#the whiplash between part 1 and this one...

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

𐙚 PAIRING: Mydei/F!reader

𐙚 PARTS: 1, 2

𐙚 SUMMARY: A wartime radio announcer keeps broadcasting long after a general goes missing in a bombing. The war ends. He doesn’t return. Still, she holds to his letters and the sound of her own voice—until a quiet reunion asks whether memory is enough.

Some promises survive in silence. And some voices you wait for, even when the frequency goes quiet

𐙚 C.W: Tragedy, hallucinations, implied PTSD, war themes, implied character death, violence, blood, survivor's guilt, grief, unresolved feelings, implied depression, emotional repression, loneliness, displacement, breakdowns, hopelessness, reunion after trauma, emotional whiplash, fleeting comfort, lingering loss, disassociation, and memory fixation.

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I started reading some journalist stuff about Edward Murrow (i think thats his name) and i was fascinated about how some radio broadcasters during war time would visit missions or camps to get the full picture and relay the news to common folk. I hope my writing is okay………. 

𐙚 TAGLIST: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura @whatamidoing89 @myegyumi

𐙚 W.C: 8037

Three… two… one.

“This is Station Halcyon, broadcasting on 730 kilohertz to the northern provinces. It’s 0600 hours. You’re listening to the military update relay, authorized by the Office of National Communications. I am voice ID 042.”

You pause. Let the sound hang, steady, professional.

There’s a quiet shuffle behind the glass. Acacia, your sharp-eyed radio technician, taps away at her console, eyes darting between screens. You catch the subtle clink of a coffee cup being set down somewhere in the corner.

You clear your throat, keeping your voice calm, even though your throat feels tight.

“Last night, forces holding Sector D-7 managed to repel repeated enemy assaults. Confirmed casualties stand at fifty-seven, with six soldiers missing in action. The battle was fierce, with artillery fire disrupting communication lines throughout the night. Weather conditions remain harsh—snowfall continues to slow movement and reduce visibility, hampering defense and rescue efforts.”

You glance down at the papers before you typed-up reports from the front, barely legible scrawls from field commanders, urgent telegrams. Your fingers tap a rhythm on the desk, trying to keep nerves at bay.

“The situation at Station Epsilon is evolving. Early this morning, a bombing caused significant disruption to the communication infrastructure in the area. Frontline units are working tirelessly to re-establish contact. As of this broadcast, details remain limited and are subject to change.”

The room feels small but alive. Kastos, one of the writers, leans against the wall, scratching notes onto a battered notepad, eyes narrowed in thought. Acacia’s fingers flick deftly over switches and dials, tuning frequencies, her headset crackling with static.

“Acacia will be managing the relay patch for the upcoming shift,” you say quietly, turning slightly to catch her eye.

She shakes her head, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. You’re on for the next segment too.”

You wince, lowering your voice. “I don’t have much choice. Prices are climbing faster than I can count. I need the overtime.”

Kastos raises an eyebrow, concern plain in his gaze. “Are you sure? You’ve barely taken a break all week. The others could—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No. They need to hear a steady voice right now. Plus, there’s nothing else for me to do at home anyway.”

Acacia laughs softly behind her headset. “Fine. But don’t let us find you passed out on the floor.”

The supervisor’s voice crackles through the intercom, sharp and clipped, slicing through the low murmur of conversation.

“All units, stand by for frontline updates. Maintain clear channels. Repeat: clear channels. Prepare for immediate transmission.”

Your heart rate ticks up, the familiar rush of adrenaline threading through the exhaustion.

You lean forward, hands steady now, eyes scanning your notes again as you prepare to close this segment.

Outside, the pale dawn presses cold and gray against the windows. The world feels fragile, held in the fragile pause before chaos.

“That concludes the update for 0600 hours on Station Halcyon. Stay vigilant. Keep your radios tuned.”

The microphone’s red light switches off, and the room exhales in unison. You lean back, fingers relaxing, but the weight settles deep inside — this isn’t just news. This is lives hanging in the balance.

Behind the glass, Acacia fiddles with a new frequency, her expression serious.

Kastos pushes off the wall and walks over, tapping your shoulder lightly. “You want a break before the next round?”

You shake your head, forcing a tired smile. “Really, no. I need the extra hours. The cost of living’s not getting any easier.”

He nods, not pressing further. You sip your water, your mind already half on the interviews scheduled in the next shift, the faces you’ll have to see and hear and report.

The hours ahead, filled with static and voices, stories and silence.

Outside the station, somewhere between the lines and the snow, the war rages on.

The windowpane fogs under your breath as you lean forward, chin resting against your hand. Outside, snow drapes the ground in a dull white. Not fresh enough to be beautiful, but enough to make the road glisten with quiet hostility. It’s the kind of cold that gets into your teeth if you breathe too fast.

You sigh.

Acacia hums behind you, not really singing, not really talking. She’s fixing her scarf around her neck like she expects to be gone all day. You half-expected she’d insist on handling the assignment herself, but now she’s just stuffing a pack of cigarettes into her coat like it’s routine.

“The bombing at Station Epsilon,” she says idly, “wasn’t it near a munitions cache?”

“Might’ve been. The higher-ups didn’t say.”

“You think it’s sabotage?”

“Or someone got sloppy.” You turn back toward her. “Either way, they’re not giving us the full picture.”

She shrugs and gives a pointed glance to the dusty vent above the broadcasting booth. “They never do. But if the explosion was that loud and that close, maybe we’ll get real answers once we reach the camp.”

You grimace and look back at the window. The street outside is nearly empty—just snow-covered rooftops, shuttered buildings, and an old delivery van caked in slush. Nothing moves. Even the sky looks reluctant.

Kastos enters the room again with a stack of clipped reports, his scarf lopsided and his coat half-buttoned. “The company journalist’s already downstairs. And the car’s warmed up.”

You blink. “Already?”

He tilts his head. “You did say you’d go.”

You grunt, already reaching for your coat.

Before you’ve even shrugged it on fully, the crackling voice of the station chief echoes over the speaker:

“Halcyon crew. Let’s move. Camp Carthage is twenty klicks out and we’ve got daylight to burn. We need a full segment recorded by nightfall, preferably with clean audio this time.”

You wince. Clean audio. In a military camp. During a snowstorm. With half the equipment held together by tape and hope.

“Understood,” you call back, adjusting your scarf and tucking your press badge into your breast pocket. It’s chipped at the corners and still says Field Assistant instead of Lead Broadcaster, but nobody bothers to fix things like that anymore.

Acacia steps beside you, glancing toward the door. “You’re really sure you want to do this one?”

“I need the money,” you say, again. But there’s more than that.

There’s a kind of buzzing in your chest, not quite nerves. Not quite dread either. Just something pulling. Some part of you feels like something is coming. Something overdue.

Kastos hands you the last of the reports. “The camp you’re visiting? Carthage Unit. That’s one of the main defense divisions assigned to the Northern Borderline.”

You flip the folder open, scanning the list of ranks. Then pause. A name buried halfway down the page catches in your throat.

General Mydei.

The folder almost slips from your hands.

Acacia notices, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, closing the file again. “Nothing.”

Because it’s not supposed to mean anything. You’ve seen the name before on posters, in briefings, once scratched on a cafe wall like a curse.

But it still clutches at your stomach when you read it.

That’s the man who used to stand in line at the corner bakery every Thursday, exactly at noon. Who never smiled, but always tipped the staff and bought the same pomegranate bread, dusted with sugar. Who never said your name, but always nodded when you passed by. Who, one rainy afternoon, left a clean handkerchief on your seat when you forgot yours.

You hadn’t known who he was until he disappeared from the city altogether. Until the rumors started that the famous tactician was being shipped out. Until posters with his name were printed in black and pinned to walls like announcements of war.

You wonder, briefly, if he still likes pomegranate bread.

“Let’s go,” you say finally, as your hand tightens on the folder.

You make your way downstairs, the stairs groaning under your weight, coat pulled tighter around your frame. The wind slaps at your cheeks the moment the front doors open, and the cold digs straight through your bones.

Parked on the curb is the usual truck, military make, with the back converted into a cramped audio recording room. One of the junior field techs nods at you, holding the door open.

You step in, tucking your folder close to your chest.

The last thing you see before the door closes is the snowfall thickening.

As if even the sky wants to blur what’s about to happen.

Snow flurries whip past the windshield as the transport truck rolls to a stop, tires crunching over slush-packed gravel. The gate ahead is nothing like the ones you’ve passed on safer routes. No banners, no welcoming officers. Just concrete, barbed wire, and tall shadows flanking the entrance like stone guardians.

You press your palm against the side window, peering out.

“They really stuck us out in the edge of the map,” Kastos mutters beside you, thumbing his pen with nervous energy. He’s already creased the interview questions.

“They’re the spearhead division,” Iliyen replies, voice low but calm. She adjusts her officer’s coat and slips a black notebook into her breast pocket. “They’re the reason the front hasn’t collapsed yet.”

She says it like it’s praise, but her jaw stays tense. You don’t ask questions. You know her type,  the kind of correspondent who’s seen enough wreckage to speak in clipped phrases and small exhales.

The back door slides open, and a wave of cold air floods the truck’s interior. One of the drivers motions silently for you to get out.

You step down onto hardened ground, boots crunching over the icy surface. Around you, the camp sprawls like a living machine. There are gray tents and steel outposts peppered across snow-dusted hills. Men and women move like clockwork: some carrying munitions crates, others trudging in groups toward the eastern lookouts. Their uniforms are thick, faded with frost. Their expressions unreadable.

There’s no music here. No shouting. Just the wind and the occasional barked command.

You tug your scarf tighter.

At the gate, a stern-looking officer approaches — tall, clad in full winter gear with only his eyes visible beneath his cap. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just scans your badges and says:

“You’ll speak with Lieutenant Raen. She’ll brief you on what you can and can’t record.”

Iliyen nods. “Understood.”

You glance to Kastos. He flashes a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

As you’re led into the camp proper, you pass soldiers who glance only once before turning away again. No curiosity. No interest. Just war-weariness shaped into silence.

You’re not used to being invisible.

You pass the mess tents, the gear sheds, the comms posts with each one half-buried in snow, smoke curling from chimneys that barely heat the interiors. The air smells of sweat and rust and something faintly metallic.

And then you reach it,  a central pavilion reinforced with stone and iron, like a makeshift headquarters carved out of old world bones.

Inside, the air is warmer. Dim lanterns swing gently from the beams. Maps cover the walls. Chalk and pins mark movements and losses.

Lieutenant Raen stands at the center, sleeves rolled, voice brisk.

She turns when you enter and gives a short nod.

“You’re the press team?”

You nod. “Radio Halcyon.”

Raen eyes you, then Iliyen. “We’re on borrowed time. Command only gave you two hours.”

“We’ll take thirty minutes,” Iliyen says.

“Fifteen,” Raen corrects. “You want answers, ask fast. No photos. No names unless cleared. No questions about the blast. No questions about ‘General Mydei.’” She says the last part flatly, like she’s memorized it.

Your heartbeat skips.

Kastos doesn’t flinch, just flips to a fresh page in his pad.

You say nothing.

Raen leads you to a side wing where a handful of soldiers. The more presentable ones, you guess, are seated and waiting. Most look tired. One taps his fingers on his rifle’s strap. Another adjusts the bandage around her wrist and mutters something under her breath.

These are the ones they want the public to see.

Raen gestures toward the foldable chairs arranged like an awkward classroom. “You can record here. You get quotes, not monologues. Keep it clean. If anything sounds off-message, I’ll cut it.”

Iliyen already has her notebook out. Kastos follows suit.

You set up the mic, the static in your ears a low buzz. Your voice is hoarse from the cold.

You clear your throat, glance at the recorder’s red light.

“Recording live,” you murmur.

You look up.

And you begin.

“Corps Command Halcyon, frontline feature, Northern Defense Axis,” you say, tone low and measured. “Present location: Camp Carthage, spear division of the border defense. In front of us: five soldiers, five stories.”

One of the soldiers, the one with tired eyes and a faded patch on his arm, meets your gaze.

“Let’s talk about what survival looks like,” you say softly. “Here. Now.”

The recorder hums softly in your gloved hand, its red light blinking slow and steady. A bit like a pulse. You lean forward, enough to catch the profile of the soldier speaking without crowding him.

“…it’s cold, sure,” says one. Corporal Theon, wiry with sharp, wind-burnt cheekbones. “But the thing about frostbite is it creeps up quietly. Like artillery. You don’t feel it until you’re already too far gone.”

There’s a stiff chuckle from one of the others.

Kastos jots it down, then gently interjects, “How’s morale, Corporal?”

Theon shrugs. “We still get letters. The food’s warm. When it isn’t frozen, anyway.”

The woman beside him. Specialist Vesha. She folds her arms, eyes half-lidded but listening. You turn slightly to her.

“What about the last skirmish? Reports said Carthage was the first to respond.”

“We always are,” she says dryly. “We’re used to going first.”

There’s no pride in it. Just fact.

You clear your throat. “And... word was that someone on your squad intercepted a transmission from behind enemy lines?”

Now, that earns you attention.

Vesha’s brow lifts. Theon scratches his neck. The youngest, a Private whose name you never caught, leans in a little.

“Oh, you mean the mole?” the Private blurts, a little too loud.

You exchange a quick glance with Kastos.

Iliyen’s pencil pauses mid-word.

Vesha elbows the kid, not subtly.

Lieutenant Raen, who’s been standing off to the side like a bored shadow, steps forward. “Strike that,” she says firmly. “That information isn’t cleared for public dissemination.”

The soldier mumbles an apology. You nod silently, thumb the switch on the recorder and mark the cut. Later, you’ll edit that part out.

Still, you file the word mole somewhere in your brain. You’re not sure if it’ll matter, but your gut says it might.

Kastos moves things along. “Let’s talk about conditions.”

One of the others, a medic, judging by the red cross half-hidden beneath his coat, gestures vaguely outside. “Snow’s hitting harder this week. Rations are tighter. We don’t see command often, but when we do, they usually come bearing good or bad news. No in-between.”

“And what do you do to stay… grounded?” you ask. “To remember you’re still yourselves out here?”

The medic hesitates, then half-smiles. “We listen to the broadcasts.”

Your breath hitches just a little.

“The radio,” he clarifies. “Yours. Mostly yours. Someone strung up a signal rig in the comms tent. We catch it most nights if the wind isn’t too cruel.”

He doesn’t say your name, but his eyes linger a beat too long on your face. You wonder if he recognizes your voice before your face. If he ever imagined you looked different, or if you were better off staying just a voice.

“Helps us feel like we haven’t slipped completely off the map,” he adds.

“...Thank you,” you say, a little quieter than you meant to.

They nod. The air settles.

But then someone… One of the quieter soldiers at the end, older, worn like wet rope, murmurs, “The General listens too.”

Raen straightens slightly. “That’s enough.”

He doesn’t stop. “We heard it. From the mole. Enemy officers said he’s been picking up Halcyon frequencies, even when he’s behind enemy lines. They call him ‘ghost-walker.’ Think he’s some phantom with a pulse.”

You can feel your stomach twist. A slow, low curl of something in your chest.

Kastos writes faster.

Raen’s voice slices through again, sharper this time. “Strike that.”

Iliyen doesn’t even argue. She draws a thick black line across a portion of her notes.

The older soldier shrugs. “Was worth saying.”

You glance at the recorder. Still red. Still blinking.

You switch it off with a soft click.

The interview ends in an awkward shuffle. No one claps. No one thanks anyone. Just tired nods and half-formed murmurs of "stay safe."

You step outside again, scarf pulled over your lips as the cold slaps back into your lungs. The sky above is gray-blue and heavy with snow. The wind whistles through barbed wire and loose canvas.

Iliyen joins you at your side, gaze faraway. “He listens,” she says.

You look at her.

“The General,” she continues. “Or so they say. I wonder what he’s hoping to hear.”

You don't answer.

Because you already know.

You’ve seen the signal strength peak at odd hours. Heard rustling when no one else was supposed to be transmitting. Caught static at your name. You’d once said something—something small, off-script, during a broadcast lull:

“If you’re out there… if any of you are out there… just know someone’s still listening.”

And someone had tapped the line once. Just once.

You’d told yourself it was wind.

But you’d written it down anyway

The wind is quieter now, almost reverent. Snow falls in patient flurries, dotting your coat and lashes. You stand near the gravel path that snakes out of the main barracks, waiting for the car to circle back from refueling. A low hum echoes from the far end of the camp — soldiers drilling.

Not just jogging or casual formation.

No, training.

Hard.

Rhythmic, timed drills. Callouts in unison. Boots pounding frozen earth in perfect coordination. The kind of conditioning you only ever hear about in radio reports, but rarely see.

You and your small team stand near a stacked crate, watching like civilians watching a well-oiled, frightening machine.

Kastos exhales next to you, breath visible in the air. “The other camps don’t train like this.”

Iliyen folds her arms, gloved fingers tapping the outside of her coat. “Camp Carthage isn’t like the others. I’ve heard it’s where they send the toughest units.”

Kastos nods absently, gaze still trained on the soldiers. “Still. This feels excessive.”

“General Mydei runs this one, doesn’t he?” Iliyen says, not looking at either of you. “They say he’s strict. Really tall. Big build. Makes them train three times harder than protocol.”

There’s a long pause.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye but say nothing. The name Mydei clings to the inside of your skull like snow melt against skin.

Iliyen shrugs. “I mean... of course. Carthage is always first in. When the lines are redrawn, they’re the ones pushing it. Or dying on it.”

A young assistant, whose nametag reads Harren, maybe fresh out of training, sidles up to join your group. “It’s because they’re sacrificial,” he says bluntly. “Everyone knows that.”

You don’t even think before your hand jabs his side with your elbow.

“Hey.” You don’t bother hiding your glare. “Don’t say that. Not out loud.”

He stammers, rubbing his ribs, looking mildly ashamed. “Sorry. I just—everyone thinks it. I didn’t mean anything.”

You look back at the training yard. Soldiers running drills under snowfall, lifting crates, forming formations, voices crisp and synchronized. One of them collapses, gets back up within seconds. A sergeant barks something from across the yard.

“I know,” you say after a moment. “But some of them still write home. They still hold onto birthdays. They’re not just statistics.”

A long silence settles again.

Only the sound of soldiers calling out numbers cuts through the cold.

Kastos shifts beside you. “Ever met Mydei?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the yard.

“No,” you lie, quickly.

Iliyen watches you, but doesn’t call it out.

“Well,” Kastos says. “If this is his doing… can’t decide if it’s terrifying or admirable.”

“Both,” Iliyen says quietly.

You don't respond.

Instead, you stare a little longer at the blur of movement. The dark coats. The steady, trained bodies. And somewhere out there, maybe in one of the tents or maybe already gone back to the field, is a man who once stood in line at a bakery every Thursday at 4 p.m.

He always ordered the same lemon tart. He never said more than five words at a time.

You never knew his name back then.

Not until you started hearing it echo across casualty reports, field victories, and whispered soldier rumors like it was both a threat and a blessing.

General Mydei.

You pull your scarf higher up your chin and exhale.

Behind you, the car pulls up at last, headlights dimmed against the white glare of snow. You don’t get in right away.

You keep watching.

Not for long. Just a few more seconds.

You pat down your coat pockets once. Then twice. Then with increasing urgency, a third time.

No pen.

No—not just any pen.

You shove your hand into your left coat flap, then the inner lining, then frantically unzip your side pouch. Kastos and Iliyen are already halfway to the car, chatting like people who don’t have a heart sinking into the soles of their boots.

“Wait—ugh, I’ll be right back!” you call out, already spinning on your heel.

“Again?” Kastos yells over his shoulder. “What is it now?”

“My pen! My lucky pen!”

He groans. “You and that cursed thing—”

“I was holding it literally six minutes ago,” you mutter, ignoring him as your boots crunch back over the gravel.

It was Thomas’ pen. Your favorite professor during your last year in broadcast journalism. Said you had “a voice like velvet and vinegar” his words, not yours,  and handed you that red metal pen before your first campus coverage.

You got your internship three weeks later. Then your first job. Then—somehow—Station Halcyon.

And now you’d dropped it. Somewhere in Camp Carthage, the most intense military base in the damn region. You could scream.

You trudge past crates, your fingers jammed under your arms to stay warm. “Please don’t let some lieutenant find it and think it’s a bomb,” you mutter to yourself.

There—near a cluster of empty benches outside the officer tent.

You spot the gleam of metal against frost.

You scramble forward.

“Oh, thank god—” you sigh, crouching to retrieve it. Your name still elegantly etched near the clicker. Slightly scratched but still legible.

You tuck it back into your breast pocket with a reverent pat. “You’re the only thing that makes my handwriting legible,” you whisper to it, only half-joking.

Your nose twitches.

Then—ah-CHH! You sneeze sharply into your handkerchief, muffling it as best you can.

Ugh. Cold.

You straighten up and turn around—

And crash straight into something.

Solid. Warm. Tall.

You recoil, mumbling an immediate, flustered, “Oh, I’m so—!”

Then you look up.

And freeze.

He stands in front of you like a thunderclap dressed in regulation.

Dark coat. Tactical gloves. Snow still melting on his shoulders. His hair is slightly mussed, damp from training or wind. His eyes—sharp, dark, and steady—land directly on you.

You’ve seen that face only a handful of times up close.

Once at the bakery.

Twice in passing.

And one time, half-shadowed in a classified military photo you weren’t supposed to see.

But there’s no mistaking it now. No confusion.

This isn’t some vague officer or distant silhouette.

This is him.

General Mydei.

And he’s staring at you.

Just a beat too long.

You blink. Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward briefly, like he's taking stock of you: the scarf, the broadcaster’s badge on your coat, the handkerchief still clutched in your fingers.

Then his voice, low, smooth, with an edge like flint, breaks the silence.

“…You dropped your pen.”

He says it like it’s a matter of state.

You nod dumbly. “I—I got it. It’s, um… it’s really precious. Refill’s stupidly expensive.”

A pause.

Is that the corner of his mouth twitching?

No. Couldn’t be.

You clear your throat. “Sorry for bumping into you. I didn’t mean—sorry.”

“No harm,” he says.

Another silence.

Another moment that stretches longer than it should.

He’s not moving.

You’re not either.

You wonder if he recognizes you. Not from radio broadcasts. But from Thursdays. From tart crumbs. From the smell of lemon sugar.

Before this war devoured everything.

You’re not brave enough to ask.

Not yet.

From the corner of your eye, you see Kastos waving from the car.

You swallow, nod stiffly to him, and start to move past—

“Mydei,” he says quietly.

You pause.

“I’m General Mydei.”

You turn back to him slowly. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Everyone here knows.

But somehow, hearing him say it… to you feels different.

Like he’s handing something over. Even if it’s just a name you already knew.

You wet your lips.

“I know.”

He studies you a second longer.

Then, with nothing more than a nod, he turns and walks off toward the barracks.

You don’t move for a long time.

Only once he’s disappeared into the haze of snowfall do you whisper, “What the hell.”

Then you walk back to the car, hand over your badge to the guards, and try not to let anyone see how pink your ears are.

The walls hum quietly. The radiator sputters again.

You exhale as you toss your coat over the single chair by the door, boots kicked off with the sluggishness of someone whose spine has been standing too long. The second the latch clicks shut behind you, the silence settles. Not comforting. Just there.

You lean against the doorframe for a second, just breathing.

The building shakes faintly every few minutes, trams or low-altitude aircraft. Hard to tell anymore. The view outside your window is barely a view: dim streetlamps, skeletal trees, and that same white birdshit stain on the upper right pane.

You were going to clean it. Last week. Then your boss scheduled you for two more overnight shifts. And the market trip. And that call from the registrar's office in the Outer Lieran Region—your younger sibling’s tuition deadline, right on cue. The second one needed housing funds.

You didn’t even flinch when your last paycheck dissolved the moment it hit your account.

It’s quiet. You don’t turn the radio on this time. For once, your voice is the last thing you want to hear echo back.

You collapse into the chair by your desk. Your coat slips off the side.

Right. Work.

You dig out the pages from your coat pocket—notes from today’s field interview. Scrawled shorthand. Names, code designations, half-legible transcriptions. You’ll have to polish it all tomorrow, but you want to at least organize it before it all blurs again.

Your fingers ache slightly as you hold your pen. The red one. The engraved one.

Your name glints under the weak lamplight.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then your eyes drift.

He looked different.

You'd already known he was tall—could tell even from the bakery line, from how people moved around him like his shadow carried weight. But in uniform? In full command?

It was like watching someone step out of a war mural.

The golden pauldron caught the light when he moved. The twin gauntlets didn’t look ceremonial; they looked used. The robe—dark and stitched with sharp red lines—moved when he walked like it had its own momentum.

But his hair—

It still looked the same.

Messy. Beige with threads of red through it like streaks of clay, sunlit in some places. A long, thick lock was still braided neatly down the right side, and the sapphire earring he always wore—the one you used to quietly admire when he passed your bakery window—was still there. Just… brighter.

The tattoos you only half-saw. They curled past the edge of his collar, glowing faintly beneath the sharp line of his neck.

You rub your eyes.

Why are you thinking about this so much?

You sneeze into your sleeve again, groaning.

Right.

Still sick. Still underpaid. Still out of credits.

You glance at the corner of your desk, where yesterday’s receipt is still pinned to the wall.

180 credits – Eggs (bargained 20% off)

The lady at the counter had looked at you like you were gutting her cat, but you needed it. Needed something cheap. Rent ate the rest.

Your fingers drift to the windowsill, tracing dust with your pinkie. It’s been a while since you even wiped this thing. The fucking bird droppings dried into the glass days ago. It looks like a cursed shape. Sort of a lowercase "g." or maybe a fucking “o”.

You should clean. You should.

But you don’t.

You pull your legs up into the chair, curling one arm around your knees.

There’s a letter on your nightstand waiting to be mailed. It's to your siblings. You’ll have to pay extra just to get it out by courier—postal lines are delayed again, thanks to military rerouting.

You sigh and lay your head down on the desk.

His voice was deeper than you expected.

Not booming. Just… deliberate. Like every word had to pass through a dozen checkpoints before being released. But when he said your name, even just once, it stuck in your chest like a bruise that didn't hurt.

You wonder if he recognized you.

You wonder if he ever listened.

Surely not. You’re just a voice on the frequency. Background noise between strategy reports and ration orders.

But maybe…

Maybe once or twice, before deployment or during quiet hours, he tuned in. Maybe he knew it was you. Maybe that’s why he said his name like that.

“Mydei.”

Like a reminder.

Your name, his name.

Two things that don’t usually sit in the same sentence.

You let your eyes drift closed, just for a moment.

The room smells faintly of ink and radiator heat. The soft hum of the war beyond your window fades just long enough for you to almost forget you’re part of it.

Almost.

Click. Pen. Click. Pen. Click.

You blink blearily at the scheduling sheet, the overhead lights too white for your crusted eyes. The ache in your throat hasn’t let up. The coffee’s cold, and you haven’t even touched it.

Your fingers are cramping slightly from transcribing yesterday’s interviews—nothing special, just more vague military platitudes and rehearsed optimism. Except for the one slip-up. That poor man practically flung his whole career into your recorder before Raen told you to cut it from the official copy.

You left it in your private notes, though. Just in case.

Across the room, Illiyen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Follow-up scheduled. Camp Carthage wants us back there for an extended segment. Apparently, the general’s agreed to speak directly this time."

Kastos lets out a low whistle. “General Mydei? Himself?”

Illiyen mutters, "They’re never that generous with media access. Wonder what he wants spun.”

“Control the narrative before it controls you,” Acacia mutters.

Your stomach twists.

"Guess who gets to interview him," she adds, eyes sliding to you. "Congratulations. He insisted."

You blink.

“…He what?”

“He said, and I quote,” Illiyen flips a page, “‘Tell the broadcaster not to bother assigning anyone. I’ll speak. Only with her.’”

Her tone is unreadable.

Kastos snorts. “Must’ve liked how you look clutching that red pen.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs on reflex. “Shut up.”

But your hands are cold. You shove them under the table, trying to steady your pulse.

You arrive late.

The morning frost hasn’t lifted, but Camp Carthage is already blistering with movement. Soldiers run drills. Barked orders echo across the field. The air smells like scorched fabric and freshly oiled metal. Yet there’s still that strange trace of sweetness—somebody’s always baking in this place, you swear.

You barely register the routine security checks this time. Raen’s already watching over you like a goddamn hawk. Illiyen’s adjusting her camera strap. Kastos is trying to look casual and failing miserably.

You’re just cold.

“Interview’s set up in the outer war room,” an escort tells your group. “General’s already inside. Waiting.”

Your fingers brush the edge of your coat pocket, where your pen rests. Still there.

Good.

The room is clean. Stark. A long rectangular table stretches through the middle, flanked by military maps pinned on every wall. Red markers. Circles. Strings. No windows. The heater hums.

He’s already there.

General Mydei stands at the far end, back to you at first—his posture unnervingly relaxed for someone surrounded by so much tension. But when the door closes behind your group, he turns.

Your breath catches.

In full light, he looks sharper. Not just large—striking. His uniform is the same as yesterday’s: deep maroon robes under sharp tailoring, the gold of his pauldron catching even the weakest light. His gauntlets reflect faintly, fingers flexed as if he’s perpetually ready to strike. The tattoos just barely peek from the edges of his collar. His eyes—sun-gold, slitted just slightly—land on you.

And stay there.

Iliyen starts introducing herself. Mydei doesn’t even blink. He nods once to the team. Gives a simple, “Thank you for coming.”

But his gaze never leaves yours.

You clear your throat. “We appreciate your time, General.”

“It was mine to offer,” he says, quietly.

The interview begins. You do your job.

You ask the prepared questions. Updates. Troop morale. Shifts in strategy. Reflections on public sentiment. His answers are composed, measured, but not rehearsed. There’s something disarmingly direct about the way he speaks. He never rambles. He never deflects. But he’s choosing every word like a blade.

And still—he looks at you. Almost the entire time.

You can feel the weight of it like pressure on your throat.

You try to ignore it. You have to.

Kastos starts wrapping up, giving the practiced thank-you and final formalities that come with every military interview. His tone is brisk, neutral, just enough polish to signal professionalism but not deference. Iliyen is already clipping the mic off her coat, brushing some lint off her scarf. Then, Kastos cracks his knuckles and mutters something about freezing his fingers off while fiddling with the audio case.

You don’t move.

Not immediately, anyway.

Your fingers hover over the recorder’s buttons, slowly double-checking everything you’ve already checked twice. You thumb through your notes, half-skimming your own shorthand even though you know exactly what’s written. A small, stubborn part of you stalls—lingering for a reason you don’t quite have the words for.

He doesn’t leave.

You feel it before you confirm it: that same unmoving gaze. Mydei hasn’t shifted from his spot at the far end of the table. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back now, gaze rooted to where you sit.

Not unkind. Not expectant. Just steady.

Your pen trembles slightly between your fingers. You set it down, too slow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Kastos.

He’s mouthing something.

Ooooh.

You don’t even need to hear it to feel the heat crawl up your neck.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to shear his tongue off. He smiles innocently and turns away, already helping Illiyen pack cables.

Raen leans in just enough for her words to be heard over the static, voice clipped and quiet. “Tread carefully around generals,” she says, eyes fixed ahead. “I’m not in the mood to explain insubordination.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “I’m not flirting,” you hiss.

“You were lingering.”

“I’m working.”

Raen shrugs. “Then do it. And don’t try anything foolish.”

You ignore her. Mostly because you can’t argue while your heart’s pounding this hard.

When you finally lift your head, you’re met—again—with his gaze.

It’s not piercing. Not invasive. It doesn’t leer or search.

It just sees.

There’s a calm to it, like staring into the eye of a slow-moving storm. Not danger. Not desire. Just depth. Like he’s memorizing your face for reasons even he doesn’t understand yet.

You swallow. The back of your throat still aches.

You gather your things too quickly, nearly knocking your clipboard over. Your hands fumble with the strap of your bag as you follow your team, suddenly aware of the echo of your boots against the cold tile floor.

You hesitate in the doorway.

And still—he hasn’t said anything.

But as your hand finds the doorframe, steadying yourself as you step out, you feel it. The air shift.

He nods.

A simple thing. Barely even movement.

But it’s not a dismissive gesture.

It’s one of recognition. Like he’s answering a question you hadn’t asked aloud.

And it’s meant just for you.

The door shuts quietly behind you.

Days pass by, broadcasting news with a hoarse throat.

The news finishes broadcasting at precisely 17:00. Your voice still lingers faintly in your ears, the tail end of a final sentence about grain ration restrictions and how imports from the northern regions will be suspended due to sabotage.

You flick off your mic.

The studio is warm and smells like paper and old wires. Acacia’s in the corner doing maintenance on the transmitter, mumbling about the feedback delay on Frequency 3. Illiyen’s out on her day off—good for her—and Kastos is raiding the office cabinet for the last pack of coffee sticks. Again.

You're about to stand and grab your notebook when the front desk intern walks in, holding a square envelope like it's radioactive.

“Something came for you,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.

You furrow your brows, taking it cautiously. It's... old-fashioned. Real paper. Cream-colored envelope. Inked address.

Your full name is written in neat, squared handwriting. No return address.

But in the top corner—

Camp Carthage.

Your stomach drops.

Acacia doesn't notice. She's still swearing under her breath at the equipment.

But of course, Kastos notices.

"Ooooh," he says, drawing the syllable out like he's sixteen again. “Camp Carthage? That’s from frontline daddy, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, asshole,” you snap too quickly.

“Bet it’s a marriage proposal.”

You whirl on him, nearly smacking him with your clipboard. “I swear to the gods, I will file a hostile work report on you.”

He raises his hands innocently, grinning wide. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or the jealous coworker.”

You pocket the envelope like it might spontaneously combust.

It’s probably not personal. It’s probably official. Maybe you forgot to redact something. 

Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe General Mydei wants to complain that you hovered too long or stood on the wrong side of a marked perimeter or—

You sneak out of the studio.

You head straight to the second-floor bathroom, into the third stall—the one that doesn’t lock properly but faces away from the mirrors. You sit on the toilet with the lid down, heart drumming faster than it has any right to.

You open it carefully, breaking the wax seal.

The handwriting inside is the same. Clean. Sharp-edged. Pressed like the writer hesitated after every word.

It reads:

“To Station Halcyon – Attn: Broadcaster [Name], Regarding your last transmission: You mentioned the supply shortages near the Estera fields, and I believe your source was either outdated or misinformed. For record accuracy, we’ve since rerouted all eastbound grain stocks via Riverline, with security guaranteed by Squadron IX. Furthermore, the tone of your closing remark (re: "the bleakness of the eastern border settlements") may unintentionally demoralize listeners stationed near those areas. I understand the pressures of tight scripting, but I would suggest consulting the civilian morale guide distributed last quarter. Should you require updated data regarding troop rotations or food parcel allocations, I can arrange for briefings to be transmitted weekly to your station. I will ensure they are signed and verified. Your reporting has been... notably consistent. – Commander M. of Carthage Division”

You stare at it.

You blink.

You read it again.

You feel warm in the face and cold in your fingertips.

It’s not personal—not really. Not even close.

But there’s a very specific kind of... attention to it. The formality is thick, like he doesn’t know how else to communicate. But the words aren’t condescending. They’re intentional. Even thoughtful.

"Your reporting has been... notably consistent."

What the hell does that mean?

You fold the letter neatly, tucking it back in the envelope. It smells faintly like paper and ink. No perfume. No hidden message. Just a strange, stiff kind of connection, signed with a single M.

Your foot taps against the floor. You reread the line about arranging weekly briefings.

You mumble aloud, “Does he... want me to keep talking?”

A knock on the stall door jerks you upright.

“You die in there?” Kastos calls. “Because if you are, I’m not covering your shift.”

“Get out!” you bark, flushing hard.

You bury your face in your hands.

When you’re back home, you fold your arms on the desk and groan into them.

Why is writing a simple thank-you letter making you sweat like this?

It’s not like it means anything. It’s a follow-up. A professional courtesy. You do this all the time. With vendors. With guest speakers. With that one guy from the postal union who sent you a thank-you card with an accidental oil stain.

This is normal. So normal.

You sit back, adjust your posture, and stare at the blank sheet of paper like it's a final exam.

Okay. Focus.

You pick up your pen—the red one, the one with your name engraved—and begin writing in the same formal structure you imagine he used. Except you’re chewing on the corner of your sleeve and second-guessing everything as you go.

“To Commander M. of Camp Carthage, Thank you for the clarification regarding the Estera grain supply reroute. We’ve updated our station records accordingly. I apologize for the error in tone regarding the eastern settlements—it was not my intention to frame the situation in a way that might discourage or alarm listeners stationed near the region. I appreciate the offer for regular briefings. If such transmissions can be arranged, it would greatly improve the accuracy of our broadcasts and help maintain the trust of our audience. Your feedback is valued. – [Your Full Name], Station Halcyon”

…Your feedback is valued? AAAAAA. You cross it out. It sounds like a customer service bot.

You try again.

“…Thank you for taking the time to write. I imagine your schedule is demanding. We’ll take care to reference verified materials moving forward.”

You tap the paper. Then rewrite that sentence because "I imagine your schedule is demanding" makes you sound like you’ve been thinking about his schedule which, you haven’t, obviously, what the fuck.

You cover your face.

This is deranged.

Why are you even blushing? It’s a letter. From a literal general. About literal war.

And yet—

You can see him. Stoic. Still. Gauntlets catching the light. Watching you like he did at the end of that interview, eyes not judgmental, just… unreadable.

You shake your head and close the letter.

That’s enough.

You’ll seal it, get it couriered, and not wait for a response.

You definitely won’t hover by the desk pretending to organize files just to hear if someone mentions incoming mail from Camp Carthage.

Definitely not.

The tent smells faintly of parchment, ash, and old tea. There's a brazier glowing behind you and the steady drip-drip of snow melting off the canvas above. Your breath fogs faintly in the cold.

You adjust your scarf, recorder already on, pen tucked behind your ear.

Iliyen’s at your side, halfway into the formal opening.

“We’ll be recording a brief segment for Station Halcyon, mostly regarding the western checkpoint—”

“Out,” Mydei says.

You and Illiyen both look up.

“...Sir?” illiyen blinks.

“I’ll handle this interview alone,” Mydei says again, tone even.

There’s a beat. You nearly drop your pen.

Illiyen blinks once, glances at you, then back at Mydei. “...Understood, General.” She doesn’t question it. She just pats your shoulder once and slips out of the tent, brushing past the flaps with a huff of cold air.

You are now alone with him.

You clear your throat. "U-Um. This will be brief," you manage, flicking your gaze to your clipboard. “Just a few notes on the recent patrol routes, and—”

“You speak well,” he says, cutting through your nerves with that low, gravel-soft voice.

You blink. “Sorry?”

He nods once. “Your phrasing. Clear. Intentional. Commanding, at times.”

You weren't expecting that.

“Oh. Thank you…?” you fumble.

Mydei leans back against a table, arms crossed. The light catches the gold edge of his pauldron. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“But,” he continues, “when you talk about troop losses… or damage…” He tilts his head slightly. “There’s weight in the facts, yes. But you allow it to linger.”

You freeze. “...Too much?”

“Not too much. Just enough to feel real.” He pauses. “But morale breaks in the quiet, not in the chaos. People are tired. Be mindful of how long you let silence stretch between your words.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Your heart’s hammering, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold or him. Probably both.

You nod slowly. “I’ll… work on that.”

A small grunt of approval. He pushes off the table and walks to the map on the tent wall. You take that moment to breathe.

He begins speaking, slow and measured. "Three nights ago, we intercepted communications from a collapsed enemy camp near the border. One of our moles confirmed what we feared—the bombing near Station Rozen was not meant for civilians. It was a test. Meant to measure response time.”

You scribble notes. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t fidget. He speaks like someone who has too many thoughts and not enough space in his body to store them.

You glance up. “And the camp here? Any word if you’re a potential target?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Always.”

That hangs in the air longer than you want it to.

You shift in your seat. “I see.”

“Carthage is too valuable. We intercept most first-wave assaults. Which makes us both feared… and disposable.”

You frown. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

You don’t know what to say to that. But he continues before you can try.

“There’s also been movement along the frozen river. We’ve dispatched scouts. I’ll send you the official debriefing tonight.”

You nod quickly, pen scratching.

Then, silence again.

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move.

Finally, he speaks again, voice quieter.

“You keep the red pen.”

Your breath catches.

You look up slowly. “How did you know it was mine?”

He looks down at you. "You said it out loud when you found it. Three times."

You flush. Of course you did. Fucking loudmouth.

“You could’ve left it at the officer's tent,” you say, trying to salvage your dignity.

“I could’ve,” he agrees, no hint of sarcasm.

You scribble the last note down. “...Thanks again.”

A long pause. He steps closer—not uncomfortably close, but enough for the brazier’s heat to catch his silhouette.

“You write your own reports?” he asks.

You nod. “Most of them.”

He watches you for a moment longer. “I read them. Often. Even before the camp visit.”

Your pen stills.

“Oh,” you say softly.

His eyes are unreadable. “They’re good.”

Then: “That’s all.”

You nod, throat dry.

You gather your notes quickly, double-check your recorder (still on, thank god), and make for the flap—

“Your cadence is improving,” he adds before you step out.

You look back, breath misting.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

You step outside, heart thundering.

Snow still falling.

And for some reason, you can’t feel the cold. Not yet.

The ride back to the station is quiet. Snow thuds softly against the windows of the old transport vehicle, and the heater hums in a broken, uneven rhythm. You’re wedged between your notes and your recorder, knees tucked under your coat, fingers still tight around your pen.

You press play.

"Your cadence is improving.”

You pause it. Rewind. Press play again.

"Your cadence is improving.”

𐙚 A/N: School rlly fucked me up and I had to keep revising- there's so many groupworks, I'm gonna have work immersion too... Please kill me :(( Just had exams today, really funny because it's just the second week of classes but o welp. I'm sorry if the fanfic was delayed for weeks, but I'm posting the second part tomorrow, I swear! :(

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

[mizugucci]

'PERSONAL PICTORIAL' SHOOT PART 2 — KIM BYUNGJOO

[galaxy-of-me]

i will never understand the hate ppl have for the csm s1 art direction

[daryltwdixon]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 6.5 | Part 7

Summary: After an accidental Freudian slip in bed with your husband, you and Joel agree to take a step back. Boundaries are drawn, lines are reinforced—but the damage is done, and even the strongest of willpower can't keep you apart.

|| smut MDNI 18+, little bit of angst there too, starting to not really be able to say this isn't cheating anymore yikes, dirty talk, pinv, riding, breeding kink, no outbreak, little bit of action with Tommy (f!receiving oral) Joel Miller is starting to catch feeeeelingssss ruh roh || notes: oh boy oh boy did I get secondhand embarrassment from this one. I think my eyes might start bleeding if I try rereading this again so plz lmk of any errors

Tommy had always been good to you. Patient, eager to please. He took his time, hands kneading the soft skin of your thighs, mouth dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along your inner leg like he was savoring you. Like he loved you. And he did. Maybe that was the problem.

Because love wasn’t the same thing as knowing.

He wanted you to feel good, of course he did—but there was something hesitant about it, something careful. Like he was trying to do right by you instead of wreck you. Like he was holding back.

His tongue traced a path through your folds, licking and eating and suckling everywhere except where you needed him most. You squirmed, hips pushing up into his mouth, searching for that right spot, just a little higher, to the left…

You hummed when his nose nudged your clit, eyes fluttering shut, and what you didn’t mean to do was picture another man with the last name Miller instead of the one between your legs.

But you did.

And you didn’t picture patience. You pictured hunger.

Joel had devoured you, consumed you like he’d been starved for it, like he would’ve died if he didn’t get his mouth on you, inside you. He hadn’t wasted a second searching—he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to work you open, like he’d memorized your body before he even had his hands on it. And God, those hands. The way they parted your thighs like the sea, fingers digging deep like they belonged there, like they were meant to bruise.

And his filthy, sinful mouth—

That voice, rough and low as he’d murmured against your soaked skin, coaxing you through every little whimper and gasp, urging you to let go, just one more, pretty girl, gimme another. You’d come on his tongue again and again until you could barely breathe, until you were trembling, until he finally, finally let you rest.

Tommy just didn’t do things like that. 

Tommy felt like warmth, like comfort, like the hands of a man who wanted to love you—but not the hands of a man who understood you.

And maybe that was why you didn’t even hear yourself when it slipped out–

“Joel–”

And then there was silence.

Thick and suffocating, pressing against your ears, your chest, your ribs.

Tommy had stopped. You barely registered it at first—so lost in your own head, in the whiplash of pleasure and horror—until you felt the absence of his mouth, the cool air licking over your slick skin. He had frozen in place, his breath still warm against your thigh, but he wasn’t moving.

And then, slowly, achingly, he sat back.

You didn’t want to look at him.

Didn’t want to see the way his brow furrowed, his mouth parted like he was going to say something but didn’t quite know how.

Didn’t want to see the way his hands flexed against your legs before he let go of you completely and sat back on the pillows beside you.

The space between you suddenly felt massive.

“Oh, God,” you croaked, your stomach bottoming out. “Oh, Tommy, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

You scrambled, heat clawing up your throat, shame like a hand around your neck. “It was just—my head was all over the place, I wasn’t thinking, I—I swear I didn’t mean it, Tommy, I—”

“Stop.”

It wasn’t angry. If it was, maybe it would’ve been easier. Maybe you could’ve handled that.

But it was quiet. Resigned.

Tommy exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before finally meeting your eyes. You wished he hadn’t.

Because there it was. Not fury. Not disgust. Hurt. Disappointment.

“I, uh…” He let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Like he couldn’t believe it. “I guess I should’ve seen this comin’.”

Your pulse stuttered. “Tommy, no—”

He shook his head, lifting a hand, stopping you again. “I knew this wasn’t gonna be easy,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “Knew feelings could get mixed up. Thought we could have rules and make it simple.” A humorless chuckle, a shake of his head. “Jesus.”

You swallowed thickly, throat raw. “I love you, Tommy.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and something inside of him cracked. He nodded, reaching for you, letting you lay your head on his chest. “I know.” But when you looked up, his jaw tightened, his fingers curling into loose fists. “I just—I see the way you two are lately.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his voice softened. “You and Joel.”

Your breath caught.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. “There’s just…this energy between you. Always has been, I guess, but now…” He huffed out another short, mirthless laugh, shaking his head again. “Shit, I don’t even think you two see it. Not fully.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Maybe you had seen it. Felt it. Maybe you’d been feeling it since the very first time, but you had locked it up, shoved it down, willed it away because you loved Tommy. Because you had made a choice.

Hadn’t you?

Tommy sighed, rubbing at his temple. “I just wanted a family with you.” His voice was thick, hoarse, like he was forcing the words through gravel. “More than anything.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I still do.”

You blinked hard, nodding, hands trembling as you reached for him. “And we will, Tommy, we—”

The arm he had around you stiffened, fingers twitching as you touched him. 

“That’s the thing, though,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “We’re sittin’ here, prayin’ for somethin’ to take, prayin’ for this baby—and when I picture it…” He trailed off, shaking his head, letting out a breath that sounded defeated.

Your stomach twisted. “Tommy.”

He blinked down, eyes focused on the blankets. “When I picture it,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was barely holding himself together, “I dunno if I see me anymore.”

It felt like a gut punch.

His jaw flexed, something breaking in his voice. “I knew it might get messy with Joel. Knew we might have to separate things in our heads, that you’d be spendin’ time with him, that it’d be—” His breath shuddered. “That it’d be him touchin’ you, not me.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, his fingers tightening. “I thought I could let it slide if it made you happy.”

Tommy’s words still hung heavy in the air, thick as smoke, curling in the space between you.

But you wouldn’t let them settle. Because he was wrong.

You let out a slow breath against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, the familiar warmth of him. Then, with purpose, you pushed yourself up, sitting back on your heels, straddling his lap. Your hands pressed against his bare skin, grounding you both as you looked down at him—really looked at him.

“Listen to me.” Your voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. His eyes flicked up, wary but locked onto yours. “If this works—if we have this baby—that’s ours, Tommy. Yours and mine.” You shook your head, fingers tightening slightly where they rested against him. “Not Joel’s. Ours.”

His jaw tensed, something flickering behind his eyes. You didn’t let him look away.

“I love you,” you continued, voice unwavering. “I chose you. I choose you.” You swallowed, feeling the weight of every word. “Yeah, it’s gonna be weird at first, but this—this is about us, not him.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching against your thighs. “I just…” He hesitated, looking up at you, searching. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You’re not,” you said instantly. “You won’t.”

His hands slid up, gripping your hips now, solid and warm, like he needed to feel you, to believe you. His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, slowly, his grip tightened.

You felt the shift in him before you saw it. The way his body responded to yours, the way his fingers curled into your skin, grounding himself in you.

His eyes darkened just slightly, flickering down to your lips before dragging back up, searching your face.

You leaned in first.

The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was deep, tender, his breath hot against your mouth as he surged up, pulling you down, swallowing the last remnants of doubt between you. His hands traveled, skimming up your back, one sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he needed to feel every inch of you, needed to remember.

A soft sound slipped from your throat as you shifted against him, the hard press of his body undeniable beneath you. The heat between you burned away the uncertainty, leaving only this.

His tongue slid against yours, slow and deliberate, as if reclaiming you, as if reminding you—you were his.

His grip tightened. Then, with a rumbling deep in his chest, he flipped you onto your back.

And for a second—just a split second—your mind flickered back to the last time someone had pinned you down like this.

You shoved the thought away, sealing yourself in this moment. In him.

Because you had made your choice.

Hadn’t you?

The tile shop smelled of fresh-cut stone, sawdust clinging faintly to the air beneath the sharp scent of industrial cleaner as you browsed the samples. 

Joel walked beside you, giving you advice on the best materials for the bathroom remodel. He fit in here, comfortable among the stacks of flooring samples, the thick catalogs of material swatches, the talk of grout and durability. 

When you reached the section of colorful tiles to pick from, he grabbed a copy of Home Building magazine from a nearby shelf in his hands, flipping through it absently as he leaned a hip against the counter of the showroom.

“So, you gonna tell me why Tommy was bitin’ my head off yesterday on a job?” His voice was rough but casual, like he wasn’t too concerned.

You blinked, stalling mid-step by the tile wall. “Huh?”

Joel looked up at you, gaze darkening like he thought you were playing dumb. “Was layin’ into me about every little thing. Usually, I can take one or two from ‘im—ya know, messin’ around, shootin’ the shit.” He flipped another page, shaking his head. “But this was different. Something got under his skin.” Then, content, he shut the catalog, setting it down on the counter and tilting his head.

Your stomach twisted. You dropped your gaze, fingers grazing over the veins in a slab of white marble, tracing the golden and brown threads weaving through the cool surface. The crisp, clean lines blurred as your thoughts ran too fast, searching for a way to frame this—if there even was one.

Joel called your name, and you hesitated before looking at him, only to drop your gaze just as fast, settling on his boots instead of his face.

“What’s goin’ on?” His voice came softer this time, a low murmur. He stepped toward you, his presence shifting the air around you, pulling tighter.

“I, uh…” Your lips pressed into a thin line. The words felt jagged in your throat, difficult to shape. “I may have screwed up.”

Joel’s brows pulled together. “Oh?”

“The other night, Tommy and I…we were…” You flicked your eyes to his, then around to check your surroundings before lowering your voice. “Ya know.”

Joel gave a slow nod, urging you to continue.

“And at one point… I was just trying to get myself there, ya know, I was close but couldn’t quite manage to…” You sucked in a deep breath, your skin prickling with heat. “I said your name.”

His frown deepened, forehead creasing, but he didn’t say anything—didn’t seem to fully understand yet.

You swallowed, heart drumming hard. “I said your name, Joel. Instead of his. Instead of my husband’s.”

Realization crawled over his face, slow, dawning. A flush crept along the tips of his ears, darkening the already pink hue to his skin.

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh shit is right,” you muttered, turning back to the tiles, though the intricate veins of marble couldn’t hold your focus.

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “This has gone too far,” he mumbled. “We can’t keep… this is too messy.”

You nodded, though it barely felt like agreement when there was a lump growing in your throat, thick and suffocating.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

The air outside was crisp, the sun starting to dip just enough to soften the light when you finished up with the tiles. You adjusted the weight of samples in your arms, stepping toward Joel’s truck.

Joel walked beside you, quiet. He’d been quiet ever since you left the showroom, brooding and only giving answers when needed, only talking to the salesman about the projects he was working on. 

You grabbed the handle of the passenger door to open it—

But before you could, his hand shot out, slamming it shut again.

You startled, jerking slightly as his palm flattened firm against the metal. The space between you shrank, the air suddenly heavier as you turned to face him.

Your pulse skipped. “Joel?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his hand there, his jaw tight, something unreadable pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Then, after a moment, he swallowed, inhaled deep through his nose, and said, “I’m only gonna say this once.”

Your stomach tightened.

Joel turned his head just slightly, gaze flicking to you beneath furrowed brows. His voice was low, measured, but careful. So careful. It didn’t match the weight of his words.

“And then never again,” he murmured. “You hear me?”

You nodded, barely breathing anymore.

Joel inhaled again, like he was bracing himself. Then, finally, “My head’s all messed up over this,” he admitted, voice low, gravel-rough. “I ain’t been right since the first time. Since you.”

Your stomach clenched. Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his mouth, shaking his head slightly like he couldn’t believe he was about to say this. “Tried to put it away, pretend it don’t mean anythin’. Tried to tell myself it’s just sex, just a favor, just somethin’ to get you and Tommy what you want—”

He huffed a short, bitter laugh, gaze flicking away for a second before finding yours again.

“But it ain’t just that. Not for me.”

Heat bloomed beneath your skin, thick and suffocating.

Joel’s fingers flexed against the truck door. His jaw tensed. “I ain’t been with anyone else since this started.” He let the words settle, let them sink in. “Haven’t even wanted to.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He shook his head again, his voice getting rougher, rawer, the truth scraping its way out of him. “And now I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Can’t stop wonderin’ how you’re gonna sound, how you’re gonna feel every time I close my damn eyes. Can’t stop picturin’ you in my bed.” His breath shuddered. “I can’t even fuckin’ touch myself without seein’ you.”

You felt something tighten low in your stomach, sharp and unbearable.

His voice dipped, low and ragged. “And I—” He stopped himself, swallowing thickly before murmuring, almost like a confession, “I like it too much to want to stop. But we have to.”

Your chest rose and fell faster, your pulse hammering as your fingers twitched toward him. The storm of feelings in your head was screaming at you to stop reaching out to touch him. You couldn’t help it. Your body moved, closed in, your eyes dragging over his face before landing on his lips.

How could you feel like this?

How could you want two men at once? How could you look Tommy in the eyes, tell him you loved him, tell him you chose him, and then stand here now—your body tilting toward Joel like you didn’t have a choice in the matter? But the truth was, you had never chosen this. You had never asked for this. It had crept up on you in stolen moments, in the space between duty and desire, in the unspoken, in the way Joel knew you without even trying.

He was so close. So warm.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You had always loved Tommy differently. Steady, safe, the warmth of something real and tangible, the kind of love that built a future. But Joel? Joel was something else entirely. He was unshakable—a presence that settled deep in your bones, that lived in the quiet parts of you, the places you had never let anyone else see. He was the ache in your stomach when his voice dropped too low, the heat in your chest when he looked at you just a second too long, the part of you that had been unraveling since the first night his hands had been on you.

The lines between them were blurred now, bleeding into one another, and you were standing in the middle of it, grasping at both of them, unsure which one would steady you first.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He inhaled sharply, his chest rising beneath your palm, the warmth of him soaking into your skin like he belonged there.

And then, just as you began closing the distance between you, Joel pulled away.

His hand shot up, covering yours, pressing it firmly against his chest for just a second before peeling it away.

His head shook once. “No,” he said, rough. “We can’t.”

Your stomach dropped. His gaze met yours, full of something aching and raw, but his next words were firm.

“I won’t do that to Tommy. We said we wouldn’t let it get messy.”

Your throat bobbed, “Joel…”

He shook his head again, jaw tight as he released you, stepping back like he had to. Like if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to. A humorless huff of breath left his mouth before he said, “Already broke two rules, didn’t we?”

And when you didn’t reply, he shook his head and opened your door, “Get in the truck.”

The drive back was quiet.

Not the easy kind, not the peaceful kind—it was the kind that sat heavy between you, thick and charged, the kind where every breath felt too loud, where neither of you dared to fill the silence because what the hell was there even left to say?

Joel kept his hands on the wheel, his fingers flexing against the worn leather grip, his gaze fixed on the road like if he looked at you for even a second too long, he might crack.

You kept your hands in your lap, fidgeting and trying to ignore the way your skin still burned where he had touched you—where he had stopped touching you.

The truck rumbled as he pulled up in front of your house, tires crunching over gravel. He shifted into park but didn’t kill the engine. Didn’t move.

You turned to him, clearing your throat, “Next week, for your birthday–”

Joel’s knuckles flexed against the steering wheel, “What about it–”

“Tommy and I want to have you over,” you said simply. “I’m cookin’ steaks. There’ll be cake and the whole nine.”

His head turned slightly, brow furrowing. “What? Why?”

“I want—” You stopped yourself, pulse skipping before you corrected, “We want to. It’s just dinner, Joel. If not for me, for him. For Sarah. Just a regular family dinner.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You remember what happened the last time you hosted one of them?”

His lips twitched at the corners, and for the first time since the tile shop, the tension cracked, just a little.

Your shoulders sagged slightly in relief, and for a second, things felt normal again. But then his gaze found yours. And just like that, the moment was gone.

For a second, you thought he might refuse. That he’d tell you it was a bad idea, that it was too much, that after everything that had happened, sitting at the same dinner table with you would be the last thing he wanted.

But he didn’t. Instead, he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking away like he was trying to find an argument and coming up empty.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Alright.”

Your chest loosened. “Good. Be here at six.”

You reached for the handle, pushing the door open, stepping out into the cool evening air. The truck door creaked as you turned back, gripping the edge of it for just a second longer than necessary.

Joel wasn’t watching you, just staring forward at your house, the glow of golden hour drenching everything in a deep orange.

“And Joel?” 

His eyes turned to see you, like he had just pulled himself from a deep thought, “...Hm?”

Your lips parted, and you took a slow breath, steadying yourself, forcing your tone to be calm, deliberate, heavier than anything else you could’ve said.

“Fuck those rules.”

You slammed the door shut before he could say another word.

The dinner went fine.

Really, it did.

Sure, there was tension, but it stayed beneath the surface, stitched up neatly between polite smiles and easy conversation. You played your part well—a good wife, a good sister-in-law, a good aunt to Sarah.

She didn’t need to know how messy things had gotten, how tangled things had become between the most important people in her life. She laughed when you teased her about school, rolled her eyes at her dad’s bad jokes, and beamed when Tommy ruffled her hair like he always did. Normal.

Joel did the same. Sat across from you at the dinner table, calm, collected, focused on his plate like the steak needed his full attention. He spoke when he had to, laughed when it was natural, let Tommy rib him about finally letting himself be celebrated for once. If anyone had been watching closely, they’d say he was fine.

But you caught him looking.

You weren’t sure if it was just a ‘he glanced at you at the same time you glanced at him’ kind of thing, awkward and just coincidence. But it happened too often for that. His eyes dragged over your face for a second too long when you passed him a dish. His fingers would flex around his beer bottle when Sarah chatted to you about soccer. He sat back in his chair at one point, fingers tapping idly against his thigh, gaze slipping to your mouth before he forced himself to look away. 

And then later, when you were singing him an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday—Sarah belting, Tommy grinning, and Joel blushing crimson with a hand over his face—you saw the way the candlelight flickered in his eyes.

“Make a wish!” Sarah exclaimed as the song died down.

Joel leaned forward, jaw tight, hands moving to brace against the edge of the table. The room quieted, waiting. And just as he was about to blow them out… He looked at you.

It was quick, a flick of his eyes, a second too long, a beat too heavy. But it was enough. Enough to make your breath hitch, enough to send something sharp and aching down your spine.

Like whatever was running through his head had everything to do with you and nothing to do with wishing for more wishes.

Then the candles went out.

Cheers from Tommy and Sarah filled the room, shattering the moment, breaking the thread stretched too tight. You quickly joined the raucous applauding and Joel sat back, shaking his head when Sarah asked What’d you wish for, Dad?

He didn’t answer.

And you didn’t need him to.

Dinner went fine.

You had been halfway through folding laundry when a knock came at the door a few days later. It was sharp, impatient–a knock that made your stomach tighten before you even reached it.

And as you opened the door, you couldn’t help the surprise on your face when you saw him.

His dark hair was mussed, a mess of waves from a long day’s work, damp strands clinging to his temples. His shirt was stained and sweat-damp at the collar, fabric sticking to the broad stretch of his chest, fresh smudges of dirt and grease painting his skin like he hadn’t even stopped to clean up.

His breath was uneven, shallow, like he had rushed here, like he had spent the whole damn day working through something only to find himself on your doorstep.

“Joel?” you began, looking around for your husband’s truck, “Where’s Tommy?”

“Sent him to talk to the concrete guys.” His voice was rough, like he wasn’t sure he should be here—but he came anyway.

Silence stretched between you, thick and humming. He hadn’t stepped inside, and you didn’t make a move either. 

Finally, he took a deep breath, “Did you mean it?”

You blinked at him, confused.

“When you said fuck the rules.”

Your stomach flipped into your chest, your heart beginning to thunder in your throat. His eyes stayed on you, dark and searching, waiting, almost pleading.

“Yes,” you finally said, voice cracking.

He lunged.

His hands found your face, fingers cupping your jaw with such tenderness that contrasted his need, tilting your head up as his lips crashed into yours—hot, feverish, desperate. You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it down, kissing you like he had been starving for it, like he had spent days, hell, months holding himself back only to break now, to let it consume him whole.

You molded together like this wasn’t the first time but the thousandth, like your lips had already memorized the shape of one another, though the heat and the desperate way you clung to him told a different story. Your hands twisted in the worn cotton of his shirt, pulling, yanking, tearing it over his head, arms snaking around his neck as he pushed you back. You only heard the click of the lock as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Your spine hit the wall with a dull thud, and he barely paused. He only stopped to pull your shirt over your head, discarding it like it was nothing before pressing his body flush to yours.

You felt everything–the heat of his skin. The rough scrape of his jeans. The hard, thick press of him between your legs. But it wasn’t just that, it wasn’t just the way he fit against you, the way he felt. It was how hungry he was.

How he touched you like he was mapping you out by memory, hands skimming over your ribs, splaying over your waist before dipping lower, gripping your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. He hoisted you up like it was nothing, like you belonged there.

Your legs locked around his hips, his hands gripping tight beneath you, holding you up, holding you still, pressing you harder into the unyielding wall behind you.

“I’ve wanted to kiss these perfect, sweet lips for so goddamn long,” he breathed, his voice low, wrecked, nearly shaking.

A sound caught in your throat—half gasp, half moan—as Joel kissed you again, deeper, rougher, claiming every inch of your mouth like he wasn’t ever going to stop.

His body was unrelenting, his grip unyielding, his hands moving—always moving, like he couldn’t touch enough of you at once. One held tight to your thigh, pulling you tighter against him, the other sliding up your spine, fingers curling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tip back, exposing more of your throat to him. 

And he took it. Mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing, lips parting, sucking, tasting.

Your hands were everywhere—gripping his shoulders, clawing at his back, desperate, needy, as he ground into you, hips pressing tight between your thighs, and suddenly there was no air left between you at all.

There was only heat, hands, breath, and want.

And Joel. Only Joel.

His grip tightened, fingers flexing where they held you, keeping you locked against him, and then he was moving—pulling you with him, dragging you away from the wall like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you for even a second.

Your hands twisted into his hair, keeping him close, lips still fused as he carried you across the room, each step heavy, deliberate, every inch of you pressed against him.

Then, suddenly, your back hit the couch.

The cushions dipped beneath you as Joel settled you down, kneeling between your legs, breath coming short, hands already at your waistband, already pulling, already seeking more.

Your eyes flicked open just as his fingers curled into the denim, but you stopped him.

Your hands covered his, stilling him, and for the first time tonight, Joel froze. His chest rose and fell sharply, his knuckles flexing beneath your touch, his eyes flicking up to yours.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” you whispered.

He didn’t move, you weren’t even sure if he was breathing. He only watched you, pupils blown wide, his jaw tight, like he was caught between disbelief and surrender.

You pushed up, slowly, deliberately, until you were eye level with him, until your mouth was brushing against his again, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, pulling another wrecked sound from deep in his throat. You moaned into him, hands dragging over the planes of his chest before pushing him back, turning him toward the couch.

You stood before him, slow and measured, fingers hooking into your waistband.

Joel’s throat bobbed, his eyes dragging down your bare chest, lower, blazing as they followed your hands, as they lingered where your fingers began pushing your pants down. His breath came rough, unsteady.

"Go on, baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, thick fingers gripping the couch. "Take ‘em off. Show me what’s mine."

You smiled coyly, dragging your shorts down agonizingly slow, and once they were discarded, Joel immediately sat up, hands grabbing for you, fingers spreading wide over your thighs like he couldn’t bear to not touch you another second.

One hand traveled up, dragging from the inside of your knee to the damp heat between your legs, where the lace of your panties was practically soaked through already.

His fingers curled, a low, rough chuckle slipping from his throat as his thumb pressed into your panty clad center, just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"These are cute," he murmured, teasing, and then leaned forward, his mouth finding your hip bone, lips dragging over soft skin, kissing and teasing. His fingers stayed firm, still gripping your thigh as his teeth scraped over the soft flesh of your stomach. His lips traveled lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the fabric as it sat just over your thigh, catching the delicate lace between his teeth.

And then he bit down. And ripped them straight off.

"Joel!!" you screeched, your body lurching forward, grabbing at his shoulders, breath knocking out of you at the sheer force of him.

He hummed, satisfied, palming your ass, still gripping you like he wasn’t finished yet.

"Think I’ll keep ‘em," he mused, voice deep, smug, his free hand stuffing the ruined lace into his back pocket.

Your breath heaved out of you, body buzzing as you giggled, shaking your head and climbing on top of his lap, “You are so bad,”

Joel just grinned, hands firm on your cheeks, guiding you, pulling you closer as you sat down on his lap.

The rough grit of denim met your bare center, and the friction sent a sharp pulse of heat through your core. You shivered, sensitive, every nerve ending alight as you rolled your hips down onto him. Joel sucked in a breath, his fingers flexing where they gripped your thighs, but he didn’t push you down, didn’t move to take over, even though you could feel how badly he wanted to. He was holding back, letting you have this moment, letting you grind against the thick press of him as slick coated the seam of his jeans, your body aching for more.

"Help me get these off?" he muttered, voice low, thick, barely in control. His hands stayed on your thighs as you reached down, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clatter of the buckle mixing with your heavy breathing.

With shaking fingers, you dragged the zipper down, the sound barely louder than the ragged breaths filling the room. He lifted his hips, only releasing you to shove his jeans down to his knees, hissing through his teeth as his cock sprang free, thick and hot, the head already glistening.

The breath of relief he let out was cut short as your fingers wrapped around him, slow, deliberate, dragging along his length just to watch his face twist in pleasure. His whole body tensed beneath you, jaw clenched tight, chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths as he let you stroke him, let you feel every hard inch of him. His cock twitched in your grip, heat pooling between your thighs at the sheer size of him, the way he pulsed in your hand, the way his fingers dug into your skin, like he was fighting to keep himself from flipping you over and slamming you into the couch right then and there.

"Next time," you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his ear, voice dripping with promise, "you're at least gonna let me suck your cock. Deal?"

A sound ripped from his throat, half-growl, half-moan, and his hand shot up, tangling in your hair, gripping hard as he crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you deep, all tongue and teeth and hunger. His free hand slid down your back, rough fingertips dragging over heated skin before gripping your ass, kneading, pulling you against him, pressing you flush to the heat of him.

"Next time," he muttered, voice thick, heavy, wrecked, "but if you don’t sit on my cock right now, I swear to God, I will flip you over and—"

You cut him off with a smirk, lifting yourself up just enough to run him through your soaked folds, teasing, coating him in you. His breath hitched, sharp, his grip tightening against your hips, his whole body going rigid beneath you.

"You’ll what now?" you teased, notching the head of his cock at your entrance.

The thickness of him was always overwhelming. No matter how many times you had taken him, no matter how much he stretched you, there was always that moment when your body had to adjust, had to accommodate the sheer size of him. You moaned as you sank down slowly, taking your time, feeling the slow, delicious stretch as he filled you inch by inch.

Joel's head fell back against the couch, brows furrowed, his lips parting around a broken groan as he let you take him, let you work yourself down onto him at your own pace. His fingers flexed against your waist, gripping tight, sure to leave bruises, but he didn’t force you down, didn’t rush, just let you feel it, let you savor the way he filled you completely.

"Goddamn," he gritted out, voice strained, body trembling with restraint, "takin’ me so well, baby. Fuck, just like that."

You whimpered, nails dragging across his shoulders, needing something to hold onto as your body stretched around him. He felt impossibly deep, hitting that spot inside you that only he knew, that made your whole body tense, made your breath catch, made your mind blank as you sank down, down, down, until your ass pressed into his thighs.

Joel let you have a moment to adjust, chest heaving, his hands dragging up your sides, fingertips trailing over the swell of your breasts before sliding back down to grip your hips, strong, steady, grounding. And then, just when you thought you could start moving, he gripped you tighter and thrust up into you, sharp and deep.

Your gasp broke into a moan, your head tilting back as the sensation sent heat flooding through your core. His grip tightened, his pace rough and demanding as he fucked up into you, his hips meeting yours in quick, brutal strokes, forcing you to take every inch of him.

"That what you needed?" he grunted, his voice a low growl, his hands guiding you now, forcing you to ride him, making you take it.

Your whole body was burning, desperate, aching as you rocked against him, every stroke pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His teeth dragged along your throat, lips and tongue soothing the marks he left behind, hands sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples as he groaned into your skin.

"Love watchin’ you like this," he murmured, voice wrecked, his breath hot against your neck, "been dreamin’ of this–you bouncin’ on my cock, lettin’ me ruin you. Such a good girl for me, huh?"

“Yes, Joel, yes–”

You clenched around him, your body tightening in response, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

"Fuck, baby, you gonna come for me? Already?”

No. Not yet. Not yet, because this moment was too much, too big, and you wanted to feel every second of it. But he needed to know. He needed to.

He slowed down so his thumb could press against your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate, and your whole body jerked, oversensitive, and barely holding on.

“Joel,” you whispered.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low rasp, breathless, wrecked as his half hooded eyes gazed up at you.

Your hands slid up to his neck, playing with the nape of his hair as you tried to find the words.

"I—" you swallowed hard, heart hammering as you tried to catch your breath. "I took a test this morning."

Joel stilled. The gentle teasing of his thumb stopped. His hips halted.

Everything stopped.

He blinked up at you, lips slightly parted, completely still beneath you. "What?"

“I’m pregnant,” you said, biting your lip as you gauged his reaction.

His hands spread wide across your waist, fingers pressing tight, thumbs tracing slow, reverent circles. Then, lowering, splaying over your stomach.

"Carryin’ my baby in there, huh?"

Your heart skipped.

"Joel…"

But suddenly, you weren’t in control anymore. You’re not sure you ever were to begin with. 

His arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in, holding you so tight against his chest that there was nowhere to go, no space between you at all. His muscles flexed, his grip firm, and then he drove up into you, his cock punching so deep you felt the thick, unrelenting stretch of him in your stomach.

You gasped, body jerking against him, the sudden force of it making your breath catch as pleasure cracked through you like a whip.

"Fuck," he groaned, the sound raw, guttural, his head tipping back for a split second before he resumed his hungry kisses to your flesh.

He thrust up hard, sharp, thick heat dragging along your walls, stretching you open, making you take every inch. The press of him was almost unbearable, every push hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body tremble and your moans break apart into sharp, breathless whimpers.  

"You’re carrying my baby." he groaned into your skin.

"Joel!" you screeched, head tilting back, body arching, your nails digging into his shoulders as his mouth found your throat, biting, sucking, marking. His cock dragged through your slick, gliding easy but so thick, so deep, pressing right up against that sweet spot over and over again.

But still—you hadn’t said it.

And Joel knew it.

He slowed, hips dragging deep, deliberate, making you feel all of him, every thick inch stretching you open.

"You can say whatever you want," he murmured, voice low, rough, thick with something dark and heavy. His hands slid up your back, pulled you closer, his lips brushing over your ear.

"But who's been fillin’ you up every month, huh?"

He rolled his hips up slow, so deep, and you whimpered, clenching down around him.

"Who’s been fuckin’ you until you see stars? Who’s made you come on his cock over and over again, baby?"

His voice turned gravelly, filthy, absolute sin.

"Sure as hell ain’t my baby brother."

Your whole body trembled, on edge, breaking apart, so close to coming, but he wouldn’t give you what you needed.

"Say it," Joel demanded, his grip tightening around you,

Your lips parted, a whimper slipping out, but nothing came.

He growled, snapping his hips hard, making you cry out.

"Say whose baby this is."

You were right there, right on the edge, pleasure coiled so tight you could barely breathe.

"Say it, and I’ll let you come on my cock again."

Your whole body shook, thighs trembling, head tilting back as the words finally tore from your lips.

"It’s yours, Joel," you gasped, the words breaking, desperate, ruined. "It’s yours—fuck—"

His breath hitched, sharp, ragged, completely wrecked.

"That’s right."

He pulled you against him just right so you were grinding into him, your clit catching on the patch of curly dark hair at the base of his cock where your hips met. The moan that left your throat was downright obscene as you felt the pleasure shock through you. 

His hands moved to grip your hips so tight it was bruising, his mouth crushing against yours, teeth dragging over your bottom lip, his pace wild, desperate, unstoppable as he dragged you against him again and again. 

"You’re mine," he groaned, voice breaking, fucking into you with everything he had, filling you over and over, relentless. "My baby. My girl. My fuckin’ perfect girl, carryin’ my baby."

"Joel!" you screamed, your whole body locking up, pleasure ripping through you like fire, waves of heat curling, crashing, drowning you.

"That’s it," he rasped, feeling you tighten around him, feeling you break for him as your clit kept rubbing perfectly against his pelvis, sending shockwaves through you as he held you through your climax. "That’s it, my good girl, gonna fill you up again, baby, gonna take it? Gonna take my come again?"

“Yes, Joel, yes, yes, yes,” you blubbered, clinging to him.  

And then, with a rough, broken groan, Joel buried himself deep, pressing flush, full, spilling inside you, filling you completely. 

Your whole body continued to tremble as you both caught your breath. Your thighs were shaking, limbs weak and boneless as you sprawled over him, completely spent, completely ruined. Your heartbeat was thunderous, hammering in your ears, every nerve ending still shivering from the aftershocks.

His hands were still gripping your hips, tight, possessive, unmoving, holding you flush to him, keeping you there with him. His head was tipped back against the couch, chest rising and falling fast, lips parted as he caught his breath, his skin hot and damp beneath your palms.

Slowly, reality began creeping back in.

Your fingers traced mindlessly over his broad shoulders, the damp curls at the nape of his neck, still coming down, still floating in the hazy, fucked-out warmth of it all.

Joel’s grip softened, his hands sliding up your back, slow, lazy strokes over sweat-slick skin. His breath was still uneven when he finally muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse, “Christ…made me lose my damn mind there for a minute.”

You huffed a quiet laugh against his shoulder, still not ready to move, still too high from everything. But you lifted yourself up just slightly so your forehead pressed to his, nudging your nose against his, his lips grazing, teasing, kissing you slow and deep.

And then you looked up as movement caught the corner of your eye.

And froze.

Everything in you turned to ice.

Because standing in the doorway, staring at the two of you, was Tommy.

tag list: @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma

[screampied]

NO NUT NOVEMBER ☆ JJK MEN

gojo, nanami, toji, getō, choso, jujutsu kaisen men & how long can they last during nnn

2.7k+ ☆ total wc ☆

☆ tags ☆ afab!reader. overstim , edging , dry humping , unprotected sex , oral [f] , orgasm-denial , semi-public sex , dirty talk , choking , dumbification kink, brat taming.

FAILED NOV. 1 ☆ GOJO SATORU

poor gojo fails on the first day immediately. he's so cocky once you suggest you two should try it—see which one breaks first and it's obviously gojo. you walking around in a sundress was just about enough for him to forget about the entire challenge.

“you really don’t think i’ll last for the entire month?” gojo says, and he’s just following you around. it’s november first and he’s already losing it. the pretty sundress that hung down you, practically and barely reaching your ass made him ten times hornier. “pft. please. i can last the whole month without—” and then he stops mid-sentence at the realization, and his lip quivers a bit whilst he’s rubbing himself against you from behind. “…can't i at least.. touch you, baby?”

“no,” you spoke, letting off a gasp once he bends you straight over the kitchen counter. all it took was for gojo to pull up your sundress a few inches towards your waist, and he nearly lets off a needy moan once he sees you’re wearing no panties. “you can last a month satoru. it's not that long.”

“hey ‘s not fuckin' fair,” he groans, and he’s so close propped up against you. his bulge hardens against you, he’s only wearing simple grey sweats and he slides his hands against your waist. “planned this all out, d-didn’t you,” and he lets off a low breathy sigh. “there's no rule sayin' i can’t bend ya over like this,” he speaks, his voice sounding whiner by the second—you gasp once he squeezes your ass, feeling his thumb brush against your slit. “is there, baby?”

gojo couldn't help himself. once he had you bent over, you now found yourself in mating press with him being pumped full over and over again. a day hasn’t even passed and he already lost—to be fair, in his defense it was your fault for walking around in a pretty short sundress that nearly showed the bottom parts of your ass.

“s-so nice ‘n warm f’me.” he’d pant again and again, having you in quite the position to where you’re laid flat on your back, his own cum is so much it’s oozing out of your pussy. your grip onto his wrist tightens as he dips his hips in and out, you’re moaning from his thrusts—already forgetting about the stupid dumb challenge you suggested for you and your boyfriend to participate in.

to think of going one month without being intimate with gojo.

“s-satoru,” you moaned, and his base just smacks just smacks and smacks against you. you're so dizzy, craving more of his sticky load by the second, desperately wanting to be even more full. it was such a mess between your legs. he’s panting and staring at you with that same hungry feral gaze, swiping a tongue across his sheeny lips—gojo leans in to kiss you hard, yet more so passionate. he’s moaning and whining into your mouth while preparing to cum again and he’s so sensitive. he can barely think straight. “m-mhm.”

your body is basically being fucked dumb into the fats of the silkened mattress. gojo’s weight hovers against yours as his cock thrusts in and out, giving you whiplash so good to where it has you digging your pretty nails into the pale roots of his arm.

“not finished with you,” he pants, his eye-lids were low, and he was still panting up a storm once he pulls out for a brief moment. gojo stares down at the mess he create—licking his lips once more before leaning down to briefly lick a little of his own cum from your thighs before letting off a sigh. “we… can try again next year, y-yeah?”

FAILED NOV. 3 ☆ CHOSO KAMO

choso would have honestly failed on the first day too, but he has a bit more self control which is surprising. he's a very needy man not to mention quite clingy too. three days felt so long for the poor guy though. three days without cumming inside—he'd go mad. so he had to improvise.

“just a taste princess, just a…taste,” he’d pant, staring at you with such intent. you’re just lying down on the bed, glancing back up at him while rubbing a hand over your tummy before smiling. “don’t look at me like that.”

“choso it’s only been three days,” you giggle, reaching for his hand and he was so warm—he lets off a soft moan just from your touch alone, so touch starved and it hasn’t even been that long.

a big baby.

but eventually, he was so cute and you gave in. choso didn’t even want to fuck you. all he wanted to do was please you, more than please himself. but he does end up pleasing himself just a tad bit. you getting off gets him off if that makes sense. the raven-haired man was propped securely between your legs, his tongue latched onto your sweet cunt, lapping it up continuously while his moans fanned against you—making you create out tiny whines and moans yourself.

“s-so good, so hungry,” he whines, and choso can’t help but reach into his black and white boxers, stroking himself. he couldn’t help it, just hearing your sweet noises was enough to make him cum right through his sweatpants. “drivin’ me s-so insane.”

“fuck choso,” you whimper, some long strands of his hair tickles and brushes against your thighs, he’s so sloppy too. making sure to spit on your pussy only to clean it up. choso wasn’t never fond of his pretty baby to be messy. he’s so into it, his lashes remained closed as he ate you out, continuing to stroke his dick—moaning right into your folds, eventually your slick drips down his chin and he’s craving more and more. “don’t stop, your tongue feels so g-good, baby.”

“praise me more,” he whines, giving you a brief stare, his eyes opens for a second and his eyebrows raise down and furrow. a cute saddened expression of how wanting and needy he was. “want you to tell me how good ‘m makin’ you feel, gorgeous.”

you’re panting heavily from his tongue and how deep it reaches, each suck and slurp he creates before you dig your fingers through his hair to make him maintain eye contact. “you’re so good, choso. you’re making me feel so good.”

“….oh, s’ all i want, pretty,” he sighs, giving the front part of your pussy a sweet kiss before dragging a single orgasm out of you.

FAILED NOV. 9 ☆ FUSHIGURO TOJI

you make toji fail because you’re just…horny. toji believe it or not, toji could last a few days of nnn despite being an actual walking sex-machine. it was your idea, but now you regret it. it makes his ego boost tremendously seeing how you couldn’t take it anymore, such a cock hungry girl.

“toji!” you’d pout, desperate for him to at least touch you at least—but no, he was busy occupying himself by working out. raising the hefty bench pressed up and down, he looked so good. and he was just ignoring you. a smirk lightly pressed against his lips as he lifts the gym equipment up and down, counting his sets in his head and you bit your lip.

you had to do something, you couldn’t wait. it’s been nine days, you were sitting on toji’s lap. specifically, his hard bulge that was poking through his grey gym shorts. “yes baby,” he speaks, acting as if you weren’t squirming on his lap, so desperate to get him off.

“i need you,” was the only pathetic words leaving your lips, and he watches as you slide your hands up his white tank tee, brushing your fingertips against his abdomen—his rock hard abs just flexing, a bit sweaty and you nearly moaned. “so bad. sosobad. fuck me please. ‘s was a stupid idea.”

“tch. ‘bout damn time. and ya said i’d break first,” he chuckles, setting the black dumbbells aside to their original position. “mm. at least y’er aware. now now, be a good girl ‘n take those filthy panties off f’me.”

you whined, thankful you wore a skirt so all you had to was really slip your panties off—you stare down at toji as you’re riding him and he’s still laid flat on his back on the gym bench. at least it wasn’t many people around but they’d still probably see you. but from anyone’s perspective, it’d look like a silly girl on her boyfriend’s lap for whatever reason.

“s-shit,” you moaned, feeling his cock expand deep just from his girth alone. it was so good, it nearly had you drooling. toji’s fat dick was something you could never get enough of. it stretched you out so good—it was indescribable to say how great it made you feel, your pussy yearned for more each time, your mouth grows dry as you grind your hips against him. and he’s just staring at you with his toned arms are just smugly pinned behind his back, watching you have the time of your life. “s’big toji. fuck.”

“ya know how to take it every time though, doll,” he grunts, bringing a hand towards your waist to somewhat guide your movements. you whimper once he brings a hard smack to your ass once he feels you start to slow down, he’s so big, his tip kisses against deep inside of your pussy and you’re so dizzy, you can’t even speak words. “fuckin’ whore-” he groans, and you end up making toji cum quicker than he thought he would—it shoots right inside you, his head goes back for about two seconds and it’s sexy, you can see his adams apple just briefly.

“better savor that shit,” he grumbles, watching you catch your breath yourself, and he brings two fingers and dips them inside your pussy before letting off a grunt. “should make ya lick my fingers clean. bet you’d like that, little slutty girl,” and he gives you a brief head pat while you’re pushed into his chest, panting over and over. “yeah ya fuckin’ would.”

FAILED NOV. 18 ☆ SUGURU GETŌ

geto could last long, but everything changed once you decided to tease him a bit too much. sending him videos of you touching yourself while he’s out at work or busy. he comes home to you—and he just can’t take it anymore.

geto’s breath shakes once he holds his phone in one hand, seeing you on the screen—only in your bra and panties, sliding a hand up and down your body. his eyes trail and observe every inch, his mouth dry a bit, wishing you were with him right now. “suguru baby, you miss me?” you’d say in the video recording, dragging your fingertips further and further down until you eventually stopped at the very hem of your panties. “it’s been eighteen days since you last touched me.”

“yeah…” he pants, knowing you obviously can’t hear him, but he wished you could. so bad. “miss you so bad, princess. miss your pussy.”

“remember, you can’t touch yourself to me either. or cum until the month ends, okay? love you.” and the video clip ends. of course, he watches it at least seven more times—nearly cumming his pants just at the sound of your voice alone.

geto groans, feeling the bulge in his pants strain staggeringly get bigger and bigger. once he finally gets home, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

you were already waiting for him on the bed, with a sly smile—geto's quick to pick you up and kiss you all over, staring with your lips and your neck. “the tip, just the tip. swear. jus’ gotta feel you baby. feel your warmth.”

“fine,” you smile, already making your way onto him. geto tells you at least ten shaky thank you’s once you’re hovering over his cock—geto looks so pretty underneath you, his hair covers his face and he starts whining once you’re doing as promised, just the tip. “what’s wrong, do you want more than that?”

“yeah but baby, you’re gonna make me c-cum.” he moans, feeling you start to sink down lower until your hips rocks against him and he lets off a soft whimper by accident. “damn, just like that. ride me baby. make me cummm,” and his voice is so smooth but shaky, his dark pretty eyes nearly rolls back and it’s so sexy, he’s so sensitive he keeps swallowing and bracing himself before within seconds—geto ends up shooting white ropes inside, you feel his dick twitch as he’s still spasming, it’s been so long and his load is so much.

“shit.” he whines, leaning in to kiss you and he ends up moaning in your mouth once you return the kiss. “saved- saved s’much for you, baby,” he moans, grabbing ahold of your hips, making you continue to rock against him—only before he grips your waist, and starts to make you slam onto him and you whined, completely taken aback. “gotta remind this pussy who it really belongs to though.”

FAILED NOV. 30 ☆ NANAMI KENTO

nanami's the only one of the few who can actually go an entire month, although he just about barely makes it. he comes home from a long day at work and he’s just so pent up and stressed. all he can think about is using you as his personal cum dump.

“you don’t know how hard it was to not—” and he pauses, having you lied flat on your back, using a single hand to pry your pretty legs open. you shiver from feeling the cold band of his watch brush against your thighs. “woman, you torture me, you know that?”

you whimper from feeling him slowly sink himself inside—he’s staring down at you and his weight presses against your ass, he groans once he goes in and out, he’s teasing you. his cock was so thick, it stretches you out in every shape or form. your pussy hugs and grips him tightly, and he just can’t help himself. “kento, cum in me p-please,”

“thought you said i couldn’t cum until december first, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice, it’s almost seductive by the sounds of his pronunciation. nanami’s just sliding his tip in and out, it’s leaking with some of his own pre-cum, and he lets off a chuckle once he hears your cute whine of frustration. “this is your little game, i’m just playing by the rules.���

“didn’t mean it,” you cry out, so needy for him to fuck you. he was so warm, so so warm, your eyebrows parted together in annoyance and you bit your lip at him sinking a few inches inside your tight needy cunt before pulling out again. “kento please. fuck me, cum-cum in me, i need it.”

“oh, i know,” he breaths, and you gasp once you feel him spank your ass before rubbing it softly. nanami groans—swiping his fat reddened tip against your throbbing hole, spitting on his hand before rubbing it against your entrance to make you whimper, then spanks your pussy. “to think i haven’t touched this pretty body for a damn near month. you only ended up torturing yourself, sweetheart. can’t last a day without me filling this sloppy cunt up,” and as he’s talking, you’re growing more and more dizzy. you’re practically drooling from how needy you were.

and he dumbs his words down just a tad bit for you, his voice grows low once he leans up close to you purposely, wrapping a hand around your throat as his weight pressed against your ass. “tell me,” he whispers. “say the words and i’ll overflow your pussy with everything i have, pretty girl.”

“please kento, need your cum. need it so bad. fill me up please. breed me.”

“anything for my girl.” he kisses the top of your head, stroking a thumb against the middle part of your neck before stuffing two fingers of his into your mouth—he didn’t expect you to suck on them, but you did, whining and whining over and over again once he starts to thrust inside of you. he’s slow but his strokes are deep, and it’s so romantic. “that’s it, jus’ relax for me. let me claim these walls, then i’ll claim your heart next.”

[lascvitae]

♯┆ynselle forgetting to keep their relationship secret .ᐟ

genre fluff pairing giselle x 5th member of aespa!reader warnings cursing

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ katty ᥫ᭡: old draft, fun af

masterlist.

video start: HEY YALLLLL WELCOME BACK TO ANOTHER VIDEO AFTER… six months… *vine boom*

i’ve put together a compilation of clips where giselle and y/n are practically throwing their relationship in our faces 😭😭

LETS GET RIGHT INTO ITTT

*technical difficulties screen*

clip 1!… 🎬 whiplash bts

the camera is focused on y/n as she drinks water during a break from their shooting.

“this is aeri-unnie’s killing part.” y/n beamed, mocking the choreo of her bandmate. the bandmate who she had no idea was behind her.

“the way she moves her hips is like this.” she demonstrated, fully in character. “move fast~” she giggled at the camera.

giselle had successfully sneaked up behind her, coming to grab her sides and eliciting a squeal from the younger.

“you’re making fun of me?” she caught the girl in her arms and she giggled to protest.

“no! no! i wasn’t!” y/n shook her head, holding giselle closer instead of fighting her grip.

“good. you better not be.” giselle leaned forward, turning her head to make eye contact with y/n.

[their hair colors remind me sm of my melody & kuromi… they had to coordinate it]

*technical difficulties screen*

clip 2!… 🎬 y/n’s first livestream after her mini-hiatus

“hello MYs! i missed you all so much.” she waved excitedly with her right hand.

she read the comments to see what everyone was saying, moving her hair out of her face and swaying side to side.

lascvitae: y/n has a ring on her finger… did she get married on hiatus 😳

[BYEEE THATS ME]

“i didn’t get married!” y/n laughed nervously, holding up her right hand again. “aeri-unnie gave me this ring.”

the ring had diamonds all around it with one big diamond in the middle.

overiem: bye that looks so expensive

“she didn’t tell me how much it cost at first.” y/n continued, running a hand through her hair. “she said i wouldn’t accept it.” she covered her mouth to laugh as she recalled the events.

[giselle spoiling her girlfriend… per usual]

aerichandesu ✓: don’t tell them how much it costs

aerichandesu ✓: that’s between me and you

“unnie said i can’t tell anyone! so next topic.” y/n clasped her hands together while fighting back a smile, sitting up to the camera and fixing her posture.

[not y/n tryna look good for giselle]

*techical difficulties screen*

clip 3!… 🎬 aespa at inkigayo while y/n is the mc

y/n is standing next to han yujin as they cover aespa and y/n can be seen blushing slightly.

cheers could be heard and y/n covered her face from embarrassment, coming together as giselle gave her an encouraging hand on the shoulder.

“today’s first place nominees… aespa!” y/n accounces and they both move out of the way to clap for the girls.

as karina counts down y/n almost does the greeting before stopping herself, laughing nervously and earning a quiet laugh from giselle. “cute.” she mouthed.

“nice to meet you! how does it feel?” yujin asked and y/n turned around to find giselle’s gaze burning holes through her head.

[did giselle even blink… LMAO]

“it’s such an honor to be nominated alongside with other amazing artists! please look forward to our performances and thank you for the support!” even though winter was speaking into the camera and everyone was focused on her, giselle only focused on y/n.

“for whiplash… the choreo was very captivating. the charisma is off the charts!” yujin exclaimed before looking back at all of the girls.

“we worked really hard for this comeback so we hope you guys enjoy it!” ningning clapped, nodding as yeonjun continued to speak after she finished.

“we’re enjoying it! lastly, should we hear about what you guys will do if you get first place?” he asked.

“if we get first place…” giselle started, looking at the camera. “we’ll perform an encore of whiplash and two other songs that you all choose.” she held up the number two and the fans cheered.

“then i’ll go shopping with my favorite person in the world.” giselle looked directly at y/n and blew a kiss.

the crowd cheered and y/n covered her face, blushing again. “oh!” yujin stifled a laugh before clapping and y/n regained her composure before catching the kiss with a flirty smile.

[tf they got going on?]

“we’ll look at the results in a bit. shall we introduce the next stage?” y/n asked, turning to look at aespa.

“let’s meet purple kiss’ stage. music cue!”

*technical difficulties screen*

obviously there’s a lot more but that’s all for todayyy

THANK YOU FOR WATCHING!!! sub && like or you’ll be bald by the age of 30 🙏🏽🙏🏽

taglist — @saysirhc

[hello-sweetheart]

You know that trope where Person A thinks Person B is just being nice but they’re actually flirting. What about the opposite? Person A misreading their behavior and being the only one falling impossibly in love.

Clumsy in Love part 1

Eddie really is just that nice and friendly, but Steve is convinced that Eddie is flirting with him. He’s flirting back, less confident and more subtle than he usually would, but he’s never liked a guy that way.

Not in a way that made him really want to spend every waking moment just hearing them ramble. Not in way that made Steve want to keep him the way he wants to keep Eddie. Everything is so new. It feels, delicate. Precious.

His heartbeat quickens each time Eddie leans into his space and it’s been happening all the time now that Steve worries he’ll develop a heart condition if he doesn’t deal with it soon. When Eddie laughs and leans his face closer to his own, looks into Steve’s eyes through those lashes in a way that Steve can’t help but take a quick glance at those lips curled is mischief.

He’s always so happy to see Steve, wasting no time in bouncing his way to greet him and pull him into the conversation with an arm slung around his shoulder. Then there’s the moments of shared glances when someone says something particularly astounding. And how Eddie will make his way into Steve’s space when they sit together, throwing his feet in his lap or leaning into his side.

Sure, Eddie is friendly but not to this extent. Not with everyone else. Steve feels it. Knows it. That electricity between them that makes this thing between them different. Special.

But one day (another that Steve spends trying to work up the courage to do something), they’re in the city shopping for music in an alternative store that’s tucked away. Steve is talking to Eddie, giddy and happy because it just them today, and Eddie is nodding along while he browses through the tapes and then,

Eddie looks up and stills, eyes widening just a bit. And Steve is still rambling along, but he can tell his words are just going through one ear and out the other. He trails of caught in the middle of his story because he’s never seen this look on Eddie face.

Eddie’s mouth is slightly agape, eyes alight caught in wonder and soft as he looks at something across the room and when Steve turns to see what caught his eye—

A guy stands a couple tables away looking at some vinyl and shyly smiling at Eddie in small glances. He’s a bit taller than them, dressed in black with a couple of piercings decorating his face, the sides of his head shaved short. Attractive, dementor coy and kind.

His heart skips a beat again, but it feels different this time.

Steve looks back at Eddie whose cheeks are slightly dusted in pink.

“Eddie-“

Eddie takes his lower lip between his teeth before smiling back at the guy and continuing without casting a second glance at Steve, “yeah, uh, give me a second, okay?” And he’s crossing the room without waiting for a response.

His chest. It feels…

Like those few seconds before plummeting down a rollercoaster… when your way up high, at the very top, the moment still with the anticipation of the fall, and there’s nowhere else to look but down.

You finally plummet and caught in the whiplash thinking you must have left your heart back at the top.

There’s static there on the bottoms of his feet and at the palm of his hands. The world goes a bit distant as he watches them.

Eddie’s leaning against the wall with a sultry smile adorning whatever sweet words he’s speaking.

Steve’s drowning in the honey, it’s palpable. doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that he can’t hear the words.

Eddie’s fiddling with a curl that’s draped over his shoulder, pulling it slightly over his face like a young school girl.

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie appear anything but confident and loud; the image of the person in front of him is foreign, strange.

Eddie’s speaking to him but his eyes are locked on the guy’s lips that are wet from the tongue that peaks to briefly lick them as he listens.

Eddie’s shoe is nudging the guys own, as he talks, playful.

Oh.

Oh.

Mouth dry, Steve’s throat clicks.

It’s hard to swallow.

Part 2

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (29 - The One She Chose)

Chapter Summary: The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.5k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Welcome to Part 3! The final part. Starts immediately after the end of Part 1. Warning, this might give you whiplash. Hopefully I'll finish writing the entire series before school starts again :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“This wasn’t in my bingo card.”

Everyone turns to Jimmy, who breaks the silence with a dry shake of his head, still reeling from the truth behind your voluntary disappearance. He shrugs helplessly. “Just saying. You fake your own death, let Wanda think you’re gone, take the fall for Barton… Kinda hard to top.”

You huff a humorless breath. “Give it time. I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

Clint says nothing. He just stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes shifting between you and the crackling red shimmer of the Hex. Hayward and his men are down, thanks to you and Clint, but the urgency outside hasn’t gone away. A few minutes ago, the signal blacked out. No matter how many experts dig into it, no one’s been able to bring it back.

Still, for some reason, Jimmy and Monica can’t get past one simple fact: the real you is alive and well—just also a convicted international criminal. For Monica, that fact comes with too many questions.

What if you hadn’t taken Clint’s place?

What if Wanda knew you were never really gone?

She knows there’s more to your story than the version you’ve allowed them to hear, but it’s hard not to feel a semblance of resentment. Your choices (however noble or necessary they might’ve seemed) helped bring everyone to this point.

Monica studies you closely, still trying to make sense of the present situation. “They really tagged you?”

You nod once. “Injected. Somewhere deep. I don’t know where.” You glance down at your hands like they’ll tell you. “Not that it matters. If I run, they’ll know. They’ll come.”

Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “From what we’ve seen this past week, I’d say Wanda could fix that problem for you.”

“I didn’t come here to run,” you say. “I’m not looking for an escape, Agent Woo.”

“Then why are you here?” Monica asks. There’s a chill in her tone, sharper than she intended, but not entirely unearned.

You take a slow breath, well aware that the whole truth—every last brittle piece of it—won’t land clean with anyone here.

“I came because Clint asked. Because this whole town did, in one way or another,” you say.

You never meant to see her again. Five years is a long time to stay gone, long enough to convince yourself she is safer believing you died. A reunion was the last thing on your mind, certainly not one like this. If she recognizes you now, your arrest, your sacrifice, the quiet erasure of your life—all of it will have been for nothing.

But none of that matters if you do not stop her. If this continues, everything else is beside the point.

You still can’t believe Wanda did this—built a cage from her grief and pulled a whole town inside. But maybe you should have seen it coming. Maybe you, more than anyone, should have recognized the signs.

After all, you’ve done worse.

Jimmy surprises you then, by asking, “How do we even know you're not the copy?”

You meet his gaze, fighting back a laugh. “I mean, look at me,” you say, glancing down at your own weary, thin frame, worn down in a way the replica Clint described could never be.

The wind picks up then, cutting through you like a blade. You square your shoulders and try to bear it. You’ve never been fond of the cold. 

Monica starts pacing in circles, and you gaze at her curiously. Whatever’s running through her mind, you’ve got a feeling it won’t break in your favor.

“It’s cruel,” she starts quietly, “letting Wanda believe you died. You really think she would’ve done any of this if she knew you were out there?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “You know her?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen how desperate she was in there. That’s enough to—”

You cut her off with a sharp breath, bristling. There it is—that tone. As if she has Wanda figured out. As if one week inside the Hex gives her the right to speak like an authority. It grates on you more than you expect.

“No offense, but you can’t be sure of what she would or wouldn’t have done.”

Monica’s expression hardens, but you keep going.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you bite out. “And you don’t have the right to stand there and act like I chose wrong. Like any of this was easy.”

She starts to reply, but you talk over her.

“She was gone, Monica. Gone. And I had to live with that for five years. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”

Your voice shakes, not from weakness, but from how tightly you’re holding everything back.

“I buried her in my mind. Mourned her like she was never coming back. Then all at once, she was here again. And you think I could just… show up? After everything? After what I—”

“Y/N, that’s enough.”

Clint’s voice instantly puts a stop to your rant. Monica’s jab lit the fuse fast, but the anger burns out just as quickly, leaving only fatigue. You’re sick of second-guessing, of tallying every consequence, of defending choices you never asked for.

Exhausted isn’t even the word.

“This isn’t the time or place,” Clint says softly. “You don’t owe anyone here an explanation.”

Monica throws him a look—equal parts frustrated and disbelieving—but Clint just shrugs.

“I’m not taking sides,” he says plainly. “You’re both right in your own ways. But we’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

You look away, jaw clenched, heart still racing. He’s right. As much as you want to keep going, now isn’t the time.

The silence settles again, taut and uneasy. You can still feel Monica’s stare, but she says nothing more.

Then Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay… so what’s the plan, then?”

“I’m going in,” you say simply. 

“That’s it?” Jimmy asks, brows raised.

You nod. “That’s it.” You already know what you’ll do once you see her. And with everything happening so fast, there hasn’t been a chance to iron out the details, anyway.

“So you’re just gonna wing it?”

“Pretty much.”

Monica gives a dry laugh. “Wow, did you lose the rest of the plan on the way here?”

You arch a brow. “Got a better one?”

She folds her arms and looks away, biting back a retort.

“Thought so.”

Before she can protest, you add, “Wanda never lets anyone in unless she wants them. Darcy only got pulled in because the Hex expanded.”

A tired smile tugs at your mouth as you point past her. “Take a good look now.”

She turns. The Hex shivers, pulsing like a slow blink. Gaps open and close, an open wound trying to knit itself shut.

“It started a few minutes ago,” you say. “Whatever’s happening inside is tearing it apart. That’s my doorway.”

“And once you’re through?” Jimmy asks quietly.

You study the shimmering wall one last time, then lower your hand.

“Then I figure it out.”

—

“What do you need me to do?”

Darcy blinks, surprised by how quickly you’ve turned around.

“You’re… sure?” she asks, standing up, brushing gravel from her hands. “Because like, five minutes ago you looked ready to knock me out cold.”

You don’t answer right away, just glance down at your wedding ring. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” you say quietly. “But if there’s even a chance you’re right, then I need to do something.”

“I wish I could tell you what to do. I don’t know how we fix this. No one does.”

You look up. “But you think she’ll listen to me.”

“If she’ll listen to anyone,” Darcy says, “it’s probably you, yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I thought the same.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, breathing as much air as you could—while you can. “I thought… if I could just talk to her, get her to see what this is doing—not just to me, but to everyone—she’d understand. She always did. That was our thing, you know? We heard each other.”

Darcy stays quiet, letting you work through it.

“But now… I can’t remember if I ever actually tried. If I even asked her,” you go on, voice hollow with realization. “Which means…maybe she didn’t let me. Maybe she never gave me the chance.”

Darcy’s face softens. “You think she’s keeping you from remembering?”

You shrug. “She doesn’t want to hear it. Not from me. And if Wanda doesn’t want something—”

A deafening crash shatters the moment, and both you and Darcy whip around to find the sky roiling in a storm-like upheaval.

Your feet are already moving. “Come on.”

Darcy stumbles after you, wide-eyed. “That’s Wanda, isn’t it? That has to be Wanda—”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” you mutter, yanking the passenger door open and sliding into the seat, “but I need to get to her and the kids before someone else does.”

The engine groans before roaring to life. You don’t wait for it to warm up. Gravel kicks up behind the tires as you take off down the street. 

“What do you think is going on?” Darcy yells, knuckles white on the grab handle as you barrel down the road at triple the speed limit.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble distractedly. You do have a hunch, though. Whatever this is, it feels like the end—of what, you can’t quite say. All you know is that Wanda and the twins come first.

You turn the wheel hard, rounding a corner as another pulse of purple lightning flickers in your periphery. You slow slightly as you pass a neighborhood block, instincts flaring.

People are outside.

Not just one or two—dozens. Men, women, even children. Pouring out of their homes, blinking under the distorted sky like they’ve just woken from a deep sleep. Their movements are stiff, uncertain. Some clutch their heads. Others stumble down driveways, eyes wide, lips moving without sound.

But it’s not the confusion that makes your stomach turn.

It’s their faces when they see you.

A woman points at your car, mouth twisting. A man beside her clenches his fists. Another starts to shout—words you can’t hear through the windshield, but you know what they mean.

The bad feeling that’s been sitting low in your gut blooms tenfold. 

“Why are they all looking at us like that?” Darcy asks, glancing around nervously.

“They’re not looking at us,” you say, throat tight. “They’re looking at me.”

Darcy leans back in her seat, eyes still darting to the growing crowd on either side of the road. “Right,” she mutters. “The First Lady of Westview’s benevolent dictatorship.”

You shoot her a look.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “Too soon?”

Well, she’s not wrong.

You don’t linger under the scathing stares. It’s too late to say anything, and there’s no time to try. You push down on the accelerator, jerking the wheel to pass a cluster of panic-stricken townspeople that nearly spill into the street. Darcy hisses in alarm, bracing a hand on the dashboard as you swerve.

Soon, the heart of Westview comes into sight. At the same time, the sky pulses in red and purple, and something far more terrifying.

The townspeople are out and fully conscious. Fully aware. And they’re panicking. Their faces wear all kinds of emotions—fear, anger, disbelief—and a lot of it is aimed at you. They recognize you. Or at least, who they think you are.

You park the car haphazardly, door still swinging open behind you as you break into a run. Darcy scrambles after you, glancing up at the roiling sky, her face tight with fear. You push through them, gently but urgently, until the square opens up, eyes tracking upward—and then you stop cold.

You look up. Floating high overhead are Wanda and… “Agnes?” The name slips out in a stunned whisper.

But she isn’t how you remember her. The face is the same, but the disguise has fallen. She looks like someone you’ve never met. And somehow, this look fits her better. Like something’s finally clicked into place. 

Wanda levitates opposite her, and even from this distance, you can tell she’s losing ground, her movements uncertain, her form barely holding together. Both are wrapped in a strange violet smoke, seeping outward from Agatha—or at least, that’s your best guess. Then—

“Mom!”

The twins.

Billy and Tommy break through the ring of stunned onlookers, bolting toward you as fast as their legs can carry them. You barely register the gasp from someone behind you before you’re dropping to your knees, catching them both in your arms.

They’re shaking and so are you. Darcy gives you and the children some space.

You pull them close, clinging to them like they’re the only solid thing left in a world that’s rapidly coming apart. And maybe they are. No matter what you’ve learned about yourself, about Wanda, about this town, it doesn’t change what you feel now. What you know.

They’re real. They’re yours.

“You’re here, mom,” Tommy breathes, clinging to your side.

“Of course I’m here,” you whisper, looking between your sons. “Are you guys okay?”

They both nod.

Another explosion rings your ears. Agatha pulls another surge of energy from Wanda. Around you, the townspeople form a jagged, trembling ring—some pleading with Wanda to stop, others begging her to let them go. All of them stare at you like you’re in on it, like you’re part of whatever’s holding them here.

“Stay behind me,” you tell the boys, rising to your feet. 

That’s when you hear it—your name, being yelled from somewhere in the distance.

You whip around to see Geraldine—no, Monica—running towards you. You breathe a sigh of relief at seeing a familiar face, a potential ally in all of this. 

Then you see what’s trailing behind her.

And your breath goes still.

It’s… you?

Or someone who looks close enough to make your skin crawl.

And just like that, everything Darcy Lewis told you comes crashing down twice as hard, knocking the wind right out of you.

—

You’d imagined a dozen different ways you might come face-to-face with your doppelganger once you got inside the town. If you were being honest, you’d hoped to find Wanda first—maybe talk her down, get her to release the town, unravel whatever illusions she’d conjured, including this other version of you.

Clint gave you everything he knew when he pulled you from lockup, but even then, his intel was scattered at best. He couldn’t explain why there was another you in there—only that there was.

What stuck with you most was how easily he believed it. How convinced he’d been that it was really you. He didn’t even hesitate—until he saw that version start to come apart right in front of him. 

But not like someone dying. More like something made, and then being unmade.

And maybe that’s what haunts you most. Because you’re not sure how to feel about it—about what happens when Wanda finally lets go of all this. What happens to her version of you, of the children that cannot be identified by S.W.O.R.D, when the Hex comes down.

You’re not sure if you should feel guilty. If you should mourn her. But if she was just made to believe, made to love, made to fit—

Was that ever a real person at all?

And then you think of Wanda. Of how she would feel to lose you—again. You don’t know what she’ll do when it all falls apart. When the fantasy cracks and the house she built collapses into nothing. When this version of you that never broke her heart disappears with the rest of it.

What will she feel, standing in the wreckage of the world she made just to feel whole?

You think about the weight of that and how much of it started with you. How your fake death became the matchstick. How you let her suffer because the alternative was harder: telling her the truth.

That while she was gone, you became someone else. Someone she wouldn’t have recognized. That you let go of the best parts of yourself—the parts she loved—just to survive. No, you didn’t die. Not physically. But the person Wanda knew did.

And in time, you learned how to love someone else.

Monica makes it to them just in time for another explosion in the sky. You’re still a few meters back when your stride falters, eyes fixed on the boys now that they’re close enough to touch.

When Clint said Wanda had twins, you pictured something Vision‑like. One look kills that idea. Your other self is with them, one arm stretched protectively in front of their chests. She looks the part perfectly—brave, hopeful, composed. A picture of someone you used to be.

One boy spots you. You know their names but never matched them to faces; there was no time. He nudges his brother, who looks up, and both go still. Your double follows their gaze, the same uncertain expression on her face.

Something cracks open inside you at the resemblance binding the three of them.

A family.

Your heart leaps to your throat. For a moment you freeze, unsure what to say to children who believe you are already standing beside them.

The smaller boy—Billy, you think—steps forward.

You feel it then. A pull of some sort. Familiar and gut-wrenching. Regret sinks in, clawing deeper with every passing second. Was returning the mistake, or taking Clint’s fall? You cannot decide.

They were born from Wanda’s longing, her love and desperation given flesh. Yet, looking at them now, they are heartbreakingly real, and somehow they feel like yours.

The thought pierces you, because you know this can only end one way.

—

“Mom?” Billy whispers, eyes fixed on Monica’s companion. The woman is almost your mirror, only more weathered to your eye. “Why does she look like you?”

You turn to Monica, panic trembling under your skin. “Who is that? I don’t understand.”

“Y/N, look at me.” Monica darts forward, her hands settling on your shoulders—steady, not rough. “I’ll explain, I swear. But right now you need to focus.”

She points toward the churning sky. “What’s happening up there?”

You follow her finger, and in that instant, lightning flares in your eyes. Above, Agatha and Wanda remain locked in a standoff that feels less like a battle and more like a full-blown war. Wanda’s movements are slowing, her blasts thinning out, growing more frantic with each strike.

You’re caught between protecting your kids and reaching your wife, and you’ve never felt more helpless.

“I... I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze darting anxiously between your double and the approaching townspeople. Concentrating feels impossible.

That’s when Darcy reappears, a bit winded from calming down half the square. She plants herself beside Monica and raises a hand. “Hey, Monica. Miss me?”

Monica pulls her into a quick hug. “Glad you’re okay.”

Darcy pulls in a breath, brushing hair from her face. “Okay, headline edition: the whole town’s awake now. They remember everything—days on repeat, their minds on mute, all of it. A few tried to leave, but the Hex won’t let them. So they marched here looking for answers from Wanda.” She jerks a thumb skyward. “And then, get this—” she leans in slightly, voice dropping, “—nosy neighbor Agnes? Her real name’s Agatha. Turns out to be some sort of a witch all along.”

Monica blinks. “A witch witch?”

“According to the guy she had playing her husband and locked in the attic? Yeah.”

A violet bolt flares above you—too bright to track—then slams into Wanda’s shield with a crack that rattles windows. The shield shatters. She’s hurled earthward like a comet.

Concrete erupts when she hits, skidding her across the street; asphalt peels up in her wake. The sound alone makes your ribs ache. Agatha drifts down after her, slow and graceful, savoring every wince.

Within a second you’re on your feet. You sprint, leaving the twins with Monica and Darcy. 

“Wanda!” You scream at the top of your lungs.

Wanda lies on her side, clawing for breath, one trembling hand searching for purchase.

You push the boys behind you and take two steps, then five, courage swelling with each stride—

But someone else reaches her first, dropping to their knees at her side.

You pull up short, as if you’ve slammed into a wall. Your world-worn double cradles Wanda with the ease of long practice, murmuring quiet assurances in a voice that is yours, only rougher.

Wanda stirs at the sound, eyelids fluttering. “Y/N?” she breathes.

The other you nods.

All you can do is stand there and watch.

You brace for Wanda to collapse into the woman’s arms, but confusion spiders across her face instead. She studies the lines of that face (older, worn, but unmistakably yours) then glances up and catches sight of you—the one she’s more familiar with—standing a few feet away.

Her eyes go wide.

They dart between you and the stranger Darcy swore was dead. Bewilderment sharpens into panic, her breathing hitching. She winces upright, bracing on an elbow before forcing herself to sit.

“Wanda,” you start, “I—”

“Well, isn’t this delicious?” Agatha drawls behind you, strolling forward like she has all the time in the world. “Two Y/Ns? Tell me, were you keeping a spare in your basement all this time?”

Her words stain your confusion with something new. Wanda looks at you as though the breath has been driven from her body, eyes shining with hurt and bewilderment. Whatever is happening—whatever brought this other version of you into being—it is clear that Wanda had no part in it.

Before you can move, Billy and Tommy break from Monica’s grasp and sprint to their mother. “Mom!” Tommy drops beside her, clutching her hands with trembling fingers. Billy follows, positioning himself like a shield between Wanda and Agatha, fists clenched.

Then the other you speaks.

“Help her,” she addresses you, easing Wanda gently back so the twins can reach her. Then she strides right up to Agatha, placing herself between the witch and everything that matters. “Touch her again,” she warns, voice like iron, “and I peel the smile off your face.”

Agatha’s grin twitches. “Oh, darling—do try,” she purrs, tilting her head as though assessing a new piece on the board.

You seize the moment and drop to Wanda’s side, gathering her and the boys into one fierce embrace. They collapse against you, limbs and tears tangling until the four of you fit together as though made to. Wanda’s breath hitches against your neck. “Y/N,” she whispers.

“Shh.” You kiss her temple, brushing the blood-matted hair. “Are you hurt?”

She gives a shaky but certain nod. With a groan, she shifts, and you help her to her feet while Billy and Tommy steady her other side.

“Monica! Darcy!” you bark, hoping Wanda regains her strength soon while you buy her time. “Clear the houses, move everyone toward the nearest boundary. Keep them low and lock it down.”

Monica hesitates. “What about you? You’re not exactly Captain America.”

“I never said I’d win,” your double answers, eyes locked on Agatha. “I said I won’t let her touch my family again. Go.”

Darcy grabs Monica’s sleeve. “Come on. We’ve got people to move.” They sprint off, herding panicked residents into motion.

You tighten your arm around Wanda. Billy lifts his fists; Tommy squares his stance. In front of you, the other Y/N rolls her shoulders once, then settles in; ready to absorb the first hit so the rest of you don’t have to.

Agatha raises her hands, magic pooling like storm clouds in her palms. “Family reunion,” she sneers. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

And then she strikes. A jagged bolt of violet lightning tears toward the four of you—fast, vicious.

You brace for impact.

But Wanda throws her arms out and roars.

Scarlet power detonates, slamming into the ground and blooming into a dome. A shell of red light snaps around everyone—including your double—and the shockwave leaves your ears ringing.

Agatha laughs, giddy and ravenous. “More… give me more.”

Wanda presses both palms against the barrier. The violet threads burrow into the scarlet shell, leeching color until the red dims and begins to sink into Agatha’s hands like water into dry earth.

Wanda grits her teeth, sweat beading at her brow.

Eventually, the barrier shatters like glass, sending a shockwave to shove everyone to their knees.

When the light fades, Wanda is swaying. Agatha stands a few steps away, smoke curling from her fingers.

Wanda looks down to see the skin of her hands mottled and ashen gray. 

Agatha’s grin widens, charred fingertips flexing. “Round two?”

—

In the end, the fight comes down to Wanda and Agatha alone.

They rise into the sky, disappearing above the dark shroud curling over Westview. You lose sight of them, but flashes ripple through the clouds—mostly violet, not red. Your stomach twists with dread. Red would signal Wanda gaining ground, but every violet flash tells you she’s still losing.

Then a loud rumble comes. A line of Humvees grinds to a halt at the edge of the square, headlights spearing the gloom. Soldiers fan out, cradling rifles in front of them. 

If Clint were still babysitting Hayward, the cavalry wouldn’t be here. Something’s gone sideways.

You force yourself upright, every muscle protesting after Agatha’s parting blow. The other you is crouched protectively in front of Billy and Tommy, breathing hard. She’s been their mother every second of their existence here; you have no claim, no matter how much it hurts to stay back.

Monica steps between the troops and the crowd, palms open. “Stand down,” she calls, “they’re not your targets.”

The ranking officer hesitates just long enough. You watch, almost impressed, as one by one the soldiers are disarmed before they can even react. Rifles vanish from their hands like magic, dropped in a growing pile ten feet away. Tommy zips past them again, grinning like it’s a game, and somehow it does look that easy—like stealing candy from a baby. You can’t help but feel a little proud.

By the time it’s over, not a single soldier is armed. Monica reiterates her call for a truce. 

“We’re not the enemy. Wanda’s ending this—just give her time,” she tells them. 

That’s when Hayward steps out of one of the tactical vehicles, gun already in hand. He raises it without hesitation, aiming directly at the kids.

But you’ve been waiting for this. Watching him. Timing him. Your Westview counterpart moves instinctively, stepping in front of the twins without hesitation. Monica joins her a heartbeat later, forming a wall between the children and the barrel of Hayward’s gun.

His finger barely tenses on the trigger before you’re behind him. You twist the gun from his grip in one swift, practiced motion, then wrench his arm back harder than necessary. His knees buckle with a grunt of pain.

“Try that again,” you growl in his ear, “and you’ll lose more than your gun.”

A single nod to Monica and the ranking officer is all it takes. They’ve seen enough. Whatever authority Hayward tried to parade disappears the instant he aimed at children. They cuff him without ceremony and haul him away while he spits useless orders.

With that threat gone, you glance around. 

What now? 

Wanda’s still in the sky, locked in a silent, brutal battle, and you have no idea how long she can hold her own, or what you’re supposed to do from down here.

You’re on the edge of spiraling when you hear footsteps behind you.

Westview Y/N approaches, cautiously, with the twins close behind her. Monica, off to the side, is already issuing post-op commands to the military, stepping seamlessly into a role she was always meant to assume.

You square your shoulders as she draws closer.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, even though the situation is startling in itself.

You nod once. “Hey.”

It’s strange, looking at yourself like this. Same face. Same eyes. An exact copy of who you were five years ago. The version you’ve spent years aching to become again. And now, looking at her, you finally understand. 

You can’t go back. You can never be her again, no matter how hard you wish or how much you try.

Her eyes sweep over you—clenched fists, the blood from your run-in with Agatha—then tip up to the sky. “She’s almost done.”

You follow her stare. “Or almost gone,” you mutter, praying you’re wrong.

She waits a beat, then steps closer, the kids tight at her side. “Billy says she’s winning,” she murmurs. “He can feel it.”

Billy and Tommy peek around her waist, wide‑eyed but unafraid now that the guns have fallen silent. You give them a quick smile, unsure whether it reassures them or you.

Your clone takes a long breath. “So, what’s the plan?”

The truth is you have no real plan. All you carry is the promise to end this before it consumes Wanda. “First we keep the boys safe. After that…” You let the words die there. Saying the rest—asking Wanda to let go—feels like another betrayal. Worse, it feels like the very thing that might not keep the boys safe.

She nods anyway, reading the rest, and says, “You’re here to break the spell.” She turns to the twins. “Boys, go with Monica for a minute, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”

They hesitate, then obey when Monica waves them over. Once they’re out of earshot, she walks closer, eyes shining with something between resolve and resignation. “When this ends, so do I—and they go with me. You know that.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “I was made for a purpose, and you’re here to finish it.” She searches your face. “Just promise me she won’t be alone.”

You open your mouth, close it, and try again; only a thin breath escapes. Each time you reach for the right answer, it slips through your fingers.

Your double waits, steady and expectant. All she wants is a simple yes. You wish Wanda could have everything—could do the right thing and still keep her happiness—but life rarely offers perfect outcomes. Every road forks, and none leads to a tidy ending.

So you do the one thing you swore you never would. 

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, giving her the words she needs, though they are not the whole truth. “She won’t face this alone. I promise.”

Relief loosens her features—soft, perilous relief that feeds on your guilt. She believes you. Worse, she needs to.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand.

At the back of your mind, you wonder.

You wonder if the Snap had never happened, if you’d settled down in some quiet town with Wanda instead of tearing across the world in a grief-fueled rampage—could this have been you? The gentler, mother of two. The one who built a life instead of burning it down. You envy her, this softer reflection of yourself. It stings to realize she will have to disappear soon, erased along with the dream she represents. Then only you will remain: bitter, broken, and, as ever, not enough.

A second later, a hush sweeps the square.

The clouds above split open, pouring crimson light onto the pavement. Wanda drifts down through the glow, no longer battered and faltering. A dark crown burns at her brow, copper hair fanning wild around her. The armor she wears looks less like clothing than an extension of the power thrumming beneath her skin.

Wanda touches down like the ground belongs to her.

Soldiers gape, speechless. Even Monica’s breath hitches before she gives a single, satisfied nod—just what she’d hoped to see.

Wanda doesn’t spare the troops a glance. She walks—no, saunters—toward her family like the storm never touched her. Not even the soldiers dare raise a hand, their fear is instinctual.

The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Her—the person she pulled from memory, shaped from fragments of who you were five years ago, and brought to life inside her world.

Wanda extends a hand and draws her in as well. The four of them fold together, a tight huddle. A family.

You feel Monica’s eyes on you. Darcy’s too. You don’t have to turn to know they’re both watching. Waiting.

Because this… this isn’t over. Not while the Hex still holds. The mission isn’t done, and you’re the only one who can finish it.

You steady your breath and take a step forward. Just one. But it takes everything in you.

Wanda rises at the same moment, fingers laced with Westview Y/N. Her eyes meet yours, flat and unreadable, a chill sliding down your spine. If she feels recognition, grief, or anger, she masks it perfectly.

She turns, guiding her family toward the street that leads home. The boys keep pace, and your double sends you a glance, part apology, part pity, then squeezes Wanda’s hand and follows.

You stand your ground until they pass.

“Wanda—”

She keeps walking as if hearing nothing.

You try again, a little louder. “Wanda!”

The air answers before she does. A low pressure hums off her like heat from summer asphalt, shaking loose panes in the shopfronts. A wordless warning; the only answer she’s giving. You have no choice but to take it. 

Monica appears at your side, a hand light on your arm. Her head moves in a slow, firm no. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Give her space. Give her time.”

You watch the four of them shrink into the hazy light until the far corner swallows them. Only then does Monica speak again.

“Maybe you can’t end this,” she says, voice level but kind. “But she can.” She nods after Westview Y/N. “You and she? The same heartbeat. She’ll say what Wanda needs to hear.”

Monica’s right. She is you. 

But she’s better because she’s the one Wanda chose.

[ashthesalamipiece]

ooooh i request katsuki having a huge crush on reader and (angrily) confessing to her in front of the whole class!

It’s Not a Damn Secret Anymore

It started like any other day in Class 1-A.

You were laughing with Kaminari and Mina by the windows, telling some dumb story about your trip to the convenience store last night. Bakugo was, as always, not part of the group—but sitting nearby, very much listening while pretending not to.

Every laugh that left your mouth made his eye twitch. Every time someone leaned just a little too close to you, his jaw clenched. He was chewing on the back of his pen like it owed him money, scowling hard enough to make Kirishima slowly scoot his desk a few inches away.

“Dude,” Kirishima muttered. “You’re gonna crack your molars. What’s your deal?”

Bakugo didn’t answer. He just kept glaring at you like you’d personally insulted his honor.

The last straw?

When Kaminari casually said, “Y’know, you’re kinda cute when you laugh like that—”

BOOM.

Everyone jumped as Bakugo slammed his hands down on his desk, exploding the edges just enough to make sparks fly.

“The hell did you just say to her?!”

The room went silent.

Mina blinked. “Uh… Kacchan? You good?”

You looked up, wide-eyed. “Bakugo?”

He marched over, murder in his eyes and embarrassment in every step.

Kaminari raised both hands. “Bro, it was a compliment, relax—”

“Don’t tell her she’s cute,” Bakugo snapped. “I—I mean—SHE ALREADY KNOWS!”

Now everyone was staring.

“Wait,” Sero said slowly, “...Does this mean what I think it means?”

Bakugo turned to you so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. His ears were red. His jaw tightened like he was physically restraining himself from exploding the desk beside you.

“I like you, dammit!”

You froze. So did the rest of the class.

“Got it? I’ve had a damn crush on you for months, and if I have to watch you giggle at these extras for one more second, I’m gonna lose it!”

Dead silence.

Even Todoroki looked mildly surprised.

Bakugo stood there, fists clenched, breathing hard. “So yeah. I like you. A lot.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Slowly, you stood from your seat.

“You like me?” you repeated, eyes wide.

Bakugo groaned. “YES. Do I need to spell it out—?”

You kissed him.

Right there. In front of everyone.

For a moment, nothing existed but the heat of his lips and the stunned, frozen tension between you.

When you pulled back, his eyes were huge. His ears? Crimson. His brain? Absolutely fried.

“I like you too,” you said with a smile. “Took you long enough, Katsuki.”

Cue: a full minute of stunned silence before the room erupted.

“WHOOOOA—”

“SOMEONE GET A CAMERA—”

“BAKUGO’S GOT A HEART???”

“Shut the hell up!” Bakugo barked, grabbing your hand in his and dragging you out of the classroom like his life depended on it.

(You swore you saw him smile, just a little.)

[etherealily]

𝕊𝕀ℕ // ​🇳​​🇦​​🇹​​🇪​ ​🇯​​🇦​​🇨​​🇴​​🇧​​🇸​

My other Nate fics. If you have the time.

No one seemed to like the cliffhanger, so here's a draft that I converted into a bonus chapter.

Nate Jacobs + Fem!reader. Warnings : Dark. NSFW. Drugs. Contains brief explicit content. MDNI for this part alone. Closest thing to sm*t I've ever written (and will write).

Part 1 : Whiplash Part 2 : 9 Lives Part 3 : Blessed Part 4 : Shards Part 5 : Eighteen

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

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Nate had never been more pissed in his life. Ever. You'd blatantly disobeyed him. Well, not technically. No technically, you hadn't been told anything, but he'd have figured you weren't so dense as to go and visit Shane motherfucking Crestin in the motherfucking ER !

Honestly. It's like you had one braincell and all it told you was to piss him off.

And fuck him. He definitely saw that in your eyes the last time.

Or was that the molly?

Probably the molly.

But whatever. The fact was, you wanted to fuck him, and he wanted to fuck you, and he had no idea why you wanted him out of your life if that was the case. Wasn't that fate? Two people want something so bad, they should end up doing it, no? Not going and visiting the reason they couldn't do it in the ER.

Yeah, he decided.

Yes. They. Should.

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He'd figured you would avoid him like the plague, anyway. So he didn't care if it reached you or not that he was helping McKay host a party. So imagine his surprise when, after about two months of no contact, you showed up at his party.

"Whoa."

You frowned. "Excuse me?'

"What happened to 'get the fuck out of my life, Nate?' What, were you just full of it?"

"Dude. If me being here bothers you that much, I'll just fucking leav-"

"Jeez, don't be a baby, short stuff.", he cooed, patting your head before slinging an arm around you. "C'mon, let's do shots."

"Hey, whoa, whoa, none of this friendliness."

He rolled his eyes, removing his hand from you. "Fine. C'mon. I missed you."

And the problem was, he did. He actually fucking missed you. Which was the weirdest thing to happen to him since... well, birth. It wasn't anything in particular, it wasn't even the fact that you were easy on the eyes.

He, like a fucking simp, just liked you being around him.

With as much trepidation as a sycophant scorned by his master, he gently, reverently, offered you a shot. "For old times' sake?"

You rolled your eyes, taking it from him. "For old times' sake? Like, the time you got me drunk at school?'

He smiled, his hand slowly back around your shoulder as he tugged you closer, kissing your temple. "We could always go back, y'know?", he murmured next to your ear. "Get high on the bleachers again."

"No."

"C'mon, we haven't hung out in two months. Ditch these fakes. I'm the fun one, anyway."

Jesus.

He took a long drag of his vape, the smoke bombarding your face. He proferred it to you and frowned when you declined. "Why not?"

"I don't vape."

"Are you one of those bitches that says 'smoke a real cigarette'?"

"No, I don't smoke at all."

He rolled his eyes. "We're going to the bleachers."

It was weird, to say the least, the air between you two back at the bleachers. You sat, looking up at the sky, the grass, anywhere but his eyes, and he sat with his head on your lap.

Silence covered the two of you until he sighed. "Can we just pick up where we left off?"

"And where was that?"

"With me almost eating you out."

You scoffed. You wouldn't have done that if you thought he was being serious. You wouldn't have done that if you were entirely sober. But you didn't and you weren't, so you scoffed. "Right. Yeah. Sure."

"I'm not joking. You're making this harder than it needs to be. There isn't any ulterior motive, this is just... boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy-"

"Debatable.", you muttered, but he ignored it.

"-Boy wants to fuck girl, girl wants to fuck boy, boy fucks girl. Why are you adding shit? Do you want drama? Is that what this is? Because we could do drama. I could do drama like you've never fucking seen before!"

In Nate speak, that meant he had a big dick and he wanted you to know.

"Look. It's just too complicated. You've- there's too much-"

"Forget it all. 'Kay? Just you and me.", he replied immediately, sitting up.

"Because you quote-unquote 'love' me."

"Exactly that." His lips found yours, and surprisingly, this time, you actually had a spine and pulled away.

"What the FUCK?"

Huffing, he rolled his eyes and stroked your cheek as he shifted and knelt down. "Can we skip the part where you scream 'what the fuck, what the fuck' and push me away and get to the part where you admit you want me? I've had a long day."

Seeing him down there did nothing to make you feel safer.

"Nate-"

"Jesus fuck, Y/N, please, just, for the love of god-", he muttered, as if you were being an inconvenience at the moment and not him, the asshat on his knees. "Would you just relax?"

"Look, Y/N. I love you.", he said, and his hands slowly slid up to the hem of your shirt, his thumb rubbing the skin right under it. "Let me show you."

"You don't love me. Stop saying that."

"Fine, then. I want you. And stop telling me you don't want me, like it's a mortal sin or something.", he warned, gripping the backs of your thighs.

Sadly, you couldn't entirely blame this on the molly this time.

It definitely contributed to the decision, but mostly to the fact that it made every single touch of his explode with a robust... flavour that you couldn't replicate even if you tried.

He smiled up at you so softly you'd think he was on his knees to propose. But no. Instead of opening up a little box, he opened the fly to your pants.

"Can you look at me, please?"

You sighed, looking down. "What?"

"You really don't look like you're against this. I'd even go so far as to say you want me, but you're too much of a pussy to admit it."

You did want him. BUT. You were against this. Because it was wrong. But you were letting him kiss up your thighs, bite at your lower abdomen.

Meaning it was the world according to Nate and it both infuriated you and turned you on.

FUCK.

Hums came from both your mouth and his, and before you knew it, your fingers felt nothing but the locks of his hair, pulling so hard there was no way he wasn't in pain. And he must have been, because gently, so seamlessly, he trailed his hand up to yours, removing it from his hair and interlocking it with his own.

But he didn't pause. His tongue continued doing... well, whatever the hell it was doing that made you want to stab the Earth for being able to produce Nate Jacobs as well as praise it for... well, being able to produce Nate Jacobs.

"You're a virgin?", he asked, breathless, raising a brow in incredulity.

You'd be lying if you said your brain even registered his question - registered anything but his tongue and lips.

"Are you a virgin?"

"Why? Don't tell me this is still a test to see if I'm easy or not-"

"It's not.", he assured, reaching up slowly, and then kissing your cheek of all fucking places. One of his hands trailed back down and into you while the other one immediately closed your mouth, though you had no idea why. It was a fucking desolate high school football field. No one was going to hear anyway.

He grinned, pressing his forehead against yours as he added another finger, curling them as he worked into you. "Shh, shh, shh.", he murmured, after probably feeling the results of you trying not to lose your shit beneath his palm.

"See? We go great together."

You screamed. But it didn't quite carry.

He frowned in confusion for a moment when you made a muffled noise and then muttered an 'ah' as he gently removed his palm from your mouth.

"That's not..."

"Hm? That's not what?"

You could have killed yourself right there, because he smirked is what he did. He smirked when you couldn't finish (and barely even start) your sentences.

"That's not even remotely..."

You were stalling. That was clear. Why? You didn't know. There was no logical reason. He was already fucking inside you, there was no point in backing out of this now.

But there was reason to hesitate.

He sighed, licking his lips and shaking his head in disappointment, brushing hair from your face. "Hey."

"What?"

"If you don't fuck me right now, I will lose my shit. I will cut myself. I will play Russian Roulette again. That work for you?"

Oh, this sick, sick, sick, SICK motherfucker.

════════════════════ ⋆🚩⋆ ════════════════════

Why you did it? Question for the ages.

You should've said no. You should've gone home. You didn't go home, though, not even after the fact. You probably should have.

Instead, you found yourself back at Fezco's store. Not voluntarily, either, it just seemed your car was as drained as you were, and you forgot to fill it back up.

"Rue?", you called out into what you imagined to be an abyss. Her voice appeared like light at the end of a tunnel. "Hey."

"You high?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I need someone to pick me up."

"Maddy's not free?"

"I didn't check."

"Well.", she groaned, shifting around, clearly in some sort of drug-induced discomfort, "You should. I don't wanna kill you, y'know, you mean so fucking much to me."

The sarcasm in her voice was mildly hurtful, but hey. At least she cared enough not to kill you.

More than Nate had ever cared.

"Okay."

So, of course, you called Cassie. Because no fucking way were you calling Maddy to come pick you up from the store owned by the local dealer, which was suspiciously close to the party thrown by her ex.

The car ride with her was smooth and lovely and peaceful. Because she was smooth and lovely and peaceful.

"You think your car will be safe, out there, all night?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I told Fez. He knows what to do."

"Y/N, I... I've noticed you've been off, like, the last term or so."

You did not need her therapy session right now.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"You're not.", she chuckled, nervously, shaking her head as she slowed down at the red light. "You seem on edge. I think it's cause of him."

"Him?" WHAT? How the fuck did this ditz know?

"Yeah. Like, I don't know, maybe you're in love with him, and you think it's, like... forbidden, because he's a bad influence or something, but you just kinda look... strung out. Like there's a huge secret you're keeping."

She was supposed to be clueless about what was going on around her. Isn't that the thing they say about hot blondes?

"Love? In love? With who?"

"Fezco, of course. I get it, he's a dealer, but he's also hot, and I guess, let's face it, he's quite nice for a criminal."

Oh, thank god. The dumb blonde theory stands.

"I'm not in love with Fez."

"Then why are you so... off?"

"I...", you sighed, deciding to stick to the truth as much as safely possible. "I got in with some bad people during spring break."

The look of concern on her face made you want to apologize and buy her whatever she wanted, or maybe even confess to every fucking sinful thought you'd ever had.

"What? Oh, my god, what? Like, hard drugs and shit?"

"More like guns and shit."

"Y/N, WHAT?!"

"Yeah, it was fucked up, but I'm out of it now, though, so you don't have to worry, okay, Cass? I'm peachy. I'm great, honest! Hey, it's turning amber."

She frowned, turning back to the road in front of her. "You sure?"

You'd never been more grateful for Nate throwing the lamp to your right rather than your left.

You'd never been more grateful for Nate giving you a hickey on your right rather than your left.

You nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, though."

"So. Did you... you went to his party, right? Did you see him? Did you guys talk?"

It took you a moment to figure out that she was talking about her ex.

"McKay? Yeah. Yeah."

"How is he? Did he mention me?"

"He's, um... he's doing fine, I guess. He looks like he misses you, but you know him. He probably won't tell me."

"I just... maybe we... I just want to, um... fix things."

"You should."

"You think?"

You nodded. What the fuck else could you do to distract her from the fact that if she took one look down, she'd see Nate blowing up your phone? "Yeah, you guys were great together."

You instantly cringed. Because that was what Nate had said about you and him. "See? We go great together."'

"I don't know if I want him back, or what. What do you think?"

That I just fucked Nate Jacobs. And that the molly was only half of it. That I'm going to kill myself.

"I think... I think you broke up for a reason, Cass."

She nodded, and the rest of the car ride went in pleasant silence.

Then she dropped you home.

And Rue was waiting for you.

════════════════════ ⋆🚩⋆ ════════════════════

"You're pissing me off. What is this, blackmail?'

"Yeah. It is. I saw you two in the bleachers, and if you tell people I'm not sober, I'll let it slip that you let Nate Jacobs inside you."

Keep your calm. If you show even a tiny sign of accepting that she was right, you're dead meat. "It was a psych project. He had just finished a practice, so we sat there and finished some work."

"With tequila?"

Silence. Okay. She was not talking about tonight. She was talking about the gun-night. This was salvageable.

"Funnily enough, Y/N, according to what Lexi told me, there's been no 'psych assignment-slash-project.'"

"Rue-"

"So you've not only been lying to all of us, you've been betraying Maddy. And you've done Jules so wrong.'

"Look, you don't even know-"

"Then tell me."

So you did. You told her about the Instagram story, you told her about the Russian roulette, hell, you even told her about the dinner and the scar. What you didn't tell her about was the sex. The mind-blowing guilt-inducing sex.

"But I saw you kiss him on the bleachers."

"I was drunk, Rue. I'd have let the fucking janitor kiss me."

"Look, Y/N, those are my terms."

"You're asking me to lie to everyone about your health, your wellbeing! We're all looking out for you, Rue! Y'can't just blackmail me into not doing right by you."

"As nice as that is, the fact still stands that you fucked Nate."

FUCK!

"Rue, please-"

"He doesn't even fucking want you. He wants to get back at Maddy, and you're too fucked out to see it!"

"Rue, you're crossing the li-"

"I bet that fucking him was the only thing you've been doing this whole time. What, did you fuck him when Maddy was with him?"

Rue laughed after you slapped her and that definitely told you she was so high she couldn't even feel it. "C'mon. Grow up.", she scoffed, tucking hair behind your ear. "Girl code's not important anymore, is it? We're all eighteen - adults - now."

WHY must everyone always do that with your hair? So fucking condescendingly, too?!

"Rue, I didn't fuck Nate Jacobs."

"Then why is he blowing up your phone? Yeah, you think I didn't notice the name on your screen?"

"He blows up my phone because he's a psycho- I told you about the Russian Roulette thing and the gun and the slit wris-"

"Yeah, but you said you asked him to leave you alone and he did. Why would he break no contact? What could've happened?"

"Rue, I am not going to help you fake sobriety in front of your family- I- Rue, what is that?"

She frowned, looking down and following your line of sight. Her bag. The front zip. A needle. She looked back up, deadpan. "Fent."

"RUE! YOU CAN'T EXPECT ME T-"

"Look, Y/N, I like you, I do. There's no reason for you to worry, okay? If you could be quiet, your life will go on as it always does. No reputation loss, no guilt, no embarrassment."

"This will kill you! I can't do that to you, Rue, please!"

"But you can do Nate Jacobs?"

You were genuinely about to strangle this fucking trapper cunt.

"Think about it."

What, had she gotten lessons in blackmail from him?

════════════════════ ⋆🚩⋆ ════════════════════

That night, you were too fucking exhausted to even question why Nate was knocking at your window. You just opened it for him. You just let him kiss you. You just let him tuck your hair behind your fucking ear.

"I have a question."

"What?"

"Did you visit Shane in the hospital?"

Okay. No way he could have found out about that. You didn't tell a single fucking soul.

"Huh?"

"I beat him up for you. 'Cause he was saying you fucked when you didn't.", he said, his voice oddly calm for a man betrayed.

"I didn't ask you to!"`

"Please.", he scoffed, clapping sarcastically. "Biggest cop-out of the century."

"I didn't!"

"He was calling you a slut, basically. As if you'd just give it up to anyone." What, like he knew you that well?

"Hundreds of people say hundreds of shit about me every fucking day! What am I, supposed to set you on them?"

"You could."

You scoffed.

"I'm being serious. You could say "'sic 'em' " and I'd beat them to a bloody pulp.", he informed, brushing hair over your ear again. "Say it. Tell me someone to beat up. I'll do it. No matter who it is."

"Nate. I didn't ask you to do any of this. I asked you to leave me alone, and you did the opposite!"

"You're acting like I showed up, fucked you, and then just left!"

He clenched his jaw, his grip on the piece of hair he just pushed behind your ear, now shifting to the rest of your hair. "No, cunt. I said 'I love you'. Or did you conveniently forget that?"

Oh. Right. THAT.

"What? You're suddenly acting like a pussy, baby, what's up with that? Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't remember. Don't be a pussy. C'mon, tell me. Oh, yeah, wait a minute, you can't."

"You didn't mean that. You wanted to get what you wanted, so you-"

"You think I say shit like 'I love you' lightly? You think I throw that word around?" Yes, he did, but you didn't need to know that. He decided to deploy the trauma card.

"You've seen what my parents are like. You think I'd abuse the words 'I love you'?"

"I guess not-"

"Yeah. EXACTLY."

Ooh, you were putty in his hands and he almost got a semi because of it.

"Look, okay, fine, Nate, that- that was out of pocket, but you can't expect me to-"

"But I do. I have never lied to you. Have I? I've blackmailed you and threatened you and, fuck, yeah, I've stuck a goddamn gun down your throat, but when have I ever lied?"

"So you're saying you 'love' me and I have to just accept it."

"I'm saying I love you, and you have to just believe it.'

And god help you, you somehow did.

"Rue's blackmailing me."

He mock-gasped. "You're cheating on me, then."

You couldn't help the chuckle that left your lips. Him being so calm in the face of danger should make him look foolish in your eyes, not admirable.

And the molly excuse was being held up by string the breadth of dental floss, honestly.

"Does she use firearms as well? Did you think about me the whole time?" He was clearly trying to make you laugh, and it was working.

He kissed your forehead. "What did she blackmail you for?"

"For or about?"

"Both."

"For : keeping her relapse a secret from everyone. About : the gun-night at the bleachers."

"Okay, so the choice is clear."

"What?"

Nate Jacobs had scared you when he'd said he loved you and when he'd said he'd kill himself for you, but he'd never scared you as much as he did with what he said next.

"We just sit back and watch that bitch OD."

[willowsnook]

an experiment pt. 4

lando norris x reporter!reader

a/n: this is the final part friends. hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing this. thank you for all the kind words

tags: @sarx164 @wildflowerrsszz, @jaematthews15, @opastries81 @armystay89 @hadesnumber1daughter @dying-inside-but-its-classy@chlmtfilms@freyathehuntress @ashley-k@charlesgirl16@widow-cevans@cmleitora@rawr-123s-stuff@majapapaya4@fullmugwolffish @330bpm-whiplash @prudyhoo

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3

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

You sat in complete silence for five minutes. 

That fucking asshole. 

A wave of rage fueled you as you bolted up and to your bedroom, ripping out your suitcase from underneath the bed. Muttering under your breath about that man having the audacity to hang up, you started pulling clothes out of your drawers and shoving them into the bag. 

Once that was done you got on your laptop to find the next flight to Monaco. The prices made you want to throw up but in your pissed off state, you didn’t care. This is why credit cards exist, right?

13 hour redeye. Godspeed. 

—-----------------------

It was 4:30 in the morning when Lando woke up to someone pounding on his door. What the fuck? He thought before getting out of the bed, rubbing his eyes as he made it to the door. 

To say he was shocked when he saw you standing there was an understatement. 

“I can’t believe you hung up the phone on me,” you yelled at him angrily in greeting, moving past him to set your bag down. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked sleepily, trying to figure out if this was a dream or reality. 

“I’m here to fight you,” you told him, crossing your arms. 

“You want to fight me?” He asked, confusion on his face. “Can we do that later? It’s five in the morning.” 

You wanted to argue back with him but a yawn escaped your mouth and he gave you a knowing look. 

“Fine, I didn’t really sleep on the plane anyways,” you admitted. “Too busy figuring out what to yell at you.” 

He chuckled before beckoning you to follow him down the hall, you stopped outside of his room. 

“Do you not have a guest room?” You asked and he smirked at you. 

“I do but right now it’s a storage unit for a bunch of racing stuff, so this will have to do,” he said. 

“Can’t you sleep on the couch or something?” You complained and he rolled his eyes. 

“Oh so you confess your love to me on the phone but are getting cold feet now?” He mocked. 

“I didn’t confess my love, I just said that I maybe missed you,” you grumbled, slipping off your shoes. Lando watched as you walked over to his dresser, digging around until you found one of his bigger t-shirts to change into. 

“No cuddling,” you warned as you got into the bed, pulling the covers all around you. Lando respected your statement, sticking to his side of the bed as you drifted off. 

You startled awake to the sound of someone else pounding on the door. Lando had shifted over during your nap, his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“You’re joking,” he mumbled into your neck. You squirmed to get out of his hold. 

“I told you no cuddling,” you grumbled back at him. You started to throw another insult at him but he jerked your chin towards him, pressing his lips harshly against yours before getting up. 

“I don’t care,” he said. Catching your breath, you heard him greet whoever was at the door, the spanish accent you would recognize from anywhere. 

Carlos was in the kitchen talking to Lando as you entered, his eyes widened at the sight of you, especially in the very minimal clothing. 

“Y/n!” He exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. “I see Lando finally came to his senses.” 

“No, she just showed up at my door this morning,” Lando said, annoyed. Carlos smirked at his friend before turning to you. 

“Seems like it was a nice reunion,” he teased, eyeing you up and down. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chastised. “We just took a nap, we have a big fight between us on the schedule today.” 

“Well it’ll have to wait because Lando and I are doing a Quadrant shoot in an hour,” Carlos said. 

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll just catch up on work here.”

Lando shook his head, “if you think I’m letting you out of my sight again, you’re very mistaken. You are coming with us.”

You started to argue but the glare he sent your direction shut you up. Carlos waited as you both got ready and then you were off. Lando drove to the sight, his hand gripping your thigh tightly while Carlos smiled to himself in the back. Just happy his friends were together and hadn’t killed one another yet. 

Everyone was already there when you arrived and you let Lando drag you along to where Max was with the cameras. 

“Y/n,” he greeted, surprised. “Good to see you.” 

“You too,” you said, catching the smirk he sent Lando’s way. Lando and Carlos were whisked away to shoot and you hung out with Max in the meantime. 

“Lando didn’t tell me you were coming to Monaco,” Max said. 

“I didn’t tell him I was coming,” you told him and he nodded. 

“That would explain why he was still all pissy yesterday. Been that way honestly since you kicked him out of Austin.” 

“I didn’t kick him out of Austin,” you grumbled but Max’s face made you sigh. “Okay fine maybe I did, but I made a mistake.”

“Does he know that’s how you feel?” Max asked. 

“Oh yeah he does, I told him and then he hung up on me immediately,” you said and Max let out a sharp laugh. 

Max laughed, shaking his head. "Classic Lando. He's been moping for months, and when you finally reach out, he panics and hangs up. No wonder you flew all the way here."

You sighed, watching Lando pose for photos with Carlos. "I don't know what I was thinking, honestly. We still have so much to figure out."

Max nudged your shoulder. "Hey, the fact that you're both here, willing to try, that's a good start. Just... talk to each other, yeah? No more running away or hanging up phones."

You nodded, offering him a small smile. "Thanks, Max. When did you get so wise?"

He grinned. "I've always been wise. You lot just never listen to me."

As the shoot wrapped up, Lando made his way back over to you, his eyes darting between you and Max, a feeling of jealousy creep up his spine at the way you were laughing with his best friend. 

Max was explaining a new project they were working on when you felt two arms wrap around your waist and a chin settle on your shoulder. 

“All done?” You asked him softly. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “Ready to go?” 

—------------------------

You waited for Lando as he showered, twiddling your thumbs anxiously knowing that the conversation you’d been avoiding was looming. 

When he finally emerged, damp curls falling messily over his forehead, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, you had to force yourself to focus. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“So,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “are we actually going to talk, or did you just fly all the way here to yell at me some more?”

Your jaw clenched. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re talking. But I make no promises about the yelling.”

Lando scoffed, dropping the towel onto a chair. “Right. Because it’s all my fault, isn’t it?”

You shot up from your seat. “You hung up on me, Lando! After everything—after months of silence—you didn’t even have the decency to listen to me!”

His nostrils flared. “And what was I supposed to do, huh? Just pretend like it didn’t rip me apart when you pushed me away? That I was just waiting for you to decide I was worth calling?”

“I never said you weren’t worth it!” you snapped. “I was scared, okay? I panicked! But at least I’m here, trying! You—” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “You just ran away like a coward!”

Lando grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “Coward? Are you serious? You were the one who shut me out, Y/n! I gave you everything, and you threw it away like it didn’t mean anything!”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” you snapped, yanking your hand free. “You don’t get to act like the victim here. I was scared, yes, but you didn’t fight for me either! You just let me go and then acted like I never existed!”

His jaw clenched. “Because I didn’t know what the hell you wanted! One second, we were good, and the next, you were pushing me out like I was nothing.”

“That’s bullshit,” you seethed. “You knew how I felt about you, and instead of trying to talk to me, you let your ego get in the way.”

Lando let out a sharp laugh, running a hand through his hair. “My ego? Jesus Christ, Y/n, you really think this was about my ego?”

“What else would it be about?” you shot back.

His hands balled into fists at his sides. “It was about the fact that I was falling in love with you, and you just—” He exhaled harshly. “You shut down when things got hard. You didn’t trust me enough to stay.”

Your breath hitched, the words slicing through your anger like a knife.

Lando’s chest rose and fell heavily, the weight of what he’d just said hanging between you. You swallowed, hands trembling as you clenched them at your sides.

“And what about you?” you whispered. “You say I didn’t trust you, but you didn’t fight for me either. You let me walk away.”

Lando’s eyes darkened. “Because I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

Silence.

You both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other like two opposing forces in an inevitable collision.

Lando was the first to move. One step forward. Then another. Until he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“They told me I could have the F1 assignment if I wanted it,” you whispered. 

His hands hovered near your arms, uncertain. “And do you?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “If you still want me to.”

A beat of hesitation.

And then he reached for you.

You didn’t stop him. Didn’t push him away. His lips crashed onto yours, desperate, angry, needing. You matched his intensity, fingers curling into his damp curls, pulling him closer as if you could make up for all the lost time in one kiss.

When you finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, you exhaled shakily.

“No more running,” you murmured.

Lando nodded. “No more hanging up.”

You cracked a small smile. “And no more being a dick?”

He chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “No promises.”

[tacobacoyeet]

nothing (but love) for you | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader | part 1

part 1 | part 2

a/n: THIS IS AN AU!! tashi does NOT get injured and patrick is ALSO at stanford. scenes that you recognize from the movie are inspired by the original screenplay, so they may not be exactly as you remember. this is the longest thing i've ever posted on tumblr and i kind of hate but but i also kind of love it. this is NOT the end of the story, part 2 is in the works! i hope you all enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, a lot of anger, suicide mention, unspoken feelings, manipulation, tashi duncan is mean (i'm sorry)

“Fuck.”

That’s the only thing Art Donaldson manages to utter when he watches you step onto the court, modestly waving at the crowd. He almost didn’t notice Tashi. He wouldn’t have, honestly, if it weren’t for the way the crowd’s volume seemed to multiply when she entered. Technically, she was the whole reason he was there—well, Patrick all but dragging him back to the stands after their doubles win, both boys with glass trophies in one hand and lukewarm hot dogs wilting slightly under the Atlanta sun in the other. 

Patrick talked about Tashi like she hung the moon and the fucking stars. To be fair, she deserved it. She may as well have. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen her in person. She’s in another league.”

“You mean her game?” Art’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand why Patrick was talking so animatedly about this girl.

“No. I mean she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.”

The boys watched you and Tashi nod at each other across the court. They were too far up to see the way your lips quirked into a smirk as you locked eyes with the girl—an unspoken promise of what was to come. I mean, she was your best fucking friend. Of course, you’d see her tonight. You were sharing a hotel room.

Your number 4 ITF World ranking wasn’t far from her number 1. It was barely visible in the way you two rallied, that neon yellow ball flying across the court fast enough to give any particularly attentive crowd members whiplash as they attempted to follow it, necks craning. 

Both boys could feel their shorts growing tighter with each little grunt that escaped you and Tashi. The swish of your tiny skirts, the sweat trickling down your faces, the eyes you’d make at each other after a particularly nasty move. There was far more happening on this court than just a tennis match. No… this was a scene crafted by the hands of Aphrodite and Nike themselves. 

You took set 1.

Tashi took 2 and 3.

It’s after the filthy spin you send Tashi’s way to win set 4 that Patrick’s hand flies to Art’s thigh, gripping it tightly. “Holy shit,” he remarks like he can’t believe his eyes. “I take it back. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Art moves his trophy to hide the uncomfortable tent in his shorts. “Yeah. This isn’t even tennis, anymore,” he breathes out.

Patrick’s eyes are locked on the court. “Fuck, no,” he scoffs like Art has just said the stupidest thing in the world. “Dude, this is porn.”

The same thought is running through both boys’ minds later that night as they watch you and Tashi on the dance floor. Her royal blue dress flies out around her as you twirl her, her silky brown waves tickling your face as she playfully grinds against you. Her face is plastered on the Adidas branded banner on one side of the party, hanging above a decorated table with her singles trophy, which is sat directly in between yours and her glass doubles trophies, your medals hanging on either side. Your runner-up trophy is there too. Just off to the side, so as to not mess up the symmetry. Of course. 

“She’s gonna turn her whole family into millionaires. They both will,” Patrick remarks as he takes in the banner. Adidas Celebrates the Champions of Tomorrow. “I’m surprised Y/N is even here. I’d kill myself before I showed up to a party after losing a match like that.”

Art lets out an unamused scoff. “Shut up, man. If I can be at your parties every time you beat me, then there’s no reason for Y/N not to be here. She played like a beast. It was anyone’s game. And she took the loss so… graciously.”

“Oh, she took something, for sure. I thought they were gonna kiss after the last set,” Patrick remarks. 

It wasn’t a totally outlandish suggestion, honestly. When Tashi sent that final hit, the ‘killer backhand’ that sent the tennis ball bouncing just barely in the corner of the white lines, far too fast for you to calculate, the whole crowd was expecting you to smash your racket. Cry. Curse her and her family into generations beyond her time. Not for you to both cross to the center of the court, pressing your foreheads together for a split second to whisper something the audience would never hear. Not a show of sportsmanship. Of companionship. Of love.

Art snorts. “You’re a freak.”

“Yeah, and Y/N’s a model citizen. They’re both pillars of the community. I’d let either of them fuck me with a racket. Probably both.” Patrick’s back to watching you and Tashi dance with each other. Now it’s you who’s jokingly twerking on her, both of you all smiles and girlish giggles. He doesn’t spare Art a glance.

A little while later, you’re taking a breather in a secluded corner of the party while Tashi takes pictures with her trophy. You let out a quiet, grateful breath as the cold, bright orange soda coats your dry throat. You sigh as you feel the carbonation crackle its way through you, but your moment of solace is interrupted when you notice two boys approaching you, an air of attempted swagger surrounding them that’s almost as artificial as the fruit flavoring in your drink. 

They try to introduce themselves, voices stumbling over their own names, but you stop them. 

“I know who you are,” you reply, a timid yet level smile on your face as you shake their sweaty hands. “Zweig? And… Donaldson?” your brow furrows as you clarify their names, a little apologetic that there was a delay in your recollection. “Fire and Ice, right?”

“Oh my god.” Art looks like he could die on the spot.

Patrick keeps his cool. “In the flesh.”

You smile at his response, opening your mouth to ask a question— but Tashi approaches from behind you, beating you to it.

“Which one’s which?”

“What do you think?” Patrick’s countering her question before it’s even fully out of her mouth. A beat passes. You make awkward eye contact with Art across the crackling gaze that Tashi and Patrick share. It makes you itch.

“So, you two are—”

“Both of you—”

You look down at the grass for a moment, an awkward chuckle escaping you as your voice overlaps with Art’s. “Go ahead.”

“I was just gonna say that you two were fucking incredible, today.”

“Thank you,” Tashi replies before you can choke something out, a hint of surprise flashing behind your eyes. He was the only person who had praised both of you. At least, without your half being a backhanded compliment, or an afterthought of a comment wrapped in a pity-colored bow.

“No, really,” he pipes up again. “It wasn’t even, like… tennis. I mean, I felt bad for you.” There it was. He knows he probably shouldn’t have said it, but you brush it off easily.

“Oh, don’t,” you let out a short chuckle. “I’m only here to be her faithful doubles partner and for the leftovers from her brand deals.” You gently nudge Tashi’s shoulder with your own. She smiles at your comment, shaking her head a little as she tugs you a little closer to her. All four of you look back up at Tashi’s poster as one of you tries to think of something to fill the awkward silence. 

“So,” you manage to spit out. “Stanford this fall, right? For both of you?”

Patrick smirks at that. You weren’t lying about knowing who they were. “Yeah, how’d you—”

“They mentioned you. Both of you, when I was accepting my offer. Same for Tashi.”

“You’re not going pro?! Why?” Patrick looks away from you and back to Tashi, his eyes bugging out of his head. That one stung. A little.

She’s opening her mouth to respond, but she’s interrupted by her father pulling her away for more pictures. “Later,” she mutters with a clipped smile at the two boys, trailing her fingers down the inside of your wrist as she lets go of you.

You make small talk with the boys for as long as you can, but it’s not easy trying to talk to them when it’s obvious that they're more focused on Tashi than you. At least, Patrick was. You chat politely with them for a little while longer before you manage to think up a good enough excuse to get away. Art isn’t even able to spit out a proper goodbye, he’s too busy staring at you, desperately trying to burn every pore, every molecule of your face into his memory. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t doing the same to him.

For some reason, they linger. Well, you know the reason. She's the one who allows the four of you to be lazing on the beach. You stare wistfully at the cigarette perched between Patrick’s fingers, the smoke curling around him and teasing you. Tashi gave him the same look she used to give you when he offered one. She refused for both of you. Not that you would have said yes—that was a non-negotiable when you two became doubles partners. Smoking was a thing of the past, for you. Except for when you managed to sneak away from her.

“So, why are you so obsessed with going pro?” Tashi asks Patrick.

“I’m not. You’re just obviously good enough to go. Probably both of you. So why not?”

A thin smile crosses your face. “Tennis isn’t forever. I’d like to have skills beyond hitting a ball with a racket.” You cross your ankles, legs stretching across the sand. “If it’s such a big deal to you, then why aren’t you going pro?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, shoving the quiet blonde next to him. “His fault. I’m gonna go pro as soon as I can, though. Hitting a ball with a racket is a great way to avoid getting a job.”

Tashi’s firing a retort before you can even register his comment. “See, that’s your problem. You think tennis is fun. Screwing around, expressing yourself. It’s why you’ve still got that serve.” She says it with such disgust, that it gives you flashbacks to all those times she’d involuntarily start coaching you. Every comment about your focus, your forehand, your emotions. It haunted you. But it made you better. She made you better.

“It works,” Patrick replies, shooting a smirk at Art. He looks away, his eyes locking with yours. 

“Yeah, but you’re not a tennis player. You don’t even understand what tennis is.” Tashi’s firing back at Patrick and even though he seems to be welcoming it, you can’t avoid the second-hand embarrassment. You shoot Art a meaningful look, as if to say, we’re not both like this. He grins.

Patrick’s leaning toward Tashi now. “What is it?”

She looks over at you. “A relationship.”

“Is that what you two had today?” Art tilts his head to the side as he asks. Cute.

You grin at him. “Of course.”

“We were actually playing tennis,” Tashi adds. “We understood each other completely. So did everybody watching. It was like we were in love—”

You tense. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“—Or like we didn’t exist. We went somewhere… really beautiful, together.” You’re both looking at each other, now. Art and Patrick stare. They can’t decide if this passing moment is too awkward for them or if it’s the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.”

Art speaks. “How long have two been… together?”

You flinch a little. Tashi laughs. “We’re not.”

There’s another beat as both boys visibly sag with relief. 

“I should probably get going before my parents come looking for me,” Tashi says. She stands, looking down at you. “You coming?” It’s phrased like a question, but you know it’s actually an order. You stand as well, brushing the sand off of yourself. 

“It was nice meeting you guys,” you smile at the boys. “We’ll see you at Stanford, I guess.” 

You start walking away, but you’re stopped as Patrick calls out to you. “Wait! Do you guys have Facebook?”

“Yeah, here—” you reach for your phone, but Tashi is quick to grip your wrist.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“He’s trying to ask for your number. Which is what I’m also doing… right now,” Art chimes.

“You want both of our numbers?” You ask.

“Very much so,” he replies.

“We’re not here to home-wreck,” Tashi says.

You look at her. You wanted their numbers. At least Art’s. You were still trying to get a feel for Patrick.

“We don’t live together,” Art replies.

Patrick’s quick to add. “It’s an open relationship.”

“Also, Patrick has a girlfriend.”

“I don’t,” he glares at Art. “Come hang out with us later. They put you up at the hotel in Flushing, right? We’re in room 206.”

“Don’t you guys have a final tomorrow?” You can’t help but ask. “Shouldn’t you be, like, preparing, or something?”

“Eh,” Patrick replies. “We both know how it’s gonna go.” Art glares at him. You know exactly how he feels.

Tashi smirks at them, amused by the interaction. Her hand hasn’t left your wrist. “Goodnight.”

It’s later that night that you and Tashi are sitting in a little circle with Art and Patrick on the floor of their messy hotel room. Tashi gave you a little speech, on the way, about why you couldn’t give them your Facebook just yet, and how you needed to make them sweat. You weren’t stupid, you didn’t need her to explain it. But you let her, anyway. You always melted at the tone she’d take with you, the softness in her gaze as she’d teach you. It meant she cared. About you. Not just tennis. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Art passes one of the Budweiser cans over to you before you ask another question. You’d been there, chatting idly for at least 30 minutes, not to mention the extra seconds that you and Tashi spent giggling outside their door, listening to them scramble around after you knocked. 

“So, how’d you guys meet? Preschool? Mommy and Me classes? You seem close.” You sip the lukewarm beer, resting against the back of the bed.

Art and Patrick look at each other, laughing. “The Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy,” Art replies, a poorly hidden eye-roll accompanying his mocking tone.

“Bunk-mates since we were 12,” Patrick adds. Cute. “You never thought of doing anything like that?” he asks, his eyes flitting between both of you. “I mean, you had to have met somewhere.”

“The free tennis camp our local high school offered when we were in elementary school, actually,” you reply. “We didn’t grow up in the boarding school tax bracket.”

“Yeah,” Tashi adds. “And neither of our parents would’ve wanted us coming of age in a place like that.”

“Why?” Patrick asks. “What were they afraid of?”

You shoot him a look, gesturing around at the four of you. Everyone laughs. 

The awkwardness starts to fade after that, and soon enough, you find all four of you in an animated conversation, two empty beer cans on the floor between all of you. You’re having a laughter-filled chat after Tashi tells the story of your first kiss, the way you were so scared, so nervous the whole time. You laugh about it, now, but you’d be lying if you didn’t feel a little twist in your throat every time she told the story, portraying you like a stupid little duckling who could barely stand on your own feet without her help. That’s not how it was. That’s how Tashi liked it, though.

Art interrupts the peals of giggles with an idea of his own. “We should play a game.”

“Like what?” you ask, the grin still on your face. 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Like… spin the bottle. Or spin the ‘beer can’, I guess.”

“Dude,” Patrick knocks him on the shoulder. “We’re not 12.”

“No, let’s,” Tashi interjects. “That’s cute.” 

Tashi’s approval shuts Patrick up immediately, and then one thing leads to another, and then all of a sudden Art and Tashi are making out while you and Patrick are directly across from each other. She’s devouring him, towering over him on her knees as she cups his cheek, his back arching as he bends to her touch. His hand slides gently down her thigh, gripping just under the hem of her shorts to pull her closer. Patrick rips his gaze from them for a moment just to look at you. He doesn’t bother to conceal the tent in his shorts. He’s itching.

“Do you want to—”

Tashi’s too occupied with Art for you to bother asking her for permission. “Please.”

And then you’re in his lap, the quietest of whimpers escaping you as he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth before slipping his tongue into your mouth, exploring like he’s on a mission. He’s not slow or gentle by any means. It’s like he’s trying to kiss his way through you, like he’s the river forming the Grand Canyon, finding each little crack, each little thing that makes you gasp against his lips, molding you into a mess just for him, your hips helplessly grinding against his. 

You’re so lost in him that you almost don’t notice that Art and Tashi have detached, and the blonde boy is now laying wet, sloppy kisses up your throat, along your jaw, inching closer and closer to mash his lips against Patrick’s. Tashi tugs your face away from Patrick so she can lock her lips onto yours, and you melt into her. It’s familiar. She tastes like the sweat lingering on your skin after every evening of running drills together. She tastes like every stone-cold comment she’d make about your form, your serve, your skill, that she’d throw in between kisses. She tastes like marschino cherries and 88% dark chocolate. She tastes like your entire fucking life. Because she’s always been there. She always will be. She never wants you to know a life without her—not because she loves you, not because you’ve spent nights behind closed doors, begging her to tell you that her feelings weren’t all in your head—but because you were good. At tennis. Good enough to be her partner, good enough to give her a real fucking challenge. But never good enough to win. Never good enough to win her.

Tashi stops Patrick before he can slide his hand past the waistband of your shorts, pulling you up from his lap gently. 

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, chest rising and falling a little heavier than normal. “Well, goodnight.” You wave awkwardly at both boys, because what else are you supposed to do when you're being dragged away from a potential foursome?

“Wait!” Patrick says. “What about your numbers?”

Surely she’d let you now, right? Wrong.

“I told you,” Tashi says. “We aren’t homewreckers.”

Art locks eyes with you. “Please.”

The level of desperation in his voice matches the one in your chest. You want him just as bad.

Tashi looks at you, and then back at them. She laughs. 

“How about this? We’ll be at your match tomorrow. Whoever wins can text me.” She shrugs as she says it. It hits you in the gut. Now that she was getting famous, being wanted… what were you there for? Other than to make her look better, more untouchable?

You watch as Art’s shoulders drop, while a bright smirk lights up Patrick’s face. 

“You can beat him,” you mutter softly, your eyes on Art’s. “You should.” You almost don’t want to say it, because it’s not you that they’re vying for. It was never you. Not for brand deals and endorsements, not for the match-winner predictions, not for anything. 

“Are you saying you want me to?” He asks.

“She’s saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t,” Tashi replies. 

“Well, what do you want?” Art asks, his eyes flitting between both of you.

You sigh, answering for Tashi. The same thing she would say to you every time you asked why she didn’t want you. “She wants to watch some good fucking tennis.” Tashi misses the disdain in your voice as you say it. Art doesn’t. 

With one last condescending “goodnight,” from Tashi, she’s dragging you out of their room. The moment the door slams shut, though, you’re tugging her arm, pressing your ear up to the door.

“Remember when you said you’d let me win?” Art’s voice is muffled through the door.

“That was a lifetime ago,” Patrick replies. You can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

“But what about my grandma?”

“I hope she has a fucking stroke.”

There’s a low thud, followed by a pained groan from Art. You and Tashi grin at each other.

It’s later that night when you’re in your hotel room, Tashi’s slow breathing being the only noise filling the small space. Your fingers were still coated in her, the taste of her still on your lips. She never would’ve shown it to them, but she was just as wet as you were after leaving the boys’ room. The moment you were back in your own room, she was pulling you down, coaxing your head between her thighs. 

“My girl, aren’t you?” She murmured, her fingers carding through your hair. You moaned against her in response, lips latched to her clit as you worked your middle and ring finger in and out of her. “So sweet. You know, if you put this much effort into practicing your tweener, maybe you would’ve won, earlier.”

You pretended like you couldn’t hear her. She laughs at her own words—the thought of you actually beating her was a pipe dream.

You adjust your fingers to find that sweet, spongy spot inside of her, the one that always makes her let out the softest little whimpers when you hit it. It’s the only time you ever feel like you’re the one in charge. But you both know that she still is. Neither of you needs to say anything about it. It’s evident in the way that you eat her out until she’s exploding on your tongue,  and she reciprocates by saying, “Don’t forget, we’ve got court time tomorrow morning at 6,” before she rolls over and turns the lamp off before falling asleep. 

It was always like this. You’d do anything for Tashi. Every time you got on the court with her, every time you locked eyes or fingers or lips, you fell for her all over again. She’d parade you around like you were her cute little puppy, but she always knew exactly where the line was. She molded you into being hers, but she was never yours. Tashi Duncan didn’t belong to anyone. You used to admire her for it—her free spirit, her determination, her power. But… too much of anything is bad. Admiration becomes resenting. But, maybe Art and Patrick would be good for you guys. It would help to step outside the box that was just you and her, right?

---

The Stanford Athletics Cafeteria is buzzing with the usual lunchtime noise—clattering trays, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from a table full of exhausted athletes. You and Art are sitting at your usual spot near the window, halfheartedly picking at your food, waiting.

Tashi and Patrick are late. Again.

You know exactly where they are. Running drills. Tashi had dragged Patrick to the courts before the sun was even up, and he’d gone willingly, just like always. Patrick had that kind of energy—relentless, restless, always moving toward the next high. And Tashi? Tashi never stopped. Never slowed down. Not for you, not for anyone.

Art stabs a fork into his salad, expression a grin playing on his lips. "I give them five minutes before they storm in here like they just discovered the cure for cancer."

You breathe out a short laugh, stirring your drink with your straw, eyes flicking toward the cafeteria doors as if willing them to appear. It’s always like this—waiting. Waiting for Tashi to be finished with whatever she deemed more important than you. Waiting for Patrick to fall into step behind her like a well-trained soldier. Waiting to see if today is the day something shifts. If she sees you sitting here and realizes what she’s about to do.

The doors slam open, and like clockwork, they’re here.

Tashi walks in first, her expression sharp, jaw tight. She’s still dressed in her practice gear, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, sweat cooling at the nape of her neck. Patrick follows a second later, far less affected. He’s buzzing, the post-drill high still clinging to him, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. He slides onto the bench next to Art, stealing a fry off his plate without hesitation.

Tashi drops into the seat across from you with a dramatic sigh, leaning back like she’s trying to keep herself from physically vibrating with irritation. You don’t even have to ask before she launches into it.

“This is a waste of my time.”

You glance at Art, already bracing yourself. Here we go.

Tashi gestures vaguely with her hand, like the entire concept of college athletics is beneath her. "It’s too fucking easy. The competition? Not even close to what we’re used to." She scoffs, shaking her head. "The only matches that are even remotely worth playing are our practices."

Patrick, as expected, nods along. “Yeah, I mean—duh.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "We could be playing at a whole different level right now. The only thing keeping us here is, what, some obligation to a school that’ll replace us the second we’re gone?"

Tashi points at him. “Exactly.”

You frown, stomach twisting. Art just crosses his arms over his chest.

Then Tashi delivers the real blow: “So if we win the championship this year, I’m going pro.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Patrick grins like he’s just won the lottery. "Fuck yeah. Let’s all do it." He leans forward, excitement radiating off of him. "Seriously, why wait? We win, we go pro. The four of us."

You and Art exchange a look. “No way,” you say at the same time. Art lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

Tashi blinks, her head tilting slightly. She wasn’t expecting that. Not from you.

“What?” She laughs, but there’s a thin layer of confusion beneath it. “Come on, Y/N.” She leans forward, all charm, all ease, like she can just fix this with a few well-placed words. “This is us. It’s what we’ve always wanted. It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

You hesitate. Because that’s exactly how it’s always been. Tashi decides, and you follow. No questions asked. No hesitation. But this time, you shake your head. “Not yet.”

Tashi’s smile tightens. "Why not?"

You exhale, feeling the weight of the moment settling over you. “They recruited all four of us. We can’t just bail after one semester.”

Tashi gives you a look. “Yes, we can.”

Patrick scoffs. “Y/N, come on. You could easily go pro right now.”

It’s meant as a compliment. It doesn’t feel like one.

Art leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. “You’re really just gonna leave?”

Tashi shrugs. “Yeah.”

And that’s when it really hits you.

She doesn’t even care that this means you won’t be together anymore—not just as a doubles team, but as… you and her. This is the first time since you were kids that you won’t be at her side. And she’s fine with it.

Maybe she always assumed you’d follow her. Maybe she just never thought about you at all.

But instead of letting it go, she shifts—just slightly, just enough for you to feel it. “I mean,” she continues, tilting her head, her voice softening into something almost pitying, “I get it. The pro circuit is brutal. You have to be able to keep up. And, you know—” she waves a hand vaguely in your direction, “—you still have some weaknesses you need to work on.”

Your stomach drops. “Excuse me?”

Tashi shrugs. “I mean, your second serve still isn’t aggressive enough. And your net game—” she clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in you. Like she’s coaching you. “It’s probably better for you to stay, actually. You wouldn’t want to get out there and just… flounder.”

The air in your lungs turns sharp like it’s been knocked out of you. Art visibly tenses beside you. Even Patrick stops chewing, sensing the shift in the air. You stare at Tashi. Really stare at her. And for the first time in your entire life, you wonder if you’ve been blind this whole time. Because she’s doing it on purpose. She couldn’t convince you to follow her, so now she’s making sure you question yourself instead. She doesn’t like that you didn’t just fall in line. She doesn’t like that for once, you said no. And for the first time, something different sparks inside you.

Not admiration. Not longing. Not even resentment.

Something closer to rage.

That night, you’re in Art’s dorm room, the air thick with something unspoken. He’s already on you the moment you sit on the bed, hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of you. It’s familiar—effortless in a way that doesn’t need thought.

Except you’re not here, not really.

His lips find the curve of your neck, dragging slow and warm along your pulse. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingertips teasing over your ribs. “You good?” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing against your skin.

You hum in response, but it’s absent, distracted. Your mind is still in the cafeteria, still locked on Tashi’s voice, the way she had said your name like she pitied you.

Art pulls back slightly, studying your face. “You’re thinking.”

You blink, snapping out of it just enough to meet his gaze. “No, I’m not.”

He scoffs, trailing a hand down your spine, fingers pressing at the small of your back, urging you closer. “You are. You get all stiff when you’re thinking too hard.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but he’s not wrong. You are stiff, not melting into his touch the way you usually do.

Art leans in again, pressing a kiss just below your ear, voice dropping lower. “What’s in your head, Y/N?”

You sigh, tilting your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. “Nothing.”

His teeth scrape lightly against your skin, not quite biting, but enough to make you feel it. “Liar.”

You exhale, pressing your hands against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look at him properly. He’s watching you with that same unreadable expression from earlier—except now, there’s something else. Something heavier.

“She needs you where she wants you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a slow, lazy line along your hip. “She doesn’t like that you said no.”

You go still.

He waits, watching it sink in. Watching you process the thing you’ve been avoiding since lunch.

Your throat tightens. “And you? Where does Patrick need you?”

His fingers flex against your waist, just for a second. If you weren’t looking, you might’ve missed it.

“Wherever he puts me.” There’s no bitterness in it. No anger. Just fact.

Your stomach twists, something ugly settling in your ribs. Because you get it. Because you’ve spent your entire life letting Tashi decide where you belong, too. You swallow hard, fingers curling against his chest. “You don’t mind?”

Art doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts, pressing you back against the mattress, his weight settling over you, warm and solid. His mouth finds yours, slow but insistent, like he’s trying to pull you out of your own head, to drag you back here—to him. And for once, you let him. The dim glow from his desk lamp barely reaches the bed, casting long shadows along the walls. It’s easy, this—familiar in a way that doesn’t require thinking.

“You’re being a hypocrite,” you murmur against his lips after a while. “I know what you’re going to tell me. That I’ve spent too much of my life holding her up.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but there’s nothing malicious about it. “You have a martyr complex. A terrible one.” He’s staring down at you with an incredulous smile.

You scoff, a smile playing at your lips. “You need to quit reading my notes from my psych class. And you need to stop trying to diagnose me when you’ve spent the last, what, 6 years? 7? Letting yourself lose to Patrick.” You poke at Art’s chest, pressing your finger directly to his heart. “He wants a fight from you, you know? He wants to feel like he’s being challenged.”

Art’s face hardens for a moment. He clearly didn’t want to hear about it. “Shut up,” he murmurs, bringing his lips down to your collarbone. “Just shut up. You need to stop thinking. And talking. And perceiving me. I hate when you go all psych major on me.”

You laugh, but you listen anyway, letting him tug your shorts off of you. He’s pushing your shirt up, his hands, calloused from years of white-knuckle grips on tennis rackets, grazing the skin of your stomach. He trails his lips from your face down your neck, sucking in marks along the swell of your breasts—a spot where nobody will see them, but he’ll know they’re there. He’ll know he has you somehow.

It doesn’t take long before both of your outfits are strewn around his room. He’s kneeling between your legs, now, holding your thighs on his hips as he teases your entrance. His tip is red, weepy. You’d probably make a joke about how it’s ‘Stanford red,’ tease him for being needy, if you were paying attention. But you aren’t, and he can tell. He’s not offended, not in the slightest. But he’s worried that you’ll overthink your way into a spiral, and the last thing he needs is his girlfr—someone he cares about going off the rails. So he’s grabbing your chin gently, forcing you to look at him, to see him. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, forehead creasing as he frowns at you. 

“Yeah?” you ask, a little lost. 

“Hold on to something, okay?” 

“Wh—fuck!” You can’t ask him what he means, because he’s ripping a cry out of you as he stuffs himself in you, balls-deep. He groans at the sight of your tight, greedy pussy swallowing him, the way he fills you like you were custom-made just for him. He gives you two slow thrusts before he’s ramming into you like a jackhammer. He knows better than to go slow and soft, this time. He knows that if he does, it’ll give you enough time to think. He’s trying to fuck the thoughts out of you, now. The only thing he wants you to think about is him. 

He’s precise. He knows exactly how to position himself so that his tip is hitting your g-spot with almost every thrust, the slight curve of his dick giving him the perfect angle. The hand he has on your chin adjusts so that he can slide his index and middle finger past your lips. He had to keep you quiet somehow. It’s not like you could get away with being loud when the walls of his dorm were that thin. Patrick’s room was just across the hall, after all. You groan around his fingers, swirling your tongue around them, sucking them like you’re trying to brand his fingerprints on your tongue.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters, his pupils blown as he takes in the sight of you. “So fucking sexy. Too beautiful to be disrespected like that,” he says. He catches himself as soon as he says it, but you don’t even bother to respond, too lost in the way his hips slam against you. 

It’s not long before the noises leaving your mouth are growing more frequent and less comprehensible. He takes that as the sign to pull his fingers from your mouth and bring them to your clit instead, rubbing with enough fervor to get your hips involuntarily bucking underneath him. You gasp his name as you hurtle over the edge, your cunt squeezing around him. It’s enough for him, too, because it’s right after that that he pulls out, pumping himself as he comes on your stomach, painting you with the evidence of his desire.

After a few moments where the only sounds in the room are both of you trying to catch your breath, you’re the first one to speak. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”

Art turns his head to look at you, still breathless, his fingers trailing lazy circles on your bare hip. “Jesus. Do you ever stop thinking? Or is giving me a heart attack something that turns you on?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your knee. “Just answer me.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Fine. Shoot.”

You take a slow breath. “Why’d you actually say no about going pro?”

Art freezes for half a second. It’s barely noticeable, but you feel it. His fingertips are still on your skin, his chest rises and falls a little too evenly—like he’s bracing for impact.

You press on. “Because I don’t get it, Art. Patrick is your best friend. We all—” you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “We all have each other. In every possible way. So why are you staying?”

He exhales sharply, like he was hoping you wouldn’t push this far. “Not everything is about—”

“Sex?” you cut in. “I know. That’s exactly my point.” You sit up slightly, resting on your elbow so you can look at him. “It’s not about that. It never has been. So what is it? Because you know you’d hold your own out there. You’d rather die than let Patrick keep that edge over you forever. So why?”

Art is silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because if I go, I lose everything.”

You frown. “You wouldn’t lose—”

“Yes, I would.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so you’re face to face. “Patrick and Tashi? They’ll survive without me. They already are. You saw it before I did.”

You hesitate, throat tightening. Because he’s not wrong.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You think Patrick needs me? He doesn’t. Not like he used to. He doesn’t ask me to come over first, anymore. He checks for you and Tashi. And if we learned anything at lunch, it's that Tashi definitely doesn't need anyone.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come.

Art sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I stay, I get to hold onto this—us—for a little longer. If I go…” he exhales, looking away. “I don’t know what’s left for me.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. Because there it is. The thing neither of you have ever said out loud. Your voice is softer when you speak again. “You don’t think I’ll follow them.”

Art’s eyes flick back to yours. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

You swallow hard. “That’s why you stayed.”

A beat of silence. Then, finally, he nods.

And for the first time, you don’t know whether to feel grateful or guilty.

---

“And now, your 2002, 2005, and 2006 NCAA Women’s Tennis Champions… Give it up for STANFORD TENNIS!”

The air inside Taube Family Tennis Stadium is thick with noise, the kind that thrums in your chest, rattles in your teeth. Stanford’s home crowd is loud, a sea of red and white, feet stomping against the bleachers in a deafening rhythm. The banners are already preemptively celebrating, a massive GO CARDINAL! stretched across the upper deck.

It’s suffocating.

You shift in your seat, heart lodged somewhere in your throat as you watch Tashi bounce on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders back, twirling her racket in one hand like it’s an extension of her body. Across the net, Sally What’s-Her-Name stands still, eyes locked on her, gripping her own racket tight. She’s good. Really good. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. But she’s not Tashi.

No one is.

Tashi is coiled tension, electric, barely contained. The first serve is brutal, a 121 mph bullet down the T-line that Sally barely gets her strings on. The return floats too high, and Tashi pounces, stepping inside the baseline and crushing a forehand winner down the line.

Stanford’s crowd erupts.

Patrick lets out a low whistle from beside you, shaking his head. “Fucking lethal.”

Art, arms crossed, just exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because the match plays out exactly how you knew it would. Sally fights, but Tashi smothers her. Precision, power, instinct. Every angle cut off before Sally can react. Every ball sent screaming off Tashi’s racket, clipping the lines with surgical accuracy. It’s like watching a lion toy with its prey, drawing it out just long enough before going for the throat.

Sally is desperate, but Tashi barely looks like she’s trying. She’s in complete control, dictating every point, making the girl run until her legs are gone. Until her breath is ragged. Until she’s broken.

Sally manages to steal a set. Barely. But Tashi? She smiles. Like she enjoys it. Like she wants the fight.

By the time the third set rolls around, it’s inevitable.

It ends, fittingly, on a backhand winner, because of course it does. Because Tashi Duncan loves a clean kill. She barely watches as the ball paints the line, untouched. The second it lands, she already knows.

Game, set, match—Duncan.

She doesn’t fall to her knees. She doesn’t drop her racket. She just exhales, tilts her head back, and grins.

The stadium erupts.

She turns, finally, and for the briefest second, her eyes lock onto yours. The grin widens. Not a thank-you, not a see-that? Not even a simple acknowledgment of this moment, this win, this final nail in the coffin of what you had.

It’s a challenge.

You swallow hard.

Patrick yells something beside you, but you don’t hear it.

Because the thing is—you don’t just admire Tashi Duncan, anymore.

You want to beat her.

It’s dark outside when Tashi steps into Patrick’s unlocked dorm room. She’s not at all surprised by the scene as she enters: you on all fours, Patrick fucking into you from behind as you choke yourself on Art’s cock. Patrick’s the first one to notice her entering, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to get you to glance up.

“Took you long enough,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping over her with a lazy, shameless grin on his face.

“Interviews,” she shrugs. “And I needed a shower.” She strips as she replies, tossing her clothes in a small pile on the floor. She strides over to the other side of the bed, watching the way Art’s eyes flutter shut, his fingers tugging at your hair as your head bobs on him. 

“Up, Y/N,” she softly clucks. You don’t listen. “Y/N,” she says again, her tone a little more firm. “I said up.”

You pull your mouth away from Art for a moment, eliciting a groan from him as you look at her. “I’m busy, Tashi. You can wait your turn.” You don’t mean to say it with as much sass as you end up conveying, but it happens. Probably because it’s how you actually feel. 

A frown crosses her face. Patrick’s eyes widen a little, and he doesn’t stop his thrusts, but they slow significantly. 

“That’s not how this works,” Tashi says. “You’re not the one calling the shots, here.”

“First time for everything, right?” you reply, keeping your eyes on her as you lick another stripe up Art’s shaft. “Pat, you can keep going. No need to stop.”

Tashi’s gaze burns your skin as she watches you pull your eyes away from her, your mouth working Art even harder than you were before. Patrick’s still a little shocked by what he just saw, but he listens, slamming back into you at a more moderate pace. 

“Such a good girl,” Art murmurs, his fingers streaming through your hair. To Patrick and Tashi, it’s just general praise—an in-the-moment statement about how good you’re making him feel. But you and Art know the meaning behind his words. Sure, your mouth feels like heaven on him. But he’s talking about the words that came out of your mouth.

Tashi steels herself—she’ll deal with you later. She kneels on the bed, capturing Patrick’s lips in a long, sloppy kiss. Once she’s had enough of him, She’s forcing the three of you to adjust so she can position her cunt directly above Art’s face. He keeps one hand tangled in your hair, and he snakes his other hand around Tashi’s thigh to pull her down onto his mouth. 

She comes on his tongue, instead of yours. You can’t decide if you feel more guilty or more relieved that for once, she was being forced to settle instead of you.

---

About a month later, it’s late. The kind of late when campus is quiet, the world outside your dorm window humming low and distant. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, the residue Tashi’s sweat and perfume clinging to your skin. The smell of your sin lingers in the air. It makes your stomach turn. She sits on your bed, one leg tucked under the other, bare shoulders glowing in the dim light—like she always does. Like she owns it. Like she owns you.

“The press release goes out tomorrow morning,” she says, voice smooth, casual. Too casual. Like this isn’t gutting you. “About me leaving Stanford. I got a wild card spot. But I wanted to tell you before you saw it in the news.”

You don’t look up from your phone. If you do, she’ll see it. The anger burning low in your stomach, the betrayal clawing at your ribs. “This isn’t news.”

Tashi’s head tilts slightly, just enough that you catch the shift in her expression from the corner of your eye. “What?”

“You told me forever ago. That day at lunch, remember?” You finally glance at her, your voice deliberately even. Empty. “This isn’t new information.”

She blinks, and for the first time in a long time, you see it—that flicker of something uncertain, something almost lost. “Right,” she says after a beat, running her tongue over her teeth. “I just thought—” She stops herself, and exhales sharply through her nose. “I thought you’d have something to say.”

You shrug, shifting slightly under the weight of her stare. The sheets rustle, cold against your skin. “What do you want me to say?”

Tashi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches you, eyes sharp, searching. “You’re pissed,” she accuses, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing you, waiting for you to crack.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, feigning nonchalance. It’s all muscle memory now, this performance. “I’m not.”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t have to act like you don’t care.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

Tashi shifts, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping. “Because it’s bullshit.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Just hold her gaze, steady and unyielding. “You wanted this,” you say simply. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Tashi’s lips press together, her fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket. “That doesn’t mean I wanted—” She stops short again, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “Never mind.”

You could push. You should push. You want to sink your teeth into it, tear it apart until there’s nothing left but the truth. But you don’t. Instead, you exhale, turning your attention back to your phone. “Congratulations, Tashi.”

It’s dismissive. Final. A lie.

And for the first time, you leave her with nothing to say.

-------

tagging: @kimmyneutron

[lialacleaf]

Simon Riley x Reader

Bella Notte - Pt. 1

Synopsis: Simon’s dog REALLY likes you. And maybe Simon does too. It’s hard to make a move on you though when Riley is determined to embarrass him.

Art by @shkretart because their Simon is my favorite~

Warnings: second hand embarrassment, no editing

It was that time of year between the light chill of fall and the frost of winter, when you needed a coat in the morning and gloves to keep your fingers from going stiff, only to shed your layers for a light jacket until the sun started to set in the early evening.

It was raining again, and as you glanced up at the grey sky from under your umbrella you wondered if the whether persisted into the night you might wake up to a frozen driveway.

Your eyes darted over the address on your phone screen for the hundredth time as you approached the gated neighborhood, taking note of the quaint townhouses smooshed together. You approached the gate with some apprehension, taking note of the security guard who looked ready to defend his post with his very life despite being armed with only a taser.

“Afternoon, Miss,” he greeted, tipping his head at you. Police officers in London were polite more often than not, but you still got a little nervous about speaking to them. The second you opened your mouth they either thought you were a tourist, or coming around to cause trouble.

“Hi, I’m here for-“ you paused to check the address once more. “33 B,” you said, showing him your phone screen that displayed the quaint little pet-service app. “I’m a pet sitter.”

He looked at you contemplatively for a moment, and you swallowed thickly. “You from around these parts?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“I moved to York a few months ago,” you explained, preparing to pull out your IDs when he held up a hand.

“You met the fellow that lives there before?” He asked warily, and you frowned.

“Not in person, but he passed the background check so I’m sure it’s alright,” you argued.

He gave you a good look, as if he were trying to memorize you appearance before nodding to himself and swiping his badge. The gate opened with a mechanical whirring and he beckoned you inside.

You shook your head at the exchange, shoving your phone back into the pocket of your raincoat.

33B appeared to be a relatively new unit, the paint on the door appearing fresh as if it had just been done in the past few days.

There was no welcome mat, and the front porch seemed rather bare. You half expected one of those ‘Home of a German Shepherd’ signs to be hanging on the front door, but there was very little to indicate you were in the right place.

Regardless, you knocked on the door, noticing the lack of a bell.

There was no answer.

You knocked again, this time a little harder.

“Hello? Is anyone there? It’s y/n from TailWag!” You called. You were just about to turn around when the door swung open, revealing a tall man with soft eyes and a thick mustache. He seemed surprised to see you before offering you a polite smile.

“Are you…Simon?” You asked, but the man shook his head. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I-“

“No, no. You’re in the right place. Was just on my way out.” He nodded to you with a smile, stepping around you as he let himself out.

Your watched him leave, brown raised curiously before the clearing of a throat had your head swiveling around.

The sight that greeted you had you feeling like a gnome in the presence of a giant. The man was tall, with a head of messy blonde hair and piercing brown as that had you shaking a little in your bright yellow rain boots.

“Oh.”

He regarded you warily with a raised brow. “Y/n?”

You nodded quickly, almost giving yourself whiplash. There was something so commanding about the way he spoke.

“Right. Come in.”

His home was just as sparse on the inside as it was on the outside. “Sorry if this was a bad time.”

“It’s the time we agreed on,” he stated flatly.

“Right, I just- you had company, and I didn’t mean to interrupt…” you trailed off as he continued to stare at you with that piercing gaze. “So Riley? Where is she?” You asked, getting to the reason for your visit.

Simon let out a sharp whistle that made you jump, and the sound of feet running down the stairs alerted you to the incoming of the four legged creature.

You watched the dog bound around the corner and into the living room, tongue killing and amber eyes alight.

A smile broke out on your face as you kneeled down to give the dog some attention. “Hello there,” you cooed, scratching her behind the ears. “Aren’t you a pretty girl.”

“What brings an American out to York Minster?” He asked, regaining your attention. His eyes were cold and calculating.

“Right. My father moved out here after he and my mother split. He left her out of the will so I came to sell his home when he passed but..the gothic cathedrals kinda grew on me, and I got rather inspired so I decided to stay. Wasn’t much left on the mortgage anyhow,” you explained.

He raised both brows at you curiously. “And you pay for that with dog-sitting?”

You shook your head. “Absolutely not, I’m a Ghost Writer. It makes good money. The dog-sitting is so I feel less lonely,” you said, returning your attention to bestowing Riley with your affection and massaging the scruff around her neck.

“Why not just get a dog?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

You glanced up at him, awkwardly meeting his gaze. “I uhh, I had one, passed away shortly after my Dad. I think she missed him. I haven’t been ready to move on,” you admitted, feeling rather put on the spot with the way Simon was watching you as if he were looking for a flaw, or a reason to kick you out of his home.

“Fair enough,” he agreed, and you loosed a breath. You couldn’t help but feel like you were going to end up with a knife in your throat if you made one wrong move. “I’ll be gone for a few weeks at a time. You live around here?” He asked curtly.

You didn’t like the way he looked at you. It felt…judgmental, as if he were trying to decide if you were trustworthy, or if you were plotting some evil deed. “I live in the other side of town.”

He nodded. “Feel free to use the spare room, the place is more hers than it is mine at this point. She deserves a good retirement,” he said gesturing to the dog.

You blinked as realization finally set in. “Oh! Your military! I see now,” you said, glancing down at Riley who was still patiently seated beside her master.

“So you’re not retired?” You asked, and he nodded. “There are plenty of adoption agencies, and families that take on service animals-“

“I’m her family,” he interrupted, sounding very close to having snapped at you, and you winced.

“Right! Of course, I just meant that pet-sitters are expensive and-“

“You’re concerned I can’t afford to pay you?” He asked gruffly.

“No! No I- That’s not what I meant,” you palmed your face as you stood to your full height, which wasn’t much compared to his. “I’ve been doing this since I was in college and I’ve had more than a few cases of abandonment. It’s usually the ones that are gone a lot. I just wanna know what I’m getting into, alright?” You explained, holding your hands out peacefully as if you were trying to convince a wolf animal not to attack you.

You briefly noted that Riley seems much more manageable than her handler. You, however, we’re too soft hearted, and he simply had to understand that if you were going to care for Riley.

He eyed you for a moment, before nodding in understanding. “If I ever don’t make it back arrangements will be made. You won’t need to worry about that,” he assured you.

You let out a relieved sigh. “Good. We’re on the same page then.”

He nodded in agreement, and you had half a mind to ask him to stop staring at you like he was deciding how to go about skinning you alive.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you said, patting Riley on the head much to her delight.

“My flight leaves early in the morning. I’ll text you a code for the front door.”

Your forced a smile as offered him you hand in a friendly gesture. “Perfect.” He didn’t accept your offered hand, but you weren’t too disappointed. You were just grateful you wouldn’t have to see him for the next few weeks.

AN: ahhh this one is gonna be fun! The inspiration for this story came from my own fur babies, one of which I’m using as my visual for Riley. Can’t wait to share part 2!

[darklordofthesimp]

Anything VII (König x Reader)

The 7th instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - 7 - Part 8

Like the characters? Read their fics below!

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary:  A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: I’ve already got the next chapter mapped out hee hee

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Unrequited Pining || Tension

Warning: Graphic Language

You’d barely slept, how could you?

Though you supposed that you should have been used to broken rest, this time it wasn’t for the usual reasons. There were no nightmares that clawed at your mind, no anger that made you sweat- but, there was paranoia. 

There was crippling anxiety that had you wanting to hide beneath the covers, there was fear that gripped you by the throat. The sensation of being stunned was overwhelming, your thoughts were scattered and your world was tipped upside down.

Everything that you believed, everything that you had come to terms with, it was all a lie. 

You risked a glance at the clock, groaning as you realised that you’d have to get up. It was a mission, more so than usual. Dragging your sorry ass from the safety of your sheets was proving difficult, but the knowledge that you’d have to go train with König made it all the more impossible. 

You took a deep breath in as you pulled your top over your head. It was different now, the lines were blurred and König might not be the enemy that you imagined him to be. If there was anyone that was going to help you unravel this with the same urgency that you felt, it was going to be him. 

He’d do anything to prove himself, anything to stay as a sniper.

He wanted to keep the life he’d stolen from you. 

Your stomach turned at the thought, the words weren’t sitting as right as they used to. The anger that occupied your chest with relentless heat has begun to cool as of late. If König was truly misinformed, it would mean that he really was just trying to do his job. 

It meant that he was paying the consequences for someone else's misdeeds. 

It meant that he was also a victim. 

A chill ran down your spine and the fire in your chest reignited. Maybe he was a victim, but he sure as fuck didn’t look like one- he didn’t look like you. 

You groaned as you stepped through your broken doorway, the reminder of how unhinged König could truly be was unwelcome as always. You thought that the Austrian kicking the door down would terrify you, it told you that you were never safe no matter where you locked yourself up. Instead, the fact that he’d done it to ensure your safety confused you. 

You mulled over it as you walked towards the gym, mindlessly stepping one foot in front of the other. 

A couple of minutes spent trying to decipher how you felt towards König felt like hours, any small bead of energy expended suddenly blew out to exhaustion. The man was an enigma who left you stranded in your own thoughts, flailing to find land.

“Good morning, Birdy.” 

You forced yourself not to flinch away from König’s voice as you stood deathly still in the doorway. The man offered you a small wave from inside the gym, his arm stretched over his head as he loosened his muscles. 

You didn’t want to gawk at him, honestly. It was just kind of hard not to. 

He was larger than life, something that would never fail to amaze you. The sheer size of him was one thing, but his presence took up the rest of the space in the room. The breath in your lungs dissipated into nothing as you took in his visage. 

“Good morning, König,” you managed to say softly. 

You both froze for a moment, the gentle return of his greeting had caught the pair of you off guard. You supposed that there had been a shift between the two of you over the past few weeks. 

But the way you felt about the man before you gave you whiplash.

Torn between hatred, fear, familiarity and comfort, you wished you could just chalk him down to a psychotic beast that wished you harm. 

But he wasn’t and he didn’t. 

The path your mind had begun to wander reminded you of the revelation you’d come to. 

König cleared his throat, slowly standing upright as if he didn’t want to shatter the fragile friendliness between you both. Finally, you stepped into the room, one heavy foot after the other and your heart in your throat. You wanted to break the silence between you before that unnamed tension could grow, feeding on the quiet and everything that went unsaid. 

“What did you have planned today?” You questioned with a raised brow, “anything torturous and terrifying?” 

The Austrian snorted softly through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest. The slight smirk that pulled his lips upward had your breath catching in your throat. He cast his eyes downward before flicking that jade gaze back up to meet yours.  

“Isn’t everything I do “torturous” and “terrifying” according to you?” König said, the playful tone was obvious but tentative.

You took a deep breath. He wasn’t diminishing the incident, he was finding some semblance of humour between the both of you. You swallowed the small drops of rage that threatened to open the floodgates. 

“No,” you said, pushing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. “That’s just you, I meant the training this time.” 

You watched the shift in König’s features, the way his shoulders relaxed and his eyes softened. The olive branch had been extended, received and the see-saw of emotions between you had finally tipped to fall on the opposite end. 

“Well,” König offered a small smile, “I promise that the training today will not be as scary as I am.” 

You tried to ignore the genuine relief that flooded through your chest, tried to maintain the easy-going air that had settled in the space between you. Despite your best efforts, anxiety threaded itself across your throat as you stepped closer to the looming figure before you. 

König slowly uncrossed his arms, sensing the shift in your attitude. It seemed like he always knew, even when you said nothing and your face didn’t change, he knew. Sometimes it irked you, but at times like these when he could read you and adjust, you appreciated it. 

“I promise,” he reiterated, that jade gaze as soft as ever. 

You took in a shaky breath, then released. “Okay.”

“Okay?” König repeated, taking a step toward you. 

“Okay.” 

And right there and then was the first time you’d seen him smile. 

It was brief, barely a flash of his teeth as he quickly regained control of himself, but it was enough. You knew that you’d never be able to dispel that image from your mind, you knew that you’d be thinking about it as you went through the never ending cycle of wondering whether you hated him or not. 

You knew that you’d want to see it again. 

A shiver ran along the length of your spine and an unfamiliar heat spread across your neck. You cleared your throat in an attempt to clear your thoughts. It might have been unsuccessful in that regard but it did get König to step into action.

“Right,” he said with a sigh, scanning the space around him. “The sooner we get started the sooner you can escape the torture.” 

Now it was your turn to snort as you took your sneakers off. “If only it were that easy.” 

König rolled his eyes, approaching you with slow and lazy steps that had your heart racing. You straightened up, letting him move closer until he was barely a breath away. The moment that you had both shared in the kitchen raced across your mind, the scene beginning to look dangerously similar- hopefully Graves wouldn’t appear around the corner to trigger your fight or flight reflex this time.  

“Can I help you?” You managed to choke out, dropping your gaze from his. 

“Uh, no.” There was mirth in his voice. The man took a step backward, his hands raised with his palms facing outward. “Are you not ready?” 

You tried to not look at the size of his fingers, you tried not to remember how they felt wrapped around your throat. 

“Ready?” You stammered. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact, frozen as you stared at those fucking hands. They’d done so much damage, so much. 

You tried not to remember. 

Saint had always told you to replace a negative interaction with a positive interaction whenever you’d begun to spiral. When you remembered how hard his eyes had been when you'd been on that roof, you tried to remember how soft they were when he spoke to you now. 

Your mind fell back to the moment in the kitchen. 

“I’m ready.” You nodded, taking in a deep breath as he moved in close again. The scent of him flooded your senses, the faint recollection of his deodorant, something sweet and woodsy. 

Those hands slowly lowered and you watched as they fell to rest on your forearms. 

You remembered them holding you down, pinning you to the concrete as the weight of him pressed into your stomach. But, you also remembered those same fingers holding you ever so softly as he inspected you for burns. 

You let loose a soft breath, forcing your gaze upward. He was already watching your face, his eyes scanning your features for any sign of serious distress. 

“Well,” König murmured, his words tasting of the caramel latte he’d been sipping on earlier. “You going to take me down or not, kleine vogel?” 

You raised a brow, “you don’t need to cuss me out, I’m getting there.” 

The man frowned for a short moment, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find the appropriate response. “I did not swear at you?” 

The sentence was more of a question than a statement and while he was stuck in his confusion, you saw opportunity. 

You swung your hands around the grip that he had on your forearms, digging your fingers into his skin instead. You dragged him towards you with a sudden jerk that took every ounce of strength that you had. 

For a moment, you were worried that the giant wouldn’t budge. However, his whole body fell forward as you dropped onto your back with him above you. Both your feet came up to rest on his pelvic bone, bracing as the entirety of his weight fell onto your legs. The momentum was your best friend with this movement, pulling his hands to your chest as you kicked him over your head. 

The sound of 300 pounds hitting the ground hard behind you had your heart soaring. Adrenaline was pumping through your system, propelling you to your feet as you spun to mount your victim. 

König’s face was contorted, teeth bared as he gritted them hard. His hands were above his shoulders, fists clenched and you could tell that you’d stunned him. 

Satisfaction flooded your being. 

You scrambled up the length of his body, pressing your weight onto him as you clenched your knees hard onto either side of his hips. Your hands came down to push against his wrists, pinning his body as best as you could. 

The silence between you both was only broken by the sounds of panting. König’s chest heaved beneath, shallow and quick breaths as his eyes slowly fluttered open to glare up at you. 

“That was rude,” he groaned. “Smart. But rude.” 

“Yeah, well,” you replied with a shrug, taking a moment to try and wet the dryness in your throat. “Fights are often unfair.” 

König’s eyes narrowed for a moment before conceding your point. “Yes. Yes, they are.” 

You’d seen the signs too late, the way his lips quirked upward before he ripped his hands from yours. You’d felt his fingers grip your waist but you were unable to react before the world tipped from beneath you. The floor met your back hard enough to banish the air from your chest and your body froze as you were spun right back into the disadvantage. 

A gasp ripped from your throat, eyes wide as you stared at the man now above you. His hair fell across his forehead, resting atop his lashes as he watched you through a hooded gaze. Neither of you said a word and you didn’t bother trying to fight him off. König made a show of slowly moving to grip your biceps, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against his forearms as he pressed you into the ground.

His body was tucked between your thighs, spreading your legs far enough apart that they were rendered useless from beneath him. You swallowed hard, struggling to catch your breath. 

“Very unfair,” he confirmed with a husky murmur. 

“It’s always unfair with you,” you rasped, your fingers gripping his skin tightly. “Always, König.”

König’s face fell, any trace of satisfaction turning into something akin to sorrow. He cast his gaze aside. 

“Perhaps,” he said. “ But, perhaps if you were prepared it wouldn’t have been so unfair.” 

You watched him carefully. 

“Wrong place, wrong time.” You whispered. 

König met your gaze again, observing you for a long moment before offering a hesitant nod. “Yes.” 

Maybe, this was your chance. This was the opportunity to talk to him about what you suspected, to hear his side of the story entirely. Maybe, if you could sift through the discrepancies between your stories and what his chain-of-command had told him, you could both unravel the mystery. 

Either someone was trying to kill you and used him as the weapon to do so or something bigger was at play. 

Maybe, both? 

“Speaking of,” you began shakily, your fingers nervously tapping against his skin. There was no real way to gently ease into the topic, you’d just have to drop the bomb. “Do you think that maybe the whole incident was a little too… convenient?” 

König fell completely still, his eyes baring into yours. 

You supposed that maybe you could have been a little more tactful. 

You swallowed nervously when his chest didn’t move to breathe, he was as still as a sniper watching for their target. He reminded you of a snake lying in wait, preparing to strike out at any given moment. Suddenly, you didn’t feel so confident that he was the one that you should have spoken to about it. 

The man said nothing and you’d begun to realise that he didn’t plan to. 

“I just mean that,” you scrambled for words, anxiety clawing at your throat when he only stared. “I just mean that maybe it wasn’t just an accident or a miscommunication, maybe they were using you as a way to get what they want.” 

König’s face didn’t change when he spoke. “And what would that be?” 

You hated how perfectly still he was. 

“To take me out.” You could barely spit out the sentence.

The mans grip tightened against your arms and the small amount of trust that you’d built between each other teetered on the edge of a proverbial cliff. Adrenaline dumped into your system when he took in a deep breath, clenching his jaw. His eyes never left yours, holding you captive not just physically but mentally. You were scrambling for air. 

“I think that you are overthinking,” he finally said, relaxing his grip and releasing the tension from his lungs. 

Your heart dropped. 

Overthinking? 

Why wouldn’t he want to investigate this further? It would exonerate him, it would relieve him of the guilt, it would make him innocent. 

“What?” You rasped, blinking as though it would clear your confusion. “How can you say that?” 

“Easily,” König said, sitting up. His demeanour was suddenly so cold. He let go of your arms, shooting you one last look before he attempted to stand up. “You’ve been through a traumatic event. Overthinking is normal.” 

Desperation clawed at your chest. Before you could stop yourself, you reached upward to snatch his hands. König’s fingers interlocked with yours and his eyes widened when you pulled him back toward you. Your hands were trapped between his and the floor once more, his face only a breath away. 

But you couldn’t even think about the proximity and, for once, you didn’t even care. 

How could he just dismiss you like that? 

How could he just try to leave without even hearing you out? 

“König,” you whispered pleadingly. “Please, just listen.” 

The man shook his head immediately, trying to pull his hands from your grip. You held on as tight as you can manage, his name falling from your lips over and over as you begged him to stay. You needed him to hear it, you needed him to help you. 

“Let go, Birdy,” his voice was firmer than you’d heard in months, the sound of it a shock to your system. How the tables had turned, this time you were not the one trying to escape. Regardless, you disobeyed, only tightening your hold on him. 

“Just tell me what happened, maybe we can work it out,” the words sounded desperate, even to you. You sounded like a lover pleading for a second chance to make the relationship work. You sounded like you were holding to your last tether of sanity. You sounded crazy. 

König’s face was hard when he tugged back again. “We already know what happened, Birdy.” 

“Listen to me-” 

“Let it go, Birdy.” 

“But if you just-” 

“Enough!” 

You recoiled, flinching as he yanked his hands from yours, breaking your grip as easily as tearing a cobweb. König’s fingers wrapped around your biceps, pushing you back against the floor, restraining you from getting a steady hold on him.

The man leaned down, jade eyes alight with something you’d never seen. He burned, the thunderous expression painted across his features warned you that his blood was simmering beneath his skin. 

“Enough,” König seethed, his voice dangerously quiet. 

Fear trickled down your spine. 

Your heart dropped. 

As you watched the Austrian soldier lean over you with a ferocity that rivalled that godforsaken night, you realised that in your desperation you had been so stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid. 

König wasn’t going to help you. 

König was in on it.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Just curious on your opinion on this: Do you think twst's writing in terms of storyline/plot and overall characterisation of the characters has gotten better or changed in any way over the years? Or would you say it's stayed relatively the same? Or maybe varied?

***Disclaimer: Everything I say in this post is just my opinion and is NOT me imposing my views onto you or insisting that my views are superior. Nor in no way, shape, or form am I demeaning those who enjoy the things I did not or did not enjoy the things that I did. Me not personally liking certain books or events is also NOT me dismissing any characters’ experiences or trauma.

Let’s remember to remain respectful.***

<_<

>_>

*leans into the mic*

Look, I love Twst and all, but I also think that Twst's writing quality has proven to be pretty inconsistent and is actually painfully mediocre most of the time.

When I sit down and really think about it, the main story has 3 books I actively dislike. That's basically half of the main story, seeing as book 7 is so darn long just by itself. Even if I minimize my own bias, there are just objectively bad narrative decisions made in many places, such as setting things up and not letting them get proper payoff later, obvious plot holes, or going for 100+ parts without allowing two major characters in the book to appear.

(I go into more detail about how I personally rank the books here. Here is also a graphical depiction of that ranking yes, I am breaking out the charts:)

Book 7 was especially egregious… It has its monstrous length as well as the tonal whiplash, inconsistent pacing, lack of urgency, and overexplanation of the dreams that take up a good 2/3 of the book. So much was happening and yet so little also happened.

(Here’s how I feel about the major story points in 7:)

In terms of events, I'd say they improved how they're organized over time. In the very early events, Twst failed to separate stories into Episodes like they do now, meaning you'd just get one long stream of story (ex: Beans Day II is 39 parts) instead of it being broken up into more easy-to-digest chunks (ex: GloMasq has 5 Episodes, each ranging from 15-19 parts). Hometown events also took on a predictable formula, with Episode 1 being the set-up to venture elsewhere, Episodes in the middle dedicated to exploring the area, and then Episode 5 having the crew resolve some minor issue. However, this doesn't always mean the pacing of events is good. For example, Stage in Playful Land Episode 3 has a paltry 11 parts whereas Episode 2 has 21, which is almost DOUBLE the length of Episode 3.

Many events have nothing of real importance or excitement happening (Tsumsted Wonderland, Lost in the Books, Master Chefs/Culinary Crucibles, Sam's New Year Sales, etc.) or mainly involve eating food and souvenir shopping (looking at you, hometowns). The events that are good do something unique and does it well (or at least is funny) OR actually advances a character's development/growth. Because so many Twst events are middle-of-the-road, it makes the few solidly written events (like Glorious Masquerade) stand out. We remember these solid instances more strongly as a result, which then projects over the other events (which were mid) and boosts them in our minds.

(Here’s where the events stand relative to one another:)

Vignettes have more liberty with character writing because most of them are not canon to the main story. Sometimes characters regress into their old ways (Epel going back to his pre-book 5 personality is pretty guilty of this), but that's usually fine since I treat vignettes as essentially "what ifs" or transitive periods of growth between major story beats. I like that vignettes are oftentimes very mundane and can take their time to explore the unique relationships and dynamics between the boys. It often feels like so much other stuff is happening that we don't get to slow down and just... enjoy the boys as they are.

Looking at the overall trend lines, it unfortunately looks like Twst is, as I suspected, hovering around the “could be better” to “okay” range in most cases. When Twst does well, it’s great. (To this day, I still believe GloMasq was peak for Twst and no event since had topped it.) When Twst fumbles, it fumbles HARD. (Playful Land and book 2 infamously have many plot holes.) But when Twst is mid, it’s… well, absolutely unremarkable 😭

I think the issue for me is that Twst tries to be ambitious with its stories but has limited success in executing those stories. Maybe it’s the fault of limited budget or assets (as a mobile title and not a console title), maybe the writers just aren’t that skilled, maybe it’s a time constraint or not a lot of research done, whatever.

[whitefoxfiction]

Part 2 of Grimmjow and the Cookie Thief (ask from @kryptoniteforsale !)

Thanks to the wonderful @villainsrtasty for beta reading!

PART ONE HERE! (This won't make a ton of sense without reading part 1 first!) @cloudyempress @darthwhorecrux @whatshernameis @writemessybleach

CW: Female!Reader, Grimmjow being Grimmjow, marking/hickies, one or two bites, hand on neck but no actual choking, very light spanking, oral sex-male receiving, vaginal fingering, doggy and missionary sex, cream pie, "claiming" if you squint, pet names (princess/kitten) and one instance of reader getting called "good girl". (This covers both parts of the fic!)

Grimmjow and the Cookie Thief pt 2 (~4.2k words)

“Please?” You pasted on a doe-eyed expression. “I promise I’ll be good,” you added in a sugary whisper, leaving it open to interpretation whether you were referring to behaving well… or performing well.

Grimmjow snorted. “I bet you will.” He let go of your foot and shucked his jacket, then lowered his zipper until the belts he always wore got in his way. Still leaning over you, he made quick work of unfastening the buckles before letting them drop to the floor and kicking them aside. You watched, mesmerized by flexing biceps and rippling abs. You were so absorbed by the tantalizing display, so close to your reach, that you didn’t so much as wiggle when he let go of your wrists long enough to switch hands as he shouldered out of the top part of his body suit.

Faster than you could blink, Grimmjow yanked you up off the bed by your arms. As soon as your feet were under you, he stopped pulling and let physics do the rest, standing there like a brick fucking wall as you collided with his bare chest, a surprised ‘Oof!’ forced from your lungs by the impact. It only took a split second for you to recover, immediately putting your freed hands on as much of Grimmjow’s skin as possible. Grimmjow’s body was warm. Very warm. And very solid. You moaned softly as his muscles flexed beneath your fingers, earning you a self-satisfied chuckle. He didn’t chuckle for long, however. “Fuckin’ hell,” he hissed as you leaned in and flicked his nipple with the tip of your tongue. Grimmjow tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck and tugged your head back so that you had no choice but to look up at him. His bright blue eyes were a few shades darker, his pupils round and dark signaling just how much he truly wanted this encounter. The predatory look he was giving you sent a thrill through you, that little edge of fear sending a wave of heat straight to your core. You shivered even as you pressed your thighs together, fidgeting under his scrutiny. “Fuck you’re noisy. You want that boss of yours to hear?” Grimmjow leered down at you, a crooked grin turning up one corner of his mouth. Your eyes widened as the thought sunk in. You had no doubt in your mind that Urahara was somehow listening to everything. “Son-of-a bit—“ “Tch! Noisy!” Grimmjow didn’t give you a chance to finish your thought, cutting off your words as his mouth crashed into yours, his tongue pushing between your lips the moment you let out a gasp of surprise. He kissed like he did everything else, as if he had something to prove, and he knew he was going to prove it. That wasn’t unexpected, but the way he went from fisting your hair so hard that it bordered on pain to cradling the back of your head was giving you emotional whiplash. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you began to wonder if he had thoughts about you that extended beyond a good lay. Your thoughts were interrupted by a large hand clamping down on your shoulder. Just as quickly as Grimmjow initiated the kiss, he broke away and gave your shoulder a shove, quite literally bringing you to your knees. “Ow!” you hissed, half leaning down to rub a knee before Grimmjow’s grip on your hair brought you up short. “You coulda just asked, you kno— Oh…”

You looked up just as Grimmjow lowered his zipper the last few inches, watching his cock spring free from its confines. Swallowing hard, your eyes fastened on the utter masterpiece before you. It certainly was a striking specimen, slightly curved, a good length, and thick with two prominent veins down the sides that vaguely reminded you of the markings below his eyes. Your gaze finally flickered to his face. He looked quite proud of himself for eliciting such a reaction from you. “Heh. That shut you up, didnnit.” Grimmjow leered down at you, but he couldn’t quite hide the hint of disbelief in his eyes; you were actually going to follow through with this! Not that he’d ever admit doubting it, of course.

“Bet I can keep ya quite a little bit longer before I make you get so loud the neighbors will hear,” he taunted. You arched a brow at Grimmjow. Then without warning, you curled a hand around the bottom of his cock, dropping your head and wrapping your lips around it before he had a chance to say another smug-ass word. The gasp he almost choked back was just what you were hoping for, and you grinned around a mouthful of his dick as you went down on him. Grinning didn’t last, quickly turning into a quiet moan when Grimmjow’s fingers pulled at your hair again. He didn’t do more than that, letting you work him over as you pleased for the moment, and you were determined to make it an experience he’d never forget. You teased the head of his cock. Pressing in with the tip of your tongue and lapping up the precum beading in his small slit, salty and just slightly bitter. You whined softly, the sensation drawing a grunt from the arrancar as he bit back another goan. This only spurred you on, fueling your determination to make Grimmjow lose his composure. You moved from teasing to taking in more of his length, moving your hand in tandem with the torturously slow bobbing of your head. “Fuck!” Grimmjow swore between clenched teeth, stroking your ego just like your hand was stroking the girthy base of his cock. You moaned, a low sound coming from deep in your chest that was designed to make what you were doing that much more intense. You looked up at him from beneath your lashes as his hips jerked. His fist tightened in the back of your hair, and you could see that he was losing patience. Good. This was right where you wanted him. You pulled off his cock with a wet pop, just long enough to flash him a sultry smile before taking in as much of him as you could, gagging slightly as the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. “Fuuuck!” Grimmjow groaned, the volume of his swearing increasing. He didn’t even bother trying to hold back the loud grunt that followed when looked down to see you gazing up at him, your pupils blown as wide as his were and your lips wrapped around the base of his shaft. It was obvious that you were enjoying going down on him as much as he was enjoying being on the receiving end. Well, if you were capable of that… Grimmjow went from simply fisting your hair and holding your head in place to rocking into your mouth. He went shallowly at first to see what you could handle, but before long, he was flexing his hips in short, snapping thrusts that had tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Your fingers dug into the chorded muscles of his hamstrings even as you forced your jaw to relax. You well and truly let him fuck your face until the blowjob turned sloppy, trickles of drool dripping from your chin and his balls. Even so, Grimmjow’s finely tuned instincts had him reading you like a book the entire time, knowing when you needed a breath and never pushing you beyond what you could tolerate. It was perfect.

“Shit! Not yet,” he barked suddenly. Grimmjow pulled away from you, still holding you in place by the hair as he stepped back.

The next thing you knew, you were being bodily hauled to your feet and spun around to face away from him. Grimmjow yanked what was left of your shirt off of your back and gave you a shove, sending you face first into your mattress before you could catch yourself. You pushed yourself half way up onto your forearms, spitting out a mouthful of cloth, but that was as far as you got before a large, warm hand pressed down between your shoulder blades sending a shiver that ran like frost-fire down your spine He pushed you right back down until your cheek was resting on the sheets, and your back was arched like a ski slope. Grimmjow stepped up behind you and leaned over your back, his skin brushing against yours as he shifted from foot to foot. The rustling of fabric and the ribbon of black that arced through your peripheral vision confirmed what you suspected, and you tried to bend your neck far enough to get a peek at what Grimmjow now had on full display. Grimmjow, bastard that he was, side-stepped your line of sight with a snicker. You were about to protest when his other hand came down across your bare butt cheek with a sharp crack. “Ow!” you yelped, more from shock than anything. It was a glancing blow designed more for the sound and the reaction than anything. Grimmjow chuckled darkly, palming your ass where the blow had landed. This made you forget all about your flash of indignation as your eyelids slid shut with a hum of enjoyment. You bit your lip as Grimmjow’s large, strong hands slid up the backs of your thighs and over your ass before he gripped your hips with an answering hum of approval that made butterflies take wing in your stomach, very naughty butterflies that carried their embers of desire straight south before dissipating. “Up on those knees, princess,” he murmured, sounding distracted, but giving you some sort of warning for once before pulling you off of your feet by the hips and jostling your body forward until your knees were up on the edge of the bed. “Fucking hell!” “Oh, fuck!” The words came out in stereo as Grimmjow got a good look at your soaking pussy and you registered the reality that this was actually about to happen.

“Goddamn, woman,” Grimmjow drawled, caressing your thighs again and nudging your legs a little further apart before returning his hands to your backside. He let out a low whistle as he spread your cheeks apart for a better view. “You gotta change clothes every time you watch me spar, or you just walk around the shop like this all afternoon?” You looked back over your shoulder to see him leering at you with that trademark arrogant smirk. You tried to glare at him, but your eyes drifted south instead, taking in his flexing biceps and rippling abs on the way down. Hell, you couldn’t even be mad, not while you were staring at his cock, watching it bob as Grimmjow restlessly shifted his weight. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you finally muttered, the comeback missing all of the necessary snark. You swallowed hard and pressed your teeth into your bottom lip again. “I’ll take that as a standing invitation, princess,” he said smoothly. Without missing a beat, he brought his hand down for another loud smack that reddened your ass, emphasizing that his remark wasn’t just teasing. And just in case you were in doubt, a second slap across the other cheek left a matching bloom of color in the shape of his hand. The sting was working its own magic, sending sparks of arousal along your nerves, but it was the way he was looking at you with raw, unbridled desire that was producing the empty ache just above your thighs. “Gods, Grimmjow! Just… get on with it!” Your demand sounded a lot more like a desperate whine than you would have liked, and Grimmjow smirked, kneading your ass before giving it a couple of more smacks for good measure. “What’s that princess? You want somethin’ from me?” he chuckled. “I think maybe your forgetting who’s in charge here.” He pressed a hand against the back of your hips and ran it up your spine, forcing your back into a steeper arch before his fingers closed around the back of your neck, holding you in that position. You could only cut your eyes to the side to see his face as he leaned over you slightly. There it was, that edge of danger, the reminder that this wasn’t your average human man; this was an arrancar with the power to snap your neck with a flick of his wrist. But for some insane reason, that just made the whole thing hotter.

Grimmjow licked his lips, fighting the urge to have you right that minute. You always had a fire in your eyes that he liked with enough fight in you to make your current position of submission that much more attractive, but what was driving him completely mad was that there was absolutely no fear in your eyes. To the contrary, you were not only willing but from the way your legs tensed up and your hips twitched, his dominance had you well beyond turned on. He wasn’t sure when the notion of caring anything about a pathetic human even entered his thoughts, but he made up his mind in that moment that you were his, and as far as Grimmjow was concerned, that was that. Your input was not required. Your heart hammered in your chest as you watched him from the corner of your eye, the smirk dropping off of his face, replaced by a smoldering look of possession that had your walls clenching around nothing. You whined, your hips shifting in a pathetic display of neediness that had you flushed from both embarrassment and arousal. His grip loosened, his thumb pressing little circles into the side of your neck in a gesture that was both commanding and oddly affectionate. You didn’t have time to contemplate this before Grimmjow roughly cupped your sex, the heel of his hand jammed against the sensitive flesh just above your entrance. He pulled his hand back slowly, pressing a finger between your dripping folds with a low growl and circling your twitching hole with a calloused finger tip once, twice, before it was gliding up to circle your clit in torturously slow circles. You whined again, pushing your hips back, well beyond giving a damn about how desperate it made you look.

Grimmjow’s intention had been to tease you until he made you beg, but the way you were already begging with your body had worn his patience to the breaking point, and his last thread of restraint snapped. “Ssshit!” Grimmjow hissed as he plunged two fingers into your sopping cunt up to the second knuckle, your supple walls gripping his digits tightly. “Oohhh! Fuck yes!” you moaned, the sense of relief you felt palpable as he wasted no time pumping his fingers in and out of you. “Hmmm. Like that, do ya kitten?” You could feel Grimmjow’s warm breath on your back. His grip on your neck tightened as he leaned in to lick a hot stripe up your spine before nipping at the back of your shoulder. “Bet I’ll have you cumming on my fingers in less than a minute,” he whispered before letting go of your neck and straightening back up. “Now be a good girl and stay just like that.” You had no complaints about Grimmjow’s directive, and even if you did they would’ve been lost in a loud, sighing moan as his hand skimmed your ribs on its way to grab your breast, squeezing it firmly and pinching the tight peak between his thumb and forefinger. He never stopped pistoning his fingers into your pussy, sloppy sucking sounds mixing with your moans and his low growls as you shamelessly bucked your hips back against his hand. Grimmjow twisted his wrist and curled his fingers, searching for the softer part of your walls, the spot that turned your moans to whimpers and mumbled swearing. He had no trouble finding it, and you buried your face into the blanket to muffle the noise as his calloused digits pressed into it unerringly. You practically had a knot of blanket shoved between your teeth by the time you felt his thumb glide up through your slick to give your clit some teasing flicks. He gave a last hard tweak to your nipple, then pulled his hand back to land another slap squarely in the middle of one ass cheek so that the blow crossed the line into real pain before the sensation dissolved into pleasure. Your head popped up, the need to be quiet forgotten as you practically squealed his name. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I like to hear from my woman,” Grimmjow responded with a dark, breathy chuckle before muttering a few curses of his own.

He massaged the sting out of your backside, the sensation a delicious juxtaposition to the way he was rolling your clit hard under his thumb every time he plunged his fingers back into you. Each jab against your sweet spot was blissful torture that made your legs tremble and fed the heat pooling low in your belly. You let your head drop back to the mattress with a low groan, but Grimmjow had other ideas, pulling your head right back up by a fistful of hair. “Shit! Grimmjow, I—“ Whatever you were going to say was choked off with a strangled cry, your back arching so steeply that you thought it might break as you were shoved off an orgasmic cliff. Grimmjow’s hand didn’t still, continuing to work your pussy as it fluttered around his digits, the wet squelching noises only getting wetter and louder the more your juices trickled out around his fingers. As you started coming down from your high, you tried to squirm away from his hand, only to be met with another stinging slap to your ass before he dug his fingers into the fleshy side of your hip. “Where ya think you’re goin’ woman? I ain’t done yet,” he growled, but he did pull his hand away, giving your over sensitized clit a small reprieve. Very small.

You turned your head at the loud slurping sound just in time to see Grimmjow finish licking his fingers clean with a lazy smirk. A little moan wandered up from your throat and across the room as you tried to push yourself up on one elbow until you were halted by his hand returning to the back of your neck. You immediately stilled, realizing by now that putting up a fight would probably just get you a new round of teasing that you weren’t quite up for yet. There was a feral light in Grimmjow’s eyes that made a shiver run the length of your spine as he stepped up behind you, fisting his cock. He dragged the flushed tip through your slick and used it to nudge your swollen clit flashing a toothy grin at your whimper. “You sure about this, princess?” He gave your clit a couple of taps with the head of his dick before lining himself up with your twitching hole, affecting utter confidence in your answer. Despite his teasing and self-assured attitude, his half-lidded eyes and fingers nervously flexing against your neck gave him away; he wanted this, badly, and a part of him was worried that you’d lose your nerve. “Oh, Gods! Grimmjow!” His name stretched out into a plaintive moan. “Just pu—“ “Good,” he said, letting go of your neck to grab you by both hips and burying himself in your tight channel to the hilt with one quick snap of his hips.

Your eyes went wide, and you inhaled sharply as Grimmjow speared you on his cock, the stinging stretch making your eyes water. Your pussy clamped down on him as if protesting the sudden invasion and welcoming it at the same time. Grimmjow was blessedly still for a moment, his iron grip on your hips holding you in place as he let his head tip back with a low groan. Grimmjow had to take a moment to collect himself. It’d been a hot minute since he’d bothered with getting laid, so he knew you’d feel good, but he hadn’t expected you to feel this good. Yeah. There was definitely no way he was going to let some dumb-fuck, human man-child that probably couldn’t make you cum twice —if that—have you after this. Ever. And what you had to say about it be damned.

He didn’t hesitate for long before he started to move, steadily snapping his hips to drive into you deep and hard. There was no warming you up or easing you into it; he was all business from the word go. And so were you, it seemed, because you were already up on your elbows, back arched like a stretching cat. It wasn’t long before your fingers were twisting the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, something to give you leverage as you pushed your hips back to meet his. Not to be out done, Grimmjow propped one foot up on the edge of the bed next to yours and reached up to grab the top of your shoulder to keep from pounding you to the other side of the mattress with the increasing force of his thrusts. You could feel another orgasm building, coiling tightly low in your belly like a snake about to strike. Every time his hips met your ass, you got that much closer, your moans almost non-stop.

Then, Grimmjow suddenly pulled out. Your head whipped around like it was on a swivel, words of shocked protest on the tip of your tongue as you glared daggers. “Over!” he barked. “Hey! Why… What?” “I said turn over, woman!” Grimmjow didn’t have the patience to wait for your brain to catch up, and you went from looking at him over your shoulder to looking straight up into his wild blue eyes without quite knowing how it happened. Just as quickly, your leg was thrown up over his shoulder and he was sinking back into your hungry cunt, drawing twin groans of pleasure from you both. His already messy blue hair was even more disheveled, and a sheen of sweat covered his rippling muscles, which you could now see in full. Little mewls and panting moans were driven from your lungs with every savage thrust, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise as he held you still. Meanwhile, his eyes were glued to your tits, watching them sway each time he drove home. “Fuck you’re tight, princess,” Grimmjow ground out, teeth bared with the same look of intense focus he wore in a fight. His hand moved from your hip to your throat, his strong fingers curling just below your chin, a silent reminder that you were at his mercy. He groaned audibly as he felt your breath hitch under his palm, spurring him on. Removing his hand from your neck just long enough to hook his arm under your other knee, his solid frame leaning into the backs of your thighs. The way your hips bucked and your back arched didn’t escape his notice, and he plunged into you relentlessly, hitting your sweet spot with each stroke. “How ya like it, Kitten?” he growled, thumb caressing the base of your throat as he picked up the pace. “I’mma ruin that tight little pussy ‘til ya can’t even think about another guy.” “Oh my god! Grimmjow!” You let your head fall back against the pillow, the sound of skin slapping skin, his abuse of your G-spot, and those possessive words combining to elicit a long, ragged moan. “Oh my fuck! It’s so...fuckin’ good! So. so. so. Fuckin’. gooood!” You were babbling now. You knew you were, and some part of your mind knew you’d be getting teased about it later, but you lacked the ability to do fuck all about it because every muscle in your body felt drawn so tight that you thought you might shatter. Clutching at Grimmjow’s shoulders, you tried frantically to ground yourself even as he turned you into an incoherent, writhing mess. He leaned down to nip at your jaw practically folding you in two, and something in you snapped. All higher order thinking came to a shrieking halt, and you raked eight red scratches from his shoulders to waist provoking a deep, resonating growl.

Grimmjow’s back arched under your hands as you clawed him again, driving his hips forward until the head of his cock was kissing your cervix. This was a new experience that had your toes curling and pussy clenching until you could feel every hard inch of him dragging your walls with primal clarity. Grimmjow grunted when you tightened around him as all control threatened to escape his grasp.

“Yeah… That’s it princess,” he panted, planting his hands to either side of you and forcing your knees closer to your ears. “Ain’t stoppin’ ‘til ya cum all over my cock. Even if ya pass out.” he rasped. His words were punctuated by a series of brutal thrusts that made the bed frame groan just as loudly as you did.

Grimmjow’s words penetrated your cock-drunk daze, and your eyes rolled back, lids drifting shut as he went from railing you into the mattress to rutting into you with long, deep strokes. Your own hips flexed on instinct, rising to meet his as he ground down against your tender clit with each forceful roll of his hips. He pressed his thumb into the soft underside of your jaw, tilting your head to the side to expose the full arch of your throat, then shoved his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply before sinking his teeth into your shoulder there with a feral snarl.

Your eyes flew open with a strangled yelp that quickly turned into desperate whine as his tongue laved the purpling mark before he moved on to crashing his lips into yours in a possessive kiss. You could taste the faint metallic tang of blood as his tongue swept into your mouth, and the thought that Grimmjow had just done some sort of crazy ‘marking and claiming’ thing like you read about in your favorite smut novels was more than enough. You sunk your fingers into the back of his hair, tugging hard as every muscle in your body locked in place for a moment, clamping down on Grimmjow’s cock like a vice before the tension dissolved into boneless limbs and rhythmically pulsating walls.

Grimmjow swallowed your gasps and whines, grinding his hips against yours until you yanked his head back as you came with a stuttering moan. “FUCK!” he grunted as your cunt squeezed and rippled around him. A few more sloppy thrusts, then he slammed into you, his weight pinning you to the bed as he filled you with rope after rope of hot cum. You laid under him, arms limp on the bed and trembling legs flanking Grimmjow’s body as you struggled to catch your breath. After a few moments, you stretched experimentally, hissing at the ache in your hips and back. Grimmjow propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at you, his gaze drawn to the ring of purple on your shoulder. “Heh. Sorry ‘bout that, princess.” The shit-eating grin on his face told you he wasn’t a bit sorry, and he might even be planning to do it again. The look you were giving Grimmjow said you’d let him. Grimmjow carefully rolled onto his side, surprising you by pulling your back against his chest, tucking his knees behind yours and dropping a possessive arm across your waist. “Grimmjow?” You looked back at him over your shoulder, not quite sure what you were even trying to ask. “Rest up, princess. It’s a long time ‘til daybreak, and I still haven’t gotten to eat my cookie yet.”