#she could really be like this and he would fall right into it

[taeeflwrr]

oh my god was this a rollercoaster of emotions #bringbackangst #imafeministdespiteallthethoughtsthatthisficmademeentertain #forgivemesinceitwashyuck

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

I Don't Hate You (1)

Wanda X Reader 18+

Summary- As you were about to knock on her door you heard what sounded like a groan. You froze at the door. Did you hurt her badly in training? Was she in pain? Steve was going to kill you. Oh god you had fucked up. “Fuck Y/n, right there please,” the witch moaned and you realised. Oh.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- Enemies to Lovers?, Dom Reader, Top Reader, Praise, Sub Wanda, Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral sex, Multiple Orgasms.

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List | Chapter 2

You hated her. She hated you. That was the only thing you and Wanda Maximoff could agree on. The rest of the team had no idea what happened to make you hate a certain witch so much but by the way you acted towards her they could tell it must have been something big. So here you were currently sitting in the kitchen of the Avengers compound with a scowl on your face as Wanda had just entered the room.

“Can’t you just try to be civil with her?” asked Natasha who was your best friend. The spy had been there when they rescued you from Hydra and helped you understand your abilities and control them so you couldn’t hurt anyone else. Natasha was the only person you willingly told about your past. The testing, the abuse, the torture and the stripping of your humanity really did a number on you but you managed to get through it. You had to. With an annoyed look, you turned to the redhead and met her eyes.

“I’m sorry Nat but I just don’t trust her,” you said for what felt like the millionth time. The whole team wanted you two to get along but that was quiet hard as you were both strong independent women who could be annoyingly stubborn. The spy dropped the conversation with a huff and continued to run by old mission files with you. During this you found yourself looking out for a certain brunette and you couldn’t help it. You thought it was just your paranoia acting up as that was a habit you couldn’t shake but you didn’t miss that other odd feeling you felt when looking for her.

“Y/n? Wanda? A word please,” spoke Captain America and you audibly groaned at the names called. You heard her mumbled something under her breath and you just help yourself from being a dick.

“What’s wrong darling?” you sarcastically retort.

“What do you think?” she spat out, her accent thick.

“I think your thinking about having to spend time all alone with me,” you started with a smirk and she just raised her eyebrow at you, “Trying your hardest to keep that little mind of yours from thinking about being under me.” Thanks to your abilities you heard her breath hitch and knew you had riled her up.

“As If I would want to be under you,” she growled but you could see the way her legs slowly squeezed together. You loved teasing her because it always worked and well if you were being honest you had definitely thought about her being under you. The woman was gorgeous! She had a stunning body from all her training, she could kill men twice the size of her and she never backed down from a challenge. How could you not fantasize about her? It would be like some amazing fanfic where the two people who hated each other would some reason have amazing hot sex and maybe fall in love.

“Keep telling yourself that darling,” you said. You were about to tease her even more but a firm grip on your shoulder stopped you.

“Go now,” ordered Natasha and you saluted at her in a mocking manner and walked down the hall to follow the captain and witch. You couldn’t stop yourself and your eyes wandered lower until they reached the brunettes behind. You quickly averted your gaze once you released what you were doing.

“So what’s this for Grandpa,” you joke as he leads you to the training room. You jump up onto the pile of mats to sit on while he just rolls his eyes at the nickname. You and Steve were close as you both shared the super soldier serum but yours was more enhanced.

“You and Wanda will be sparring partners from now on,” his tone serious and you just laughed.

“You think she could fight me?” your voice shocked. “Wow I’m officially hurt Captain,” for dramatics you placed your hand on your heart and acted as if he had shot you.

“Get down Y/n,” he grumbled but you listened as he was still your friend. “You are going to spar with each other and settle your differences otherwise you are both banned from missions.”

“What?” you and Wanda both asked in unison.

“You heard me,” his tone stern, “Now sort this out so we don’t have to listen to anymore arguing.” With that said he left the room and slammed the door making you laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she snapped while tying her hair up and getting in a fighting stance. You looked her up and down unconsciously before clearing your throat.

“Looks like you’ll have plenty of time to be under me darling,” you purred and launched yourself at her. She dodged a few of your punches but you noticed how she put way to much weight onto one of her legs meaning if you swiped at her other-

“Fuck,” she shouted as her back hit the mat and you climbed on top of her to pin her down. You moved her hands over her head while moving your hips to straddle hers. Your faces were inches apart and your smirk was predatory. You looked deeply into her ocean eyes and wondered has she always had such beautiful eyes? You watched as her breathing started to pick up as you moved to whisper in her ear.

“If you want to be under me just ask,” you purred. “I’m sure I could make you scream,” your tone was sultry and as you pulled back you saw her eyes dilate so much only slivers of the green were left. You chuckled at her reaction before getting of her and waiting for her to get back up. You let her make the first move this time and quickly avoided her incoming attacks. You read her movements and analysed her techniques before predicting her next moves. You knew Natasha had trained her mostly so she had learned the spy’s skills but they just weren’t as developed as hers. Once she lifted the weight on one foot you knew she was going to swing her foot at you so you moved back and caught it with your hand. You flipped her over as she was now off balanced but made sure to put a hand on her back before she hit the mat once again. You hated her but that didn’t mean you were going to purposely hurt her. You weren’t like that anymore.

“You really do like being on your back for me,” you teased as you pinned her once again.

“Shut up,” she said with her accent coming out strong. “I’m getting a drink.” You gazed at her as she drank from her water bottle. From where you were you could see the light showing off the sweat that was dripping down the column of her neck and slowly trickling its way to the valley of her breasts. The sight of her was intoxicating and you couldn’t help but stare. You managed to look away before you came off as creepy and she returned to you a few moments later.

“Ready to be beaten again?” you taunted and she just rolled her eyes before throwing a surprise punch. You were impressed but it didn’t work as you countered it and swiped her off her feet once again.

“Wow you really are falling for me,” you joked and she groaned in annoyance. The two of you continued to spar for another hour until Wanda finally called it quits as she was getting annoyed. She managed to land a few hits on you occasionally but would always end up underneath you. When she stormed out of the training room you assumed it was out of frustration as you had being egging her on for ages. However Wanda left in such a hurry as the wetness between her thighs was becoming too much.

Once in her room she quickly shed her self of her sweaty workout clothes and laid down on her bed in nothing but her underwear. She didn’t get why you hated her so much. The only reason she acted the way she did to you was because that’s how you treated her. Wanda pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind as she moved her hands along her sculpted body. Sparring with you had awoken something in her. Yeah sure she had thought about you multiple times while pleasuring herself but to actually be under you and be so close? It had her wet within seconds. Her nimble fingers found themselves teasing her nipples through the fabric of her bra before she moved to unclasp it and throw it somewhere into her room. She pictured you above her, your hands teasing her nipples as she moaned under you. Your name falling out of her lips like a prayer as you took her desperately in her bed. One of her hands moved from her breast to slip underneath the fabric of her underwear and start rubbing circles into her clit. She wondered if you would be dominating during sex as you had that cocky personality or if you were really just a brat who needed to be tamed like she was. She hoped you would take charge and make her scream like you promised. She found herself getting unbearably wet between her thighs as the coil in her stomach started to tighten. She slipped in two fingers and thrusted at a leisurely pace imagining they were your fingers and you were teasing her for being such a brat this morning. Her hips bucked every time her palm brushed her clit and soft whimpers left her lips. She didn’t even notice that she was moaning your name as she edged closer and closer to the edge.

“Y/n,” spoke a voice and you whipped your head around. It was Steve great. “Why did Wanda look so annoyed after training with you?”

“I don’t know maybe because all she did was get pinned to the floor by me? I’m sorry Cap I really am but she’s too easy to fight!” you exclaimed and he sighed in frustration.

“Then why don’t you try and help her improve!” he said and you looked at him confused.

“Isn’t that your job? Or Nat’s?” he pinched the bridge of his nose at you and huffed.

“It’s yours now ok?” he said in a serious voice and you just groaned. Why God, why? “Also you can go check on her and apologise for being so rough on her in training,” his voice left no room for arguing so you mumbled stuff under your breath before leaving to go see the witch.

“God Y/n,” she whimpered as her fingers hit her g-spot repeatedly. She was a wet mess by now and she didn’t care. The image of you pounding into her with a strap on was doing wonders for her and she was so close to coming for a second time.

As you were about to knock on her door you heard what sounded like a groan. You froze at the door. Did you hurt her badly in training? Was she in pain? Steve was going to kill you. Oh god you had fucked up. “Fuck Y/n, right there please,” the witch moaned and you realised. Oh.

Wanda curled the two fingers inside her and rubbed tight, fast circles into her clit with her other hand bringing herself right to the edge. With a final thrust she came with a guttural scream and trembled on the bed as her orgasm washed over her. She laid on the bed panting after having two of the best orgasms of her life. Who knew you turned the witch on that much.

You remained frozen at the door as you had just heard Wanda moaning your name and had just orgasmed at the thought of you. Every single ounce of confidence in you went flying out of the widow as Wanda just came thinking about you. You knew you had to see the witch otherwise Steve would definitely ban you from missions so you did the only thing you could think off- make dirty jokes while talking to her.

You knocked three times on the door before saying, “Hey Wanda, I’m sorry for going so hard on you in training I just thought you would have liked it hard and rough.” You could hear an embarrassed noise from through the door and quietly chuckled. “Anyway I can’t wait for you to come tomorrow.” Wanda groaned loudly into her pillow and dreaded training with you tomorrow.

The next day you and Wanda met for training you had decided to wear a tight fitting black t-shirt that showed off how defined your body was as well as slightly curvy. You certainly didn’t expect Wanda to turn up in tight leggings that hugged her ass perfectly and a small sports bra that made her chest look bigger. You had to control yourself as she swayed her hips towards you. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes and you could tell she was going to be a brat.

“Hey Y/n,” her tone sultry and accent thick.

“Hey Wanda,” your tone equally seductive. “Did you have fun last night?” You saw how she blushed and thought this was going to be easy.

“I did actually,” she murmured, her face inches from yours. “I did what you said I would.”

“And what was that darling?” the nickname slipping from your lips.

“Thinking of you,” her voice raspy. You raised an eyebrow at her boldness but let her carry on. “I thought of what it would be like to be under you,” she stepped closer to you and moved to a fight pose. She made sure that in the position she was in her breasts would be pushed up and it would give you a clear view of them. “To have your hands all over me,” she threw a punch and you easily dodged it but grabbed her arm and flung her over you. She landed on her back with you onto and her eyes dilated. You could see how flustered she was and how her thighs tried to squeeze together. You moved apart her legs with your hands, spreading her out for you before crawling above her and putting your knew in between her legs. A soft moan left her lips at the contact and you stopped advancing on her. It felt so wrong to have her here on the floor of the training room.

“Do you actually want this?” you asked in case she didn’t for some reason.

“Yes,” she gasped out. You pressed your lips against hers and heard her moan into the kiss. Fuck she was addicting. The taste of her lips, the sound of her whimpers, the smell of her perfume. You couldn’t get enough of her. You pulled away and saw how her eyes fluttered open, her lips chasing yours. A small peck on her lips was placed before you pulled away for good to stare at her.

“Not here darling,” you panted out on her lips. Her nose brushed yours and you so desperately wanted her now. “My room or yours?”

“Mine,” she whispered and you moved off her and pulled her up. You pulled her close to murmur into her ear.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” you nibbled on her ear lobe. “Go.” Swiftly she left the training room and you chuckled as she fumbled with the door.

Around five minutes later you knocked on her door after making sure no one would see you. As soon as the door opened a hand made its way to the collar of your shirt and she dragged you into her room. Wanda pressed you against the door and reattached your lips together in a hungry kiss. You groaned into her mouth as her body became flush with yours. In one motion, you switched the positions and trapped her body between you and the door.

“If you want to stop just say,” you panted out while resting your forehead against hers, “I won’t judge and will stop as soon as you want me to.” She smiled before lacing her hands through your hair and pulling you in for a bruising kiss. Your knee made its way back between her thighs and she took this as the chance to grind along it. Your hands moved from beside her head to massage her chest before pulling down the sports bra revealing her chest. She gasped as the cold air met her nipples while you just let out a low chuckle. Your fingers rolled and pinched her nipples as she sighed against your lips and grinded her core on your toned thigh.

“Please,” she whimpered as you moved your kisses to her neck. You sucked hard onto a spot on her neck where everyone could see as it and felt her buck her hips especially hard.

“Oh you like that darling?” you teased. “Do you want everyone to see your mine? To see this and think of me and you?” you bit down on another part of her neck and soothed it with your tongue before moving to her chest. Your name fell from her lips as you took a breast into your mouth and worshipped it. With a pop you let it go before moving onto the other.

“Y/n,” she whined, “Please I’m so close. I need you to,” she moaned out before you cut her off with your lips.

“Need me to what?”

“Touch me here,” she guided one of your hands to between her thighs and you instantly felt how wet she was.

“You’re so wet for me,” you growled out and she moaned at the tone of your voice. You rubbed her through the fabric of her leggings and felt her getting extremely close. “Do you want to come?” you felt her nod against your shoulder and you tsked her. “You’ve got to use your words if you want to be a good girl,” she moaned at the words. “Good girls get to come.”

“Please let me come,” she whimpered and you felt bad for what you were about to do but it would be worth it. “I’m so close,” as soon as she said that you picked her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around your toned abdomen. She whined as you placed her on the bed as she was so close to coming. Once she was on the bed you knelt by the end of it and reached for the waistband of her leggings. You looked at her in the eyes, asking the silent question, and waited for her to say yes. She nodded but you tsked again so she said, “Yes. Please!” You laughed at her neediness but continued to pull the remaining clothing off her skin. As you unveiled the soft, smooth skin of her legs you groaned quietly as she was breath-taking.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered while moving her legs over your shoulder. You peppered open mouthed kisses in between her thighs before leaving a few bites to leave as a reminder. “Is this what you wanted?” you murmured into her skin. “To be spread out and wanting for me?” your hot breath sent all sorts of pleasurable feelings throughout the witch and a low moan left her lips. “Desperate for my touch?” you finally gave in and took her clit into your mouth. Her hips jerked at pleasure so with one of your hands you held her hips down. The show of strength made Wanda feel even more aroused and a new gush of wetness pooled between her thighs. Your tongue licked between her folds while your free hand moved to circle her clit. You thrusted your tongue into her dripping core and felt her clench around you. Wanda was already extremely close from before so it only took a few thrusts of your tongue against her walls and a few rubs of her clit for her legs to wrap around your head. Her legs trembled as she came with a long string of moans, her back arching beautifully and chest heaving from the intensity of it. Once she had rode out the last of her aftershocks you switched your tongue with your fingers and easily slipped two into her.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned as her hips bucked as best they could under your grip. You started a fast pace of moving your digits within her while your mouth sucked and licked around your extremely sensitive clit. It took only a minute or so for the witch to cry out your name out as another orgasm washed over her. You waited once again for her to calm down and tested to see if she could handle another. You worked her up slowly this time and her hands unclenched the sheet in her hand and tangled in your hair. You made her come another time before deciding she had enough and it would be too much for another.

“Are you alright?” you whispered as you moved back above her body. She sighed out a yes before pressing her lips against yours. The brunette moaned as she tasted herself on your lips before pulling away.

“Do you want me to?” she asked breathlessly and you shook your head.

“Its ok,” you said after pressing your lips together once again, “You’re tired. Go and rest.” You moved to her bathroom to grab a towel so you could quickly wipe her down and clean her up. Once you were happy she was alright you went to grab her clothes and put them into a wash basket before passing her some comfortable clothes to wear. You heard her call your name so you turned around to look at her.

“Stay?” she had hope in her eyes and for some reason you felt like you couldn’t deny her. You crawled into the bed with her and felt her move close to cuddle you. This felt weird for you as you had never expected to do this with her but it didn’t feel wrong so you went with it. “Y/n?” you hummed in response, “Why do you hate me?

“I don’t hate you,” you admitted. It was true. You never hated Wanda you were just scared of what she thought of you. When she went into your mind all that time ago when she was with Ultron you were still a new member of the team. You hadn’t done much to remove the ‘red in your ledger’ as Natasha phrased it and you assumed she just thought you were evil. “I just thought you would see me as a monster. I pushed you away because you saw all of me and it just….scared me I guess.” She removed her head from your chest to look at you in the eyes.

“You’re not a monster Y/n. And I never thought that of you.” She pressed her lips onto yours and this time it felt different.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you,” you whispered against her lips, not meeting her eyes.

“I’m sorry too,” she cooed and you finally looked at her, “But to be honest I was just mad at you. I had a huge crush on you and you just wanted to push me away.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m yours now,” you said and you saw her raise her eyebrow, “Well that’s if you still want me.” She answered you by kissing you passionately on the lips and pulling you closer.

“Of course I do.”

[tywrites]

secrets that you keep (talking in your sleep) | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,267

warnings: implied smut, wet dreams, dry humping

a/n: i need this blanket viscerally. hope you fellow blanket fuckers enjoy <3

part 2

It wasn’t a rare scenario to find you in. Curled up on the couch, wrapped up in your fuzzy, yellow blanket ­- the TV on a low volume in the background, playing some overdramatic reality show. The only difference, however, was that you were sleeping.

You didn’t often fall asleep on the sofa, especially after receiving the dateviators. Knowing that every object in your house was sentient honestly made you feel quite self-conscious a lot of the time. You didn’t even want to think about going to the bathroom. Sleeping on Betty was still a bit new to you but she was so chill about it that it didn’t bother you as much. But you didn’t know Koa super well yet. Sleeping on him felt a bit… awkward.

But here you were, soft snores leaving your mouth as you laid in your slumber. The most awkward part of it was that you’d left your dateviators on. They were slightly slid down your nose, but still working. Since you’d been hanging out with Mateo, you’d had them on to be able to converse with him. But now, your head was slumped on his shoulder, the soft material of his duvet jacket acting as a perfect pillow.

Mateo didn’t mind in the slightest. He actually thought it was adorable, gazing on your sweet, sleeping form with a small smile. He gently brushed the hair away from your face, his hand stilling as you shifted. He definitely didn’t want to wake you up. After a moment, you stopped moving, now cuddled into Mateo’s chest as your own rose and fell in even, relaxed breaths. He chuckled at how clingy you seemed to be in your sleep.

“Wow, mi vida,” he said softly. “Guess the inanimals really took it out of you today,”

You’d both had a pretty busy day. All of the inanimals had needed grooming, Sinclaire had dropped off a pretty hyper Sudsy, and Davi had even done his usual disappearing act again. All in all, quite a chaotic time for you both. Mateo of course was kinda used to it. But you? Not so much.

Mateo very cautiously shifted your positions, taking great care not to disturb your rest as he moved you both to a reclining position on the sofa. He propped himself up against the arm, allowing you to lie fully down on top of him, your face snuggled against his chest. Pure comfort. He sighed in content, allowing himself to enjoy this small moment of peace with you. His eyes closed and for a second, he wondered if he could afford to take a quick nap himself.

His eyes shot open as a curious noise broke through the silence.

He looked down at you, a bit confused. He swore he’d heard you speak.

He waited.

Nothing.

With a small frown, he closed his eyes.

There it was again! It was definitely coming from you. Only, it didn’t sound like words. He observed your sleeping form, silently waiting for it to happen again.

“Mmm…”

Oh.

Oh.

A flush settled on his cheeks, turning his face a rosy red. Maybe he was wrong. You couldn’t be… moaning. Right? You’d fallen silent once again, your face burying itself even deeper into his plush chest. Once in the desired position, you let out a satisfied sigh. He tried his hardest to calm his racing heartbeat. Chill, Mateo. He told himself. You’re clearly imagining things. They wouldn’t be-

“Ohh.. fuck,”

He bit his lip as you let out another moan, louder this time and slightly muffled into his chest. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t imagining this. He suddenly felt kind of creepy, as if he was completely invading your privacy. He would never, ever, under any circumstances, want to make you uncomfortable. And if you knew what he was hearing right now… Mateo felt conflicted.

The noises were becoming more frequent and you seemed to be having a very… pleasing dream. He didn’t want to wake you up… You’d been working so hard today and you really deserved the rest! But you also deserved privacy. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the pure awkwardness that would fill the room after he woke you up.

He didn’t get that chance.

“Mm… fuck yes… Mateo please,”

He froze. Did you… did you just say his name? Blood pounded in his ears, his cheeks heating up adorably. You whined in your sleep, biting your lip subconsciously as you began to grind your hips against him, searching for any kind of stimulation you could find. All the while, you whimpered out the most erotic noises Mateo had ever heard. He couldn’t believe you were still asleep.

Mateo could barely think straight, the noises you were making going straight to his head. And… straight to somewhere else. His body ran hot when he realised just how tight his usually comfy sweatpants had gotten. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Mi amor, you’re gonna be the death of me...”

He had no idea what to do. Hearing you whine his name like that… It was insanely difficult for him to hold back from waking you up to hear exactly what your dream was about. He tried to take deep, calming breaths, raking a hand through his messy locks. But then, a thought struck him. The others; his fellow objects. They could probably hear you right now. I mean, you guys were literally laying on Koa. The idea of that, of them knowing how badly you wanted him… god, it drove him crazy.

You were still going at it, practically humping his thigh at this point. He honestly couldn’t stand it any longer. If you didn’t wake up soon, he’d be giving you one hell of a wake up call.

“Mateo, I need you… please,”

Ay dios mío, the way you were begging so sweetly for him – it drove him crazy. He felt like he was ready to burst. You two had never actually… done anything before. Your relationship was sweet, romantic and caring. Not that he’d never wanted to! It was kind of an awkward thing to bring up and you both were always so busy. But knowing that you’d been dreaming about it… god, he needed you too. Badly.

He gently placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking it, attempting to coax you from your deep slumber. He knew you slept better when you were with him, but he’d never seen you so deep in your sleep. It didn’t take too long to wake you, your eyes slowly fluttering open, blinking in the light of the TV.

“Fuck, did I fall asleep?” you asked hoarsely, rubbing at your eyes.

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, you did. That tired, huh?”

You smiled up at him. “Must’ve been…” You yawned, stretching your arms. “God, I had the best dream,”

His eyes widened, looking at you curiously. Did… did you know you were talking in your sleep?

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it was…” You trailed off, a subtle blush rising to your cheeks. “...good, really uh, good,”

He couldn’t hold back the knowing chuckle. “Uh huh, I could tell…”

You looked at him, confusion evident in your eyes. It was only when he purposely rolled his hips up against your own that you realised what he’d meant. The hardness pressed against you left very little to the imagination. Your mouth dropped open and your body burned all over.

“H-how… how did you…”

He smirked, cupping your chin with a soft but firm hand.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

[barnesandbarton]

Bucky was trying to piece together everything based on what Bobbi was saying and the yelling of Clint in the bedroom, along with the things that Natasha had told him.  He thought maybe he had a good idea of what was going on, but it was hard to know what advice to give.

From what he’d gotten was they’d had a very raw and emotional talk in the bathroom, which was why they’d heard Bobbi screech earlier.  Then because Clint had an issue with alcohol, he’d wanted a beer to take the edge of.  Because of that same issue, Bobbi had tried to talk him out of it by offering other things, and what Clint had heard was something that to him had read not just as an accusation of him being a drunk, but also as him being the kind of person who would just use his wife for sex without caring how she felt about it.

All in all it sounded like Clint had taken an ego hit, and Bobbi had been retraumatized by it.

“Alright… I think maybe you both need a moment to cool off.  Chances are with a little space, he’ll realize that you didn’t say what he heard.  That’s a rough topic to talk about and it probably made both your emotions feel raw.  Nat said he has some unhealthy coping mechanisms.  Sounds like he’s in one now.  You deserve an apology.  And also say - maybe he needs a little understanding.  I could see why maybe if you’d just been talking about someone raping you, that offering sex like that could be read wrong?  I certainly… look -”  He swallowed and shook his head.  “Fuck… it really is hard to talk about.  I’ve been ‘used by guys to get their frustrations out on’ and if I’d been talking about it and then Nat asked if I wanted to have sex, even if it was with good intentions, I wouldn’t exactly be in the mood.  You know?  Ife he was already at the point of drinking… that uncomfortable feeling might be heightened when paired with being criticized over the drinking part.”  

He looked up at Natasha when she came in.  “If you two want to share our bed, I can sleep on the couch,” he suggested.  “Make sure he doesn’t sneak out.” 

Clint did know he was overreacting right now, but without his usual way to cope with these things, he was having a lot of trouble self-regulating to say the least.  He rolled over when Natasha put the note on the bedside table and tried to force himself just to fall asleep so he didn’t have to think about how badly he wanted to get black out drunk. 

Bobbi looked up at him with disbelief and tears in her eyes, finding nothing but sympathy in his. She smiled sadly and nodded, letting him lead her to the couch and direct her. Grabbing a blanket, she tugged it around her so it was covering her fully and sat down next to him. Listening to him talk gave her the chance to get her emotions under control, leaving her to sniffle occasionally. “I know they’re tense, and that Clint is…Clint. I just didn’t expect him to react the way he did to what I said and I didn’t think I said or did anything wrong.”

She took a deep shuddering breath before she explained. “The long and short of it is that I told him the truth about what happened to me years ago: remember when I got upset with you earlier? Well, I let a man die after fighting him to the side of a cliff after I escaped from him having raped me. More than once. And I didn’t tell Clint that I got raped until tonight. We talked about that, and I thought things were fine, but I guess they’re not.”

When she heard Clint yelling, she winced and shrunk in on herself, wrapping her arms around her middle. “And then there’s that. He thought I was accusing him of wanting to use me, that I saw him as someone who would do what…what Lincoln Slade did to me, but I would never. I told him that that piece of shit wasn’t worth sinking back into a bottle for, and then he just yelled at me,” she whispered.

——————————

Natasha wasn’t stupid. She had known Clint for long enough that she could tell when something was bothering him that he wanted to talk about but couldn’t, and chose not to press the matter. She’d likely find out soon enough anyway.

For as much as she wanted to fire back a retort at him, she refused to give him the satisfaction. She knew he was in pain and lashing out at her because she was a convenient target, which she would have to talk to him about when he was more level-headed.

She let him continue with his tirade, her eyebrows raising at his comment to what Bobbi had supposedly said. While there were better ways that could have been phrased, Natasha knew that Bobbi hadn’t meant it like that. Getting Clint to understand that was a different story, and something that wasn’t likely to happen tonight. “I get it, and I can see why you’re upset. She probably could have handled that differently, but I’m not sure it’s as bad as you’re suggesting. And she’s allowed to be concerned, Clint. We all are.”

Natasha sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose, counting backwards from twenty to give herself time to calm down. Once she felt calmer, she crossed the room to where his hearing aids were, picked them both up, inspected them carefully for damage, and on finding none, she breathed a sigh of relief. That wouldn’t have been fun to try and lie to Tony about. She located a pad of paper and a pen, writing out a note to Clint in her neat scrawl: Clint, once you’re done with whatever this temper tantrum is and if you’re feeling better and if you want to, I’m here to talk and to listen. Your options as I gave them to you before still stand. Love, Nat.

She tore off the piece of paper and set it along with his hearing aids and a glass of water on the nightstand that she knew was his side of the bed. Grabbing some clothes and a few personal items that she knew were Bobbi’s, she shut the bedroom door closed behind her with a sigh and held up the stack. “I figured you’d want these.”

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 4. mary jane & co.

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: marijuana use, toxic relationships and friendships, angst, smut, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n: hi! i just wanted to pop in and say that trust the process with this chapter! and also that the next one might take a little longer to come out as my schedule is very hectic for the next week! i hope though that i can at least have chapter 5 out in 7-8 days instead of 4-5! enjoy!

prev. < masterlist > next

Geto hated being home. He hated the quietness of the halls, he hated the smell of the carpets. He hated how the only time his mother was there, she would complain. She would taunt him, curse his father, complain how love is for idiots. Ever since the divorce she’d been keen on that fact. 

“Your father was a fucking asshole, never believe it when someone tells you they love you. Before you know it they’ll move onto someone else,” she would hiss, scanning her son with discontent. On other occasions, she would sneer at him, reminding Geto that he was starting to look just like him. 

It was the main reason he always hosted parties– it was a day to drown out the silence that haunted his house. It was an easy distraction, the drinking, the fun, the girls. He took his mothers words very seriously, realizing among all the sweaty teenage hormones, that no one knew what loyalty was, just like what his mother had warned him about. There was always some kind of drama and someone’s heart was always breaking. 

He stood with his best friend near the window of his room, feeling the breeze dilute the skunkish smell. Intertwined between their fingers was a perfectly rolled joint, and with every inhale they puffed smoke out the opening. Geto was feeling buzzed, and he could tell Gojo was even more out of it. He knew he should’ve been using the week to study– that was its intended purpose– but being home, looking at his bed, staring at his empty phone notifications, he felt as though there was nothing else to do. 

“This shit feels so fuckin’ good,” Gojo hummed, taking another drag, “we should do it more often.” 

Geto only agreed, fidgeting with the joint slightly, cautiously taking a hit. Judging by Gojo’s body language, he was much more loose, as though his thoughts had become unfiltered. 

“This year’s been so much fun so far– whoever said college was stressful clearly wasn’t doing it right.” He laughed, continuing with his gibbering nonsense. “And man, honestly I gotta tell ya– I thought I’d been fucking around hard once school began, but I think I’m fucking falling in love.” 

The black haired boy raised a suspicious eyebrow, intrigued on what else his friend would admit to him, “oh, really?” 

Before you know it they’ll be in love with someone else, ringing in his head at the thought of his best friend supposedly being in love. 

Gojo only nodded, “something about her, the way she laughs, the way she does her makeup, I don’t know I haven’t been able to shake it. We’ve gotten much closer in the past two months. I think I’m gonna give it a shot.” 

“Gotten closer?” Geto looks confused, “did you know her from highschool or something.” 

“Something like that,” Gojo mutters. He seems tense, like he’s unsure about what he’s going to say next. “I’m just worried that things might change too drastically, stuff like this gets messy.” 

Geto thought of you, about how it all started on the very bed that was next to him. Messy was an understatement. He hadn’t seen or spoken to you since that party, since you were cozying up with that other guy, since you broke off your friendship. 

“Do you think she likes you back?” He wasn’t sure why he was playing into Gojo’s delusions, but he couldn’t help it. 

“It’s hard to say,” Gojo huffs, inhaling his joint, “we usually hang out in group settings, but when we’re alone we always have fun.” 

“Worth a shot then,” Geto muses, “but probably best to not get your hopes up.” 

“Yeah but this girl is different.” He clarifies. “Trust me, if you knew who I was talking about, you’d understand.” 

“You’re saying that like I know this chick personally.” He laughs. 

However, Gojo stiffens. “You do.” 

Geto’s eyes narrow, trying to refocus himself on the conversation. Who the hell was Gojo falling in love with? 

“Shoko?” He questions, causing his friend to scoff, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t be fucking dense.” Geto felt his face go pale, his breath slowing down as Gojo finished his sentence. “It’s y/n.” 

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, although he tries his best to keep a straight face. Geto can feel the twitching of his heart, the way it’s trying to claw through his ribcage– it makes him nauseous, and he doesn’t know why. He thinks about your angered face, the way you stormed out on him just a handful of weeks ago. 

He didn’t know what to say, wondering how much time had gone by since Gojo last spoke. He wasn’t sure if his senses were being skewed because of the weed, or because of the perplexity of the whole situation. He figured it was the weed. 

A part of him wanted to tell Gojo about your friends with benefits situation, even though it had soured. He wanted to brag to his best friend about how he’d taken your virginity, about how he was the only one to see you in such a vulnerable state. It was twisted on how much he wanted to splice through Gojo’s little romantic fantasy, but still his lips moved without his brain. 

“Really? Her?” He said almost with a chuckle, taking another long drag. “You know she probably isn’t into guys like you.” 

Gojo hissed, “and what kinda guys is she into?” 

Geto could sense the devious little smile creeping up on his face, “she’s into the type of guys that make her work for it. She likes when they’re a little bit mean.” 

“And how the fuck would you know that?” Gojo asked, puffing smoke out the window, coughing slightly. 

“Because we’ve been fucking.” He admitted, even though it was him who suggested keeping your affairs secret. Geto’s lips were curled into a grin while he smoked, waiting in anticipation for how Gojo would react. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, starting to raise his voice. It was obvious that Geto’s words stung. 

“Tell yourself what you want,” he told his best friend, “but I even took her virginity, right… here.” He said, pointing to his bed. 

Gojo remained speechless while Geto continued. “And the craziest thing is that we’ve been doing this whole friends with benefits shit, too, but she hasn’t slept with anyone other than me.” He couldn’t say the same for himself, though. 

“Yeah but you’re not anymore. Right? That’s why we haven’t hung out as a group for a while, isn’t it?” Gojo was always the bright one, and he seemed to have figured it out quickly. 

“Maybe,” Geto mumbled and Gojo only hummed. 

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but if you don’t give a shit about her, and she doesn’t give a shit about you, I’m still gonna fucking ask her out.” He boldly declared. 

“Sure you will,” Geto could feel his words slurring together, heart still thumping. 

“No kidding she broke things off with you, do you not see how much of a douche you are? Fuck, man, me and y/n are going to the bar tonight, I’m gonna take my chances, whether you were fuck buddies or not.” 

With that, Gojo stormed out, not looking back to see the expression on his friend's face. Geto was in awe about what had just happened, as if he hadn’t been the one to instigate the situation. He couldn’t believe that Gojo was so adamant on confessing his love to you. It seemed ridiculous– couldn’t he tell that you were his? Wasn’t it clear from what he had said? Even if you weren’t on speaking terms, he knew you’d come around eventually, he knew you well enough to know that you were a forgiving person. Yet, there was an inkling of doubt now. Why wouldn’t you pick Gojo over him? 

Remembering that fateful night, how he tore that guy off of you, the rage you directed towards him, the way you brushed off his advances, he wasn’t too sure anymore. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hand over his chest as his breaths became heavy. He could only think about your face, how you seemed to hate him– how he caused all of it. He never had regrets about who he slept with, but something about you was making a new sensation arise within him. Was it because you were friends first? A constant in his life? Before you started sleeping together, he could rely on you; you would listen to his woes, and make him smile. You were a mistake, he realized, and he had to let you know that. He had to put things back the way they were before.

He was standing outside your house, still not sure what he was possibly thinking. He thought about throwing pebbles at your window, but he figured that would only make you more upset with him. He pictured himself ringing the doorbell and the face you would make when it was him standing at your door. 

But, he had already dragged himself that far, he just had to push through.

Before his knuckles could even knock on the door, though, it swung open, as if his presence had already been anticipated. It was your mom at the door, although she was clearly in a rush to get somewhere. 

“Oh hi, Suguru, nice to see you,” she smiled, warmly. “I’m just running to the store, but y/n’s upstairs.” She turned to call for you, letting you know that a friend was at the door. 

“Tell them to come up,” you replied, although judging by how happy you sounded, you weren’t expected to see him standing at your door. 

You were seated at your vanity, starting to doll yourself up, wearing nothing but lingerie. Were you doing all this just to see Gojo? He felt his heart skip a beat, studying every inch of your body. The white lace; the way it perfectly framed your plunging breasts, complimenting your skin. You just looked so angelic, hair pushed back, innocently getting ready. Little did you know Gojo had every intention of confessing to you. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You snapped at him, rightfully so. 

Geto was speechless, it felt like for the first time in his life, he was at a true loss of words. He stared deeply into your eyes, gulping before mustering up the courage to spew out his words. 

“I just needed to talk to you, now that we’ve both calmed down.” 

“Both? You think a week was enough for me to not be mad at you anymore?” Your eyes narrowed. 

“No- I mean I just at least wanted to tell you something, before anyone else got the chance to tell you this.” He explained, “When you and Satoru go out tonight, he’s gonna tell you that he’s in love with you.” 

Your expression softened, as if you were imagining the other man, filling your face up with some perfect little day dream. Geto could feel an angry grunt getting caught in his mouth before he continued with what he thought was the best solution to all of this. 

“And I think you should also know that I’m sorry.” 

“Do you really think sorry is going to fix it? You treated me like shit.” You huffed, standing up in order to get closer to him. As you looked up at him, Geto felt himself melting, almost as if the proximity between the two of you was affecting his judgement. 

“I know, I-I can’t explain what it is about me, but I can never get close to people properly. I always do something to fuck it up. I’m surprised our friendship lasted three years before I fucked it up-” 

“Are you saying sleeping with me was a mistake?" You interrupted, and Geto felt himself shaking his head quickly. 

“No,” he took a deep breath, building up the strength to continue, “I’m saying that I shouldn’t have done things the way I did. But, I will never regret sleeping with you. I just wish that I could’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You’re practically standing face-to-face, feeling the intensity of his soul crushing down on you. He was being truthful, it was clear through his gaze, with the way his body was limp, like he had dropped every line of defense. 

“Honest about what?” Your voice was a borderline whisper. 

“Honest about the fact I’m in love with you. It just took me ruining everything to realize it.” His confession is swift, but heartfelt. You look up at him with starry eyes, wide and yearning for him to kiss you. 

“Su..” you say, your thoughts trailing off as you reach up to kiss him, entangling your hands in his hair. His arms hug your waist, bringing you into his chest. 

Everything felt like a blur, from the way you guided him to your bed, wrapping your legs around his waist, passionately kissing him with all the strength in your body. He feels it in the way he grinds himself against your white panties, and how he slips down your bra straps. You’ve never looked more beautiful, he can barely find words to describe it. 

So when you end up on top of him, cute little underwear pushed to the side, his raw cock teasing your entrance, he thinks he’s finally at peace with the world. You carefully ease yourself onto him, chanting out how much you love him, how good he is, it rings in his ears like a melodic symphony. 

“Fuck Sugu, you feel so good,” you cry out, riding him without a care in the world. This is different from all the sex he’s had before, this one isn’t as lustful, the girls aren’t squealing out obscenities for him, not begging to be roughed up, or to be degraded. It’s genuine. He feels as though he could be in this moment forever. 

You bounce on his dick, hands resting on his chest for support, simultaneously pushing your boobs forward. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, giving him a warning before he starts feeling the intensity of your orgasm. You clench around him and he’s never felt better. He can sense that his own end is near too, but he doesn’t want to pull out. 

“That’s it pretty girl, cum for me, yeah good girl.” His hands find your waist, stopping you from squirming, “fuck, ‘gonna make me cum, fuuck I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, baby.” 

“Please Su,” you plead with him, “I love you so much, please cum in me.” And he does.

Although, it doesn’t feel as good as he thinks it would feel. 

That’s when he wakes up. 

That’s when he realises he never left his room.

He curses the marijuana for making him pass out, and he curses himself even more when he looks down and sees the stain on his crotch. It was just some fucking wet dream, he concludes, groaning as he rubs his hands over his face. 

Before he could reach for his phone, he took a deep breath, feeling the way his heart ached at the fact that he didn’t get to say those words to you in real life. Looking at the time, it read 10:47. Fuck. 

He thought about what Gojo was telling him early– that you were going to the bar. Which bar? He looked to see if his friend had posted any photos and luckily for Geto, he had. 

Roxxy Bar and Lounge. Posted ten minutes ago, it’s a picture of your drinks. He figures if he leaves now maybe he’ll make it in time, before Gojo drinks up the courage to tell you how he really feels. 

Geto knows that he, too, has some explaining to do. He needs to tell you that he’s sorry, he needs to tell you everything he told you in his dream and more. He can’t let you slip away, not like this, not when he was the one driving you away the whole time. 

taglist: @bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar @getofanclub @suguruswifett @rryujn @kenmacantakemeaway @keiva1000 @reader2004 @hearts-for-asa @siennadoodles @se-phi-roth @reidluvr9 [open]

© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[stonedtaemin]

you stupid girl

❕brat taming, ass slapping, mutual masturbation, lots of name calling (esp. whore, bitch, slut), cum eating | ao3 | wc 3.1k

mc is a brat and caleb decides he has to teach her a lesson *requested ♡

it first started as little joke, a prank, if you will. caleb was just so easy to rile up, so what was the point in not having a wee bit of fun?

fancy dinner with the fleet? her foot was rubbing sensually onto his leg across the table, slipped out of it's heel and toes pressing hard onto his crotch. on a phone call with one of the higher ups? she started mouthing at his cock through his pants.

even when he was cooking, god dammit, she would come up behind him and massage his ass. manhandling him and then snickering off, a knowing smirk playing onto her lips. each time he swore under his breath, shaking his head.

today was no different. caleb had had it up to here with her shannanigans, hands fiddling with the hem of his sweatpants, trying to focus on putting together a new plane model.

"would you stop that? you're gonna make me mess up, pips." he choked out, a tent already trying to form in his pants.

she was laying onto the floor next to him, chin resting on her hand in boredom. she let out a long, disgruntled sigh. her fingers did not move an inch. she wouldn't listen to his pleas.

"but it's so much fun and this is so... not fun."

he snorted, sitting up and stretching his back out. this was his third model of the day, he started as soon as they woke up and now the sun was setting. today had been a lazy sunday, one that was full of nothing but lofi and coffee. his stomach grumbled just at the thought of food.

"for you, maybe. i thought you liked helping me with this stuff..." his eyebrow cocked, eyes focusing back onto the important project at hand.

"i mean, yeah. but you look so handsome when you're focused. and i really wanna sit on your cock."

he choked on his own spit.

"horny fuck." he laughed at her, heart beating fast.

"yeah. what're gonna do about it?" she taunted, eyes squinted at him. he looked at her from the corner of his eyes.

"maybe if you're good and let me finish, i'll reward you." he hummed, eyes sliding back to the model.

she grunted, head falling downwards onto the carpet. she wiggled her legs into the air as if to throw a mini tantrum. she would never get his attention.

"whatever." she got up, knees cracking.

he smirked, not even throwing a glance her way. suits her right, putting him through all of this hell lately.

she padded away from him, closing their bedroom door behind her.

if she wasn't going to get his attention that way, then she had another thing coming for him. she searched far and wide through several drawers, hands looking for purchase.

bingo, she smirked to herself.

not even 5 minutes later she walked out into the living room again, watching as caleb has repositioned himself onto the couch. he's leaning back, considering what step to do next. he still didn’t even bother looking up at her.

she bit her inner cheek, groaning in annoyance. she pressed further, standing right in front of him, clearing her throat. finally, caleb's eyes fell onto her. he immediately regretted it because what he saw was so insane. here she was, dressed in nothing but a tiny red thong and a cropped old t-shirt of his from high school, nipples of her breasts poking out from the distressed seam. she was fucking glorious and he was but a mere man. god. damn.

"so now are you gonna fuck me?"'

"jesus christ." is all he could manage to blurt out. his fingers went up to rub his forehead, eyebrows furrowed.

she pushed his work further away from him, then turning back to straddle down onto his lap. heat rushed and pooled into his cock, growing harder with each time she circled her hips onto him.

"c'mon and fuck me." she whined, bouncing up and down in frustration.

he growled with annoyance. evol wrapping around her whole body. she was frozen in place, eyes widened with slight panic.

"god, you're such a needy slut. like you're in heat, just begging to be fucked all the time. you know that?" his voice wasn't like his normal voice... this was like when he was in his colonel suit. like she was a soldier that had overstepped her duties.

"i—"

his hand snapped up and grabbed her by the chin, yanking her face hard. she immediately shut up.

"been such an impatient little shit lately. i've been real nice about it too. right, baby?" he cooed menacingly, a devious smile spreading onto his lips.

she nodded slowly, a soft moan escaping her lips with anticipation. if she was horny then she was super horny now.

"tell me."

"y-yes..." she whined, struggling against his evol. she so badly wanted to rub against the growing bulge that sat perfectly against her folds. she was sopping wet, his pants getting ruined.

"i don't think you do..." he whispered, pulling her face closer to his. his lips hovered dangerously above hers, breath fanning across her.

she closed her eyes, trying to initiate a kiss. he pulled away.

"i do, i swear. i just wanna make you feel good, caleb." her words were almost convincing.

his fingers roamed down her chin to her neck, pushing her hair aside to expose her neck. he leaned forward, biting hard onto her. she whimpered at the pain, back arching. he pulled and sucked, skin already bruising from the abuse of his mouth. his hands made their way down her torso, cupping her exposed breasts.

he massaged them slowly, grabbing hard and pinching her nipples.

"don't believe you for a second. you're just an impatient whore that needs to be filled with my cock." he spat out, teeth nipping at her sensitive skin.

“yes, need you to fuck me caleb. i’m a whore. your whore. p-please!” she thought she would burst into tears if he didn’t put something inside of her. she ached for his touch. need to feel him against her walls. she was dripping down her thighs and onto the couch.

he stared at her like she was a prize that he needed to take. his tongue rode up the valley between her breasts then lifted up. his hands cupped her sex but didn’t do anything. he just grabbed her, panting at how soaked she was. he was deciding what to do with her.

she cried out, not knowing how much more she could take of the pulsating heat that knocked at her cunt.

"caleb, please... oh god."

he mouthed over the peak of her tits with hunger, hot puffs of breath sweeping over her skin. his hands kept fondling her and pulling and tugging. he couldn't get enough of her against the palm of his hands. couldn't decide which breast he wanted to suck on the most. he wished he had two heads and two mouths.

she threw her head back in ecstasy, feeling caleb's mouth devouring her chest. her fingers hooked through his hair, nails clawing at his scalp.

"gonna fuck you real nice and good so that you can finally shut up.” he groaned, eyes darkening as they locked onto hers.

“ye-yes please…” she sighed, thighs burning from the grinding she was finally able to resume.

his hips rocked up to meet hers, a moan tearing through his lips and spilling onto her bare torso.

his fingers finally found their way down to her folds, again, this time letting his fingers swipe into her slick. her breathe hitched when his touch finally graced her, immediately riding onto his hand as he pumped one, then two fingers in and out of her. the squelches of his fingers stroking her pussy filled the thick air around them. it was sinful. his cock grew bigger by the second just by the delicious noises. a groan resounded from deep within his chest.

“fuck, you drive me crazy. listen to yourself.”

she cried out, caleb biting the shit out of her shoulder as he finger fucked her.

“yes, yes, yes— love your f-fingers, caleb, ah— shit!”

her cries echoed throughout the house.

his lips kissed gently onto her chin, tongue tracing her jaw.

“bad little bitch— take that shit.”

she nodded fast as his thumb circled onto her clit, her moans falling out in a jumble. just as she was about to claim an orgasm his hands stopped, pulling out abruptly and rudely, if you asked her.

she whined with agony, about to say something but his fingers shoved into her mouth, her slick coating her tongue deliciously. he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“be a good girl for once and don’t say anything, ‘kay? gonna give you what you need, baby.” he whispered.

he fingered her mouth just as he had to her pussy, going in and out of her wet mouth. she gladly took it, eyes locked onto him and glistening with lust. her cheeks were blossoming with heat, eyebrows bowed in arousal. she looked absolutely divine and caleb couldn’t stand it. he hummed in approval as her tongue swirled around his meaty fingers.

his fingers retracted with a pop, a trail of saliva falling after.

“get on your hands and knees, on the couch. face the window.” his words were short and straight to the point.

she stood up from his lap, slightly dizzy with how hot she was. he watched her as she backed away. he moved to the opposite side of the couch so she could get into position. she did as she was told, crawling onto the couch and ass perched up. she gripped the arm of the couch to ground herself.

she looked behind her to watch as caleb pulled his pants off, underwear wet with her slick and his own arousal. he threw his shirt to the side, sweat falling down his carved chest. she licked her lips with hunger, eyes never leaving his fit body. he smirked as she did, arms flexing for show. she wiggled in anticipation, letting out a deep groan.

“caleb. please hurry.”

his underwear was finally off, cock swelled up against the front of his abdomen. he was huge as always, veiny and thick. she needed him now.

he got on his knees behind her, hands grabbing onto her hips harshly. nothing would have prepared her for the loud crack and harsh feeling of his hand coming down onto her ass cheek. she bowed forward, a scream emitting from her mouth. her forehead rested onto the arm of the couch, eyes screwed shut.

“i told you to shut up.” his words were heavy. he massaged her cheek afterwards, thumb kneading against the reddened skin.

“mmph— yes sir.” she cried out.

another slap landed onto her, harder than the last. she swore she could cum just from the feeling. he was so rough.

“the more you whine the more it’ll hurt.” he said, fingers trailing and brushing against her slit. it was a ghost of a touch. she stopped herself from grinding them into her.

“yes sir.” she repeated again.

he chuckled deeply, his hand going to his dick to stroke slowly.

“touch yourself.” he commanded.

her fingers went down and between her thighs, pushing her thong aside. she took two fingers and rubbed her clit slowly, parting her legs some more for him to get a good view. she watched behind her as he stroked himself to her masturbation. his lips caught under his front teeth, a hiss slowly coming out as he shook his cock a few times. he couldn’t stand watching her anymore, he had to be inside of her, right now.

she wiggled her ass a little, moaning softly. she was making herself feel so nice and warm. she couldn’t help but circle to her motions, fingers dipping in and out of herself in the process.

“please baby, need you here. so fucking horny for you.” she whined, two fingers taking her lips and opening them wide for him, her ring clenching in desperation.

he didn’t even feel like smacking her again for being impatient, he himself was getting impatient.

“think you can take me in one go, sweetheart?”

she nodded frantically, arching her back even further. she looked like a feline stretching, ready for him to dive in.

he lined his cock up with her pussy, making her bite her lip hard in anticipation. his tip dove down quickly into her folds, cock being sucked in past the threshold of her entrance. she cried out as he thrusted deep into her, tip already grazing her cervix. he was so big and deep, she could feel her insides being absolutely wrecked. she loved it.

“oh— fuck!” she screamed, hands gripping onto the couch fabric for dear life.

she tried moving against him but his evol forced her in place, a whimper escaping her mouth. she rolled her eyes back in annoyance, huffing.

“just sit still and take it like a good slut.” he purred, hand splaying over her back, the other gripping onto the handle of her hip.

and with that, he slammed in and out of her slowly and so fucking good.

her moans sounded every time his cock sank all the way inside of her, skin smacking against hers. her breasts swung back and forth with each time he pounded into her, legs shaking. the small crop top was even beginning to feel hot. she pulled on the collar of it, feeling sweat trickle down her neck and onto her tits.

“fuck yes, feels so good. god caleb— right there, yes!” she squealed.

he huffed out heavy breathes, each time his cock bottomed out a wave of pleasure washed over him. he knew he couldn’t last long.

“you look so beautiful taking me like this, baby. pretty little flower blooming just for me.” his voice came out in a whinier tone than he wanted, but god dammit he was feeling so good.

she took her hands to spread her cheeks more, pink asshole puckering as he fucked her pussy like it was the last thing he would ever do. he moaned at the sight, a slight wail bubbling from his chest. he was definitely going to fill her up if he kept going like this.

“so— fucking— good! need to cum, please caleb, please let me cum. i— i can’t…” her pleas bled together, eyes squinting and welling up with tears as she looked back at him.

his purple iris’ swirled with desire as they bore into hers, hands massaging her hips with a gentle reminder that he loved her so much. she was such a beautiful creature, in his shirt and sexy underwear. being a good little fuck toy for him. he couldn’t get enough.

“yes, baby. cum. let me feel you.” he gave in.

immediately she fell apart, cries spilling out of her. her hands went back behind her, caleb’s hands pinning them together as he rode her orgasm out. he wanted to cum so bad, but he had other plans. she circled her hips slowly onto him as he kept thrusting, soft whines dying out. she was breathing hard, body slumped onto the couch, face buried.

“oh, f-fuck. baby…” she whispered, voice muffled.

caleb chuckled, tapping her ass softly with his palm as he let go of her wrists.

“sit up onto your knees, baby.” his voice came out gentle but she knew to obey.

he pulled out reluctantly, wishing he could keep pumping in and out of her delicious hole.

she hummed, sitting up slowly onto her knees. caleb got up, feet planting onto the ground and standing over her like a skyscraper. his cock was covered in her juices, slick and hot. it stood proud and hard as hell, hovering over her face.

“make me cum, sweet girl.”

her hands went to wrap around his length, twisting languidly and achingly well. she knew the perfect way to do it, an expert in calebology. he threw his head back, eyes staring at the ceiling. she watched as he swallowed thickly, adam’s apple bobbing. she hummed at the sight, thinking about just how gorgeous he was like this. she was in awe. her man.

“you’re so fucking big caleb. love how big you are.” she moaned, breath fanning over his cock.

he smirked, biceps flexing slightly. his hands cupped her cheeks, grazing over her skin softly.

“yeah? look so good next to my dick. pretty girl. mine.” he was so close.

she fluttered her eyelashes, mouth opening and tongue sticking out.

“wanna eat your cum, please, please, please. give it to me, caleb, i need it.” she begged, eyebrows pinning in plea. she begged like it was her own personal prayer.

he cried out in pure bliss, not handling the situation as composed as he wanted to. she was going to be the death of him and he was going to be totally okay with that.

“fuck yeah, you want that? wanna swallow my cum like a greedy little bitch, hm?”

“yes!” she cried out.

“f-fuck!” his fingers gripped onto the back of her head, tugging hard at her hair.

she dragged the tip of his dick onto the center of her tongue, smacking it as thick ropes came out of him.

“fuck yes, you fucking whore.” he seethed, teeth gritting as he watched her lap up his seed. his dick twitched violently into her hand, as if he could see each rope push itself out and into her mouth.

she took his cock deep into her throat, sucking up and down his length. he thrusted into her, gagging the shit out of her. her guttural sounds as she choked onto his cock made his orgasm hit harsher with each time he hit the back of her throat.

“pip-squeak…” he moaned softly, fingers loosening as his orgasm finished.

she slowly pulled off of his length, lips glistening with spit and cum. his slumped with finality as it popped out of her mouth. she licked the bottom of her lip, smiling lazily. his fingers hooked onto her chin, pulling her face up.

“did you swallow like a good girl?”

she opened her mouth, proving that she had consumed every last drop. he leaned down, lips smashing onto hers, tongue licking against her own. he kissed her nice and slow, thumb grazing her cheek softly in praise.

she pulled him down hard, straddling him once more. he huffed out a laugh, lips trailing down to her chin, then her neck.

“was i good for you?” she pondered, voice soft.

he pulled away, planting a kiss to her temple.

“yes, baby. you were so good.” he smiled.

“does this mean you’re not annoyed with me anymore?” she taunted, her head falling onto his shoulder. she poked his neck with her fingers, rubbing her hand onto his hard chest. he was covered in sweat.

“mhmm. for now.” he jabbed her side.

she was sure to be a brat again. how could she not be, when her boyfriend looked like adonis and fucked like a god?

[greentea-and-honey]

literally fuck it here we areeeee. um the gravity falls hunger games au belongs to @aroace-get-out-of-my-face , i originally dmed this to her and she said i should post them so heeeeere we are. sorry thats its long i didnt want to post on ao3. licherally cannot stop thinking about this, its the only hunger games au that hasnt made me think suzanne collins was right to make sunrise on the reaping. if you want background, i highly suggest going to her blog and scrolling through the 'hunger games au' tag, its a fun read!!! okey dokey anywho:

“Be smart,” their mentor, a man who had insisted on being called ‘Nep’ had told Stan and Darlene. “Do what I told you to do, and don’t fuck this up.”

Darlene had frowned, because the strategy that Nep had insisted on for her interview had been to play up her youth and innocence, to really tug at the audience’s heartstrings and play the scared little girl who missed her family, but had a well of inner strength that she was going to draw from. Darlene had protested, wanting to paint herself as a fierce warrior, and could not be persuaded that she was going to be laughed off stage. She was fierce, sure, but she was also twelve years old. It was darkly comical, and had Stan been home with Ford, safe in their house, they would have looked sadly at each other during her desperate attempts to seem like a worthy opponent, instead of easy pickings.

“And you?” Nep glanced at Stan, and gave a sort of crooked half-smile. “You keep doing what you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing?” Stan repeated, surprised. “What…what’s that?”

“The cocky, ne’er-do-well persona you’ve been playing up since you walked on that stage,” Nep said. “I saw the Reaping. Volunteering for your brother gets you a lot of points from the Capitol right off the bat. And you’ve not shown any fear, at least on camera. You’ve spent most of it being insufferable to everyone but the Capitol. Frankly, you don’t need me for camera points.”

“Aw,” Stan had grinned. “You think I’m insufferable?”

Nep grinned, and Stan decided, not for the first time, that he liked Nep well enough. He had been the winner when Stan was just a kid, maybe six or seven years old. Nep had been fourteen at the time, a younger winner, and a lucky one. The games that year had been in a coastal arena, similar to home, and when a tsunami came and washed most of the tributes away, Nep had managed to tough it out, and then waited for most of the other tributes to kill each other before proving his skills with a knife, gutting a girl from District 7 with efficiency unlike anything Stan had ever seen before. 

Nep was a mentor now, and both he and Daphne were a bit surprised by his quiet nature. Nep was shyer than the cameras had implied. He tended to back away from any more interviews that focused on himself, and when asked about himself, his victories, or most strangely, ‘We haven’t seen your mother in a while, how is she?’ Nep would smile in a tense way, and say “We’re here to talk about my tributes, did you know Stanley is a talented boxer? And oh my, I’ve never seen anyone move quicker than Daphne.”

“This is the worst part,” Nep assured them, adjusting a heavy necklace around Daphne’s neck. “You get through this, it’s smooth sailing from here on out.”

“This dress itches,” Daphne whined, wriggling in a shimmering turquoise gown that reminded Stan of the tiny fish that danced in the tidepools back home. “I don’t wanna wear it.”

“I know, I know,” Nep said. “It’s not for long. Now listen close, the both of you. Stan, quit making eyes at Carla.”

Stan’s attention snapped to Nep. “‘I’m not doing anything.” 

Carla, halfway through brushing over Stan’s eyelid with some kind of shimmering powder, scoffed. 

“This is the Capitol,” Nep said. “These people have been following your journeys since you got up on that stage. Some of them are invested in you already. Your triumphs, defeats, the rest of it. This is the first and only time you’ll be able to speak to them directly like this. This is your chance to endear them. Follow my instructions, and you’ll only improve your chances.”

“I don’t wanna act like a scared little girl,” Darlene said. “I’m not scared.”

Nep’s face snapped to her, and for the first time, he looked well and truly frustrated. “Yes, you are,” he said tersely. “And if you’re not, you’re stupid. This is a game, Darlene, and you’re treating it like one. But it’s not a game for you. It’s a game for them. I’m in the business of keeping you two alive for as long as I can, but I can’t do that if you insist on sabotaging yourself! Play the damn game!” 

Darlene looked surprised, but went quiet. For the first time, Stan thought he saw nerves behind her eyes. Maybe they had always been there, hidden beneath the exterior of a little girl who had been spoiled rotten. He wondered if her family was crying for her back home, already preparing for her funeral, or if they were delusionally holding onto the same dream as she was–that she would be the youngest victor ever. 

“Stan,” Nep said, and Stan almost jumped. “Remember what we talked about?”

“My ne’er-do-well self?” Stan asked, and Nep nodded. “Right, got it. Um. Cool.”

Nep frowned, maybe hearing something in Stan’s voice that he himself had yet to identify. He nodded something at Darlene’s stylist, and the stylist pulled her off to the side, fussing with her hair. “You alright?” Nep asked Stan, lowering his voice.

“Yeah,” Stan said, and his voice sounded high-pitched. “Peachy.”

“Stan,” Nep said. “I’m on your side. I’m one of the only people in this godforsaken place that’s truly on your side. What’s wrong?”

Stan swallowed, suddenly feeling dangerously close to breaking. “I-I dunno if I can do this,” he whispered, wobbly. “It’s…it’s easy when no one’s directly looking at me, but I’ve seen the interviews, I know what it’s like. I don’t want to talk about Ford, I don’t want to talk about home, I don’t want-”

“Okay, okay,” Nep said, putting his hand on Stan’s shoulder. He was missing his pinky, which was strange, because he hadn’t lost it in the games. “Okay, deep breath. I know. Like I said, this is the worst part.”

“Second worst part,” Stan said. “You know, the games.”

Nep smiled thinly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Shandra Jimenez is…she’s an interviewer. She’s going to ask those questions. The ones you don't want her too. That’s her job. And it’s a shitty one.”

Stan looked at Carla, suddenly nervous that Nep might have said something dangerous. But she smiled in agreement.

“She enjoys this, breaking down the weaker tributes,” Carla said. “But she doesn’t think you’re weak. She’s going to let you do this over the top persona you’ve been crafting because she likes it as much as everyone else.”

“Exactly,” Nep nodded. “Go with that. Just pretend it’s me or Carla you’re talking to. Not the whole Capitol. Play a role. That’s all this is, after all. A role. And that role might keep you alive.”

Please, Stan thought, almost amused. This idiot doesn’t even know he’s talking to a dead man.

But Nep had been kind. He had held Darlene’s hand when she stepped off the Capitol train and was failing in her attempts to not be scared. He had promised Stan that the first chance he got, he was going to find Ford and do everything he could to keep him out of trouble. He had been nice to the other mentors, who each had an exhausted look in their eyes as they marched their pigs to the slaughterhouse, even as other Career tributes sneered at him. He didn’t deserve to be stuck with a doomed and hopeless tribute. 

Stan nodded. “...okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Nep nodded once, tense, and Stan realized abruptly that there had been no winners from District 4 since Nep. They had all gotten pretty far, but were the first to go when the Careers inevitably turned on each other. Maybe he was imagining Stan’s grisly death now. The life of a victor suddenly seemed a lot less glamorous. 

“You’re going to do great,” Nep said. “Everybody already loves you.”

That seemed a bit silly and untrue, and Stan was already turning that final encouragement over and over in his head as he waited next to Darlene for the interview. Most of the tributes were silent and pale, staring at the ground or whispering to their district mates. Darlene was trying to make nice with the other Careers, far older than her and looking at her like she was a particularly feisty kitten. 

“Quit it,” Stan whispered to her, unable to watch the boy from District 1 barely conceal a laugh as Darlene bragged about her spear skills. “You’re making yourself a target.”

She glared at him, hostile and looking exactly like her brother. “At least I’m trying!” She hissed. “What are you doing? Moping?”

“I’m strategizing,” Stan said, and Darlene rolled her eyes. 

“My brother says you’re an idiot who doesn’t know a net from a knife,” she said, folding her arms.

“Yeah well, your brother still does the ‘L’ trick to figure out his right from his left,” Stan snapped, exhausted. “So there.”

Darlene opened her mouth, probably to argue more, but then paused, noticing something behind Stan. “Uh oh. Got a crier.”

Stan heard soft sniffling, and looked back to see a little boy, about Darlene’s age but no doubt half her physical strength, crying desperately, apparently unable to take the stress anymore. By Stan’s count, he looked to be in District 10. He was in a bright red suit, tears dripping from his ears, desperately trying to reign them in.

His district mate, an older girl with wild dark hair mostly concealed by a red silk scarf, was kneeling next to him, looking nervous. “Stop crying,” he heard her say, in a fervent and distinctly uncomforting sort of way, but he couldn’t really blame her. “Stop crying, they’ll see.”

“I’m trying,” the little boy said, hiccuping and only working himself up more. “I’m trying, I’m trying, Emma May, I wanna go home–”

Emma May’s ears were inflamed around her drop earrings, and Stan wondered if she had been forced to pierce her ears right before the interview. Her dress was bright red, flowing around her like a slit throat.

Stan saw a few Capitol camera people perk up at the sound of muffled sobs, and whisper to each other. Stan’s heart dropped. Crying was bad enough when you were reaped. But crying now, so close to the interview? Someone would whisper it in that witch’s ear onstage, and she would bring it up, goading the tribute to see if they would have another meltdown.

Darlene tutted something disapproving, and Emma May looked panicked, trying to shield the little boy with her body. The tributes from the lower districts looked sympathetic, but no one made a move to help. Stan could hardly blame them. 

The Careers looked back, starting to get curious, and Stan could bear it no longer.

“Gotta piss!” He said loudly, stepping out of line. “I’ll be right back, just give me a second-”

“Get back in line,” a Peacekeeper growled, and all eyes were on Stan. All cameras too. 

“What, a man can’t piss?” Stan asked. “Thirty seconds in the bathroom, that’s all I ask. I won’t even wash my hands.”

Stan heard a few younger tributes giggle, and he grinned, playing it up. Nep wanted a show? He’d get a pre-show too. 

“Line,” the Peacekeeper growled, unamused. 

“I can even go in a corner real quick,” Stan said. “I mean, I’ve seen your buddies doing the same thing–”

The Peacekeeper drew a baton, and Stan backed away, hands up in surrender. He certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those again. “Okay, okay! If I piss my pants onstage, it’s on you.”

He stepped back in line next to Darlene with an easy smile. She looked at him like he was crazy. “What was that?!” 

“Nothing,” Stan said, glancing back in line. The extra time had given the boy a chance to get a hold of himself, and while his face was ruddy, it should clear up by the time it was his turn onstage. Stan locked eyes with Emma May, and gave her a thumbs up with a smile. She looked perplexed, and glared back at him, suspicious.

“What was that?!” Darlene demanded again.

Stan shrugged, and she scowled. “You idiot. You can’t be making nice with lower districts, they’re always the first to go! You couldn’t do much worse than 10 either, even the 12s look stocky this year at least. If you don’t start making allies, you’ll be out faster than you can blink–”

“I’m not here to win,” Stan said, and then blinked. That was the first time he had said it out loud.

Darlene blinked, looking shocked. “What? But–”

“I’m here to play,” Stan said, falling back onto an easy smile, even if it felt plastic now. “That’s all a game is, right? Let’s try to have some fun with it.”

Darlene stared at him like he was insane. Maybe he was. He felt like it. “...whatever,” she decided. “Just…just don’t get in my way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stan muttered, and then the crowd outside, awaiting their final words, erupted in applause as Shandra Jimenez walked out onstage, grinning and waving at the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she crowed. “Happy Hunger Games!”

“Showtime,” Darlene said quietly, and for once, Stan agreed.

All in all, District 4 was probably one of the best places to be when it came to the interviews. 

Stan was far enough back in line where he didn’t have to shoulder the monumental task of being one of the first tributes to face Jimenez and the entirety of Panem, but he was close enough to the front where the moneymakers wouldn’t become bored, and they would remember him if he made a big enough splash. Enough time to learn from the mistakes of his fellow tributes without stewing in nerves.

Not that there were many mistakes. The Careers from 1 and 2 had apparently been given media training, because they smiled and laughed with Jimenez without ever allowing the joke to be on them. They chatted without coming off as unserious, made threats to their fellow tributes that they could back up, and seemed almost good enough to be Capitol. Almost. Stan could see the edge on Jimenez, the tightening of her smile when the tributes tried to get too cozy. No matter what, they were still district trash. Distract trash that had been gussied up, but a polish turd was still a turd.

The District 1 boy in particular–Preston, Stan though his name was–was especially annoying. He had been the one laughing at Darlene. Stan already found him extremely grating.

By the time they dropped to 3, the difference between the Careers and the rest of the districts made itself apparent. For kids from 3, a notoriously weedy bunch due to a lifetime of bending over microchips in dusty sweatshops, they weren’t too bad looking. Maybe they hauled cargo, Stan didn’t know, but they were older and looked like they might get a few good hits in before they were taken down. Ada and Coil, Stan was pretty sure their names were.

But they were scared, even though they tried to hide it. Stan could see it in their eyes. They knew what awaited them in the games, and it struck them nearly insane with fear. But they answered their questions meekly, even as Ada picked at her painted nails and Coil kept looking around like a trapped bird.

It was funny, really, how Ford had complained that he should have been born in District 3. Stan, for his part, couldn’t imagine anything other than the coast. Life in 4 could be miserable, but a lifetime of painstakingly putting computers and heat-seeking missiles together as you breathed in silica seemed even more miserable. Coil was already clearly trying to hide a cough. 

“Let’s give him a hand, folks!” Jimenez said, and Coil walked offstage, clearly motioned over by his mentor. “And now, let’s get back to our final set of Careers. Everyone give a warm welcome to Darlene Crampelter of District 4!”

Darlene flashed Stan a winning smile, unafraid, and bounced up to the stage, her curls practically floating, gleeful and chomping at the bit to spill blood. The crowd roared, and Darlene waved to them, perfectly lady-like. To her credit, Stan couldn’t tell if she was truly that unafraid or just hiding her nerves extremely well. It could be either. He hoped it was the second, surely she wasn’t that stupid.

“Well, my dear,” Jimenez said as Darlene sat down. “You’ve had quite the journey. Your district has been struggling to pull in volunteers for the past few years, but now we have two! And you volunteered before the name was even finished being called! And not to mention, you are the youngest tribute in this year’s games!”

Darlene smiled. “I just couldn’t wait, I suppose. Can you blame me?”

“How do you like the Capitol, sweetie?” Jimenez cooed, and Darlene’s smile tightened slightly at being treated like a child.

“Oh, it’s dazzling,” she said. “You know, my grandfather visited the Capitol on business when he wasn’t much older than me. He used to tell me and my brother stories. He said that one day, we’d see it, and one day we might even live there.”

The crowd murmured in surprise, and though Stan didn’t doubt her story, he instantly winced. Darlene smiled, unaware of her faux pas, perhaps thinking everyone was quite impressed with her. But there was no admiration, only disgust. District trash, getting too big for her britches, thinks she’s one of us instead of an animal that we caged and then released to watch it die.

Jimenez stiffened, and leaned forward. She looked like a smiling shark. Stan had seen a few in his time. “And you’re not frightened to be the youngest tribute?” Jimenez asked. “Historically, anyone younger than fifteen doesn’t last long.”

Darlene scowled, straightening up. “I’m not afraid of anything, I–”

“RAH!” Jimenez said, jerking forward like she was about to lunge. Darlene flinched back on instinct, her eyes wide and confused at the sudden false attack. The audience roared with laughter, and Jimenez joined them. “Maybe you’re a little bit frightened, sweetie!”

Darlene blinked once, twice, and then realized the joke was on her. Her face flushed bright red, which only made the audience laugh harder. “That’s not fair, you don’t–”

“Oh, this is the games!” Jimenez cackled. “Fair doesn’t have much to do with it, seems like the odds might not be in this particular Career’s favor this year! Maybe you should have waited to see who was going to volunteer before you did it, right?”

Darlene tried to argue, but her words were lost among the shrieking hordes, jeering and finding her impending death absolutely hilarious. Something changed on Darlene’s face, a crack in her facade unlike anything Stan had seen before. She had been overwhelmed and frightened before, but that had been because she had stage fright, or was nervous about the Capitol’s over-the-top presence. Now, though, the crack was something deeper. A crack that made her realize that she was far deeper than she thought, and these people were not her friends. They weren’t even her enemies, not really. They didn’t give a shit about her. Stan didn’t think she had ever been faced with such indifference before.

Jimenez, maybe sensing that Darlene wasn’t going to give any more good content, spent the rest of the interview poking fun at her, asking her if she still smelled like fish, wondering aloud if District 4 was really Career material if this was the best they could offer. Finally, the bell chimed, and Jimenez smiled like they were great friends, shooing Darlene away. “That’s all the time we have for today, sweetie, good luck! Everyone clap for our youngest and, ah, bravest tribute!”

The audience erupted into raucous laughter, and Darlene flinched again. Stan saw Nep standing in the wings of the stage, frantically motioning for her to come offstage to him. After a long moment, she stood, head hung low, practically sprinting offstage to get to Nep. He tried to hug her, and she pushed him off.

“And next up, our second volunteer from 4,” Jimenez said. “Everyone please give it up for Stanley Pines!”

The crowd began to cheer, and Stan’s legs began to move on their own accord, carrying him up to the stage. He saw Carla in the front row, and she gave him a thumbs up, motioning for him to smile.

Something about seeing her there snapped Stan into performance mode. Nep said they needed a show. Fine. They were going to get a show. 

He grinned, cocky and relaxed, throwing out a far more exaggerated wave than Darlene had, unrestrained. The crowd went wild. Stan sat down in the chair, winking at Jimenez. She looked surprised, but didn’t comment on it. 

“So, our second volunteer,” she said. “And for your twin brother no less! Tell me, what was that like?”

Oh no. Knowing they were going to ask about that didn’t make hearing it any easier. “Well,” Stan said, with a shrug and a smile, hoping it still looked real. “When you’re a twin, you gotta share everything, you know? Birthdays, toys, achievements. Sometimes you want to strike out, be your own man, you know? Couldn’t let my nerd brother have all the glory.”

He found a camera and winked at it. “Hey, Ford, how’s it feel to be doing my chores? I’m living it up at the Capitol!”

The crowd cheered, and Jimenez laughed. “So how do you like the Capitol, then?”

She was trying to trip him up, get him to make the same mistakes that Darlene had. “Oh, man,” Stan said. “Incredible, it’s just incredible. You know I’ve never had turkey before? And on the train up here, the first thing I get is a turkey sandwich. You people have everything! Incredible!”

“You eat a lot of fish then?” Jimenez asked.

“Eat so much I’m probably half fish,” Stan said, and leaned forward. “How’s my breath?”

The crowd cackled, and Jimenez joined them. “Oh, just fine, Stanley, I promise.”

“Stan’s fine,” Stan said, and threw an easy grin at the audience. They whooped. “Horses too, never seen a horse before, and now I got to go right up to one and pet it.”

“They don’t have horses in 4?” Jimenez asked.

“What’s a horse gonna do, Shandra?” Stan asked, taking a risk with a first name. “Pull a cart through the ocean?”

The audience laughed, their biggest reaction yet. Jimenez looked slightly annoyed, but didn’t try to trap him or humiliate him. “So, how’d you like the horses?” 

“Oh, loved them,” Stan said, and tried to imagine he was talking to Ford. He would have loved the horses. He would have loved most of the Capitol if not for them wanting him dead. “It’s…their noses are like petting velvet, but their whiskers kinda feel like cat whiskers, you know? When I win, I want one of them in Victor’s Village. In my house. It can just walk around.”

“When you win?” Jimenez asked. “Awfully confident. What’s your strategy? Sources tell me that you may be from 4, but you’re not strictly Career trained, are you?”

There it was. She was trying to psych him out. Stan smiled back, unafraid. It wasn't like he meant any of it anyway. “I wouldn’t count anyone out of this game, Shandra. There’s a good crop this year, tell you that, and I gotta say I respect the competition. But I’m strong. I’m a heavy hitter. I’m not afraid to take a few blows. I’m a boxer, boxers gotta learn how to get hit and get back up. That’s me. I get back up. You don’t have any idea how valuable that skill is. Our strongest traits might not be the ones you see immediately. You know that, right? You’ve been doing this for, oh, a hundred years?”

The crowd howled, and Jimenez’s smile twitched. “Well, Stan–”

“And by the way,” Stan said, on a roll now. “By the way, you can’t count Darlene out either. What’d you expect, someone’s not gonna jump if you come at them? You’re lucky she didn’t punch you in the throat, that girl scares me. She's my biggest competition by far, I’m real lucky we’re district mates and she probably won’t go for me immediately.”

Jimenez’s face looked tight. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

“Maybe if you did your job right I wouldn’t have to,” Stan said, and then instantly regretted saying it.

The crowd ‘ooh-ed’ appreciatively, and the bell sounded. Jimenez smiled, the shark look back. “Well, I suppose that’s all the time we have for today. I’d wish you luck, Stan, but it doesn’t seem like you need it.”

She didn’t implore the audience to cheer for Stan, but they did it anyway, whooping and hollering like he was the cure to all their ills. He winked again, and heard some more cheers and shrieks. It made him a little sick, but it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like he would ever see these people again. He was a dead man already.

Nep was still dealing with Darlene when he stepped offstage, and she was speaking quickly, almost nonsensically, and Nep was struggling to hide her from the camera. 

“My cat,” Darlene said, almost feverish. She was shaking, and Nep was desperately trying to calm her down. The cameras were sweeping the area like buzzards, looking for reactions. “My cat, h-he’s at home, I need to go home, no one will take care of him–”

“You think your dumb brother’s not gonna watch him?” Stan asked, and Darlene focused on him. He couldn't get her home, but he might be able to keep her from panicking too badly. It was oddly scary to see her so openly frightened. “Please, I bet that mangy thing is sleeping on his bed right now. You need to worry that he's gonna eat the cat food and not leave any for the damn cat.”

Darlene blinked, snapped out of her spiral, and glared at Stan. “I bet you already know what cat food tastes like,” she sneered, and Nep sent Stan a grateful look.

“You,” Nep said to him. “Just love to toe the line.”

The weight of what he had been saying, in front of all of Panem, crashed down on Stan. “Is…” he swallowed. “Am I going to get in trouble? Did I put Ford in danger?!”

Nep shook his head. “I don’t think so. It was a risk, but it paid off. It’s too much trouble to replace you now, and they would punish you for that kind of trangression. Not your family.”

“Okay,” Stan nodded, uneasy. “O-okay.”

Nep smiled at him, reaching forward to pat Stan on the shoulder. “You did good,” he said. “I’m proud of you. It’s not easy, but you were a pro up there.”

In spite of everything, Stan’s heart swelled at the praise. “...thanks,” he said. “Can we, um. Get out of these costumes?”

“It itches,” Darlene agreed, still looking shaken. Nep subtly drew her close, arm around her shoulder, and she didn’t pull away this time. 

“Alright,” Nep said, looking relieved to get out of there. “Let’s see what we can do about a change and a snack.”

By the time Stan was in more comfortable clothes, all of Carla’s hard work scrubbed off his face, the girl from 10 was on stage, looking bored with Jimenez’s antics.

“Any family watching back home?” Jimenez asked, prodding at her.

The girl, Emma May, shook her head stiffly. “My mama and daddy died some time ago. It’s been just me for a while. Don’t got no one waiting on me at home.”

“No one?” Jimenez asked, leaning forward, searching for a crack to spring upon. “There’s rumors that–”

“Just rumors, nothing more,” Emma May said placidly. “You oughta know about rumors, Miss Jimenez. Why, if I believed every rumor I ever heard about you, I bet it would paint quite the unflattering portrait.”

The audience tittered, slightly less entertained when District 10 trash was poking at their beloved host, but amused all the same. Jimenez almost looked exhausted by this routine. Stan wondered if other tributes had had the courage to bite back at her. He hoped so.

“What makes you think you can win?” Jimenez asked. “Especially with no one back home rooting for you.”

Emma May’s face pinched, and for a second Stan thought she was done for, but she smoothed her skirt out. “I’m fighting for myself, and that’s enough. And I’m from 10. That ain’t a weakness, it’s a strength. We grow up ‘round life and death. I seen death a million times over before I was able to speak. We kill, not ‘cause we wanna, but ‘cause it’s our job. I seen blood, I seen guts, I seen bone marrow cracked open and spilled out for the cattle dogs to lick up. I've killed animals, for mercy, food, or ‘cause they was coming at me. And people are just a different type of animal. I ain’t scared to kill. I’m only scared to die. And a cornered, scared animal is the most dangerous type.”

Jimenez blinked, maybe not expecting that answer. Stan certainly didn’t, and the crowd whispered nervously. 

Emma May looked sharply at the camera, sensing that she had the floor completely. “And if you wanna talk about rumors,” she said. “Why don’t you show the unedited footage of my reaping–”

The bell sounded abruptly, though Stan was pretty sure she had about thirty seconds left on the interview. “That’s all our time!” Jimenez said quickly. “Thank you for joining us, Emma May Dixon!”

Emma May frowned, but did not argue. Almost serene, she stood up and walked off the stage. They clapped, but no one cheered. 

Stan got the sense they were afraid.

*** *** ***

Nep was about to leave Stan and Darlene’s cozy prison cell disguised as an apartment for the day when Stan stopped him, clutching six envelopes. 

“Stan?” Nep asked, looking perplexed. “You’ll want to at least try to get some sleep, the games are tomorrow–”

“Can you get to District 4 if you took a train right now?” Stan asked.

Nep blinked. “I…probably? It’d be an all-night train, for sure, I’d get there real early. I don’t think I’m technically supposed to leave though.”

“Will you get in trouble for it?” Stan asked. 

Nep paused, considering it. “...no, I don’t think so. Why–”

Stan shoved the envelopes into Nep’s hand. “I need you to take these to my family.”

Nep blinked. “What? But-”

“There’s one for everyone,” Stan said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Ma and Pa, Shermie and his wife and kid, Ford of course–”

“Stan,” Nep said slowly. “If I leave, I won’t be able to see you off tomorrow before you go into the games. I know Darlene doesn’t care, but I figured you would–”

“I want them to have these before I go,” Stan said. “I…I asked them not to watch me.”

Nep looked even more confused, and then he frowned. “...you don’t think you can win.”

Stan said nothing. 

“Why…?” Nep shook his head. “Stan…”

“I’m not gonna,” Stan gestured vaguely. “You know, I’m not gonna step off the platform before the countdown finishes. I won’t seek out the Careers or anything like that. But I won’t…I can’t do it, Nep, I can’t kill someone.”

“I didn’t think I could either,” Nep said, and Stan shook his head.

“It’s not that, I…I can laugh and joke, right? Sure, whatever, but I didn’t come here because I thought I could win. I came here because I knew Ford would lose. And I…I couldn’t let that happen. I just couldn’t,” Stan whispered. “And I…I don’t want him to watch me die.”

“You’re not going to–” Nep started, and then realized he couldn’t make that promise. “Don’t count yourself out.”

“I don’t want to be in at all,” Stan said. “I don’t want–I don’t want to play at all. I just…”

Stan swallowed hard, suddenly dangerously close to crying. “...I’m tired, Nep. I just want this to be over.”

Nep said nothing for a long moment, and then moved forward suddenly, hugging Stan tightly.

It was like the floodgates burst open. 

Stan choked once, twice, and then wrapped his arms around Nep tightly, unable to hold back his sobs, terrified and exhausted in equal measures. He never thought he would miss home this badly. He had spent most of his life wanting to take to the ocean and see what lay beyond Panem. But now there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to be back in a bed that was too small for him, hearing the ocean whisper outside his window, Ford in the bunk above him.

“I’m sorry,” Nep whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Stan wondered if he had grieved for every tribute he had waved goodbye too. It seemed likely. Nep was too soft to be a mentor. And yet they kept parading him out. 

“I won’t be able to see you off,” Nep said again, pulling back to brush some hair out of Stan’s eyes.

“That’s okay,” Stan choked, though it didn’t feel okay. “I just…I want them to have it before it starts. Please.”

“...okay,” Nep said, taking the envelopes. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Stan said, relieved. 

“...good luck, Stan,” Nep said. “You’re a good kid.”

And when Nep said it, Stan could almost believe it.

*** *** ***

There was someone walking up to Shermie’s house, Ford realized, as he walked back there.

He had been living with Shermie since Stan was dragged away, unable to take Ma and Pa’s different approaches to grief. Ma spent her days tirelessly cleaning the house, buzzing with a strange and stressful energy, and Pa shut down entirely. He wasn’t working, either in fishing or his black market pawn shop he ran from the basement. 

Shermie, at least, had to pretend to be functional. He had a wife and baby to look after, and he had been unable to refuse Ford’s pleas to sleep on his couch, just for a little bit. Just until something changed.

Ford made himself useful. He helped Nora around the house, went with Shermie to help on the boats, even though he was terrible at it. He watched the baby, and found himself absurdly jealous that his nephew was perfectly cheerful, completely unaware of the horror show playing out within his family. 

Last night, Ford and Shermie had gotten in a fight over something or other, tensions high and everyone already grieving. Ford had taken it too far, and yelled at Shermie for how cruel he was to have a baby, to bring another kid into this goddamn world that needed more blood to oil their machine.

Shermie had gone quiet, and Ford’s face had burned. “I-I didn’t mean–”

“Take a walk,” Shermie said. “Go cool off before we both say something else we regret.”

And Ford had taken that as an invitation to walk around 4 all night, seething and panicked the entire time. 

And now there was a man outside Shermie’s house, hours before Stan was set to be released in the arena, to kill and be killed.

He looked nondescript, with thick black hair that hung just above his chin, tan skin and dark eyes. He was wearing long sleeves, even in the hot July early morning, but when he saw Ford, he perked up and waved. 

Ford jogged forward, suddenly recognizing him. The mentor for this year, Neptune Garza, smiling nervously like he thought he might be attacked. “You must be Stanford,” Neptune said, nodding. “It’s nice to officially meet.”

“Mr. Garza,” Ford said, feeling sick. “I-is Stanley alright, why are you here–?!”

“Stan’s fine,” Neptune said. “You can call me Nep. Everyone does. Hey, your brother wasn’t lying about the six fingers.”

Ford frowned, but Nep smiled, holding up one of his hands. The pinky was missing. “Ever consider donation?”

“Um,” Ford said.

“Sorry, people keep telling me I’m not funny, I should listen to them,” Nep said. “He wanted me to give you this.”

He extended a hand out to Ford, holding a thick envelope. Ford took his, seeing his name on the front in Stan’s handwriting. “W-what’s this?” 

“A letter,” Nep said. “He has them for everyone in your family. He wanted me to deliver them in person, before the games started.”

“Why?” Ford asked. Nep shrugged.

Ford stared at the letter, tracing his name with his finger. A flash of anger went through him, sudden and sharp. “How could you just let this happen?”

Nep looked confused. “What?”

“How could you just let this happen?!” Ford demanded. “Year after year, sending people to their deaths. And you’re okay with it? You just let them kill people?! You’re going to let them kill my brother! You’re going to let them murder him! We need to do something, we have to do something, we have to stop them-!”

Nep suddenly covered Ford’s mouth with his hand, looking panicked. Ford tried to smack his hand away, but Nep held fast. “What the hell’s the matter with you?!” He demanded. “Are you crazy?! You don’t know a damn thing about what happens to you when you speak like that. Are you trying to get yourself killed?! Your family?! Stan?!”

Ford managed to smack Nep hand away, glaring at him. Nep glared back, and held up his hand with the missing pinky. “This is the least of their punishments. They go for the people you love. They pick apart your head, disfigure you, turn you into their lapdog. You want to help your brother? You shut up and keep your head down.”

Ford blinked, startled. Nep looked surprised with himself after a moment too, and hid his hand behind his back. “...what…” Ford started, and then re-gathered his courage. “What happened?”

Nep shrugged, eyes distant. “...I said no to something I shouldn’t have, when I was around your age. A lot of people paid the price.”

“But…” Ford said. “You were a Victor then. They leave you alone after you win.”

Nep shook his head. “They bring me out every year, to parade me around so I can watch my tributes die. That’s the rest of my punishment. They’ve made a damn good lapdog out of me. You don't say no to the Capitol. I learned that the hard way.”

“...it’s supposed to be over,” Ford said weakly. 

Nep smiled, and it reminded Ford of a grinning skull. “My games were almost a decade ago,” Nep said. “I’m still there. Every night, I’m back. Every night I’m surrounded by people who want me dead, people who are dying, and a gleeful audience who’d toss me into hell if they thought it might stave off boredom. I never left. I’m still there, fighting, cold, and terrified.”

Ford felt sick. “Why…why are you telling me this?”

“Because whether your brother wins or not,” Nep said. “He’s gone. He’s already dead in that arena. And if he survives, the version of him that comes home will be a stranger. You’ll still have to grieve him. And the faster you come to terms with that, the easier this will be for you. Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”

“That’s not true,” Ford said weakly. “You haven’t seen anyone win.”

“I’ve seen others win,” Nep said. “I’ve seen myself win. It’s not worth much. Sometimes it just takes away whatever you’re fighting for. So don’t be the thing that makes them take whatever he has. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ford said. “And I can’t…I can’t. I can’t just sit around and do nothing. I can’t try to convince our neighbors to send him sponsorships because that’s all they can do. I can’t watch TV and just…just watch them die. I have to do something. I have to. It’ll kill me, Nep, watching this helplessly, it really will.”

Nep said nothing, looking nervous. Even in the early morning, he already looked uncomfortable in long sleeves. “...there’s a rumor,” he said, and then shut his mouth, looking tense.

Ford stepped forward. “...a rumor?”

“...yes,” Nep said, looking reluctant. “I heard it some time ago, and then never again. That…that District 13 is still alive.”

Ford blinked. “They…they bombed 13 into oblivion before the Capitol was even the Capitol.”

“Yes,” Nep said, nodding. “So it’s just a rumor. A rumor that they retreated underground and formed a resistance. A rumor that they’re waiting for the right time to strike, watching year after year. A rumor that…that they live north, in the wilds, in the wastelands. Dangerous to set out there alone. Not even because the Capitol will kill you and everyone you love, though they will. But there’s abandoned mutts out there, wild beasts, and the people who live there are not…friendly to outsiders. But you never, ever heard that from me. Alright?”

Ford nodded fervently, something like hope swelling up in his chest. “Alright.”

They stood there in silence for a minute, and then Nep offered three more letters to Ford. “I’ve already placed the ones for your parents in their mailbox. Hand these to the rest of your family?”

“I will,” Ford said, taking the envelopes. He paused. “...do you think Stan can win?”

“...it doesn’t matter what I think,” Nep said. “What matters is if he thinks he can.”

*** *** ***

Ford,

Sorry to make fun of you on live television. I figured I could get one dig in. I’m not really that sorry.

I AM sorry for breaking your project. I know you don’t believe me, but I want you to know it was an accident. I would never do that to you, no matter how afraid I was of being left behind. I guess I can’t really blame you for wanting to do it. I don’t know if Pa’s plan of moving up through districts was even possible, but you deserved to try. If anyone deserved it, it would be you. And I spoiled that for you.

I don’t regret volunteering. I never did for one moment. I would have done it a million times over to keep you from all this. I’m sure you’ve seen it on TV by now. Trust me, I know I make it look easy, but it’s not. I miss home. I miss the ocean. I miss hearing Ma spouting bullshit to her clients. I even miss the smell of fish. It’s crazy what things make you homesick. Most of all, I miss you. I think I always knew it would be the case.

I’m okay, though. Nep’s cool, and Darlene’s not as obnoxious as I thought she would be. There’s a makeup artist named Carla who’s been assigned to me, and she’s pretty cool too. I think it’s some kind of Capitol University assignment, but she’s treating me like a person, which is nice. I really don’t want you to worry too much.

Ford, you’re my best friend in the whole world, the best brother someone could ever hope for. I know we’ve been in a bad place this year, and I wish I could have fixed it. But I don’t hate you for it. I was never even angry at you for it. I know this letter isn’t the same as me saying things face to face, but I hope it counts for something.

Please don’t watch the games. I know they make you turn on the TV, but don’t look. I know you’ll want to, and you’ll think you’re a terrible person if you don’t watch every awful thing happening. But please. I don’t want you to. Please don’t make yourself watch. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something awful was the last way you remembered me. 

I love you, Sixer. Stay safe. Stay alive. Stay smart. Stay weird.

Your brother,

Stan.

[dissociativewriter]

OH MY! congrats on the 400 followers!!! and for the event can't you write some angst with sylus x nonmc, please??? don't know if you have listened to WILDFLOWER by Billie eilish, but i really wanna see what would be born out of that??? not pressure tho! (also sorry for my english but im not a native speaker haha)

thank you!! this was an amazing request! it took me a while to write it, but i really like this. i hope you do too!

request event

The base hadn’t been quiet in months.

It was nice, you thought. A welcome change. In all your years at Onychinus there was always a tense silence. Always something that seemed to say this was an operation, not a home.

That all changed when Miss Hunter arrived, though.

Everything seemed warmer, splashes of color dotted around and a constant hum of chatter echoed through the space.

You’d never seen Sylus like this. Even when he was laughing and messing around with Luke and Kieran, he hadn’t allowed himself to be this happy. It seemed like there was something holding him back, something expectant.

Now the air was lighter, his shoulders lost their tension, his laughs came more freely. Things seemed to be looking up.

That made the newfound silence all the more jarring.

Miss Hunter had left just as quickly as she’d came. It wasn’t a huge ordeal. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it. There was just an conversation, spoken in quiet tones behind closed doors. Next thing you knew, she was gone in a mess of tears and broken promises.

You’d let Sylus alone for a time after that. Taken up the responsibilities of Onychinus in his stead, the role practically second nature ever since he’d promoted you to second-in-command a few years ago.

It was quiet again. You didn’t see much of the Boss, and you never expected to see Miss Hunter again.

But she’d shown up at your doorstep one night within the first week of their separation. Tear tracks on her cheeks and a heart-wrenching sob asking for someone to talk to.

You’d obliged, of course. How could you turn her away when she was like this? Pulling her into you, rubbing her back as she sobbed into your shoulder. She blubbered that she didn’t have anyone to talk to, that none of her friends really knew Sylus enough to cry about him to.

She explained that even if they weren’t together, she didn’t want to expose him and his identity like that.

You nodded, holding her close as she seemed to cry herself dry. She did most of the talking that night. Talking about how it had been a mutual decision, how they both felt like they just weren’t right for each other.

Miss Hunter had said she never expected falling out of love to hurt so bad.

The next morning, Sylus emerged from his room for the first time in four days. Silvery hair messy, eyes bloodshot, usually steady hands now trembling at his sides.

You sat with him. Wordlessly offered him a cup of coffee. He took it with a nod of thanks, holding it close instead of drinking it, like he was willing its burning warmth to thaw the cold that had taken over.

It became a routine. You’d sit with him, allow the quiet that had been uncomfortable, that had had something missing, to settle until it became something resembling understanding.

Sylus tried to distract himself with the work of Onychinus. You limited his access and told him he needed to sit with his grief and understand it before it consumed him entirely, not avoid it with gunfights and business deals.

Sylus never was able to fight you when you got like this.

He let you take care of him in a way no one had in a long time. It was gentle, quiet. A cup of tea here, a gentle reminder there. Never asking too many questions, never pushing for something more. He didn’t mention how much he appreciated it. He knew he didn’t have to.

You should have seen it coming, you thought. He was vulnerable. You were there. You should have expected it when the touches began to linger, when he began reaching for you.

You always thought of her when he did that.

Maybe you brushed it off because you thought you’d never compare to her. After all, what was the worry, when she was so bright and outgoing when you just seemed to fade into the background.

“No one knows me as well as you do,” Sylus muttered one night, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been there for me. I think— no, I know…”

Your breathing felt like it stopped. All you could think of, all you could see in the back of your mind was Miss Hunter. Should you feel this guilty? This hurt?

Were you just a replacement, something to fill the void, that fresh wound that kept bleeding?

“I love you,” Sylus whispered, low and reverent.

You didn’t move your hand from his. You didn’t say how all you could think about was how Miss Hunter must have felt.

Sylus didn’t mean to hurt you. You knew that.

Maybe being quiet was for the best.

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

@dolledbunnytail @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @coffeedragonhobbyist

[luvrgeorge]

the thrill of the game

summary: this event was glamorous, everyone in their best clothing, sipping expensive champagne, but none of that mattered, because george was here, and you and him love to play a game at these events, who will cave first? pairing: george clarke x fem!reader warnings: mature (MDNI) WC: 4k

the room was crowded, loud, packed full of faces both familiar and unfamiliar. you loved these events, socialising with people you hadn’t seen in a while, getting a bit too tipsy with your friends, but there was one thing about these events you loved the most.

you could feel his glare every time you moved, his eyes following you through crowds of people, studying your expressions and movements. you loved the thrill of the game, seeing who can tip the other over the edge first, who can take it just a bit too far, but it always ends the same, you and george naked in a hotel room.

he looked hot—undeniably, effortlessly hot. he always did, of course, but these suit and tie events? they were something else entirely. They gave him a kind of elegance that made your pulse trip over itself.

tonight, his black suit hugged him in all the right places, the cut so precise. the fabric clinging to his shoulders, broad and powerful, tapering down to a waist that made restraint feel like a joke. the tie was the only thing that looked tight—everything else was smooth, commanding, deliberate.

he moved with that quiet confidence that always made people stop mid-sentence. even now, surrounded by people and murmuring voices, his presence pulled focus like gravity. and you stood there, trying to keep your own cool while your eyes betrayed you, tracing his every line, every movement.

you knew what was under all of it. the suit didn’t hide much, not really. it hinted, seduced. It left enough to the imagination, sure—but your imagination didn’t need to work that hard. you’d memorized the terrain, every muscle, every scar, every inch of warm, unforgiving strength that lay beneath those expensive layers. and the worst part? he knew you were watching. of course he did. that slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth wasn’t for anyone else.

you were doomed. absolutely doomed. you had no faith in yourself for winning tonight—not when he looked like that. and deep down, a part of you didn’t want to win. not really. you wanted to lose. badly. completely. willingly. but god, you were dying to win, just this once.

you tried to keep your glances to a minimum this time, only looking at him when you knew he was looking away, and this time, he was talking to a girl. you couldn’t see her face, but from behind she was slim, taller than you, and wore a gorgeous burgundy dress, falling down to her feet. it didn’t make you jealous, at least not enough to cave this early into the night, but it made you motivated, motivated to win this night, motivated to make him surrender first.

you scanned the room, eyes drifting lazily over glittering gowns and stiff tuxedos, all the polished elegance starting to blur together. you weren’t looking for charm or conversation. you were looking for a weapon. someone attractive enough to make george’s jaw tighten, to make his eye twitch the way it always did when he pretended he didn’t care.

your gaze paused at the bar.

he was tall—taller than most in the room—and built like he belonged on a rugby field, not behind a hotel bar. his black shirt strained ever so slightly across his chest as he moved, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that perfectly careless way that made it obvious he didn’t care much for the dress code. scruffy, but clean. confident without trying. his hair was short, messy in that intentional way that walked the line between rugged and boyish.

he was exactly the kind of distraction you needed.

not too polished. not too perfect. but solid, striking. the kind of man who’d draw george’s attention the moment you leaned in just a little too close. you pictured it already—the way george’s eyes would narrow, how he’d try not to look but wouldn’t be able to help himself. how his fingers would twitch at his sides, itching to pull you away, to remind you who you belonged to.

and god, you wanted to push him just a little further. make him feel it.

so you took one last sip of your champagne, set the glass down, and started walking toward the bar—hips swaying just a bit more than usual, every step deliberate. the game had started, and tonight, you didn’t plan on playing fair.

‘what you drinking?’ the bartender said, flashing you a smile. the event was classy, an open bar with smart attire, so you doubted they served your usual rum and coke combo. you looked around the room, women all holding glasses of champagne or cocktails.

‘surprise me, what do you think i’d be drinking?’ he smiled at you, walking away and grabbing a glass, mixing up something with whiskey.

‘whiskey sour?’ you took the glass, taking a sip. the whiskey burnt your throat, but you could handle it.

‘you’re good at this y’know’

‘i do a lot of these events, and i can always spot a girl who likes whiskey’ he clearly wasn’t good enough at spotting them, you hated whiskey, and the drink was disgusting, but that was never the point.

you were leaning over the bar, maybe a bit too far, listening to him speak, giggling a little to much, over-exaggerating all your movements.

‘just to let you know, i’m not into girls’ the bartender said. you moved back slightly, unsure of what to say. ‘but i know what you’re doing, that guy over there, the tux, the hot one’ he nodded towards george, but you didn’t look. ‘you’re making him jealous, what is he, an ex? a new thing?’ you laughed.

‘george? he’s…’ you started, but the words caught somewhere between your throat and your pride. what was george, really? not a boyfriend. not just a fling, either. he was a habit. a comfort. a storm you kept walking into, knowing full well how it would end. you could lie. say george was nothing. or say he was everything. but neither felt quite right.

george was just the guy you went home with after nights like these—after the noise, the lights, the tight dresses and fake smiles. he was the one who pulled you in like gravity the second you got too close. but he didn’t text you good morning. he didn’t ask about your day. he didn’t take you to dinner, didn’t hold your hand in public.

you weren’t dating. but you weren’t just sleeping together, either.

“he’s a friend,” you said finally, the words feeling a little hollow, a little dishonest, even to yourself. your fingers tapped against the bar, casual, careless. “a good friend.”

the bartender gave a knowing smile, not pushing for more. but it hung there, unspoken—how ‘friend’ didn’t quite cover it. how there were glances and touches and late-night calls that didn’t belong to friendship.

‘so what, you guys sleeping together?’ you laughed again, shocked at his bluntness, but finding comfort in the fact he understood. you nodded in response. ‘so why are you flirting with me?’

you sighed, rolling your eyes. ‘we have this thing, an unspoken thing really, it just started happening’ the bartender laughed. ‘at every event, we see who caves first, who can make the other more jealous before we give up and leave together, it’s all a bit of fun really’

‘so, it’s a sex game? he’s gonna come over, pull you aside and you’re gonna go have sex?’ you cackled at the bar tender, admiring his blunt charm.

‘that’s what i’m hoping for, you don’t have to entertain it though, thank you for the drink’ you pick up your drink, smiling at the bar tender.

‘he’s looking at you, you know’ you stopped. ‘the girl he’s talking to is still there, but he hasn’t said a word in a while’

‘does he know you’re looking at him?’

‘no, he’s completely fixed on you’ you smirked. ‘how long before he comes over?’

‘i don’t know, i’m usually the one to find him first’ the bartender moves closer to you, placing his hand lightly on your neck, whispering in your ear.

‘tonight’s boring, i’m happy to play along with you, just smile and laugh, he’s still watching’ you did exactly that, giggling at every word he said, despite having a completely normal conversation.

you could feel george’s sharp eyes like daggers in your back, you knew he was watching you, knew he was seething with jealousy as another man placed his hands on you.

after a few more minutes, you felt a quiet shift in the air beside you—someone new, close but not intrusive. you turned slightly, and there she was.

the girl george had been talking to.

you hadn’t seen her face before, not properly. god, she was beautiful. not just pretty—striking. effortless. her features were sharp and soft all at once, the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence. she stood confidently, alone, ordering just one drink—a cosmopolitan. something crisp, pink, elegant. something george would never touch.

your stomach twisted, just slightly.

you glanced around for him then, for the first time in a while. scanning the crowd, looking for that familiar silhouette, that black suit that always seemed to cut through a room like a blade. but nothing. no george leaning smugly at the bar, no smirk waiting to meet your eyes across the room.

you turned back toward the bartender, your expression questioning. he only shrugged, brows raised like he had no idea either. he hadn’t seen where george went, and clearly, the girl hadn’t followed.

when she left, drink in hand and heels clicking softly across the marble floor, you exhaled.

‘thank you’ you said to the bartender, sliding him a generous tip. he grinned, pocketing it with a nod.

‘this was fun, good luck with the rest of your night’ he said, a little amused, a little pitying.

you move back through the bodies of people, searching for george. there was no sign of him anywhere. not a glimpse of that sharp black suit, not the familiar shape of him leaning in a doorway or watching from across the room. it was like he’d vanished into the glittering crowd, swallowed whole by champagne and chatter. the girl had wandered off too, back to the cluster of people you assumed were her friends, already laughing at something someone else said, his brief distraction forgotten like it meant nothing at all.

you were just about to search elsewhere, the lobby, the bar, the crowd—when you felt it.

a hand on your back. firm. warm. possessive without being rough. fingers grazing the bare skin on your back, resting just enough to let you know they could move if they wanted to. and then—hot breath on your neck, too close, too intimate for the public setting, but somehow exactly what you’d been waiting for.

‘you giving up yet?’ he murmured, voice low and smug, like he already knew the answer.

you turned, slow, letting him see the full weight of your reaction. and there he was.

that damn smirk stretched across his face like it belonged there—lazy, confident, a little cruel. his eyes held that familiar spark, something between amusement and warning. he was close, closer than necessary, his suit still immaculate despite the heat of the room, his tie slightly loosened like he was getting tired of pretending to behave.

‘didn’t know we were playing,’ you said, though it came out softer than intended.

he chuckled, not moving back. ‘you always know.’

and you did.

‘who said i’ve given up?’

‘you’ve left your boyfriend at the bar,’ he said, voice thick with amusement, eyes locked on yours like he was watching you unravel in real time. ‘so i assumed you were coming to find someone better.’

you scoffed right in his face, the sound sharp and disbelieving, even as your stomach twisted at how accurately he’d read you. you tried to roll your eyes like it meant nothing, like the heat creeping up your neck was from the whiskey, not him. like your legs hadn’t started moving the second you realised he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“i’m not caving this time,” you said, lifting your chin just enough to make it sound like you meant it.

he smiled at that—slow, smug, knowing. the kind of smile that made it clear he didn’t believe you for a second. not because you were weak, but because he knew exactly how to make you forget why you ever tried to resist him in the first place.

“well,” he said, voice dropping to that low, dangerous murmur he reserved just for you, “when you’re ready, i have a room upstairs.”

your breath caught, just slightly. not enough to be obvious. but he noticed. of course he did.

“in the meantime,” he continued, leaning in close enough for your perfume to catch on his collar, “i’m going to ask your boyfriend for a drink.”

and just like that, he turned. didn’t wait for your reaction. didn’t give you the satisfaction of a final glance. his hand slid off your back as he walked away, slow and deliberate, the touch lingering. you felt the absence of it immediately, like a warmth torn away too fast.

you watched him head toward the bar, straight toward the bartender, the curve of his shoulders relaxed but purposeful. you knew him well enough to recognise what he was doing—staking territory without ever having to say a word.

he was playing dirty, and god help you, it was working.

you hated him, hated how unfazed he was by everything you did, hated how he never caved, always pushing you to your limit. as strong as you tried to be, he always won. but you were determined to for that to change.

he was leaving the bar, but just before he left, you walked up to him, leaning in close and taking the key card out of his jacket pocket. you turned to the bartender, reading the room number from the card ‘room 34, i’ll be there for when your shift is over’ the bartender smirked, knowing exactly what you were doing, but george was non the wiser.

you head towards the elevator, leaving george and the bartender behind, without sparing a single glance.

you enter the room, finding the mirror to check your hair and makeup, adjusting your dress. you loved dressing up for these events, you loved shopping for the most perfect outfit. tonight you had chosen a long black satin dress, backless with a sultry slit in the leg, paired with golden heels. you loved doing your hair and makeup too, spending so much time on the little details, ensuring your hair was curled perfect, each strand sat so beautifully down your back. it was almost a shame it would all be ruined soon.

you sit on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, fingers twitching slightly in your lap as you wait. the room is quiet, apart from the low hum of the hallway beyond the door. then, a faint beep — the key card on the door — and the slow turn of the handle. you straighten up quickly.

he steps into the room, the dim light catching on the bubbles in the two flutes of champagne he carries. he looks at you like he’s starved — but his gaze is soft, gentle in a way that makes your stomach tighten. without saying a word, he crosses the room, hands you a glass, and takes a slow sip of his own, his free hand sliding onto your waist like it’s meant to be there.

‘took you long enough,’ you murmur, lips brushing the rim of your glass as you drink.

‘you played dirty tonight,’ he says, pulling you closer, his voice low and warm. his breath hits your collarbone, and you can already feel your skin prickling beneath it.

‘is that not how we play this game?’ you say, your voice light, teasing.

he smirks, leans in, and presses his lips to your neck — not hard, just enough to steal your breath. your body reacts before your mind does, tilting into him, heart racing under his touch.

‘you know…’ his hands are moving now, up and down your back, slow and possessive. ‘i hated seeing you with that guy.’ you felt a sense of pride, knowing that you made him jealous, knowing that he couldn’t stand seeing you with another man.

another kiss, deeper this time, and you gasp, gripping his shirt.

‘you knew what you were doing,’ he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, ‘and god, it worked, i've been waiting for this all night.’

he finishes his glass slowly, never breaking eye contact, like he’s savoring both the drink and the tension. then, without a word, he takes your half-finished glass from your hand, brushing your fingers as he does. he sets both flutes down on the table with a quiet clink that feels final, like the closing move in a long-played chess match.

he pulls off his tailored suit jacket and tie, his hands returning to you, fingers tracing up the side of your neck, brushing your jaw, then slowing over your lips. his thumb lingers there, pressing gently, parting them just slightly. he smirks, like he already knows what’s coming. he leans in — his mouth just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of it, the tension strung tight between you.

but you pull back, just enough.

‘not yet,’ you whisper, your breath catching.

he freezes, brows furrowing, lips parting as his eyes darken with need. there’s a flicker of frustration in his face, but it’s tangled with desire, with the hunger that’s been simmering between you both all night. your hands rest on his chest, grounding him, letting him feel how close he is — but denying him all the same.

‘tell me i win.’

he blinks, thrown off for a second. ‘what happened to this not being a game?’

‘just tell me,’ you say, your voice quieter now, more dangerous. ‘tell me i win, and then you can do whatever you want to me.’

his lips curl into a smirk again, but it’s different this time — there’s a flicker of surrender in it, a knowing. he moves in close, slowly, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, the other resting heavy on your hip like he’s holding back from pulling you in.

his mouth brushes your ear as he whispers, low and deliberate, ‘you win.’

and that’s all it takes.

you crash into him, lips colliding in a kiss that’s messy, breathless, hungry. his hands waste no time — one slides down the curve of your bare back, the other hooks beneath your exposed thigh, pulling it up and around his waist with practiced ease. your body presses fully against his, and he holds you like it costs him nothing — like he’s wanted to do this since the second he saw you.

your fingers twist into his shirt, mouth moving against his like you’re trying to make up for every second you made him wait. he lifts you slightly, holding nearly all your weight in one arm, and the sound you make only pushes him further.

he lifts you up effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders. your fingers slide into his hair, gripping just enough to make him groan against your mouth. he walks you toward the bed, each step slow, controlled, like he’s savoring the moment. when he reaches it, he lays you down with a tenderness that contrasts the heat between you, like you’re something delicate and breakable. his lips never leave yours — not for a second — the kiss deepening as his body follows yours down.

his hands wander into your dress, fingers tracing outside your lacy, dampened thong, so close to what’s underneath. he hooked two fingers underneath, slowly inserting them into you. you let out slow, breathy moans into his mouth, untucking his perfectly uncreased shirt to grip onto his back, leaving marks in his skin. ‘god baby, so wet, just for me’.

he knew your body so well, he knew every inch, every flaw, everything you liked, everything you didn’t, and still, somehow, he could make you feel things so new, so intense, so raw. the rush was almost instant, no warning, no preparation, overcoming your entire body with an orgasm so passionate that you crumbled in his hands. you were breathless, finished, but so desperately needy for more of him.

you pull him back into your body, kissing him as you struggled to unbutton his shirt enough for him to pull it over his head. you unbutton his trousers, clawing for his hardened cock beneath. he kicked them off with his shoes and boxers as you went to unzip your dress, but he stopped you. ‘keep the dress on’ he growled, repositioning you both on the bed.

he laid down at the top of the bed, pulling you towards him. you straddled his lap, feeling his cock so close to your heat. ‘ride me baby, show me how much you need me’. you positioned yourself over him, sliding down slowly. no amount of experience with george could ever make you used to him, he was so big, stretching you out, hitting every inch of your insides.

you started slow, rocking back and forth, george gripping your hips, guiding you. ‘you’re doing so well gorgeous, fuck, you’re amazing’ he let out low, soft groans as you moved, sounding like a pure symphony humming in your ears. you let your dress straps fall down your shoulders, breasts spilling out to george’s pleasure.

your knees were buckling under the pleasure, you leaned on george for support, tired, but starving for more. george know you couldn’t handle it, not now. he pulled you off him, flipping you over and straddling the top of you, re-aligning himself. he thrusted deeper than you were willing to go when you were on top of him, going hard and fast, grabbing your hands and holding them above your head. he was insane, so gorgeous, build so perfectly, fitting in you like a jigsaw, like he was made to fuck you and only you.

he increased his pace, your moans growing louder and deeper. he moved in to kiss you, hungry and passionate, your arms still restrained, legs wrapping around his waist, your heeled shoes digging into his back.

‘you’re mine, only mine’ his words sounded so sweet, so possessive. he stopped kissing you, hand moving to your chin, tilting your head slightly to touch his and make you look him deep in his piercing blue eyes. ‘are your ready?’ you nodded, breathlessly, eyes locked together as you finished in harmony, george slowing down as he pumped inside of you, holding your hand and stroking your face. he kissed you one last time, deep, but romantic, slowly pulling out and laying beside you.

you were breathless and tired, head buried in george’s chest as it rose and fell, still warm and slick from your shared experience. the room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside and the slowing rhythm of your heartbeats syncing beneath the thin sheets tangled at your waists.

‘i like winning’ you smirked, your voice a low whisper against his skin.

george let out a small, satisfied chuckle. his chest rumbled softly beneath your cheek as he dipped his head to kiss the crown of yours, lips lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump again.

‘you’re insufferable’ he murmured, but his fingers drew lazy, featherlight circles on the bare skin of your lower back, betraying the fondness in his words.

you turned your face slightly, your nose brushing his collarbone. ‘you love it.’

he didn’t argue. instead, he pulled you a little closer, as if the space between your bodies wasn’t already non-existent. The warmth of his skin, the faint scent of sweat and your perfume still clinging to the air—it wrapped around you like a cocoon.

‘you always do this,’ he said quietly, after a beat. ‘get all competitive, steal my focus, and then leave me like this—wrecked and entirely yours.’

you smiled against him, sleepy and smug. ‘that’s the intentions of the game’

his hand drifted to your thigh, squeezing gently, a silent reminder of the connection that still pulsed between you both. you felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and real.

‘stay?’ he asked, softer now. vulnerable, even.

you didn’t answer right away. you just nuzzled into his chest and let your hand trace the faint line of hair down the center of his torso.

‘i was never planning to leave’.

[pohtaytoh]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗬/𝗟/𝗡

*ೃ༄ Megan Skiendiel x f!reader

Everyone ships Megan Skiendiel with your brother Gabriel, convinced they're endgame. He's always taking credit for the sweet gestures that make Megan swoon, and she totally believes he's the one. But you, Y/N Y/L/N, have been secretly head over heels for Megan for years. You're the one leaving those thoughtful gifts and sending those encouraging messages, watching your brother bask in the glory.

But as Megan starts spending more time with you, she can't shake this feeling. Now Megan's wondering if the person she's really meant to be with has been right in front of her all this time.

part: one. <two.> three. four. five. six.

Y/N Y/L/N had slowly, painfully, become the secret builder of Megan’s small joys. It was a role she never asked for, a strange, heavy job that both made her heart glow with a quiet happiness and, at the same time, slowly broke it. Every thoughtful act, every careful surprise, was meant only for Megan, a quiet whisper of love Y/N couldn’t say out loud. It was her way of showing, without words, how deeply she cared, how much Megan truly meant to her.

However, time and again, her older brother, Gabriel, would just step in. Like a sudden, cool shadow falling over a sunlit path, he would effortlessly claim the praise, the smiles, the grateful looks meant for someone else. It was a strange, sad dance they all seemed to be caught in, though only Y/N knew the full steps.

Y/N poured her whole heart into these actions. Each one was like a tiny, precious gift of herself, a silent promise of a love she couldn’t openly share. Yet, almost as soon as she made the move, she would watch Gabriel soak up Megan’s thanks, her happy exclamations, her warm glances.

It was a pain she put on herself, a constant, dull ache behind her ribs. Still, the thought of Megan being truly happy, even if that happiness was based on a lie, was enough to make Y/N keep going. She told herself, over and over, that it was worth it. That Megan’s smile, no matter who caused it, was enough.

She could vividly recall one particularly rough evening. The air outside was turning chilly, and a sense of quiet dread hung over campus as midterms approached. Megan had been buried in the university common room for hours, a place usually full of chatter that was now hushed by the shared stress of exams.

Megan was surrounded by piles of thick textbooks and scattered notes, her hair a bit messy from running her hands through it in frustration. She was deep into a huge, confusing philosophy paper, a subject that often tied her in knots. Y/N had seen her earlier, her forehead crinkled in a worried frown, her shoulders slumped, and her hand shaking slightly as she tried to highlight a passage in a dense, difficult book.

Y/N knew Megan’s habits well – how she always reached for warm, comforting drinks when she was stressed, especially after long hours of intense studying. She remembered Megan mentioning her deep love for a very specific spiced chai latte from a small, cozy café all the way across town, a little place with mismatched chairs and the scent of cinnamon and old books. It was a cafe Y/N herself rarely visited, because it was quite a walk.

A decision, quick and sharp, had formed in Y/N’s mind. “Should I do this?” a small, tired voice inside her head whispered. It felt like that voice was always there, a tiny, nagging doubt.

“It’ll just hurt later, when Gabriel takes credit, won't it? You know how this goes.”

But then, another voice, stronger and filled with the pure, aching want to ease Megan’s stress, spoke up, “She needs it. Look at her. She’s really struggling.”

This second voice, the one that rooted for Megan’s happiness above all else, always, always won.

So, Y/N had quietly slipped out of the common room, moving like a shadow, trying to blend into the group of students heading out for dinner or back to their dorms. The air outside was turning cold, a fine, misty drizzle starting to fall, making the streetlights glow softly, blurring their edges into halos. She walked quickly, the familiar dampness of the city settling on her skin, feeling the cool drops on her eyelashes.

The sounds of distant cars rattling by and chatter from students slowly faded as she got closer to the quiet café, warm light in the gathering dusk. Inside, the warmth and the rich, sweet smell of spices mixed with brewing tea were comforting.

She ordered Megan's exact chai, asking for it extra hot, just how Megan liked it, knowing she'd be sipping it slowly while she worked. While waiting, she found a stray napkin on the counter and, with a tiny, worn pen she always carried, drew a small, familiar star on the cup’s sleeve—a little inside joke from a conversation she’d had with Megan months ago about wishing on constellations after a particularly tough exam. It was a small, secret mark, meant only for Megan, a tiny piece of Y/N’s heart hidden in plain sight, a silent message—”I see you. I’m thinking of you.”

Back at the university, Y/N crept back into the common room. It felt heavier now, the air thick with unspoken worries. Megan was still there, hunched over her laptop, looking even more tired and lost in her work.

Y/N’s heart ached just looking at her, a tight squeeze in her chest. She carefully placed the warm cup of chai and a small, neatly folded napkin (with a little motivational doodle on it, a tiny, happy doodle she knew Megan would find amusing) beside Megan’s laptop, making sure not to make a sound, not to disturb her focus.

Then, holding her breath, Y/N quickly, silently slipped away, disappearing back into the hallway before Megan could even lift her head, before she could even notice the small act of kindness.

An hour later, Y/N walked back through the common room again, pretending to just be "passing by" on her way to grab a late snack. And then she heard it. Megan's voice, bright with pure, unburdened gratitude, echoed across the almost empty room.

"Oh my God, Gabriel, you are a lifesaver! This chai latte is exactly what I needed! How did you know?" Gabriel, leaning casually against the doorframe, a relaxed, easy smirk on his face, simply winked.

"Knew you'd be in here suffering, Megs. Figured a little pick-me-up was in order." Y/N saw him glance down at the cup, his smirk briefly wavering as he noticed the small, hand-drawn star on the sleeve, a slight frown of confusion crossing his face for just a second but he was quick, he recovered instantly, shrugging playfully.

"Anything to help you crush that paper, Megs. You deserve a break." Megan had smiled, a tired but truly grateful smile, her eyes full of warmth and thanks directed only at him. "You're seriously the best," she'd murmured, taking a long, comforting sip, her shoulders relaxing just a little.

The words "You're seriously the best" felt like a knife twisting in Y/N. They weren't meant for her, the one who had felt the drizzle, walked to the distant cafe, carefully chose the exact drink, and added the secret star. They were for Gabriel, who had done none of those things.

He had just accepted the praise, like it was always meant for him. Y/N retreated to her own dorm room, the familiar ache in her chest sharpening into a dull, throbbing pain that spread through her whole body.

It wasn't just the credit he stole, it was the feeling of closeness, of being truly understood, that he took away from her. Every thoughtful act, every attempt to show Megan that Y/N truly saw her, was hijacked, making Megan believe it was his attentiveness, his understanding, his care.

Your pining felt heavier than ever, a secret so massive and crushing it threatened to break you. You knew, deep down, that you should stop. You should pull away, protect your heart from this constant, self-inflicted pain. Sometimes you just wish that your own brother, Gabriel, would back off.

However, the thought of not being the one to bring even a tiny flicker of joy to Megan’s day, even in secret, felt utterly unbearable. So, you continued, a silent guardian of her happiness, forever invisible in her eyes.

The chai latte incident was just one of many, many times this had happened. Weeks later, Megan had mentioned, with a frustrated sigh, how incredibly confusing her advanced historical economics class was. She was struggling badly, often complaining about the dense textbooks and the complex theories. She felt lost.

Y/N, however, had always had a natural knack for breaking down complicated ideas. It was almost a personal challenge for her to take jumbled information and make it clear. Over the next few weeks, while Megan was busy with demanding soccer practice and other tough classes, Y/N spent almost every late night in the library. She didn't just read the historical economics course material, she studied it deeply, she examined every chapter, she dived into the background stories.

She created detailed flowcharts, summarized key points into easy bullet points, drew funny little cartoons in the margins to help remember dry facts, and simplified complex theories into language anyone could understand. It was a huge amount of work, a massive, carefully crafted study guide, something she herself couldn't imagine she can pull off.

She added little encouraging notes in the margins, like "You've got this!" and "Don't let the numbers scare you, they're just friends!"— things she'd say to Megan if she could, little whispers of support.

Once it was finished, a thick binder filled with neatly organized pages, color-coded tabs, and easy-to-read summaries, Y/N felt a strange mix of pride and dread. It was perfect. But how would she get it to Megan? And how, oh how, would Gabriel take credit for this?

She decided on a subtle approach, hoping for once it might slip under his radar. One morning, when she knew Megan would be in a big, crowded lecture hall, Y/N quietly slipped into Megan's locker room (she knew the code from a group project they’d done months ago). She carefully placed the thick binder inside Megan's locker, right on top of her books, so she couldn't miss it. No note, no signature, just the guide itself, a silent offering.

A few days later, Y/N was walking through the student union building when she heard Megan’s voice, buzzing with excitement. "You guys, you will not believe what Gabriel did for me!" she told a small group of friends, including Y/N, after class.

"He somehow got me this amazing study guide for historical economics! It's perfectly organized, and makes everything so clear! I mean, I was really struggling, and now I actually feel like I get it!" She turned to Gabriel, who was casually leaning against a nearby wall, scrolling on his phone, looking as cool as ever.

"Seriously, Gabriel, thank you so much! It's a lifesaver. You’re my lifesaver. My grade is gonna jump because of you!" Gabriel looked up from his phone, a lazy, charming smile spreading across his face.

"Oh, that? Yeah, no problem, Megs. Knew you were having trouble. Just whipped it up for you. Glad it's helping." He didn't even try to look modest or humble, he just accepted the praise as if it were simply his due.

Y/N stood there, a forced, tight smile on her face, feeling her blood run cold, a sudden chill spreading through her veins.

“Whipped it up?” she thought bitterly, her mind screaming. “You didn't even know what historical economics was last week, you kept calling it 'history numbers class'!"

The unfairness was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe, making her vision blur slightly at the edges.

Then came Megan’s birthday. This one was always the hardest of all. You wanted to give her something truly special, something that showed you knew her better than anyone else, something that spoke to her deepest passions.

You remembered a tiny, off-hand comment Megan had made months ago, late one night while talking about her love for classic literature. She’d mentioned an old, out-of-print poetry collection by a lesser-known contemporary of Emily Dickinson, something she’d dreamed of owning but thought was impossible to find.

It was incredibly rare, a true treasure for a poetry lover. Y/N had spent weeks searching online forums, sending emails to collectors, calling small, independent bookstores all over the world, from the US to the Philippines.

She even emailed a quirky little antique book shop she’d heard about in Cebu. Finally, after what felt like endless searching, she tracked down a dusty copy in that tiny shop in Cebu. The owner had been surprised anyone was even asking for it. Y/N paid a hefty price which cost double because of the shipping fee she had to pay for it to be shipped internationally, it was a significant chunk of her savings but the pure joy of finding it for Megan, knowing how happy it would make her, was worth every single cent.

It was more than just a book, it was a piece of her silent affection, something only Y/N, who truly listened to Megan’s quiet wishes, would have known to look for. She wrapped it beautifully in simple, elegant brown paper and tied it with a rustic twine, attaching a small, blank card, left intentionally empty. She planned to leave it on Megan’s desk early on her birthday morning, an anonymous gift from a secret admirer, a small act of love.

Unfortunately, Gabriel beat her to it. On Megan’s birthday morning, as Y/N walked past Megan’s dorm room, her heart pounding with nervous excitement, she saw the door wide open.

Megan was inside, beaming, her face absolutely radiant. She was holding up a beautifully wrapped gift – identical to the one Y/N had purchased, right down to the rustic twine and the exact dimensions of the old book. Gabriel was standing beside her, a proud, almost possessive grin on his face.

"Happy Birthday, Megs! I remembered you mentioning this forever ago," he said, pulling her into a quick, easy hug. "Took me ages to track it down, but anything for you, right? Only the best for my favorite girl."

Megan’s eyes were shining with pure delight. "Gabriel, you shouldn't have! This is... this is incredible! It's exactly the one! How did you even...?" Y/N saw Gabriel subtly glance at the book's spine, then at Megan, before shrugging with a casual, confident air. "Like I said, I have my ways. Only the best for you, birthday girl."

Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Her hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into her palms so hard it almost drew blood. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to leave her gift.

He hadn’t just taken credit for something Y/N did, he had somehow gotten the exact same rare item –or, more likely, he had somehow found out about Y/N's gift and co-opted it entirely, perhaps even intercepted it or copied the idea down to the wrapping.

The thought was a chilling realization, a fresh wave of disbelief. This wasn't just stealing credit, it was stealing her unique understanding of Megan, her deep, personal connection, making her thoughtful acts seem shallow and common, easily duplicated.

Her profound disappointment turned into a sharp, bitter anger that tasted like ash in her mouth. She quickly, silently, walked away, the unopened gift for Megan heavy and cold in her own bag, feeling like she had been punched in the gut, winded by the cruelty of it all.

“Why did he choose Megan out of everyone? He could have anyone else he wanted…"

After each of these painful, heartbreaking moments, Y/N would retreat into herself. She’d spend countless hours replaying the scene in her mind, over and over, her thoughts a tangled mess of what-ifs, self-blame, and sadness.

“Why do I keep doing this?” she'd wonder, pacing her small dorm room until late into the night. “It only hurts. It’s like I’m feeding Gabriel’s ego and my own heartbreak at the same time. This is insane.”

She'd try to rationalize Gabriel’s behavior, clutching at any straw of hope.

“Maybe he just doesn't realize what he's doing. Maybe he genuinely forgets that I'm the one who does these things and just assumes he did. Maybe it’s just how he is – a bit scatterbrained, but deep down, he's good-hearted."

However, deep down, in the quiet, honest corner of her soul, she knew it wasn't true. He knew. His knowing smirk, the quick glance at the hidden details, the casual way he dismissed her hints—he knew. He was taking advantage of her quiet nature and his own loud charm, playing a role.

The emotional toll was immense. Y/N often felt drained, utterly exhausted, a dull numbness spreading through her. The constant tightness in her chest was a physical reminder of her unspoken feelings and unacknowledged efforts.

She felt stuck in a never-ending loop: Megan expresses a need or a wish, Y/N quietly fulfills it, Gabriel swoops in, Megan thanks Gabriel with a bright smile, and Y/N feels completely invisible, erased.

The cycle was relentless, and she felt utterly powerless to stop it. She couldn't bring herself to just not do things for Megan, the urge to help, to show care, to ease Megan's burdens, was simply too strong, an impulse etched into her very being.

However, she also couldn't bear the thought of openly telling Megan how she felt, not after years of seeing her so happy with Gabriel, so convinced of his thoughtfulness, his genuine care.

The hardest part, the most agonizing torture, was watching Megan’s genuine happiness when Gabriel "did" something nice for her. Megan’s smile was so bright, so full of pure joy, so authentic, that it was its own kind of deep, aching pain for Y/N.

How could she ruin that? How could she shatter Megan’s belief in Gabriel's goodness, even if it meant Y/N remained heartbroken, stuck in the shadows?

This constant battle, this secret life she led, made her feel so incredibly alone. There was no one she could talk to about it. How do you explain to your own brother that you're secretly in love with the girl he thinks is his and that he's stealing all your gestures? It was an impossible burden, a silent scream trapped deep in her throat. She was merely an observer, a ghost silently watching her own heartbreak unfold, day after day.

Maybe, just maybe, she's not the Y/L/N Megan’s meant to be with.

previous part. | next part.

a/n: If you guys did pay attention, you would know I added some of KATSEYE's lyrics into this part. It's a coincidence his name is Gabriel right? Lol. Anyway, I posted this before I barely started part four, thinking I should post two so it somehow feels complete. Somehow. I hope y'all are loving this though.

[atangledfate]

The sheep stepped forward to catch the wolf to make sure they didn't fall over or get hurt. Yet her eyes were on the outline of surge as she bolted away. She couldn't help but feel like it would matter more coming from her. To hear her side of that story, to feel that emotion coming from the victim. It felt wrong what happened to her and continued to happen to her.

" ... Damn it Surge... just once i wish i understood what was going through your head... "

She muttered before turning to the wolf.

" Wish i could tell you more about the Wisp, that i'm afraid is a story for Sonic to tell... or perhaps Mr. Prower... i'm as clueless as you are. I was in the command center when it appeared, but they seemed ot be helping Sonic so... that's always a good sign "

================================================

Sonic came to a screeching halt when Kit came closer and made his demand. On the one hand he was really afraid Surge might get angry at him for spilling the beans. Truth was the only one who knew everything was Whisper he only knew bits of it, but he supposed enough to tell him---still damn if he wasn't being put between a rock and a hard place here.

" You aren't making this easy on me are you? "

He said with a soft tone as he placed his head into his hand.

" Fine i'll be straight with you. I only know what Surge said and that wasn't much... she went to this place, and is getting her memories back or maybe she has them back. I don't know... Whisper knows more but she's with Tangle.. an probably will be for a while... "

" I figure she hopes seeing this place will do the same for you... and that's all i know... i've never been out here before... well passed by it maybe... but yea that's it that's all i know..."

===============================================

Miles crossed his arms and listened to blaze as he was glad to hear she had a limit of some kind. So phasing herself was maybe natural for her but having to phase things outside that was difficult maybe, even draining. Well it wasn't much of a weakness but it was something. If he had a scan of that ability up close maybe he could work out a way to counter it. But for now it was best they avoid a confrontation with this warrior.

" Belle i don't doubt you... or Belle Bot... your skills are incredible. I just worry that we are up against foes we don't know the full capabilities to yet... i just want someone three to... back you up... that's all"

He didn't want her to feel like he was coddling her, just that he didn't want her on her own just yet. Not until this mess blew over...

" But if Blaze thinks Odessa is the right call and doesn't mind her being away for awhile. Maybe its best if we keep her away from lupus in the time being... either way we should get you out of the base, and someplace off site for awhile. "

" I agree with miles even if its just until this blockade is over... i don't like that they wanted Belle ... it was so oddly specific and when i refused i could see the president was a little frustrated by it... i would feel better as well if someone was with you... "

"Me flapping my gums about my cry baby backstory ain't going to do anything. It's not like most people at The Restoration already know what happened with Starline, and I'm sure you'll get a lot of people telling other's once this shit is over and done with. Weather I want to or not, people are going to find out. I just don't care. I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do, regardless of what people think about me." Surge had her style and wasn't going to change it for anyone.

"You're talking to an avid G.U.N hater here so you don't gotta convince me of anything. Though I think I'd like to get a statement about the giant mega Wisp that was flying overhead earlier. If you know anything about that." He was one of the many that got spooked seeing that Wisp appear out of nowhere. At least they were friendly and moved the ship crashing down somewhere else. It still wasn't something he expected to see today.

"You have fun with that, I gotta go get arrest," Surge said, shoving the canine out of the way almost knocking him over as she stormed off. "Drippy is already off the base so no need to delay this shit anymore."

===========================================================

Kitsunami gets closer to Sonic. "Either you tell me the truth or I'm going back. I'm not asking for details, just if Surge got her memories back. I'm only trying to piece everything together." The fennec didn't want to be sheltered from the truth anymore, and even if he wasn't perfect he's gotten better at just blindly following what Surge tells him and making his own choices. This was one of those times.

===========================================================

"We won't have to worry about the one who assaulted Amy for the day. I'm unsure what fully happened, though I believe they overload themself with their ability to avoid my attack." Something that still irked Blaze as she would've stopped them from fleeing if they hadn't managed to phase the entire plane to prevent it from being damaged. "They were clearly struggling to keep their power in check after that."

"I'll be fine on my own Tails, though I think I'll just stay inside Belle-Bot until everything calms down. I haven't field tested it yet, though as I said, I did design it to hopefully stand against Metal Sonic." Belle wasn't going to go out of her way to find out, though if Metal Sonic caused problems and she was able to help she would.

"I'd say that all depends. It's a rare sight for me to see Odessa so angry, and this General Lupus got under her nerves rather swiftly. Best to avoid them interacting today if we can help it, least she attempt to challenge him." Blaze knew the reason why. Odessa having strong morals and need to protect the weak. Something G.U.N wasn't doing much of right now and they were one's who were supposed to do just that.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 207 (Sulani Baby)

After a long day of travel and months of planning, the Gordons finally arrived in Sulani - with both adventurous dogs in tow! Night would soon fall over the lush islands, but travel fatigue couldn't stop them from checking in with Rafa, Melissa, and the new baby.

They were also ready to unload the baby gear they'd collected through Heather's registry, with much of it coming from her trusted friend, the mermaid Elucea Glynnan (and her Watcher @hashimasims!)

But Heather and Conrad were dismayed to find the forced trio struggling, and promised to help them set everything up once they'd settled into the rental. Happy to catch up, the kids hadn't seen Rafa and Melissa since Lilix's wedding, but everyone was surprised to learn the baby still had no name.

"We don't know what to call her," said Melissa with a frown. "Naming her ourselves doesn't feel like...We can't think of anything we like enough."

Heather frowned. This was a clear sign she wasn't bonding with the newborn they called 'the baby,' and her heart felt heavy for all three of them.

"What about Iris?" suggested Lavender with an innocent smile. "Mommy, you said you liked that name if Roan had been a baby sister but then you said you weren't having any more babies. Maybe this baby can have it!"

Rafa and Melissa nodded and shrugged. "Iris is nice," said Rafa, before Melissa excused herself to the bathroom. She maneuvered around gifted baby gear that filled their tiny beachfront shack, clearly worried about something and Heather noticed - but at least they were out of the shipwreck.

When Melissa emerged again, she looked at Rafa with a nauseated stare. "What is it?" he wondered. "Mel, what's wrong?"

She took a deep breath, showing him the positive pregnancy test through a fog of tears. "Rafa, I'm late. I'm pregnant."

The young officer's smile crumbled at the news. Raising his infant niece was hard enough. Even though they'd finally moved into a real home, they were barely coping with Ximena's daughter, and the thought of stuffing another helpless infant inside their clapboard walls made him feel sick to his stomach. "We were careful."

"We tried to be, but it's been so busy! I didn't mean for-."

"It's okay," said Rafa, but even he didn't seem to believe it. "We'll figure it out and make it work."

"Rafa, we shouldn't have to!" Melissa cried. "She - Iris? - she's not our baby."

"She's family."

Melissa sighed heavily, and Conrad looked between them with sympathy. "Kids are resilient, you guys. You can handle anything, and Heather and I will always be a phone call away."

They spent the evening with Rafa, Melissa, and the baby, enjoying the warm summer night and the sound of crickets through the open windows of their small four-room shack. But Melissa went to bed early in the spare room, and Rafa's head was clearly spinning.

Heather, on the other hand, had no trouble bonding with Iris, cuddling her and falling for her adorable coos until she fell asleep. Before heading back to the rental for the night, she and Conrad took a minute together in the bedroom.

"I really hoped they'd be doing better than they are," Heather said heavily. "And now they're having their own baby while barely coping..."

"You know I've always had faith in Rafa," Conrad said carefully. "But it's too much to ask him to raise Ximena's baby, too. They're too young."

Heather nodded slowly, with a glance to baby Iris sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. "Conrad, I think you might've been right when you said we should raise this baby. Now she's even got the girl's name I wanted thanks to Lavender...But could we really raise her and Ash in the same home? What if Ximena's ghost...?"

"We'd just need to take it one day at a time, but we're better equipped than Rafa and Melissa. We don't have to decide anything tonight, and we'll talk to Ash before anything's final."

They'd come to Sulani to deal with a curse and help a family friend, but now Heather felt sure they might return to the Bay with a new baby. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary | Gen 2.2 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

Shout out to @itmeansiris who gave me permission to name a very important baby after her, without letting me spoil/warn that it was Ximena's baby. Bold! Though your name is too perfect for the In Bloom Challenge themes not to use at some point, I love collaborating with you and following your sim families through all their drama. Even though it's Ximena's baby, I hope you can find love for baby Iris!

Iris is a nature and colour name, which is why Heather had it in her back pocket. Colour, you say? Why yes, it's Greek for rainbow, the most colourful naturally-occurring phenomenon on Earth. And I have to give flowers (irises!) to @purplesimmer455 who took the clue of infant Roan's rainbow shirt foreshadowing future plot and guessed it had to do with a crossover with Iris. She was right about that, but didn't quite guess it would also be a VIP baby name. It was a layered clue!

And this is the room that @hashimasims sent me! I kept everything, including the custom Elucea artwork!!! My sims are so privileged, seriously. Thank you so much!

[darlingxs-blog]

YOUU . will write about daemon uhh idk hc idkk uhhh how would it feel like to kiss him . he clearly seems to enjoy „scaring” the player and not acting completely subservient towards you, so I like to think giving him more freedom or egging him on to do his own choices would be a . Way to bond w him

(I wonder how the others would react to him, if theyre able to comprehend him at all)

UHH besides that . maybe possibly perchance teasing Daemon? Finding some way to make him feel all tingly physically and seeing his form get all staticy and fuzzy? i need to kiss him and his . blue mouth UHHUDNFFHGGGHGHHHH

HEHSHSB OHDHHE WHY ARE YOU SO SMART OHDHEB GOOD LAWD YESSSEEHDHD

We kissing Daemon right on his static ass lips trust 😼🙏

Unfortunately I've never flirted with nor teased anyone ever in my life (I have no dating experience leave me alone) so the teasing is definitely going to be some very erm low tier shiz nit okay thank you byebye

A bug...

He's a love bug. Shhh keep it to yourself.

The bugged out dresser freaked you out a little bit, it started glitching when you tried to talk to Deenah but were met with a corrupted voice and a messed up text box and no show of Deenah, at all.

But you know what they say right, third times a charm. You walk up to the glitching dresser and shoot the little 'love beams' as Skylar Specs likes to call them at that dresser that freaks you out a little if your being honest.

"I don't bite." A glitched out figure of what you can't even describe appears in your view and you can't lie. He's...kinda hot. "I think. Did I?"

Feeling oh so confident with yourself and your abilities to tug at your household object's hearts you decide to work a little charm- no, let's be honest here. The words slipped out before you could even register what you wanted to say "you can if you want" seriously, what the hell was going on in your brain sometimes. "I don't think I want to" his distorted voice snaps you out of your self depreciating thoughts and makes you feel a little upset...he could have been at least a little nicer.

"And why not?" You reply back to the glitched out figure, if you started digging your own grave, why not make it deeper?

The silent buzz of static fills the air around you two before "chomp chomp" again with his distorted voice "munch munch" how serious he sounds and since you can't really tell his emotions by his expression all you can do is try to force down a laughter that threatens to spill from your lips.

Though, before you can say anything in reply. He's gone.

__________time skip cause I fucking can_______

You wake up the next day, before even getting out of bed you slide the rose tinted glasses onto your face and the warmth of Betty and her soft body snuggled up with you sweeps your stress away. You gotta thank Skylar for showing you this absolutely fabulous woman the first day you got these damn dateviators.

"Mornin' honey." Betty's arms tighten around you while bringing you in closer and you laugh sweetly idc if your a man, your a femboy now at her antics. You know just how much she doesn't like the mornings. "C'mon darlin' you gotta let me go." And she does, with a lot of reluctance before sitting up and grabbing your wrist with a much softer grip than she had on you before.

"You're not gonna kiss me before you go?" A pretty pout is on her lips and you just can't resist giving them a quick peck- just so she'll feel better...and you just really wanted to kiss her.

She hums and falls back against the plush pillows on your mattress holding one of the many throw pillows to her chest before shutting her eyes softly to squeeze in just a couple more minutes of rest.

After a quick stretch that pops your arms you turn your head only to remember the glitchy dresser, Daemon likes when you suddenly remember he is there even if you can't see him physically or at least that's what you think.

You walk up to the dresser and without even having to think about it for too long Daemon appears in front of you in a blitz. He looks...angrier than usual. That's none of your business though.

One dateable by one you've slowly been 'realizing' them as the Kind yet Anonymous hacker but it and today was the day you wanted to see what Daemon would look like if he was well complete.

"Daemon, something on your mind?" Sympathy etches on your features and he has to force himself not to jab at you for getting way too soft way too quickly. Someone could take advantage of that. "'Fine. Just do it." His layered voice is sharp, he doesn't want to waste time it seems.

You've busted your ass off getting your specs points to the max and now it finally pays off with your large harem of lovers becoming human right in front of your very eyes, like you did with the ones before the process of Daemon becoming human is much more...anticlimactic really, but you can't lie. Even with the features that would seem odd for just an ordinary human he still is quite fine- "can I kiss you" "What?" You blink once, twice, thrice before he says it again "I want to kiss you" bitch YES PLEASE DHHEBD

"Well, If you want too..." suddenly feeling very bashful you turn your head away, out of all the things you thought he would have said when he finally became human you have not conjured up a single scenario where that was the very first thing he said.

A hand that seems to generate a buzz of static across your skin and deep into your blood stream turns your head back to face forward and lips are pressed against yours. Daemon's lips are flat and almost freezing yet you've never felt anything that made you melt so quickly.

A hum of static fills your mouth and dances on your tounge like pop rocks and yet you don't feel anything at all, all the while you feel his desperation he has with every nip at your skin with the mouths that don't exist.

With every second that passes with his lips locked with yours the buzzing gets more intense, it feels like a straight shock of electricity and yet you don't feel enough pain to pull away in fact it only brings you closer.

Unfortunately, with your mortal body comes with mortal lungs that do need air to survive so you pull away with a huff that you regret. You really didn't want to let him go.

He looks down at you and your flushed face, chuckling like he isn't just as red.

___________________________________________

I had to stop it right there cause it was getting cringey, unfortunately I don't know how to write Romance 😔 IM SORRY but like I'm happy with this lowkey, kinda, a little.

On everybody's soul we YES WE are cracking Daemon.

[formulafanfics13]

Another Day, Another Look II- Toto Wolff 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1

as requested <3

Kimi didn't even look up when George tossed the bag of crisps on the bed. He just kept sitting there, slouched on the edge of the mattress, hood up over messy curls, thumbs tapping half-heartedly at his phone screen like he was reading but not replying. His entire body said tense, the way teenage boys get when they don't know what the fuck they're feeling, but they know it's not nothing.

Lewis came back from the bathroom with wet hands, drying them on the front of his hoodie. He caught George's eye, a small shrug, then sat down on the other bed, across from Kimi.

"So," George said lightly, cracking the crisps open with a pop. "You rich now?"

Kimi blinked. "What?"

"The new contract. The pay. You're, like, officially on Daddy Mercedes' payroll now, yeah?"

Kimi huffed a laugh. "Shut up."

Lewis grinned, voice gentle. "He's right, though. It's a damn good contract."

George tossed him a crisp. "Don't act like you're not gonna buy something stupid with it. Like a boat or a vending machine or a lizard or some shit."

"I'm not mad about the contract," Kimi muttered.

Lewis tilted his head. "You sure?"

Kimi didn't answer right away. He picked at the edge of a water bottle label. Peeled it in one long curl. Then said, softly, "I'm not mad at her either."

George blinked. "You're not?"

"I knew this was gonna happen," Kimi sighed. "It's just... the kind of shit she does."

George leaned back. "What, fall into offices with Team Principals?"

Kimi cracked a smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's always gone for older guys. It's a thing. Ever since she was sixteen."

Lewis didn't say anything, but his expression sobered.

Kimi glanced up. "I'm not mad at her. I'm not. I just don't want Toto thinking I-" He stopped himself. "That I put her up to it. Like I sent her in to flirt so I could get a raise."

George scoffed. "Mate. You really think Toto fucking Wolff would fall for that?"

"I think people think worse things," Kimi muttered.

"You think Toto does?" Lewis asked.

Kimi shrugged. "I don't know."

Lewis shook his head immediately. "No. He doesn't."

Kimi looked up again. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

It was quiet for a second. George blinked. "Wait, did Toto say something to you?"

Lewis scratched the back of his neck. "He just said... he knows you didn't ask her to. That it wasn't about you."

George narrowed his eyes. "And what was it about, then?"

Lewis paused. Thought. Then said quietly, "Honestly? I don't think even he knows."

Kimi didn't answer. He just leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers. Like maybe it was safer to look up than down at the screen of his phone, where her name sat unread, her last message unsent, a green bubble glowing like a fuse.

The silence stretched again until George cleared his throat and said, "You know what? I'm gonna leave you with your emotional support uncle."

Kimi rolled his eyes. "Where are you going?"

George smirked. "Gonna go see if there's any minibar vodka in my room." He grabbed his jacket, slapped Kimi on the foot as he passed, and disappeared into the hallway with a lazy wave. The door clicked shut.

Kimi let out a breath.

Lewis stood, wandered to the desk, and poured two glasses of the hotel's shitty complimentary water. He handed one over. Sat back down. "Can I say something?" he asked.

Kimi shrugged. "You're thirty-nine. I'm seventeen. You can say whatever the fuck you want."

Lewis huffed a laugh. "Fair." He sipped. Then looked at Kimi. "Toto doesn't think you manipulated anything," he said softly. "If anything... he thinks she played him."

Kimi blinked.

Lewis kept going. "He was quiet, after. Strange. Kind of like he couldn't believe what happened."

Kimi's voice was tight. "Did he tell you what happened?"

"No. But he didn't have to."

Kimi stared at the floor. "Do you think I should talk to her?" he asked.

Lewis didn't answer right away. Then, gently, "Do you think you'd say something you'd regret?"

Kimi was quiet. Then nodded.

Lewis clapped his shoulder. "Then wait."

There was a beat. And then, a ding. Kimi's phone lit up. He didn't move to grab it. Just stared at the screen like it might burn him.

"Is that her?" Lewis asked.

Kimi nodded. Lewis watched the notification disappear. "Do you want to know what I think?" he said softly.

Kimi glanced at him. "No. But you're gonna say it anyway."

Lewis smiled faintly. "I think she's grown. Maybe not smart yet. But grown. And I think she doesn't ask for things she doesn't want."

Kimi looked down at the floor. "She said please."

Lewis tilted his head. "What?"

"In the hallway. To Toto. She said please."

Lewis's face didn't change. But something behind his eyes flickered. Knowing. Complicated. He stood. Gave Kimi's shoulder a final squeeze. "Get some sleep."

And then he left. Kimi sat in the quiet.

Phone buzzing again. Her name. A second message. Still unread.

And 35 minutes away, down in Oxford, Toto Wolff stood alone in his living room. Staring at the bar cart. Tuxedo shirt unbuttoned. Tie discarded. Hands braced on the countertop like he was keeping himself from slipping.

Because no matter how calm he'd been earlier, no matter how carefully he cleaned her, he could still taste her perfume on his mouth.

* 

Mercedes HQ had never felt this full.

There were children trailing engineers down the production floor. Spouses balancing champagne flutes while gaping at the wind tunnel. Retired mechanics giving talks beside massive screens projecting brake telemetry in high-def. Staff from every division walking their families around the place like it was an extended Christmas dinner, and everyone was trying just a little too hard to behave.

The whole thing reeked of good PR and polished shoes. But Kimi wasn't thinking about that. He was gripping his sister's wrist like she might fucking bolt.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, dragging her across the marble-tiled atrium and straight toward a pair of familiar figures. George, tall and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was half-wired, and Lewis, calm and smiling beside him, surrounded by four different teenagers in matching STEM t-shirts asking him about rear-wing flex limits.

George spotted them first. "Hey-"

Lewis turned, eyes catching on Kimi, then on her. He smiled. "Afternoon."

"Hi," she said warmly.

George raised an eyebrow. "Older Antonelli. The troublemaker, right?"

Kimi huffed. "Shut up."

She laughed, light, innocent, but her cheeks flushed. Just slightly. Just enough.

Lewis tilted his head. "Good to see you again."

She nodded. "You too."

George narrowed his eyes, playful but sharp. "You sticking close to Kimi all day or gonna start climbing boardroom tables again?"

Kimi stepped in. "She's being good."

"I'm trying," she said with a faint grin. "He's just not letting me go anywhere."

"She's not," Kimi muttered. "I don't trust her."

"Fair," George replied, smirking. "I wouldn't either."

She just smiled and let her brother keep hold of her wrist.

The day unfolded like it was meant to. Tours. Talks. Photos. Factory walkthroughs. At one point, she found herself chatting to Lewis' step-mother about carbon composites while two seven-year-olds tried to crawl into a prototype simulator. Another hour passed. Kimi still hadn't let her stray more than five meters.

They had talked about it. The night after the contract. After the hotel. She'd texted. He'd answered. Slowly at first. One sentence replies. Then longer ones. Then emojis. Then photos. Then a voice note that she definitely wasn't meant to replay as many times as she had.

She hadn't told Kimi any of that. But he wasn't stupid. "Stop smirking," he muttered as they walked toward the presentation stage.

"I'm not."

"You are. And it's suspicious."

"You're paranoid."

"I'm seventeen," he muttered, tugging her toward the side of the temporary stage where the engineers were finishing setup for the drivers' talk. "You're twenty something. It should be you babysitting me. Not the other way around."

She grinned. "So let me go."

"Absolutely not."

She stood off to the side, crossed her arms, and watched Lewis, George, and Kimi step up to the platform. That was when she felt him. Not saw. Not heard. Felt.

The air behind her shifted. The faintest brush of warmth. The scent of cologne. A presence you could lean into without turning. Then a hand. Big. Flat. Confident. Settling low on her waist, fingers spreading gently over the fabric of her dress. She inhaled, a little too sharp. A little too late.

And then his voice, low and warm, directly against her ear, "You look beautiful today."

She didn't move. Didn't dare. Just stood there. Breathing.

"You've been very quiet," he murmured.

"Well, your driver was holding my wrist hostage."

A soft breath of amusement. "We'll fix that," he said. "Come find me in my office at the end of the day."

She swallowed. Nodded once. His hand didn't leave her waist.

Instead, he squeezed, brief, possessive, and then stepped past her with the most casual pivot in the world, jacket perfectly pressed, voice smooth and easy as he approached a pair of adults near the simulator stations.

Her mother. Her father. She watched, stunned, as Toto shook hands with both of them. Charmed them. Warm, polished, even. No trace of the man who had just whispered you look beautiful into her ear like he was seconds from devouring her.

Kimi's dad smiled. Her mother touched Toto's arm as she laughed. Toto didn't even glance at her again. Not once.

And she was left by the stage. Thighs tense. Lungs tight. Watching her baby brother talk about downforce while their Team Principal very, very politely seduced her family.

And within five minutes, her phone buzzed.

TW: office will be left unlocked after 5. lock the door after you.

She stared at it. Then at him. Then at her own reflection in the polished chrome panel next to the stage. And smiled.

By the time the clock hit 5pm, the factory was quiet. Silent, almost. Only the low hum of lights overhead and the distant clatter of some late-shift cleaner echoing faintly down the polished corridor.

Toto's office door was closed. But not locked. Yet.

She stepped in without knocking. Without pausing. Without saying a single word. And he didn't look up right away. He was seated behind the wide glass desk, tie loose, top button undone, flipping half-heartedly through a stack of documents that didn't seem to be holding his attention. His body was still. But his foot tapped once under the desk.

She shut the door behind her. Click. The lock turned. And only then did he lift his eyes.

It was subtle. That shift in posture. That slow glance up from the paper to the girl. But the second he saw her, standing there in the quiet, backlit by soft amber hallway light, eyes locked on his, the whole room changed.

He didn't smile. Not yet. But he did smirk. The kind that curled at one side. Quiet and dangerous. The kind that said, I've been waiting for this. He pushed his chair back slightly. Just enough. Legs spread. Arms resting on the desk edge.

And she moved. No words. No hesitation. She walked forward, dropped her bag on the floor without looking, and stepped between his knees.

Toto's hands stayed where they were. Barely. She climbed onto him, one knee on either side of his thighs, settling into his lap like they'd done this a hundred times. Like his body was hers.

And maybe it was. He inhaled. Sharp. Quiet. His hands lifted slowly, one to the curve of her waist, and the other,  to the back of her neck. Firm. Possessive. Spreading through her hair like he owned every strand.

"Scheiße," he muttered under his breath, voice low and reverent.

She said nothing. Just stared down at him from where she sat, breath uneven, lips parted slightly, thighs tense around his legs.

His thumb stroked the base of her skull. "You came," he said, soft.

She blinked. "You told me to."

That made him smile, not smirk, a smile. Like she'd just confirmed something sacred. "And you listen now?" he murmured. "Just like that?"

She tilted her head. "Only when you ask nicely."

His hand tightened at her neck. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. "I didn't," he said.

"No," she whispered, leaning forward just slightly. "You didn't."

He caught her jaw with his other hand. Held her still. Studied her. "You're sure?" he asked. "You want this again?"

She kissed him. No hesitation. No answer. Just her mouth on his. Hot. Deep. Open. It was slow at first. Controlled. But only for a second.

Because the moment he groaned, that low, broken, tired sound, everything snapped. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her down harder against him, his hips already shifting forward, cock straining beneath her even through the fabric.

She gasped into his mouth. He bit her lower lip "Fuck," he muttered, voice guttural now, teeth against her jaw. "You've been driving me fucking insane."

"Good," she breathed, rocking once against him.

He grabbed her hips and stilled them. Hard. "Stop."

She blinked, panting. "What?"

His eyes were dark. Focused. Hungry. "You don't get to tease me now."

"I'm not-"

"You climbed into my lap," he said, fingers digging into her waist. "Locked the door. Straddled me in my own office."

Her breath hitched.

"You're mine now," he said. "So you stay still until I say otherwise."

She shivered, then, slowly, painfully, nodded.

Toto's hand moved back to her neck. Held her there. His other traced down her spine, settling low, dragging her closer until her forehead pressed against his.

They sat like that. Breathing. His cock hard beneath her. Her thighs trembling above him. Everything silent.

Until he whispered, "You're going to regret wearing this dress."

And she whispered back, "Good."

He didn’t speak when he lifted her off his lap. Didn’t ask. Didn’t check. He just dragged her forward on the couch by one arm until she was kneeling on the rug, legs spread wide between his shoes. He looked down at her. Quiet. Steady. Then said, low and brutal, “Open your mouth.”

Her lips parted instantly. She didn’t blink. He stared like he was about to ruin a cathedral.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice gravel now. Then he reached down. Undid his belt again. Slower this time. Deliberate. She was breathing heavier already, eyes flicking to the waistband of his trousers, the dark line of fabric underneath. And when he pulled himself free? He was already hard again. 

“Look at you,” he whispered. “So good.”

She nodded, lips still parted.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get to nod.”

She swallowed. Tried again. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

That made something in his face flicker. Barely. A spark behind the eyes. And then he was cupping the back of her head, guiding her mouth forward, cock pressed to her lips as his other hand tilted her chin.

“Suck,” he ordered.

She did. God, she did. Her mouth was hot. Soft. Tongue already swirling as she hollowed her cheeks and took him in deeper. Toto groaned low in his throat. “Fuck- good girl.”

She moaned around him, and it vibrated up his spine. He grabbed her hair tighter. Started fucking her mouth slowly. Measured. Every thrust was timed like a heartbeat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The only sounds were her gagging softly, her lips stretched wide, the wet suck of her mouth around his cock.

He was watching her face the whole time. “Look at me,” he growled. “Eyes up.”

She glanced up, big, glossy, ruined, and he almost came right there. Her mascara was smudged. Her mouth was slick. And still, she held his stare like she wanted to drown in it.

“You like being used, don’t you?”

She whined around him.

He pulled her hair harder. “Say it.”

“I love it,” she gasped around his cock. “I love being used by you.”

He grunted, pushed deeper. “Fucking knew you would.” He fucked her mouth harder now. Faster. Not merciless, but close. Enough to make her choke just a little, enough to make her thighs clench, enough to make her eyes water. And she took it. Like she’d trained for this. Like it was what her mouth was made for.

Then he pulled out suddenly, dragging her up to her feet with one rough jerk, spinning her around and slamming her chest-first against the window. The Brackley test track glittered in the distance behind the glass. Her tits were pressed flat to the cold pane. She gasped.

Toto kicked her feet apart. “Hands on the window. Don’t fucking move.” She obeyed. Immediately. Shaking. The tension in her legs made her whole body tremble.

He yanked her dress up again, then over her head. She was naked now, exposed to the whole test track. To the sunlit sky. To him. And then he was behind her. Hot. Tall. Hard. The head of his cock pressed to her soaked entrance again. “You want this?” he asked, one hand curling tight around her throat from behind.

“Yes,” she choked out.

“Louder.”

“Yes!”

He slammed into her in one vicious thrust. She screamed. “Fucking take it,” he growled into her neck. “You begged for this.”

And she did. He fucked her like a man possessed. No slow build. No teasing. Just relentless, punishing thrusts that made the glass fog in front of her. Her breath smeared across the window, lips open in silent moans as her whole body was jolted forward with every stroke.

Toto didn’t hold back. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Slammed into her so deep she saw stars. Groaned in her ear like he was trying to mark her from the inside out.

“You know what I’m going to do?” he hissed, voice pure filth. “I’m going to keep you bent over every fucking desk in this building. My office. The sim room. The boardroom. Anywhere you smirk.”

She gasped, legs shaking.

“I’ll fuck the attitude out of you every time,” he snarled. “Until you can’t walk without remembering who owns you.”

“Please-Toto-please-”

“No,” he growled. “Not yet.”

He fucked her harder. Faster. Filthier. And then he stopped. She sobbed. “Turn around,” he ordered.

She stumbled back, dazed, flushed, covered in sweat. He caught her. Pulled her into his chest. Lifted her onto the edge of the desk again. Spread her legs.

Looked her dead in the eye. “Now you’re going to come on my cock,” he said. “While you look me in the fucking face.”

He slid back into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed his name. He gripped her jaw. “Keep your eyes open.”

“I can’t-”

“You can.”

And she did. She came like she was possessed. Clawing at his shoulders, eyes locked on his as the orgasm tore through her like a live wire. She didn’t just moan, she cried. The kind of wrecked sob that came from being split open in every way.

Toto fucked her through it. Didn’t stop. Drove deeper. Dripped sweat onto her collarbone as his own breath hitched. He was close. So close. Then softer he asked,  “Where do you want it?” he panted.

“Inside.”

“Fuck-”, and he came. Deep. Hard. Filling her with every last pulse, groaning into her neck, hands tangled in her hair like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

They collapsed together. Chest to chest. Breath to breath. The office was wrecked. Window fogged. Her dress slightly torn. Her body trembling.

Toto brushed her hair from her forehead. Kissed her temple. “I’m not done with you,” he whispered. “Not even close.”

She smiled. Weakly. Glorious. “Good.”

He smiled too. Dark. Full of promise. Then reached for his phone. “Dinner,” he said. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”

She didn’t argue.

She just leaned forward, whispered into his ear, “Only if you fuck me again after dessert.”

He was still catching his breath, shirt half unbuttoned, the skin of his chest slick where she’d clawed him, and that smirk was back. Not the quiet, measured one he used for boardrooms. Not the faintly amused one he gave to George when he crashed the simulator for the third time. No, this was different. Slow. Possessive. Filthy in its calm.

She was still perched on the edge of his desk, legs trembling, thighs glossy with him. Her shirt was hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess, lips swollen and jaw bruised where his fingers had held her. She hadn’t moved since he came inside her, hadn’t wanted to.

And Toto, steady as ever, stepped back with the kind of calm only men who live in high-stakes warfare could pull off. “I have something for you,” he murmured, walking to the cabinet near the corner of the room.

She blinked, dazed, trying to reassemble the alphabet in her head. He opened the door with a soft click, reached into the shelf where he kept a few emergency shirts, black Mercedes-branded team kit, crisp and soft and washed a hundred times over, and pulled one out. Turned. Walked back to her.

Held it out. “Put this on.”

She stared. It looked like nothing in his hand. But it was one of those long cuts, meant to layer under jackets. She took it with a weak grin, unfolded it slowly. “This is going to fit me like a dress.”

“Good,” Toto said simply, stepping back. “You’ll look like you belong to me.”

Her breath hitched. No teasing. No flirting. Just the plain, brutal honesty of a man who already had her.

She stood, wobbling slightly. He reached out, steadying her with one palm flat to her waist. She peeled off her ruined shirt and slipped the tee over her head. It fell past her thighs, soft cotton against her raw skin. It smelled like fabric softener and Wolff. She tugged the hem down, glanced at her reflection in the glass. No underwear. No bra. Just his shirt and her own skin, still sticky with him. “This isn’t exactly dinner attire,” she murmured.

Toto didn’t respond. He was staring. The kind of stare that made her throat close. Like he was considering bending her back over the desk. Again. Instead, he leaned down. Picked up her bag, the structured little tote she'd dropped beside the couch when this all began, and handed it to her gently. She took it with slow fingers, watching him.

And then he kissed her. Not her mouth. Not her neck. Her forehead. Soft. Careful. Reverent. Again. Like she was more than what they'd just done. Like he’d just taken her apart and was putting her back together again with one press of his lips.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded.

Toto reached for the lights, turned off all but the soft desk lamp, and opened the door for her with a hand pressed to the small of her back. They stepped out into the hallway. It was quiet. Not empty. Just enough hum in the distance that they had to keep their voices low. Her bare thighs brushed under the hem of the oversized shirt as they walked, and Toto stayed close. Close enough that his hand could return to her waist if she stumbled. Close enough that when they passed an intern headed toward the lift, the poor boy stammered so hard he dropped his clipboard.

Toto didn’t even blink. Just kept walking beside her. One long shadow. One smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly as they approached the back staircase.

“Private dinner,” he said. “Not far.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hotel suite?”

His eyes cut sideways. “You’ll see.”

She didn’t press. Just followed him down the stairs, past the service corridor, through the executive exit where a blacked-out Mercedes EQS waited with the engine humming low and the back door already open.

He helped her in. Slid in beside her. And as the door shut and the glass privacy partition rose behind the driver’s seat, she looked down at the shirt she was wearing, his shirt, oversized and clinging to her bare skin, the hem brushing her thighs, her nipples faintly visible through the cotton.

Toto glanced over. Rested a hand on her knee. And said, “You’re not going to need anything else.”

The car slipped through the Oxford countryside like a whisper. Trees blurred under a pale dusk sky, fields edged with fences older than most empires, and every few miles, the kind of estate you didn’t see unless someone let you.

She watched the land pass by in quiet awe, thighs still sticky beneath Toto’s Mercedes shirt, bare legs curled on the leather seat as her hand rested on the armrest between them. She hadn't said much. She didn’t need to. The air between them was charged and oddly calm. Wrecked and reverent. There was no shame in the silence, just tension coiled like a spring.

By the time they turned off the private road and wound up the drive, her breath hitched without permission. The house wasn’t just big. It was imposing. Built of pale stone and tall glass, the front stretched wide with sharp geometry and soft curves, like someone had cross-bred Bauhaus with old Viennese money. The garden lights were on. Warm. Clean. Minimal. The kind of quiet, curated wealth that didn’t need to try to impress you.

It just was.

Toto opened her door. Handed her out like she was something to be escorted. His palm on her back stayed a second longer than necessary. He didn’t say anything until they crossed into the wide, high-ceilinged entryway. She caught a glimpse of dark marble floors, a floating staircase, some kind of abstract sculpture on the wall that looked more like a blade than art.

Toto tossed his keys into a minimalist tray near the door and turned to her. “I’m cooking,” he said, calm.

She raised a brow, still barefoot, still in nothing but that oversized shirt. “You cook?”

“I do,” he said, already walking toward the kitchen. “I enjoy it. It’s an act of control.”

Of course it was. She followed. The kitchen was almost clinical. White walls, matte black cabinets, brushed steel appliances that buzzed in expensive silence. A sleek island, a double stove, three bottles of wine already chilling in a marble cooler. It was unreal. The kind of space designed by someone who didn’t cook for convenience. He cooked to perfect.

He turned to her and gestured to the far end of the kitchen table. “Bag?”

She handed it over. He placed it gently on the chair, like it mattered. Like everything she brought into his space should be treated with intention. Then, he looked at her. Just once. And before she could ask 'what now?' his hands were on her hips again, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the counter beside the stove.

Her bare thighs hit cool quartz. She gasped.

His palm spread across her lower stomach. Firm. Controlling. Like he needed to feel her breath move beneath his skin. He stepped in between her knees, gaze darkening as he took in the sight of her. Bare legs. His team's shirt. No bra. No panties. Nothing but soft heat and sin curling beneath her skin.

She let her hands brace behind her on the counter, head tilting to meet his stare. Then, with a slow smirk, she murmured, “You know I’m gonna drip all over your expensive countertop, right?”

Toto didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at her, eyes quiet and locked. And said, “Good.”

Her breath caught. His hand slid lower. Between her legs. Parting them with obscene confidence, two fingers dragging through the slick mess between her thighs, just once, just enough to make her gasp and jolt.

He pulled them away. Shining. Then wiped them, deliberately, against the inside hem of his own shirt. “Let me see what I've done to you,” he said, turning casually toward the fridge.

She was speechless. And he? He was already pulling vegetables from a drawer like he hadn’t just fingered her against the counter and claimed her mess like a signature.

“I’m making risotto,” he said over his shoulder. “With asparagus, lemon, and parmigiano.”

“Okay,” she breathed, trying not to melt into the cabinetry.

He opened a drawer. Poured oil into the pan. Grabbed a chopping board. Every motion was exact. Clean. He cooked like he led. With ruthless control and unhurried confidence. The kind of man who could dice onions with the same hands that had choked her until she screamed.

“You’re going to sit there and behave,” he said calmly as he heated the pan. “You don’t touch yourself. You don’t squirm. You don’t even cross your legs.”

She gripped the edge of the counter. “And if I do?”

Toto smirked faintly, throwing the rice into the pan. It sizzled. He stirred once. Then turned to her, cocking his head. “Then I stop cooking,” he said. “And you go to bed hungry.”

She blinked. His smirk grew. And she whispered, “You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient,” he said, squeezing half a lemon into the pot without breaking eye contact. “Now be a good girl and sit there looking ruined while I make you dinner.”

And fuck, she did. She stayed there. Legs spread. Skin damp. Watching him. Salivating at the smell of garlic and lemon and her own arousal pooling beneath her. Every so often, he would glance sideways. Just enough to remind her: I see you.

He plated the food with terrifying elegance. White ceramic. No garnish wasted. He brought a dish to her, placed it beside her knees.

Then reached for a wine glass. And poured.

She reached for the fork, still wide-eyed and on the edge of spiralling, and before she could taste anything, he stepped forward again, between her thighs, pinning her to the counter with one slow drag of his palm over her bare inner thigh.

“Eat,” he said softly. “You’re going to need your strength.”

Her breath hitched again. Because dessert? Dessert was going to be her screaming his name against the window of his bedroom while he made her come so many times she forgot her own.

And Toto? Toto was already planning it. Down to the fucking second.

*

The light was soft. Morning filtered in through the tall, sheer curtains, casting a pale golden wash across the wide expanse of the bedroom. The bed itself was obscenely large, more square than rectangle, with pillows in disarray, sheets pushed down, and one thick white duvet half-spilled onto the polished oak floor.

She stirred. Bare. Every inch of her was sore in the best way. Muscles low in her back tight from being bent forward too long, thighs trembling from overstimulation, throat dry from begging. She barely remembered making it to the bed after the second round on the kitchen counter. All she remembered was his voice, quiet, sharp, “You’re not done yet, not until I say you are,” and then darkness, moaning, glass fogged, her legs shaking in his arms as he came inside her again.

And now? Now she blinked blearily, curling deeper into the scent of crisp white linen and clean masculine heat. He was already awake. Toto sat beside her, shirtless, in nothing but black boxers. His long legs were folded at the knee, one arm stretched lazily across the headboard, the other holding his iPad at a casual angle. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, hair still slightly rumpled at the temples.

And when he saw her eyes flicker open, he smiled. That soft, knowing morning smile. No smirk. No sin. Just quiet satisfaction. The kind of expression that made something warm and stupid bloom in her chest. “Guten Morgen,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft.

She let out a groan and curled toward him, face pressing into the warm plane of his chest. His arm folded around her instantly, palm spreading wide over her bare spine, tugging her into his side like he’d never known the bed without her in it. He kissed her hair. Then, like it was just another line in his morning briefing, said, “Your phone has been pinging for the last hour.”

She groaned again, deeper this time, like the universe had reached into the perfect post-sex cocoon and stabbed her in the ribs.

Toto chuckled low and reached for the device on the nightstand, offering it to her without letting go. “It was vibrating across the floor. I was two minutes from confiscating it.”

She cracked one eye open, took the phone with a pout, and unlocked it. A blur of texts. WhatsApp. Three missed calls. FaceTime Incoming: Kimi.

She whined. Toto smirked. “You don’t have to answer,” he offered, calm.

She looked at him. He nodded once. Permission. And something else. Let him see. So she sighed. Hit accept. Rolled onto her back so her shoulders pressed into the pillows, the thick white duvet tucked strategically over her chest, one bare arm still curled around Toto’s stomach. The call connected. And Kimi’s face filled the screen.

“Where the fuck have you-” he started. Then froze. Dead silent. Because there she was. In bed. In his bosses bed. Hair messy. Skin flushed. Shoulders bare. Covered only by expensive white linens and the thick arm of his literal team principal curled behind her neck.

Kimi blinked. Swallowed. Froze again. Then made a noise so viscerally horrified it felt like the end of time. “You’ve got to be joking me.”

Toto didn’t flinch. Just smiled calmly and angled the camera slightly to better show his face. “Good morning, Kimi.”

Kimi closed his eyes. “No.”

She started laughing. Not cute giggles. Cackling. Actual chaotic laughter, breathless and broken by little whines of I can’t believe this is real.

“I FaceTimed you,” Kimi said, still frozen, still blinking at them both like they were a crime scene. “I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped. Or-”

“I was kidnapped,” she said smugly, curling further into Toto’s side.

Toto kissed the top of her head again. “Not kidnapped,” he corrected. “Held in strategic captivity.”

Kimi looked like he aged five years. “You’re naked.”

“You can’t see anything.”

“I don’t want to see anything!”

Toto nodded, calm as hell. “Then hang up.”

Kimi didn’t. Instead he covered his face with one hand and said, “You knew I was going to call.”

She blinked innocently. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did. You answered this call while naked in the arm of my boss.”

Toto looked pleased. Kimi groaned. “I’m deleting your contact.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m blocking your number.”

“You’re FaceTiming me again by Tuesday.”

“I need therapy.”

“You need to stop calling me before noon.”

Toto chuckled again. “Kimi. I can arrange for Mercedes’ team psychologist if you’re emotionally impacted by this.”

Kimi flipped him off. She laughed harder. And Toto? Toto just pulled her closer, pressed his mouth to her hair again, and mouthed against her skin, “My girl.” And Kimi, sweet poor fucking Kimi, could do nothing but stare in real-time at the exact moment his big sister became a Wolff.

[seiwas]

dad!iwa👀

hello nonie!! thanks for celebrating with me!! 💗

cw: reader implied pregnancy, post-partum, fluff, established relationship

dad!iwa

it feels odd to be sentimental over something as seemingly small as this, but you suppose it’s just one of the things that comes with parenthood.

you should be used to it by now—the short, buzzed strands of iwaizumi’s freshly trimmed hair. you used to clip them yourself, back when you were both broke college students trying to cut corners between rent and overpriced groceries. years of practice have made you perfect it; somewhere between a buzz cut and a crew cut is the exact length that iwaizumi's found himself preferring your hands over any barber's.

it's a routine every other month, one you've kept up with as much as you could even during your pregnancy. but since the baby's arrival—always halfway between either of your arms or the crib—it's been tough to find the time for almost anything, really. the strands of iwaizumi's hair have overgrown, spiked up like the pictures you've seen of him when he was in high school.

—all until now, a little after two months of your little girl arriving earth-side; you've managed to set aside a few minutes to finally give him a trim. fluffs of his hair scatter around your living room, tiny imperceptible millimeters of them no doubt sneaking into the cracks of wooden floorboard.

he looks handsome, as always; fresh, as he kisses you thank you—and, not to toot your own horn, but you think this might be your best hand at it yet (or it might just be your hormones, who knows). it's funny, you think, how postpartum has hit you harder than you ever believed it would. one moment, you want to jump your husband after a fresh new cut, and in the next, you're hit with a sudden surge of emotions bubbling up to spill out of your eyes.

it's a split-second vision as you run your fingers over his head, shaking out any leftover cut hair. you picture it so vividly, the afternoons you've watched iwaizumi gently blow raspberries on her tummy. she'd giggle, clinging onto the then spiked up strands of his hair.

iwaizumi has to snap you out of it when he catches you near tears.

"hey," he immediately turns, grabbing your hand as he soothes you with soft hushes, "what's wrong?"

you bite your lip, trying to keep it in. it's ridiculous, after all—

"is it the hair? you did a great job, babe, you always—" his rambling is cut short when you shake your head, letting the tears fall on their own.

your frown deepens as you stare at him, eyes filled with emotion.

"she's gonna miss it," you half-sniffle, half-mumble, tilting your head slightly in the direction of your daughter's room, "that's all."

it takes him a while to comprehend what you mean as he furrows his brows; then, it clicks, and he stands to hug you immediately.

"aw, babe," he runs his palm up and down your back, almost the same way he rubs your baby girl's when he soothes her to sleep.

you didn't expect to get so emotional over iwaizumi's hair out of all things, but just imagining your little girl's reaction during play time with her papa is enough to break your heart.

"she won't have those strands to cling on to anymore," you tuck your head under his chin, "she'll be so confused."

iwaizumi kisses the top of your head, and you know, from the slightest movement, that he's stifling a smile.

"babies like sensory stuff right?" he mumbles, lips still pressed to your head. you nod. "her papa's head can be a sensory playground then."

you chuckle lightly; you suppose, you never thought to see it that way. and call it the hormones, or love, but when iwaizumi adds on so confidently, "she'll know it's me, and she'll know what to do because she's half you."

—you don't think you'd want your life any other way than it is right now.

[heylittleriotact]

but hidden in his coat is an orange right hand

Here it is. The most unserious thing I've ever written: Emmrich has the day off and Rook is at work. He decides to tidy her apartment for her, but gets distracted by the laundry. He borrows her lotion, and chaos ensues.

@aldisobey - I dedicate this to you with all of my love. This is in every way, in every fucked up word, for You <3

Read below or on ao3

It had all started out so innocently: Rook left for work, and he had the day off. He might have gone home, but with the automatic feeder for Manfred set up to be controlled with an app on his phone, Emmrich decided that loitering around Rook’s small apartment for the day would be a nice change of pace.

By noon he’d washed and put away the sink full of dishes, watered her houseplants, and made a trip to the grocery store to replenish her cupboards.

After vacuuming the carpet in the living room (how was there so much cat fur? She didn’t even own a cat), he changed the record on her turntable (the Velvet Underground and Nico was swapped for Cohen’s ‘I’m Your Man’), and decided to start on her bedroom: there was nothing like coming home to a tidy house, and there was no denying Rook’s well-lived in space was in need of tending.

He’d been partway through picking up the not insignificant amount of clothing on the floor, and depositing it into the duct-taped plastic laundry basket he fully intended to take down to the communal laundry room in the basement, when he found himself staring at the dark blue panties sitting atop a Motörhead t-shirt that he’d just placed in the basket.

They were just panties. They weren’t even her most alluring pair: these were plain modal fabric, free of lace or cut-outs or suggestive designs.

Yet he stared — and for a good deal longer than he had any reason to.

These were what she had worn to bed the night before after she’d emerged from the shower. She had cuddled up against him, fingers scratching lazily through his chest hair, falling into a deep easy sleep at least a full hour before sleep found him too.

It had been a long day for both of them, and neither had the energy to make love the night before. He liked that about this particular place in their relationship: it wasn’t that he didn’t relish every single opportunity he had to make her legs shake, but there was an ease about their day-to-day interactions after so many months of being together that was effortless and simple. No longer was every spare moment spent wrapped around each other as if it may be their last, but instead their lust had established mature roots until it became a comfortable - but ever-present - option instead of a necessity.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, however, Rook’s worn panties balled up innocently in the laundry basket had his heart racing and blood rushing below his waistline faster than he could say ‘pervert.’

How they’d ended up in his hand was a mystery to him, even as he swallowed hard and brought them to his nose, feeling sinful as he inhaled. His cock throbbed receptively as the familiar scent of her mingled with her body wash and laundry detergent flooded his olfactory receptors.

He moaned softly into the mid-afternoon silence of Rook’s bedroom, and surrendered himself with surprisingly little shame to what his body was implying it should do: it was only natural to feel called to see to oneself from time to time, after all.

Undoing his belt with one hand, he dropped onto his side of Rook’s bed, pushing up his cashmere pullover and unzipping his pants in one efficient motion.

He realized then that the bottle of lube was still in its most recently utilized location, which was the bathroom. Did he really want to hold his pants up and shuffle all that way to get it?

Deciding he’d rather not, his eyes landed on a nondescript bottle of lotion perched on Rook’s bedside table behind the ashtray. Figuring that plain old Jergens was good enough for him when he was a young man, it would most certainly do in a pinch now.

Setting the panties down atop the bulge in his underwear, he reached over the bed and pumped a generous palmful of lotion into his left hand and leaned back into his pillow, careful not to get any on his clothes or the sheets.

The panties were picked up again, and he fished his cock out of his briefs as he savoured the softness of her intimates under his thumb.

Rook… oh… even when he could have her whenever he liked, the thrill never wore off — never diminished to anything less than absolute…

His cock throbbed under his fingers and he let out a low groan as he worked the room-temperature lotion over his hot length. He dragged his teeth over his lower lip, uttering another indulgent moan through them as he lifted the hand gripping the panties again so he could steal another lungful of all that was her.

Everything. She was everything. His life could be defined as little more than banal purgatory before she’d graced it: elevator music and beige everything - endlessly waiting for something, though no one could tell him what.

Oh how he loved her… craved her… needed her…

He set a well-practiced pace, confident in his understanding of his body as his slick hand glided up and down his cock, the lewd sounds of his pleasure accompanying his deep, heavy breaths.

If only she could see: if only she could witness for herself the monumental effect that she had on him, reducing him - an accomplished and successful man of his age - to little more than a horny adolescent, unable to make it through a single afternoon without a furious and passionate wank...

He whined into the cotton against his face, completely lost in the ghostly sweetness of her mesmerizing cunt that had been in contact with the scant clothing only hours earlier.

Maker how lovely it would be if it was actually her cunt against his lips instead…

He’d spread her open like the pages of a lurid book, taking his time - as one should in a beautiful garden - to bury his nose within her perfect bloom; graze upon her with all the gentle innocence of a new fawn nibbling upon the delicate meadow flax of springtime…

She’d whisper his name first: a breathy, flattered little exclamation that would give way to rich moans from deep within the very core of her as her thighs shuddered against his ears and her hips arced upwards…

‘Ohhhh…’ she would sigh, deliriously, deliciously undone. ‘Oh Emmrich - I’m going to cum…’

‘Come for me, darling,’ he would say then. ‘Wash over me like a wave on a cruel summer day, and I shall be the happiest man who ever was - with your dew upon my lips, and the dream that I might yet savour your sweetness, even with my very last breath...’

His hips jerked and he fucked into his clenched hand, his breaths falling from his lips in frenzied bursts as his toes curled into the bedsheets.

He came with a ragged groan, feeling his hot spend pulse out of him and drip steadily down his greasy fingers, pooling on his exposed belly and pubic hair.

Reposed on the bed, he waited until the lightheadedness subsided and his vision cleared, the hand holding the navy blue panties that had been his undoing falling to his side as he swallowed thickly and took stock of the situation: he was laying in his girlfriend’s bed at three o’clock on a Tuesday, covered in lotion and his own cum while she was at work and a half-full laundry basket of clothes sat forgotten on the floor.

She very well may be the death of me…

Confident again in his ability to stand, Emmrich hastily cleaned himself up with the panties, feeling somewhat guilty about soiling them so vulgarly despite their impending date with the washing machine. They were dropped in the laundry basket and he tucked himself back into his pants and refastened his belt before making his way to the bathroom to wash the remnants of cum and lotion off his hand.

Certain he had his wits about him once more, he deposited a few more pieces of clothing into the basket, then hoisted it under his arm, grabbing the laundry detergent and a handful of quarters from the bowl by the front door and whistling a jaunty tune as he descended to the laundry room.

It was about an hour or so later when he was dusting Rook’s dresser that it first occurred to him that something was amiss.

Initially he thought the strange hue of his left palm might be merely a late afternoon shadow filtering in the nicotine-tinted window, but when he set down the Swiffer duster in his right hand and the rabbit shaped piggy bank he’d been dusting underneath, it became abundantly clear that was not the case.

“Uhhh…”

He inspected his left hand — the palm of which was now a vivid copper-orange. Aggressive brown stains lingered on the sides of his fingers and the skin between them, collecting gaudily at the edges of his many rings.

“Oh,” he whimpered, horrible, damning realization settling upon him. “Oh no.”

He cleared the distance to Rook’s nightstand in two long steps, stumbling over her vanity chair in his fervour, and snatched the bottle of duplicitous lotion from its innocent place, holding it up to read the label.

The words ‘natural glow’ imprinted themselves upon his brain in cruel confirmation, and he made a sound like a pelican gargling a bowling ball, fingers tightening around the damnable bottle.

Self-tanner. Why in the name of all that is precious and sane does Rook have a bottle of self-tanner next to her bed? She’s as white as the freshly driven snow! She gets sunburn if she stands close to a window at mid-day for too long!

Why? — WHY?!—

— Horrified and already knowing what awaited him, Emmrich slammed the bottle of lotion down and hooked his thumb into the waistband of his pants, pulling them away from his body far enough to dimly make out his mortifyingly ‘sun-kissed’ dick, nestled in his underwear.

Time. He needed time to figure this out.

He looked at his watch: 4:17. Rook was finished work at 5:00 if no last minute First Calls wandered into the chapel, and Pemberly was a twelve minute drive from her apartment…

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

I have time. I can sort this out with time to spare, surely. Perhaps it hasn’t really had time to develop fully. A shower — yes, a shower is in order…

He was already halfway to the bathroom — sweater yanked off and discarded on the floor, his pants undone for the second time that afternoon — though this time for a much different reason.

This wasn’t as simple as correcting the colouring of a jaundiced cadaver with a few ounces of extra red colourant added to the embalming fluid and some clever cosmetics: this chemical was sunk into the outer layers of his skin, and cosmetizing a penis was no small feat: hiding this from Rook was not going to be an option — he needed to scour the tanner from his person before she got home.

Hopping into the bathtub like a startled doe, Emmrich cranked the faucet, not waiting for the water to heat up (which took no less than forty seconds in Rook’s shower) before standing directly under the frigid water and squirting a full palmful of her grapefruit and neroli body wash into his hand and working it into the briefest of lathers before applying it directly to his nethers.

He coated himself liberally, sudsy fingers slipping over his soft cock, panic mounting as every swath of skin revealed as he worked the soap around was still stubbornly orange.

“Nnnngh!”

He lifted his left hand and held it inches from his face, scrubbing his palm and fingers with his right.

I have to go to work tomorrow… what will people think of a supposedly ‘dignified’ mortician with only one hand suspiciously orange? Ohhhhhh—

“Please!” He begged the obstinate beauty product, as if it would do him any good.

Something else, perhaps…

He glanced around the shower: Rook didn’t use shower poufs or loofahs or anything he could solidly scrub himself with, but…

The pot of body scrub in the corner practically waved at him and he dropped the lid on the floor of the bathtub in his haste to access the contents within.

Three minutes and as much ‘gentle’ exfoliation as his cock could handle later, Emmrich abandoned the idea: it hadn’t helped - perhaps smoothed out some of the patchiness and the brown borders on his fingers, but it had done depressingly little to actually purge the stain from his skin.  

He turned the water off and got out of the shower, parsing his remaining options, settling finally upon the communal knowledge of the internet to hopefully get him out of this predicament.

Vinegar, baking soda, lemon juice - even toothpaste. He tried them all, and with time running out, nothing helped. In fact, the lemon juice might have even made it worse, and now he smelled like a middle-school science project to boot.

It wasn’t that he thought Rook would be disturbed or upset - quite the opposite: she would be delighted. She might never stop laughing.

She might never take him seriously again.

Who could take a man with an orange cock seriously?

He could just leave, he supposed. Text her and tell her that he forgot that he had plans that evening and he wouldn’t be able to see her until tomorrow when hopefully he could figure a way out of this mess…

“What 'plans?'” He asked himself sardonically: Rook knew better. He did too.

All he could do was act as normally as possible and hope that she wouldn't notice. It wouldn't be too difficult, would it? He was right-handed, and could conceal his left easily enough, and there was no real reason she would need to see him naked at any point in the evening. Even if they found themselves in an amorous mood, waiting until the lights were off before undressing would be easy enough. Indeed... with some cunning and carefully controlled lighting, he very well could get away with this without Rook being any the wiser... 

The folly of his plan became apparent a short time later when Rook walked in the door to her pristinely clean apartment and looked around from the entryway, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, before whispering, "Y-you cleaned my apartment for me?"  

He had barely opened his mouth to respond by the time Rook had dumped her backpack on the doormat and shed her jacket in a pile behind her, clearing distance between them with baffling ease and all but tackling him onto the worn couch, her weight - familiar and warm settling against him as her lips met his in an enthusiastic - and deep - kiss.  

"You spent your day off cleaning my apartment?" She breathed, straddling his thigh, her breasts pressing against him, "Why did you do that?"

Knowing where this was going as she nuzzled into his neck and slipped a hand past the hem of his sweater and up over his abdomen, he scrambled to redirect her.

"I-it was nothing, darling - I thought it might be a good way to pass the ti– TIME!"

He yelped when her hand redirected itself instead - directly into his pants, her fingers cool against his flaccid cock.

"I love you," she purred against his neck, her silken palm curving around his softness in a way his own hand never could. "I love you, I love you, I love you – you didn't have to..."

"No, but I wanted to – you know how I operate, dear."

If only he hadn't been enchanted by her panties...

She placed a sucking kiss against his neck, slowly moving her hand within his pants, "Thank you..."

"You're welcome, darling, b-but you needn't..." he swallowed and debated extracting her hand. "Reciprocate."

"But what if I want to?" She breathed against his ear, and he could hear her smile and smell her lipstick: a shiver stroked up his spine – he twitched in her hand.

Oh... the things she did... the way she did them...

His head hit the arm of the couch with a resigned 'thud' as she continued to lick and nibble his earlobe.

“Are you hungry?” He inquired, searching for a way out of this despite his conviction that waned with each stroke of her perfect hand. “L-let me — ohh… let me take you out for dinner — we can go anywhere you’d like.”

Yes — if he could get her out of the apartment…

"Sure..." she murmured, though to his dismay she continued her business within his trousers, grinding herself lazily against his thigh. "But first, an amuse-bouche."

He felt her hand leave his cock and flip the tongue of his belt free from the buckle.

"Wouldn't you rather wait?!" Emmrich half-screeched, catching her wrist before she could undress him further.

Rook sat up, hand still on his belt, his cock straining visibly against the front of his pants. Her eyes left his, wandering pointedly to the bulge between them. "Would you?"

"N-no of course not–" he babbled. "– it's only that, you see – I simply think that – if we only–"

She took advantage of his scramble for an explanation and batted his hand away from hers, easily undoing the rest of his buckle and fly, with a coquettish laugh. "You're being weird, babe. You never turn down a blow– oh!" His cock was in her hand again, bronze tint contrasting garishly with her pale, pale fingers.

Frowning, she studied him, then said, all business: "Emmrich, why is your dick orange?"

Blood rushed to his ears and cheeks. "Why do you have self-tanning lotion on your bedside table?!"

The frown wavered, twitched, then gave way to a disbelieving grin as Rook clearly put the pieces together in her mind.

"Did... did you...? No way..." an amused titter slipped past her lips. "Did you jerk off with self-tanner?"

"I fail to see the humour in this," Emmrich muttered reproachfully.

"Maker's tits, you did!" She was laughing properly now: just like he knew she would... now she was unlikely to ever stop.

"Well why would you leave it next to your bed?" He snapped, trying to sit up, but Rook had him pinned. "You don't even use tanning lotion!"

"No–-" she gasped, "– but at one point I thought I might, so I bought a bottle. That was years ago though. I used it maybe twice."

He wanted to grab her arms and shake her: it was all so funny now, but after a week of this, the novelty of a boyfriend with orange genitals might wear thin.

"I look ridiculous!"

"Yeah," she agreed, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She slipped down the couch, resting on her belly and putting her face close to the offending reproductive organ, "But you know what, handsome?"

He sighed, wishing for nothing more than to be enveloped by a black hole. "What?"

"I still love you anyway." The words washed over him, body and soul: hot, breathy, and utterly honest.

How had he found himself so fortunate? So blessed?

His breath caught when her tongue dragged up the underside of his length, flicking against the crown of his cock.

"Why does it taste like peppermint?" She inquired in a soft whisper from between his legs, licking him again, stroking him in tandem.

He chanced a look down – saw her looking up at him, the lust in her grey eyes tempered by that benign curiosity he loved so much.

"T-toothpaste..." he confided. "The... the Google suggested it might uh... lighten it. As you can see, it didn't work..."

She didn't call him an idiot for thinking it would. Didn't laugh at his foolish desperation.

Instead, she pressed her lips ever-so-sweetly against the tip of his cock, and they parted in a breathtaking smile.

He loved her. He loved her more than life itself. He would truly give anything to see that smile every day for the rest of their lives...

His Rook. His kind, enchanting, joyful Rook. Non-judgemental and compassionate – a marvelous woman by all definitions.

How foolish he was to think that she would be anything but understanding about this silly faux pas...

He had been just about to tell her that when she placed his cock against the corner of her mouth, and said in the nasally imitation of a beloved cartoon character, "Ehhh... what's up, Doc?" –

– and then proceeded to give him the best blowjob of his life.