. Yet all you could think of was the fact you wanted that stupid fucking bird man to wrap his arms and wings around you.

You closed your eyes, hugging your fluffy pillow, nuzzling your face into it. Pretending as if it was Keigo. God, what did that man do to you?

.

.

.

You had drifted to sleep, your dreams filled of nothing but a dark void as a small creak came from your balcony. Heavy boots against the smooth tile as Keigo made his way through the living room. He hadn't received terrible injuries, thankfully, only a few cuts and bruises, allowing him to fly home, quick and easy. He threw off his jacket on the couch and kicked his boots. He'll deal with your lecturing tomorrow.

Silently, Keigo made his way through the hall up to your shared bedroom. As much as he hated being in his hero costume, he desperately needed to cuddle with you in bed. He'll change in the morning. He needed his spouse.

He climbed into bed, pushing the comforter away and pushing your back flush against his chest. His wing over the both of you, acting as a blanket. Keigo let out a small sigh as he pushed his face into your hair, memorizing your smell. Oh, how he missed this.

"Kei?" Your voice felt like a whisper in the wind. Something that couldn't be heard even by the sharpest of ears.

"Shit, I'm sorry for waking you, baby" You turned to face him. A small smile on your face as you put your forehead against his own. Your hand reaching up to feel his scratchy stubble.

"Don't apologize for waking me up.."

"I'm sorry, love"

He placed a gentle kiss on the corner of your lips. A small smile spreading on his face when he did. How sweet you were, your lips as sweet as honey and as soft as a cloud that Keigo would fly in. Oh, how he would trade the skies to kiss you a million times over. He'd trade everything just to stay with you everyday.

"How was-"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Keigo pushed his face into your hand, placing gentle kisses on your hands. "just wanna be with you.. Don't wanna think about-"

You placed another kiss on his lips, your eyes filled with love and affection as he looked over at you. What was he even talking about?

"It's okay, love," You reached over and wrapped your arms around his neck. Pulling him close, as if you were trying to meld yourself to him. "I'm glad you're home, I've missed you."

With a shakey breath, Keigo wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into you as his grip on your shirt tightened. The days he would come home were always the best, yet also the worst. He could have prevented the hurt, the longing, if he had stayed home. If he had stayed with you.

"I missed you so much, my love, God.. All I thought about was you.." His voice was barely above a whisper as you hugged him. At these times, he acted as if you were a precious treasure that he desperately did not want to let go of. Well, you were a precious treasure. To him, at least. "I'll stay home tomorrow. I promise, my songbird, I promise, I-"

You pushed his face away from you, his face cupped between your hands as you gave a soft smile. "It's okay, Keigo.. I promise, I'm okay."

"I love you."

You let out a small chuckle.

"I love you too, Keigo"

|| chat idk wtf came over me but i was feeling sad and i wanted keigo SIGH!

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

It’s late. Base is quiet. Most of the barracks are dark—except his.

You don’t knock.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame, and Graves looks up from where he’s seated, half-dressed, boots unlaced, whiskey bottle in hand.

He doesn’t flinch when he sees you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Well,” he says, slow and even. “That didn’t take long.”

You're still breathing like you just ran a mile through your own bloodstream. Hands clenched. Eyes wide with the kind of fury that can’t find a direction—yet.

“How much did you know?” you growl.

He leans back in the chair, takes a sip, gestures to the bottle. “You’re gonna want a drink.”

You're on him before the glass hits the table—hand fisting his shirt, dragging him up to eye level.

“Tell me how long you knew Russell Adler is my father.”

There’s a pause. And then Graves… laughs. Quiet. Not mocking. Just sad.

“You think I didn’t recognize his eyes in your face the first goddamn time I saw you?”

Your jaw clenches.

He continues, softer now. “Of course I knew. Hell, everyone who mattered knew. You think they brought you to that op by accident? You were built for it.”

You let go of him—like he burns to touch.

“You let me go my whole life not knowing.”

He stares at you. “Would it’ve changed anything?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

You turn away, pacing, like you might split your own skull open trying to understand how this all got buried.

“You knew what he did to me—what he let them do. The brainwashing. The erasure.”

“I knew,” he says quietly.

Your voice cracks—not with weakness. With wrath.

“You fucked me, Graves. While knowing who I really was. And said nothing.”

He stands slowly, eyes hard now.

“Because you weren’t her anymore. You were Lockjaw. You were the CIA’s sharpest blade. You didn’t need a daddy—you needed a war.”

You lunge, shoving him hard into the wall.

“I needed a choice!”

And that’s the first time he doesn’t have a comeback.

You let go. Step back. Swallowing hard.

He rubs a hand down his jaw, then looks at you—really looks at you.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew what it would do to you.”

You breathe. Once. Twice.

“It’s already done it.”

Then you turn. Walk out.

Leave him standing there with the memory of the girl who once kissed him like war and now looks at him like a casualty.

[rafessecret]

Hi! I found your page today and I’m absolutely OBSESSED with it 🫠 your fics have me in a mess, specially the stepsis series ✨

Can I request a stepbro rafe with him being his usual cocky, always-winning self while hanging out with his friends and stepsis, but at some point she feels humiliated when his friends and him take things too far (specially after last time, when she heard them speaking about her). Instead of just letting it slide, she makes it clear she’s feeling upset and humiliated, and wants Rafe to know somehow even if he doesn’t care. But this time, maybe the 1% of softness and feelings in him kick in and he does care, like when he beat up his friends for her, and he does something to make it up and draw a line with his friends. Just angst, fluff and smut afterwards if he wants to prove to reader he cares or if she makes him pay in bed to somehow “make him pay” for letting his friends go too far.

I know my explanation was probably a mess but I just want everything, everywhere, all at once with the stepsis series and my mind can’t seem to decide 🥲🫠🩷

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

CALL ME YOUR EVERYTHING.

The night had started like it always did.

You were curled in the corner of the sectional, knees drawn up under your little skirt, legs bare, sipping soda through a bendy straw you chewed on nervously. Your hair was soft around your face, lips glossy, your whole body trying to disappear into the cushions while the boys shouted over each other, beer cans rattling, laughter echoing off the walls.

The TV played quietly behind them—nobody cared what was on. Rafe was at the centre of everything, of course. Slouched back like a prince in a throne, legs wide open, his arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, half-smiling like he was the sharpest blade in the drawer. And he was watching you. Off and on. He always did.

And still, you should’ve known better. You always became the joke.

It started with Kelce. He made some offhand comment about how you were always around, always looking so innocent—too innocent, he said. Too giggly. Too clingy. Like a puppy. Then Topper chimed in, snorting something about your skirts, the way they barely covered anything.

❝Bet she wants someone to see,❞ he joked, laughing loud and sharp. ❝Probably sleeps like that too.❞ More laughter. Deeper this time. Meaner. ❝She does,❞ Rafe added, mouth curling into a grin, voice just cocky enough to make you freeze. ❝Always prancing around the house in that shit. You think it’s an accident?❞

That stung. Not after what you heard last time. Not after creeping down the hall and catching the tail end of a conversation you were never meant to hear. About how you looked when you bent over. How you walked. How Rafe joked you were probably dumb enough to let it happen if they ever tried something.

The room kept laughing. And you—you broke. ❝You think it’s funny?❞ Your voice was shaking, cracking open. ❝Talking about me like that? Like I’m just some thing? God, I heard what you said last time, Rafe. You all sounded fucking disgusting.❞

Silence. Instant and total. Kelce blinked. Topper muttered something under his breath. Rafe sat up straighter, eyes darkening, but you didn’t wait for whatever excuse was coming. You slammed your drink down, hands trembling, and stormed out of the room—face hot, eyes glassy, mouth twisted with humiliation.

Your bedroom door didn’t slam behind you. You didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. You just paced. You couldn’t stop. Your hands were fists. Your lip was trembling. You kept wiping at your eyes, furious with yourself for crying. And then— Footsteps. Heavy ones.

Rafe.

He opened the door without knocking, stepping into your space like it was his. You flinched. That hit him hard.

❝Hey, sweetheart—❞ he started. ❝Don’t.❞ You slapped his hand away when he reached for your arm. ❝Don’t pretend like you care now. You said worse before. You laughed.❞ Your voice wobbled, wet and furious. ❝Do you even know what it feels like? Being talked about like that? Like I’m… like I’m something dirty?❞ Rafe’s jaw was clenched tight. His chest was heaving. He didn’t say anything. You saw the guilt crawl in. But it was too late. And then—

Another laugh. From the hallway. Kelce again. ❝Maybe she likes it,❞ you heard. ❝All that attention—❞ You barely blinked before Rafe was gone. A blur of movement. Footsteps turning violent. Then came the shouting. Rafe’s voice thundered through the walls. Not cocky anymore. Not smug. Just furious.

❝You don’t fucking talk about her like that!❞ A loud crash. The sound of glass. Furniture scraping. A punch. Another. Groaning. Screaming. You stood frozen by your bed, hands over your mouth. By the time he came back, his knuckles were red and raw, his shirt wrinkled, and his hair messy from whatever fight had just exploded in the living room.

But his voice? Soft. ❝I made them leave.❞ He wiped his hand on his jeans. ❝They’re not going to say a single fucking word about you again. Not one. I swear.❞ You looked at him—eyes wide, cheeks blotchy. Still trembling. Rafe stepped closer. All the cockiness was gone now. His shoulders drooped like a kicked dog. He sank to his knees in front of you.

❝I’m sorry.❞ His voice cracked, for real this time. ❝I was trying to be cool. I was trying to show off. And it was so fucking stupid. You’re not… you’re not a joke. Not to me. Not ever.❞ You didn’t answer. Just kept staring down at him like you didn’t recognise him anymore. And Rafe, that big bear of a boy, looked suddenly so small.

His fingers curled around the edge of your skirt. Gently. Like he thought you might shove him away. ❝I meant none of it. I swear. They were laughing, and I—I just wanted to win. But I hurt you. And I hate that.❞ You bit your lip. Voice barely a whisper: ❝Why would you do that to me?❞

Rafe’s lips pressed to your stomach, soft and shaky. ❝You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re mine. You always have been.❞ Another kiss. Lower this time. ❝They don’t get to talk about you.❞ He looked up at you, blue eyes soft and begging. ❝Only I do. And I only talk when I’m telling you how fucking good you are. How sweet. How perfect.❞ Your hands found his hair. Tugged gently. You could’ve told him to leave. To go lick his wounds and think about what he’d done.

But you didn’t. You slid to the floor in front of him. Kissed his bruised knuckles. ❝Then prove it.❞

And that was all it took. Rafe pulled you into his chest like he never wanted to let go again—arms wrapped tight, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and need. He was still trembling, still running on guilt and adrenaline, but his hands were greedy now, sliding under your thighs, your skirt, gripping like he could make up for everything just by touching you hard enough. He walked you backward to the bed, lips dragging down your throat, voice thick and low as he whispered apologies between kisses, ❝I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck—let me make it up to you.❞ You let him lie you back and let him hover above you for a beat, looking down like you were the only thing that mattered—but when his fingers slid up your thigh and you caught his wrist, he froze.

You shifted, slowly rolling him onto his back. ❝No, baby,❞ you purred, voice sickly sweet, ❝you don’t get to make the rules tonight.❞ He blinked up at you, breath stuttering as you straddled his hips and settled over his aching cock, still covered by his sweats. You ground down just enough to feel the shape of him, the heat of him. ❝You don’t get to be the big man now. Not after that.❞

He tried to reach for your waist, but you slapped his hands away, hard enough to sting. ❝Hands behind your back, Rafe.❞ He obeyed, jaw clenched, arms sliding behind him like it physically pained him not to touch you.

You leaned in close, eyes locked on his while you tugged your panties to the side, still wearing that tiny skirt he and his friends couldn’t stop talking about. ❝You like this skirt so much, huh? All your little jokes about how I wear it just for you?❞

You sank down onto him without warning. He cried out—his head fell back, the tendons in his neck straining, his whole body shaking like he could barely take it. He was already so hard, so desperate; the pressure of being inside you after all that tension hit like a truck.

But you didn’t move.

You sat flush against him, tight and full, just watching him suffer. ❝If I’m a joke, you don’t get to cum.❞ You started rocking your hips, slow and torturous, little circles that made him groan and twitch, his knuckles white where they dug into the mattress behind him. ❝You said I was a joke, remember? That’s what jokes are for. For using. For getting teased and left aching.❞

His eyes were glassy, lips parted. ❝Please—fuck, please, baby—❞

You rolled your hips a little harder, grinding down just right, making sure every ridge of him rubbed against the slick, swollen ache inside you. His cock twitched like it was already leaking, and your clit throbbed from how hard you clenched down on him.

You leaned forward just enough to make him smell your perfume, your sweat, your slick. ❝Beg me, Rafe.❞ You licked your lips, voice syrupy and mean. ❝Beg your stupid little joke.❞

He bucked, body jerking up into yours with a desperate gasp, his thighs trembling. ❝I’m sorry, baby—shit—y-you’re not a joke, I swear. You’re everything—fuck, I’ll say anything; just let me cum, please, please—❞

You moaned sweetly and clenched even tighter, your soaked cunt making such a mess of him. You could feel it dripping out and down his balls, hear the sticky, wet sounds every time you rutted your hips forward. He was so sensitive he was shaking, every little twitch of your body pushing him closer to the edge. You could see it in his face—how close he was to cumming, untouched, with no permission and no control.

And then you laughed, a breathy little giggle, as you pulled off him entirely, leaving his cock soaked, twitching, desperate. His moan cracked in half, something high and helpless.

He looked ruined—his cock flushed dark red, glistening with your slick, his abs tensing like he was still fighting the urge to cum without you. You watched a bead of precum roll down his shaft, thick and sticky. His thighs were wet with you. Your thighs were shaking, too, messy and gleaming with slick and sweat.

You stood, sliding your panties back up slowly, smoothing your skirt down like nothing happened. His eyes were frantic and pleading, his body still tensed like he might just cum untouched from the sheer overstimulation of it all. You leaned in one last time, brushing his cheek with your fingers, nails catching on the scruff at his jaw. ❝Aww, poor baby. Want to try again? This time… call me your everything.❞

And Rafe? He would’ve done anything—let you ruin him again and again, let you milk him dry and leave him shaking in his own mess—if it meant he could be yours.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : so umm, thank you so much, you cute little angel of an anon. seriously, the detail in this was everything, and i really hope i did it justice! i'm kinda living in a bit of a sub¡rafe world right now (is this even sub? lol) but hey, it’s fun, right? anyway, love you lots, hope you enjoy!

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025