#if he had time to think before going to hell

[anjelia3]

"Buffy? What's going on? Where are we? I- I don't remember."

[jaysbaefie]

bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama—but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was:     •    you lived in seoul     •    you were 21     •    you drank too much iced americano     •    and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock  rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release.  your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut.  you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[lacedwithsuguru]

❦ pt. five — pt. four here

it’s been three months since you’ve last spoken to your olderbrothersbestfriend!sukuna.

it didn’t take long for you to get over him and his confusion. you knew you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life and truthfully, you’ve felt a hell of a lot more free.

his reputation that you’d always been aware of held true—sukuna was a dick and he spent his free-time inside way too many girls. see, if you had pursued that, who’s to tell that you wouldn’t contract some sort of std had you gone a step further with him? you were frankly better off.

but, there was something a little off about him, something off about his character. sukuna was a guy who enjoyed taking up space, never one to apologize for it. yet, maybe it was out of respect for you, or maybe it was sukuna just being petty out of spite—but he has been going to so much trouble to avoid you.

he doesn’t spend the night at your place at all anymore, having your brother meet him at his apartment instead. your brother didn’t seem too shocked at the change, nor did he bring it up to you, so obviously sukuna has kept his mouth shut about your previous interactions.

the reason for that was obvious. the jerk didn't want his head on a spit.

anytime you’d see him in passing, his eyes would flicker to you and he would make himself scarce.

you weren’t complaining, though. ever since, you’d been enjoying your peace. but a part of you enjoyed seeing him the slightest bit uneasy around you.

everytime you saw him, his eyes would always widen slightly before returning to his unreadable, flat expression. just a sliver of recognition and worry that never went unnoticed by you. you had to stop your lip from quirking into a mocking grin.

“c’monnnnn,” shoko drawled out, tugging your limbs from your bed. you sighed, pulling your sheet up and over your head in an attempt to hermit yourself from her.

“i’m not going,” you whined, gripping the fabric and drawing it back to drape yourself.

“so what if he’s there? it’s not like a third of the campus won’t be in attendance,” she insisted, dragging her hands over her face.

you scrunched your brows, turning back at her and scowling. “that’s not my issue, sho.”

“oh really?” she quirked, unimpressed as she crossed her arms. “humor me, then. what exactly is stopping you from going?”

your mood soured immediately.

shoko was attempting to convince you to attend this nights frat party—hosted by one of the most well-known frats on campus. a frat that sukuna used to be a part of before he opted for his own apartment, yet he was still in good graces with everyone there.

practically assuring his attendance tonight.

“leave me alone,” you grumbled, stuffing your face in your pillow.

“i’ll be damned if i’m leaving you alone in your apartment while everyone’s celebrating the end to that hellish mid-terms week. plus, i can phone my emergency.”

slowly, you rose from your bed and met her gaze with a hardened, annoyed stare. “emergency? really? FOR THIS?”

the two of you had a couple emergency options you had stored away where you could force one another to do what the other wanted as long as it was manageable. of course, this was more than manageable as it was just a party but the thought of it truly made your blood simmer.

and now here you were, sporting a brown babydoll tank and white jean shorts with your hair neatly done, standing outside the frat. it’d been quite some time since you’ve gone out as you’d been cramming since the semester started with a heavy workload.

a part of you thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to let go tonight. you deserved this. and so what if you ran into sukun-. no. you weren’t going to think about him tonight. you might not even see him tonight so why worry yourself?

an arm slung across your shoulder, squeezing your bicep. you peered up to see utahime grinning at you.

“i am SO ready to get incredibly drunk,” she giggled, to which her girlfriend ruffled her hair.

“and i am so ready to take care of you,” shoko whispered, kissing utahime’s cheek.

“get a room,” you groaned, rolling your shoulders and tossing them a teasing frown. they only chuckled and headed up the steps.

the fallen leaves and grass crunched under your sneakers as you padded up the stone stairs and shuffled past a couple people into the bustling brick beauty.

defeaning trap music filled your ears with the smell of sweat and booze. a keg was set up beside the stairs, a jock doing a handstand with the hose in his mouth as some drunk students chanted “chug chug chug” and he coolly complied.

you scoffed, somewhat impressed, as you turned away and watched shoko and utahime shove their way into a pool game.

“over here!” yelled utahime, beckoning you with a wave of her hand.

you dismissed it, cupping your mouth to shout back at her. “lemme get a drink first!”

she nodded and focused on her girlfriend who was already not-so-subtly pinning her from behind to guide her movements with the stick, an obvious blush painting the shorter girls cheeks.

your phone vibrated as you manuvered your way towards the kitchen, pulling it out from your back pocket, the screen illuminating your face.

it was your brother, asking if you were attending the party. you furrowed your brows and typed back a reply to let him know you were already there and his name popped up on your screen, an incoming phone call.

confusion painted your expression as you accepted the call brought the device to your ear. “what’s up?” you spoke, doing your best to speak straight into the speaker.

you had to plug your other ear to even pick up on what he was saying. he explained to you that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the party since he was stuck at work and you asked why that was exactly your issue. he scoffed and told you that he was supposed to watch over sukuna for the night because he was worried for him.

the mention of his name brought a bitter taste to your mouth. “why’re you worried about him?” you poked, doing the best to mask your irritation.

“he’s been off these past couple of months. getting insanely drunk and sleeping on the street.” your brother replied.

not like that’s something he isn’t used to, you thought, but bit your tongue for the sake of peace.

“alright, and what do i have to do with this?” you asked, though you had some semblance of an idea as to where this was going.

“need you to check up on him, make sure he gets home safe.”

after gritting your teeth and wrapping up the phone call, you hung up and slid your phone back into your pocket. you’d be an asshole, not as bad as sukuna, but an asshole regardless to ignore your brothers request.

especially since it was coming from a good place.

you weren’t doing this out of the good of your own heart. that part was caged away from sukuna a while back and you knew it.

it was only for your brother who couldn’t make it down and watch after his sleazy best friend.

speaking of, what is up with sukuna? getting drunk to the point he couldn’t get back to his apartment? that sounded incredibly out of character for him.

the prospect of him going through something flickered in your mind, but you quickly shook it off. why should you even care in the first place?

one job tonight. babysit the one and only ryomen sukuna.

you stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning your surroundings and making note that he wasn’t there. you nodded briskly, grabbing a plastic solo cup and ladling some of the punch in before taking a swig.

spiked. of course it is.

you set the full cup down, knowing you needed to be clear-minded tonight despite your want of getting insanely intoxicated, but that was a complaint to your brother for another time.

slipping past the drunk bodies jumping up and down, you strode past the pool table to see utahime and shoko making out against a nearby wall. they barely lasted a round before they got all over each other.

tapping the brunettes shoulder, she turned around and smiled, looking already somewhat drunk.

“what happened to being designated driver?” you questioned, a grin on your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“oh, i’m sober. s’my girlfriend that’s got me like this,” she beamed, leaning down to peck another kiss on utahimes lips. the purple-haired girl pushed her girlfriend back, frowning.

“she’s drunk,” utahime replied flatly, though there was a lilt of humor as she scanned shoko’s face. “looks like im in charge.”

“ah, well. you two have fun. use protection. i’ll be heading out early, i’m on babysitting duty,” you spoke sarcastically, waving your hands in annoyance.

shokos brows furrowed, resting her head atop utahimes. “babysitting…?”

“i’ll tell you tomorrow. text me when you guys are leaving, alright?”

the two girls exchanged a glance, before nodding. “and you better text us when you get back home!” utahime has always been one for mom duty.

a tired smile made its way to your face before you left them to their bubble of privacy.

making your way past the crowd of drunken, sweaty bodies wearing way too many neon accessories while sober was a feat you should be applauded for. truly, parties were murky when you weren’t intoxicated so the frustration bubbling beneath your skin only intensified as time went on.

your eyes continued to scan the sea of revelers, coming up fruitless each time you couldn’t spot sukuna.

shoko wasn’t kidding. a third of the campus must’ve made their way here by now. you checked the time and it was nearing midnight, meaning that this crowd wasn’t going to be dying down anytime soon.

padding over to the living room, you pushed a couple that was all over each other out of your way before stepping in.

with wide orbs darting across the room, you spotted a familiar mess of salmon-colored hair.

an incredulous laugh left your lips.

there he was. in all his glory. making out with a girl you somewhat recognized. her name was hana, a cheerleader and sister of a well-known sorority on campus.

his grey sweats were manspread as she straddled him, cupping his cheeks and practically shoving her tongue down his throat.

the burly man’s hands were nothing short of scandalous, groping the flesh of her ass as she grinded down onto him.

“‘needs help,’ my ass,” you bit through teeth clamped, turning on your heel. your anger was at an all-time high, a feeling that’s been absent to you for months now.

but before you could exit the area, you heard a loud slap! echo, the room drawing quiet.

“disgusting asshole!” a girl cried out, and you swung your head in that direction.

hana, who was just making out with sukuna, was pushing off of him, grabbing her things and storming in your direction. she stopped beside you, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving. “go get your man,” she whispered angrily, before stomping out.

the entire room stilled, eyes darting between the door and sukuna, obviously missing hana's last comment.

the main offender was still on the couch, hunched over with his head in his hands, nearly ripping the hair from his scalp.

this was your chance. you could escape and let your brother know that he was perfectly fine.

but no.

luck wasn't in your cards. when was it ever? because the man in question tossed his head back in annoyance, exhaustion coiled in his face, and making eye contact with you.

the two of you stilled in an awkward and heated stare, acknowledging each other's presence.

you averted your gaze after a few excruciating seconds, settling it on a potted plant to your side. your fidgeted with your fingernails, a show of your obvious nerves.

should you make a break for it now? or would that be weird seeing as you would basically be running from him. no... you can't do that. but your only other option was actually going up to him and making conversation. about what? that was completely unbeknownst to you.

"hey," sukuna called out, peering over you as you spun to meet his gaze. he had dark bags beneath his eyes, his hair somewhat unkempt but didn't diminish his looks.

there was a flush along his cheeks and the crown of his ears were tinged a heated red. he was probably somewhat drunk. he took a step towards you and you unconsciously shuffled backwards, his eyes darting to your footwork and stilling.

fumbling with the hem of your top, you pursed your lips. "hi."

the high-strung tension between the two of you was damn near suffocating but you didn't know how to cut it.

to your rescue, sukuna rubbed the nape of his neck with his palm and sighed. "you heard that," he said, without the inquisitive nature and more like a fact.

"kinda hard to miss," you teased, tilting your head and scanning him. he was sporting a black wife-beater, decorative stripes of ink sprawled across his biceps and shoulders.

the unspoken dissonance from months ago still hung in the air.

"you alright?" you posed, feeling unsure as how to continue this stifling conversation.

"yeah, just some girl," he exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor as flexed his fingers.

you nodded in annoyance. his casual dismissal of women was just in his nature. "right. just some girl," you spoke flatly and his eyes flickered to yours, darting between your right and left as he searched for answers he couldn't place while you remembered why you were even here in the first place. "hold on."

his mind worked to undo your comment and he grimaced at his word choice. how does he explain how every girl was now 'just some girl' ever since that day in the kitchen? every girl but you.

puling your phone from your pocket, your thumbs tapped away against the screen. sukuna allowed you to do whatever you needed, standing over you quietly.

you texted your brother, letting him know you found sukuna and he immediately sent a thumbs up, making you question the phone policy as his job.

"that's that," you said, slipping the device back into your pocket.

"well, i think i'm gonna head out. this place has got shit for drinks and the bar down the street-."

"i'm on babysitting duty," you interrupted, clasping your hands in front of you and staring up at him.

his eyebrows scrunched, cocking his head slightly. "what?"

"my brother said i'm in charge of you for the evening," you sarcastically beamed.

"...really?"

"yup!"

a scowl made it's way across his expression as he dragged a hand over his cheek before rubbing his twitching jaw. the frustration was evident.

you awaited his outburst, telling you that he's a grown man and fine on his own to which you'd curse him out smoothly and leave him to deal with his own shit and possibly make something out of your evening... but it didn't come.

he simply nodded, his lips pursed as he turned on his heel and grabbed his zip-up from a stool and making his way out of the room.

his formidable figure had no issue maneuvering through the crowd, as nearly everyone stepped out of his way and his line of sight was well over their heads.

you took this chance to trail him and easily make your way out, earning a few stares from the partyers.

as you stepped into the night, the chill of the night nipped at your bare skin. shuffling down the steps, you muttered curses to yourself for not bringing a hoodie to change into.

sukuna peered over his shoulder to witness your inner turmoil. his crimson orbs flickered down your figure and scoffed at your... lack of clothing, to say. how could you not cover up when it's freezing out?

"here," he said, holding his zip-up towards you.

you glanced up, eyes darting between the fabric he was holding and his solemn expression.

"yeah, no," you laughed mockingly and turning away, watching your breath condensate in the air before dissipating. as if you would do him the favor of holding onto the fabric he obviously didn't want to carry, his bare skin nearly covered in a layer of perspiration. "i'd rather die."

staring at you wide-eyed, sukuna dropped his outstretched hand after a couple of moments and nodded. the wrenching feeling of rejection washed over him, a feeling that was all too unfamiliar to him.

before you, sukuna had never entertained the idea of insignificant feelings. it was all too mundane for him. at the end of the day, he didn't care too much if he wronged someone.

it was easier to pretend like nothing and pray the other person wouldn't whine about, or he simply pretended the person didn't exist. either option never weighed on him too heavily.

he was also not the kind to ever apologize.

yet, the idea of you being upset with him had only managed to gut him after all this time. he'd attempted to drown him himself in intoxicants, which proved fruitless.

pretending you didn't exist wasn't all that helpful, either. even when you weren't physically around, your presence lingered every fucking place he turned. he'd randomly smell your shampoo lingering in the air which would throw him off, the mention of your fucking major would make him dizzy, and even names that sounded remotely like yours would make him flinch.

which is why, he'd rehearsed an apology to you for weeks now in hopes that one day, you'd accept it.

he didn't understand why he was feeling like this, but the hope that it might go away stuffed that corroded hole in his chest temporarily.

"you okay?"

"what?" sukuna replied irritated, head swiveling towards you, making you notice the slight slur of his words now.

for a few minutes now, he'd been muttering to himself with sweat beading along his forehead, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. you had to muster up the courage to ask him, but you ultimately regret it.

"nothing, jeez," you scoffed, crossing your arms.

sukuna's hand was trembling in his pocket, fingers flexing and unflexing every couple of seconds. "sorry," he muttered. "didn't mean to..." he trailed off, his shoulder's slumping.

"yeah, alright." at this point, you've become so detached and used to his random tantrums so you didn't want to entertain this. but it didn't go without battering your self-esteem, making you want to slither away from this entire ordeal.

sukuna took notice of the change in your demeanor as well, his fists balling up and wanting to jump into traffic. "wait," he said, halting and turning to you.

you came to a stop a few feet ahead, glancing past your shoulder and turning around. "what is it?"

he stared at you, almost in what looked to be awe, before shaking his head and you could see the way his shoulders flexed, the way he balled the zip-up in his hand. what had him so uptight?

"i'm sorry," he shot out, eyes trained on the ground.

"...w-what?" you didn't know if you were hearing this right. was the one and only ryomen sukuna apologizing to you right now?

"i'm sorry, pea. i fucked up like crazy with you. the shit that happened a couple months back, i-in the kitchen... i shouldn't have said you're not worth it," he rambled, words on his tongue burning him. "you're more than fucking worth it and i was an idiot for hurting you like that, i realized it too late..."

you swallowed hard, the gulp nearly audibly, as you attempted to digest everything he just said. the guy you'd been adamant on hating for three months has finally got the balls to try to fix things? seriously?

he took a step towards you, then a step back as if he'd regretted entering your space. a heavy silence hung between the two of you, your head downcast as your mind raced and sukuna's eyes fixed on your figure.

"y-you don't have to respond. honestly, i'm not here for your forgiveness," he said after a couple minutes, the air smothering.

you gave it a couple of moments of thought before meeting his gaze. "okay."

sukuna flinched hearing your voice. "...okay?"

"okay," you repeated, pinching your bicep. "you're an asshole, you're a dick, and you're selfish."

his heart stammered and tore hearing you say those things. "and...?"

you laughed humorlessly. "and my point is, that is who you are. i don't think you'll ever change or grow out of it. so i'm just saying okay. it's not forgiveness, and i'm sure as hell not forgetting it. i'm just... saying okay."

"okay," he parroted, nodding his head in acceptance before you saw a smile tug at his lips that looked unlike him. "i can do okay."

"okay then."

the walk back to your apartment was nothing short of freezing and uncomfortable. he offered his zip-up again, to which you denied, then offered just walking back to his place, but for the sake of the cold, both of your exhaustion's, and the accessibility of it, you allowed him to crash on the couch.

he filed through your brother's clothes in his bedroom while you showered and slipped into your bedroom, allowing yourself space away from his overwhelming presence.

after changing into your pajama's, you couldn't help but stare at your ceiling in utter shock, wondering what in the fuck had happened today.

no, this doesn't change anything. the guy just looked miserable and whatever is weighing on him has gotta be taking a toll on him.

plus, it's not like you let him off the hook, right? there was no way in hell you were letting this guy walk over you and use you. if he wanted to be in your life, he had to respect you.

that was your unwavering resolve.

❦ m.list > pt. six

tags (open): @samoankpoper21 @nina-from-317 @l0v3m3-p13as3 @kunasthiast @poopooindamouf @sukubusss @actuallynarii @teenbreakup @linaaeatsfamilies @funicidals @weeezeerrss @uncertainlyours @for-hearthand-home @bnbaochauuu @beomgyusonlywife @federicaakira @joh-ahae @entumtum @ravenpumpkin1

[sh4nksslvt]

One Month With You

In the final month of your life, you cherishes fleeting moments with your crew, hiding a terminal illness until only memories—and a letter—remain.

red hair pirates x reader | whitebeard pirates x reader | strawhats x reader | ONE SHOT tags: angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, grief, terminal illness a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 2.6k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

RED HAIR PIRATES

The sea was calm that morning, the kind of quiet that made even the waves seem to hold their breath. The deck of the Red Force was alive with chatter and light laughter, but you stood by the railing, letting the wind sweep through your hair. Your fingers curled around the wood, your gaze far off—not at the horizon, but somewhere past it.

One month. That’s what Hongo told you when he unknowingly confirmed your own suspicions. You’d been hiding the worsening symptoms for months—fatigue that sank deep into your bones, the relentless pain in your chest, the occasional blood you’d spit out into the sea, unnoticed.

You knew he’d figure it out eventually. He was too good not to.

But you hadn’t expected him to burst into your quarters the night before, shaking with barely restrained panic.

“What the hell is this?!” Hongo had yelled, thrusting a tattered medical report into your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?!”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to be watched like a ghost who hasn’t died yet.”

Silence. Deafening.

“...You have a month, Y/N, maybe less. You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re dying, and you're acting like it's nothing?”

“I have a month, Hongo,” you had said quietly. “Please… just let me have it. Don’t tell the others. Let me spend it with them. Please.”

He didn't answer for a long time. When he finally did, it was with a whisper: “You’re a fucking idiot.” But he pulled you into a hug and didn’t let go until your shoulders stopped shaking.

From that day, you lived more fiercely than ever. You laughed at Shanks’ dumb jokes and drank with him until the world blurred. You challenged Benn to silent stargazing contests, betting on how many shooting stars you’d catch. You dragged Limejuice to island carnivals and flirted shamelessly until his face burned red. You played cards with Hongo, even when your hands trembled too much to hold them.

They all noticed. The Red-Haired Pirates weren’t stupid.

“You’re real clingy lately,” Limejuice teased one night, bumping your shoulder with his. “You sure you’re not sick or something?”

You smiled, heart twisting. “Would you be mad if I said I might be?”

He laughed, oblivious. “Nah. I’d carry you myself if you keeled over.”

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned into his warmth.

Shanks was the hardest. He noticed too much. Noticed how often you disappeared below deck when the coughing fits hit, how your eyes stayed on the ocean longer than they should have.

“You thinking of leaving us?” he asked once, half-joking.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “No,” you lied.

Benn just watched. Always watched. He didn’t say much, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you, searching. You gave him your brightest smiles.

The day you left, the crew didn’t know.

You made breakfast with Chef-level effort, joking with the kitchen staff, slipping kisses to Limejuice's cheek and hugging Shanks tighter than ever. You sat with Benn for hours on the deck, your head on his shoulder, watching the sun creep across the sky.

“I think you’re my favorite,” you whispered, teasing.

He snorted. “Don’t let Shanks hear that.”

He didn’t know that was the last time he’d feel your heartbeat against his side.

That night, you slipped away. A letter for each of them tucked under your pillow. A note for Hongo too:

"Thank you—for letting me pretend I wasn’t dying. I love you all too much to say goodbye."

Morning broke in chaos.

“Where the hell is Y/N?!” Limejuice shouted, tearing through the ship.

“They’re not in the galley, or the crow’s nest!” Benn called out, panic rising in his usually calm voice.

Shanks was quiet, unusually still, staring at the empty hammock where your scent still lingered.

The notes were found soon after. One by one, hands shaking as they read your last words.

You didn’t say goodbye, but each letter bled with love.

“To Shanks — Thank you for making me feel like I belonged in the stars.”

“To Benn — You saw through me. Thank you for not saying anything.”

“To Limejuice — Thank you for reminding me how fun life could be.”

“To Hongo — I’m sorry I made you carry this alone. Thank you for letting me be selfish.”

They thought you ran. Were taken. Benn demanded a search party. Shanks was pale, silent, gripping your letter so tight his knuckles bled. Limejuice punched a wall. Hongo said nothing—for two days.

And then, he snapped.

He threw your medical file onto the table during a heated meeting, eyes wild. “They didn’t leave!....They died. And...I let them.”

The room fell to a breathless silence.

“You knew?” Benn whispered.

“They had a month. They begged me to let them spend it with us, like nothing was wrong. And I let them lie.”

Shanks stumbled back, as if struck. “No. No, they were… they were fine.”

“They were dying, Shanks! They couldn’t breathe without pain, they were—” Hongo’s voice cracked. “They spent their last strength loving us.”

No one spoke.

Limejuice fell to his knees. “We didn’t even say goodbye.”

Later that night, Shanks sat by the railing where you always stood.

“I hope you’re watching the stars from up close now, Y/N,” he murmured, tears streaking his face. “Because we’ll never stop looking for you in them.”

WHITEBEARD PIRATES

You’d always imagined dying quietly, maybe on an empty shore, wrapped in salt and wind. But fate had other plans. Your end would come not with isolation—but surrounded by laughter, drink, and the stubborn, unbearable warmth of the Whitebeard Pirates.

The diagnosis came on a cold, cloudy day—so ordinary it felt like a betrayal.

You'd passed out during training. Woke up with Marco’s worried face looming over you. He’d examined you in complete silence. But his shaking hands and tight jaw told you everything.

“It’s not good, is it?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” Marco had said, the word cracking as it left him. “It’s... terminal. A rare degeneration of the lungs and heart. I don’t—there’s nothing I can do.”

You didn’t cry. Instead, you laughed. “So, what—you’re saying I won’t outlive my goldfish?”

He didn't laugh. He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You have a month. Maybe.”

You made him promise to keep it secret.

Just him and Whitebeard.

When Oyaji found out, he sat beside your bed and gripped your hand with those massive, shaking fingers. “You are my child,” he rumbled. “And if this is your last voyage… then let it be the greatest of your life.”

You had never cried before. But you cried then.

From that day, you threw yourself into every moment.

Ace was all fire and impulse, but when he was around you, something softer flickered beneath the surface. He took to dragging you along for sparring matches, even when you claimed your muscles ached.

“I need a challenge,” he’d smirk, sweat glistening down his neck.

“You just want to show off,” you’d tease, raising your fists anyway.

He was always careful not to hit you too hard. Not that you said anything—but he seemed to know. When you tripped one day, coughing blood into your sleeve when he wasn’t looking, he’d jogged over, helping you up without a word. His hand lingered on your arm just a second too long.

That night, you sat beside him, both of you perched on the edge of the ship with your legs dangling into the air.

“You’re weird lately,” he mumbled, eyes on the moon.

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

He blinked at you. “To be with us?”

“To be with you,” you said, gently. And he froze, eyes wide, like he didn’t know what to do with that.

“…You’re gonna break my heart, aren’t you?” he whispered.

You smiled, because you already had.

Izo became your confidant without even knowing it. With every eyeliner flick and matching kimono, you gave yourself permission to feel alive. They would hum as they painted your face, hands warm against your cheeks.

“You’re glowing,” they said once, adjusting the red ribbon they tied in your hair.

“Death becomes me, huh?” you joked, and they slapped your arm, scandalized.

“You joke about dying too much.”

You didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked. “It’s easier than pretending I’m not scared.”

Their fingers paused, lips parting. “…Are you scared?”

You looked at them in the mirror, the shimmer of gold powder across your eyelids catching the light. “Yeah,” you said. “But not when I’m with you.”

They smiled then, a bit sad, and leaned in to kiss your temple. “Then let’s live like hell until we drop, dear.”

Thatch was joy personified. It was impossible to be sad around him for long, and that’s what made it hurt worse.

He caught you sneaking dessert at 2 a.m. once and acted like you’d committed a crime.

“Oh-ho! So this is where my pudding went!”

“Your pudding? I thought it had my name on it.”

“I’ll accept bribes in the form of kisses or cleaning dishes.”

You kissed his cheek, and he nearly dropped the bowl.

Every stolen moment in the kitchen became a memory—dancing while covered in flour, whipped cream fights, drunken baking experiments that ended in fire. You’d laughed so hard your sides hurt, even as your lungs begged you to stop.

“You’re making memories,” he said one night, tousling your hair. “That’s what this is. You’ve been clingy lately. Like you’re trying to make every second count.”

You froze, the spoon halfway to your mouth. “…Would you hate me if I was?”

He blinked. “Nah. I’d probably try to hold on tighter.”

You didn’t tell him then. Just leaned into his side and let him talk about his dream of opening a cake café after he retires.

You knew you’d never see it.

Marco was the one who saw the cracks, and it destroyed him. You kept him close because you trusted him most—and that made it hurt more.

You caught him once crying at your door. He didn’t think you were awake.

You opened it, silently wrapped your arms around him, and whispered, “I’m still here.”

“You shouldn’t be this calm,” he rasped into your shoulder.

“I’m terrified,” you admitted. “But I’d rather spend what time I have being loved than dying slowly in a bed.”

He pulled back, staring at you with reddened eyes. “You could have told them.”

“They’d look at me like I was already dead.”

He said nothing, and you reached up to cup his cheek. “Promise me… promise you’ll wait. Let me leave on my own terms.”

“…Okay,” he whispered. “But I’ll hate you for it.”

You kissed his forehead. “I hope you do.”

You left them on a quiet morning.

Then you slipped away, leaving only a bundle of letters on Marco’s desk.

Your final message was simple:

“Don’t let them hate me for this. Please. Just let them think I ran.”

The ship erupted into panic by nightfall.

Ace punched through a wall. “They’re gone?! What do you mean GONE?”

Izo ran through the corridors, calling your name until their voice broke.

Thatch turned the kitchen inside out like he expected you to be hiding in the cupboards, laughing.

Marco couldn’t speak.

He stood at the rail, gripping the wood so hard it splintered beneath his fingers.

Whitebeard stood behind him, silent, his massive shadow cast across the deck like a shroud.

“Do I tell them?” Marco rasped.

“No,” Whitebeard rumbled. “Not yet. Let them rage. Let them mourn in their own way.”

“But—”

“They wouldn’t understand it now,” he said. “Wait.”

A week passed. Then two.

No sign of you.

Your room remained untouched. Your absence echoed louder than any cannon fire.

They scoured islands. Questioned strangers. Considered kidnappers, Marines, even betrayal.

Ace refused to accept it. “They wouldn’t leave us! Not without a word. Not without—something.”

He went to Marco, desperate. “You know something. Tell me.”

Marco finally broke.

He gave Ace your letter.

Ace read it once. Then again and again. Then crumpled to the ground, screaming into his fists.

“They died?! All this time—they were dying?!”

Marco stood frozen, guilt crawling like acid beneath his skin.

“They didn’t want you to mourn them before they were gone,” he whispered. “They wanted to be loved, not pitied.”

Ace couldn’t answer. He just sobbed, curled around your crumpled letter like it could still warm him.

That night, Whitebeard gathered his sons and daughters.

He read your letters aloud. One by one. Each one aching with truth, memory, and love.

“To Ace — You made me feel alive, even when I was already halfway gone.” “To Izo — Thank you for making me beautiful when I felt invisible.” “To Thatch — You made every day sweeter, even the ones I didn’t think I’d survive.” “To Marco — Thank you for holding my secret when it crushed you. I love you most for that.” “To Oyaji — You gave me a family when I had nothing left. Thank you… for letting me die a Whitebeard Pirate.”

By the end, the deck was silent.

No sobs. Just breathless grief.

They didn’t throw a funeral.

They held a feast.

Not because they weren’t mourning—but because they knew you’d hate to see them broken.

They told stories. Passed your favorite drink around. Laughed, cried, and danced with ghosts.

And when the fire died down, Ace stared at the embers and whispered, “I hope you found peace, flame-heart.”

STRAWHAT PIRATES

You didn’t plan on dying at sea, but the Grand Line has a way of making plans for you. The first signs were subtle: a lingering fatigue you chalked up to busy days, aches you blamed on training, the dull pain in your side that you laughed off when Chopper asked if you were okay.

You knew before he did. Deep down, your body had been whispering the truth long before the words made it onto paper.

It wasn’t until you collapsed in the hallway between the kitchen and the infirmary that Chopper realized something was seriously wrong. When you woke up, it was to the sterile smell of the medical bay and his wide, terrified eyes.

“I ran every test,” he said, voice trembling. “And then I ran them again. It’s… it’s bad. Really bad.”

You nodded. Your throat was too dry to answer.

“I—I can’t fix it. Not with what we have on board. Maybe if we got to a major medical port, but even then, I don’t know if—”

You reached out, resting a hand on his tiny shoulder. “How long?”

He hesitated, ears flattening. “A month. Maybe.”

You didn’t cry. Not then. Not even when he begged to tell the others.

“No. Please. Let me have this. Just a month, Chopper.”

“They’ll never forgive me.”

“They will,” you said. “If they knew now, it’d ruin everything. I don’t want pity. I want memories.”

So you began to live. Fully, recklessly, as if the pain eating away at you was just a shadow at your back.

You started with Sanji. He was the easiest to be around, the one whose affection was loud and constant. Every meal became a moment: you insisted on helping in the kitchen, even when he protested. You chopped vegetables until your hands hurt, stirred sauces while leaning against him, snuck little bites when he wasn’t looking.

“You’re here a lot lately,” he said one afternoon, handing you a bowl of soup.

“I like watching you work,” you replied.

He grinned. “You trying to steal my heart, love?”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe.”

He went quiet for a beat. Then, more softly, “You look at me like you’re memorizing my face.”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled.

Zoro came next. You sparred with him almost every day now, ignoring the way your lungs burned, the way your legs shook. He didn’t say anything the first time you collapsed mid-match, just silently carried you to the infirmary.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said.

“I need to,” you whispered.

“Why?”

You looked at him, really looked. “Because I don’t want to forget what it feels like to fight beside you.”

He frowned. “You’re acting like you’re running out of time.”

You forced a smile. “Aren’t we all?”

That night, he found you on the deck, staring at the stars.

He sat beside you, arms crossed. “You’re not saying something. I don’t like it.”

“I’m just tired.”

“I’d carry you, if you asked.”

Your heart ached. “I know.”

Luffy was harder.

He didn’t notice at first. You were careful around him—too careful. You laughed with him during meals, ran across islands with him, challenged him to stupid games on the deck. But he began to notice the way you lingered during hugs. The way you stared at him too long. The way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes.

One evening, you lay beside him on the figurehead, watching the horizon.

He turned his head toward you. “Are you gonna leave?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’re saying goodbye.”

You looked away. “I’m not. Not yet.”

He was quiet for a while. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either.”

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and didn’t let go until you both fell asleep.

ou made time for everyone else too.

With Nami, you spent lazy afternoons in the library, pretending to study charts. She taught you how to draw maps. You traced the oceans of the world with your fingers and imagined places you’d never see.

“You’re getting good at this,” she said.

“I want to leave something behind,” you murmured.

She didn’t understand then. But she would.

Usopp was a light in the dark. You asked for bedtime stories, exaggerated tales of heroism and romance. He performed them with full sound effects, arms flailing, voice booming.

“You always laugh now,” he noted one night.

“It’s easy, when I’m with you.”

He blushed, scratching the back of his head. “You’re acting like I’m the best part of your day.”

You smiled. “You are.”

Robin gave you quiet comfort. She didn’t ask questions. She simply read to you, let you rest your head in her lap, brushed your hair back from your face.

“You’re calm,” you told her.

“You’re storming,” she replied.

You didn’t deny it.

Franky built you a swing on the back of the Sunny, facing the sea. You spent hours there, feet brushing over the waves, eyes on the endless blue.

“Super chill, right?” he said, adjusting the ropes.

You nodded. “It’s perfect.”

He caught your hand before he left. “You’re not okay.”

You looked up at him. “No.”

“Okay,” he said, voice tight. “You don’t have to be.”

Brook played lullabies for you. Sweet, simple things. You danced with him once, slow and clumsy.

“If I still had a heart,” he said softly, “I think it would ache.”

You rested your head against his chest. “Mine already does.”

Chopper was breaking. Every day, he looked at you like you were already fading. You caught him crying in the storage room once, holding one of your jackets.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

“You’re stronger than me,” you said, hugging him.

“I hate lying.”

“I know.”

You waited until they docked at a small island for supplies.

You left at dawn.

Left behind the stargazer chair. The flowered book. The slingshot. The meals. The love.

Left behind a stack of letters in Chopper’s room.

When the crew realized you were gone, Luffy panicked first.

“They wouldn’t leave! They’d never leave!”

Zoro was already on the dock, scanning the shoreline. Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

They searched the island. They waited at the ship. They called for you until their voices cracked.

You didn’t come back.

That night, Chopper gathered them in the infirmary.

“I didn’t want to break the promise,” he said, voice trembling. “But… they’re gone. They were dying.”

No one moved.

“…What?”

“They only had a month. They asked me to let them live… without pity.”

Nami burst into tears. "They should’ve told us,”

Zoro punched the wall.

Luffy stood in stunned silence, until he screamed your name into the ocean wind.

They read your letters together. All huddled in the infirmary, hearts shattered.

“To Sanji — You made me feel wanted, even when I felt like a ghost.” “To Zoro — You were my anchor. I always knew where I stood when I was beside you.” “To Luffy — Thank you for being the sun. I needed the light more than you’ll ever know.” “To the Crew — You made me part of a family. You made me more than a dying story.”

They held a quiet vigil on the deck.

Brook played your song one last time. Robin scattered petals into the sea. Chopper lit a lantern and let it drift across the water.

They stayed on that island for days.

Then, they sailed forward—quieter, heavier—but with your memory in their hearts.

You were their nakama.

You were their heart.

You always would be.

[tsunodaradio]

the summer you turned pretty ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

the story of you, mclaren’s golden boys, and the summer that changes everything.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren marketing admin!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 12.2k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, friendship. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. slight time skip (set in 2027), tension tension tensionnn!!!, not really a love triangle, loosely based off the summer i turned pretty where oscar is conrad and lando is jeremiah. ꔮ commentary box: yeah.., yeah. this is a thing, i guess. much thanks to @binisainz and @norrisradio for watching me spiral over this. consider this a warm-up for the challengers au 🙂‍↕️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

There’s something about the air this time around.

You feel it the second you step out of the van, your trainers hitting the gravel with a muted crunch. A breeze ruffles the hem of your McLaren-issued shorts, sticky with sweat from the long drive, and you breathe it in. Salt, pine, heat radiating off the tarmac like a living thing.

It’s the fourth time you’ve made this pilgrimage, the fourth summer you’ve found yourself somewhere off-grid with the team. Official cameras conveniently ‘forget’ to roll. Every work email is answered with a flip-flopped foot and a cocktail in hand. 

Life at McLaren never really started until you survived the off-season getaway. 

Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud.

The rented-out summer home sprawls out in front of you, all whitewashed stone and terracotta roof tiles, perched high above an aquamarine stretch of water so clear it looks Photoshopped. A few bright towels already cling to the poolside chairs; someone’s left a trail of sandy flip-flops like breadcrumbs. You can hear laughter somewhere—muffled, distant, a memory you haven’t made yet.

The whole place hums under the weight of something not quite visible. A static charge. A warning shot fired low across the bow.

Oscar had won the 2026 World Drivers’ Championship, wrestling the 2025 crown from Lando in a way that was almost surgical. No drama, no big public blowout. Just a clean, clinical dethroning that had stunned the paddock stupid.

But it wasn’t clean. Not really. You’d seen the cracks up close. The stiff smiles. The way Lando’s jaw would tick when Oscar’s name got thrown around in meetings. The brittle way Oscar would pretend not to notice.

Now, with both their contracts coming up and the whole world speculating if McLaren could even keep them both, the air buzzes with something volatile. Not anger, exactly. Not yet. Just—

“You coming or what?” a voice calls out, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn to see Callum from logistics waving you in, already wearing a sleeveless tee and a grin that promises poor life decisions.

You wave back, laughing under your breath. Whatever. Let the future burn itself down later.

Right now, you’ve got one week. One week to drink bad beer by the pool, to dance barefoot to someone’s crackling Bluetooth speaker, to pretend that you’re just a marketing admin on holiday and not someone who spends their life airbrushing tensions away with pastel graphics and PR spins.

One week before everything changes.

You’re going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Except you don't even make it to the front steps before they find you.

Lando’s laugh cuts through the air first. Unmistakable, that full kind of sound that’s always gotten him exactly what he wanted. He strides across the gravel with a beer in hand, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Tan already sunk into his skin like he belongs here more than anywhere else.

Oscar is a step behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his board shorts, mouth pulled into that familiar half-smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking. Cool. Untouchable. But not when it comes to you.

You’ve known them both since 2023. Started the same year as Oscar, actually, back when he was still the ‘new kid’ and Lando was the anointed heir of McLaren. Watching them now, it’s almost funny how much and how little has changed.

“Well, well, well,” Lando drawls, his gaze raking down the length of you without a shred of shame. “Someone’s been hitting the gym.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Typical. Lando always wielded charm like a blunt weapon. Flirt first, apologize later—if at all.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shoot back, crossing your arms to fend off the fluster you feel prickling your skin.

“You should.” His grin turns a little wolfish, a little sharper at the edges. It’s always been like this with Lando. Sharp banter, quick jabs, a constant underlying dare in his words.

Oscar, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything. He just glances at you, quick, his gaze flickering over the obvious changes. The toned arms, the tighter shorts, the way you stand a little differently now, more sure of yourself. It’s the sun you’ve caught over the spring, the way your hair is lighter. The confidence, fitting you a little easier now. 

“Ignore him,” Oscar says finally, voice dry as ever. “He thinks a compliment a day keeps HR away.”

Lando snickers, entirely unbothered. “No one’s filing any complaints.”

“Yet,” Oscar adds under his breath, and you catch the twitch of a real smile before he looks away, as if he’s embarrassed to be caught being funny.

The dynamic between them is sharper this year, the edges harder to ignore. Lando’s a little too loud; Oscar’s a little too careful. And you, well—

You shoulder your bag higher. Whatever storm is brewing, it’s not here yet. 

When Lando is pulled away by another group, you find yourself next to Oscar, the two of you naturally falling into step. “He’s subtle, huh?” you say, nodding toward where Lando is already readying to play a match of beach volleyball.

Oscar snorts. “As a brick through a window.”

Your laughter comes easier with him. No games, no showmanship. Just the same effortless back-and-forth you’ve had since you both joined McLare. Young, new, a little out of your depths. You’ve grown alongside each other in different ways, but the familiarity remains.

“You look good, by the way,” Oscar says after a beat, almost too casual.

You glance at him, but he’s already looking away. “Thanks, Piastri,” you say, nudging his elbow lightly. “Big year for compliments, huh?”

He hums noncommittally, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s infinitely more dangerous than Lando’s brand of unashamed attention.

Voices call your names from across the courtyard. A group from the marketing team waves you over, already laying claim to beach chairs and plotting the evening’s games.

“Duty calls,” you say with a mock salute.

Oscar lifts a hand in farewell. “See you.”

The first few hours are a whirlwind of people claiming rooms, of staff trading sunblock and shots and secrets. By the time it’s evening, the beach air is thick with the scent of salt, laughter bouncing between bodies huddled in threadbare hoodies and board shorts. Someone passes a bottle of cheap rum around. Someone else suggests Truth or Dare, and against your better judgment, you let yourself be roped in.

You’re perched on a faded picnic blanket with a handful of your favorite coworkers. Marketing assistants, junior engineers, a couple of race strategy interns. A makeshift family built over late nights and endless deadlines.

“Alright, you,” Tom from engineering says, pointing at you with a grin. His cheeks are already flushed from the booze. “Truth: which of our two golden boys is more crush-worthy?”

A chorus of oohs rises from the circle. You groan, tossing a handful of sand in Tom's general direction. “What are we, twelve?”

“Come on! You have to answer.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, sighing dramatically as if it’s the most inconvenient question in the world. Still, your heart skips a beat. You know there’s only ever been one answer.

“Oscar,” you say finally, shrugging like it doesn't cost you anything. “It’s always been Oscar.”

The teasing jeers come quick, but you just grin and take a swig from the bottle when it’s passed your way. It’s easier to laugh it off than to sink into the memories unspooling quietly in your mind.

You think about your first day at McLaren. You’d both been rookies, wide-eyed and trying not to drown in a sea of expectation. Oscar had been fresh off his earlier championships. This quiet, determined presence in a world built for louder voices. You had locked eyes across the cafeteria once, both awkwardly holding trays of uninspiring food, and he’d given you a small, tentative smile.

It hadn’t been fireworks. It hadn’t been some earth-shattering moment you could write a novel about. It had been something smaller, quieter. A seed planted in good soil.

Over the years, you’d watched him grow into himself. Sharper on track, still dry-humored and steady off it. Always polite. Always a little reserved. And always, somehow, softer towards you.

You were no fool, though. You never once mistook kindness for something more. You knew what your place was. A marketing admin, barely visible on race weekends unless a driver needed to be somewhere for a shoot. You’d been content to stay in your lane, to admire him like you admired the sunsets over the paddock, or the roar of the engines on a Sunday afternoon.

Beautiful things. Distant things.

If Oscar was nicer to you than he was to others, you chalked it up to that shared sentiment. You were both once the least important people in the room, both standing on the shaky ground of McLaren’s legacy, and rookies tended to stick together. 

Someone nudges you, laughing, and you shake yourself out of it, laughing along. The night spins onward, bright and blurry. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up with sand in your hair and regret in your bones.

But for now, you pass the bottle to the left, and let the fire warm your skin.

The next morning is slow and heavy, the sun just starting to burn off the early haze. You’re pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, half-listening to chatter around the shared bathroom when Mia from digital points her toothbrush at you and says, “You know he’s been checking you out, right?”

“Who?”

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically, toothpaste foam threatening to spill. She jerks her chin toward the open doorway. “Norris.” 

Curious and a little dubious, you step out into the hall. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug. His gaze finds yours immediately, unapologetically. When he notices you catching him, his mouth quirks into a slow, confident grin.

“Morning,” he calls.

“Morning,” you reply as casually as you can manage.

He sets down his mug. “Fancy a run?”

You hesitate, glancing around for signs of anyone else. Usually, the drivers corral a whole group when they go on these runs. But there’s no one hovering by the door with sneakers in hand. It’s just Lando, looking infuriatingly fresh and ready.

“Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. He grins, and it’s the same sort of smile he has when he’s standing on the top step of the podium. 

You lace up your trainers quickly and meet him outside. The air is cooler by the beach, the ocean stretching out endlessly beside you. You jog in an easy rhythm, sand crunching faintly under your feet. It’s quiet for a while. Just the waves and the distant call of gulls.

“You look different this summer,” Lando says after a stretch of silence. His voice is low, almost thoughtful.

You laugh breathlessly. “Bad different or good different?”

“Good. Very good,” he says with a lopsided smile. “More... sure of yourself.”

The compliment lands oddly heavy in your chest. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending now.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, sharp and knowing. “Or maybe you’re better at being who you are.”

The words catch you off-guard, more meaningful than the easy flirtations you’d expected. For a while, neither of you speak. You just run, side by side, until the sun climbs higher and the morning grows warmer.

It’s always been a little different with Lando. He was the occasional headache of the marketing team, the one that warranted one or two more PR releases than Oscar. Off the track, though, you were always pleasantly surprised at who Lando could be underneath the orange race suit. 

He was the thoughtful kind, the type to know everybody’s birthdays and to stop for any kid asking for an autograph. He never minced words, but he was not unkind, either. He just felt everything deeply, whether it was a loss, or a win, or the sentiment of an unassuming summer day.

When you finally loop back toward the house, your skin is sticky with sweat and your mind is spinning. Lando bumps his shoulder lightly against yours as you walk up the porch steps.

“Good run,” he says, like it means something more.

You nod, pretending your heartbeat is only from the exercise.

Inside, the house is waking up properly now. Music playing, laughter bouncing. You disappear into the crowd, feeling Lando’s eyes on your back the whole way, and wondering, not for the last time that day, what the hell just happened. 

You try not to think of it during the day. You focus on the team exercises, the planning, the downtime. You count down the seconds until your favorite parts of these summers: the bonfires in the evening. 

Lanterns swing lazily from the wooden beams overhead, casting a dappled light over the courtyard where most of the team has gathered. It’s bright and loud, and it reminds you of why you continue to stay despite the shitty management and the questionable policies. The people here are good people. 

Lando shimmers in the center of it all. He’s a social butterfly, fluttering from interns to old-timers with small talk that makes you feel special for a few, precious moments. What endears you the most is that you know he’s not putting on a show. Lando likes the team, likes the beach and the woodsmoke and the invincibility of these moments away from the public eye. 

You feel like something’s missing, though. You wander off in search of that puzzle piece, and that’s when you spot him. 

Oscar, tucked away by the side of the house, half-shielded by the drooping branches of a tree. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his posture hunched as he scrolls through his phone. You smile to yourself.

“Hiding, are we?” you call out, keeping your voice light.

Oscar doesn’t start. He just glances at you, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Strategic retreat.”

You chuckle and wander closer, careful not to intrude too much. “Fair. You lasted longer than I thought you would,” you sya. 

“Peer pressure’s a powerful thing.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Just thought I’d come say ‘hi’ before you went full hermit.”

You’re about to wander back off to the beach when Oscar says in an uncharacteristic rush of words, “You don’t have to go.”

You freeze for a beat. When you look over, Oscar’s already looking at you—steady, earnest, like he actually means it.

“If you want,” he adds, more casually now. As if he’s giving you an out instead.

Your heart does that stupid thing it always does around him. A warm stutter you can never quite control. You move closer, sitting down a comfortable distance away. Close enough to talk, far enough not to spook the moment.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

The night hums around you and between it all, a quiet little space you carve out with Oscar, just the two of you. You wonder, not for the first time, if he feels it too. The anticipation when the amps turn on. The thick tension. 

It’s not something you’re willing to stake your friendship over, so you let the moment pass as many others before it. By the time the two of you are heading back to the throng, you’re only reminded of where you belong in the complex hierarchy of co-worker friendships. 

The next morning, the sun is high and hot by the time everyone spills out onto the open field just beyond the house. There’s a haphazard setup of cones, makeshift goals, and a suspicious number of foam batons. 

Classic team-building chaos.

Brian from HR claps his hands together. “Alright! Lando, Oscar, you know the drill.”

There's a collective hum of excitement as people start gathering behind them, ready to be picked. You hang back, adjusting the hem of your shorts and shielding your eyes from the sun. It’s almost a tradition at this point: drivers lead, employees follow, and everyone ends up in some over-competitive version of capture-the-flag or ultimate frisbee.

Lando and Oscar stand a few feet apart, each looking unfairly good in their McLaren-branded athletic gear.

“Ladies first,” Lando says with a smirk, tossing a foam baton into the air and catching it with a little spin. “Pick whoever you want, mate.”

Oscar just gives him a bemused look. “You’re only saying that because you want to steal half my picks.”

“It’s called strategy,” Lando replies smoothly, tapping his temple. “That’s why I'm the smart one.”

Oscar snorts, but then his eyes flick to you—brief, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking.

You feel it more than you see it: the way the energy subtly shifts. The people around you start elbowing each other, stifling laughs. There’s no hiding it now. You’re not the most athletic, not really the kind of member who brings in the winning shot, but you’re close enough to both drivers for this squirmish to become an annual thing. 

“I’ll take—” Oscar starts, but Lando cuts in.

“Nope. Mine.” 

A ripple of amusement runs through the group. Someone whistles. You cross your arms, eyebrows raised in mock affront.

Oscar’s mouth twitches at the corner, betraying the tiniest smile. “That’s not how this works. You let me pick first.” 

“Rock, Paper, Scissors for her?” Lando says cheekily, already raising his hand into position.

I’m right here, you’re tempted to tease, but you’re already red-faced from their attempts to stake claim. Oscar sighs like Lando is the greatest burden on earth. He humors him anyway.

They square up. A few of the engineers start chanting under their breath: “Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors!”

They throw once.

Lando’s scissors against Oscar’s rock.

A loud cheer goes up. Lando groans theatrically, dragging his hands down his face.

“Fine,” Lando grumbles, shooting you half a smirk. “But just know, you’re missing out on being on the winning team.”

You laugh, falling into step next to Oscar as the rest of the group starts getting sorted out.

“Don’t let him fool you,” you tease under your breath. “You’re the only reason this team has a chance.”

Oscar flashes you a look. One warm enough to melt every rational thought right out of your sun-drenched head.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn't want to win without you anyway.”

You’re still brushing sand from your hands as the games kick off, a whole series of activities spread across the beach: tug-of-war, three-legged races, trivia relays. The energy is infectious, easy to get swept into, almost enough to make you forget about the heavy things hanging in the background—the contracts, the titles, the unspoken rivalries.

Oscar is relentless. Competitive in a way that most people wouldn't expect if they only ever saw his calm interviews. It’s an open secret, just how intense Oscar could get when it came to things like these.

His team moves like a machine, coordinated and precise, while Lando’s team operates with chaotic enthusiasm, making up for what they lack in organization with sheer willpower and noise.

You’re laughing as you hurl yourself into a sack for the next race, the sand hot and uneven under your feet. The world tips violently when you stumble, crashing face-first into the beach. Grit fills your mouth, your skin stings. 

When you push yourself upright, coughing, Oscar is already tossing a snide comment over his shoulder: “Maybe stick to admin work.”

It lands harder than it should. 

Maybe because it’s him. Maybe because it’s been four years of pretending you didn’t really care what Oscar thought of you. The sting rises up quicker than you can shove it down, and it only worsens when you notice Lando’s sharp gaze.

“Mate,” Lando snipes, breaking from his own team to glare at Oscar. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Oscar hesitates, like he realizes it a second too late, but someone calls for the next round and the moment fractures before it can settle into anything more. You paste a smile on your face and dive back into the games like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just realize that no matter how long you stayed at McLaren, some things might always hurt a little more than they should.

The games end in a tangle of cheers and whoops, Oscar’s team carrying their homemade ‘trophy’—an old beach umbrella someone had scrawled CHAMPIONS across with an orange Sharpie. The sun dips lower, bleeding oranges and reds across the sky, painting everyone in a warm, careless glow. Music drifts the easy beat of a summer song nobody will remember by winter.

You’re crouched at the edge of it all, nursing a plastic cup of water in a bid to fill the hollow feeling buzzing under your ribs. Oscar is somewhere in the throng, a grin splitting his face. He’s pulled into photos, hands slung over shoulders, the weight of his careless comment seemingly long gone from his mind.

You’re fine. You swear you are. 

It’s stupid to let it fester, stupid to feel the prickle of tears when you’ve fought so hard to be seen as part of this team, not just the girl who sends calendar invites and films content.

You want to believe that Oscar hadn’t meant to be cruel, that it’d been adrenaline-fueled trash talk. That the remark wasn’t some thought that’s been on the back of his mind for years now, just waiting for a moment to come to head. 

God, what does it say about you that you’re the one hurt, and you’re still making excuses for Oscar? 

You’re contemplating how soon you can sneak back to the house without making it obvious when Lando drops down beside you, kicking up a puff of sand.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, easy. The kind of ‘hey’ that slips into the cracks you've been trying to mortar over all afternoon.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Lando notices. Of course he does.

“You’re shit at hiding it, you know,” he adds, nudging your elbow with his.

You huff out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I’m fine.”

He doesn't say anything right away. Just picks at a piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand, giving you enough space to either lie again or actually talk.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but patient. The sky darkens a little more. The ocean breathes in and out.

“You were killing it out there,” Lando offers eventually. “Seriously. You’ve got, like, a mean sack race face.”

A real laugh slips out this time, unguarded, and Lando grins that I-finished-P1 smile again.

“I just…” You dig your toes into the sand. “Sometimes it feels like I’m never going to be… y’know. Actually one of you.”

Lando frowns, properly frowns, like the idea physically pains him. “That’s bull.” 

“Tell that to Oscar.”

“Oscar’s a dick sometimes. We all are. Doesn’t mean we don’t see you. Doesn’t mean you don’t matter.”

It’s said so simply, so plainly, that for a second you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re McLaren,” Lando insists, nudging you again. Gentler this time. “Always have been.”

Your throat burns. You blink hard at the horizon, refusing to cry over something as stupid as a sack race, and a throwaway comment, and Lando Norris’ sincerity.

Lando stands, brushing the sand from his shorts, and holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he says. “Bonfire’s starting. I’ll get you the good marshmallows.”

You let him pull you to your feet, the weight in your chest easing just a little. Maybe not everything was perfect. Maybe not everyone saw you the way you wanted. But right now, Lando did.

It’s enough. 

The bonfire spits and crackles as the night sinks deeper, a hundred tiny embers dancing into the dark. Someone’s switched the playlist to slower songs, the kind you know all the words to without trying. 

Lando sticks by you the entire evening.

Making sure you get the first roasted marshmallow. Shoving his hoodie at you when the breeze picks up. Sitting close enough that your knees bump sometimes, casual but intentional. It’s as if he’s decided that tonight, you are his responsibility, and he’s damn well going to make sure you feel wanted.

You don’t care if it’s pity. You let him. You let yourself take all of it, because Oscar’s comment had been a papercut in the thick skin you’d built over the years. Lando soothes it, whether or not he’s aware. 

Across the fire, Oscar laughs at something one of the mechanics says, but you can feel it—the way his gaze finds you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way it sticks, hot and restless.

You force yourself to ignore it. You’re not going to cause a scene. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

You’re practically sleepwalking by the time you make it back to your room, the party still humming faintly through the walls. You peel off your clothes and collapse onto the bed in Lando’s hoodie, the scent of fire and salt clinging to your skin.

You’re just about to drift off when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Your lockscreen—a photo of the most recent McLaren 1-2 finish—lights up with a text. 

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:03 AM]: You up?

You stare at it, your heart kicking once, stupid and traitorous. You think about ignoring it.

You don’t.

You [2:05 AM]: barely

The typing dots pop up immediately.

Disappear.

Pop up again.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:06 AM]: About earlier 

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.

You [2:07 AM]: it’s fine

It’s not. You both know it.

Another pause.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:09 AM]: It’s not

You sigh into your pillow, the ache behind your eyes starting to burn.

You [2:10 AM]: i don’t want to do this over text

The response comes faster this time.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:10 AM]: Can we talk tomorrow morning?

You hesitate. The safe thing would be to say no. To let it slide, bury it under the sand and sun and pretend none of it mattered.

But you’re tired of pretending.

You [2:11 AM]: yeah. ok.

Oscar doesn’t reply after that. Your screen goes dark. 

You roll onto your side, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself, and finally, finally let sleep take you under.

The next morning, you’d been half-hoping Oscar would forget the plan from the night before—pretend it was just another drunken text with no follow-up—but no. He texts about getting breakfast for everybody else; you wait on the porch, your hands shoved in Lando’s hoodie as you groggily wonder why the hell you agreed to this. 

Oscar emerges moments later, cap pulled low, shirt wrinkled, looking like he hates everything about being awake before noon.

“Nice hoodie,” he says, deadpan, barely glancing at you as he shoulders past you and heads towards the direction of the nearest bakery.

You snort, following him into the fresh sting of morning air. “Sorry, didn’t realize there was a dress code for pastry runs.”

“Well, I didn’t realize Lando was your stylist now.”

“And I didn’t realize you cared.”

Oscar cuts a look at you, the edge of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk or a grimace. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. “I don’t,” he says way too fast.

You bump your shoulder against his as you cross the street. “You’re being weird about this.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar mutters, jaw tight. “I’m…” He trails off, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Shit, I’m going about this all wrong.”

You blink at him, mid-step. “About what?”

“Forget it.”

The bakery is tucked into a corner of the sleepy town, all blue awnings and window boxes bursting with flowers. A little bell jingles when you push the door open, the smell of fresh bread and sugar wrapping around you like a hug.

Oscar heads straight for the counter, scanning the rows of pastries with a frown like he’s plotting a strategy. You trail after him, trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about the hoodie swallowing your frame.

For some reason, both your claws are out. You point out the doughnuts and Oscar makes some snide comment about cavities. He surveys the croissants and you mumble about his predictability. You feel it, then, what he had said earlier. On going about this all wrong. 

You’re convinced the two of you are one sarcastic comment away from a physical altercation when a comment stops you both in your tracks. “You two remind me of my wife and me,” the elderly baker says cheerfully, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron as he rings your orders up.

You almost choke. “Oh, we’re not—”

“—Not like that,” Oscar says at the same time, voice a little too sharp.

The baker chuckles, clearly not convinced, and hands over the bags stuffed with pastries. Oscar wordlessly pulls out his wallet, shoving a tip into the jar. Way more than necessary.

You raise an eyebrow as you step outside. “Generous.”

“Guilt tax,” Oscar mutters.

You open your mouth to poke at that—because honestly, it’s too easy—but then you catch the look on his face. Not exactly regretful. More like… determined. Stubborn. That same look he gets right before a race starts when he’s locked in.

For the first time all morning, you wonder if maybe you’re not the only one trying to pretend things don't matter as much as they do.

The walk back to the beach house is quiet, the smell of warm bread thick between you. Just as the house comes back into view, Oscar clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice lower, realer. “About yesterday. The team games.”

You pause.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry,” he says. 

You glance over. Oscar’s staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the brown paper bag of doughnuts. The one he’d bitched about but still got. 

You let a beat pass. Then: “I accept your apology, But,” you add, grinning, “I’m still gonna tease you forever about getting weird over Lando’s hoodie.”

He lets out a groan of pure suffering. “I wasn’t being weird.” 

“You know,” you say, voice casual, “if it’s that big a deal, I wouldn’t mind wearing one of yours.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You head towards the house, pastries in tow, leaving Oscar spluttering behind you.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, you realize. You haven’t flirted with Oscar the same way you do with Lando, out of fear that you would simply keel over and give up at first sight of the Australian’s blush. But it’s easier than you thought, and nothing amuses you more than the reddened tips of Oscar’s ears when he comes in after you.

After breakfast, you retreat upstairs for some air. You open your door and stop short.

Sitting neatly on your bed is a hoodie. Folded almost too carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave it at all.

On top, a scrap of paper, the ink a little smudged:

Keep your word. — o.p.

Just like that, he’s back to having that one-up on you. 

You hastily pull off Lando’s hoodie and tug on Oscar’s without thinking. The sleeves swallow your hands; the fabric is warm in a recently-got-ironed kind of way, and it smells faintly of soap and sunscreen.

Is it too late to keel over? 

The pool gleams under the sun, finally coaxed into full operation after a solid day of half the team fighting with buttons and levers. Someone’s pulled out a portable sound mixer. Someone else has brought out mocktails. The air buzzes with a rare, lazy kind of joy.

You’re sitting on a deck chair, wrapped up in Oscar’s hoodie, sipping something neon pink through a straw. Honestly, it’s too warm to be in a hoodie, but you’ll be damned to not ‘keep your word’. Besides, the knowing smile that Oscar tries to fight is worth the sweat on your back. 

One of your co-workers, Chloe, plops down next to you.

“This is not very hot girl summer of you,” she whines, tugging at Oscar’s hoodie like a child. 

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a perfectly fine hoodie, Chlo.” 

“You know what would be even more fine? The bikini sitting at the bottom of your suitcase.” 

“Did you rummage through—” 

“Tomato, tomato. Put on the damn swimsuit you bought specifically for this trip!” Chloe punctuates the threat with a pointed look. The kind that says, Don’t make me drag you. You have no doubts she’d do it, too, so you set down your drink with a groan of dramatic reluctance. 

“If I get sunburnt, I’m blaming you,” you grumble as she cheers and practically shoves you back into the house. 

In your room, you peel off the hoodie and shorts before swapping them for the bikini—a simple black two-piece that suddenly feels much more revealing now that you actually have to walk back out in it. 

The chatter quiets a fraction when you step out. Not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that Lando’s eyebrows climb a little higher than normal. Even Oscar’s head turns, his lips parting slightly in what might be surprise if he wasn’t quick enough in hiding it.

“Finally decided to join the rest of us mortals,” Lando crows, tossing a beach ball between his hands. “Looking good, admin.”

You roll your eyes but can’t quite fight the smile tugging at your mouth. Before you can even think about easing into the pool like a normal person, Lando and Oscar exchange a look. A look you recognize all too late.

“Don’t you dare—” you’re starting, but it doesn’t matter. 

Too late.

Lando goes low, grabbing you by the ankles. Oscar effortlessly hauls you up with strong arms through your middle. You’re swung around a bit for good measure, and then you’re airborne for half a heartbeat before crashing into the pool with a splash.

The water is warm from the sun, but it still shocks the breath out of you. You surface, sputtering, as Lando and Oscar double over with laughter. Everyone else watches on with the same amusement, knowing the boys’ tendencies for mischief when they were in a particular mood. 

“You absolute menaces,” you declare, wiping water from your face. “I think I twisted my ankle, man.”

Oscar’s laughter cuts off instantly. “Wait, seriously?” His brow furrows, and before you can blink, he’s crouched at the edge of the pool, leaning down to get a closer look.

“Which one?” he asks, already reaching to haul you out.

You grab his outstretched hand and yank.

Oscar yelps—an actual, undignified yelp—as you drag him headfirst into the water beside you.

He resurfaces, blinking water from his lashes, completely betrayed. “You—”

You’re already laughing, kicking away from him. 

“That’s for the sack race comment!” you crow, paddling backward.

He shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “I thought we were past that,” he calls out, splashing water in your eyes. You retaliate before attempting to dart away. 

The afternoon blurs into sun-drenched chaos. People drift in and out of the pool, mock battles and splash wars springing up as naturally as breathing. The laughter is loud, the water warm, and for a while, everything feels suspended, easy.

Mid-afternoon, someone shouts “Chicken fight!” and it's immediately game on. Chloe clambers onto Oscar’s shoulders without hesitation, while you tread water nearby, laughing at the whole ridiculousness of it.

Before you can react, strong hands wrap around your waist.

“My turn, love,” Lando announces triumphantly, already hoisting you up onto his shoulders. “You were on Oscar’s team last time. You’re mine now.” 

You squeal, half from shock, half from trying to stay balanced as Lando’s hands steady you by your thighs. Your heart stumbles a little. His grip is firm, his fingers warm and sure against the hem of your bikini bottoms. 

You catch Oscar looking at you from below Chloe, his gaze a little too intense for something as stupid as a pool game. Your stomach flips uneasily.

Focus, you tell yourself. This is supposed to be fun.

It’s fun to have Chloe lunge at you, her giggles bright as she sinks her nails into your sunburnt shoulders. It’s fun to have Lando moving underneath you, shouting up reassurances like get her and that’s my girl. It’s fun to feel Oscar watching your every move, and not because he’s strategizing. 

You thread your fingers through Lando’s hair as Chloe tries to push you backward. Lando’s hands shift slightly higher on your thighs, nearly underneath your bikini. Maybe by accident, maybe not. You feel the difference immediately. An inch more of skin under his touch, a flash of heat that makes your breath catch.

You’re still trying to process that when, all of a sudden, Lando jerks underneath you with a loud “Oof!” and sinks halfway underwater.

Chloe shrieks in laughter, nearly tumbling off Oscar.

You slide off Lando’s shoulders in the commotion, landing back in the water with a splash. As you surface, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, looking absolutely unapologetic as he pulls back his leg. 

Lando pops up a moment later. He’s wheezing, his hands clasped over his swim shorts. “What the hell, Osc!” he rasps, the sound punched out of him after being ungraciously kneed in the groin. 

Oscar shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Slipped.”

You cough out a laugh, half in disbelief. Chloe floats past you, cackling.

Lando glares at Oscar, but that eventually cracks into a grin. “C’mere, you,” the Brit coos, lunging for his co-driver. Before his head can be shoved down, Oscar throws you a wink—quick, private.

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun overhead, and you duck underwater before anyone can comment on it.

That day’s dinner stretches into the warm evening, the long table lined with empty plates, half-drunk glasses of wine, and the low hum of conversation. The sun dips lower, casting everything in a syrupy, forgiving glow. It feels almost perfect, if not for the gnawing restlessness you can’t quite name.

For once, neither Lando nor Oscar are by your side.

Lando leans back in his chair, laughing at something one of the engineers says, his fingers curled around a sweating can of soda. Oscar is farther down the table, deep in a serious discussion with one of the strategists, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way.

You’re free to breathe, to think. It’s then that the reality of the summer settles in, heavy and unrelenting.

Everyone’s been talking about it in hushed tones when they think the drivers aren’t listening. 

Will Lando stay with McLaren? After years of loyalty, of being the heart and soul of the team, will he finally walk away for a shot at something different, something better? 

And Oscar—Oscar, who’s no longer just the promising rookie but the reigning World Champion—faces the brutal weight of defending everything he’s fought for. Will he make it? Will he relent, or will he be something greater than what was expected of him? 

You can feel it thrumming under every casual exchange, every shared joke. The quiet tug-of-war. The clash of futures neither of them are quite ready to admit they want different things from.

And yet, somehow, it’s you who feels pulled taut between them.

Lando catches your eye across the table and winks. Easy, breezy, the same way he always has. He makes it seem as if there’s nothing complicated about any of this.

Almost immediately after, Oscar glances up from his conversation and smiles at you. Soft and crooked, like you’re the one safe thing in a world that’s otherwise slipping sideways.

Your chest tightens.

You’re caught, but you don't even know what in. Caught between loyalty and ambition. Between the comfort of what’s always been and the thrill, the fear, of what might change. Between two boys who are friends, rivals, teammates and something else you’re not sure you want to name.

You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and wonder when exactly this summer stopped feeling endless and started feeling like a ticking clock.

The summer heat is clinging to everything. It’s the kind that demands you do something, anything before you’re swallowed whole.

Plans start to splinter over breakfast.

“Surf’s up,” Oscar says, tossing a board into the back of one of the jeeps. The sun catches in his hair, making him look unfairly effortless. “Who’s in?”

“Or,” Lando calls out from the kitchen, a trail of crumbs following his words, “we could do something that doesn’t involve dying under a wave. There’s a sick hiking trail up the cliffs. Views are unreal.”

There’s a beat, and then the divide begins. Some of the team flock toward Oscar, lured by the thrill of the ocean; others gravitate to Lando, drawn to the promise of a rugged adventure.

You stand in the middle, heart hammering a little too hard for something that’s supposed to be casual. Supposed to be fun.

It feels like a metaphor you’re not ready to face.

“You’re not coming?” Lando asks, mock-offended, pulling a pout that would be funny if it didn’t make something in your chest ache. “Gonna miss you,” he adds, lighter, teasing.

Oscar, carrying two boards now, smirks over his shoulder. “Guess she’s tired of babysitting you, Lan.”

You force a laugh you don't quite feel. “Maybe I just need a break from both of you.”

They both react predictably. Lando clutches his heart in fake agony, Oscar shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. You don’t wait for more. You duck back into the house, the coolness of the shaded hallway swallowing you up.

For the first time in days, you’re alone.

You wonder if choosing yourself is just another way of choosing at all.

You spend the afternoon alone, and it’s a kind of peace you didn’t realize you needed.

The beach house creaks with the slow, easy rhythm of the ocean breeze. You move from room to room without urgency. Sometimes reading on the porch, sometimes just watching the water glitter beyond the dunes.

By the time the sun starts to slip lower, you hear footsteps, wet and clumsy on the deck. Oscar appears first, his wetsuit peeled down to his waist. Sand dusting his hair and shoulders, water still dripping from his grin.

You laugh despite yourself. “Come here,” you say, the affection leaking into your tone before you can hold it back.

Oscar ambles over, letting you reach up and card your fingers through his messy hair, brushing the sand out with a few playful tugs. His gaze is steady on yours, warm enough that you have to focus on some nondescript point past him to hide the way your face heats.

“Had fun?” you ask for the sake of asking. 

He raises his shoulders in a shrug, his eyes never leaving your face. “Could have been more fun,” he says simply, his words loaded with implication you’re not about to confront. 

Oscar opens his mouth to say something else—

The door swings open again. Loud. Dramatic.

Lando stumbles in with a theatrical groan, one hand clutching his shin. “Ow. Ow. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

You arch a brow. “You’re so full of it,” you accuse, dropping your hands from Oscar’s hair. 

“Seriously,” he insists, dragging himself toward the couch like he’s reenacting the third act of a war movie. “Tragic end to a heroic hike.”

You roll your eyes but motion him over anyway, reaching for the first aid kit you know is stashed under the side table. When Lando props his leg up, you find a scrape. Minor. Nothing to justify the Oscar-worthy performance.

Still, you crouch beside him, carefully dabbing at the cut.

“Big baby,” you mutter.

Lando grins, completely unashamed. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You look up, catching the cheeky glint in his eye. The very obvious satisfaction of having pulled your attention away from Oscar.

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

Lando snickers. Oscar, toweling off his hair nearby, watches the exchange with a faint shake of his head. A half-smile tugs at his mouth like he can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

You tape a bandage neatly over Lando’s scrape, pretending not to feel the weight of both of their gazes pressing into you from opposite ends of the room.

The bonfire crackles in the pit, casting gold onto every face circled around it. You’re seated between Oscar and Lando—close enough that your knees brush both of theirs. It wasn’t planned. Just the way the night unfolded. Just the way they looked at you when you arrived, and the way neither of them moved an inch as you lowered yourself into the space between.

Lando’s been chatty all evening, but now his voice takes on a teasing edge.

“So,” he says, leaning back on his palms. “You seeing anyone?”

“That’s direct,” you hum, gaze focused on the s’more in front of you that won’t cooperate. 

He grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I’m just saying. You’ve been dodging the topic for, what, four summers now?”

Oscar shifts beside you. Just barely.

“You always seem very invested in my love life,” you comment, though you can already feel your heart picking up.

“I’m invested in you,” Lando says plainly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Oscar lets out a sound that might’ve been a scoff. “Back off, mate.”

The air thins like someone’s turned off the music. Everything goes on around the three of you, but in this little corner of the bonfire, something blaze and burns in a different way. 

Lando raises a brow, turning toward Oscar. “What? We’re just talking.”

Oscar doesn’t meet his gaze. “You’re grilling her,” he grunts, shoving his stick into the sand with uncharacteristic force. 

“I’m curious.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Okay,” you interject. “Let’s not fight over me like I’m some prize, yeah?”

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees now, attention swinging back to you. “We’re not fighting.”

Oscar speaks without looking. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You look between them. Their faces both angled toward the fire now, lit in shifting amber tones. There it is again—the live wire of tension crackling between the two of them, beneath Lando’s wicked smirk and Oscar’s bouncing knee. 

Except it’s not about racing, now, is it? 

Lando taps your knee, snapping you out of your thoughts. “So? Are you?”

You chuckle, deflecting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Oscar huffs beside you. Lando chuckles.

The laughter and music swell again. But nothing really returns to normal.

It’s an uneasy thought that makes a home in your bones all the way until the next day. The morning sun streams through the sheer curtains, lighting the hallway in a sleepy glow. Your footsteps are slow against the wooden floor as you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, the house quiet save for distant clinks of coffee mugs.

You nearly bump into Oscar rounding the corner. His hair’s a mess, still damp from the shower, and there’s a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning,” he greets. “Didn’t think I’d run into you before the chaos starts.”

You frown, still foggy from sleep. “What chaos?”

He blinks, then breaks out into a wider smile. Amused, fond. “You forgot?”

You stare at him, confused, until it hits you.

The annual sand rail race.

Every summer, tucked into the off-season downtime, it’s the one competition that’s just for bragging rights. The leaderboard is even scrawled on a whiteboard in the garage, a running tally of victories and sore losers. So far, it’s 2-2. Lando and Oscar locked in their own personal tie.

Oscar watches the realization dawn on your face. “Right,” you murmur. “Race day.”

“Mm.” He studies you for a beat. “Hey.”

You glance up at him.

“I know you’re not a prize to be won,” he says, voice a little quieter now. “That’s not what this is.”

You nod slowly, watching him. You don’t know where this conversation is going. You’re not sure if you want to know. 

“But, uhm…” He trails off, his gaze flicking down to the walls before finding your eyes again. “I hope you’ll be rooting for me.”

The sheer sincerity of it nearly bowls you over. It’s not a command, not an order. It’s a wistful invitation, a shy confession made by a man who typically knew how to ask for anything else. But this was not a weekend off or a car upgrade. Hell, it wasn’t even anything consequential—not a date, not anything like that. 

Just for you to root for him. And yet he asks for it as if it’s something that matters, that makes everything do-or-die, and you wish it didn’t affect you as much as it does. 

You put on a front. You tilt your head, lips tugging up despite the hammering of your heart underneath your ribs. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you bring me coffee before the race.”

Oscar scoffs. “Bribery. Noted.”

But he’s smiling as he passes you, his shoulder brushing yours. And there’s coffee waiting for you when you get to the kitchen, poured into the mug that Oscar has repeatedly claimed as his. 

You sip from it, feeling the weight of the day shift. Something in the air is charged. Not just about the race, but everything teetering around it.

The sand rail track near the house buzzes with energy as the McLaren staff and team trickle in, excitement thrumming in the air. Someone brings a clipboard to track the bets. Within minutes, a frenzy of numbers and names clutters the surface. Playful taunts echo between the team members, each person rooting for either Lando or Oscar with a kind of fervor usually reserved for proper race days.

You slip your own bet into the mix quietly. You don't reveal it when one of the engineers presses you for an answer. You just shake your head and let them assume whatever they want. After all, it feels a little too intimate, too weighted, to share out loud.

When you make your way to the sidelines, Lando catches your eye. His grin is crooked, and he tosses you a flying kiss as he climbs into his sand rail buggy, helmet tucked under his arm. Oscar, a few meters away, adjusts his gloves with practiced ease, the sharp set of his jaw betraying his focus.

The start is as lawless as you would expect from the two of them.

Engines roar to life with a guttural snarl, tires kicking up dry sand as they lurch forward. Lando takes an aggressive line right off the bat, cutting tight against the first corner, his buggy tilting precariously before settling.

Oscar, ever the tactician, plays it smoother. He hangs back just enough to find a cleaner line, aiming for consistency instead of showmanship. His turns are precise, efficient, the kind of calculated risk that usually pays dividends on the track.

But Lando—Lando races like the world might end tomorrow. 

His buggy dances across the sand, skimming close to the edge of control. His reckless daring makes your stomach twist with nerves and awe in equal measure.

Lap after lap, they trade the lead in a blur of flying sand and roaring engines. The track isn't long, but it’s rough and unforgiving, peppered with bumps and hairpin turns.

On the final lap, it’s neck and neck. You can feel the tension in the crowd, everyone leaning forward unconsciously, breath held. Money is on the line, sure, but so is pride. And something else, something you’re not ready to admit. 

Oscar has the inside line on the last major turn. Lando guns it anyway, swinging wide, almost off-track—only to slingshot past in the final straight with a burst of speed that has everyone screaming.

Lando crosses the makeshift finish line a second ahead of Oscar. He throws his arms up in victory even before the sand settles. 

The cheers are deafening.

You clap along with everyone else, and your heart pounds for reasons that have nothing to do with the race itself.

Later, the house is alive with celebration. 

The playlist is one of Lando’s favorites, and a cooler filled with drinks appears out of nowhere. Lando is hoisted onto someone’s shoulders for a victory lap around the deck, soaking in the glory. Everyone is loud, laughing, riding the high of a race that felt more like a championship showdown than a friendly bout.

Oscar is nowhere to be seen. 

You slip away from the noise, letting the sound of celebration blur into the background. The beach dock stretches out ahead, wooden planks weathered and warm beneath your feet. There, at the edge, Oscar sits with his feet dangling just above the water, his arms braced behind him as he stares out at the horizon.

You wordlessly sit beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence settle for a beat.

“I should’ve had that,” Oscar mutters, his voice low and rough. He doesn't look at you. He’s not usually the type to take unkindly to losses; he’s always the type to make some comment about wanting to finish one place higher whenever he’s P2, but he doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t wallow. 

He does tonight. You don’t know why. 

“You almost did,” you offer, and Oscar scoffs. 

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You pull your legs up, crossing them underneath you. “It’s a bummer,” you concede. “Especially now that I’m fifteen dollars down ‘cause of you.” 

That earns a glance. His brows lift, eyes searching your face. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You asked me to bet on you, didn’t you?” 

Oscar huffs a laugh, but there’s something soft behind it. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

It plays out like a movie scene, like something you’d imagined time and time again as some sort of maladaptive daydream. You’re frozen, focused on the way Oscar looks underneath the moonlight. How he shifts imperceptibly closer. How he leans in soundlessly, as if he might scare the moment otherwise. 

Your eyes flutter close. 

And then—

“CANNONBALL!”

Your eyes snap open just in time. Lando sails over both your heads in a blur of tanned limbs and unchecked chaos, crashing into the water with an explosive splash. Saltwater sprays over you and Oscar, dousing the moment in cold.

You yelp, shielding your face too late, and Oscar jerks back, blinking in disbelief.

Lando resurfaces with a triumphant whoop, grinning brightly. “Did I interrupt something?” he calls, treading water with the ease of someone completely unbothered.

Oscar wipes his face with a groan. “Go to hell, man.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as your heart is still hammering in your chest.

The moment’s gone, but it lingers in the edges, in the way Oscar’s hand almost finds yours again on the dock, in the way you both glance toward the water and then back at each other, unsure of what comes next. Lando, dripping in seawater and drunk on his earlier victory, pulls everybody in for a swim.

You follow, hopeful it will help you forget.

It doesn’t.

The beach house quiets into the low hum of waves and the distant buzz of the crickets outside. Most everyone is asleep or pretending to be. You toss and turn, too wired to drift off, your mind replaying the moment by the dock on a loop: Oscar’s closeness, the soft look in his eyes, the way he leaned in like gravity had decided for the both of you. 

Until Lando, in all his chaotic timing, had crashed down from the sky like a rogue asteroid.

Eventually, you give up. You throw on a hoodie—not Oscar’s, not Lando’s, just your own—and pad into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under your steps. The fridge hums gently in the corner, and you pull out a glass, filling it with water from the tap.

You don’t notice Lando until he speaks.

"Can’t sleep either?"

He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless, a half-eaten packet of biscuits in one hand. His hair’s a mess and there’s a kind of easy, rare quiet around him.

You start, nearly dropping your glass. Squint at Lando through the darkness of the kitchen, you can’t help but hiss, “Why are you just standing there in the dark?”

“I like the dramatic effect.”

“Well, congrats. You scared me.”

He waves a biscuit like a peace offering. “Want one?”

You shake your head, and he shrugs before popping it in his mouth. There’s a moment of silence, the kind that teeters between awkward and intimate. Then Lando tilts his head at you, chewing slowly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Your lips pull into a frown. “What kind of secret?”

He pushes off the counter and walks over. He doesn’t comment when your eyes flick over to his toned abdomen or his bare shoulders; if anything, the way he leans against the island across you means he wants you to keep looking. “Two secrets, actually,” he says conspiratorially. 

You raise your eyebrows, intrigued. In the dark kitchen, you can make out the beginnings of Lando’s toothy smile. He knows he has you hook, line, sinker. 

He holds up one finger. “First, I only just realized this summer that you—” He gestures vaguely in your direction, then clears his throat. “You’re actually really pretty. Like, ridiculously. And I don’t know if that’s new or if I’ve just been blind.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“I’m serious. Hey, look at me.” His eyes are surprisingly intense as he forces you to hold his gaze, willing it purely through sincerity alone. “You’re attractive. I’m not about to deny that fact just because you don’t want to hear it.” 

Your mouth feels dry. Your palms feel clammy. You suddenly wish you’d just slept off your unease.

“Second secret,” he continues, tone shifting. There’s something much more serious, now. Something consequential. “Except you can’t tell a soul. I mean it.” 

“Norris, I swear—” 

“There’s an email from another team,” Lando divulges, as casually as he might comment on the weather, “burning a hole in my phone.” 

There had been whispers, of course. In the paddock. In the McLaren garage. In the media room. Anywhere and everywhere Lando Norris’ name existed. 

Someone reported that it was Red Bull. A strategist ran numbers and alleged it was Mercedes. 

But there had been no confirmation, no slip-up from the managers or team principals. Negotiations were made behind closed doors. Decisions trickled down after the fact, and rarely were people like you aware before the news was already meant to break. 

Now, though, you find your stomach twisting as Lando stares at you through the darkness. He suddenly feels much like the sand outside this beach house—slipping right through your fingers. 

“Are you leaving?” you manage. 

He looks at you for a long beat, assessing the question you’ve decided to ask, then smiles faintly.

“Dunno yet,” he says. “Guess I’m waiting for something worth staying for.”

The air stills around you. For a moment, the two of you only look at each other, trapped in this summertime snow globe of indecision. The only sounds are the gentle clink of the glass as you set it down—the weight of it suddenly too heavy for your quivering fingers—and the ocean beyond the walls. The one that has seen you through four years of summers with Lando and Oscar. 

“What does that mean?” you exhale, even though you already have some idea. 

Lando grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re smart,” he says. Not in a taunt, but in a matter-of-fact way. “You’ll figure it out.”

He bites into another biscuit, winks, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the world’s most damning secret. 

You’re in your head for most of the next day.

Lando’s words keep circling back, like a tide you can't fight: Something worth staying for. You wish he’d said it with a little less charm, a little less Lando. But he hadn’t. He’d said it with that easy smile, the one that hides how serious he might be underneath. The one that makes it impossible to tell whether he means any of it or all of it. 

So now you’re stuck with it. The way he looked at you in the dim kitchen light. The way he popped another biscuit into his mouth like he hadn’t just handed you a loaded gun and walked off, not even watching his back to see if you’d shoot him.

Everything feels sideways. Every time you pass him in the hallway, your pulse does something stupid. Every laugh over breakfast, every casual brush of his arm against yours. It’s like something has shifted. Something that makes your skin buzz.

And Oscar feels it.

You know he does because he’s been trying to catch you alone all day. In the kitchen, during meals, on the walk down to the beach. But you keep dodging, not even consciously. You’re just not ready to talk about what almost happened. Not while the words worth staying for keep ringing in your ears.

By the time the sun dips low and the smell of dinner wafts through the beach house, Oscar gives up. He stops chasing, stops looking for the right moment.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He sits across the room that night, slouched into the cushions, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in half an hour. There’s something quiet in his posture, something that reads like retreat. His gaze is soft when it finds yours.

No longer searching, just lingering. Like he’s memorizing you before something ends.

And you? You’re still stuck, still wondering what Lando saw in you last night that made him say it. It’s driving you crazy, and you refuse to let it give you any more grief beyond the time you’ve already dwelled on it. 

The tide whispers in and out as you jog along the wet sand, trailing the shape of Lando’s footprints.

You see him before he sees you. His silhouette cutting through the misted sun, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls damp with sweat. He’s always moved like this, light on his feet, like running is more instinct than effort.

“Lando,” you call out, voice too loud in the quiet.

He slows. “Morning,” he greets, brows arching as you fall in beside him, breathless and determined. It’s the second to the last day of the week-long retreat. A little over 24 hours since Lando entrusted you with the two halves of his heart. 

You don’t stutter. “I can’t be the reason you stay.”

That stops him. Full stop, mid-stride. His breath clouds between you. “Whoa. You’ve been stewing on that all this time?” 

“I don’t want that on me,” you insist. “If you stay, it has to be for the team. For you. For Osc—Piastri.”

Lando blinks. Then, his face breaks out into a knowing grin, curling around your sincerity. Not to snuff it out, but more to let it take hold. 

“You really thought I was serious?” he says, half-laughing. “I was mostly joking. Kind of.”

You cross your arms. Lando is deflecting, trying to make it seem less than it really is, but you’re not about to call him out. 

He runs a hand through his curls, then looks at you—really looks. The same way Oscar had last night, as if he’s trying to figure out which parts of you he can beg and barter for. 

“I don’t think I’m done here,” he admits, decides. “I think I can still get a couple more championships with McLaren.” 

A relieved sigh escapes you. “Okay, that’s—” 

“And as for my other secret,” he interrupts, his hands planting on his hips. His tone is lighter, but his words are not any less cutting. “There’s always gonna be something between you and Osc, huh?” 

You freeze. 

You’d almost forgotten that. The ‘secret’ of Lando realizing you’re attractive, of him seeing you some other way than what you’re accustomed to. You try to stutter out some bullshit excuse, only to realize you had two hoodies to choose from today, and the one you’re wearing is not Lando’s. 

His words land heavier than his tone suggests, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he flashes a grin and steps back, putting space between you. Just enough to see if you’ll pull him back in.

You don’t.

“Go ahead. Have your fun with him,” Lando says. Easy, breezy. “But when I get that WDC, I’m coming back to collect.”

He’s gone before you can respond, before you can discern if his words are a threat or a promise. Sand kicks up behind him as he disappears into the dawn. McLaren’s golden boy, setting course for the sun. 

That night, the energy is heavy and sparkling—like the last few drops of something good that's about to run out.

The group piles into the living room, a mess of sunburnt faces and half-drunk laughter. Everyone is tangled up in cushions and throw blankets. An empty bottle of vodka spins over the floor, clinking against the hardwood as it points and wobbles. The rules are easy: truth or dare, no take backs, no running away.

You’re trying not to stare at Oscar.

You’ve spent the better part of the day trying to catch him alone. Every time you moved toward him, he moved away, so you gave up after a while. You couldn’t blame him. You hadn’t exactly made yourself easy to reach lately, and he had his pride.

The bottle spins again. Spins and spins.

Eventually, it teeters to a stop and points squarely at Oscar.

A whoop goes up from the group. Someone slurs, “Truth or dare, Piastri!”

“Truth,” he answers, tongue already heavy and words just a bit slurred. 

Someone from accounting leans forward, grinning wickedly. “Have you ever had a crush on someone from McLaren?”

It’s the sort of drunk, easy question everyone expects to be laughed off. Everyone expects some half-hearted dodge, some teasing deflection.

But Oscar doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says simply, his eyes steady.

Laughter ripples through the room. Someone shouts, “Who?!”

And then. 

And then. 

Oscar’s gaze finds you across the crowd, unwavering. The whole room feels like it tilts sideways. 

You forget how to breathe.

He says your name. You’re tipsy, but you’re fairly sure of it. Your name has always sounded different when Oscar said it. 

The room goes still for a moment before exploding into hoots and teasing cheers. “Mate,” Lando crows at his side, half-drunk and loud, “you’ve noticed the glow-up too, huh? She’s different this summer, right?”

Oscar frowns, almost like he doesn’t understand the joke. You feel every molecule of air between you stretch thin.

His next words are an absentminded mumble, almost lost to the clamor of activity in the circle. 

“It’s not just this summer,” he says to no one in particular. 

You don’t know what to do with your hands. With your heart. With the way Oscar is looking at you like you hung the stars. 

Has he always looked at you like this? 

You’re not sure who moves first. The bottle spins again. More shots get passed around. This is the part of the summer you’d been waiting for. 

Knowing something has shifted. Knowing nothing is ever going to feel quite the same again.

Oscar groans the moment he sits down at breakfast, squinting at his plate like it’s personally offended him. You offer him an Aspirin and a sympathetic grin. 

“Rough night?” 

He scowls half-heartedly as he rubs at his temples. “Who even brought out the tequila?”

“That would be you,” you inform him brightly, plucking a piece of toast from his plate.

You fall into a companionable silence as the rest of the team trickles in, blurry-eyed and sun-kissed from too much fun. Packing starts soon. The last full day hangs heavy, sweet with goodbyes not yet said.

Later, as you help Oscar load his things into the boot of his car, the air between you shifts. Enough to make you slow down. You fold up a beach towel, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

You’re both dragging your feet through the sand, both trying to extend this moment before you’re thrown back into the whirlwind of race weekends and media obligations. 

“Hey, uh,” he starts tentatively, “about last night. The game. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

You blink, confused. “Disrespectful?” 

“Yeah.” He tongues the inside of his cheek, looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. “You know, since you and Lando are—you know.” 

No, you don’t know. You’re not sure where the wrong impression might’ve landed, but you figure it’s somewhere between the day you spent ignoring Oscar and your lackluster reaction to his drunken admission. 

“We’re not,” you say, your words tripping over each other in their haste. “Lando and I—we’re not.” 

Oscar lifts a brow. “Really?” 

“Really,” you confirm, heart stammering now. You look down at your feet, breathe in the oceanside one last time, and you make a choice.

“I, um. I’ve liked you for a while, actually,” you manage. “I just didn’t think you felt the same. And I don’t expect anything now, I mean—people say things when they’re drunk, and—” 

Oscar Piastri wants it on record: gravity has nothing to do with him kissing you. The choice is all his. His desperation, his yearning, his urge to quiet the doubts that threaten to bubble out of you. 

It’s a quick thing. Over before you can properly respond. His cheeks are red as he pulls back; it has nothing to do with the sun. 

There’s something serious in his gaze. Something soft. “I was drunk, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes still fixed on your lips. “I’ve thought you were beautiful since the day I met you at MTC.” 

You open your mouth, but all that escapes is a quiet, stunned breath.

“And, fuck, okay,” he exhales nervously, “I think I want more than just summers with you.” 

You don’t overthink it. You lean in, hands curling into the front of his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper, and then you’re pulling him in to kiss him again, for longer, for more.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The house is half-empty by the time you're saying your see you laters, the air thick with that bittersweet ache that always clings to the end of something golden. People are hugging, snapping last-minute selfies, pretending they’re not already thinking about inboxes and deadlines. 

You’re not pretending. Not today.

You’re watching Oscar load the last of the bags into his car, quiet and sure, the way he always moves when he thinks no one’s paying attention. There’s something unmistakable in the way he glances at you, like this week didn’t just change the rhythm of your summer but the shape of something much bigger.

You think about the other summers, the ones you thought were just fun and fleeting. You remember tequila shots Oscar took so you didn’t have to, the quiet way he always offered you the window seat on the flight home. 

That first summer, when he set down his hoodie on the sand so you wouldn’t have to sit on it, and you’d laughed and called him a grandma. 

You hadn’t seen it then. Or maybe you had, but you were too afraid to believe it.

Lando swings by with a backpack slung over his shoulder, squinting at the two of you with that trademark mischief. His eyes flick from you to Oscar, back again. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Just smirks knowingly and claps Oscar on the shoulder.

You grin, wide and wordless, and toss Lando a little wave as he heads for his own ride. Thank you, it says. For not making it weird. For always knowing.

Lando waves back at you. It’s strategic, too. His phone is in his hand, the screen angled towards you. You catch the glimpse of his Mail app being open. How there’s nothing unread in it, how he makes his own choice at the same time that you do. 

Your attention is drawn back to Oscar when he clears his throat. “You, uh, still need a ride?” he asks with feigned calmness. 

You lift a brow, biting back a giddy grin. “You’re going the complete opposite direction.”

“Roads are roads,” he says, like it’s that simple.

And, somehow, it is.

You slide into the passenger seat, folding your legs up as Oscar starts the engine. The breeze curls in through the open windows. It smells like salt, and sun, and something you never want to forget.

The road curves away from the coast, and still, summer clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. For the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what’s on the other side of it.

Oscar glances at you as you stick one hand out the window, letting the breeze slip between your fingers. You hadn’t noticed it then, but you do now. How he looks at you, how he saves smiles for you. 

How roads are roads, and all of yours have led to him. ⛐

[rafeovermorals]

overstimulating joel until he cums. again.

content: oral (m receiving), joel is 61 and has a hard time keeping up with his much younger girlfriends sex drive, use of daddy, slight dubcon

a/n: this is how im choosing to cope with this scene, okay? i can’t help that he looks hot as fuck.

joel was too worn out to move.

chest heaving, mouth quivering, all he could do was lay there and watch you take from him.

you were such a greedy lil’ thing, one round was never enough. so eager and needy. always wanting more, like you wouldn’t last a day without his cock.

he kept up with you as best as he could for a man his age, making sure to stay in shape so he that maintained his stamina, but it only got him so far.

it was a guilty reminder— he was old. you were young. nothin’ he could change about that. he already ran through the small supply of viagra he was able to get ahold of weeks ago, which left him at your mercy.

even after a long day of patrol he came home and fucked you every night, just like you wanted. what was left of his energy he thrusted deep into your cunt with his seed to prove it, giving you a kiss on the cheek before pulling out and turning onto his back to go to sleep.

it had been a while since you went down on him. he didn’t have much control on when or how often he got hard, so when he was he used those moments inside of you.

except joel didn’t realize how much you missed him in your mouth, so badly that you needed it.

as he rolled off of you to his side of the bed, you noticed how his cock was flushed— coated with your juices and his cum. he was softening but stayed big, thick in girth with graying hairs at the base.

he didn’t have the chance to recover before you had his cock in your hand, sitting on your knees and holding him straight as you licked the shaft.

“baby… what’re y’doin?” he asked timidly, still attempting to control his breaths from cumming just a minute or two prior. you simply responded with a hum, looking up at him through your lashes as you swirled your tongue— tasting yourself on him.

you placed a kiss on his tip, his cock reacting with a throb that pulsed in your grasp. “alright, that’s enough.” he spoke low, a quavering warning for you to stop— but his tone lacked in confidence.

“let me have this, daddy.” as if he had a choice.

you took him into your mouth, lips curling around his cock as you watched his face twist from the sensation.

fucking hell, you were going to be the death of him.

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding while he tried to hold himself back— hold you back. he pushed at your head, attempting to shove you with what little control he had left, but you didn’t budge. you only went further, inching his cock deeper down your throat. he was forced into submission.

joel was so sensitive that he whined from the mix of pain and pleasure, the line blurring the more you swallowed him. “i don’t have anythin’ left in me, honey... gave y’all of it already.” he told you slow, his voice trembling.

you moaned in defiance, mouth stuffed full of his length. you brought a free hand to his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze which made him nearly whimper. you pull away, spit dribbling from the corners of your lip. “can feel that you still got some in here, just gotta get it out, daddy. it’ll feel so much better.”

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as you continued to suck him— bobbing at a teasing speed while you massaged the rest of his length at the same time. he twitched his hips, his body defying his words.

it felt so good that it was hurting him. your throat was beginning to burn due to lack of recent experience, but you were determined for it.

“just couldn’t wait, huh? so cock drunk that y’had to use your old man like this, knowin’ im vulnerable?” you nodded, that familiar ache in your core returning.

he was thinking of all the ways to punish you once you were done— ready to spank you until you cried, maybe edge you if he was feeling mean. he would find a way to make you pay.

joel was determined to give you one more load since you went through all of this to get it. he couldn’t disappoint his girl.

he was so numb that he couldn’t even feel himself getting ready to cum, his eyes glossy and in a state of haze at the sight of you drooling on his thighs.

the warm, soft flesh of your cheeks hollowing in on him brought him to his release, spilling hot, creamy ropes on the pad of your tongue. whenever you thought he was done it didn’t stop— drops still leaking out after you finished.

“better lick me dry honey. since you wanted it so damn bad.”

[soulsnatcha3000]

Let Me In

Remmick x black!fem oc

Summary: The summer night clings thick around Lenora as she hovers at the screen door, drawn to the danger waiting outside. Remmick stands in the dark, all wicked smiles and promises she shouldn’t want. Her family sleeps just feet away, but he leans closer, voice low and sinful, tempting you to break. She knows better, but her body betrays her— and Remmick, all patience gone, is ready to beg for the privilege of ruining her.

Warnings: cunnilings, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), BACKSHOTTTTTS, JUST STRAIGHT FLITHY, he’s MEAN

a/n: had to edit some stuff! sorry for the wait! Hope yall enjoy reading this🫶🏾

dw no drool is mentioned

The screen door sighed.

The porch was bathed in soft, silvered dark, the fields humming with crickets and hidden things. The air hung thick, tasting of dust and something sweeter underneath. Behind me, my family slept on, but i stood frozen at the door.

Waiting.

Remmick leaned against a porch post, lazy in the low light, shirt sleeves rolled, collar loose, like temptation carved into human shape. His eyes found me — slow, deliberate — and he smiled like he had all the time in the world.

“Well, look at you,” he murmured.

I gripped the doorframe tighter, nightgown clinging to your skin in the heat.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” i said, barely above a whisper.

“And yet,” he drawled, tipping his head, “you keep waitin’ for me.”

The screen door bowed as he brushed it with his knuckles, light as a prayer.

“Open up, pretty thing,” he coaxed. “Let’s not pretend either of us got the will to walk away.”

I stayed silent, the air between you thick with all the things neither of you would say.

He leaned in slow, until the world narrowed to the press of his voice against the thrum of my blood.

“I could wait all night,” he whispered. “But you’re the one shakin’, baby.”

My fingers curled tighter into the frame, splinters biting my skin. Every instinct screamed to shut the door, to bolt it tight — but my body, my blood, told a different story.

I leaned in, so close now that the screen barely mattered, so close i could feel his hunger vibrating in the air between you.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’,” i whispered, the words shaking as they left me.

Remmick’s mouth tilted into a half-smile, nothing kind about it. “I know exactly what I’m askin’,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “And you know exactly what you’d give me.”

Slow, deliberate, he dragged his fingertips down the mesh — a rasping sound that made me shudder harder than if he’d touched my bare skin. He watched me, saw the way i pressed my thighs together like i could hold back the flood.

He nodded to my thighs. “You..and those pretty legs of yours…damn sugar I’m getting desperate out here.” He groaned softly.

“You keep pressin them together… do you not realize how crazy you doing that makes me? Thinking about them… wrapped around my waist.. or on my shoulders. Hell even buried in between them.”

I turned away quickly, exhaling shakily, heart pounding against my ribs. He was making this so damn hard.

“I know you think about it too,” he said, voice dropping to something dangerous and hypnotic. “How good it’ll feel… my cock buried so deep inside you wont even be able to think straight.”

“All the different ways I could have you…” he continued, eyes raking over me. “The way my mouth would make you come… again and again… tasting every drop of you.”

I whimpered before I could stop myself, slamming the door shut right in his face, heart racing like I’d just run a marathon.

On the other side, I heard him chuckle — deep, rough, absolutely unbothered.

“I know you’re soaking right now, darlin’,” he said, voice muffled but still dripping with that maddening confidence. “Could smell you from out here. Fuck… just let me in.”

“Go away.” I said as my voice cracked and I could hear him sigh.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night…every night. Until you let me have you.” And as he said that I heard his boots going down the porch steps I let out a sigh turning, as I begin to walk away from the door.

“Nora?” I jumped as I heard the voice of my mother.

“H-hey momma, Whatchu doing up?” I calmed my voice, the conversation I had with remmick still in my head.

“I should be asking you the same thing, you was talking to someone?” She yawned.

“No, just thought I heard something outside and checked real quick. It’s um, it’s nothing there.” I chuckled nervously nodding.

She looked at me suspiciously and then nodded slowly. “Uh huh alright..well at least get some sleep. We gotta open up the shop early.”

I nodded. “Yes ma’am. Good night, I love you.” I smiled softly.

“Love you too honey, night.” She blew a kiss turning the lamp off going back to my father and hers bedroom.

I groaned turning around back to my room. “I need my own damn place.” I closed my door softly, careful not to wake anyone. And got in my bed twisting and turning before falling asleep.

———

The morning sun cut through the kitchen window in soft gold stripes, warming the worn wooden table where she sat peeling potatoes.

My hands worked automatically — knife in one hand, potato in the other — but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

I’ll be back every night… until you let me have you.

His voice still echoed in my head, low and sinful, curling around my thoughts no matter how hard I tried to focus on the day ahead.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead.”

My older brother, Eli, sauntered in, ruffling my hair as he grabbed a biscuit from the tin.

“You were tossing and turning all night. Bad dreams?”

I forced a laugh, nudging him with my elbow.

“Somethin’ like that.”

If only he knew.

Their mother bustled in next, apron already tied, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

“Eat quick,” she said, pushing a plate of eggs toward her. “We open the store in twenty minutes. And don’t let that Mr. Hargrove short you again — I saw him trying to sneak two loaves for the price of one last week.”

“Yes, ma’am,” i said, slipping into the rhythm of it — the comfort of normalcy.

But when i stepped out into the bright morning and crossed the dusty road to the little general store their family owned, a shiver still danced down her spine.

I could almost feel him out there — somewhere beyond the neat rows of houses and the muddy street, hidden in the woods, in the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

————

“Let’s get to work.” James said.

“Got a shipment comin’ in later,” he added on, straightening up with a grunt. “Pa said we gotta restock the sugar and soap.”

“Alright,” I said, tying my apron tighter.

My younger brother James was already stacking crates near the counter, whistling tunelessly.

———

The morning rush had slowed, and I leaned against the counter, dusting flour that I had dropped off my apron.

My younger brother James was sweeping in the corner, and Eli was restocking canned peaches.

I sighed quietly, half to myself.

“Lord, I can’t wait till I have a place of my own someday. Just a little house… no brothers banging around. No early mornings unless I want ‘em.”

James snickered, twirling the broom like a bat.

“Yeah right. You’d miss us in two days.”

I rolled my eyes, but before I could fire back, the door to the storeroom creaked open.

My father stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag, his work shirt stained from unloading crates.

He scratched his jaw, giving me a look that was part serious, part something else she couldn’t read yet.

“You want your own place that bad, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and knowing.

I blinked, caught off guard.

“Well… I mean, one day, sure. Ain’t in a rush.”

He nodded, tossing the rag onto the counter.

“Good thing, then,” he said with a small smile. “Cause I got you one.”

I straightened up, heart thudding.

“What?”

“Little place down on Willow Lane,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Old Mrs. Cartwright’s place — she moved in with her daughter outta town. Rent’s cheap, real cheap. Fixed it up some. Even put in some new furniture — nothin’ fancy, but it’ll do.”

I stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“You serious?”

“I-how did you-.” I was speechless.

He chuckled. “Heard you mumbling to yourself about it last week. And Course I’m serious. You’re grown, sugar. You deserve a space that’s yours. Key’s in my coat pocket if you wanna go see it after supper.”

James dropped the broom with a loud clatter.

“You’re really lettin’ her move out? Just like that?”

My father shrugged.

“She’s twenty-two. Good head on her shoulders. ’Sides, she’s only two streets over. She ain’t runnin’ off to New York.”

Behind her, James let out a squawk and dropped the broom with a loud clatter.

Eli crossed his arms, mock-scowling.

“Hold on now — what about us?” he said, jerking a thumb between himself and James. “When we wanna have the missies over, if you know what I mean?”

James smirked, elbowing him.

“Yeah! No more sneakin’ ‘em past Ma if she’s gone!”

Their father shot them both a hard look that could’ve split stone.

“You bringin’ any missies over while you still live under my roof, you’ll be sleepin’ in the barn. With the hogs.”

The store went dead silent for a beat.

Then James coughed and bent real quick to pick up the broom.

“Just kiddin’, Pa.”

Eli mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “worth askin’ anyway” under his breath.

My heart was beating so hard I thought it might shake me right out of my shoes.

A home.

My own home.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered, throat thick with emotion.

He winked at me and headed back into the storeroom without another word, leaving me standing there stunned, my brothers bickering behind her.

Somewhere deep down, a flicker of fear stirred — because I knew:

When night fell and he came back for me…

I wouldn’t have a house full of family around anymore.

I would be alone.

And I wasn’t sure if that made me scared — or excited.

————

The afternoon sun dipped low, painting long shadows across the store floor.

I wiped my hands clean on a rag, satisfied. Shelves stocked. Counters wiped down. Ledgers tallied. Another day’s work done.

My brothers, as usual, lounged behind the counter, tossing an apple back and forth like it was honest work.

I smirked, tossing the rag aside.

“You two sure work hard,” I drawled, hands on my hips.

James caught the apple with a grin.

“Hey, gotta save our strength for tomorrow.”

“Right,” I said dryly.

Then I spotted my father’s heavy coat hanging near the storeroom.

Heart skipping, i sauntered over and slipped my hand into the front pocket, feeling around until my fingers closed over cool metal.

The key.

I fished it out, holding it up between two fingers like a prize.

It glinted in the fading light.

James and Eli froze mid-apple toss.

“Look what I got,” i said sweetly, twirling the key on its ring.

James groaned dramatically.

“There she goes, big boss already.”

Eli slouched against the counter, face twisted in mock betrayal.

“Don’t forget about us when you’re sittin’ on your fancy porch, drinkin’ lemonade.”

I slipped the key into my skirt pocket with a grin.

“I’ll think of y’all when I’m not hearin’ your big mouths every morning.”

As i headed for the door, Eli suddenly straightened, pointing an accusing finger at me.

“You ever think maybe she just wants her own place so she can be fresh?” he said loudly, looking straight at their father. “You think about that, Pa?”

I stopped dead in my tracks, scandal flashing in my eyes.

“Me fresh?” I scoffed, spinning around with my hand on her hip. “You and that little girlfriend of yours are the fresh ones, Eli! Don’t get me started!”

James howled with laughter, practically collapsing against the counter.

I snapped my gaze to him, narrowing my eyes.

“Oh, you wanna laugh now too, James?” I said sweetly — too sweetly. “I could tell Ma and Daddy exactly what I heard last week.”

James smirked, tossing the apple in the air again.

“Feeding the cows,” he said cockily.

I lifted my chin, deadpan.

“More like feeding something else.”

James’ smirk dropped clean off his face.

His cheeks burned red as he grabbed the nearest thing — a throw pillow off the bench behind him — and hurled it at me.

I dodged it easily, laughing as it thumped harmlessly against the doorframe behind me.

Eli howled with laughter, almost falling over.

Their father just shook his head with a sigh.

“Lord, give me strength,” he muttered, walking back into the storeroom.

I grinned, blowing a kiss at my brothers before grabbing my bag.

“Y’all have a good night now!” I sang as she slipped out the door, the key jangling in my pocket.

————

The door swung shut behind me, the bell jingling softly.

Inside, James and Eli stood frozen, still scowling after her.

James finally muttered, “She better not bring no trouble to that new place.”

Eli snorted.

“Yeah, she actin’ all innocent… watch, she gonna have some slick-talker sneakin’ in through the window first night.”

Before either of them could blink, their father appeared from the back, wiping his hands on a rag.

Whap!

He smacked the back of James’ head with a heavy hand, then Eli’s a second later — hard enough to make them both stumble forward.

“Ow!” James yelped, rubbing the back of his skull.

“What was that for?!” Eli complained, ducking away.

Their father narrowed his eyes at both of them.

“Worry about your own trouble before you run your mouths ‘bout hers,” he said firmly. “And don’t let me catch you bringin’ no fast girls ‘round here neither.”

James and Eli muttered sheepish yes, sirs under their breath, suddenly real interested in counting apples on the counter.

————

Their father just shook his head again and walked off, grumbling under his breath.

“Should’ve bought myself a second barn to lock all of you kids away,” he muttered, clearly fed up.

“And Eli!” he called over his shoulder, not even looking back. “Get your own damn place! You’re 25!”

James snickered loudly, grinning wide.

“Might as well just sleep in the barn, huh?” he teased, elbowing his older brother.

Eli shot him a sharp glare, and punched James’s arm.

“Shut up, James,” Eli snapped, though the bite in his voice was fading.

James rubbed his arm with exaggerated pain, wincing dramatically.

“Ouch! See, that’s why Pops got Nora a place and not you. At least she does her part. While you’re off sneaking around, swapping spit with—” he paused, raising an eyebrow “—who knows what girl this time.”

Eli’s face flushed a deep red, his fists clenching at his sides. His body tensed as if he were about to explode.

“None of your business!” he growled, his voice tight with fury.

Before James could even react, Eli practically launched himself over the counter, his legs swinging as he tried to grab James by the collar.

James yelped, diving out of the way just in time. He dashed across the store, laughing and shouting over his shoulder,

“Too slow, Eli!”

Eli chased after him, his face twisted in frustration and embarrassment, but James was already a few steps ahead, running for his life.

Their father, still in the back, barely glanced up but muttered under his breath,

“Good Lord, not again…”

⸻

The sun had dipped low by the time i reached my new house, a small, neat little thing tucked at the edge of town. The fresh paint on the porch still smelled sharp in the warm evening air.

I stood for a second at the bottom of the steps, clutching the key in my hand, feeling a little knot of nerves and excitement twist in my stomach.

It wasn’t much — a plain wood house with a crooked chimney and a creaky screen door — but it was mines.

I grinned to herself, slipping the key into the lock. It stuck for a second, and i had to jiggle it, but then it gave way with a satisfying click.

The door swung open with a soft groan, and i stepped inside.

The furniture was brand new — well, new enough. A simple table with two mismatched chairs, a sturdy bed tucked into the back room, a little worn couch sitting by the window. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean. And it smelled like wood and fresh linen.

I dropped my bag by the door, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in.

A slow, proud smile pulled at my lips.

“Finally,” I whispered to myself. “A place of my own.”

As I pulled open a window to let the evening breeze in, I swore I felt it — a tingle at the back of her neck. Like I was being watched.

I couldn’t help but shiver a little.

Brushing it off, I shook my head and went back inside.

⸻

I smiled to myself, still glowing with excitement, and wandered toward the little closet in the corner of the bedroom.

Just as I reached for the door, the old rotary phone on the kitchen wall started ringing, the sharp sound making me jump a little.

I hurried over and picked it up, pressing the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?”

My best friend’s voice came bursting through, full of excitement.

“Girl! Are you at your new place yet?!”

I laughed, my nerves instantly easing.

“Yeah, just walked in not too long ago.”

“Good, good,” my friend said, a grin practically heard through the line. “Now, go look in your closet!”

I blinked, confused.

“My closet?”

“Yes, your closet! Go on, I tucked something away for you earlier — and you better not chicken out neither!”

Shaking my head but smiling wide, I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder and padded back across the room. I pulled open the closet door and knelt down, spotting a box I hadn’t noticed before tucked neatly into the corner.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” I said into the receiver, laughing under my breath.

“I know!” My friend said, giggling. “Now open it!”

I set the phone down just long enough to lift the lid. Right on top was a folded piece of paper, my best friend’s messy scrawl across it:

“In case you ever decide you wanna let go of that goody two-shoes thing.”

I shook my head, grinning as I pulled back the tissue paper to reveal a deep burgundy nightgown — soft, delicate, and daring.

I gasped softly, my cheeks warming instantly.

“Delphine!” I called into the phone as she picked it back up.

My best friend just laughed.

“You’ll thank me later! Especially when a certain someone comes knockin’!”

I rolled her eyes, but deep down, I felt a little thrill shoot through me. Maybe I would try it on later — just… to see how it felt.

⸻

After the long day at the store and moving into my new place, I wasted no time.

I gathered a fresh towel, my new nightgown, and slipped into the little bathroom tucked off the side of the bedroom.

The water pressure wasn’t much to brag about, but it was warm, and it soothed the lingering ache in my muscles.

I lathered up with my favorite soap — a soft, rich scent of amber, fresh gardenia, and a kiss of vanilla wrapping around me. It was comforting, familiar, a scent that always made me feel like myself. Clean, sweet, a little bold when you got close enough to notice.

When I finished, I stepped out into the steamy little room, toweling off and slipping into the deep burgundy nightgown my best friend had left for me. It slid over my skin like a whisper, cool and soft, clinging in just the right places.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and blushed — I’d never worn anything so… bold before.

Still, part of me liked it.

I padded barefoot back into my room, the hardwood floors cool under her toes. I was smoothing down the nightgown when i heard it — a faint tapping at her window.

Heart racing, I turned — and there he was.

Leaning against the frame, his arms braced casually, a cocky grin playing on his lips.

The soft red glow in his eyes flickered as he took her in, top to bottom, like he was drinking me in.

A low, appreciative whistle escaped him.

My stomach flipped.

Without thinking, i gave the barest tilt of my head — a small, daring motion — and murmured,

“Come in.”

⸻

The air in the little house felt heavier with him in it — like the walls themselves knew trouble had just stepped across the threshold.

I backed up slowly, my bare feet brushing the worn floorboards as he followed, eyes glowing low and red, like embers that hadn’t yet gone cold.

I reached the bed first, the hem of my silk nightgown swaying with the movement. His gaze dropped, slow and unapologetic.

“All this for me, huh?” he drawled, voice low and teasing, a rough edge in it that made my knees wobble.

I smirked, cocking my head as i rested one hand on my hip. “Maybe,” i said, coy and even. “You still think I’m sweet?”

He chuckled under his breath, stepping closer. “Sweet?” he murmured, reaching for my hand, pulling her gently toward him. “Darlin’, I think you’re somethin’ else entirely.”

He caught my chin between his fingers, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed along my jaw, his eyes locked on mines like he could see straight through the teasing.

Then he leaned down — not rushed, not hungry just yet — and kissed me. Deep and slow. Like a promise.

My fingers curled in his shirt. My breath hitched, lips parting to meet his again before I pulled back just enough to whisper:

“What happened to all that talk the other night?”

He laughed low, foreheads pressed together.

“Talk’s easy when I’m standin’ behind glass, baby,” he murmured. “But now I got you right here in my hands…” His voice dipped, dragging heat straight down her spine. “Ain’t no talkin’ necessary.”

His hands moved — slow — fingers sliding down my back, palms memorizing every dip of my body like he’d been dreaming about it for a hundred years.

I rested my forehead rest against his chest, heart pounding. The scent of him — something like smoke and pine and danger — filled my nose, made me dizzy.

And he just held me there for a moment. Like he needed to remember this. The weight of me. The warmth.

“I ain’t in no rush,” he said finally, lips brushing my temple. “You open that door… I come through it on your time. You say stop, I stop. But if you don’t—”

He leaned back, just enough to meet my eyes again, voice gone hoarse:

“I’ma ruin you slow, Lenora.”

That was the promise.

I looked up at him biting my lip gently. “So ruin me.”

I looked up at him through my lashes, my voice low but steady. “I’m not stoppin’ you.”

He grinned at that, slow and dangerous, like a man who had all the time in the world to ruin me.

He tugged my closer, the weight of him pressing against my body. His lips brushed against my neck, soft at first, like he was testing, tasting, savoring the way I shivered under him.

My fingers found the button of his pants — clumsy at first, then deliberate as i undid them.

“Not so quick now,” he whispered, his voice rough against my skin. “Let me have the honor of undressin’ you. I been waitin’ long enough.”

I nodded, swallowing down the knot in my throat, my hands falling to my sides as he stepped back.

His eyes never left mines as he undid the clasp of my nightgown, the silk slipping down my body like water — teasingly slow, revealing every curve, every inch of me. When the gown pooled at my feet, i was left in nothing but my skin and the heat that lingered in the air.

He stepped forward again, hands sliding over my shoulders, down my arms, as he pulled me flush against him. The contact sent a jolt straight to my core.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Perfect for me.”

My hands slid up his chest unbuttoning his shirt down to the last button, finding the warm skin of his torso, feeling the muscles tense under my touch. I let out a soft, shaky breath, my fingers moving to the waistband of his pants, slipping them lower without hesitation.

My pulse was pounding in my ears, my skin humming with the anticipation, with the feeling of his eyes on me, burning and predatory.

“Don’t keep me waitin’, darlin’,” he growled low, voice a raw rasp. “You know what I want.”

His shirt was already half undone, and when i reached up and slid it off his shoulders, he let it fall — didn’t even flinch — just watched me with that slow, wicked grin.

I shoved at his chest, pushing him to sit down on the bed — then climbed into his lap, straddling him.

For a second, he let her think she was in charge.

Let her grab his jaw, kiss him hard, grind against the thick bulge in his pants.

But when she started fumbling with his belt, he grabbed her hips hard, fingers digging into her skin.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rough with need. “Ain’t no rush… ’sides, I got plans for you first.”

Without warning, he flipped me — He laid me back on the mattress, my soft coils tumbling wild around my face, catching the low light like a crown.

I barely had time to gasp before he yanked my thighs open and dropped between them like a man possessed.

“Gonna taste you first,” he muttered, breath hot against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “Been thinkin’ ’bout this mouthful for days.”

And then he ate me out like he was starving.

No slow teasing. No soft warm-up.

He buried his mouth between my legs and devoured me — messy, wet, deep — until i was squirming and gasping and grabbing fistfuls of the sheets.

When i cried out — high and broken — he just groaned against me, his tongue flicking ruthless, making sure i couldn’t run, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

My mouth agape as my back arched. “O-oh shit.” I whimpered.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growled against me, mouth slick and filthy. “Give it to me. Give me all that sweet little pussy.”

He caressed my thighs as he continued to devour me with such intensity. My eyes shut tight as I let out loud moans.

“Uh uh open your eyes darlin.” He mumbled in between my thighs, and I opened them to see his eyes red as he stared at me his mouth still moving.

“I-I o-ohh fuck w-wait!” My head thrashed as I let out a squeak my toes curling into the sheets, my chest heaving.

“Oh fuck remmick!” I whined, moving my hand down to push his head back a bit. “J-just wait!”

He moved his head away from my core and rubbed my clit with his thumb.

“What happened to you me letting me ruin you Lenora?” His eyes a shiny red as he continued to run circles on my clit. All I could do is let out noises.

“Don’t do that now honey, you got all dolled up for me, told me to ruin you and now you can’t even form a proper fucking sentence.” He laughed. My brows drawn tight as I went between throwing my head back due the pleasure and looking at him as I moaned loudly.

“Huh? What was that? Can’t hear you sweetie speak up.” He said then went right back to devouring my pussy.

And when she finally shattered for him — legs clamping tight around his head, hips jerking helplessly — he didn’t stop.

He rode it out with her, licking her slow and deep till she was whimpering and trembling, completely wrecked.

“Tired?” He picked up his head from between my thighs. I nodded weakly my eyes watery as I looked at him between my thighs.

“Too bad baby.” He patted one of my thighs and gave it a sweet kiss before going back down in between my thighs.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shining, his eyes glowing soft red.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like sin itself.

“Now that’s the sweetest thing I ever tasted,” he said roughly.

Before i could recover, he was up — unbuckling his pants one-handed, cock springing free, thick and heavy.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t hesitate.

Just grabbed my hips, dragged me down the bed, and pressed the thick, bare head of his cock against my dripping entrance.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he rasped, voice breaking at the edges. “So good you won’t even remember your own damn name.”

And then he pushed in — bare, raw, deep — filling me in one thick, slow stroke.

I cried out, clawing at his back, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the filthy, perfect way he fit inside me.

No barrier.

No protection.

Just him — thick and hot and bare — claiming every inch.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.

“Ain’t lettin’ you go now, sweetheart,” he muttered against her mouth before he kissed me slowly.“Too good to be let go of.” He added on

⸻

He didn’t give me time to catch my breath.

I cried out. “R-remmick wait.”

Flipped me onto my stomach with a rough tug, dragging my hips up till i was on my knees, back arched, ass in the air.

“Look at you,” he rasped, sliding back into me with one brutal thrust. “Pretty little thing takin’ this cock like you were made for it.”

I gasped loudly then let out a broken moan.

The sound of skin slapping filled the room — rough, fast, filthy.

I sobbed, my mouth agape. My head dropped into the pillow, the one I so desperately bit into.

Every stroke pushed me forward on the bed, and he just grunted, grabbing my hips tighter, pounding into me like he couldn’t get deep enough.

He moaned loudly throwing his head back.

“Fucking hell.” And I could’ve sworn I heard a slight Irish accent slip out.

I held onto the metal frame the bed squeaking louder and louder each thrust.

I gasped, moaned, whimpered — every noise only spurring him on harder.

He smacked my ass once—twice—three times, low and rough, making me jolt forward with whines.

“I love the way your ass bounces back on me, Nora… mm, shit.”

His voice was thick, breathless — the kind of groan that vibrated down my spine.

I lifted my head, eyes glossy and blurred with pleasure, just to look back — and damn, what a sight.

His brows were drawn tight, jaw slack, lips parted as he stared down at the way my ass met his hips with every thrust…

the wet slap of skin filling the room, his balls hitting with every deep stroke.

He dragged his gaze up from the bounce of my ass, eyes catching mine over my shoulder — and then that damn smile curved across his face.

Without a word, he slid one hand from my waist and gripped the back of my neck, firm but careful, pulling me upright into him.

A guttural moan ripped from my throat as my back arched against his chest, my body molding to his like it was always meant to fit there.

⸻

His fingers were slick as they slid through the mess between my thighs, teasing the swollen spot that made me twitch and gasp.

My head dropped forward, forehead brushing the curve of my arm as I bit down hard on my lip.

He grinned behind me — could feel me tightening, trembling — and still, he didn’t let up. His strokes stayed deep, deliberate. His fingers circled slow, just enough to keep me on edge.

“Tryin’ to be quiet now?” he drawled low, voice thick and husky against the shell of my ear. “After all that beggin’?”

I whimpered, shaking my head, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, dragging his tongue along the side of my neck, “you already lost.”

“You feel that?” he breathed. “That’s me hittin’ that spot over and over till you’re cryin’ again.”

His hand glided up my stomach, stopping when he reached the spot where I could feel the weight of him pressing deep inside me. You feel that, baby?” “Look at how deep I am…look baby.”

“I-I feel it… I can’t— it’s so deep…” I let out a broken sob, not even trying to fight it anymore, I glanced down and saw it — the small bulge in my stomach, thick and impossible to ignore.

My hand trembled as I traced the spot where he pressed from the inside, a deep bulge right in my stomach.

“Please,” i gasped, not sure what i was begging for. To stop. To keep going. To let me fall.

He nipped my shoulder with his teeth, and his voice dropped darker.

“Yeah. That’s it. Beg for it.”

⸻

“That’s right, baby,” he growled. “Cry for me. Let everybody know who’s fuckin’ you now.”

My legs gave out first — i collapsed onto my forearms, shaking, crying from the overwhelming pleasure.

He didn’t stop.

He just followed me down, leaning over my back, fucking me even deeper.

“Gonna fill you up, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear, voice almost desperate. “Gonna make you mine from the inside out.”

And with that said he began to move slowly, pulling out soft mewls from me.

————

My thighs trembled beneath him, slick and shaking, but he didn’t stop — not with the way my body kept trying to run, even as it begged to stay.

“Where you goin’?” he murmured, lips ghosting against the shell of my ear. “Hm? You tryin’ to run from what you was beggin’ for?”

I couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. My hand reached back blindly, grabbing at anything — his wrist, his hip, the sheets — but there was no saving myself now. Not with the way he was buried so deep, dragging slow strokes that made me see stars.

And his fingers still worked my clit with steady, wicked precision — slick circles that had my hips jerking back, chasing every stroke even as my head shook like i couldn’t take it.

“Look at you,” he groaned, watching the way my back arched, my ass bouncing just right against his hips. “Takin’ me so damn good. Pussy grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

I let out a choked moan, and he laughed under his breath, rough and low.

“You feel how messy it is down there?” he growled. “How wet you are for me? That’s mine, baby. You hear me?”

I tried to nod, but the pleasure was mounting too fast — too sharp — my breath catching in short, helpless gasps.

He leaned down, his chest brushing my back, his voice dark velvet in my ear.

“Don’t you come yet.”

I whimpered — almost cried — as his pace slowed just enough to drive me insane, rolling his hips deep, grinding against that spot that made me cry every time.

He kissed my shoulder, then bit it softly.

“You wait till I say, pretty girl. You wanna come on this dick?”

“Huh baby?” He said breathlessly as he smirked before letting out a low moan.

I couldn’t even respond.

“You ask me for it.”

My lips parted, tears burning behind my lashes as i tried to obey — tried to hold it in even though my whole body screamed for release.

“P-please,” I gasped, nearly sobbing.

“Please what?” he coaxed, hips never stopping, voice like sin. “Use your words.”

I arched again, grinding myself back onto him, and the sound that left me was ragged, desperate, raw.

“Please let me come…”

And right then, he slammed into me hard — just once — all the way to the hilt, making me scream out as everything snapped.

⸻

When he finally came — deep, hard, cursing low and filthy against my skin — he held me tight against him, grinding slow and messy to make sure every last drop stayed inside.

I was wrecked.

Sweaty, shaking, boneless.

Face buried in the sheets, trying to catch my breath, my thighs still trembling from the force of it all.

He kissed my shoulder — lazy, soft — and whispered against my skin

I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt his arms around me — pulling me back into him, wrapping tight across my middle like he was trying to hold everything together.

“Shh,” he whispered into my hair, voice low and cracked. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

My body wouldn’t stop trembling. The aftershocks kept rolling through me — soft, sharp little waves that left my thighs quivering and my breath catching in uneven sobs. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just felt everything, all at once.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he kept me right there in his lap, my back pressed to his chest, his hands moving slow and careful over my stomach like he was coaxing me back into my skin. One hand drifted up into my hair, smoothing through the damp curls with fingers that trembled a little too — and maybe that’s what undid me most. How gentle he was now. How quiet.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, like a promise. “You did so good for me, pretty girl.”

I didn’t have the strength to speak. Just leaned into him, let my hand find his forearm, clung to him like I was still falling. Like maybe I’d fall forever if I let go.

He kissed my shoulder — soft, reverent — and I shivered.

“You still with me?” he asked, palm cupping my jaw, tipping my head back slightly.

I blinked up at him, dazed and watery-eyed, and nodded.

His smile was different now — not dark, not cocky. Just warm. Real.

“Good,” he breathed against my skin. “Gonna take care of you now, alright?”

He shifted us gently, lowering me back onto the bed, sliding under the covers with me. His body curled around mine like armor, and his hands — still steady, still warm — moved over me in soft circles: my thigh, my side, my hip.

“So fuckin’ proud of you,” he whispered against my neck. “My beautiful girl.”

I let out a breath — not a sob this time. Just something quiet and spent and safe. I let myself melt into him, my body sinking against his like I’d never moved before. And he held me. Through every tremble, every shaky breath. He held me like I was something worth protecting.

And when the silence stretched and the storm in my chest softened, I whispered into it.

“…Don’t go.”

He stilled for half a second — then exhaled slow, his mouth brushing my shoulder.

“I’m not leaving.”

⸻

remmicks pov:

She barely made it a few minutes before her breathing evened out, her body softening completely against me. One of her hands stayed wrapped around me, like she didn’t trust the world enough to let go.

I stayed there, holding her, my thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against the curve of her shoulder.

And I realized — it wasn’t just the heat of her skin, or the way she whispered my name like a prayer that kept me here.

It was something deeper.

Something older.

Because when she clung to me like that — all sleepy and broken open — it stirred up something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

Something I’d shoved down and left to rot with the rest of the ghosts.

The reason I stayed wasn’t just because she needed me.

It was because in that moment, she reminded me of something I thought I’d lost forever.

A place I could come home to.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to run from it.

I wanted to stay.

So I tightened my hold around her, tucked her closer, breathed her in.

When she whispered, so small I almost missed it. “Don’t go…”

I bent down, pressed my mouth to her hair, and murmured against her skin.

“I’m not leaving.”

And this time, I meant it.

[theprismaticvoid]

So, reblogging this with a question: Does anyone have a source for this? I see this claim parroted a LOT, but nobody I've asked has ever been able to give a source for it beyond vaguely remembering hearing about it. Someone who read through the Anniversary interviews said this isn't there either.

I even asked a friend of mine from Japan and they'd never heard of this info - they knew about Shirou being compatible with Spartacus because that's from the Apocrypha material book, but none of the rest was anything they'd ever heard of.

I searched Asterios and Nightingale's Japanese names on Japanese Twitter in the years from 2016/2017 (post says this was during "season 1 of FGO" which I take to mean the first year or so on the market) and found no mention of this being something Nasu said at all.

In fact, from what I could find, "Nightingale would be a good servant for Shirou" was a fan theory among some Japanese fans during early FGO, but it was never talked about in the context of it being confirmed by Nasu. I saw a lot of discussion about how fans think they would work well together, but again, no mention of it being canon.

(Asterios being Sakura's servant was similar, but with a LOT less posts - most early mentions of him seem to have been either people talking about their gacha roles, or a meme going around where one of those random generator websites would assign you a family of Fate characters and a lot of people got Asterios as their brother?)

Obviously Twitter's had many mass-exoduses over the past few years and a lot of accounts from that time period are either privated or just outright deleted- but still, I can't find a single mention about this info that says it's canon at all. And it seems incredibly unusual to me that people would be talking about Shirou and Nightingale being paired up as a fan theory if Nasu had outright said "yeah those two WOULD make a good duo and he WOULD be able to summon her"

So, saying this here to ask if anyone has a real source for any of this. If not, I'm leaning towards this not being true. The Fate fandom has a big problem of misinformation spreading around the fandom because Type Moon won't give us goddamn official translations, so I want to make sure this is true before spreading it around.

(also this isn't a callout or insult at OP. If this turns out to be true, hell yeah. If this turns out to be false, I believe OP genuinely believed it and maybe got swindled by someone spreading lies to push their headcanons)

FSN Most Compatible Servants

Hey, did y’all know that Nasu confirmed early on during FGO who Shirou Emiya’s and Sakura Matou’s most compatible servants would be? It was a long time ago, but I just find myself still wanting to talk about it. When he said “most compatible”, he was very clear about explaining that compatible =/= “the best for them”, it just means “the servants who would pretty much understand them to a T. The selection is limited/out dated since this was early on during Season 1 of FGO, so newer servants are not accounted for, but I still agree with Nasu that these servants ring true to their FSN Master counterparts!

Keep reading

[geminiwritten]

perfect storm ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers)

notes: okay, i'm starting to think that i really should work at work instead of write... like, is it unethical? anyways, idc!!! have some enemies to lovers! i'm not feeling as strong about this, despite the fact that i've chosen writing over sleep and work for the past few days... but i really hope y'all like it and i hope it lives up! please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, angst, miscommunication, jake is an asshole, allusions to sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), bad weather / storm descriptions, a written plane crash, and frequent mention of plane crashes! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 12439

your callsign is angel

“Alright, listen up.” Maverick stands at the front of the room, his trademark leather jacket draped over his shoulders and his hands firmly planted on his hips. “You received your official briefing this morning, but we’re going to go over a few things now.” 

The chatter that had filled the room falls to an abrupt silence as the aviators, now fully attentive, settle into their chairs—every eye on their captain. 

“Let’s start with the basics. Just like the last operation, this mission is classified. You’ve all been reassigned from your standard duties to continue training as part of this special operations detachment. Not all of you will deploy, but everyone will undergo training and remain in reserve if you’re not selected. We’ve got a bit more time to prepare this go-around, but don’t mistake that for leniency. This mission is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, with brand new challenges ahead.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mickey and then Bob. “Our weapons systems officers will be key to our success.” 

Natasha raises her hand, waiting for Maverick to acknowledge her before speaking. “Will the same pilots from the last mission be prioritised?” 

Maverick shakes his head firmly. “No. There’s no favouritism or preference. Selection will be based on performance during training. We’ll see who excels in the specific skills needed for this mission.” 

Bob leans forward. “Will Omaha and Halo be returning to the detachment?” 

“Unfortunately, no,” Maverick replies. “As you’re all aware, Omaha and Halo were urgently recalled to their original squadrons and will not be returning. But rest assured, arrangements have been made to bring in a top-tier replacement.” 

Jake tilts his head, a frown forming as confusion plays across his face. “Replacement, sir? Singular? If this mission hinges on WSOs, shouldn’t we be getting a pair to replace Omaha and Halo?” 

What Jake is really asking—without being blatantly obvious—is why they’d bring in another pilot to compete with him for mission lead. 

Maverick’s signature smirk, the one that gets him both in and out of trouble, curls at the corners of his lips. “You’re not wrong, Hangman," he says, voice steady. “Which is why I’ve decided that Coyote”—he glances at the man sitting beside Jake—“will no longer be flying solo.” 

Javy’s eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise as a grin tugs at his lips. “I get a WSO?” 

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge. 

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.” 

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.” 

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.” 

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you. 

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.” 

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning. 

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign. 

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.” 

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.” 

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-” 

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.” 

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room. 

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.” 

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.” 

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes. 

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.” 

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls. 

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly. 

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.” 

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes. 

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?” 

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.” 

“Why don’t you ask one of them?” 

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.” 

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.” 

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going. 

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.” 

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown. 

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.” 

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?” 

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.” 

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed. 

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.” 

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?” 

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.” 

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?” 

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.” 

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?” 

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.” 

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?” 

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.” 

- 

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable. 

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.” 

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.” 

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.  

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.” 

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps. 

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed. 

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone. 

“Anytime, Captain.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.” 

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.” 

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot. 

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.” 

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.” 

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.” 

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.” 

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?” 

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.” 

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-” 

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.” 

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you. 

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar. 

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him. 

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance. 

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker. 

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.” 

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest. 

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin. 

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day. 

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to. 

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.” 

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.” 

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.” 

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-” 

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.” 

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare. 

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.” 

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next. 

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration. 

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.” 

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.” 

And with that, he turns and walks away. 

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut. 

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock. 

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch. 

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake. 

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over. 

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it. 

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker. 

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing. 

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open. 

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.” 

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut. 

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams. 

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?” 

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending. 

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar. 

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?” 

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved. 

“Yup.” 

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-” 

“Please don’t say it.” 

“Jizz,” he says gleefully. 

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime. 

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both. 

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat. 

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.” 

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.” 

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly. 

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?” 

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.” 

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.” 

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear. 

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.” 

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off. 

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit. 

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.” 

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face. 

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.” 

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again. 

“You know it’s not true, right?” 

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-” 

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.” 

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.” 

He cocks his head. “You do?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.” 

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe. 

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.” 

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.” 

- 

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that. 

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did. 

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help. 

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons. 

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat. 

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God. 

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time. 

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up. 

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor. 

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass. 

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself. 

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising. 

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite. 

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler. 

It’s now or never. 

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile. 

But then you see him. 

And you stop dead in your tracks. 

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion. 

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer. 

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind: 

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now. 

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago. 

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy. 

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband. 

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming. 

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid. 

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating. 

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before. 

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out. 

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone. 

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest. 

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into. 

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.” 

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.” 

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-” 

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops. 

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts. 

No. Fucking. Way. 

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?” 

Yes. A cat in heat. 

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.” 

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit. 

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat. 

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin. 

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest. 

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude. 

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you. 

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.” 

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood. 

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.” 

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.” 

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you. 

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.” 

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.” 

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart. 

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” 

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say. 

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.” 

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap. 

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.” 

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about. 

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.” 

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb. 

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him? 

You blink back the sting of tears. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net. 

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early. 

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner. 

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules. 

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens. 

Jake takes off his fucking shirt. 

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet. 

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you. 

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices! 

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots. 

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?” 

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.” 

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.” 

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic. 

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail. 

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up. 

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right? 

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil. 

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity. 

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off. 

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match. 

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.” 

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?” 

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you. 

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake. 

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?” 

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!” 

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!” 

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now. 

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush. 

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net. 

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated. 

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably. 

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy. 

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?” 

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it. 

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy. 

Wow, he really does not like losing. 

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance. 

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots. 

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan. 

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore. 

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs. 

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.” 

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.” 

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face. 

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him. 

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch. 

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out. 

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.” 

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?” 

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.” 

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.” 

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.” 

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt. 

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-” 

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.” 

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing. 

- 

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin. 

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks. 

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit. 

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.” 

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.” 

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.” 

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension. 

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you. 

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.” 

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real. 

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-” 

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final. 

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater. 

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.” 

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine. 

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway. 

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs. 

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask. 

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.” 

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision. 

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?” 

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down. 

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say. 

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him. 

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.” 

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn. 

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap. 

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.” 

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort. 

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late. 

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully. 

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can. 

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.” 

Jake finally hesitates. 

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark. 

And this time—he listens. 

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs. 

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic. 

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…” 

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins. 

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout. 

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit. 

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.” 

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing. 

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world. 

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be. 

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying. 

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update. 

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin. 

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.” 

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.” 

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.” 

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.” 

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. 

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.” 

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless. 

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-” 

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you. 

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin. 

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest. 

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him. 

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked. 

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?” 

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late. 

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes. 

“Jake, I-” 

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment. 

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word. 

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine. 

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not. 

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist. 

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart. 

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes. 

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely. 

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon. 

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train. 

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit. 

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?” 

“Do you see Mav?” 

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you. 

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.” 

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm. 

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight. 

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course. 

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid. 

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now. 

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe. 

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.” 

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore. 

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance. 

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.” 

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.” 

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you. 

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll. 

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane. 

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin. 

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!” 

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late. 

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!” 

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!” 

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake. 

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject. 

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air. 

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all. 

- 

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky. 

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude. 

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors. 

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!” 

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace. 

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room. 

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you. 

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.” 

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin. 

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence. 

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.” 

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?” 

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.” 

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought. 

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “That.” 

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air. 

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash. 

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin. 

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?” 

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?” 

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.” 

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.” 

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.” 

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.” 

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare. 

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.” 

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle. 

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-” 

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?” 

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?” 

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why. 

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.” 

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?” 

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.” 

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor. 

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up. 

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail. 

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-” 

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you. 

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him. 

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.” 

A flash of anger sparks in your chest. 

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?” 

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?” 

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.” 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it. 

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. 

You can barely breathe. 

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.” 

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice. 

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.” 

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters. 

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away. 

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his. 

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again. 

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart. 

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare. 

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.” 

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.” 

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.” 

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.” 

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—” 

“Now.” 

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat: 

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing. 

END.

[girlfromflor]

went through hell yesterday and now I'm thinking about kyle garrick who takes care of you so tenderly when you're feeling sick – at first, at least. | gn!reader, kyle is like a daddydom(?) but there's no use of daddy in this one

he doesn't even question why that night, he just asks "what are you feeling, my love?" concern taking over every feature of his beautiful face.

to which you answer "headache... feel like throwing up," with a big pout and shaky hands from nausea.

he makes something salty and light for you to try and eat at least something, but as you shake your head and say with trembling voice that you "really can't, kyle", he nods and helps you walk all the way to your bedroom where he sets you down on the bed and gives you a pill to help and soothe the headache.

he watches as you drink it grimacing and he can only say "i know, baby, but you can sleep now. and you'll wake up feeling better tomorrow, eh?"

he let's you hide your trembling, cold hands underneath his shirt. you forehead tucked in chest as he hugs you until you're asleep. and when you wake up, he's still there – by your side, holding you like you're the most precious thing he ever came across.

when he wakes up, the very first thing he does is make sure you're feeling 100% better. once that's out of the way, he asks "now, tell me what happened yesterday, love."

you, as guilty as you could feel, answer him with a mumble. "forgot to eat dinner yesterday..."

you can feel the way the soothing brushes of his fingers in your skin halt for a second, before he's questioning "did you, baby? what was it that you were doing that made you forget to eat?"

he knows you get caught up in your own head sometimes, that you get so entranced in your hobbies that you forget to do the most basic things for your own comfort. you tell him that you were just distracted with a new tool you got that would help you finish your project of the moment, to which he answers with a sigh.

"baby, i know you were having fun and distracted, but what is the rule for when you have a new project you're working on?"

he waits as you take your time to answer. he's always so patient with you, it makes tears well up in your eyes. "i have to set up an alarm and always prioritize things related to my health and comfort..." you answer firmly, you had to repeat that a lot of times for you to not know it by now.

"hm, that's right. so, if you remember that, how come you forgot about it yesterday?" he's not mad, you can tell, but he's worried. worried something else got to you and that you actively neglected it other than just forgetting.

"'s just that i didn't have my phone close, so i couldn't have heard the alarm go off. 'm sorry, it wasn't on purpose..." you rush to answer, voice slowly being enveloped in anxiety, but he just sushes you with a kiss to your cheek.

"c'mon now, baby. you know it's okay. this isn't for me, is for you," he says and pull you closer in his embrace. "go on, say it, baby. you don't have to be sorry."

"it's okay... it's okay, and this is about me, not you," you take a deep breath and that works for calming you down. kyle always knows how to keep you grounded.

"yeah, that's right, love." he plants another kiss in your cheek, and then one to your nose. "but you cannot neglect your meals like that, can you?"

"no, i can't..." the response comes automatically, you feel so safe with him knowing he's taking care of you that you don't mind whatever punishment he'll give you for not following the rules.

he hums in agreement, deep tone of his voice rumbling in his chest. he's already moving out of your arms and finding his place between your thighs, holding them spread to his liking.

"'m gonna use my mouth on you, and you'll feel really good, baby," he points out, matter-of-factly. "but just when you're about to cum, i'll stop," he adds, and you can feel yourself squirming already. kyle is too good with his mouth, and he knows that.

"and you'll take it. my good, precious baby can do it, yeah?"

fuck, this is going to be a long morning.

[suuuupernovaaa]

cheater cheater

summary: you’ve been cheated on in the past, and pedro is very sensitive to your needs because of it

tags: age gap, reader is mid 30s, not famous, long distance relationship, pedro is obsessed almost an unhealthy amount

MASTERLIST

You don’t, even the slightest bit, buy into the notion that people of differing genders can’t be friends.

Many of your close friends are male, or non-binary, and never once has it meant that you must be sexually attracted to each other. You have meaningful friendships with a lot of people, regardless of gender. Hell, your best friend in the entire world is Joshua, who you’ve known since the second grade.

The idea that a man and a woman can’t be friends without fucking at some point is idiotic, even barbaric.

What you can’t fathom is that any woman could be friends with Pedro Pascal and not have ulterior motives.

Well, that’s not true. Honestly, you do realize platonic friendships exist even for the most charismatic and handsome man on earth.

But you’re fucked in the head. Your last partner, over five years ago, had been aggressively cheating on you, all the while making you feel like you two were headed down the aisle.

So maybe it isn’t that you think men and women can’t be friends. Maybe it’s that you just aren’t as trusting as you used to be.

Possibly, and probably, that’s why Pedro had to pursue you for over a year before you said yes. It’s why he had to send you flowers every week, stalk your social media and comment on every post and story, call and text you every day, for almost 400 days before you admitted that yes, you were absolutely head over heels for him too.

You were just fucking scared. And you still are, six months into the romantic relationship but two years into the friendship.

It’s easy to tell that Pedro is not like that narcissistic asshole from before. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he definitely wouldn’t hurt you, the woman he is so unbelievably obsessed with.

You’re the background on his phone. He keeps a picture of you in his wallet. He brings you up in every single conversation he has, he just can’t help it. You’re in his every thought.

But something whispers in the back of your mind, reminding you that things felt good then, too, and do you want to be blindsided again?

Tonight, you’re joining Pedro on the red carpet for the first time, and you wonder if they make a deodorant strong enough for all the nervous sweating you’re doing.

You’ve never had your make up and hair professionally done before. Your profession as a nurse doesn’t often call for that. You try not to bite on your fingernails while a team of very kind and very busy people prepare you.

“A natural look,” Pedro had told them, knowing it’s what you would want. “She’s beautiful, she doesn’t need much.”

When it’s time to go, you don’t feel much like yourself. Your hair is softer and shinier than it’s ever been, hanging in waves down your back. Your skin is flawless, your freckles painted over, and the dress you’re wearing is unbelievable, made of dark green satin.

It’s a complimentary color to Pedro’s shirt, his idea entirely. Or maybe that’s something couples just do on the red carpet, you have no idea.

Before you leave, he pulls you aside, and holds something out to you. A necklace. Delicate and gold. In his other hand, a matching necklace. A set. Yours has a small “P”, and his holds your first initial.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your eyes misting. You turn and allow him to place the necklace around your neck, and do the same for him.

He grabs both of your hands in his and squeezes. “Please, my darling, relax. If you hate this, we’ll never do it again. I promise, it’ll be easy.”

You take a deep breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Soon, it begins.

The flash of the cameras is over whelming, but Pedro practiced with you, how to smile through it. How to pose. How to hold tightly to him, how it really didn’t matter what these pictures looked like. It’s just fun.

He stops for an interview, and though you try to stay back, he won’t release you. Won’t stop touching you.

“Pedro, tell us who this beautiful girl is!” the interviewer demands, and Pedro grins at you while introducing you.

It’s hard not to smile back, when he looks at you like that.

“This is my whole world,” he tells her, and everyone else who asks as you’re stopped over and over.

Someone asks what you do. “She’s a nurse! She’s been an ICU nurse for a long time, she does telehealth now. She saves lives. Can you believe she’d date a dork like me? A guy who plays pretend for a career?”

He doesn’t answer for you to be rude or to talk over you. He does it because you’re nervous, clutching his hand in desperation, and he wants you at ease.

Eventually, you make it off the red carpet and find a quiet corner of privacy before entering the ballroom.

“You did great!” Pedro hisses excitedly in your ear.

You breathe a sigh of relief away from the cameras but you must admit, it wasn’t as bad as you’d thought it would be.

“Pedro, thank you for bringing me,” you say, reaching up to touch his curls, and trail a finger down his cheek. “I feel special.”

“Mi amor,” he croons, leaning into your touch. “You are special. I’m so proud to have you with me. Would you do this again, sometime?”

You press a soft kiss to his lips, careful of your make up. “I would go anywhere with you.”

You want to show him - you’re as devoted as he’s proven himself to be. You’re his, as much as he’s yours.

Pedro never leaves your side, not once, the entire long night. He proudly introduces you to everyone in the room, holding your waist or your hand, touching you always. He makes sure you’re a part of every conversation, and steers you away from anyone who would treat you like you’re not as important as him.

At the end of the night, you have to admit that you had a fantastic time. It shouldn’t be a surprise. There is nothing Pedro wouldn’t do to make you happy. There’s no way he’d bring you to a party like that and not stick with you. He would never do anything to make you feel less than treasured.

He’s not that other guy. He has a lot of love to go around, sure, but the love he has for you, it’s different.

It’s special.

When it’s time to go, you come back from the bathroom to find him talking, his back to you, and you hear him as you approach.

“She’s just so great. I’d love to have you guys over some time, talk with her more away from all this. Dinner or something!” he’s saying, and everyone is so eagerly agreeing, and you wonder if you might cry right here.

You wrap your arm around his waist and he steps aside, making space for you in the circle.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and you nod. He takes you for a quick round of farewells and soon, you’re in the car, and Pedro is unzipping your dress so you can breathe.

You rest your head on his shoulder as you drive to the hotel he’s staying at, telling him how you can’t wait to fly home together tomorrow, and simply relax.

“I love you very much, you know,” you tell him, and he kisses the top of your head.

“I love you more,” he replies.

You know that’s not true, but it’s still nice to hear.

[larks-and-katydids]

[ID: White text on black background saying: well see, in my experience, there are fewer "f*gs and tr*nnies burn in hell" people than there are "I just think children need a male/female role model in their lives", "we shouldn't be injecting things into children", "surgery is mutilation", "I just don't like the LOUD gays" type people.

Neither are ideal, really, but the first type are so set in hatred that they're damn near impossible to work (on) with.

The second come from places of misinformation, fear, and uncertainty, and those are things you can sidle up next to from a place of compassion and influence positively, so long as you're willing and able to mute yourself and put in the hard work.

For example, I had a coworker who didn't know I was trans, and she was upset that our local school was "letting" her nephew ("niece") "get injections" to "mess up (his) body" over "a phase (he) was going through." She expressed that she loved the kid and thought the liberal agenda was going too far to be eagerly "helping children mutilate themselves forever."

I listened, and when I realized her primary concern was for the safety of her family member, agreed that it was alarming, and asked if she knew if they were being given hormones or just puberty blockers. At this, she said she didn't know, and asked what the difference was, and I explained that from what I understood, puberty blockers were a treatment that delayed puberty without permanently stopping it- that it was a medication used for not-trans kids too sometimes for medical reasons- that basically gave the kid time to decide they were sure before permanent changes happened.

Then I explained that the reason for this was so kids like her nephew, who maybe were going through a phase but maybe weren't, didn't end up hurting themselves to avoid their body's changes in other ways, like using ace bandages to bind and doing permanent damage to themselves.

I phrased this all as things I had read and heard of and why it made sense to me, and said that it was very likely her sister's family was choosing blockers over hormones as a compromise to keep her child safe and healthy until they were old enough for bigger choices with bigger repercussions.

What I said- which is a gentle version of what I believe- is that if a child believes so strongly that they're transgender that they're going to jump at a chance for a surgery that'll affect them for the rest of their lives, whether they ARE transgender or not, whether transgender PEOPLE are valid or not- then that's a kid who may run away from home or cut contact with family or hurt their bodies on purpose or by accident if they feel they need to. And that if your kid was so determined to sneak out at night and try alcohol for the first time on their own, wouldn't you feel better if it was a sip of light beer in your kitchen instead?

And it was a good talk. I strongly disagree with a number of the things that she said at first, but at the end she said that this made a lot of sense and was probably the best the parents could do, and that she'd do more reading on the medical things I had mentioned to figure out how they worked.

And then she THANKED me and said she was grateful for someone she could voice her concerns to who wasn't going to shut her down and call her a transphobic bitch.

So like. I suppose your options are to say nothing and keep it to yourself, which is a perfectly acceptable and good way to keep yourself safe by the way! Or you could try this approach. Which is, I admit, incredibly exhausting, but better than them sneaking out and drinking the bigot juice with someone you don't trust. Better to let them sip your light 'maybe, but also' in the kitchen, yeah?

this reply is longer than was intended

End ID]

What do you do when you find out youre queer when the homophobes / transphobes are in charge (i don’t even live in America and im scared)

I wrote a long answer when my browser crashed and tried to delete everything so I hope screenshots are okay

The good news is, you aren’t likely to be mingling with the president directly. The bad news is you’re probably going to run into people who believe his rhetoric. The good news again is that they’re easier to handle because they don’t have the same power, and most of them aren’t Hardcore Mob Bigot and are usually closer to Queerphobia Lite.

Original post below ⬇️

[stevesgother]

https://www.tumblr.com/stevesgother/780437608598732800/httpswwwtumblrcomslutforpumpkins780377308353?source=share

this is me officially requesting this! imagine steve going to get abby to meet the new baby he’d be so gentle with her 🥺

oh anon i've been thinking about this since i saw you asked it, TEHE chalkboard hearts series masterlist steve harrington x fem!reader cw: depictions of labor & delivery, language, non-sexual nudity, pregnancy, fluids

"Steeeeeeve!" Abbey shouts sing-songily from the bathroom, "Mommy peed her pants!"

Steve's alarmed initially, though after everything you'd endured during this pregnancy, he wouldn't exactly be surprised if you had. His concern slowly morphs into puzzlement as he speed-walks towards the bathroom.

"I did not--ahh!" You wince at the sharp jolt of pain radiating just below your navel, "My water broke,"

"You what?" The blood drains from Steve's face so quickly that he feels light-headed. You feel mildly annoyed at his dramatics before remembering he's never had a baby before.

"It's not a big deal yet, we just need to call the doctor," You reassure your paler-than-a-ghost husband. He's taken a wide-legged stance in the bathroom doorway, his hands uselessly stiff at his sides.

"Does this mean the baby is coming?" Abbey, the least bothered of all of you, asks in a tone that's almost bored.

"Soon, babe, but not right this second," the feeling of amniotic fluid sticking to your sleepshirt and legs is frankly disgusting, "Steve, dear, could you please grab me a change of clothes," you ask through slightly gritted teeth. You don't mean to be frustrated with him, but you're wet and sticky and in a steadily increasing amount of pain.

"Yes-- yeah, of course. Just stay there--"

As if you had some sort of escape plan. You could barely waddle; your ankles were so swollen.

"Abbey, do you think you can pick out your own outfit for school today?"

Her lips twitch with an impending frown, "I thought I was gonna come to the hospital with you and Steve..."

"You'll come to the hospital after the baby's born. The waiting part is boring," you make a bleh face to really sell it. If only it really was as 'boring' as you're making it out to be.

Steve returns with your comfiest pair of lounge clothes, and any aggravation you might've felt dissipates instantaneously, replacing itself with a fond gratitude.

"C'mon, Ab, let's go get dressed, huh?" Steve asks a still skeptical Abbey, "I bet you can't beat me to your room..."

She's up in an instant, "Nuh-uh!"

"Three, two, one...go!" Steve counts and gives a false start. Abbey races out of the bathroom and down the hall, paying no mind that he's not hot on her tail. He almost feels guilty for tricking her.

"Where's the number for the OB?" He asks once you're finally left alone.

"It's-- mphh-- it's on the fridge, the paper under the dolphin magnet."

"Okay," he says, already turning on his heel.

"Steve, wait-- she's going to ask how far apart my contractions are, tell her nine minutes."

"Is that bad?"

"Steve."

"Right-- sorry. Be right back. Love you."

'Five minutes apart-- that's when you should head to the hospital.'

The advice of your obstetrician echos in your ears. You have time. You still have time. From the kitchen, you can hear Steve rambling to Doctor Sara over the landline, 'Okay...right...yes, we do...okay...see you soon...'

You grab a bath towel to attempt at soaking up the mess you've made all over the bathroom floor. If only you'd been on the toilet, or hell, even the shower would've been acceptable. You squat at a snail's pace, sucking in a harsh breath as you do. It feels more like an unpleasant pressure right now than true pain, but you're uncomfortable regardless.

"Hey--woah there hotshot," Steve admonishes when he returns and sees you doubled over and wiping the floor, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up my gross baby fluid so we don't get water damage?"

"Are you crazy?" He asks as he pulls you by the elbows to stand and ushers you to the bed, "Go sit down, would you? Jesus..."

You crack a subtle, shit-eating grin with your back turned to him. It's fun to raise his blood pressure a little sometimes-- keeps him quick on his feet.

The bed does feel heavenly once you're laying down though, all that pressure off your back. You try to stay cognizant of the speed at which your contractions are coming, but the duvet is so soft. And you've barely slept the last four nights. And your fan is humming a blissful white noise right by your ear. And--

"Mommy?"

Shit.

"Mommyyyyy?" Abbey shakes your shoulders lightly, "I wanna give you a kiss goodbye!"

"Okay," you grunt, "I'm up."

Abbey's little lips plant a kiss to your cheek, her arms wrapping around your swollen belly, "Will I be able to see the baby when I get out of school?"

God, you think, I hope so.

"Mhm, grandma will bring you right from school, okay?"

She bounces on her heels with an excited giggle in one of her adorable, albeit rare displays of affection for her soon-to-be sibling.

"See you later, love bug. Be good for your teachers today."

"I will!" She calls on her way out. Steve had been perched behind her throughout your exchange, waiting to give you a kiss of his own, "I'll be quick. Don't give birth while I'm gone, please?"

"I will try my very best." You smile wearily up at him from your place resting drearily against your pillows.

--

Steve walks with an arm protectively wrapped around your waist and your bag thrown over his shoulder as you waddle toward the non-emergency entrance to the hospital, "You got your heating pad?"

"Yep,"

"Okay," he snaps his fingers like he's trying to recall something, "Oh-- what about the swaddle thing?"

"Got that, too." You swallow a groan.

"And the adult diapers--"

You clear your throat abruptly, "It's a little late to be asking about all this now, isn't it?"

Steve makes a face as if to say 'touché'.

The glass doors slide open, immediately washing you in a sterile scent; but at least it's cooler inside the lobby. The air conditioning dries the beads of labored sweat beginning to form on your hairline.

"Last name is Harrington," Steve says as he approaches the front desk where a receptionist no older than twenty-three smacks her gum and flips through a magazine, "My wife is in labor; we see Doctor Sara?"

"A nurse will be out for you shortly." The receptionist tells you flatly, barely sparing you a glance.

A particularly sharp contraction ripples through your abdomen and you hiss, clutching your swollen belly. Your hand grips Steve's shoulder where you're using him to balance, your knuckles turning a pale white.

"How 'shortly'?" Steve presses, a tad frustratedly. Rarely do you see him this high strung, but even still, he has the patience of a saint.

"Harrington?" A short, stubby nurse calls from the triage doors, clipboard in hand. The receptionist only nods her head in the direction the voice came from before resuming her browsing of the latest Cosmo issue.

The nurse brought a wheelchair, thank God. Steve drops your duffle in an instant to help you lower into it, insistent on pushing it despite the woman assuring him that it's really no trouble. He reluctantly picks up your bag, settling on holding your hand instead.

--

Maybe you simply don't remember Abbey's birth, but you really don't recall it being this harrowing.

You've tried everything: bouncing on a yoga ball, taking laps around the hospital, a hot bath. Doctor Sara had administered Pitocin over two hours ago to try and stimulate contractions and therefore dilation. Nada.

You were back on the yoga ball now, head resting exhaustedly on Steve's shoulder. Despite how uncomfortable the crouching position must've been for him, he hadn't made a single complaint since you'd arrived. Doctor Sara emerged through your suite's door for what felt like the fiftieth time this evening.

"Alright, girlfriend," she only called you this when she had unsavory news, "I don't mean to alarm you, but baby's vitals are beginning to look abnormal." You felt your heart kick behind your ribs, "I know I'm not the first to tell you that this labor isn't progressing normally-- that being said, I'm officially suggesting we proceed with a c-section."

"No--"

"Sweetheart--" Steve attempts to reason, but it's futile.

"I had Abbey naturally, I want to have this baby the same way."

Steve's eyebrows furrow when he looks at you, turning to the hospital staff, he says, "Can you just... give us a moment?"

"Of course," Doctor Sara said, "I'll stop back in ten."

He nods in acknowledgement, an expression of gratitude on his face, as the rest of the nurses funnel out of the room. "I know this isn't how you pictured it--"

"Steve." You had blown past your limit hours ago. Anything he said to you at this point would be closely akin to poking a scared, incredibly bloated bear.

"Listen to me," he says, firm but not unkind, "We've waited hours. And if the baby's health wasn't in jeopardy, I would sit here with you for another six of them."

"I'm scared, Steve." Your voice wobbles, resigning to the reality of your current situation.

He brushes his knuckles across the damp expanse of your forehead, "I know, honey. I know."

--

You can't feel a thing from your chest down, but you can practically hear the blood rushing through your vascular system. White florescent lights buzz above your head. They make your eyes feel exceptionally heavy.

"You still with me?" Your husband asks where he's perched on a stool next to your head, holding your hand in a tight, reassuring grip. He squeezes twice; you nod. He'd been reading you the second Lord of the Rings book for some entertainment as well as a distraction. Admittedly not your first choice for literature, but you love him, so you let him continue.

"Almost there, baby. Then we'll get to meet our girl." He'd take the liberty of kissing your forehead if there weren't a KN95 mask covering the large majority of his face. For that matter, Steve was almost entirely covered in hospital PPE.

Your view of the gory scene you know is taking place just below your breasts is obstructed by a huge expanse of blue linen. Having lost track of time by now, you could've been laying there for another five minutes or another five hours.

That train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the shrill cry of an infant. Your infant.

"Congratulations," Doctor Sara says as she comes into view with the squirming baby in her arms-- she's holding it like a footlong sub, you think, against your better judgement. "You've got yourselves a healthy baby boy!"

"What?"

It takes every cell in your body not to laugh at the deer-in-headlights expression contorting Steve's features. 'Call it father's intuition,' his ass.

Every excruciating hour of labor, every bout of nausea, every mood swing, every sleepless night; it all felt worth it when they place your son on your bare chest.

--

"He's so tiny," Steve observes later that night as he cradles your boy to his chest. You watch from your place on the uncomfortably firm hospital bed, "What if I-- I don't know-- what if I drop him? Or something?"

"Steve," you giggle, despite the soreness of the healing incision on your stomach, "Don't say that. You're not going to drop him."

He's silent for a long, long moment, "What do we do now?"

Isn't that the question of the century?

"Well, we have to name him. For starters."

"Yeah, there's that." He ponders for a minute, "How about Gabe?"

"Ugh, no. I dated a kid in high school named Gabe," your face sours at the memory, "I was thinking... maybe Michael?"

"That's my dad's name." Steve deadpans.

"Oh, shit-- that's right."

Knock Knock.

Your mother's face peers around the slightly ajar door before pushing it open the rest of the way, letting herself and a bright-eyed Abbey into the room. For the first time maybe ever, your daughter doesn't barrel into the room like a bull in a China shop. She takes quiet, deliberate steps towards you, Steve and her baby brother.

Her hands twitch at her sides when she approaches Steve, like she itches to touch his little button nose or have him wrap his tiny hand around one of her fingers.

"Ab, this is your little brother." Steve tells her in a whisper.

"Can I hold him?"

"For sure-- go sit with mom and I'll give him to you,"

Abbey climbs cautiously into bed next to you, taking extra care not to shuffle you around too much. You would've started having babies a long time ago if it meant your daughter being this calm. You wrap an arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her temple. Oh, how you missed her while you were away.

Abbey, seemingly also wanting to know, asks, "What's his name?"

"We're not sure yet," you tell her as Steve gently sets her brother in her arms; she cradles him like he's the most precious baby doll she's ever laid eyes on.

She stares down at his face in awe, while you and Steve stare at each other. Tired, but so content. Your mom strokes the downy hairs on the top of his head, tears staining her cheeks.

"Maybe Lucas?" Abbey suggests after a few moments of precarious silence.

"Why Lucas?" You inquire.

"That's the boy's name in my favorite book," she says simply. Maybe naming your child didn't need to be so complicated.

"Would we call him Luke for short?" Steve interjects, grinning.

"Only I would," she declares. Your heart swells twice it's size.

"I think that's a beautiful name, Ab." You tell her, kissing the crown of her head tenderly.

And so he was: Lucas Theodore Harrington. His middle name to honor your late grandfather, and a first name picked by his very first and very best friend.

taglist - @soulxiez @sadieshairbrush @the-witty-pen-name @ilovetaquitosmmmm @micheledawn1975 @cherryc1nnam0n @paleidiot @adaydreamaway30 @mrsnarnian @negomi123 @twinkling-moonlillie @royalestrellas @jamdoughnutmagician @cali-888 @kolsmikaelson @1deverland @borhapparker @alexa4040 @chiliwhore @weonlysaidgoodbyewithwordss @paddockspookie42 @foxes-n-frogs @j-mlover383 @i-love-gfv @the-fairy-anon

[icupblog]

Where did the party go? (batfam x neglected reader) TW: neglect, slight kidnapping

Gotham residents always said that the city could hollow your heart out, that if you lived there long enough you wouldn't care about how many homeless lived in that abandoned building, or how high casulties were every time the Joker got out of Arkham. But at least when gothamites went home they could cuddle up to their loved ones. At least they could have someone coddle them and ask them mundane questions like how their day was and talk about the weather. You on the other hand had no one.

Did you have a family, yes... but they weren't yours, in the sense of whether they would care if you left the house late or if they would come to a dance show you had because you had asked them to (they wouldn't)

So you spent your days working, grinding away at your schoolwork. because maybe Tim would be impressed if you got all A's on your exams, maybe Dick would notice you rather than just ignore your presence, maybe even Jason would give you some semblance of a smirk and tell you good job (you had lost hope for Damian).Oh, how you hoped to live up to your expectations, even for Barbara and Stephanie and they weren't even adopted.

Maybe you knew when you first entered the Wayne Manors beautiful gates that the house would be haunted by something, you just didn't think that something would be you.

You first entered the fiery gates of Bruce Wayne's home when you were 12 years old, unlike the kids that had come before you, you had actually reached double digits before making it to the dark knights home. (well the kids that were there at that moment in time).

The first time you met the man himself was after a funeral. You had just arrived at the Manor a day prior with Alfred escorting you to your room before you slept, and when you awoke there was pure brilliant silence throughout the mansion. It was so surreal you thought you were in a dream, you tiptoed down the massive staircase into the entrance of the house. The windows were slashed with a heavy downpour of thick unyelding rain, almost as if it reflected Bruce's own emotions. He opened the tall doors with superhuman ease (to a small twelve year old at least) and slouched his way into the manor, uncaring to whether his soaked clothes would get on Alfred's beautifully cleaned carpet. He looked up at you and held your gaze for an unseemly amount of time before sighing. You felt as though you should have said something, however upon seeing the man your throat closed up immediately. How could you do anything when just looking at him fills you with a strange foreign emotion? (fear)

When you were 12 you ignored the hints the family would sometimes give you that they were too busy. "Sorry name but I'm pre-occupied besides you're a bit old to ask for my help, right?" Dick would say while he would scroll on his phone. "Okay, uhm, see you around then," "Hey, I was wondering if you weren't too busy with paperwork the-" "No name I'm working got to Alfred if you need anything." "O-okay" Bruce would always be straight forward and blunt, he didn't care, no matter how hard you wanted him too. To him you were nothing more than a mistake a stain on his playboy image as one of his many escapades as Brucie Wayne ended with your mother getting pregnant. "Babs, can you help me with my computer?" "Have you tried switching it off and on again?" "no..." Barbara would always give you some time of day just not a lot... like 30 seconds max.

Then before you could think it could get any worse Tim arrived a Kid around your age, yet he would always sneak off with Bruce and Stephanie (a girl he would bring round, you sometimes could spot her before she disappeared) into the depths of the study and come out hours later looking exhausted and even more irritable before.

It somehow got even worse when Jason came back an evil entity hell bent on ruining your life, and Tim's. He show up outside your school sometimes telling the office workers you were his half-sister and he had to pick you up after school some days. He would shove on the end of his motorbike and hold you in a safehouse for hours on end before realising no one would arrive for you. Upon realising the great Batman didn't care about his one civilian child he would grow furious, breaking things around you as you clinged to whatever you were attached to and cry. Eventually he would grow bored of this old routine and leave you alone.

You tried to tell the family but they would just say "he didn't mean it" "he's not in his right mind name" or even worse they would forget the fact that their child who should be dead by all means kidnapped you and instead asked about his well-being. "Was he angrier or more sad?" "Did you see where you were held? maybe we can reach out to him B". In fact you didn't even realise Bruce Wayne your supposed father was Batman until you had moved out and put the pieces together.

Eventually Cassandra came along, then Damian. You think you were so traumatised by your first encounters by them both that you had blocked them out of your memory. You do however remember coming out of each conversation with an injury.

Let's just say when you eventually became eighteen you were quite frankly done with the family, you had decided to move out asap, so the second you got your college admissions you skedaddled out into metropolis.

Guys how do we feel about this?????

[moondustbaby]

You Don’t Have To Do It All

Blue Collar!Rafe x Pregnant Wife!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

Summary: You are 7–8 months pregnant and working full-time as a middle school secretary during the chaotic start of the school year. When stress and exhaustion finally catch up to you, it leads to a quiet but emotional argument with Rafe — who only ever wanted you to slow down and let him take care of you.

⸻

The school office was louder than usual — copy machine jamming, phones ringing, the hallway filling with seventh graders who hadn’t quite mastered the concept of indoor voices.

You were holding it together… barely. Your back ached, your ankles were swollen, and the headache behind your eyes had been pulsing since about 8:17 a.m. But the worst part? The guilt. You couldn’t even finish entering attendance before the nurse called again — another kid sent down, probably faking a stomachache. You stood to get to the file cabinet and winced when your belly pulled tight, a dull cramp radiating through your lower back.

You didn’t even realize your hand had pressed to your stomach until the nurse raised an eyebrow.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

That was an understatement.

By the time you made it home, the sun was dipping low and your head was throbbing. The second you walked through the door, Rafe was in front of you — hands on your shoulders, eyes narrowing at the tight lines on your face.

“Hey—” he caught your bag before you could set it down, “you don’t look good. What happened?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, it was just a long day.”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. He just studied you. And when he noticed the way your hand moved instinctively to your stomach — that tiny gesture of discomfort — his jaw clenched.

“You need to sit down,” he muttered. “Now.”

“I just need a second to—”

“Sit down, baby.”

His tone wasn’t sharp, but it was enough to shut you up. You let him guide you to the couch. He knelt in front of you, both hands resting on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your leggings.

“You had that look again,” he said, voice lower now. “The one you get when you’re hurting but trying to hide it from me.”

You blinked hard, throat tight. “I’m not trying to hide anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he said gently. “You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

Your chest burned.

Rafe sat back on his heels. “You remember this summer? When I said maybe you shouldn’t go back to work this year?”

You looked away, guilt flooding you fast. “Rafe…”

“No, I’m not mad,” he said quickly, but there was frustration buried in his voice. “I just— I knew this would happen. You’re doing too much. This baby is taking a toll on you, and you’re still trying to be everything for everyone at that damn school.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not that easy to just leave, Rafe. I care about my job. It matters to me.”

“I know that.” He ran a hand through his hair, breathing out slow. “But you matter more to me.”

That’s when the tears hit. They came out of nowhere — hot, overwhelming, fueled by exhaustion and hormones and the absolute truth of his words.

“I just… I feel like if I stop now, I’m letting everyone down. I don’t want people thinking I’m weak, or that I can’t handle this.”

Rafe moved fast then. Not angry — just desperate to get close to you. He sat beside you, pulling you into his chest, letting your sobs break against his shirt.

“Baby, you’re the strongest person I know. Nobody who loves you thinks you’re weak. But you don’t have to prove anything, not to me and sure as hell not to anyone else.”

You clung to him, fingers gripping his shirt.

“I hate feeling like this,” you whispered. “Like my body’s betraying me.”

He kissed your forehead. “It’s not. It’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to do — you’re growing our baby, sweetheart. That’s the most important job there is.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“I should’ve listened to you.”

Rafe smirked. “Yeah, you should’ve. But I get why you didn’t.”

You laughed again, tired but lighter. And when Rafe kissed you — slow and deep and steady — you felt the tension start to melt from your shoulders.

Later, he helped you into the bath, rubbed your swollen feet without you asking, and tucked you into bed with your favorite oversized t-shirt and a heating pad for your back.

And when you apologized again for snapping earlier, he just shook his head and kissed your knuckles.

“Stop sayin’ sorry for needing me,” he murmured. “That’s what I’m here for. Always.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: something about working full-time while super pregnant just felt so real to me… like she’s trying so hard to keep it all together even though her body’s clearly over it. this is for my stressed out, emotional girlies who say “i’m fine” until they fully cry into their husband’s shirt. rafe’s just trying to get her to breathe and let him love her a little softer. hormones, micro angst, and comfort in the end — always.

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@lolabunnyworldss

[bellaxgiornata]

Falling Apart & Torn at the Seams [4/5]

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader Word Count: 2.5k [Series Masterlist][Jax Fic Masterlist]

warnings/tags: 18+; pregnant!Reader, angst with an eventual happy/hopeful ending, emotional hurt, threat to abort (because it's Clay), angry Jax, Clay being Clay

a/n: So glad to see how much y'all have been loving this little thing that grew into far more than just the two parts I'd initially planned (which is why I just gave this thing a masterlist). I've decided it should end at five now, but it's because y'all enjoyed it so much that I expanded on more parts of it, so thank you for the comments and reblogs, they really are always appreciated!

tag list: @kmc1989 @hiddenwritings-adventures @shadyshadyy @cwallace02sblog @staley83 @steviebbboi @bonni-98   @aria725 @mmarysha @secretlysamcro @f1samcro @dollface-xoxo

Roughly pushing open the clubhouse doors, Jax stalked inside the main room, his steps slow and purposeful. He fixed the chapel doors on the opposite end with a dark glare, his fists tightly curled at his sides as he moved past the pool table and the bar. The room was oddly quiet without the usual noise of a party underway, the space eerily devoid of its usual loud laughter and even louder music. It was a Wednesday night and the guys weren't here. 

But Jax knew that Clay was, and that's all that mattered right now.

With his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in it ached, Jax made his way over towards the closed chapel doors, his body tensed and ready for a fight. Clay had been conveniently difficult to find ever since Jax had broken into your apartment and confronted Gemma about your disappearance yesterday afternoon. Which meant Jax had more than an entire day to sit in his quiet rage while it festered, causing him to only further grow vengeful and furious when he thought about what Clay had done to you. His imagination supplied the missing pieces of the puzzle, because Jax could guess what threats Clay had made against you.

But while Jax had been itching for the chance to get Clay alone and confront him, he’d also been busy making his own moves. He'd still spent that time trying to figure out where the hell you could’ve vanished, but it didn't matter how often he kept trying your phone, it always went straight to voicemail–as if it was turned off now. He’d tried leaving you a handful of messages, but he never heard anything back from you. 

It was going on five full days of you being gone without a goddamn word. The silence from you was maddening. All Jax could think about was you out there somewhere pregnant with his kid, completely alone, and probably scared because of Clay. He fucking hated the thought of that. It had him tearing apart both his room at the clubhouse and his own damn house. 

Jax had tried to focus his mind and energy on doing what he could in the meantime–sending out Chibs and Juice to interrogate your landlord in an attempt to figure out whatever they could. While they’d been tasked with that, Jax had spent the day planning something else with Opie. Because he was going to bury Clay for what he’d done, that much was certain. But even that still didn’t feel like he was doing enough right now. 

As Jax approached the chapel doors, he could hear the faint sound of voices coming from within. His teeth ground together, his anger barely being held back inside of himself as he stood there attempting to keep some level of composure. He needed to see what answers he could manage to get out of Clay, to see if there was anything he might say that could give Jax some idea of where you were. But of course Clay was here late plotting things behind closed doors and the backs of the whole club. 

He wasn’t going to keep getting away with this shit, though. Not anymore.

Uncurling one of his fists, Jax reached out and twisted the door handle before pushing the door open so hard it flung backwards and smacked into the wall with a sharp bang. Both Clay and Tig instantly fell silent at the interruption, their attention shifting straight towards the door. Jax stood there with his eyes locked on Clay, a vicious gleam in them as his lips curled back into a sneer.

If he could have ripped Clay’s head off with his bare hands right now, he absolutely would have.

“Whoa, Jax, man,” Tig began, brows furrowing faintly together as he took in the sight of him. “Easy there. What the hell are you doing?”

Clay didn’t look remotely fazed at the sudden enraged entrance, almost as if he’d been expecting it. The way he so comfortably leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, folding his hands in his lap as he focused on Jax like he was completely untouchable, only pissed Jax off further. But it was clear on Clay’s face–he knew exactly why Jax was here just by looking at him.

“Get the fuck outta here, Tig,” Jax snarled, his glare remaining fixed on Clay.

In the chair beside the Sons’ president, Tig focused his attention on Clay, giving him a questioning look. With his own eyes never leaving Jax, Clay gave him a single nod in response.

“Leave us, Tig,” he ordered, flicking a hand dismissively. “‘S’alright. I got this.”

Tig hesitated in his chair for a moment longer, clearly aware of the tension between his president and vice president but not making the connection as to what it was over. Eventually when Clay didn’t say anything otherwise, Tig quietly slid his chair back and rose to his feet. He gave Clay one last look before he slipped past Jax and out of the chapel, closing the door after himself on his way out. 

And then it was just the two of them.

Jax stood there for a moment longer, seething as he stared back at the man who’d just spent one afternoon five days ago blowing up his entire life like it was nothing. And now here he was sitting there looking so fucking calm about it, like he hadn’t done a goddamn thing wrong forcing you out of his life and this town.

“Where is she?” Jax asked, voice level but not any less threatening. “What’d you do to her?”

Clay shrugged a shoulder simply, pulling a face at the questions. “I didn’t do nothin’ to her,” he answered. “Just paid her a visit. Had a talk. That’s it.”

Lips pressing together, Jax’s nostrils flared sharply at the response. He knew damn well how much Clay was downplaying whatever ‘visit’ he’d had with you. And yet he was going to sit here and lie to his goddamn face about it, too. 

“A talk about what?” he pushed firmly. “And don’t fucking lie to me. I know you’ve had it out for her since that first night she came to the clubhouse. Don’t tell me it was some friendly visit.”

Clay continued to sit there, casually leaning back in his chair at the head of the table as a silence fell in the room. Jax recognized the calculating look in his step-father’s eyes–he’d seen it plenty of times to know what it was by now. It was the same look he had whenever he attempted to twist the truth or detract attention away from himself.

“She doesn’t fit, Jackson,” Clay finally said, his words breaking through the heavy tension in the air. “In this world, in this club, in your life. I know it. Your mother knows it. And I’m pretty damn sure your little girlfriend knows it, too.”

With a frustrated grunt, Jax crossed the distance from the entrance of the chapel and over to the ornately carved wooden table. His eye twitched as he tried to hold himself back from doing precisely what he’d rather be doing–beating the absolute shit out of the man. But instead, his fists came down slowly against the table’s surface as he leaned over towards Clay.

“That’s not what I fucking asked you,” Jax growled low.

“But it’s what you need to hear,” Clay countered, his own tone matching Jax’s as he leaned forward along the table, his eyes narrowing back at him. “Because ever since she started working at the garage, you’ve been distracted. Everyone can see it. You’re lettin’ pussy distract you from your responsibilities to the club and your family.”

Jax slammed his fist hard against the solid table, his knuckles stinging from the impact. It was taking every bit of willpower for him to resist striking Clay right in the fucking face like he desperately wanted to, but he knew he had to refrain from the urge. He had a plan in motion to deal with Clay and he couldn’t deviate from it. He couldn’t risk tipping the club off as to what was really going to happen to Clay by having a physical altercation with the piece of shit and leaving any evidence of just how badly he wanted him gone. 

“Don’t you dare call her that,” Jax warned him. His lips twisted up into a dark smile, one that contained only danger and threats as he held Clay’s own cold gaze. “She’s not just some club whore, you old bastard. She’s my girl. My old lady. And you were threatening her.”

Clay scoffed, shaking his head at Jax’s words as if they were nothing. Jax could feel himself practically vibrating with rage right now, everything inside of him screaming to unleash what he was feeling on the bastard–to beat him within an inch of his life and watch him choke on his own blood in this very room.

“She’s nothing more than a passing flavor of the month for you,” Clay retorted. “The way you go through girls. She's nothing.”

“She’s mine!” Jax shouted, finally succumbing to his rage. “And she’s carrying my fucking kid!”

Jax’s chest heaved with his sharp breaths as he stood there bent over the table, a wild look in his eyes as he stared down his president. Clay still kept that outward calm as he eyed Jax, clearly unaffected by his words. Which was all the confirmation Jax had needed. Gemma might not have known that you were pregnant, but somehow Clay had. And he’d still fucking pushed you out of Charming anyway. 

Trying to reign in his temper, a bitter laugh fell out of Jax as he straightened back up beside the table. He stared down at Clay, one of his shaking hands coming up to comb through his shaggy hair in frustration. 

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” he spat. “You knew she was pregnant. That’s why you threatened her, wasn’t it?”

Clay shrugged again. As if it didn’t matter. As if you carrying his goddamn child didn’t matter. His lips pressed together at the realization of just how cold–how fucking cruel and ruthless–the man really was when he wanted something. And Clay had wanted you out of the picture long enough. 

“Yeah, I knew,” he admitted easily. “So I paid her a visit. Told her the truth.”

Jax’s eyes narrowed further into slits at his words. “The truth?” he shot back, his head tilting to the side in challenge. “What fucking truth, Clay? You been doing nothing but feeding the both of us lies for months now. So what goddamn truth did you share with her, huh?”

Clay’s hand raised from the table, gesturing at Jax before him. “That you, my son, are not remotely in the place or the mindset to become a father,” he answered smoothly. “You’re barely taking care of your damn self, you got no idea the first things about raising a kid. And let’s be real–that ain’t the kinda shit you want on your plate right now.”

“Don’t you–” he snapped, pointing a ringed finger sharply at Clay, “–call me your son after the shit you've done. And don't you even try and pretend to know a damn thing about what I want. You got no idea.”

“Don’t matter now,” Clay told him. “Your girl is probably long gone now. She’s got no job since I fired her, so who knows what happened to her.”

Inhaling a sharp breath, Jax’s jaw tightened at the information. He’d fired you–you hadn’t quit. Clay had fired you knowing that you were pregnant. Knowing you’d need a job and money and fucking insurance to take care of yourself and that baby right now. And right now you had none of that, not because you’d made the choice yourself, but because Clay had intentionally taken it all from you.

Attempting to maintain his composure, one of Jax’s hands ran along his mouth. The sharp scratch of his facial hair against his fingers barely registered as he fought to keep himself from knocking the old fuck right out of that chair. That haunting thought of you somewhere struggling right now flashed through his mind, and he physically had to restrain himself by gripping his other hand against the edge of the table.

Clay would get what was coming to him despite how goddamn smug he looked sitting there. Because Jax knew something that Clay didn’t, and it would only be a matter of time before that president patch was stripped from Clay’s kutte and sewn onto his own. 

Jax was going to make damn certain Charming was safe for you, and then he was going to fucking find you and fix everything. It didn’t matter how long it took for you to forgive his stupid fucking ass for not just listening to you that night you’d come to him for help. He would do whatever it took to get you back here and keep you safe. 

Which is what he should have been doing in the first place.

Taking a few steps back towards the chapel doors, Jax’s glare remained on Clay. “You fucked up, old man,” he told him. “You're eventually going to find that out.”

Without another word, Jax turned and exited the chapel, slamming the door shut behind himself as he went. As he stormed his way through the empty clubhouse, his steps swift and heavy, he knew it was foolish to have hoped that Clay might have given him some clue as to where you’d disappeared to. He probably had no damn idea himself.

Stepping outside of the clubhouse and back into the dimly lit parking lot, Jax continued to stride across the pavement. Opie was waiting for him right where Jax had left him a bit ago–leaning against his bike and smoking a cigarette. He nodded his head in greeting at Jax as he expelled the smoke from between his lips.

“Get what you needed to, brother?” Opie asked curiously.

“Of course not,” Jax snarled in irritation. He grabbed his helmet from where it was hanging on the handlebars of his bike, unclipping it before he jutted his chin at Opie. “You get what you needed?”

Opie nodded, tossing his cigarette down to the pavement. He stamped it out with his shoe, his eyes flickering to the clubhouse as he did before he focused back on Jax.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You sure you wanna do this, though?”

Jax’s eyes burned with rage as he stared at the clubhouse, securing his helmet on his head. “He’s taken enough from us, Ope,” Jax answered, an edge to his words. “He got away with what he did to Donna. Now he's trying to push out my girl.” He secured the helmet on his head as he looked back at his best friend. “You wanna give him the chance to find an excuse to go after Lyla next?”

A muscle jumped in Opie's cheek at the question before he quietly shook his head. 

Jax turned and threw a leg over his bike, settling down onto it. “I’m sick of him getting away with this shit,” he spat bitterly. “He's not taking anything else from us.”