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eyekoninurarea · 2 days ago

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Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist | prev | next | cami's live | katz reaction

word count: 9.3k

summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

chapter summary: after the livestream nightmare, you find yourself beneath the shimmer of stage lights and feeling the weight of watching eyes, a glance becomes a question, and a breath held too long turns into a silent confession. you perform like your heart isn’t trembling. she watches like she doesn’t feel it too. but want is dangerous, especially when it's quiet, sapphic, and slipping through the cracks of what should be professional. between rehearsed smiles and accidental touches, the girls learn that longing can hide in plain sight. in choreo. in silence. In the echo of your name on her lips. and when the night ends not in applause, but in flashing cameras and trembling hands, you’ll carry her weight anyway. not because she asked. but because she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she would’ve.

authors note: CHAPTER 4 IS HERE HELLO EVERYONE!! this is quite honestly shitty angst??? maybe i rushed into this too quickly, or this is poorly executed... i'm sorry- if you're confused, so are they. I love you all, and feel free to send me your thoughts after this!!! ps. did I make this chapter 9k words because I didn't want a side story to be the longest thus far? yes. am i unemployed? yes. our university starts at august 19 so im making the most out of my free time while i still don't have a job or school.

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): mostly fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works, angst, religious themes, sapphic yearning, one sided (?) longing, miscommunication, mild violence, reader doesn't know what daniela wants, daniela also doesn't know what daniela wants,

You didn’t mean for her to see it.

You didn’t mean for anyone to see it, actually.

You didn’t mean to crash Cami’s live.

The livestream was supposed to be Cami’s moment, her chaos, her charm, her way of dragging you into the frame for fun, like she always does. You’d only harmonized absentmindedly, forgetting the camera was still rolling, not noticing Cami had gone silent just as your voice slipped into Daniela’s verse like second nature.

“Élla llegó conmigo y conmigo se va…” Not él, not he—ella. She.

Fuck.

Fans noticed what you wouldn't let yourself admit: that you sang it like you meant it.

It was the truth you’d been careful to keep quiet, suddenly laid bare in your lower register, crooning her verse like a prayer, when you weren’t even remotely religious.

The comment section erupted. Edits popped up within minutes, slowed down and sharpened, layered with glitchy hearts and text like “she’s so whipped” and “SYRE’s gay panic is off the charts.”

You’d turned off your phone that night. You couldn’t bear to look at it. You couldn’t bear to think about the consequences that were bound to follow you now.

It was easy to pretend that meeting her didn’t blur the line between a fan with privileges and something more. It was easy to pretend that the crush you so easily exposed was simple admiration for the older woman. It was easy to play it off as a simple schoolgirl crush. It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to laugh it off, the way you always do.

The next morning, everything was too quiet. Cami gave you a knowing look over her cereal. Hana didn’t mention it, but you knew she’d seen it too. Sophia chatted you a simple: “I saw your live, I do expect you to call me ate now or I will cry.” And by that, you knew they saw. You knew she saw it.

You always forget how much the camera sees, how much the internet remembers, how much you give away when she’s involved.

Because Daniela…

God, Daniela.

She walks into a room and it becomes a cathedral. Her laugh stays lodged in your chest for hours after she’s gone, the sound of it reverberating in your soul, so much so that it makes you want to kneel and worship her. Worship her warmth and sharp edges, her softness that’s tucked inside layers of cool confidence.

You’d memorized every interview, every fancam, every vocal run like it was scripture. So when you finally heard her speak beside you, laugh beside you, it felt like the universe had cheated. How could she be real?

And then, she stayed real.

It didn’t happen all at once.

Feelings never do, not when you’re trying this hard not to have them.

It’s a slow, creeping thing, a slow ache that reminds you of the feeling of anesthesia losing its effect . The kind that settles under your skin during long filming days and late-night voice recordings. The kind that grew heavier after every joint stage rehearsal, every casual voice note shared during late-night vocal check-ins. The kind that tightens around your ribs every time you hear her laugh off-camera, that unfiltered, low, real, screeching laugh of hers that felt like it belonged to a secret version of her, one only you were allowed to see. The kind that grows every time she looks at you like she knows something you don’t.

You tried to be busy, tried to fill the silences with loud dorm antics, dance trends on tiktok that were borderline thirstraps, and chaotic dance practice clips.

The vlog series helped as well. There’s always something to shoot: interviews, behind-the-scenes clips, dance footage. You play your part, chaotic, funny, the "mysterious" one the editors love to frame in shadows and cropped smiles. They didn’t know it was because you were biting back words you weren’t allowed to say.

But between takes, when the cameras dip low and the crew resets mics, you find yourself searching for her in the reflection of the monitors.

And she’s always looking back. That gaze of hers that always ignites your hunger, your yearning, your longing. Your longing to be the only one she gazes that way. Yet every time, every day, every second you remind yourself of something.

You weren’t allowed to fall in love with someone who told the world she was straight.

So you don’t.

You just think about her. Constantly.

You think about her when she’s around. You think about her when she’s gone. You’ve danced in circles like this for weeks now. Brushed fingers. Shared water bottles. A too-long hug at the end of an afterparty shoot. Nothing concrete. Nothing you could name.

But you feel it. It was everything you dreamed of.

Daniela started to linger more. Quietly, at first, nothing too dramatic. Dani’s too careful for that. But there were glances. Lingering ones.

A look across the practice room that lasted too long. A comment during vocal practice: “You have a nice lower register. It suits you.” She didn’t say it like a mentor. She said it as if she’s holding something back.

Something you couldn’t let yourself imagine, something you couldn’t let yourself feel hope for something that might never exist.

She tossed the occasional compliment your way with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. And then… longer. You felt as if everything grew more intense.

In the studio. During practice. Her fingertips light on your elbow, your wrist, your waist, your hips; places that burn after she’s left.

You tell yourself it’s just mentoring. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself to stop hoping.

Because hoping hurts worse.

And still, she looks at you like she’s trying to figure you out. Like she’s afraid of what she might find. Like she already knows what she’ll find and she’s terrified.

You don’t talk about it.

Instead, you keep your distance. Smile less around her. Touch her less. Pull away when she’s too close. You stop catching her gaze across the room and start looking down at your shoes. And it hurts. God, it hurts. But you tell yourself it’s kindness.

You want her to be happy. Even if it’s not with you. Even if it never could be. You’ve been her fan for too long to want anything but her happiness.

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to be hers. Not her fan. Not her junior. Not her mentee. Hers. Alone. Fully.

You just don’t know if you’re allowed to want that.

But she- God, she does things.

Like that night. That one night.

You’d just finished recording a practice run of “Your Idol.” The others had packed up, voices low, energy winding down. She stayed behind. Said she forgot her water bottle. You stayed too, making sure that none of your members left anything. That’s all it was supposed to be.

Until she leaned too close behind you, breath hot against your ear as she reached for something behind you.

“You killed that last note,” she murmured. “It gave me chills.”

You tried to laugh it off. “I was flat.”

“You weren’t.”

And then, she touched your face. Just… her knuckles, barely grazing your jaw as she turned you to look at her. You felt your face burn, you felt your skin react to her touch, you felt your chin lift up slightly as she tilted your head up with a single long nail.

Then her eyes flicked down to your mouth. Just for a second.

Too long.

Nothing happened. But everything did.

Your chest collapsed inward. You couldn’t breathe.

You stepped back. Left the room without saying goodbye. She didn’t stop you.

You haven’t slept properly since that night. Forced to relive that night, among other moments from your filming of the debut diaries, the memories that haunt you as you lay awake on your bed with “Kahit Di Mo Alam” blasting on your speakers, among the other songs that’s under your “trilingual yearning” playlist.

You don’t know what that moment meant.

You don’t ask.

But every time she smiles at you now, every time her fingertips graze your shoulder and linger just a second too long, you feel it all over again.

You don’t know what she wants. You don’t even know if she knows.

But you know what you feel.

And you know how dangerous it is to keep feeling it.

Because the moment she says your name a certain way, you know you’re gone.

And you’re terrified you never really had the right to feel these things to begin with.

So you did what you knew best, you kept your distance.

You rehearse until your limbs tremble, you stay at the far end of every mentoring session, and when the KATSEYE girls are visiting the studio, you find excuses to vanish into practice rooms or the bathroom. You joke, you smile, you flirt with Manon and Lara when Cami drags you in. But when it’s Daniela’s eyes on you, that sharp, piercing gaze of hers, it’s like you forget how to be alive.

Because she’s straight. You always remind yourself that.

She said it on a live before you two even met, before your debut even. Before she knew you existed.

“I’m not gay guys” she said without hesitation but with a small, amused laugh. “Enough with the gay allegations.”

And maybe she is. Maybe you’re stupid for feeling this way. That allegedly haunted you for weeks. Still does.

So you shut your mouth, lower your gaze, and pretend your heart isn’t sitting in your throat every time her gaze lingers longer than it should. You pretend it’s not a big deal when you pass each other in the hallway and her fingers almost brush yours. You laugh it off when Cami teases you about “your girlfriend,” because no one knows you mean it.

But still, there’s something different in the way she looks at you lately.

Something you don’t trust. Something you can’t believe in.

You don’t let yourself hope.

As days, weeks pass, you become hyper-aware of the performance looming over you, a monstrous thing. The venue is said to be massive, the crowd twice as large as you’ve ever faced. KATSEYE will be in the front row, and you know she’ll be there, front and center. You’re supposed to be excited. But you already feel the room spinning. The mask you wear on stage is heavier now. Heavier because you know she’ll see it fall; even if only for a second.

And for once, you’re terrified of being seen.

You’ve performed before; small stages, campus shows, pop-up gigs in half-empty malls, but tonight? Tonight, your knees feel like they're made of gelatin. It's your first real crowd. Thousands of faces, lights as harsh as expectations, cameras trained on every second like it’s history in the making.

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

You stood in front of the mirror, fingers hovering near your chest as the stylists adjusted the last of the buckles on your custom stage outfit. All-black, tailored, sharp, and far too expensive to be sweating through, but here you were. You looked like you just stepped out of a movie about a charming art thief. Or a hot villain in a heist K-drama.

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

You assess the situation again. You’re standing in your cramped dressing room, the door labelled “SIREN5” in bold letters, eyeing your reflection. Sharp-cut pants hugging your hips, a sleek dark vest over sheer black sleeves, your hair swept back but purposefully messy; confident, your stylist had said. Commanding. Bold. You stare, then turn to your members.

“I look like a pimp,” you announce flatly.

"I agree. You literally look like our pimp, or rather… hmm… honestly, it looks more or less like you're about to hand us business cards and ask if we want to be famous" Cami said with a snort, tugging on her pastel corset top.

"I feel like one." you muttered, glancing sideways at Hana, Amara, and Rina, all dressed in glittering, soft silhouettes with rhinestones catching the light.

“You look like a God,” Rina retorts immediately, throwing a hairbrush at your bedazzled fur boots. “A hot, slightly unhinged one.”

“You’re gonna make all of the Sailors combust.” Cami snickers, twirling in her own sparkly halter dress.

“Please don’t encourage her,” Hana mutters while adjusting her earpiece, eyes flicking up from her clipboard of stage cues. She’s been awake since 4 AM. Again. She’s too stressed recently.

You pretend to scoff, but the pressure's sitting heavy in your stomach now, pressing and twisting until your throat tightens.

It was real now.

The crowd waiting outside wasn’t some studio camera. This wasn’t a rehearsal with the same three sleepy choreographers. This was real. Their first massive live audience.

The moment you caught your reflection again, the nausea hit. Hard.

“I’ll be right back” you mutter, pushing past them with forced calm. No one stops you. They all know what’s happening. You push past crew members and makeup artists, you dodge multiple boxes of stage equipment. You made it to the sink just in time.

The bathroom mirror greets you with too much honesty. Your cheeks are pale, and sweat beads your brow. You brace your hands on the sink. One breath. Another.

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

A few dry heaves later, you were hunched over, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, your other hand clinging to the porcelain like it’s the only solid thing in the world when the door creaked open.

“Hey,” came a voice, soft, low, steady.

You looked up. Of course it’s Daniela Avanzini. Because nothing else makes this situation better than her seeing you in your most vulnerable state yet.

She stood in the doorway, all perfect curls and calm eyes, her hoodie sleeves pushed up and hands in her pockets, her performance outfit peeking out ever so slightly, her lips held a lollipop between them.

She looked effortless. Like she didn’t even try to look that good and it just happened.

You, on the other hand, look like a deer caught in headlights. Or a deer about to throw up. Or a deer that’s about to be road kill.

You can’t meet her eyes. Not like this.

“I’m okay” you lie.

“You sure?” she asks, stepping in like it’s nothing. Like she always catches junior idols vomiting from nerves.

You nod too fast. “Super okay. Sexy, even. Nothing says charisma like barfing before a performance.”

That earns a soft laugh. “Iconic, honestly.”

She doesn’t leave.

She leans against the sink beside you like it’s normal, like it’s easy. Like your heart isn’t doing Olympic gymnastics in your chest.

There's silence. Comfortable. Agonizing.

“I’m scared” you whisper, too soft to be anyone but yourself.

“I know,” she says. “But you’ve got this.”

You want to believe her. You want to ask her to say it again. You want to pretend her presence doesn’t make your head spin worse than the nerves ever could.

You want to tell her that you’re not just scared of performing. You want to tell her that you’re scared, not of her, but of what’s happening between the two of you. But you settle for the next 6 words instead.

“You always say the right things.” you murmur.

She gives you a half-smile. “Only with you.”

Your breath catches.

Your pulse stutters.

You look away first.

She doesn’t push. She never does.

Instead, she lets the moment settle; heavy, quiet, dense with things neither of you will say. Her fingers don't reach for yours. Her eyes don't drop to your lips. She doesn’t lean in. But God, she doesn’t have to.

Because the way she looks at you, like she’s figuring out a puzzle she’s scared to finish, is almost worse.

So you square your shoulders. Crack a joke that doesn’t quite land. Smile like you’re not unravelling beneath the weight of almosts and maybes. You wear your mask like it was made for you; like you didn’t just spend the night dreaming of a world where you could be hers.

But as she turns to leave, her fingers brush against yours, barely there, just enough to steal the air from your lungs. And in that instant, you feel it again: the illusion of closeness, the echo of something you wish you could name. Something that isn’t yours to want.

You stand still long after the door clicks shut behind her.

Because you know now, things aren’t fine. They haven’t been for a while.

And when the stage lights bleed into your skin and the crowd screams loud enough to drown your pulse, she’ll be there. Front row. Watching. Waiting.

You’ll hit your mark. Drop to your knees, like the choreo demands.

And you’ll look up.

And she’ll already be looking.

And everything you’ve tried so desperately to bury, every shaky breath, every missed beat of your heart when she smiles your way, will rise like smoke and hang between you, impossible to ignore.

Because the truth is, you’ve already fallen. Hard. Quietly.

You’re just pretending it doesn’t hurt.

You let out a soft, bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all. This whole situation feels like something ripped straight out of the digital comics you binge in the dead of night, eyes wide, heart clenching over slow-burn tension and unspoken pining. The kind of trope you’ve always loved: the soft-spoken idol hopelessly in love with her unreachable sun. The magnetic touches. The lingering stares. The space between words that feels louder than anything said aloud.

You just never thought you’d be living it.

And yet here you are. Throat tight. Heart heavier than you’ll ever admit out loud. Because this isn’t fiction. There’s no cut to the next chapter. No narration box explaining her thoughts. No convenient dialogue options or internal monologues. Just this fragile space between you, cluttered with fleeting glances and barely-there touches that feel like everything and nothing at once.

You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. Hope? Shame? Longing?

All you know is that you’re trapped in a story with no plot; just pages of unresolved tension and no promise of closure.

And that you absolutely do not have time to spiral in a cramped bathroom you’ve already spent way too long in.

“Shit.” You curse, jolting back into motion as if the air itself is chasing you. Because it is. Time, nerves, the weight of everything you’re not allowed to say.

And the last thing you want is to see the look on Hana’s face when you keep the group waiting.

You brush past her on your way out, fingers grazing hers for half a second too long.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. But the silence crackles like it’s holding something back.

She doesn’t look back. Neither do you. And yet, Daniela can’t move.

As you disappear around the corner, Daniela stares at the closed bathroom door for a moment longer than necessary. She stands there for another beat too long, listening to the silence you left behind. Her heart drums in her chest like it’s a metronome for a song she doesn’t know the lyrics to.

She should go.

Instead, she lingers.

Her hand still tingles from where your fingers barely touched. That shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just adrenaline, pre-show jitters, the kind everyone gets. You’re nervous, she was there, and the rest is just… hormones. Pressure. Whatever.

But even as she tells herself that, her chest doesn’t listen. There’s something stuck there: tight, unfamiliar. And worse than that, there’s a strange ache that she can’t name.

Daniela exhales sharply and finally starts walking. Her heels echo against the hallway tile, the noise grounding her. Mechanical. Rational. Keep moving.

The muffled thrum of bass is already pulsing through the venue walls, the low buzz of pre-show excitement building like static. Every step she takes feels heavier than the last.

She should be focused, mentally taking notes like she always does before a performance, sizing up the stage, observing crowd reactions, gauging lighting and sound. But instead, her thoughts keep circling the same thing:

Your voice, quiet and shaking. The way you wouldn’t meet her eyes. The soft laugh you let out like you were the punchline to your own joke.

She remembers watching Cami’s livestream. It was just a glimpse, just enough. She remembers hearing you sing her part. Not “él.” Ella.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She found herself looping the clip after.

Her stomach twisted. It still does.

There was something in your voice that day. Something real. And maybe she’s a fool, but she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

What does it mean? Why does it stick with her like this?

She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t feel like this.

She doesn’t get distracted. Not over someone she’s barely even spoken to outside of group settings. Not over a girl who sings her lines like prayers, eyes closed like she’s afraid to be caught.

And yet.

Your voice still rings in her head

“Ella llegó conmigo y conmigo se va.”

Not just harmony. Possession. Intention.

A line Daniela knows by heart, turned intimate in your lower register.

She doesn’t know what to do with that.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She convinces herself, reminds herself of what you really are to her.

You’re just a junior. A label-mandated mentorship. A pretty face. A pretty voice with uncertain eyes and too many questions. That’s all this is. That’s all it’s supposed to be.

Then why can’t she forget the way your eyes avoided hers in the hallway? Why does she feel like she’s holding her breath every time she’s near you? Why does her hand still feel warm where yours grazed it? Why does she feel like she’s standing at the edge of something she doesn’t have the language for?

She reaches the entrance to the main arena, where light and noise spill out like a tidal wave. Sophia catches her eye from a few rows ahead and waves her down. Megan shifts aside, leaving a seat open like she knew Daniela would take too long.

“You good?” Megan’s voice cuts clean through her spiralling thoughts.

Daniela blinks. Her pulse is still racing. Her thoughts still flicker, like a faulty reel looping in her head: your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your laugh, the brush of your hand against hers like it meant something.

They’re in their seats now. Somehow. The lights have dimmed. The crowd is buzzing louder than ever. She slides into her seat, but her body doesn’t settle. Her mind keeps flickering; your flushed face, the slight tremble in your laugh, the tension humming between you like an open circuit.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, a little too fast.

Megan side-eyes her but says nothing. Instead, she leans forward, nudging Daniela’s arm and tilting her chin toward the stage.

“They’re up next. You might want to focus now,” Megan says, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Your favorite group’s up next.”

Daniela blinks. Focuses. Looks up.

And then the screen flickers, dissolving into glitchy oceanic blues. A siren’s wail cuts through the air. The crowd roars.

The stage lights flare to life.

And there you are, front and center, clad in jet black, sharp edges and smoky eyes, the siren persona wrapped around you like a second skin. You were the only one in tailored black, sharp lines, low neckline, silver chains glinting under the lights. Masculine. Seductive. Powerful.

The rest of SIREN5: Amara, Hana, Rina, Cami, are radiant in flowing silhouettes, ruffled cloths mimicking waves and so effortlessly fierce. A beautiful contrast to your darkness. The visual says something. She doesn't know what. Only that she can’t stop staring.

And then you move. You all do.

And it’s like the floor drops.

Everything else falls away.

Because you’re not stuttering now. You’re not fumbling or flushing or laughing nervously. You’re now the vision of lethal confidence.

And Daniela is absolutely, completely ruined before you even started.

The siren wails slowly dissolves into chants. Latin lyrics layered over swelling strings and low synths. The lights dim even more, the select lights shining down on the five of you which created an ethereal glow. Spotlights strike the stage in clean, harsh beams. The five of you emerge like ghosts, silhouettes hidden in the glow. The formation is new. Different. Sharper. She should’ve expected it; KATSEYE stopped attending rehearsals a week ago. Still, the shift feels like something tectonic. Once the spotlight hits your silhouettes, you’re suddenly hidden, like a shadow. The chants grew louder.

“Pray for me now Pray for me now (Dies irae) Pray for me now (Illa) Pray for me now (Vos solve in) Pray for me now (Favilla) Pray for me now (Maledictus) Pray for me now (Erus) Pray for me now (In flamas) Pray for me now (Eternum)”

[Rough Translation: the day of wrath is when you shall be dissolved into ashes, cursed into eternal flames]

Then Hana’s voice cleaves through the chant: sharp, crystalline, violent in its clarity.

“I'll be your idol”

You burst through the four of them like the moon eclipsing the sun, your lips were now opened as the mic picks up your voice, clear and commanding. Your hands are both on Cami and Amara’s shoulders, their bodies bending as you step through them.

“Keeping you in check,�� keeping you obsessed Play me on repeat, kkeuteopsi in your head”

[Translation: Endlessly]

Daniela swore she felt her spine stiffen, goosebumps rising like a tide, as you sang the very first lyrics. The crowd roared as you smiled charmingly while singing, your body went through the choreography with predatory ease, snapping to the beat, twisting, drawing all eyes toward you. Daniela’s included. Especially hers.

Your hand lifted to tap a finger to your temple, same as the lyrics and she could swear that your eyes found her own before moving away before the next lyrics leave your sin stained lips.

Her heart stutters.

She could barely hear the harmonies that Rina was layering onto your voice. Because she could swear that that moment of eye contact made her feel something. She doesn't know what it is; anger, desire, maybe confusion. Something clutches at her chest and won’t let go. She feels warm all over. She shouldn’t feel warm at all. And then you look away like nothing happened.

The next beat hits.

“Anytime it hurts, play another verse I can be your sanctuary”

Fuck. She’s heard this song before. Too many times. On studio speakers. Through demo snippets, playing over half-finished edits and muffled practice room walls. But not like this.

Not when every word feels like it’s being sung at her. For her.

She never paid attention to what the lyrics were before. Now she suddenly feels the lyrics bury deep into her soul. It was as if the words took on a different meaning now that she forced herself not to cross the line she wasn’t sure was there in the first place. Especially now that she’s guilty of repeating a verse, her own verse, yet in your voice, over and over again until it hurts. Until it burns.

“Know I'm the only one right now I will love you more when it all burns down”

Her eyes flick to Hana: poised, deadly. Her voice, a slow storm, smooth and intimate. She commands the center like it belongs to her, and maybe it does. But it’s fleeting.

“More than power, more than gold”

Rina slinks behind Hana, looping arms around Hana’s neck with ease. Their movements mirror each other, Rina’s hands mimicking a heartbeat against Hana’s chest, then tracing a circle around her head like a halo warped into a crown.

“Yeah, you gave me your heart, now I'm hеre for your soul”

Cami then steals the spotlight as she places herself in front of Hana, her voice was hauntingly seductive and deliciously low. She stretches out her hand, fingers spreading wide before curling inward in a slow, beckoning motion, like a spell cast midair.

Daniela could swear that she heard Megan’s voice crack as she screamed at that part.

“I'm the only one who'll lovе your sins Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin”

And then Daniela’s breath hitched as your voice filled her ears, richer now, dripping with intensity, and Daniela’s stomach dropped. You’re at the center again. Of the stage. Of the sound. Of her attention. Dani found herself thinking, debating if you truly wrote this song before she met you or after, because she has this sinking feeling that it was about her.

“Listen 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir Can I get the mic' a little higher? Gimme your desire I can be the star you rely on”

From her position in the crowd, she could hear the thunder like noise your shoes made when you all jumped at the beginning of the chorus. She can’t help but notice that she didn’t hear a difference in sound; it was as if it were one person who jumped and not five. There was absolutely no delay from the time your feet left the stage to the time it landed again. It’s seamless. Terrifyingly precise. No wobble in the vocals. No stagger in the breath. Daniela stares in disbelief. She can’t help but doubt if you were truly singing in the first place.

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away Don't you know I'm here to save you Now we runnin' wild Yeah, I'm all you need, I'ma be your idol”

[translation: you’re lost in my daze]

Hana’s voice took charge this time, the second part of the chorus giving an evident sign that an interlude was about to come. Her eyes drifted to you. From her perspective, she could see the beads of sweat trickling down your face, yet your lips held a permanent smile even when your vocals only add one layer to the hauntingly beautiful harmonizing you all did in the chorus, which by the way in next to impossible to do while dancing.

The dance break crashes down like a prophecy fulfilled.

“Unh! bichi naneun fame, gyesok oechyeo, I'm your idol Thank you for the pain 'cause it got me going viral Uh, yeah, natji anneun fever, makin' you a believer Nareul wae neon jonjaehaneun aidol”

[translation: Shining with my fame, keep on shouting my name, endless is my fever, I was born for you, only your idol]

Amara’s voice was intense, perhaps slightly cold yet it was fluid and sharp. Daniela could still understand the words clearly despite Amara rapping it. She swore she could hear Lara shouting about a british accent yet she drowned it all out, her eyes were trained to you moving like a never ending machine along with the rest of your group, moving like waves crashing into the hull of a creaking ship. The tell tale signs of pending wreckage.

Then

“Don't let it show, keep it all inside The pain and the shame, keep it outta sight”

Cami.

“Your obsession feeds our connection I sungan give me all your attention”

[translation: So right now]

You.

“You know I'm the only one who'll love your sins Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin”

Hana.

Then all five of you, unified, harmonized, fused like a single organism

“Listen 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir Can I get the mic a little higher? Gimme your desire I can be the star you rely on (You rely on)”

Daniela’s body is still. Her throat dry. Her heartbeat stutters with each line. Her ears ring with the loud noise of the fans screaming.

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away Don't you know I'm here to save you Now we runnin' wild Yeah, I'm all you need, I'ma be your idol”

Hana was singing, she thinks. But everything was beginning to blur, as if she’s being pulled into a trance.

“Be your idol”

It was then that the girls heard it, there was a beat of silence, yet the music was still on going. It was short enough to not be damaging to the performance yet it was long enough to prove that there was absolutely no backtrack used, just an instrumental playing in the background. Nothing was faked. The absence is proof.

And then it happened. The floorwork comes like a strike of lightning. All five of you lower, spines curling like fog, arching sensually, fingers splayed across the floor. Your movements are fluid and visceral, nothing soft about it. It’s devotion and destruction. Your vocals overlapped each other with terrifying ease as you sang the bridge. The bridge is a siren’s call: delicate and violent.

“Living in your mind now Too late 'cause you're mine now I will make you free When you're all part of me”

Then you. You take the final chorus, voice breaking into a raw, unfiltered cry

"(Listen 'cause I'm) Preaching to the choir (Now) Can I get the mic a little higher?"

Daniela’s jaw drop as you belted out that line, her breath hitched as you ad-libbed right then and there, It’s not clean. It’s raw, live, unfiltered. And it’s perfect.

Cami carries the melody:

“Gimme your desire Watch me set your world on fire”

Amara closes in once again:

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away (Hey) No one is coming to save you Now we runnin' wild”

Then all of you, the final lines crashing down like thunder:

“You're down on your knees, I'ma be your idol”

Daniela doesn’t breathe.

Because when you kneel, right in front of her, sweat-soaked and shining, lips parted, chest heaving, your eyes meet hers.

And Daniela’s world tilts.

She swears her heart skips, she swears the air leaves her lungs.

You’re kneeling right in front of her like some kind of twisted devotion. Like she’s the altar. The storm. The sin.

And you?

You’re the sacrifice.

You’re the storm.

You’re the sin.

And god help her-

You look delicious.

She’s still looking at you.

Even with the stage lights stinging your eyes and the bass of the final note still thrumming in your chest, Daniela is still looking at you.

You’re still on your knees, your palm planted against the stage floor, strands of hair clinging to your cheek. You don’t dare move. You’re frozen, breathless, kneeling at center stage like a confession you never meant to make. The crowd roars, thousands of voices crashing like waves, but all you hear is the silence between your pulse and the way her stare makes your skin feel too tight.

Your name must be on her tongue. You can feel it. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

A beat passes.

Then another.

And like a thunderclap, the crowd erupts.

The lights fade just enough to remind you you’re not alone, that you’re not dreaming, that this isn’t some delusional daydream you’ve conjured in a midnight haze. Hana’s hand finds yours first, warm and grounding. Cami’s voice shouts something behind you, probably a curse or a cheer, it’s hard to tell with the adrenaline still screaming through your veins. And finally, the five of you fall into a practiced bow, the same one you rehearsed a thousand times, heads low, hearts high.

It takes everything in you not to glance at her again.

When you rise again, Hana’s already stepping forward, clear-voiced and composed as ever.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” Hana’s voice slices through the air, confident and steady. “SIREN5-imnida! Thank you for welcoming us tonight!”

The cheers grow louder, especially from the Korean fans who recognize their native tongue. A few banners with her name glitter in the crowd.

“¡Buenas noches, mi amores!” Cami winks into the camera with a sultry grin, her voice warm and rolling like a flamenco beat. “Muchísimas gracias por todo el cariño. ¡Los amamos!”

(translation: Good Evening, my loves. Thank you so much for all the love. We love you!)

The Spanish-speaking part of the audience goes wild; flags wave, phones shoot skyward, fans scream her name like they’re chanting a spell.

And then it’s your turn.

You inhale once. Then again. You swallow, chest still trembling. There’s a hush that falls in your heart, just long enough for courage to take its place.

You step forward into the light, lips parting, and in the softest yet clearest tone you can muster, you say:

“Magandang gabi po sa inyong lahat. Ako po si SYRE, at sobrang thankful ako sa mainit ninyong pagtanggap sa amin. Mahal ko po kayo.”

(translation: Good Evening to all of you, My name is SYRE and I am so thankful for the warm welcome you gave us. I love you all.)

Your voice wobbles at the end, but the crowd doesn’t care. You hear your name shrieked from the front row. A few “Mahal din kita!”s are shouted back with so much affection, your eyes sting. And then you laugh because you heard a single screeching voice shout: “TANGINA MO MAHAL NA MAHAL DEN KITAAAAA” You laughed harder when Sophia snaps her head to the origin of the sound with furrowed brows and a flabbergasted look on her face.

You don't have time to recover. Amara slips in beside you like liquid silver, bumping your shoulder affectionately as she steps forward.

“Evening, babes,” she beams, her accent curling warmly around the words. “We’re SIREN5, and we’re absolutely buzzin’ to be here. Hope you’ve been enjoying the show.”

The crowd hollers. Someone yells, “I LOVE YOUR ACCENT!” and Amara chuckles under her breath.

And finally, like a soft, unexpected breeze, Rina steps forward. She’s silent for a second, gaze sweeping the crowd like she’s memorizing it.

“こんばんは,” she says gently. “SIREN5です。応援してくれて本当にありがとうございます。”

(Good evening. We are SIREN5. Thank you so much for supporting us.)

A ripple of polite, emotional cheers spreads across the audience, the kind that speaks volumes without needing to scream.

And just like that, the five of you stand in a line, united, shining, trembling just a little bit under the weight of your dreams finally blooming into reality.

But as the lights shift and the music cues for your exit, you risk one final glance into the crowd.

She’s still watching you.

But this time, there’s something different in her eyes.

And this time, you don’t look away.

Even as you follow your members toward the wings, feet moving on instinct, your head turns, just one more glance, you tell yourself. One more look at her.

You’re still watching her. And she’s still watching you.

Which is probably why you miss the last step.

Your foot catches on the edge of the makeshift metal stairs leading offstage, a barely-there lip of cold aluminium that sends your balance tipping just a fraction too far. You let out a small, startled sound, a breath of panic catching in your throat as your sneaker slips, and suddenly you’re stumbling forward, arms pinwheeling for balance. Your ankle twists sideways, the metal edge of the stair scraping against your boot as you lurch forward and slam straight into Amara’s back.

She nearly faceplants but she catches herself just in time. “Oi! Bloody-Darlin'?! What the hell? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” you gasp, stumbling upright, one hand gripping her shoulder. “I…I just…”

But it’s too late. The damage is done.

Rina, already at the bottom, whips around with wide eyes. “Did you just fall?!”

“Almost fall,” you mutter, face heating.

Hana spins dramatically, her mic turned off but her voice deadly clear. “Did someone forget how stairs work?”

Cami’s grin could power a city. “Oh my god. Is she still looking at Daniela?” she whisper-yells like it’s some secret revelation. “She is! I knew it! You tripped because you were too busy making heart eyes!”

“I wasn’t-!” you start, but you’re drowned out by the explosion of teasing that follows.

“SYRE, please, we’re in public,” Amara groans dramatically. “At least wait until we’re backstage to publicly collapse over your crush.”

“She’s gonna trend as ‘Clumsy Siren,’” Rina giggles. “#FellForHerLiterally.”

“Can’t believe our first major performance and this is what you get remembered for.” Cami gasps between laughs.

You bury your face in your hands as the crowd’s cheers continue behind you. You’re never going to live this down. Never. You can already imagine the fancams, the slowed replays, the edits with sparkles and hearts-

And then, against your better judgment, you peek back.

She’s still there.

Still watching.

And this time, she’s laughing.

Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just soft and stunned, one hand covering her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement.

You stare, completely frozen for a beat too long.

Then Cami slings an arm over your shoulder. “You’re so gone,” she whispers. “It’s actually embarrassing.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

“SYRE,” Hana deadpans, “next time just propose. It’ll hurt less.”

You try to laugh. Really, you do. But instead, the words slip out quieter than you expect.

“But she’s straight.”

The teasing dies instantly.

Cami’s arm loosens around your shoulders. Amara’s brows furrow, and Hana’s gaze flickers to your face, her expression softening.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to. The words hang heavy between you all: awkward, raw, honest in a way that makes you want to disappear into the floor.

Because what do you even do with a moment like that?

When someone looks at you like that. Watches you like they’re trying to find answers you don’t know how to give. When the world pauses just long enough for you to believe, maybe.

And then it keeps going. The lights dim, the crowd screams, the next group gets ready. And you’re left standing at the edge of it, fingers trembling, unsure whether what happened was real, or just a projection of your stupid, lonely heart.

The silence in the dressing room echoes loud in your ears once you’re back. The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and for a moment it’s just the five of you, breathing in the high of your first live performance, except you feel like you’re a beat behind everyone else.

No one says anything. No one pushes. But they’re watching you.

You blink hard and paste on a smile, heading toward your makeup station like you're fine. Like you’re not two seconds away from spiraling over a fleeting look and a stupid slip on a stair.

Then-

“OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU!”

Lara’s voice pierces through the room like a siren’s wail, followed by the thunder of the dressing room door slamming open.

You barely manage to turn when the sound of shrieking laughter and stomping boots floods in.

“THAT WAS INSANE!” Manon yells, diving forward like she’s about to tackle someone.

Behind them, Megan and Yoonchae laugh breathlessly, trying to keep up as Sophia glides in like she wasn’t just part of a stampede, all elegance and glowing pride.

And behind her-

Daniela.

You freeze.

Your stomach flips.

She's slower to enter than the others, one hand still holding her phone loosely, curls a little frizzed from the chaos, her sharp gaze immediately scanning the room, landing on you like it always does.

There’s a flicker in her expression. Something unreadable. But she doesn’t look away.

Your heart does something awful in your chest.

Because you're still reeling. Because you’re not ready. Because you’re suddenly very aware that she’s not yours, and maybe never will be.

But then Lara’s voice cuts through the moment again.

“Cami, I swear to GOD, did you just wink at my camera during the bridge?!”

Cami snorts. “I winked at the crowd, thank you very much. The camera just happened to be there.”

And just like that, the chaos is back. The noise floods in. SIREN5 and KATSEYE blend into a whirlwind of laughter, post-show adrenaline, and overlapping voices, pulling you away from the pity spiral and back into the world.

But even as you try to focus on Amara offering Manon a cookie or Megan asking Cami about the choreo, you can feel it.

Her eyes.

Still on you.

You’re packing up.

Still on you.

The adrenaline is fading now, traded for the ache in your legs and the slow unravelling of the high. Rina’s still giggling over something Lara said. Hana’s focused on organizing your discarded mic packs with militant precision. Amara’s curled up on a beanbag someone dragged in from God-knows-where, munching on post-performance fruit like you didn’t all just give your souls onstage.

It’s easy to pretend everything is normal.

Especially with KATSEYE now blended into your space like they’ve always belonged there; Megan talking choreography with Cami, Yoonchae laughing at something Hana said in half-Korean, half-English, and Manon currently trying on one of Amara’s spare boots just to see if it fits.

Daniela lingers near the doorway. She’s chatting with Lara, a lazy smile on her lips, posture relaxed, but every so often you catch her eyes flicking toward you.

And each time, you act like you didn’t notice.

You keep your hands busy; zipping makeup kits shut, folding the custom jackets you and the girls wore for the encore, smoothing the creases out of Amara’s ridiculous feathered gloves. Anything to look preoccupied. Anything to make sure she sees you being fine. Normal. Harmless.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned from your last mistake, it’s that fans notice everything.

And KATSEYE might be here now, laughing with your members, treating you like equals, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the world has forgotten the way you looked at her.

Or the way she looked back.

So you make a decision. Quietly. Just for yourself.

You’ll perform.

Not on stage, not for the cameras.

For her. Around her.

You’ll wear the crush on your sleeve again like it’s a silly, innocent thing. Like you’re just a fan who lucked her way into idolhood. Just a girl with heart eyes for her sunbae. You’ll blush at the right moments, flinch when she’s too close, smile a little too wide when she teases. You’ll act like it’s not real. Like you aren’t completely, fully, terrifyingly in love with her.

Not because you’ve fallen out of it.

God, no.

In fact, pretending just makes it worse.

Because now that you’ve seen how she looks at you; how her eyes soften like she’s seeing something fragile, now you’re falling harder. Faster. And it’s a different kind of scary.

But she’s not yours. She never was. And if she’s straight, like you believe she is, then it doesn’t matter how she looks at you.

You won’t be the reason she’s uncomfortable.

You won’t make her responsible for feelings she never asked for.

So you’ll give her a version of you she can laugh with, lean on, maybe even adore in her own way, as long as it’s safe. As long as it doesn’t ask for anything more.

It’s a performance.

A well-rehearsed one. A survival instinct dressed up as charm.

And you know it’s working because when you toss Daniela a grin; teasing, bright, a little flustered, she blinks like she wasn’t expecting it. Like it lands wrong.

You retreat just fast enough to make it seem like nothing.

But she watches you again.

Different this time.

Like she’s trying to read through the performance.

She doesn’t say anything. Of course she doesn’t. But something about her expression shifts, a slight narrowing of her eyes, a quiet pinch of confusion, a question that never quite makes it to her lips.

You duck your head and pretend not to see it.

If you let yourself look too long, if you let yourself hope even for a second, you know the mask will crack. And you can’t afford that.

So you smile at Cami instead. You nudge Amara and tease her about hogging the snacks. You laugh when Lara tries to make Rina wear glittery sunglasses and you dance around Sophia when she asks for a selfie with everyone.

And when Daniela walks past you again, shoulder grazing yours; soft, fleeting, electric, you don’t flinch. You don’t lean in. You don’t react.

You just keep performing.

You walk out of the dressing room and into the buzz of the hallway where crew members pack up cables, roll out cases, and call out over radios. You just keep walking, even as something inside you splinters a little deeper.

You just have to keep going even as something inside you breaks.

The night had cooled, but your skin was still buzzing from the performance. You walked in a loose group towards the back entrance, the kind only staff and artists know about, laughter echoing between both teams as stylists, managers, and a few security members trailed behind. KATSEYE and SIREN5 together, a rare sight. A little chaotic. A little surreal. You were still high off the adrenaline, your boots thudding softly beside Daniela’s steps.

You didn’t mean to end up beside her again.

Close enough to breathe the faint sweetness of her perfume. Far enough to pretend you don’t notice.

You think you’re doing fine. You think you're keeping it together.

Then Daniela tilts her head, laughing at something Cami says in their native language, low and warm and easy, and your eyes flick away too fast. Your heart catches like a frayed wire. You flex your fingers at your side, grounding yourself.

Just until the vans. Just hold it in a little longer.

But the moment of peace shattered like glass.

You don’t realize something’s wrong until it’s too late.

The noise comes first, a low buzz, then rising shouts. Screams. The sound of people running. Your head whips up just in time to see a sea of fans and paparazzi breach the perimeter like a tidal wave, spilling into the pathway, their feet thundering against the pavement.

Cameras flash. Voices cry out. Dozens of hands shoot out with phones, pens, posters, and hastily scribbled letters.

For a second, everyone freezes.

Then instinct kicked in.

Some of the girls instinctively smile, quickly falling back into routine, signing whatever’s nearest. Lara autographs a phone case. Sophia gives a nervous wave. Cami throws her head back and laughs when someone hands her a condom packet; signs it anyway with a cheeky wink. Megan tried to help Lara pose with a fan. You found yourself signing someone's phone case, pen slipping slightly in your sweaty grip.

But it was too many. Too fast. Too loud. The bodies are closer. Rougher. The air was tighter. Sharper.

Someone yanked your sleeve. You jerked back. Someone else grabbed Amara’s wrist. Another fan reaches past you to touch Cami’s shoulder.

And then you hear it.

A small sound, barely audible, but it slices through everything.

Yoonchae let out a soft yelp, you heard it. You felt it. You glance over and see Yoonchae’s wide eyes and trembling hands, frozen in place as the crowd presses in.

Your stomach twists.

She looked like she was about to cry.

Rina reaches for her but the crowd is pushing harder now, too fast, too much.

“Move,” you said calmly, raising a hand. “Please move aside.”

The crowd didn’t budge.

“Let us through.” Amara snapped, tone cold and clipped. Her arm hooked around Rina and Yoonchae, shielding the two youngest as she started forcing a path forward, pulling them toward the vans now parked ahead, lights on and doors thrown open by staff finally catching up.

Your heart spiked, protective instinct kicking in. You looked around. Cami was boxed in on the left, a fan with a camera dangerously close to her face. Daniela was further back, blinking against the flashing lights, looking just as disoriented.

You don’t think. You just act.

You push through the bodies, voice sharp as a whip now. “Move!”

You weren’t polite.

You push forward, muscle memory kicking in. You reach Cami first, arms slipping under her with ease. She lets out a startled laugh, gripping your shoulder.

“SYRE?!”

“Hold on, tightly.”

You don’t wait for her response. You twist, eyes locking on Daniela.

She doesn’t protest. Just stares, wide-eyed, as you pull her up into your arms. She’s warm. She’s soft. Her perfume wrapped around you, dizzying even in the chaos. She curls into you without hesitation, face pressing into your neck like instinct.

You adjust them both in your grip like they weigh nothing.

You don’t stop moving.

You bulldozed your way through the mob, cradling them both like they were made of glass. Like the world had no right to touch them. Your feet move on autopilot, muscles taut, teeth gritted, ignoring gasps and shouts. Protectiveness crackles through your veins. You don’t care about the pictures being taken. You don’t care how insane this looks.

Not a single hand touches them.

You care about them. You care too damn much. Maybe one more than the other.

The cameras kept flashing. Voices followed. The crowd roared louder as more staff rushed forward, finally forcing people back.

You didn’t stop until the van door was yanked open by a breathless manager. Amara had already shoved Yoonchae and Rina inside. You followed suit, still holding Daniela and Cami until your knees hit the floor of the van and finally, finally, you let go.

The door slammed shut behind you. All the girls already in the van: safe, breathless, and a little shaken.

Silence.

The dim interior buzzed only with your heavy breaths. The girls looked at you; Daniela wide-eyed, Cami half-laughing, still recovering from shock. Your hands were shaking.

Cami breaks it first, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “Holy shit.” she breathes. Then smirks. “You’re built like a tank.”

You manage a small smile. “You good?”

“Never been better.”

You turn to Daniela.

She blinks at you, eyes still full of stunned disbelief. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Thank you.” Her voice catches slightly on the words. You pretend not to notice.

But something in you still aches.

Because your arms remember the way she felt. Because even now, shaking, breathless, your first instinct is still to look at her, to make sure she’s okay.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Even when you’re running on instinct… It's her.

You lean your head back, trying to calm your pulse. But your mind won’t settle. Not when she’s sitting across from you. Not when her scent still clings to your jacket. Not when your chest still tightens at the thought of losing grip.

You’re in love with her.

Hopelessly. Quietly. Completely.

And you know it’s one-sided.

So you do what you do best.

You perform.

Daniela reaches out, hand brushing yours on instinct.

You pull away too quickly.

Then smile, hiding the sting. “Well. That’s one way to impress the ladies, huh?”

Cami barks a laugh, playful. “Impress? Babe, you bridal-carried us. Both of us. I’m buying you a ring tomorrow, and I’m playing Hermanas de leche at our wedding.”

Laughter erupts. Even Daniela giggles, though her smile flickers, faint, distant.

You see it.

And she sees something too. But neither of you say anything.

You lean your head back against the wall again, eyes fluttering shut.

No laughter this time. Just the hum of tires and the sting of truth. Something bloomed too far, too fast, and now has nowhere to go.

Then-

“OH MY GOD WHO TURNED THE HEAT ON-”

“CAMI’S SWEAT IS TOUCHING ME I’M CALLING THE POLICE-”

Lara’s shriek from the back cuts through the tension like a slapstick dream. Manon shouts something unintelligible. Megan and Sophia are yelling over them, and Yoonchae tries to climb into Amara’s lap to escape the chaos.

You blink, startled, then laugh, really laugh.

Because that’s how it always goes, doesn’t it?

You bury it.

Smile through it.

And keep walking beside her like your heart isn’t breaking just a little more every time.

Ngingiti ka nalang araw-araw, mananatili ka nalang sa tabi nya na tila multo habang tahimik na nagmamakaawang makakuha kahit katiting man lang ng pag-ibig nya. Dahil alam mo sa sarili mo, na mamahalin mo sya sa bawat saglit, kahit di nya alam.

(You resigned yourself to smiling everyday, you'll stay by her side like a ghost that silently begs for even just a little piece of her love. Because you know in yourself that you'll love her in every moment, even if she never knows.)

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader, @kianthegirlkisser, @teenybean, @skittledemon66, @hydrardz, @hotluvlet, @skriri, @ssamachiii, @iamconfusedrightnow, @pizzachicken, @aelien1, @yjiminswallet

#katseye x reader #your idol crumbs #daniela avanzini x reader #katseye imagines #eros posts #daniela avanzini imagines #katseye x fem reader

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ilovecowboysandpink · 3 days ago

Text

‎₊˚ 𓂃˖ quiet until it wasn’t 𝜗𝜚 ｡˚

after a quick hello on stream turns into an unexpected wife reveal, caitlin doesn’t realize what she’s done until both their phones start lighting up. back in the corner of the party, her wife just laughs “it’s about time.”

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

warnings: caitlin might be a tad bit drunk, coming out kinda?! and thats about it

word count: 890 words

authors note: honestly i wipped this up as fast as i could, rushly proof read so sorry for any mistakes! i will probably come back and edit this 😭 based on this tiktok!

the thing is, no one really notices at first.

caitlin walks into the frame like she always does, shoulders back, soft smile, dressed in black like she could disappear into the night if she wanted to. her hand rests easily on courtney's arm as she leans in toward the camera, her voice light and unbothered.

“i’ve been watching this all day,” she says, and she’s already laughing. “my wife and i were literally sitting in the hotel, like, fully tuned in.”

courtney just blinks. the camera jolts slightly. “deadass?” she grins.

caitlin nods, still smiling. “yeah. like, all day. we watched everything.”

and that’s it. she waves to the stream, the moment shifts, and then she’s gone, blinking under the flash of someone else’s camera now, caught in conversation, caught in motion. the comment section lags just a little behind. so does she.

somewhere across the room, her wife, quiet, warm, always half-glowing in these soft-lit spaces, is standing in a loose circle of WAGs. her drink’s mostly ice now, watered down and sweet. they’re talking about shoes or nail colors or maybe flights to phoenix next week. she’s listening. smiling. nodding politely.

until her phone buzzes once. then twice. then a third time in quick succession.

and when she lifts it when she sees caitlin’s name suddenly everywhere, in the stream caption, in the clips already flooding her dms, she doesn’t panic. she doesn’t freeze or excuse herself or look across the room in search of cover.

instead, she turns slightly, just enough to see caitlin weaving her way back toward her with that face, one she only really shows when she knows she’s said something she wasn’t supposed to, but doesn’t regret it.

“hey,” caitlin says, almost sheepishly. “so… um.”

her wife doesn’t let her finish.

“it’s fine,” she says, eyes flicking toward the soft glow of both their phones lighting up again. “honestly? it’s about time.”

caitlin exhales. something between a breath and a laugh. her hand reaches instinctively for hers, barely a touch, just fingers brushing against the back of her palm, but it’s grounding. grateful. a little relieved.

“i didn’t mean to,” she murmurs.

“i know.”

“i was just, i forgot the stream was live. i wasn’t really thinking, and courtney was there, and—”

“cait.”

she looks up.

“we’ve been married for almost two years now,” her wife says, voice low, just for her. “you’ve been carrying this secret like it’s made of glass.”

caitlin’s quiet for a second. then another. her other hand finds her waist, thumb grazing over the side of her dress like a habit she’s never broken.

“i liked it being ours,” she says softly.

her wife smiles, something fond curling at the corners of her mouth. “it’s still ours. even now.”

and maybe that’s the truth that matters most. that it was never about hiding, not really. people respected caitlin’s space. her privacy. her need to hold certain things close. and she did. she kept their marriage in the softest pocket of her world, safe from questions and headlines and all the noise.

but she still looked for her in every room. still reached for her first when something was funny or heartbreaking or just too much to hold alone. still sent photos of her coffee in the morning, still walked into interviews with her wedding ring tucked into her bra strap, still texted i miss you before tipoff even if they’d only been apart for an hour.

and now? now the phones won’t stop buzzing. someone’s already posted the clip to twitter. there’s a screenshot from the stream where her hand is blurred mid-wave and the caption reads: my wife and i were literally sitting in the hotel, fully tuned in. it’s been reposted three thousand times in ten minutes.

caitlin sees it on her screen. she sighs.

“do you think people will care?”

her wife shrugs gently. “some will.”

“in a good way or a bad way?”

“depends who they are.”

caitlin blinks down at the screen again, then lets it dim. her shoulders ease a little.

“i guess it had to happen at some point,” she says.

“mmhm.”

“and i’m not, i’m not mad that it happened.”

“i know.”

“i just wish i’d… i don’t know. said it better.”

her wife turns to her fully now, eyes soft. “you said it the most caitlin way possible. accidentally. casually. on camera.”

caitlin groans. “that doesn’t make me feel better.”

but she’s laughing now. and her wife’s laughing too, quietly, like it’s something they’ll remember for years, the kind of reveal you can’t plan for, the kind that feels more like a ripple than an explosion.

around them, the party keeps going. no one stares. no one points. just a few glances, a few subtle smiles passed between teammates who’ve known for a while and are only surprised it took this long to go public.

caitlin leans in, lips brushing the side of her wife’s ear. “so… do we just act normal now?”

“you’ve never acted normal a day in your life.”

caitlin grins. “harsh.”

“true.”

and she kisses her, just lightly, just once, just enough to make her wife flush under the warm party lights, and then they turn back toward the crowd, side by side. no longer invisible. no longer a secret. just together. still theirs.

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark fanfiction #caitlin clark fanfic #caitlin clark #caitlin x reader #wnba #wnba x reader #studbudz #indiana fever #wnba all star

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lustlovehart · 2 days ago

Text

Weapons I think the Monster Reversed!Cast would have. This is just for me to keep track + World building. I looove world building, guys! This all started because I was writing something else 😭. Edit: This was just supposed to be a list, Idk why I wrote so much.

Featuring: Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Cater, Trey, Leona, Jack, Ruggie, Azul, Floyd, Jade, Kalim, Jamil, Vil, Epel, Rook, Idia, Malleus, Silver, Sebek, Lilia, Reader, Rollo, Fellow, Skully, Neige, Chenya

CW: Monster!Reader has an interest in [character], hints of possession, slight fluff, violence, weapons, some parts have Reader eating a person/monster, Reader breaks into bedrooms, stitching (Neige), Reader isn't heavily hunted by MH!Cast/Neutral truce?, threats, biting, Reader doesn't speak in full sentences

MH!Riddle - Sword, one adorned with beautiful detailing, made of scarlet iron. It gives off some sort of righteous vibe, and he'd prefer it simply because swords were used by knights to uphold the law before monsters grew in population. You saw him taking out a couple of beasts while eating some poor sap. It was kind of mesmerizing watching him swing the thing with such practiced ease. You had to leave, but the sense of disappointment that you couldn't watch more lingered. You broke into his room and saw the sword by his side. A little obsessive, however, his work is so pretty, you don't mind. "Red hair... Fight... Really pretty..." He opens his eyes and stares at where you once were, his mouth agape, and he processes what you said. The trainings afterwards consist of him asking Jamil and Vil how to use his weapon in both elegance and functionality. Next time you see him fight, he makes sure to put his practice to good use. He also tries purposefully outshining everyone else. By the time anyone else tries talking to you, he's shooing you off before they get the chance, insisting he'll show you more if you ignore everyone else.

MH!Ace - Twin-Blade. I'd like to think that because he's so good with his hand, he can spin that thing like crazy. He most definitely tries flaunting his skills to everyone, even more so when you're around. The moment he senses you somewhere in the dark on a mission, the number of times he spins, swings, and hits the beast increases by three. He's using both sides of the blade with such practiced ease, the others on the hunt are wondering why he didn't join sooner (Deuce knows what he's doing, because he can smell you too.) By the time he's done, he's already looking into the shadows, hoping you'll be smiling with praise...! You're not there. He's deflating with disappointment and is ready to go back to the headquarters before someone screams. Honestly? He's kind of over it, but he readies his blade anyway. He's about to chuck his weapon and go home, before Deuce gasps. That's different. Even more so when he drops his gauntlets and takes a few steps forward, finally earning Ace's curiosity. He turns—You're inches from his face. "... Showoff... But... Fun."... Ace goes back with a pep in his step while everyone else broods. As long as your attention is on him, he doesn't mind at all.

MH!Deuce - Gauntlets. You’ve seen him wreck a couple of monsters real good with them. He swings so fast that a regular person could never predict where his next punch is coming from. People have tried, but they've never succeeded. He's so absorbed in his training that whenever you appear, he always seems to almost hit you. He'll redirect it last minute. The first time you suddenly showed up right in front of him, he couldn't move his fist in time. His mind is racing with panic at the prospect of hitting you. It's what he wished for in the beginning, but... Now? If he sees you in pain, he might as well be punching himself, too. No one or no thing has ever managed to dodge—Oh hey, you caught it!... You caught it?! Other than a slight wince in pain, you don't seem too bothered... Though to be fair, he didn't put his all into that, and you know that. You only feel a slight pain on your palm, yet Deuce is sitting you down and tending to it like you've been wounded. Any time any other hunter comes close, he warns them to stay away. A part of you thinks that's due to more than just your hand...

MH!Cater - A Mace. It's a good contrast. Mostly because monsters don't expect to see Cater with one due to his bubbly exterior. You surely didn't. He combats it with paint, making the handle a little prettier. You're not sure if it really works, considering it's still a spiky pall of metal he swings at beasts. You snuck in while he was sleeping, with a makeshift keychain, and stuck it on the handle. You're not sure if it suits his taste, but it doesn't matter. He's trying to kill you anyway (That's what you think), might as well have a pretty weapon do you in. When he wakes up, his room smells like you, and he knows exactly where that gift came from. The next time you witness him fighting, he's talking about just how adorable his mace is now! Everyone else isn't too surprised about his before... It's just a little unnerving to watch him do it while fighting some giant beast.

MH!Trey - a Shotgun. He wields it in such a way that it makes it seem like he doesn't wish to shoot it. He'll use the back of the gun to hit monsters before using the barrel on them like a guillotine. He only ever uses it when necessary. You're amazed it hasn't broken. But to be fair, that's due to your efforts. He doesn't know (He does. He just plays innocent) that you're the one fixing it up while he sleeps. Though... You're methods aren't exactly the correct way to fix a gun; he still uses it with pride. The only time he's broken the act of feigning slumber is when you tried eating a match to use your mouth as a blowtorch. There was a small crack you believed you could meld together. He was initially worried for your safety... His worry seems to have been misplaced when he sees you actually do it. "Huh... I didn't think that would work..." You blow a small puff of smoke his way, earning a heartfelt smile. He still pretends to sleep, but that's because every time he does, he can feel you blow fire at him. If he imagines hard enough, it's like a kiss to his forehead.

MH!Leona - A Battle Axe. It's not too heavy, but it packs enough damage for him to slice something down real quick. Not too heavy is an understatement, however, as it's not too heavy for him. Most of the other people who try can only lift it for a few seconds before dropping it. Luckily, you're not a part of the most. You were probably taking a bite of some low-ranking troll when he appeared out of nowhere. You throw the piece of meat away while you furrow your eyebrows at him. He's obviously annoyed with something; you can see it in the way he snarls. You can't ask what's wrong, though, because his head is on your lap before you can sound it out. The axe propped on the tree trunk next to you falls down, and he's about to lunge back up before it hits you (He's not ready for you to die), you've already caught it. Your hand bleeds from holding it by the blade. The rest of the day is him secretly admiring you while your hand plays with his hair. He'll never admit that, however.

Monster & MH!Jack - A War Hammer. He'd probably like the challenge of having to build up his muscles to hold and swing it around. When you first saw him wield it (MH), which was after a year of knowing him (He never told you what he wielded before), he felt pride swell at the way your mouth dropped in amazement at him holding such a giant thing. When you see him wield it as a monster, he definitely swung it at you, and only missed because you dodged it like nothing. Ever since you kept in mind not to let that thing hit you, because he cracked the boulder next to you, 6 times your size, with ease. After finally getting to know you, he sees the way your eyes linger on his hammer. He makes sure not to bring it whenever you two are together. In the cases where you appear during a mission, he'll drop the weapon and start fighting with his fists. He doesn't want to send his hammer your way.

MH!Ruggie - Throwing stars. He has a multitude of different kinds, with different shapes and sizes. Sometimes you can see him dip it in different substances. You can see him use a blow dart too sometimes. The sight of a different person's name on it, though, tells you it's not originally his. You confront him about it when he opens his bedroom door to see you hanging upside down from his window. The shock of your appearance has him dropping all the boxes he was previously holding, earning a curse under his breath. He watches you play with both the blow dart and his throwing stars before finally asking why you're here. Ruggie rushes towards the window, watching you drop from above. But you effortlessly land on the ledge, earning a relieved exhale from his lips. He was entirely ready to catch you. "Stolen...?" So that's what this is about. He tells you it's not stolen; he simply gave it a better home. The person who had it before seemed to not care for it much if they just left it there. He can tell you don't believe him by the way your brows furrow. His eyes widen when his own throwing stars rush by him, you being the perpetrator. He's about to ask what that was for, but you're leaning in, catching his words in his throat. "I'll get... Ruggie better one..."

MH!Azul - Trident. But he's fully capable of wielding heavy weapons like Jack and Leona's. He just... Can't hold them for very long. He gets tired too easily. His strength is amazing, you're just shocked at how lacking his stamina is. He's second only to Idia. On solo missions, you tag along, and he does everything in his power to avoid eye contact. Not because he wishes to not look at you, no, that's one of the few things he wishes to do. It's because... He's currently using his weapon as a cane to go up the mountain. He had no idea...! This ruins the atmosphere he wished to have with you on this job...! How is he supposed to play the part of a gentleman when he can barely make it up this mountain while you're walking along as if this isn't torture? He stiffens when he feels a presence next to him, ready to warn you to step away. By the time he looks though, it turns out to be you... His sense is so scrambled he can't make out what's a threat... "Carry... Azul?" He couldn't possibly. He has pride; he refuses. His posture straightens, and he acts as if he's regained all his energy. You don't believe him, but you watch him remove that trident from the floor and carry it like the true hunter he is. You can't help but tease him for the sudden shift. "... Azul is... Strong... Maybe... Can carry me too?"... He carries you bridal style all the way up the mountain, all of his fatigue seemingly gone. You have no idea how he did it...

MH!Floyd - A kusarigama. He might be one of the few hunters who actually scare you with the way he handles his weapon. Of course, they all have that smug look on their face when they take down a monster. Watching him swing the chain around and use the blade is entertaining, yes, but... he's just way too good at it. Sometimes he looks bored when he swings the chain around a beast's neck to pull them in and end the job; in fact, you prefer it that way. He gets scarier when he's in a giggling fit and takes down multiple at once. He'll come up to you afterward and ask if he can catch you like that. Before you know it, the chain is wrapped around you, and he's pulling you in as he whispers. You're about to bite him out of panic, only stopping when he shouts 'just kidding!' and hugs you closer. He laughs when you don't break out of the chains despite their weak grasp on you. His laughter dies down when your hands "reluctantly" wrap around him.

MH!Jade - Two Kukri Machetes. He almost looks more like a monster than you do when he wields them. There's a certain glint in his eyes when he successfully dispatches monsters. It's somehow even scarier than Floyd's. Whenever you attempt to hang out with him, he's always sharpening his blades with the most courteous of smiles. It's frightening, but that might be due to your nature as a monster. You're sitting in a forest, letting Jade feed you all the mystery forages from the wilderness. You think he might be testing which ones are poisonous on you. You won't die and you get free food, so it's a win o you. Though if you show any signs of distress or change, he'll gently open your mouth and have you spit it out. Not without a double-edged remark, however. "What a strong stomach. Perhaps I should let you eat it. I might find your weakness." He never does go through with his claim. You were too preoccupied with him to even notice you were being stalked, not seeing that he's thrown one of his Machetes at a monster, it's only when he says "Oh my, well that's no good..." and chucks his second one without even looking, do you notice. An extremely rare occurrence for you. Just how focused on eating did Jade have you? "Hm? Why, they were looking at you like a feast. It seems they had no idea who you were... Pity. Though it's no matter." You watch his hand reach for yours, placing a flower in your palm. "I wish to be the only one who truly knows you."

MH!Kalim - Bo Staff. It doesn't do harsh damage, but the speed he spins it at is dangerous, paired with fluidity similar to Jamil’s. Not enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate. Truth be told, Kalim’s never actually killed a monster. You’ve seen him knock them out, he's just... never gone for a finishing blow. It makes you wonder if he doesn’t know they’re not dead… There have been a couple of instances where he walks away, unassuming of the monstrosity that lunges at him. They only stop because you step between them, your eyes looking down on it. The amount of times you’ve had to step in and finish the job for him is too much, especially for someone meant to be killing monsters. Even Jamil steps in for him when you can’t. It should be a hint for him, yet he’ll simply hug you tight, joyous that you’re there. You wonder if it’s on purpose or not.

MH!Jamil - Chakrams. While several hunters have mesmerized you with the way they fight, you think Jamil has you watching him the most. He incorporates such a fluid movement when he throws his weapon, and even when he simply uses it in hand-to-hand combat, that you’ve sat for hours in the shadows watching him train. Weirdly enough, you want him to use them on you. You’re curious about being on the receiving end of such deadly blows. If you bring it up, he'll consider it simply because you want it. But his aim is so scarily accurate, he fears he might truly hit you if he tries. So instead, he teaches you how to use them. Which, he definitely shouldn't do, considering his occupation. He just can't help the way you seem to perk up with the monstrous charm when you actually do it. At this point, he might as well use his weapon for hypnotization so you'll never disappear for days on end again. He thinks he likes the way your eyes light up with genuine enjoyment when he's around, however, so he'd rather not.

MH!Vil - A Spear. It defeats some practicality, but he always makes sure to polish its barrel while adorning it in beauty. Yes, once it breaks, he'll get a new one; despite it, he'll always pay careful attention to it. You must say, he definitely has the prettiest weapon(s) among everyone in the foundation. He probably caught you staring at it one time when he returned to his room, the curtains shut, while you sat on his bed. Typically, he prefers for nobody to dirty his sheets, and he thinks you know that. He assumes so, considering his shower seems to be freshly used. Your nail taps the blade once, before moving to the engraving on its handle. Transparent fabrics wrap everything together neatly. You don't seem to notice him at all. A sure sign that you don't truly see him as a threat. "Haven't you been taught not to touch others property?" You perk up at the sound of his voice. A little too late, however, as once you turn, he's gone. You feel the spear being taken from your hand, and by the time you look, Vil is inches from your face. He turns the blade to point at you, and if you didn't know any better, he would plunge it into your chest at this moment. He uses the other end to open the curtains, allowing the moon to hit your features. "I shouldn't be very surprised, though." You remain silent when he places his hand next to where you sit. "You are a monster after all."

MH!Epel - He wanted to use gauntlets originally. After joining Vil... He was made to use a weaponized Shield. He's actually so disappointed in it. He could have at least gotten a cool blade, like literally everybody else. Why is he the only one without some offensive weapon!? You listen to him complain to himself about it as you sit in the dark. You don't think he realizes that he quite basically is using the shield as offense... He's charging full force into full brutes, knocking them back. By the time they're back up and ready to lunge at him, he's already turned it over and dropped the thing full force on their head. A brutal sight, yet he's still complaining how lame it is... He jumps when you appear by his side, your eyes looking him up and down. "You can't see..." Your clawed finger taps his bicep, "Strong now... Good at shield."... He learns to be more appreciative of it.

MH!Rook - Bow and Arrow (Are we surprised?). You've actually purposefully broken at least five of his bows to see if he has to buy a new one. He pulled one from under his pillow, and you have no idea why it was there. Easily the best marksman in the business. He's shot arrows near you multiple times, and each instance, you believe he's finally decided to really hunt you down, only to look at the multiple poems stuck on the shaft and see that wasn't his intent. You've taken your revenge by outlining his sleeping body with these same arrows. He woke up in the middle of the night, pleasantly surprised by your gift, serenading you about your generosity... The next day was spent trying to eat in peace while a poetic hunter lavishes you with admiration. You don't put up much resistance when he rests his head on your shoulder and leaves his hat on top of you.

MH!Idia - Scythe. Though not as proficient with it as Reaper!Idia, still decently skilled. You were there when he first chose the weapon, actually. Way before you had personally met any of the monster hunters. You were hanging from a tree while he was in his room, flipping through his choices. He chose the scythe because it looked the coolest and reminded him of a character from a story he liked. He had his doubts with how flashy a weapon it is. After you finally met, you asked him about it, and he turned pink at how embarrassing that was. You... You saw him fanboy over how cool a weapon is... You let him ramble about all the confidence points he lost with you as you pat his back. If you insist, the scythe is interesting, he'll go back to crazing over it. If you go even further and compliment him? He either goes into full-fledged self-assurance or a ball of fluster. You have to pat him on the back either way, though. When you're out of sight, he begins cursing out everyone else, because the idea of you doing that to anybody other than him...? Everyone awakens to an ominous letter detailing all of their suspicious purchases the next day.

MH!Malleus - The only one fully capable of fighting with his bare fists. Though if need be, he'll fight with weapons, which is most of the time, as he seems to cause more damage without them. He never has a set one, always changing. He's still proficient with all of them, however. His pure strength alone is a testament to his formidability to others. Some workers don't even wish to be in his proximity, fearing he might touch them; Except for you. Despite the bounty on your head and him supposedly being on the hunt for you, you let him touch you as much as he wishes. You should fear that one day he'll turn on you and claim his reward, yet here you are, allowing him to curiously touch every monstrous feature of yours without struggle. You've seen his deadly ability; it's just the tender feeling of his hands moving through your features that overpowers it. Fortunately for you, you're the only monster he'll ever touch like that, and he hopes he's the only hunter to touch you like this too.

MH!Silver - A Lance. A weapon that should typically be wielded on a horse, which he does do, yet he also handles it on the ground perfectly fine. It's even much larger on his person, only furthering the impressiveness. Despite the giant weapon, he still takes down monsters with a certain kindness, gently putting them down when they fall. When you ask him why, he glanced once at his weapon before softly telling you, "They didn't ask to be monsters." You're silent at his answer, glancing down when his hand takes yours, and once more in that sweet tone, "You didn't, right?" The silence in your reply fails to answer his question, leaving ambiguity in the truth of your existence. He doesn't voice any form of disappointment, however, instead, he hands you his large weapon, allowing your clawed fingers to grip its hilt. Anyone else would fear a monster to attack them when unarmed, yet he isn't, not at all. With the softest of smiles, he comforts you. "I think... You're the nicest of all."

MH!Sebek - A Rapier. He insists it shows off his skills better. It's not big and boorish like others; he could quite easily carry that, but neither is it small and evasive, though he could easily dispatch those as well. His specific sword makes each strike of his look like a sting. You think he enjoys how fast it makes him look. You probably grew curious about whether it was him or just the sword that made him look fast, though, and took hold of its hilt. He's quick to bust in and tell you not to dirty his weapon with your heinous touch. "You definitely ate something with those hands!"... And he's not necessarily wrong... But you don't give it back, you insist on examining it further, earning more of his temper. He's about to start yelling when he sees your claw scratch his blade. "How Dare—! Oh...?" When you give it back to him, his name is engraved on the steel, a (human) heart drawn next to it. "This is quite nice...! Why... is there a heart next to it....?!" His determination to not let anyone else touch his sword increases after that

MH!Lilia - Two Kama's. He uses them to tend a garden in Diasmonia's quarters. Yet, they also double as his signature weapon. You're sure that he's probably cut wheat right after a mission, earning the ire of other hunters at their crops being sullied with monster... It doesn't matter, though, as no one eats the food he makes with such ingredients. His cooking is bad, yes, but you think it only worsens in the eye of a human because he skillfully used those same tools to successfully dispatch twenty different beasts... But... You're the only one who can stomach his cooking. It's not the best thing you've ever eaten, yet it's also not the worst. Except, you actually do like his cooking. That alone has earned you the entire foundation, as well as regular civilians you're close with, to repeatedly ask you if you're okay and perform regular medical checkups on you to see if you're fine. When you say you are, they don't really believe you... Yet the way you return to the kitchen to dutifully help him cook his horrendous dishes has them second-guess... They all go on a mission to cook better (worse) than him.

MH!Reader - Dagger(s. They've got like 16 strapped on them, all with different designs and uses). It's what I usually picture them with, BUT I do think they would have experience with things such as swords and bows. But you can imagine them with anything, really.

Modern!Reader - Pepper spray and a Taser. Both are mostly ineffective against monsters 💀. In times of desperation, they flash their camera and start screaming really loudly.

Monster!Rollo - A Dagger. He's actually more efficient with any type of weapon, mostly the bow. If anything, it actually hinders him more, but he insists on it because he wants to use the same weapon as you, so he knows what to do if you need help with your daggers. He practices extra so you'll always come to him when you need help with training. As long as no one else teaches you, it'll be okay.

MH!Rollo - A Bow, as he no longer has a reason to practice with daggers. He's still proficient with all types, though. He has a penchant for dipping the tips of his arrows in holy water. He double dips when he knows he's going to see you. He triple dips when he sees you in person. And he sighs when he misses all his shots (Whether that's because you're too fast or if he unconsciously misses, however, is a mystery.)

Human Fellow - His Debt. The first time he met you, out of fear, he started throwing his bills and taxes at you. It worked. Not because you were hurt, but because you were asking why he was giving you his bills. "I... Can't... Pay..." ... He was genuinely amazed you focused on that and not him throwing papers at you.

Human Skully - His photos of you, or more specifically, his photo book. He's actually spiritually hurt whenever he does that to the pictures, apologizing as if they were actually you. Yet, he keeps doing it because in his mind, it means you'll always be there for him and vice versa. Imagine his shock when he's about to hit a monster he came across by chance with his photo book, only for you to take a bite out of it. You really are lovely, aren't you?

Human Neige - A Medkit. Not very proficient, and quite ironic that he uses something meant to heal as a weapon. Sometimes, monsters come through, and the real hunters miss them. You probably had a limb get cut off, and while it would probably come back, he was diligently stitching it back on you. You're about to have a snack of the measly goblin that walks over, but you don't even have the chance before he's closing his kit and smacking it over the head. You pronounce him dead on the scene, and he smiles at you as if he didn't do anything at all...

Human Chenya - His Jacket. He never wears it, save for wrapping it around his hips. So imagine your surprise when you're trying to sleep and you wake up to five other monsters lying on the ground five feet away, with Chenya resting his head on your lap.

Jamil's weapon had me going down a rabbit hole; it's so cool (..＞◡＜..) also, I love the thought of Monster!Reader breaking into bedrooms/watching the MH!Cast and not doing a single thing. Is it stalkerish? Yes. But it also reminds the cast you’re completely capable of taking them when they’re unprepared. You’ve had multiple chances to kill them, yet you haven’t. Really shows both Readers' threat, and their urge to know why you are the way you are.

Surprise, surprise, Jade's was the longest. I hate him so much, oh my goshhhhh (￢_￢)

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santaasi · 2 days ago

Text

10:49 pm

pairing: bf!jj maybank x gf!reader

summary: every day, jj wakes up to love you. every night, the clock strikes 10:49 – and he loses you all over again

warnings: angst, fluff, time loop, establish relationship, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language

word count: 7.6k

a/n: ugh, it took me so long to edit this text. and at the end I felt like my whole soul ended up in this one shot. hope y'll like it and leave a comment, 'cause it's so important to me

ᯓ★ now playing…

lord huron - the night we met

YOU SHIFT BESIDE HIM, just barely, your bare shoulder brushing his chest as you curl away from the slant of morning sunlight spilling through the half-open window. The sheets rustle, soft and worn from too many mornings like this. Outside, waves break gently against the shore, that steady rhythm threading into the room along with the salt-heavy breeze. It smells like summer. Like home.

JJ blinks awake. His eyes are slow to adjust, drifting toward the dim red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 10:49. His heart stutters.

Without a word, his arm wraps tighter around your waist, anchoring you to him, as if his grip could freeze time. His nose buries into your hair, breathing you in, like he’s terrified to forget. You let out a soft, sleepy giggle at the ticklish sensation.

He exhales against your neck.

Twelve hours left.

Exactly twelve hours until the world tilts again, cruel and familiar. Until the loop resets, and he’s forced to start over. Again. And again. However many times it’s been – he’s lost count. He doesn’t want to know anymore. All he knows is he loses you. Every damn time.

You stretch with a lazy smile, limbs brushing against his beneath the sheets. Your fingers trace a lazy line along his jaw as you lift your head, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes. “Are you ever gonna stop looking at me like that?”

His throat tightens. He blinks once. Breathes in.

“Not really.”

Your laugh bubbles out – soft and familiar, like the morning light. Like the first time. JJ watches you with a kind of desperate reverence, memorizing your face even though he already knows every freckle, every dimple. You say those words every morning. Every time.

He used to answer differently. Used to joke. Flirt. Now he just tells the truth. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know how not to look at you like this. Like you’re everything.

Maybe it’s been a month. Maybe longer. A year? Two? Time is water in his hands. He can’t hold onto it, and he can’t let go.

But he always counts the seconds between now and 10:49 pm.

Every time you whisper his name, it cuts deeper and heals all at once.

And every time he watches you die, it feels like the first time – and the last.

The first time it happened, he thought it was a dream.

He told himself that for a while, for hours, days, maybe longer. Maybe because it was easier to believe that than face what was real. Or maybe because everything felt too bright, too sharp, too final to be anything else. But the thing about dreams is they fade when the sun comes up. They don’t keep repeating.

And this did.

Over and over and over again.

He remembers that first day the way someone remembers the worst moment of their life. Not like a memory, but like a wound. It doesn’t fade. Doesn’t dull. It just pulses.

The same road. The same fading sun. The same song playing low through the speakers, something soft and careless and golden. You were in the passenger seat beside him – legs curled up, hair messy from the wind and the salt, bare shoulders glowing from the beach. You hummed along to the music, drumming your fingers on the window, laughing to yourself like you were holding a secret.

He remembers thinking that silence had never felt so earned. The kind that sinks into your bones after a long day, when nothing needs to be said because everything is perfect exactly as it is.

JJ doesn’t remember his eyes getting heavy. Doesn’t remember the moment his body gave in. But he remembers the time on the dash.

10:48 pm.

His hand rested on your hip, warm and easy. You ran your fingertip along the inside of his wrist like it meant something, like you were memorizing him, even though you didn’t know why.

“I think I could stay here forever,” you murmured.

Soft. Thoughtless. Real.

He smiled. God, he smiled like he meant it. Squeezed your hand gently, knuckles brushing yours. He turned his eyes back to the road, but his heart… it was loud. Loud in his chest, too loud to ignore. The kind of loud that meant something was trying to break out. Words pressing against his throat.

Three of them.

Three words that had never crossed his lips with you, not yet. Not because he didn’t feel them, but because he felt them too much. And because saying them would make them real. And real things break.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw your face shift. That soft, open look you wore when you were hopeful. But then – just like that – it faltered. You turned your head. Bit your lip. Looked out the window like you were trying to hide something. It was small. Quiet. But it gutted him.

He hated himself for not being ready.

10:49.

He looked at you again, just as you reached out, touched his cheek with the back of your hand, featherlight. You smiled, like always, and turned his face gently back toward the road.

Then– White.

Searing, unnatural light. The sound of tires screaming against asphalt. A jolt. A crack. A tearing. And nothing.

Not even silence. Not at first. Just absence. Like the world had been yanked away all at once and replaced with static.

When he opened his eyes, the windshield was shattered, the world outside swallowed in smoke. Sirens were wailing somewhere far off – thin, almost unreal – but he barely heard them. The only sound that mattered was the blood rushing in his ears, loud and panicked and alive.

You weren’t moving.

You were still holding his hand, but limp. Unmoving. Your head rested against the seat, neck tilted too far, lips parted. There was a softness frozen on your face – the trace of the smile you’d given him just seconds ago.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not from the smoke. From you. From the absence of you. It wrapped around his ribs like a vice.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hey, baby. Look at me. Come on.”

He shook your shoulder. Brushed the hair from your face with trembling fingers. Touched your cheek. You were still warm.

“Wake up,” he said, louder now. “Come on, please– Hey. Look at me.”

Nothing.

The pressure in his chest cracked. It split him wide open.

He was shouting your name. Screaming it. Again. And again. Like maybe if he said it enough, the universe would give you back.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t blink. And all he could hear now was the sirens growing closer, and his own voice falling apart.

He blinked. And the world blinked with him.

Morning.

Your body shifted beside him with the quiet rustle of sheets, your skin warm against his under the thin motel blanket. Sunlight slid in through the blinds in long gold stripes, catching in the strands of your hair, gilding the dust that floated in the air like ash. The room was too still. The silence was the kind that makes your lungs hesitate, like the world was holding its breath.

JJ didn’t move.

He lay there, barely breathing, watching you stir, your lashes fluttering before your eyes opened. You blinked at him like you always did – sweet, drowsy, unguarded – and then stretched with a soft sigh, the sheet slipping down your bare shoulder. You looked like heaven, like something the sea might’ve given up just for him.

“Will you ever stop looking at me like that?” you asked with a tired laugh, unaware of the weight behind his eyes.

He blinked once. Only once.

Then he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Like your voice pulled him back from the edge. His hand found your cheek, brushing his thumb under your eye, and he kissed you with something quiet and trembling in him.

“Never,” he whispered. His voice broke on it.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it all repeated again.

Night. The highway. The quiet. 10:48.

The same moment, the same song, the same soft way you laced your fingers through his. You turned to him, smiling. He kissed your hand like it might save you.

And again light. Blinding. Screaming. And you… You weren’t there anymore. And he woke up.

Alone.

The third time, he didn’t wake up calm.

He sat up with a gasp, the sheets tangled around his legs, the air thick in his lungs like smoke. He turned to you, grabbed your wrist, heart pounding so fast it felt like it would rupture. His voice cracked as he begged – begged – you to stay.

“Please. Don’t leave the room today. Don’t fall asleep. I need you to trust me. Just- Just for one day, please-”

You blinked, confused. Concerned. Laughing at first, like it was a game. But he wasn’t laughing. He was already shaking. Already staring at the clock like it was counting down to a bomb.

You died anyway.

The fourth time, he got behind the wheel and didn’t slow down. Drove the car straight into a tree before 10:49 could touch you.

But he woke up again. No blood. No scars. Just the guilt still clinging to his chest like smoke.

The fifth time, he screamed until his voice gave out, shoving his face into the motel pillow so no one would hear the way he broke apart. He kicked the nightstand so hard the lamp shattered. He tore his knuckles on the wall and bled in silence. You lay sleeping beside him the whole time.

The sixth time, he didn’t talk to you. Didn’t touch you. Couldn’t look at you.

He just counted the minutes.

The eighth time, he changed everything – your breakfast, your route, your clothes, the music you played. He filled the day with distractions, hoping to outsmart the loop, to reroute fate. And for a moment, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because at 10:49, you were gone again.

The tenth time, he tried to beat death to the punch. He took every pill in the drawer, fell to the floor in the motel bathroom. And still, he woke up next to you. Alive. Cursed. Crushed.

Time lost meaning.

It wasn't hours or minutes anymore. It was just distance. Distance between now and the moment the world ended again. The sun didn’t rise anymore. It just counted down.

He tried everything.

He nailed the door shut, dragged the dresser in front of it. Burned the car. Hid the keys. He locked you in the bathroom and stood outside, sobbing, fists clenched against the wood. He made you wear a helmet. Made you promise not to speak, not to move. He held your body too tight, lips against your temple, whispering, please don’t die this time, please don’t leave me, please, please, please-

Still, every single time- 10:49. 10:49. 10:49. 10:49. And you were gone.

It started to feel like punishment. But for what? For his past? For the fights, the arrests, the lies? For not telling you he loved you before the loop began? Did that moment even exist anymore?

He didn’t know what day it was. What month. If it had been weeks or months or years. You never remembered a thing. You were always new, unbroken, untouched by the fire of this loop. But he remembered everything.

And that was the curse.

Then came the night he stopped trying.

He lay beside you and didn’t speak. Didn’t tape the windows, didn’t light a candle, didn’t check the time every ten seconds. He didn’t tell you to stay. He just curled closer and held you as if it wasn’t the last time. He told you stories – real ones, messy ones. Childhood memories. Dreams he had. Things he’d never said out loud. He told you about the first time he realized you were it for him.

And when the clock struck 10:49, you didn’t jerk, didn’t bleed, didn’t vanish in a storm of glass and steel.

You just… faded.

Soft. Silent. As if the light went out in the universe and took you with it. But before it happened – just before – your eyes locked with his.

And something in them knew.

You looked right at him like it wasn’t the first time. Like it never had been.

“I know you.”

That broke something. Or healed it. Or maybe both.

From that night on, JJ stopped fighting the end. Instead, he started changing the middle.

He gave himself twelve hours to love you like he never dared before. Twelve hours to kiss your wrist. To trace the freckles on your back. To slow dance in a motel kitchen. To laugh until you snorted. To watch you bite into an apple and act like it was divine.

Twelve hours to live like it would last.

If this was a curse, then he would make it beautiful. Make it worthy of you.

And after that something has changed.

10:01 AM.

You shift beside him in the mess of motel sheets, limbs tangled, your skin warm against his beneath the thin blanket. The morning light creeps through the slats of the blinds in golden stripes, cutting across your bare shoulder and catching the dust suspended in the air, making everything shimmer. The room is still and slow, like the world itself hasn’t fully woken up yet.

JJ doesn't move. He just watches you. Like he always does. Like it's the only thing he's sure of anymore.

He memorizes every single detail – how your nose wrinkles just a little when the sunlight finds your face, how you instinctively shift closer to him, nose nudging against his chest, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips as you bury yourself in the safety of his warmth. How your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, but still sharp, still playful, that familiar glint already dancing in them.

And then, like clockwork – like ritual – you stretch slowly, a grin tugging at your lips, and ask the question that starts every day in this cursed cycle:

“Will you ever stop looking at me like that?”

Your voice is sleep-rough and teasing, but he hears the tenderness under it. The hope.

He blinks once. Breathes in. Breathes you in.

“Not really.”

Your laugh is slow and unguarded, like the morning sun itself – warm, soft, effortless. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, JJ doesn’t think about 10:49. Doesn’t think about the end. He lets it go. Just for now. Just for this.

He lifts a hand and gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. You’re still smiling. Still his. So he kisses you. Your temple first. Then your eyelids. Your cheeks. The tip of your nose. Slow, reverent kisses like prayers. Worship. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops. He kisses every inch of your face until there’s nothing left but your mouth.

You laugh again, half-heartedly trying to squirm away, but it’s no use. The moment your lips meet his, everything else in the world falls away. There’s no motel. No clock. No curse. Just you and him. Just this.

His fingers cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss, tilting your chin toward him, and your hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer. He doesn’t stop until his chest starts to burn from lack of air, and even then he breaks away only for a second, breathing hard, and between every sharp inhale, he kisses you again. Tiny, desperate kisses. Like he’s trying to stay tethered to this moment.

You're breathless when you turn away, laughing, cheeks flushed. His weight is half draped over you now, hovering just enough to watch you, to keep taking you in like it might be the last time.

The sunlight glints off your lashes. The freckles you always complain about – his favorite thing – are scattered across your nose like tiny constellations. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised and parted, and you look like a secret he never wants the world to find out.

You look like infinity.

“Too greedy today, Maybank?” you tease, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Your fingers thread slowly through the strands, and your nails scrape gently across his scalp.

He shudders.

And then he crumbles.

He lowers himself until his forehead rests against your collarbone, his body curled into yours like a man in need of shelter. His arms wrap around your waist, and he breathes you in like you’re air, like you’re home, like nothing else matters. And in that moment, he is soft. Unguarded. Devoted. He hums low in his throat, a sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You laugh again – light, musical, perfect – and hold him tighter.

And JJ thinks if this was all the loop ever gave him, he would let it break him a thousand more times, just to hear that sound one more time.

12:17 PM.

You're still in bed.

Neither of you has moved much. The sheets are tangled around your legs, warm with body heat and littered with crumbs from the biscuits you demolished straight from the pack. The sweet scent of raspberry tea lingers in the air, mingling with the faint haze of cigarette smoke. Sunlight, now softened and lower in the sky, casts long golden shadows across the motel floor.

The radio murmurs in the background, an old tune playing like it wandered in from a 1960s rom-com, all soft guitars and dusty vocals. Static crackles through every so often – brief bursts of white noise – like the universe can’t quite hold the moment still. You’re lying on his chest, your ear pressed to the steady thump of his heartbeat, and every so often, he feels your breath against his skin.

JJ hasn’t said much. He’s content to breathe you in. To let your weight anchor him to the moment.

But then, without warning, he stubs out his cigarette and leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Shall we dance?” he murmurs, low and soft, like it might break the spell.

Your body shivers involuntarily at the sound of his voice so close, and you twist just enough to look up at him over your shoulder, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his neck. But your brows furrow.

Dance?

JJ Maybank doesn’t dance.

Not at parties, not during slow songs at school dances, not that one night at the Château when it was just the two of you left under the stars. He always stayed back, leaning against the wall or the hood of someone’s truck, cigarette tucked between his fingers, watching you like you were something he couldn’t quite reach. Like he was scared that if he moved, you might vanish.

So you frown in confusion, and he notices immediately, letting out a quiet laugh as he reaches up to smooth the crease between your brows with his thumb.

“Don’t look at me like I’ve grown two heads,” he says, smiling in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You roll over, sitting up, pulling the blanket with you as you plant yourself in front of him, eyes narrowing playfully.

“You, JJ Maybank, my boyfriend of three years who can barely clap on beat, you’re asking me to dance?” Your voice is half mockery, half wonder, your mouth already twitching with the threat of a smile.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in his eyes. A softness. A hunger. You haven’t seen that exact look before.

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest.

“Where’s my boyfriend?” you say, eyes wide. You throw the blanket off and leap from the bed, backing away toward the center of the room. “You alien! What have you done with him? Where is my real JJ?”

He laughs – really laughs – and the sound is so full and bright that it sends shivers through your entire body. That laugh always gets you. It always has.

You squeal and take off across the room like a mouse, darting from corner to corner, trying to keep distance between you, but it’s useless. He chases you with a grin, slow and patient, eyes full of amusement like a hunter who already knows the ending.

When he finally catches you, his arm loops firmly around your waist and pulls you flush against him. You're breathless with laughter, heart pounding, and you reach up to push at his chest, but he just kisses you instead. Quick and hot and full of something deeper than playfulness.

The music shifts behind you. The radio skips into a slower song, mellow and swaying, like the universe decided to join in.

He pulls away from the kiss just enough to make you chase his mouth, to leave you hanging there for a second, lips parted and wanting. His forehead presses against yours, and his hands find yours, curling his fingers gently through yours as he breathes you in.

“Kisses only after dancing, my lady,” he whispers, voice thick with teasing but there’s an ache in it too, something too tender to ignore.

Your heart stutters.

You exhale and let him lead, stepping with him into the middle of the room as he guides you into a slow sway. It’s awkward at first – he steps on your toes, mutters a curse under his breath, and tries to apologize– but you just laugh, grabbing his face and brushing your fingers through his messy hair like you always do.

You whisper something silly. Something soft. And he smiles against your forehead.

There’s nothing graceful about the way you move together. His rhythm is clumsy, yours offbeat, but none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Not when you’re so close that you can feel his breath between each word. Not when the air around you is glowing with sunlight and something that feels suspiciously like forever.

JJ wants to bottle this moment. Wants to burn it into his skin. He wants this memory to scar. Because nothing – not time, not death, not fate – could take this from him if it’s part of him.

You rest your head on his chest, and he closes his eyes, letting the music and your heartbeat blur into one.

Few things in the world could ever be better than this.

And if he has to lose you again- … if 10:49 comes and rips it all away- … then at least he had this.

At least he had you, dancing barefoot in the middle of a cheap motel room, smiling like you had no idea the world was ending.

2:53 PM

He gave this day to you. Every second, every breath.

If there was a time when JJ Maybank fought this loop – raged against it, tried to break it – those days were long gone. Now, he didn't fight anymore. He endured. He accepted the curse, welcomed it even, because what was the alternative? A world without you.

He could live in this purgatory a thousand lifetimes if it meant hearing your laugh in the morning, watching your lashes flutter open, feeling the weight of your body slide over his under sun-warmed sheets. He would watch you die a hundred more times just to see you wake up again. Because you always woke up. Disheveled. Glowing. Soft.

So when you stepped onto the motel balcony, coffee cup in hand and sunlight painting your skin, and said you wanted to go to the beach.

He didn’t hesitate.

He packed the bag before you finished your sentence. You teased him about it, still in your robe, rifling through your bag to choose a swimsuit like it was the most important decision in the world. Maybe it was.

Ten minutes later, you were in the passenger seat, legs on the dashboard, blasting a playlist of chaotic 2010s summer hits. Your voice cracked as you sang too loud, too off-key, but JJ had never heard anything better. The windows were down, your hair whipped around like a wild thing, and he thought: God, don’t let this end.

He gripped the steering wheel too tight.

The wind tangled your hair, and you threw your hands up to the chorus of a song that meant nothing, and yet suddenly, everything. His chest ached with it. You weren’t doing anything special. Just being. Just existing. And he couldn’t bear the thought that soon you wouldn’t.

You stopped at a gas station halfway there, claiming the picnic wouldn’t be complete without “a borderline irresponsible amount of snacks.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t look at prices. What did money matter in a world that reset?

You stood in the candy aisle debating the moral superiority of double-stuffed Oreos versus original. He watched you like he was afraid you'd vanish if he blinked. He bought both. And a pair of overpriced tourist keychains – mini surfboards, one pink and chipped, the other blue. He handed you yours, clipped the other to his keys like it was sacred.

You beamed. Your arm looped through his like you never wanted to let go.

By the time you got to the beach, the sun had begun to soften into gold. The sky was pale and endless. The air smelled like salt and sunblock. The water was warm like milk, shimmering with that late-afternoon kind of peace that made the world feel far away.

You spread out the blanket, flopped onto it with dramatic flair, and asked him to rub sunscreen on your back. Of course he made a comment. He always did. Something whispered in your ear that made you squirm and laugh and swat at him. But you let him linger. His hands warm against your skin, fingers tracing your spine like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

And then he went to surf.

He felt more alive than he had in days, months, maybe ever. The board under his feet, your voice calling from the shore like the sun itself had learned how to speak.

“That’s my man! Get it, babe!” you shouted, clapping like an idiot, earning a few looks from strangers. You didn’t care.

He fell. Of course he did. The wave knocked him sideways and the water filled his nose and ears, but when he came up sputtering, all he could hear was your laughter ringing across the sand.

“Fall more gracefully next time, Maybank!” you shouted, tossing him a towel as he dragged himself onto the shore. “I’m out here hyping you up and you’re out there dying!”

He didn’t even bother with the towel. He grabbed you instead.

You squealed and kicked, laughing so hard your body went limp against his as he hauled you toward the water. You shrieked when it touched your skin, cold and shocking, but then you melted into it, into him, arms around his neck.

You splashed water in his face. He got you back. You shrieked louder, but your smile never faded.

It ended in a kiss.

It always did.

Your mouth met his with salt still on your lips, your legs still tangled around his waist, and his hands pressed against your back like maybe this time – maybe – he could hold you together.

“PG-13, JJ,” you murmured between kisses, breathless, flushed. “There are kids here.”

He grinned like he owned the ocean.

“I’d care,” he said, biting back another kiss, “if they were ours.”

You blinked at him.

Before you could react, he slapped your ass underwater and lifted you into his arms again, spinning you around as you shrieked and giggled and wrapped your legs tighter around him.

People stared. But you didn’t notice.

JJ didn’t care.

All he could think about was you. The weight of you in his arms. The way your laugh carried on the wind. The feeling of your body molded against his in a sea that could wash it all away in seconds.

And he thought: if this is the day I have, I’ll live it like it’s the only one that ever mattered.

Because to him, it was.

6:37 PM.

JJ stands shirtless at the tiny stove in the motel kitchenette, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband damp where the shower never fully dried him. His skin still smells like your soap. His curls drip onto the back of his neck.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the counter behind him, legs swinging idly, dressed in one of his T-shirts that swallows you whole. The hem brushes your thighs and clings to your still-warm skin. You hum a ridiculous, made-up melody – off-key and proud of it – as you balance a spoon on your nose like a circus act.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t have to. You know he’s smiling.

The spoon wobbles. You catch it, spin it like a baton.

“Macaroni and cheese counts as dinner, right?” you ask, tone serious like this is a moral dilemma.

He hums in acknowledgment, still focused on the bubbling pot in front of him. But you’re not looking at dinner.

You’re watching his back. The ridges of muscle shifting as he moves. The constellation of tiny red marks along his shoulder blades – your marks. Left there last night in a fit of laughter and gasps and nails digging in too hard because you didn’t want to let go.

You grin, a slow burn curling in your stomach.

Sensing your eyes, he turns the burner off and finally faces you.

He walks toward you slowly, lazily, like a predator indulging a game. His bare feet are quiet on the linoleum. When he stops between your knees, you feel the heat of him first – radiating off his skin, soaking into yours.

Without a word, he plucks the spoon from your nose with two fingers. You open your mouth to protest, but the words die when he leans in and presses a feather-light kiss to the tip of your nose. The most infuriating kind of disarming. You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

He laughs. The sound vibrates in his chest – low and warm – and you press your hands to him just to feel it.

“Only if we open that bottle of wine that’s been in the fridge forever,” he murmurs.

You snort.

“We’ve been here two days, Maybank.” You flatten your palms against his chest, feel the subtle flex of muscle beneath your fingers. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just there. Solid and warm and yours.

Your laugh slices through the stillness like a spark in dry air.

He watches you like he could memorize you in pieces. The curve of your cheek. The glint in your eyes. The way you tilt your head when you laugh like this. He wants to burn this version of you into his memory. Etch it into his skin. Something he can take with him when time rips you away again.

His hands slide to your hips. And then his voice drops, barely a breath. “This is forever for me.”

The words are soft but heavy. He doesn’t say them like a promise. He says them like a fact. Like a quiet surrender.

Then he kisses you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’s trying to kiss twelve hours into forever. Like if he lingers long enough, you won’t disappear at all. Your fingers slide up the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he lets you consume him. Lets himself fall.

You exhale into his mouth, your body melting into his, the taste of salt and heat and a long day clinging to his skin.

You don’t notice the way his hand shifts behind your back. The way his eyes flick down to his wristwatch.

6:43. Time is still moving. And he’s running out of it.

7:44 PM.

You’re curled up on the motel’s hideous plaid couch, one of those scratchy, faded things that looks like it belonged to a waiting room in the '90s. The television glows quietly across the room, playing some forgettable drama neither of you is watching. The volume’s low, the dialogue muffled, white noise against the silence that’s slowly thickening between you.

Your legs are stretched out, your bare feet resting in JJ’s lap. His hands trace gentle patterns along your ankle, lazy and distracted. He doesn’t look away from you, though. Not really. His eyes are there in the periphery, watching the way you fidget with the hem of his shirt. The way your breathing changes when the silence goes on too long.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering blue light of the TV and the faint red glow of the clock on the nightstand. It flashes rhythmically…

7:44… 7:45…

…like it knows something you don’t.

And maybe you do. Some part of you. Somewhere deep in your bones.

“JJ,” you murmur. Your voice is small, tired. A little lost. You shift your head to rest against the back of the couch, your eyes on the ceiling now. “If this were the last day of your life… what would you do?”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He freezes. Just for a second. But you feel it.

JJ’s breath catches in his throat, and his grip on your ankle stills. His chest contracts like something inside him is physically caving in. The clock pulses again.

7:46.

He turns his head to look at you.

And in that moment, he sees you in a way that punches the air from his lungs, like he’s seeing you for the first time and for the last time all at once. He takes you in like someone memorizing a painting before it’s torn off the wall. Your bare knees curled into the cushion, the sleepy line of your mouth, the creases at the corners of your eyes, the way his shirt hangs off your shoulder like it was made for this: for you, here, now.

He doesn’t want to think about time. Not now. Not with you like this.

So he doesn’t.

He leans forward slightly, his voice low and steady.

“I’d spend it all on you.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Gentle. Almost reverent. Like he’s afraid it’ll break you. Like he’s already broken.

You blink at him, surprised by how serious he sounds. You weren’t expecting a real answer. You meant it as a joke – something light to toss into the room to fill the silence, to chase away the shadows gathering at the edges of the night. But JJ doesn’t laugh.

He’s still watching you.

And there’s something in his gaze – tender and full of something else, something heavier. A kind of sadness you can’t name yet. A softness you don’t quite understand. Like he’s letting you see something he’s been hiding for a long time.

Your throat tightens.

You open your mouth to joke, to defuse it – something about how cheesy he sounds or how he forgot about pizza – but the words don’t come. They catch halfway and fall flat, and suddenly your chest aches and your eyes sting and you’re pressing your face into his neck without knowing why.

Tears slide down your cheeks silently. They don’t come all at once. Just a slow, steady leak of emotion you can’t explain. You don’t know why it feels like this. Like something in the room is shifting. Tilting.

But JJ knows.

He wraps his arms around you like he means it. Like he needs it. Like if he doesn’t hold you right now, he’ll fall apart completely.

And you ask him, voice shaking: “Tell me something true.”

There’s no hesitation. He doesn’t say it like it’s a confession. He says it like it’s a fact. Like it’s always been true and always will be. “You are the only thing that has ever mattered.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

You just stay there in the dim glow, tucked into his chest as the clock ticks louder in the silence.

7:49…

7:50…

And the night is beginning to end.

10:42 PM.

The motel is quiet now. The television’s off, and the soft hum of the fridge is the only sound left to fill the room. The air is warm and still. Your leg is tangled over his, your cheek resting on his bare shoulder like it belongs there, like you belong there.

JJ doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

He wants to remember this moment in microscopic detail. The way your fingers curl loosely against his ribs. The sound of your sleepy exhale. The faint scent of coconut shampoo clinging to your damp hair. He wants to stop time – not to fix it, not to change anything – but just to live here a little longer. In the quiet. In the warmth of you.

You speak softly. Your voice is low and dreamy, heavy with the kind of sleepiness that makes everything feel far away.

“I had a dream once,” you say, like you’ve forgotten the weight of the world, like you don’t know what’s coming in seven minutes. “We lived in a town in the mountains. Really small. There was this little house with yellow shutters and a garden that needed weeding all the time.”

JJ closes his eyes. He can picture it.

“I worked in a bookstore,” you go on. “And you… I don’t know, you fixed bikes or something. You wore flannel. We had a dog- … huge, stupid thing. Chewed everything. You hated that dog.”

He lets out a soft laugh, his nose buried in your hair. It smells like your soap. It smells like home.

“I’ve never hated dogs,” he mumbles.

“You didn’t like this one,” you murmur, smiling against his skin. “He ate all your shoes.”

He laughs again – quiet, real – but it barely rises above a breath. He wants to say something, but his throat is tight. Too tight.

You tilt your head and look up at him, your eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

“I liked that dream,” you whisper. “It felt like something we could’ve had. If things had been easier, I guess.”

JJ swallows hard.

He can see it all now. You in a faded apron behind a bookstore counter, glasses slipping down your nose. Him outside in the cold, grease on his hands. A porch light that never goes out. Mismatched mugs. A kid with your laugh and his temper. You yelling at the dog while he swears under his breath about another chewed boot.

It could’ve been a good life.

It would’ve been.

“It sounds perfect,” he says, quietly.

“I'd give anything to give it to you.” But he doesn’t say that part out loud.

You keep talking, voice barely above a murmur now. You say the word wedding, and it slips through his chest like a blade. Then something about matching tattoos. Then you mention fixing some beat-up car together. A child. Porch lights.

Your sentences start to drift, unravel, blur into one another. Like mist on glass. Like you’re dissolving and don’t even know it. But JJ knows.

He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to stop the clock anymore. He just watches you with the kind of stillness that only comes when a heart is breaking silently.

And maybe that’s the difference tonight.

Because this time, he isn’t fighting fate. He isn’t screaming or running or trying to change the rules. He’s just… loving you. With everything he has left.

And suddenly, something inside him breaks open – not with fear, but with clarity. This isn’t about endings. It never was.

It’s about you. Your voice. Your warmth. The way your lips twitch before you smile. The way you say his name when you're too tired to pretend you're not in love with him.

So he says it. Quiet. No weight. No build-up. Just truth.

“I love you.”

You blink.

Then you freeze – not like someone dying, not like someone slipping away. But like someone hearing something they've been waiting for their whole life.

“What?” you laugh softly, blinking again, like maybe you misheard.

JJ doesn’t look away.

“I love you,” he repeats, even quieter now. Like a prayer. “I don’t need the house, or the dog, or the porch light. I don’t need anything if you’re not there.”

Your eyes shine in the half-light of the motel room, wide and startled. Your hand comes up to touch his chin, soft fingers grounding him in this moment.

“You’ve never said that before.”

He breathes in, slow and deep. “I know.”

“Why now?”

He looks at you. There’s no fear in his eyes anymore. Only you. “Because I finally stopped being afraid.”

You blink again – once, slowly – and lean in so close your forehead brushes his. “Then say it again.”

He smiles, like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

“I love you.”

The clock glows behind you. 10:47.

10:49 PM.

You're breathing. And then you keep breathing.

10:52 PM.

JJ doesn’t notice it at first.

Not when the minute hand ticks forward. Not when the silence in the room stretches out just a little too long.

He’s too used to the ending by now. Too used to bracing for it every time, like it’s a wave about to hit. The split-second shift in the air. The noise. The light. The crash. The absence.

But this time… the wave never comes.

The hum of the air conditioner kicks back in. A soft mechanical sigh that fills the quiet, casual and familiar and utterly, impossibly normal.

Then you shift beside him. Just a little.

You murmur something, your voice drowsy and sweet, sliding over his skin like a dream: “I think I fell asleep.”

You stretch, move against him, and your leg brushes against his. Warm. Solid. There.

And suddenly the room is too loud.

His heart begins to race – rattling inside his chest like it’s trying to escape. His mouth goes dry. His skin floods with heat, then chills a second later. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

He blinks once. Then again.

He doesn't understand.

Not until he realizes the clock says 10:52. Not 10:49. Not 10:49 and 12 seconds. Not frozen.

10:52.

You're still alive. You're still here.

He lets out a sound – an exhale, a choked gasp – like someone learning how to breathe again. His hand reaches blindly for yours, like he needs proof, physical proof, and he closes his fingers around your smaller ones. Clutches them tight. His grip is trembling.

You blink at him in surprise, your head tilted slightly as you watch him. Confused. Concerned. Soft.

“What?” you ask, barely above a whisper. Your thumb brushes against the back of his hand.

He stares at you.

He doesn’t speak right away. He can’t. He’s still somewhere between disbelief and prayer, between memory and miracle.

You’re still here. Still breathing. Still real.

He blinks hard, and something inside him breaks open. Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them, slipping down his cheeks without permission. You’ve seen him cry before but never like this. Never with that look in his eyes. Like he’s watching something divine.

“You’re still here,” he whispers.

You let out a breath of a laugh, confused but smiling. You tuck your head into the curve of his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course I’m here,” you murmur. “Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. Because how could he tell you?

That he’s watched you die more times than he’s taken a breath. That he’s kissed your body cold. That he’s screamed until his throat bled. That he’s fought and begged and bartered with a world that refused to let you stay.

And now … now you’re here. Just here. Skin warm. Heart beating. Eyes sleepy and kind.

So he doesn't say anything. He just pulls you to him, both hands holding your face like it’s breakable, and he kisses you. Not frantically. Not desperately. But like he’s coming home.

And when you kiss him back, your lips soft and sure, you don’t know what you’re giving him. You don’t know that in this moment, you’re rewriting every ending he’s ever lived through.

You don’t know that this kiss is a sunrise after a thousand storms. But JJ knows.

He pulls away only to press his forehead to yours, eyes closed, like he’s memorizing the shape of your soul. Everything in him is shaking. But slowly, steadily, the fear begins to fade.

There’s no sound but your breath. Your heartbeat. The quiet hush of the world still turning.

The clock ticks again. 10:54.

Nothing happens. Except you.

You look up at him, smiling in that way you always do when he looks at you like this – like you're his whole life, and he’s just now realizing it. You brush a thumb under his eye and kiss his cheek.

He whispers, hoarse: “That was it.”

“What was?” You tilt your head.

He smiles through the salt still drying on his face. It’s broken and bright and brand new. “All it ever took.”

You don’t ask again. You just press yourself into his chest and close your eyes.

And JJ Maybank stays awake just a little longer, watching the clock blink forward, every second now an uncharted miracle.

Because you’re here. And this is tomorrow.

thankx for reading <3

okay, that’s it. hope you liked it, because i adore this work. wrote it after rewatching “If I stay” — some old good ya adaptations never leave me with my sad girl mood alone. so if you’ve got any thoughts, I’d really appreciate feedback — whether in the comments or my inbox! :3

– your santi 🪐

jj m.list // main masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank angst #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fic #jj maybank fanfiction

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ghostgirl-22 · 3 days ago

Note

Thinking about toxic artrick who start having a fwb situation to quench their thirst during dry spells. One of them is still dating around while it kills the other so they (im thinking art but you can do whatever) decide to start dating other people aswell and which makes person 1 lose their mind and they start slashing tires, smashing windows, sabotaging, stuffing stuff in their exhaust pipe, showing up to dates, cheating and so on. Real diabolical shit because "THAT BOY IS MINE" terrorizing to scare their partner away sure but mostly "how dare you leave me!?" "How dare you think youre not mine!?" "You betrayed me!?" "This feels like cheating"

Person 1 is breaking their stuff but the other is not only eating it up but pulling away just enough to get the person to keep chasing them because they love how crazy it makes them and love feeling wanted

I only thought of patrick being toxic because i feel like art desperately needs someone to chase him and make him feel loved but this can go any direction honestly

They would give each other black eyes before they kiss probably

Love Galore

Summary: pretty much what it says in the ask. I took a few liberties. For one thing they kiss… a lot. Special thanks to fujos mel and cat for ideas on toxic pat💙 Also thanks to mel loml! For being sweet, kind and endlessly patient and lovely to me while i stressed over this. Thank you for the aesthetic and editing help bby (and thank you for actually reading this behemoth. ily forever 🫶🏾). I hope you enjoy it anon. Sorry this is like a whole thing.

Pairings: Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson x OCs, Patrick Zweig x OCs (all the dates they go on)

Content Warning (18+): Jealousy, sabotage, toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation, pushing boundaries, intoxication, weed use, underage drinking, mutual masturbation, dry humping, light BDSM dynamics (if you squint), marking, cheating, oral sex, unprotected anal sex, fingering, premature ejaculation, overstimulation, recording.

Word Count: 14.3k

It starts when they're intoxicated like all their really epic bad ideas do. A boring rainy Friday night, like any other. No plans. A lull in the semester… a lull in the tennis season. A lull in their social lives. Patrick’s got this pretty blonde girl who he calls a friend with benefits, but right now she’s got a real boyfriend and refuses to respond to his texts. Art hasn’t managed to date anyone new since his last break up… five months ago. It's beginning to feel a little depressing.

They’re up late half paying attention to some dumb movie on TNT. Patrick looks up from his laptop. “Dude, have you ever been high before?”

It’s how they end up in Patrick’s bed, passing a blunt back and forth. Art’s never done it before. Patrick’s settled next to him. Telling him about trying it over summer vacation. He’s got all these cool older friends back home. Most of them already in college. He’s always so fucking cool, of course he hangs out with college students.

Art watches him gesture as he speaks, the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger, his forefinger still wrapped in athletic tape from practice. He presses the joint to his lips and inhales. Art fixates on the way the paper singes around the edges and shortens. He exhales lazily, smoke spilling from his mouth and nose, just effortless. His gaze lands on Art and the spread of a crooked smile makes his eyes sparkle. His eyes are stupid. Art can’t figure out if they're blue or green. This close he can see the pretty ring of gold around the pupils though. Pupils that are blown wide and getting bigger.

“Come here,” Patrick says, holding the joint out. Art reaches for it and Patrick pulls it back. Art blinks as he holds it out again. He leans in and lets Patrick place it in his mouth. It’s oddly intimate that way, Patrick’s fingers just brush against his lips. Art takes another deep inhale. Patrick leans in as Art pulls back and exhales, the smoke hitting his face. Art can’t help himself, he laughs and Patrick grins.

“You’re so fucking high,” Patrick snorts.

“No I’m not,” Art smirks

”You are, look at you.” Patrick’s laughing and Art begins to laugh too. “Your cheeks are so pink.” Patrick cups his cheek with his free hand, big, warm and calloused. Maybe they’re sitting too close. Art’s not sure. His depth perception is a little fucked right now. Maybe he is high. Patrick brushes his thumb along the corner of Art’s mouth. The sound of the tv gets louder for a commercial that draws their attention and Patrick lets his hand drop from Art’s face as he takes another drag. It’s late enough for one of those girls gone wild ads to pop up.

“Fuck, that’ll be you in a couple months. So many hot college girls you’re gonna be rolling in tits and pussy.” Patrick hums.

Art laughs softly, god he's so vulgar. Art isn’t sure why it's suddenly funny. He wouldn't normally laugh at this. They’re quiet for a moment watching the tv. Art feels his boxers start to tighten staring at blurred out images of big tits bouncing. If he wasn’t high he’d probably put a pillow over his lap to cover himself. “College isn’t like that. Is it?”

“It is. Any frat party you go to the girls get so drunk and horny. God. I’m fucking horny.” Patrick sighs. He drops the still burning joint on an old souvenir ashtray on his nightstand and reaches down into his lap, hand slipped behind his boxers. Art watches him for a minute and then quickly shoves his hand into his own boxers. They haven’t jerked it at the same time since freshman year. Patrick’s look so much bigger now. For some reason, Art can’t look away.

”Oh fuck, dude. I need pussy so bad. I think I’m going crazy.” Patrick groans.

“Me too,” Art says, letting his head fall back against the wall, legs uncrossing slowly as he draws his knees up. He stares at the television. There’s now an ad for ED medication. Funny considering Art is so hard right now he could probably hold a door open with it. He wishes there was a girl here with big tits right now, he could just slip his cock between them while he watches Patrick jerk off… wait.

He feels Patrick’s free hand in his hair, tangling into the strands. Art turns to look at him. Yeah they’re too close. Art can see all his freckles. Patrick groans. “Fuck you’re girl pretty dude.” He huffs. His lips brush against Art’s cheek, mouthing at his jaw. Art gasps and then Patrick’s lips are against his own. Art licks instinctively and his tongue brushes against Patrick’s.

And they’re kissing.

Soft, wet, delicate kisses. Patrick keeping the pace…the drag to Art’s rush. Art can feel himself fall apart. Holy shit. What the fuck? It's Patrick. It's Patrick. He can hear his own heart pounding out an insane rhythm in his chest. He can feel it pulsing between his thighs where he’s stroking his cock. He’s never been so godamned hard in his life. He moans. He can’t help himself, moaning and licking into Patrick’s mouth. The orgasm hits him like a train, hard and fast. It's pulsing through him, liquid staining his boxers, he can feel the wet spot spreading. He also feels Patrick smile against his lips, breaking the kiss. Art has to stop himself from leaning in after him.

“Mm fuck,” Patrick sighs breathlessly. “What was that two seconds?” He teases, a breathless laugh as his head lulls back against the wall.

"Shut up." Art bounces his thigh as he feels his skin heat up. He must be real fucking high. That has to be the reason. He’s kissed at least 5 different girls in his dating life so far and no kiss has ever felt like… that. Not even his ex. He takes a breath. He can’t be into Patrick. That’s insane.

“It’s okay. I’m fucking close too. Holy fuck.” Patrick eases his cock out and pulls off a few more strokes. Art staring, fixated on his movements, he reaches over and wraps a hand around it. Patrick watches him, breath hitching when he grips it. It's warm and thick and hard against his already sticky palm. His mouth waters as he mimics Patrick's movements. Does it so well Patrick lets go. Art's jerking it by himself and god it's so big it feels heavy. There's a fucking weight to it.

He doesn't get more than a couple strokes before pearlescent strings start to shoot out everywhere along with the sound of a deep guttural moan that makes Art shiver. “Mm holy shit.” Patrick breathes. Art's cheeks are warm. Patrick's cum all over his hands, he wipes it on his own shorts cause they're already a mess. Patrick sighs contentedly and kicks his legs out. “Shit, I have the craziest idea.” Patrick says. He reaches for the joint and pops it back in his mouth.

“What?” Art can feel his heart still hammering away in his chest. His mind is racing. He needs a cigarette. A real cigarette.

“You know how we’ve both been kinda pent up. No girlfriends or whatever.” He lets out a puff of smoke.

“Well… yeah,” Art says.

“What if we like… helped each other… you know… like that.”

It's an insane idea but Art's intoxicated brain finds it ground breaking. He blinks slowly and then nods his head. “Yeah…that's a good idea.” Anything for another kiss.

“Nothing crazy obviously. Just friends that help each other jerk off sometimes and maybe some kissing, like what we just did.”

“Yeah, like friends with benefits.”

“Exactly. Casual.”

Is how it starts.

It happens again right away… on Saturday night as soon as they get back to the room after playing Nintendo Wii with their buddies across the hall. Patrick teases his fingers into Art’s hair and then they're off to the races.

Sunday night is no different. Art’s in the middle of finishing up his essay when Patrick grips his shoulders, leans in, sucking along the expanse of Art’s throat. Minutes later he’s on Patrick’s lap and Patrick’s got his fist full, jerking both their cocks together while they lick and taste each others mouths.

It’s easy. Of course it is. That's why they're doing it. The only reason. It's just convenient. They share a bedroom, they don’t even have to come up with an excuse to sneak off together. They don’t have to risk getting in trouble the way they would if they were sneaking out to hook up in the girls dorms.

The only hindrance is their floormates knocking on the door at all hours. It's kind of like having a bunch of brothers that won't leave you alone when you're trying to find five minutes to jerk off. That and the occasional room sweep from facilities, rushing to hide cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey Patrick snuck in last month…and their hard ons.

Other than that they can fuck around whenever and they do. Every movie night ends in kissing, touching, moaning, grinding. Weekend mornings start with them crawling into each others beds, listening to the clock radio play while they make out. Patrick’s libido is insane. He’s hard in the morning. Between classes. After dinner. At night . And he's impatient with it. Art's taking to long in the library one night and Patrick settles next to him. He grabs Art's hand and uses it under the table to rub off against till Art loses concentration and agrees to go home.

Art isn't sure the exact moment that it shifts. Maybe it's all the kissing. For Art, kissing is the main event. He could kiss Patrick for hours. Sometimes they do. He'll sit on Patrick's lap, fingers in his hair, pleasantly aroused, breathing him in until the tension boils over and Art's just grinding against Patrick's cock and moaning.

Or maybe it's the night Art moves them into new territory. He gets in late from an honor roll awards event, Patrick's finishing up in the shower. Art can smell the sweet cherry vanilla scent of his expensive cologne as the steam pours from the open door. He smells so good. Has he always smelled this good? Why did Art never notice? Patrick walks into the bed room. Skin dewy, glistening, freckles still visible in the low light of their bedroom, towel cinched around his waist.

Art can't help it. He drops his book bag and goes for a kiss. Patrick smiling and then ceding to it. Art mindlessly grabs at the towel for purchase and feels it slip off in his grasp.

“Shit I’m…” he trails off glancing at Patrick’s naked lower half, staring as his cock grows hard from a tangle of pubic hair. He’s seen Patrick naked before but not like this. He sorta loses his mind as he drops to his knees.

It's clear by how fast Patrick loses it inside his mouth that he likes that. Art having never done it before, swallows reflexively before realizing what hes doing then he sinks down to sit on the floor, dazed. His ears ringing, his skin heated, his cock still emptying, little aftershocks from where he finished with hardly a stroke in his uniform pants.

“Fuck, dude that was insane…” Patrick’s flushed and grinning. “Way fucking better than my last girlfriend.”

Art runs his palms over his pants. His heartbeat, so loud in his ears, mouth still full of saliva. Reaching for the hand Patrick holds out, he’s pulled to his feet. He stumbles gracelessly, Patrick steadying him.

“You just needed something in your mouth, huh?” Patrick looks him over, lips quirked up in a mischievous half smile. He rubs his thumb along Art's bottom lip, watching Art kitten lick at it. His gaze darkening. "Jesus. Fuck," he whispers and then he presses his lips to Arts, kissing him.

The room suddenly feels too small. It’s quiet and warm. Still, but for their breathing and the ambient noise coming from the hallway outside. Art feels anxious, no it’s more nebulous than that. Like something's overwhelming his senses. A door slams suddenly outside and Art startles, which makes Patrick grin.

"I think I love you," Art whispers.

Patrick huffs a laugh, but it seems a forced. “You’re a mess. Go clean up.” He teases, leaving Art alone with it. Trying really really hard not to feel it.

Art knows Patrick’s not interested in talking about it. He tries to recover, shrug it off, act like he doesn’t give a fuck either way but he’s never been good at not giving a fuck. Not the way Patrick is.

He gives a fuck actually. He does very, very much.

The next day Art catches Patrick in their bedroom with someone else. Ellie Pierce, pretty, blonde, big bouncy tits. Art knows her from chemistry class. She's tugging her uniform skirt back down over her thighs while Patrick's zipping up. She's flustered and apologetic. Patrick just stands there amused. “Sorry man— didn’t expect you back so early.” A lie… he wanted Art to see. There are nicer ways to fuck someone over but Patrick's never been especially nice.

Art makes a vague excuse and leaves the bedroom. He feels dizzy, like he’s just been dropped a hundred feet in a few seconds. He walks on unsteady legs down the hall to the nearest study room. There he tries mindlessly to focus on his next class. Ignoring the stinging in his eyes and the burning in his throat.

God, Ellie Pierce. Patrick can’t be that desperate. Shes not that pretty, he thinks meanly. She’s not good at tennis. She’s not even fucking good at chemistry. Her lab partner literally carries her. Whatever. Its nothing… it doesn’t fucking matter. Except it does.

He mostly avoids Patrick for the rest of the day. Eating ahead of their regular meeting time, not really communicating outside of what’s necessary as they play doubles in a home game against Valleywood Academy.

They win actually. Though Art can’t really take credit for that. Apparently Patrick plays even better when he’s fucking some ditzy blonde girl with big tits.

After the game, Art chooses to linger and watch a few of their teammates finish up matches instead of heading straight back to the dorm with Patrick like he usually does.

He sips his water, settling on the mostly empty stands in front of the Sims twins match which is wrapping up in its final set. Every time it feels like the lump in his throat has settled, he thinks of Ellie’s messy hair and her tugging her skirt down and it rises up again even larger.

“Whoa this must be a sign of the apocolypse.”

Art looks up to see Jaimie French approach. He’s got his tennis racket stretched over his shoulders, like a baseball player might stretch a bat. He's so insanely tall, Art has too lean back shielding his gaze from the sun to look up at him. At 6'5 he's one of the tallest on the team. Everyone calls him Frenchie, the nickname in quotes on the back of his MRTA bluesweatshirt.

"What are you talking about, French?” Art mutters.

“Well I see you, but I don't see Zweig, thats gotta be a harbinger.”

“Why?”

”Cause you’re joined at the hip.”

Art rolls his eyes. “No we’re not. We’re just doubles partners.”

“Interesting,” Jaime regards Art, a peculiar look on his face before he drops his racket to his side and stretches out on the bench next to him.“Not roommates. Not even best friends. Just doubles partners,” He's got an easy smile, like Patrick, Art's brain unhelpfully supplies (fuck he's still so fucking lovesick). Jamie reaches over and lightly pats Art on the thigh. "Do I detect trouble in paradise?"

”Shut up,” Art says, shaking his head, a small smile playing on his lips.

Jamie laughs, "I'm just concerned," his hand lingers on Art's upper thigh but Art doesnt read into it. It’s not like it means anything. If only he could get that through his idiot head about Patrick. It means nothing. “Good game by the way. Do you guys ever lose?”

“Yeah of course.” Art shrugs. “We lost once. Like 6 years ago.”

“Sometimes I think you're the sweet humble one and then I forget you’re both just cocky little assholes,” Jamie laughs and Art grins at him. They chat nonsense for the rest of the match and walk back to the dorm together when it's over. “You should come to Brett’s pool party this weekend.” Jamie says. “I’m driving, I’ll give you a ride.”

“No probably not,” Art says automatically. He usually doesnt make plans without Patrick, an odd thing now that he thinks about it. But then he remembers Patrick has Ellie now. He’ll likely be too busy with her to think about Art at all. “Actually yeah, yeah I might.” Art says, changing his mind mid thought.

Jamie smiles. “Okay then… text me when you know for sure, Donaldson.”

“Okay then, French,” Art smirks. He departs Jamie’s doorway to walk to his own room.

Thankfully Patrick's alone when he gets there. He’s already in boxers, lounging on his bed with his laptop open.

Art goes straight into the shower before Patrick can say much of anything. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk about any of it and he's certain Patrick doesn't either. Dry spell over, they can go back to normal. Whatever that is after all of… that.

When Art’s dressed for bed he settles at his desk, plugs his headphones into his iPod, ready to get a jumpstart on some calculus homework. Patrick approaches him, leans over like hes curious what Art is working on as he tangles his fingers into Art’s damp hair. Art tenses, tugging his headphones out.

“Can you believe the smell of your shampoo gets me hard now?” Patrick sighs and starts kissing along his throat.

“What—what are you doing?” Art swallows.

“Hmm?” Patrick hums. Another sucking kiss into Art’s throat.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend now?”

Patrick laughs softly. “Girlfriend? Come on dude, we were just messing around."

Art turns to face him. “What the fuck does that mean?"

Patrick's lips quirk, he's gazing at Art like he's talking to an amusing child. "It means what it means. We're just hooking up… it's no big deal." He attempts to kiss Art on the mouth but Art presses a palm to his chest to hold him back.

Okay so… so you want to keep doing this… while you're fucking her?"

"Yeah, why not." He shrugs.

Art supposes he shouldn’t be stunned by Patrick’s audacity anymore especially after knowing him this long, but sometimes its still hard to fathom.

Patrick gazes at his lips before looking back up to his eyes. "Dude it's not that big of a deal. This is just how this kind of thing works. Try not to take it so seriously. Just have fun with it." Patrick says softly. Like he's trying to convince Art that it's still casual. That it still means nothing. It's so fucking easy for him.

Art takes a deep breath. He should stop the madness right here. End it right fucking now. “So if you can hook up with other people, I can too.”

"Yeah, of course," Patrick grins, but it's a little tighter. "You uh… you have someone else in mind?"

Art doesn't. Embarrassingly it hadn't occurred to Art either. Ever since this situation started he's ashamed to admit he hasn't thought about anyone else. Not even his ex. No one but Patrick, but that's the last thing he's going to admit right now. "Maybe."

Patrick's grin slips a little more. Good. "Who is it man? Do I know her?"

Art shrugs, acting mysterious but only because he's got nothing. "I don't want to tell you in case I jinx it."

"I could help you out man," Patrick suggests. "Like a wingman or something."

"No its um, no you don't know her. I'll figure it out," Art mutters quickly.

"Sure. Okay great. I look forward to meeting her." Patrick says quietly. His eyes sweep low to Art's lips again and he leans forward, cupping a hand at the nape of Art's neck, teasing the soft curls just at the base of his scalp. It feels so good Art lets his eyes slide shut. Moments later he feels Patrick’s mouth on his.

Of course he goes along with it. At this point he'd probably do whatever the fuck Patrick asked. His feelings haven't gone anywhere no matter how much he wills them to. It's all super casual.

Art's not even the jealous type. Really, he's not. Okay maybe he is… but only a little bit. He doesn't hate Ellie… she's just really annoying. The way she starts clinging to Patrick, touching him all the time. Calling him Patty. "You're so cute Patty, you're so funny Patty." Even worse, the way Patrick just eats it all up.

It's not even Art's fault. If Ellie were better at chemistry, if she paid attention instead of talking too much in her too tight uniform she wouldn't have had to ask him "Artie what do we mix again?"

It's not his fault he couldn't remember the right reagents just on the spot for her. It's not his fault she trusted him blindly and didn't double check the chemicals she was using.

Midway through class her beaker starts emitting something that smells strongly of sulfur. The whole room suddenly smells unbearably awful. The liquid in the beaker is bubbling and spitting and then quite suddenly, it erupts. The disgusting mess lands all over a distressed looking Ellie. Luckily she’s wearing her safety goggles this time.

Class and Ellie are dismissed early for the smell and poor Ellie gets a zero for today’s experiment. Art goes to lunch early relieved he won’t have to see Ellie hanging all over Patrick today. Only to find him chatting up some new blonde.

Fuck.

He's always been a flirt but it never really bothered Art before now. Apparently, Ellie was just one of many girls on his radar. And yet, every night without fail Patrick's all over him, touching him, kissing him. And fine. Okay. If he's really nothing more than another means Patrick is using to get off maybe Art just needs a distraction. It goes both ways right?

He texts Jamie that afternoon. Surely there will be a ton of pretty girls, new girls that don't know his ex or Patrick at Brett’s pool party.

Art doesn’t even tell Patrick about it. The last thing he needs is Patrick standing over his shoulder competing with him over girls they’re both attracted to.

He runs his plan by Jamie. “Oh so you want to hook up?” Jamie asks.

“Well I mean… sorta? I’ve been in a dry spell since my ex,” Art says. “I just— I want to get out of it.” He’s not gonna go into any more detail than that of course. What happens between him and Patrick is irrelevant.

“Yeah okay, that makes sense. I can help you. I’ll be your wingman.” Jamie says.

None of it actually goes the way he imagines it. He drinks too much of the punch… not realizing it's spiked. It's so good it tastes like candy. He barely gets wet in the pool before he's relegated to a seated position. Too tipsy and dizzy to do much else. That's where he meets Shannon. She settles next to him on the front porch equally tipsy. She's a senior at a nearby all girls tennis academy. She’s sweet, funny, curly dark hair and brown eyes. And she looks incredible in a bikini. Art's never been the type for a casual hook up. He's not sure why… there's just something so weird about sex, too intimate for him to navigate with a stranger. He asks her on a date and they exchange numbers when Jamie comes out of the party, ready to leave.

She starts texting him right away. “Good morning” messages and “how is the day going?” And suddenly they’re texting all the time. Patrick notices, maybe a couple days into it. He and Art are in bed, Patrick on top of him… making out while some movie watches them.

“Why is your phone buzzing so much?” Patrick groans when Art’s phone goes off for the fourth time in a row. Art pulls out of Patrick’s embrace and gets up to check it. Grinning at the little messages Shannon sent.

Patrick clears his throat. “Who are yah talking to?” He asks, nonchalantly.

“Oh I met a girl at Brett’s pool party.” Art mutters, tapping out an answering text.

Patrick sits up. “Really?” Art doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s grip tightens around the messy bed sheets.

“Mmhm… she plays for Westlake.”

“Oh… uh… what’s her name?”

”Shannon.”

“Does Shannon have a last name?”

”Uh… Bordeaux? I think. Why do you know her?” Art squints at him.

Patrick shrugs, like it’s nothing. “No… no doesn’t sound familiar. Can you tell her your busy though.” He says impatiently.

“Mmhm,” Art says distractedly, he keeps typing as another message comes in.

A minute later Patrick’s snatching the phone from his hand and tossing it across the room. “Dude, seriously?” Art says.

“You’re busy,” Patrick says, a little forcefully. He pulls Art into a kiss. It’s Art’s intention to stop him, but the kiss feels different. Patrick is usually lazy with his kisses, slow, patient. Taking his time like he wants Art to feel every slow roll of his tongue. But at the moment Patrick's grip is mildly bruising. His tongue thrusting deep into Art’s mouth immediate, dominant…insistent. It’s titillating. His body weight settles heavy onto Art, dominating him with the same energy of the kiss. He reaches into Art’s boxers. Art grips at his back, groaning against Patrick’s lips as he forgets all about his phone for the next hour.

It’s coincidence really, Patrick insists, when he shows up with four of their buddies to Art's first date with Shannon. Art takes her climbing at a local sports club. Admittedly he and Patrick and the guys have been there before. But it makes no sense for them to show up there on a random Saturday night. Patrick alone is irritating. Patrick with the guys is actually hell. They’re loud and obnoxious, snorting with giggles and making kissing noises whenever Art leans in to chat with her. “You guys are so fucking immature,” Art snaps after a while. This makes them giggle more. It’s pretty impossible to have any kind of normal date.

It’s much less coincidental on the second date when Patrick shows up at the movie theater and happens to bring his date, Vanessa, along. Patrick waves and makes a beeline to him, dragging Vanessa along behind him. “I’ve been dying to see this movie, dude,” he says. Shannon exchanges glances with Art. “Sorry,” he mouths.

“Isn’t this lucky? We can just double date.” Patrick says, reaching into Art’s popcorn bag.

By the third date, Art knows better. He doesn’t tell Patrick anything about their plans. Doesn’t even get ready in the room. He sneaks over to Jamie’s to get cleaned up and dressed.

It’s all going smoothly. They go to the local arcade. They have dinner and play games. And then his ex just happens to show up.

It hits him like a train, seeing her. Especially when he’s out with a new girl. It’s not like they run into each other often, she’s got a completely different schedule than he does, they share no classes, they eat at different times. The only person they have in common is… Patrick.

By that point Shannon has pretty much had enough. She leaves the date without even pretending she wants to see him again.

Art doesn’t know how, but he’s certain Patrick is to blame and he’s furious. It’s such a low blow. It took him months to get over her and for Patrick to use her as a way of destroying his chances with Shannon. He’s tense the whole ride as he takes the shuttle back to campus.

He makes a beeline for the campus rec room. Pretty much Patrick's hang out spot when he's bored. Oddly enough he feels himself getting hard as he approaches, which is stupid actually and makes no sense. He's furious and yet his pants are tightening ridiculously fast. Whatever. He can cuss Patrick out and go jerk off somewhere after.

Sure enough he spots Patrick sitting in the back of the rec room, lounging on one of the loveseats in the corner, near the group of guys who commandeered the big screen to play Xbox. He’s got his new girl, Vanessa Berkley on his lap, blonde curls and pouty lips. They're making out as Art approaches, he's teasing a hand up along her thighs, fingertips just above the hem of her short shorts. Art stuffs a hand in his pocket just to adjust and make sure how he feels isn't visible to anyone else before he approaches.

"Patrick."

“Oh, hi, how was your date?” Patrick grins, looking up at him. Skin flushed. Hand still settled on Vanessa’s bare thigh.

“You know how it went,” Art says, righteous anger hot in his chest. “Did you send my ex there?”

“What?” Patrick laughs, “Why would I do that?"

"To ruin it."

"Oh come on dude. You're still on that? Even if I wanted to… you were so ridiculously secretive about where you were going. How could I send someone when I didn’t even know where you were?”

Art glares at him. “We went to the arcade.”

“Oh well,” Patrick shrugs. “It’s a common hang out. I'm sure it was a coincidence.”

“Three coincidences? Really, Patrick? I know you did it. I know you found out where I was gonna be and you sent her there.”

“Okay, sure man.” Patrick grins. “You sound crazy by the way.”

“Vannessa, do you mind?” Art asks, he’s tired of watching Patrick rub circles along her upper thigh. And honestly if Art can’t fucking have anyone Patrick shouldn’t get to either.

Vanessa leans in and kisses his cheek. “Come find me when you’re done baby.”

Patrick smirks watching her walk out of the rec room and then gets up, approaching Art. Stepping close. Closer. Too close. Art's cock is throbbing. Pathetic.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out man. Truly I am,” He claps a hand over Art’s shoulder. “Sarah seemed like such a nice girl.”

“Shannon.”

“Oh…” he shrugs. “Right.”

“Fuck you, Patrick,” Art turns on his heel and feels Patrick catch him, gripping his forearm. Art’s stomach swoops as Patrick makes him turn around, he’s got a little smile playing on his lips as he places his palms back on Art’s shoulders and leans in.

“Remember how you gave me head the other night… what if I return the favor… help dull the ache a little?” He asks softly.

Art stares at him, all the air in his lungs just suddenly gone. He looks down, wondering if it's obvious he's been hard this whole time. It isn't, thank god. But still Patrick knows.

They don’t make it to the bedroom.

They’re kissing as soon as the elevator doors leading out of the rec room shut. Both of them forget to press the button. The door opens up on a random floor where they usually have their history lecture. They stumble out into the empty classroom. Patrick walking Art backwards, till he's leaned up against the professor's desk. "Mm.. so fucking hard. I know you wanna cum all over my tongue and forget her name, don't you?" Patrick breathes before he sinks to his knees.

Art sucks on his bottom lip, to hold back a moan as Patrick starts mouthing him through his dressy black jeans.

“Honestly she was kinda boring. Huh?" He undoes Art's zipper tugging his boxers down so his cock bobs free. "I mean..if someone had sent your ex there, honestly they woulda been doing you a favor.”

"I knew you fucking did it," Art gasps, just as Patrick takes him into his mouth. It's the best blow job he's ever had by far and its not close. Patrick isn't sweet or cute the way some girls are when they do it. Patrick is filthy. Stuffing his mouth full till his nose is pressed into Arts neatly trimmed pubic hair. Art only started doing it because he heard professional players like to be nearly hairless, not because it makes his cock look bigger. Patrick's taking full, deep breaths through his nose like he's obsessed with the smell. Licking and swallowing him down like he’s devouring something sweet hes been dreaming about for days. So sloppy and possessive, fingers gripping Art's thighs so tight, Art knows he'll leave a mark. Art's moans echo through the empty classroom. He comes so quickly he feels dizzy. Knees wobbling before Patrick gets to his feet to steady him.

Standing between Art’s legs, cradling his face and kissing him. Art tasting himself through more forceful bruising kisses. Then Patrick jerks himself off… Art watching… mesmerized till Patrick comes all over the nice shirt Art picked out for his date.

They don't really talk about Shannon again, but when he's alone, pressing his fingers over the bruises Patrick left on his thighs, when he feels the distant ache of it… he gets so hard it makes him cum with barely a touch.

Most casual thing ever.

Art doesn't think he'll meet another girl so soon but surprisingly he does.

Jamie invites him to go ATVing one weekend a couple weeks later and that’s how he meets Jessica Walker. Its about 45 minutes from campus where the streets turn into two lane roads that turn into dirt roads with signs up that say beware of the gators. A large festival style gathering. Tons of ATVs parked around a mostly dirt track with many obstacles. The place is full of locals. Apparently Jamie and his buddy Dustin are amateur riders but his friend Jessica, a pretty, tough as nails brunette with kind brown eyes, is a pro. She goes to a regular high school not far from their campus. She’s a seasoned rider and she offers to take him for a ride on the back of her rover. His arms wrapped around her waist as they speed through the rough muddy course.

After that they bond all afternoon, grabbing drinks by the tent while cheering Jamie and Dustin on. He invites her to hang out. Hanging out means going to the beach one Sunday followed by a random make out session at her house before her parents get home. He doesn’t invite her to MRTA. He doesn’t want Patrick to know about her at all.

But Patrick does find out of course. A lot sooner than Art anticipates. “I feel like I could drive an ATV.” Patrick grins when he "overhears" Art and Jamie talking about it and he invites himself the event.

Jessica is excited to see Art when they get there, why wouldn't she be? She doesn't know shes a secret. She leans in to plant a kiss on his mouth and last minuteArt turns his head so she gets his cheek. She laughs but doesn't seem bothered by it. Patrick looks her over but doesn’t say anything. He’s not particularly warm either when Art reluctantly introduces her.

He’s especially stormy when she takes Art with her on a practice run on the obstacle course before her main event. Patrick’s all but glaring at Jessica, when they return. He also seems angry at the ATV like it personally offended him. Oddly enough, her vehicle ends up out of commission in the second round of the obstacle course. Flat tire.

“There’s just no way two of my tires could be flat. This was fucking sabatoge,” Jessica mutters while glaring at the other riders.

”Yeah that is weird,” Jamie agrees.

“Must've run over something sharp in the course or something.” Patrick suggests, he’s sipping a soda from the food tent.

“No, that's not possible.” Jamie tells him. “If there was something sharp on the course it would affect more than just Jess.”

“Hm,” Patrick says. “Sorry Jess.” He doesn’t sound entirely sincere. Art glances at him.

He smiles and holds out his coke bottle. “Want some?”

Art takes a sip, “Have the rest. Come on. I want to get another.” They walk to the food tent and the lady who’s selling sodas and alcohol spots him.

“Okay kid give it back.” She says.

“I told you I wasn’t gonna steal it. Can I have another coke?” Patrick hands her a Swiss Army knife and she shifts it over to the bottle opener tool setting and pops the top off before handing him a coke. He gives her 4 dollars. “Keep the change.”

It hits Art in the middle of gulping down another sip of coke and watching the vendor flip the knife shut. “Did you—“ he turns to Patrick.

“What?” Patrick frowns, squinting at him.

“Why— why did you have that?”

“To open my drink." He says it slowly like he's talking to an idiot.

“But you took it…why did you take it?”

”She was busy and i didn't want to miss anything,” Patrick shrugs. “I told her I’d bring it back.”

“But…" Art gestures at the course. "you were standing by Jessica’s ATV.”

Patrick snorts. “Only to admire it. You really think I’d do something to it?”

Art holds his gaze. God… he actually would. He actually fucking would. He would actually stab her tire with an actual fucking knife. Distantly something heavy and hot starts to coil in Arts stomach. He tries really hard not to think about it.

"Weird you didn’t even tell me about her.” Patrick continues, he’s still smiling but there’s an edge to his voice. A tone that Art’s not all that familiar with but does nothing but fuel the heat swirling in his tummy. “Have you fucked her?”

It's so fucking out of pocket Art's mouth drops. “What?” He sputters.

“I think it’s an easy question,” Patrick says.

“You’re insane.” Art says. He lifts the coke bottle to take a drink and Patrick grips his wrist, stopping him mid movement. Art swallows.

“Hey just answer the question. Are you fucking her?”

Art keeps his gaze. “No.”

"Are you lying?" Patrick hums.

Art laughs. "No Patrick."

“Oh okay. It's cool. Let's just… not keep secrets okay?” He lets go of Art’s wrist.

Art shakes it, noticing its all red where his grip was. He feels light headed, like he needs to sit down. Like he needs to find somewhere private to touch himself.

Casual.

“You want me to buy you a hot dog?” Patrick asks like nothing happened.

So very casual.

Patrick acts relatively normal for the rest of the afternoon. Except at the end of the day. Art catches him tensing when Jessica wraps her arms around Art’s waist, and lingers there after hugging him. “I’ll teach you how to ride if you come next weekend, it's amateur day.” She grins.

Art smiles back. "Wouldn't miss it."

She leans in for a kiss. Art can practically feel Patrick’s eyes burning through him and of course when the kiss breaks, Patrick’s watching them. The same stormy expression from earlier but he looks away when Art looks at him.

He’s mostly quiet on the car ride home, seething.

"Well she's pretty. I mean… not your usual type." Patrick buzzes in his ear as they trek back towards the dorm. Art tries to ignore him.

“So cute how you ride bitch on the back of her little ATV. Really too bad about the tires though.” Oh so that’s the part that really bothered him. Art smirks a little before letting his face settle as they approach their room.

He stops to unlock the door and Patrick presses up behind him. Art looks around but the hallway is clear. Not that Patrick would give a fuck if it wasn’t. Art can feel him, fully hard. He accidentally slips the key past the lock and has to try again.

“Does licking all that sticky gloss off her mouth make you hard? The same way you get hard when you’re licking me?” Patrick says, breath hot against his hair.

“You’re disgusting.” But shivers race up and down his spine.

The lock clicks, the door swings open creating blessed space between them but not for long. Patrick grabs Art by the t-shirt and presses him against the back of the door as it shuts, body weight keeping him pinned. Wet, heated, kisses pressed along his throat into his jawline.

”Come on, give me a kiss so I can taste her too.”

"Dick," Art shoves him and he grins, barely moved for all the force Art used, right back to pinning Art.

“I don’t think she can make yours hard.” He murmurs, dotting breathy kisses all over. “That kiss was a little pathetic if you ask me. Like she wanted it so much.” The audacity of him. The absolute gall of him. So why the fuck is Art grinding against his thigh?

There’s a low ringing in his ears. Patrick reaches down and undoes his zipper, slides a hand inside his jeans and Art goes slack jawed as Patrick takes hold of him, jerking with rough heavy strokes. Art groans, head falling back against the door.

There’s a sudden sharp knock and Art gasps out a moan. Patrick cups his free hand over Art’s mouth. “Shh.” But he doesn’t stop touching. Art looks at him, eyes widening. Patrick just smiles.

”What?” He calls to whoever knocked and is now trying the knob.

“Do either of you have salt? My soup tastes horrible.” Art recognizes Jared’s voice from across the hall.

And he tries to say something but all that comes out is a moan. Patrick presses his palm tighter over Art's mouth. “Shh…Shut the fuck up,” Patrick whispers so soft in Arts ear. Then—“No,” he calls back. “Ask the twins.”

They listen to Jared mumble and walk away and suddenly Art’s spilling with a muffled moan into Patrick’s other hand.

Art doesn’t bring up Patrick slashing her tires again but sometimes when he’s alone he has to touch himself if he thinks about it for too long.

Patrick easily ruins his relationship with Jessica the next weekend. Makes him out to be some kind of a player. Pointing out hickies that he left along Art's collar bone. Asking if Shannon is the culprit (now he remembers her fucking name). And when asked who Shannon is. "Oh yeah Shannon was this real pretty girl he was hooking up with a few weeks ago. Not that you're not pretty. She was just… insanely pretty." Patrick explains. Fuck off.

Jessica believes Art when he denies wanting Shannon back but is very obviously bothered when Art can't really explain the hickies.

after carelessly destroying another opportunity for Art, Patrick hops on a rented rover. Of course he’s good at it. Probably because he doesn’t really give a fuck.

Art glares as he watches Patrick make his way through the course.

“That couldn’t have gone worse,” Jamie, having witnessed the whole thing, joins him near the course's starting point. ”Jesus with friends like that… etcetera etcetera.”

Art turns to face him and shrugs. “I’m not the kinda guy who could have kept a girl as cool as her anyway. Not really.”

“Yeah… no I don’t know what you mean pretty boy. You could have whatever the fuck you wanted.” He brushes his fingertips along the hickies and Art shivers. “You wanna know your real problem?”

"What?" Art feels his skin heating up where Jamie's fingers are still dancing along his collar bone. He’s not sure if he’s making something up in his head but it definitely feels like Jamie’s flirting with him. He needs to stop reading into things.

“You might need a new best friend.”

Art shakes his head. “He’s just—“

“Competetively fucking with your love life?” Jamie finishes.

Art shrugs, because okay… yeah thats exactly what’s happening. He can’t tell Jamie the whole reason why though. Nor can he admit how it turns him on because that would all sound fucking crazy.

“He’s jealous of you.” Jamie continues when Art doesn’t answer. Art can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah right. We’re talking about Patrick Zweig,” Art says.

“Yeah I know… I think he’s jealous of you.”

It's a fair conclusion to jump to without all the information. He watches Patrick make his way over a steeper hill on the obstacle course, some strangers cheering him on. "He loves you as long as he gets to shine, as long as he gets the girl."

It stings a little because it's true. Or at least Art believed that before they started being friends with benefits. Now it's all but obvious that Patrick is jealous and very, very bothered by the idea of Art with someone else. The fact that he'd rather slash tires than admit that is… well… Art can't stop thinking about it.

Patrick pulls up in front of them on his ATV rental. “Hey guys. What’s going on? Which one of you wanna ride bitch?” Patrick grins, lifting off the spare helmet and holding it out to Art.

“Just something to think about.” Jamie says, patting Art on the back, he walks back towards the tents. Patrick watches after him, curious. Art snatches the helmet from Patrick and pulls it on.

“Now remember you have to hold onto me extra tight sweetheart.” Patrick says.

“Shut up and fucking drive.”

It doesn't help that they're escalating in bed too. Messy head and grinding skin to skin…fingers covered in so much lube slipping inside him because "i just to see what it feels like" (so good when he finds that spot Art cums so much they have to change the sheets). Patrick crawling between his legs one night whispering "would you freak out if I put the tip in?"

Art lets him. He always fucking lets him. Whatever he wants, it's fine.

And when he runs into Patrick at lunch time the day after, flirting with Cassie Parikh, Art thinks he'll go insane.

He decides to confront Patrick. He just needs to know what this is because none of it feels casual. But Patrick promises— no he insists— that it is. "Do we need to get you high again so you don't over think it?"

"Im not overthinking Patrick, you sabotage me every time I meet someone."

"No I don't. Yes… I showed up on a few dates but that was obviously an accident. And yeah I got a little pissed about the girl you were keeping a secret but if you're just open about it I don't care. It doesn't bother me."

Okay. Cool.

Art mentions one night not thinking anything of it… that he thinks Angelica Brezinski is kinda cute. The next day he spots Patrick making out with her in the stairwell. He digs his nails into his palms watching her tongue slide into his mouth. His hand in her shirt. Her hand slipped into his half unzipped trousers, the movements clear even behind the fabric that she's giving him a hand job. His heart rate picks up when Patrick steals a glance at him. Like he expected him. And of course he does. Art uses that staircase as a shortcut at the same time every day.

Art turns around. He decides to skip history class and go back to the dorm. Frustrated he dumps all of Patrick’s expensive “fuck me” cologne in the toilet. It backfires when the room ends up smelling like him for hours.

"You know that cost 250 dollars," Patrick says when he gets home.

Art shrugs. "It was an accident."

“Okay,” Patrick hums. He crawls into Art's bed where he's been curled up angrily watching tv for hours. "You can do better than her." He kisses up and down Art’s collar bone, reaching a lazy hand into Art’s sweatpants. It’s embarrassing how fast he cums.

Patrick fucks him for the first time on a random Tuesday night. Just the tip… turns into halfway… turns into balls deep and gentle hands caressing his tummy, soft voice in his ear reminding him to breathe through it. He feels stretched and full and so fucking overwhelmed. All the misplaced feelings are lighting up again, his brain running the insane script over and over …he loves me, he loves me not. It's so fucking casual Art feels sick.

They have sex everyday after that. Art doesn't even think about anyone else for a month, just Patrick, Patrick, Patrick all the fucking time. It's like he's always high. Giggling mindlessly at everything, even when it doesn't make sense. The endorphins making him crazy. It's just sex. Except it isn't.

Surely they're in love.

Except… Cassie. Patrick's new girlfriend. Yes, girlfriend. Cassie doing all the girlfriend things with Patrick and reminding Art that it's not love. It's casual. Even when he sleeps in Patrick's hoodies, even when Patrick plops down next to him at dinner finishing half the food on his plate , even when he rolls around in Patrick's bed all night… he still doesn't belong to Patrick. Patrick still isn't his.

He thinks about sabotaging Cassie but it feels futile to attempt to beat Patrick at whatever game it is that they're playing. After Cassie there'll be another one. And one after that. Besides… he's definitely not the jealous type. He does hide her stupid lipgloss when she comes over. Feels a quiet little thrill as she looks around frantically for it before he realizes he's so lame.

Art isn't expecting it at all. Not even a little bit.

They're at practice one afternoon and maybe Jamie's standing a little too close. manipulating Art’s body to show him how to maximise his serve. And suddenly Jamie is pelted with a tennis ball straight to the head.

“Fuck, lost control of the ball. Sorry man.” Patrick calls from the other side of the net. He's escalated to being an asshole to literally everyone that he feels is even flirting with Art. Is where they're at now.

Jamie rubs his head, mumbling irritated as he walks off the court to grab some ice. Art glares at Patrick and he pouts a little before shrugging it off, a little smirk playing on his lips.

Asshole. Art’s not much better because his tummy begins to swirl with something akin to arousal.

He tries not to think about it and jogs over to check on Jamie. “Sorry man, he sucks.” Art says. He can see mild bruising on his cheek as he holds an ice cold water bottle over it gingerly

“Yeah he does. You wanna come with me? I'm gonna get a real ice pack from sports med.” Jamie grumbles.

“Sure of course." Art doesn’t notice Patrick looking after them as Jamie tells the coach where they’re headed. Art follows him into the building but instead of going straight to the medical suite he stops when they reach the locker room.

“Whats up with you and Zweig anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought he was trying to compete and steal your girl— but it's like—are you— are you two a thing?”

Art looks around, not meeting his gaze. “Like what do you mean?”

“God, seriously?” Jamie laughs. “You know what I mean. Are you together?”

“No, no,” Art says quickly. “We’re not.. we’re just… we’re friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Why are you even asking me that, French?”

“Because, Donaldson,” Jamie mutters.

Art stares waiting for a response. And suddenly Jamie’s tugging at his t-shirt and stepping closer. Art looks up at him stunned just before their lips touch. This brief thing that has Art standing there rubbing his lips long after its done.

“Uh…”

“Yeah that’s why. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Zweig… but… I invited you to hang out at the pool party because… of that.”

“Oh. Um. oh.” Art feels a little dumb, like he should have realized that a long time ago. Like maybe he did realize it but Patrick’s got him so turned around he doesn’t know what’s what anymore. Even now Art’s not sure what to say. Jamie throws his free hand awkwardly through his hair.

“I should probably get that ice now before this really swells up.” He turns to leave and Art stands there watching him for 15 seconds before his brain works again and he hurries to catch up.

“Hey, do you wanna go on a date?”

It’s just a movie right after practice. Nothing crazy. Low stakes. They already know each other but Art still gets in his head about it. He’s 0 for 2 in trying to find a distraction from whatever is going on with Patrick and he’s never been in a relationship with a boy before. Patrick notwithstanding. That’s not a relationship. That’s bullshit.

He makes an excuse with Patrick. He's gonna study at the library because the room is too distracting which Patrick seems to buy. Then he sneaks into Jamie's room to get ready.

Jamie's roommate is there so they don't get to really talk about it till they're in his car. It's funny actually. The idea that Jamie wants him. He's such a guy… he loves ATVing, and action movies, and cars. Not that Art would have realized it in himself. Not before Patrick. Maybe it all makes sense.

"Have you had a boyfriend before?" Art asks curiously.

"Yeah… a few. I'm only into guys actually. I thought you might like guys too… but it's like you never… you never got the hint."

Art smiles looking out the car window watching the streetlights begin to turn on. "Yeah I think I knew. I just ignored it."

"Nice." Jamie snorts.

"I mean I didn't trust myself… my instincts. I thought I'd embarrass myself."

"Nope just me." He laughs and Art grins.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm teasing… don't worry about it."

The movie is okay but the highlight of the night is that they end up making out in the backseat of Jamie's car when it's over. Sitting in the parking lot behind the school at 10 pm on curfew night. Art on his lap. It's familiar but different. Jamie has a very different kissing style from Patrick. Soft. Gentle. He doesn't really drive the kiss the way Patrick does. He doesn't moan through the kisses the way Patrick does. Doesn't cradle Art's face and neck. Jesus. He's got to stop thinking about Patrick.

Jamie's feeling him up. Hands all over Art's body like he's so eager to touch.

"Fuck you're a good kisser," Jamie murmurs.

Art can't help thinking about Patrick again. Well thank you, I spend most nights with my tongue shoved down my roommates throat. Is what he doesn't say. Parts of him imagining how Patrick would react if he knew what Art was doing right now. Insane how it's that thought that makes all the blood rush to his cock.

He can feel the intensity ramping up to the point where Jamie's hands slip into his jeans. Art unzips Jamie's shorts. He's got a decent sized cock. Patrick would love to hear his is bigger. More realistically Patrick would go absolutely berserk at the idea of Art touching someone else's cock. He moans before Jamie even grips him properly. And suddenly they're giving each other simultaneous handjobs, moaning into each others mouths. All of it so familiar and yet so warped.

"God I've wanted that for so fucking long but you made me wait for it," Jamie murmurs as they finish up, wiping their hands on a training t-shirt Jamie pulls from his gym bag in the backseat.

"So what? Now you'll never call me again?" Art smirks.

"Well we didn't have sex yet which means I'm gonna call you every single day begging you to put out."

Art laughs. "It won't be hard. I'm a cheap date."

They sneak in just past curfew. Running into Mr. Jefferson the hall monitor who gives them a disapproving stare and a citation despite it only being a few minutes late. Asshole.

Art doesn't linger in front of Jamie's door. Just a brief goodnight. Jamie grabbing his hand. "So… do I get to be your boyfriend, Donaldson?" He whispers.

Art can't help grinning stupidly. "Goodnight, French."

"That's not a no."

He doesn't think Patrick will find out. Not anytime soon. Patrick knows Art and Jamie are friends. Even if it's a recent development. They can get away with "hanging out" without Patrick trying to ruin it. At least that's what he imagines. Maybe he should've known better.

Patrick's home of course. He's lying in bed, laptop open and he's typing. Probably finishing up an assignment last minute. The television on low. "After curfew tut tut." He glances up when Art comes in and then back down. And then he quickly looks up at Art again. Art lingers by the door stepping out of his shoes.

"Yeah and I got a fucking citation," Art murmurs.

"Where were you?" Patrick asks, he tries for casual but it doesn't quite land.

"Library," Art shrugs.

"Library made you miss curfew?"

"No I just uh… I ran into Jamie and we uh we went to get some food."

Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up. "Just the two of you?"

"Um… yes…" Art says carefully. He takes off his watch and puts it on his desk.

"Hey come here," Patrick says.

Art squints at him. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"No come here," Patrick says, more insistently.

Normally Art would roll his eyes and tell Patrick to fuck off but there's this edge to his voice that makes Art just want to obey. He walks the couple steps to where Patrick is sitting on his bed… feels a sudden and delicate ache as his balls begin to tighten. "What?"

Patrick grabs at his waist pulling him closer, his stupid pretty eyes focused on Art's face. "Where were you?"

"I told you."

His grip tightens. "Mmhm okay… library closes at 10. You left here in my hoodie."

"Yeah well… I was hot. I ran into Jamie and he offered to take me to get food since the cafeteria was closed. I must've just… left it in his car."

Patrick huffs a laugh, his grip bruising tight on Art's waist. "right… such a convoluted little story."

"Okay I'm gonna shower."

"Why?"

"Because it's late and I wanna go to bed."

"You showered after practice."

"You're being insane."

"And you really think I don't know what you look like after you cum?"

"Jesus Christ, Patrick." Art laughs, not because it's funny but because he's genuinely stunned. "What are you talking about?"

"Your lips are all puffy, your eyes are still fucking dilated. You're walking like you're fucking drunk. Did he fuck you?"

"No. What the fuck?"

"So if he didn't fuck you who did you fuck?"

"God you're so full of shit. This is casual, remember? I'm allowed to—"

“Yeah of course you’re allowed to.” Patrick yanks him closer, to the point where Art's practically straddling one of his legs. “But if you lie about it then your fucking cheating.”

“Huh?”

“You’re lying to me.”

"Oh come on."

Patrick smiles and then pushes himself off the bed. Art watches him as he goes straight to Art's desk. He grabs Art's iPod touch and waves it at him. "You wanna lie… let's lie." He walks into the bathroom.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" Art follows close behind him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm not doing anything. Who did you fuck?" He holds it over the toilet.

"Are you fucking crazy? Give it to me."

Patrick lifts it out of his grasp. He's insane but he wouldn't… he wouldn't…

"Who did you fuck?"

"It wasn't anyone Patrick I didn't fuck anyone okay can you just—"

Patrick lets it drop, it hits the seat and then splashes into the bowl.

Art sees red. It was his, his birthday gift from his grandma. "You fucking psycho." He storms back in the room headed straight for Patrick's laptop still sitting on the bed.

"Art, I'll get you a new one come on my homework—" Patrick tries.

Art folds the laptop shut, and stands on the bed before lifting it over his head and smashing it angrily on the ground. Patrick jumping back out of the way and parts fly out of it. It feels so fucking good he looks around the room for more of Patrick's things that he can break. Art's chest is still heaving when Patrick gets on the bed, grabbing him by the waist and tackling him to his knees. Then tossing him on his back into the mess of pillows. Art sits up attempting to fight back, scratching and punching him but Patrick uses his body weight against him, pinning him down. Patrick's thighs locked tight around Art's hips, hands pressing his wrists firm into the mattress. Art getting hard so fast it's actually painful.

"And you call me a psycho."

"You are." Art glares at him, helplessly shifting his shoulders and trying to roll his waist, pointlessly. Patrick is basically sitting on his cock a little smirk on his lips. "Mm fuck. You like that, don't you? You like driving me fucking crazy." He grinds his hips down and as angry as Art is he can't help moaning. His mind still enraged… his body screaming yes yes have your way with me some more."Fucking cheater."

"'m not a cheater, to cheat I'd have to be in a relationship and this is casual remember?" Art snaps. "So fucking casual. You broke my iPod for no fucking reason. You fucking freak."

Patrick smiles and leans over his body, leans so close Art can feel the heavy line of his cock press against his tummy. Art takes a breath as Patrick settles over him, their faces almost touching. “I’d do it again.”

Art scrunches his face in anger and then spits at him because it’s the only fucking thing he has. Patrick just grins his cheek wet with it, eyes shining, sweeping over Art’s face like he’s memorizing it right before he presses his lips against Art’s. Art shoves his tongue inside, fighting Patrick through the kiss. Art trying to rush. Patrick slowing him down. The whole thing is infuriating. Art feels the grip on his wrists relax a little as Patrick settles into it.

“Mm gonna fuck you.” Patrick murmurs against his lips, like a promise. “I’m gonna fuck you all night. Make you scream so loud for me that you forget his fucking name.”

Art shivers without meaning to.

He's not gentle. Uses spit and lube to slowly push his cock inside, gets Art acclimated and then he's thrusting between Art’s thighs like a jackhammer. It's the only way Art can describe the speed and the force and the way it feels. No technique, just reckless and messy, makes Art cry out so loud Patrick shoves a pillow at him to make him shut up. "They're gonna hear you next door, you want that? You want them to know you're a cheating whore?"

"Shut ah-ah- s-shut shut up," Art can't even modulate his tone let alone think straight.

"He doesn't get to fuck you like this," Patrick continues aggressively, grunting in his ear. "He doesn't get to have you. Do you ah—ah shit— do you get that?" He keeps it up, this crazy pace without stopping. All while Art's chewing on the pillow, mouth all wet, trying to keep himself sane. Art doesn't last long. Comes without even a touch, cum covering the taut muscles of Patrick's tummy.

"Goddamn baby," Patrick moans, "still feels so tight for me. So fucking good. God you're choking the shit outta me. Ahh— ah oh—" he groans a stuttered broken sound and Art feels it spilling inside, he clenches tight around Patrick as he stills. "Oh fuck, yes."

Patrick keeps it in even as it starts to soften, like he's trying to mark his territory by emptying every last drop inside. Keeps it in so long Art can feel him start to twitch and stiffen again. God. Patrick can't just say it in words, he has to do insane shit like this.

He pulls out slowly, so slowly, Art can't help moaning for the loss. The expression on Patrick's face as he watches his cum leak out makes Art's cheeks burn. He smacks his cock lightly against Arts balls and Art moans.

"Thats right," Patrick sighs. "I should send him a picture of this masterpiece."

"I didn't even fuck… just used his hand, " Art mumbles nonsensically. He doesn't remember how to speak, how to use his brain. He's just a drooling bundle of nerves designed for stimulation at this point.

"Mm look at me," Patrick lifts him by the waist and Art moves into it so their faces are close. Patrick’s so stupidly flushed pretty, a light sheen of sweat coating his skin. Art wants to kiss him. "You don't get it. I don't want him touching you at all especially if you're keeping little secrets from me. Fuck. I'm gonna pump you full one more time just to get that in your head." Patrick breathes.

Art feels it for days after. A pleasant twisted ache of sore muscles inside and out. He's down one state of the art ipod but when he's confronted by the sad pile of parts that was Patrick's laptop scattered on his desk the memory just turns him on. Every time he moves he thinks about Patrick. But of course that was the point.

Fuck. This is insane. This is insane and he fucking loves it.

He steals Patrick's ipod for studying which Patrick doesn't object to, he only uses it to go on runs, but it's not the same. The music sucks. Patrick has no taste and if he has to listen to another Justin Timberlake song he's going to scream.

If he were to tell anyone else about everything that's happened over the past few months they'd call it toxic. They'd call him insane for not putting a stop to it.

And in his own special toxic way, instead of shying away from the relationship with Jamie, Art leans into it. he doesn't even have an excuse anymore. He likes Jamie, really he does, but if he's honest with himself, it's all about Patrick. He's doing it just to get a rise out of Patrick. Kneeling on Jamie's feet at practice while he does sit ups. Jamie smiling up at him. All while Art sneaks surreptitious glances in Patrick's direction. Patrick's gaze darkened as he runs laps around the court.

Art feels a hand on his wrist bringing his focus back to Jamie. Hes sitting up watching him. A quick glance to follow Art's gaze. "What happened?" Referencing the marks Patrick left on his skin.

Art feels a distant shameful heat spreading on his neck and cheeks. "I think I had my watch on a little too tight."

"Looks like finger marks."

"Yeah weird… I bruised easy… it'll be gone soon."

"Okay then um... You want to come over and study tonight? I should have the room to myself for at least three hours."

It's not surprising during practice when Patrick invites himself to join "study" group. "Yeah I could use study time my computer is fucked so I've got 48 hours to write my essay all over again."

"Wow crazy, you got an extension. If I were your professor I'd give you a zero." Art says coolly, Jamie laughs and Patrick trips Art as he makes his way to the other side of the court for his serve.

Patrick's impossible all evening, flirting with Art. Flirting with Jamie. Jamie leaves to the cafetería for 15 minutes to grab notes he missed from a girl in his trigonometry class.

As soon as the door shuts, Patrick's on his knees between Art's thighs even as Art protests. "Patrick, no. No." But he doesn't really make him stop. Finishes in Patrick's mouth a minute before the lock clicks. He's yanking his shorts up just before Jamie opens the door. Still breathless and probably flushed while Patrick giggles and takes a sip of his cherry coke to help swallow it down.

Jamie slows his step but only a moment looking between them, Patrick back seated at his desk and Art still on the bed, bouncing his thigh. He settles back on the bed next to Art. "You okay?"

"Yeah… yes." Art nods. Patrick's watching him, twisted little smirk on his face.

From that point on Patrick's unbearable. It's even worse than with his previous dates and Art thinks it's because Jamie is a boy.

Patrick doesn't leave them alone for a minute. Its almost impossible for Art to get any time to even talk to Jamie without Patrick inserting himself into it.

Finally Jamie decides he'll just ask Art out in front of Patrick. "I like him. I want to take him on a date. Just the two of us. Do you care? Are you jealous?"

"Oh fuck… of course not. I'm sorry man. We're best friends. I just figured he was trying to add you to our crew. I didn't even consider that maybe you liked him like that." Fucking liar. He plays the role of sane, so well. "I'm so sorry dude. Yeah take him out on a date. No big deal."

But obviously that's not true at all. They're on their first date when Art gets a text from Patrick saying he's been in an accident. It scares Art so badly he ends the date early rushing home only to find Patrick in the room across the hall playing video games with Chris and Jared from across the hall. An ice pack on his lap. Jared in a sling. Chris is perfectly fine.

"I thought you got in an accident," Art says breathlessly.

"Yeah we did. Im never driving with fucking Jared again," Patrick says dryly.

"Dude your the one who gave me the all clear! I ran into the bike racks, can you believe they're gonna fine me?" Jared snaps. "Im the one who cant play for a month. He lifts his sprained wrist for emphasis. Turns out all Patrick got was a little bit of whiplash.

Art collapses onto the bed next to Patrick feeling a little dumb just as Jamie rushes up to meet them. "Is everything… okay?" Jamie trails off seeing that yes, everything is fine.

"Wait, you didn't end your date early for this? Did you? Oh fuck that reminds me…i got you something." Patrick reaches into his backpack and pulls out a box. An ipod touch.

* The next date Jamie plans to take him to camping for the weekend. But when they get to the car the driver's side window is bashed in.

"Hes gonna press charges you idiot. You know that right?" Art tells Patrick when he gets back to the room.

Patrick shrugs. "I don't know what you mean. I didn't do anything. Plus everyone knows the cameras don't work in the seniors lot. They'll probably never find who did it."

"Jesus Christ," Art laughs, incredulous.

"What?"

"You’re a fucking criminal."

Patrick smirks. "Fuck off. I didn't do anything . Remember I was in bed all night fucking you so…honestly you'd be my alibi. If I did it… which I didn't."

He absolutely did it. Now that he mentions it, Art recalls him getting home late from god knows where the other night, entering the bedroom with his tennis bag slung over his shoulder. He was so hard he barely kicked off his shoes before getting into Art's bed and tugging his boxers down. Art had bitterly imagined that maybe Cassie had left him frustrated, but now… with context…

God…he's fucking sick. It makes Art's tummy flip flop.

Two minutes later he's spread out underneath Patrick taking his dick again.

It turns out Patrick's right actually. The cameras are for show. And ultimately no one can prove anything even though Jamie also knows it was him. He's certain. Probably the only other person who can see thru Patrick. At least to a certain degree.

"Hes in love with you." Jamie says it like an accusation in one of the rare moments they get alone before Patrick arrives to practice.

"He isn't. He has a girlfriend."

"Really? Cause I heard they broke up a week ago." And that's news to Art. Good news.

Art isn't sure Patrick can stoop any lower. And then it happens. In retrospect it should have been obvious that Patrick was diabolical enough to be reading his text messages . Yeah that makes sense.

It explains so much actually. How he knew where he and Shannon were planning to go on their last date and where to show up. How he realized that Art had met Jessica riding ATVs. And how Patrick realized Art was planning to sneak into Jamie's room Saturday night after practice. His roommate away for the weekend they plan to fuck for the first time.

He's excited about it… Jamie is hot, and Art is kind of curious what it'll be like with someone else… but if he's honest with himself. He's more excited about coming back to the room after, just to see if Patrick would be able to tell he had sex with someone else. And it's not just because he wants Patrick to freak out on him again. And definitely not because he still touches himself when he thinks about that night.

But of course Patrick already knows what he's planning. Art thinks he's being sneaky. All he tells Patrick is, "I'll probably stay at the library late tonight. You know I have that chemistry test on Monday." He has a test… that's true of course… but he's more than ready for it. Science is his best subject."

"Come on," Patrick counters. "It's Saturday night… and guess what I have." He lifts a little baggy of weed.

It was supposed to be one puff, thats all Art agrees to. "Yeah sure," Patrick grins, "and after you can go study with a little pleasant buzz." Just a little taste but of course Patrick derails that. "Come on don't be a pussy, that was such a small little drag you're not gonna feel shit. Come on… take a little more."

Art only realizes how high he is when he starts giggling uncontrollably at some dumb show on the Disney Channel while Patrick's rolling another blunt.

"Oh fuck," he says slowly as it hits him. "I need to study."

"Shh it's Saturday. You can study tomorrow." Patrick says, he holds the newly lit second joint out. "Try it for me."

Art's so high when they start having sex. "You wanna try a new position?" Patrick asks, at least Art vaguely recalls him saying that. "You wanna ride me?"

It feels like everything is going in slow motion. He's fucking himself lazily on Patricks cock. So lost in Patrick's eyes, holding his gaze. Patrick's hands gentle on his hips guiding him while he rests the back of his head against the bedroom wall and takes another pull. The room is dim, one bedside lamp and the glow of the television being the only sources of light.

"Mm tell me how it feels. Tell me how good my dick feels inside you." Patrick grunts.

"So good," Art whines. The words are heavy on his tongue.

"Yeah you love it, don't you?" Patrick rubs his tummy. "Fuck, look how deep your taking me. Gripping me so tight, pretty boy."

Art moans. "So fucking good."

"That's right, dont hold back. I wanna hear you. Your all mine aren't you?" Patrick asks softly.

"Mmhm," Art shivers for the way he finally says it. What they both know to be true. Art starts to pick up the pace, feeling the drag along that sensitive part inside him… the part that makes him see stars.

"Say it. Say your mine."

"'m all yours." Slow and pitchy. The words taste sticky and sweet like heated syrup in his mouth. He's not sure he'll ever recover from this. Hes not sure he wants to.

Patrick groans. "Fuck yes. God… pretending hes your boyfriend while youre taking my dick every night. You ever tell him about me?"

Art bites down on a moan. "Sometimes."

"What do you tell him? You tell him im your best friend in the whole wide fucking world?"

Art gasps as Patrick grips at his leaky cock. He sits up and lowers himself deeper, faster. Knees pressed against soft linen sheets, gripping at Patrick's shoulders while Patrick begins jerking him. "Mmhm. The best."

"Best friend that's ever been inside you."

"You're the only one," Art can't help laughing which makes Patrick smile, it's actually the hottest thing about him. His stupid fucking smile.

Patrick curls a hand into his hair. "You're so fuckin pretty. I can't leave you alone."

Art feels so warm. It makes him cum just like that, just all of a sudden, moaning breathlessly with his eyes squeezed shut. Makes him spill all over himself, all over Patrick's fist and on his stanford t-shirt. His movements stuttered and sporadic as he slows.

Patrick giggles, he's still so stunningly hard, so stiff inside while Art clenches helpless around the intrusion. "Fuck i love how you sound when you're coming, makes me crazy. Your fucking voice gets me so hard." Patrick breathes. Tugging at Arts now cum stained t-shirt and pulling him into a kiss. "Lie down. I'm not done."

Its so sensitive after. Spread out with Patrick between his thighs, legs on Patrick's shoulders. Every thrust making Art moan with the delicious and painful ache of overstimulation. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Patrick's control starts to unravel. The questions get shorter. They turn into statements. "You fucking belong to me, don't you? Fucking mine. All fucking mine." Patrick repeats it, punctuating it with deep thrusts of his hips.

"Yes, yes, yes," Art whines. The angle so much deeper than before that suddenly Art's seeing stars again. He feels it as Patrick stills inside him, the heat as he fills Art up. "Oh fuck… yes… so fucking good. Holy shit." Patrick groans.

He collapses on top of Art and Art plays with his hair. It's so light and fluffy. He smells so good. Probably all restocked on his expensive "fuck me" cologne. Art feels high and not just from all the weed. "Mm love you," Art murmurs as his eyes slide shut. He's so sleepy he almost misses it when Patrick mumbles.

"Love you too."

The idea that Patrick wants him so badly he goes insane at just the possibility of Art being with someone else is probably a hundred times better than any declaration of love Patrick could share but it makes his heart flutter just a little bit anyways.

There's probably nothing more horrifying than hearing yourself getting fucked on a recording. Except maybe sitting across from your boyfriend while you both listen to the sounds of someone else railing you. That's probably worse. No, it's definitely worse. Significantly worse.

"Fuck." It's all Art can manage, he fidgets uncomfortably, he finally gets a minute alone with Jamie in his room and they're sitting there listening to the messages Patrick sent him on AIM instant messenger this morning. "Can you… can you shut it off?"

"Oh you don't wanna hear yourself go on and on for five whole minutes? And that's just the first one he sent. Is it true? Are you fucking him every night?" Jamie spits, his expression gloomy.

Art is certain Jamie doesn't want the real answer. "Well… I mean not every night but…" Even as it leaves his mouth he knows it's somehow worse than just a simple yes.

"I was so fucking wrong about you. There's nothing sweet about you at all. You're just pathetic actually and delusional." He says coldly.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm—"

"Every fucking night with him but anytime I ask you say there's nothing going on between you two, right?"

"It wasn't anything… it's not anything… have you ever uh had a friend with benefits?" Art tries weakly.

Jamie actually busts out laughing, it takes Art by surprise. "No Art, none of my 'friends' have been inside me." Jamie says, fingers quotes around the word friends. "He's claiming you. Calling you his and you seem oh so pathetically happy about it so maybe stop deluding yourself. He's not your fucking 'friend'."

Art looks down at his lap. He feels every bit as pathetic as Jamie is calling him right now. It'd be easy to blame all of it on Patrick and yeah Patrick is incredibly fucked up for doing this but Art's not exactly innocent. He went along with it. "Yeah um… yeah that's probably true. I'm sorry. I uh… I didn't mean for this to happen. I can uh— I can leave." He gets to his feet.

"Worst part is you're still so fucking pretty. Part of me wants to just fuck you to get back at him for sending me this." Jamie mutters.

Art bites his lip. "I mean we could… we're alone… and we could record it. Send it back to him, you know."

Jamie huffs a laugh and Art smirks. "What? You want to?"

"You're just as fucking twisted as he is, aren't you? Fucking fire and ice. I always forget ice burns if you touch it for too long."

"No I— you said it."

"Yeah and now I'm saying I don't want to get burned anymore. You two fucking deserve each other. Just do me a favor and keep that toxic love triangle shit away from the rest of us."

"I'm sorry, I never meant for you to—" Art tries again.

"You can leave, Donaldson." Jamie snaps. And he does.

He feels like a total asshole for involving Jamie.

Patrick's in the room when Art gets there. He's at his desk unboxing his new laptop.

"Perfect timing," Art says. "I can break it again."

"No you don't," Patrick says, hugging it to his chest. "Take out your aggression on something else."

"Like you did? You recorded me? Do you realize how insane that is?" Art snaps. He feels ashamed actually and it doesn't help that Patrick can't even hide his smirk long enough to gaslight him.

"It was an accident."

"You accidentally recorded me fucking you? Or you accidentally sent it to my boyfriend? Wait nevermind. I don't care. Fuck you."

"But he's your ex-boyfriend right?"

Art's glare must put him off cause his little grin falters. "Come on don't be mad. I'm sorry. Come here."

"Fuck off," Art says. "I'm not doing this anymore. We're done. This isn't casual, we both know that, and if you want me to yourself you should grow up and just fucking take me." He walks to the bathroom and puts the shower on, stripping his jeans and hoodie off. It's not long before Patrick follows. Finds him nearly naked in only his boxers, brushing his teeth. Patrick walks up behind him, gazing at him in the bathroom mirror. It's starting to fog up for the heat of the running shower.

"I want you."

Art thinks he'll cave but he doesn't, not right away at least. He nudges Patrick off as he tries to take him by the waist. "Fine so we're not friends with benefits anymore," he says right after he spits out the toothpaste in his mouth. "We're exclusive."

Patrick gives him a lopsided grin. "Yeah I mean. If that's what you want. I'll do my best."

"Fine I'll do my best too," Art snaps back.

"Come on, man. You're different than me. I just love em and leave em. You fall in love. And the idea of you being in love with…with…"

"With someone else?" Art provides, because again Patrick's kind of surprising him.

"With fucking Jamie French."

Art grins. "Oh god… I wasn't in love with him."

"Yet. You weren't in love with him, yet. You lose it, admit it. You let them wine and dine and fuck you and 24 hours later they're the love of your life."

It's not exactly true but it's not far from the truth. Art can admit he's not good with casual. If anything this whole experience just solidified that. "Okay well um… it worked with you too so…" he says quietly.

Patrick smirks. "And I haven't even taken you on a date."

Art bites his lip. "Want to?"

"Fuck it. Fine. But just know I'm definitely going to shoot my shot if I get to meet Tashi Duncan next month."

Art gives him a blank look.

"The tennis prodigy… how many times do I have to tell you to fucking look her up."

"Whatever," Art says. "Just… no more doing crazy shit to people who flirt with me."

"Okay. Then don't flirt back."

"You're insane."

"So are you… I've known all about what you did to Ellie and the chemistry project from the beginning." He smirks in the mirror.

Art chews on his toothbrush, thoughtful and then he smiles. "Yeah I guess that was kinda fucked up."

Patrick nods. "Yep. But it's also hot."

Art drops the toothbrush in the holder and turns to face Patrick, circling him till they've switched positions with Patrick pressed up against the sink and Art behind him. At this point the bathroom's become their own makeshift sauna for all the steam coming from the still running shower. He reaches down into Patrick's pajama pants and takes hold of his cock, he can feel it still growing in his palm as he starts jerking him. "No one else gets to have you like this, okay?" He watches in the mirror as Patrick's eyes shut.

"Mm, yes," Patrick groans.

"Only me. You're all mine forever, right?"

Patrick smiles. "Mm fuck… " he grunts as Art quickens his strokes. "you're not recording this are you?"

"Maybe… go on…tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours."

"Good."

Taglist: @artstennisracket @nozhdyved @jesuistrestriste @disembodiedgoddess @saltburntme @diyasgarden @siren-iv @iheartinkonpaper @museboos (fyi anyone can be added just lemme know!)

#art donaldson #patrick zweig #artrick #challengers fic #challengers fanfiction #challengers fandom #challengers smut #art x patrick #art donaldson x patrick zweig

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blingblong55 · 17 hours ago

Text

Every Breath You Take- Simon "Ghost" Riley

A/N: I will come back and edit this fic because I don't like it. As you know, I accidentally deleted the original so..this is the fuckery I can give rn.

---- F!Reader, ex-simon, obsessive, possessive, stalker behavior-simon ----

Y/N's POV

It had been six months since Simon Riley disappeared from your life. No texts, no calls, no explanations. Just gone, like mist burned off by the morning sun. And still, you couldn't stop looking over your shoulder. There were times you thought you saw him — at the shop, down the alley by your flat, the dark silhouette at the bus stop across the road. Every time, your heart would stall, confusion chasing fear down your spine.

But it was never him. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You’d been something sacred — quiet, raw, and vulnerable. The kind of thing that wraps around your bones and takes root. When you laughed, it echoed through everything. When you touched, the world narrowed to skin and breath. When he held you, it felt like gravity itself was different, heavier and more certain.

But he ended it. He said, “This ain’t somethin’ I’m meant to have, love.” Said you deserved more. That he’d only bring you down. His voice cracked when he said it, but he didn’t stay. He didn’t fight. And you didn’t beg — not because you didn’t want to, but because you saw it in his eyes. He’d already decided.

You tried to move on. Went to work. Saw friends. Deleted his number, though you knew it by heart. And still, you felt him in the silence of your flat, in the corners of every room, like he never left. Some nights you’d wake up cold, heart racing, whispering his name into empty air. You never spoke of him aloud, but the absence screamed louder than any words could.

You started remembering little things. His hand brushing yours at the fruit market. The way he'd press his forehead to yours when the world got too loud. He kissed your shoulder when you weren’t looking. He could be gentle like that, unexpectedly soft. That gentleness made you forget the weight he carried, the violence coiled inside him like a sleeping viper.

And maybe that’s what made it so hard to let go. Because when he left, he didn’t just take his body or his clothes. He took the feeling of being truly seen. And in its place, he left a silence that wrapped around your spine like a vine, pulling tight whenever you tried to breathe. He took something vital, and you couldn’t get it back.

Simon's POV

She haunts me. No, not haunt — that word doesn’t scratch the surface. She consumes me. Every thought. Every breath. Every goddamn second. Every fuckin’ breath I take, she’s in it...

Y/N's POV

You noticed things. Your door was locked. Always. But things felt... moved. Not stolen, just shifted. A cup was not where you left it. The faintest smell of his cologne hung in the air. That smell hit you harder than expected — sharp, warm, and cruelly familiar.

You started thinking you were cracking up. One night, you woke up and swore you saw him at the end of your bed. Blink. Nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like being watched. Like the air itself remembered his presence and refused to forget.

You told yourself it was a dream. Leftovers from a love unfinished. Trauma in silk wrapping, bleeding through your sleep. But you don’t dream in detail. You don’t dream in scent. You don’t dream in footsteps. And those were real. You knew it in your gut, even if your mind begged you to deny it.

You asked your neighbour once if she’d seen anyone near your door. She looked at you with pity and said no. But the pause before she answered? That lingered. So you started keeping notes — times, dates, changes. You were building a case against someone you couldn't see.

Sometimes you’d talk to him like he was still there. Out loud. Quiet, ashamed. You’d say things like, “Why?” or “What do you want?” Part of you hoped he’d answer. The other part prayed he never would.

It’s gotten worse.

You feel him everywhere now. Not just in memories, but in the pulse of the streetlights outside. In the strange weight of your flat at night. In the way silence folds around you. Your breath comes shallow in the dark, like the air is shared. Like it’s not yours alone anymore.

You found a photo under your pillow. One you took at the seaside. He had his arm around you, both of you wind-tangled and grinning. You didn’t put it there. You know you didn’t. You burned that photo months ago. Watched the flame eat the edges until it curled like a dead leaf. But there it was. Pristine. Smelling like him.

You haven’t told anyone. What would you say? That you feel watched? That your toothpaste was replaced? That your shower curtain had a fold you didn’t notice? They’d say you’re grieving. That your mind is playing tricks. But it’s not. It’s him. It’s him.

You tried screaming once. Just to see if he’d flinch. Just to feel powerful for a moment. You screamed into the night, and the only answer was the sound of something shifting outside your window. You didn’t look. You couldn’t. Because if he were there, you might let him in.

There’s a part of you — small, traitorous — that misses him. That wonders if the madness you feel is shared. If this haunting is mutual. If he’s hurting like you are. But then you remember how he left. No goodbye. No warning. Just vanished. Like you weren’t something worth explaining.

You sleep with the lights on now. You started keeping a knife under your pillow. You double-check the locks. But no lock holds back the air. No knife kills memory. And no light scares away a ghost you once loved.

You caught him today.

Just a flicker — a reflection in the train window. You turned too fast, caught your breath too late. A tall shape, hunched against the wind. His walk. His coat. His presence. Your blood turned to ice, but you didn’t scream. You didn’t run. You just watched, and he watched back.

You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t have to. It was him. You felt it. That pull you used to chase is now a hook in your ribs. You wanted to call someone. Report it. But what do you say? That your ex — who might be a hallucination — is following you? That you miss the ghost you fear?

You went home. Bolted the door. Sat on the floor, shaking until the sun went down. And still, part of you waited for a knock. For the sound of his voice, low and rough and impossibly kind. For something real.

But it never came.

You found writing on your mirror this morning. Fogged in breath.

You still feel it, too.

You stared at it until it faded. Until you couldn’t breathe from holding it in. He’s close. Closer than ever. And for the first time, you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there, hand on the glass, wondering if he was still watching.

You think he was.

There was a knock at the door just now.

Three sharp raps. No delivery. No neighbours. No wind.

Just a knock.

And a voice you hadn’t heard in six months, muffled but unmistakable:

“Let me in, pet. I’m home.”

He left to protect her. Now he’s back to possess her.

Every breath she takes, he’s there — watching, waiting, remembering.

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juceys · 16 hours ago

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yours drabble ft. jimmy uso

leki’s note guys. i am SO deep in the rabbit hole of jimmy edits on tiktok rn so… here we are. at freaking 12:32 in the morning. also peep the small sinners reference lol

tune into ride, ciara ft. ludacris. what you need, the weeknd.

being a successful and well-known actress had its perks.

getting invited to red carpet events, sitting front row during fashion week, the luxury of everything first class.

getting ringside tickets to wwe smackdown and a backstage pass.

it was no secret that you have a special place in your heart for the wwe. you grew up on it, thanks to being the only girl in a house of boys. so when your manager told you about the news, you were ecstatic.

so now, you’re sitting ringside watching the fight between the mft and jacob and jimmy unfold. truly a dream come true.

sure you were focused during the other matches and promos, but you think you’re even more focused on this one. and you think it has something to do with the man dressed in all black, a wife beater showing off his tatted arms, and hair braided neatly in two.

a certain, jimmy uso.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he was the most attractive man you’ve ever laid your eyes on. and when his eyes met yours for a brief second, it felt like the world around you stopped. like time had froze, and it was only you two.

that was, until talla tonga dragged him out the ring, breaking the spell you were under. and the one he was under.

“Lord, please don’t let this just be a game of eye tag,” you mutter, more to yourself, as you continue to watch the match in front of you.

once smackdown ended, you immediately put your backstage pass to use, moving down the hallways like you owned them.

you mingled with wrestlers you met along the way, chatting some small talk and taking pictures that would definitely be posted on instagram later.

and it isn’t until you turn down a dimmer hallway when you find the man you’ve been looking for.

“hey lil mama,” a deep, raspy voice almost startles you.

“well if it isn’t big jim,” you smile, innocently. “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

he smirks, moving closer to you. “nah, trust me, the pleasure’s all mine.”

“you always hang around in dark corners or…” you say, looking around as if something were to pop out at any moment.

he laughs. your stomach turns. “nah. you always walk around lookin’ like this?”

“like what?”

“like you wanna get eaten.”

your stomach twists even more, feeling a sudden rush dampen your panties.

“oh? someones feeling bold considering they just met me.”

he shrugs, “you ain’t complaining tho.”

now it’s your turn to laugh. “careful uso, don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

he moves his hands to grip your waist, fingers toying with your waistband. “lemme take you out tonight. show you ‘round the city and shit.”

you pretend to think long and hard about your answer, much to jimmys dislike, a harsh squeeze on your waist snapping you back to reality.

“okay uso, ‘m all yours,” you say, a smirk playing on your lips.

“oh trust me, this ain’t gon’ be the last time you say that.”

you’d soon find out that jimmy’s a man of his word. or no, a man of his specific words. your “tour” around the city was short-lived, the drive only being from the arena to his hotel.

however, he kept his word on the other thing. matter of fact, he made sure it was the only thing escaping your lips besides his name all night — especially when he was thrusting deep in your tight walls, emptying himself inside you.

#jimmy uso #jimmy uso fic #jimmy uso fanfic #jimmy uso fanfiction #jimmy uso imagine #jimmy uso imagines #jimmy uso drabble #jimmy uso x yn #jimmy uso x reader #jimmy uso x you #jimmy uso x oc #jimmy uso wwe #jimmy uso smut #wwe #wwe fanfiction #wwe fanfic #wwe fic

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fairytaleendingss · 7 hours ago

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Avoidance

Requested by @yiiiikesmish

Summary: You and John argue all the time, but this time he takes it just a tad too far. Will you find it in yourself to forgive him or is it easier just to avoid him forever?

Pairing: John Walker x Fem!Reader

CW: Swearing, arguing, characters being mean and holding grudges, slight mention of violence.

Thanks so much for the request! It took me a minute to get finished but I hope it's worth the wait!

I also want to add that I have not proofread this yet. I wanted to just get it out before I went to bed but I’ll go over and edit it tomorrow. So sorry for any mistakes!!

When you first joined the New Avengers, you’d had your reservations towards John Walker. Like everyone else, you knew about him from the whole 'Failed Captain America saga'. He'd done some horrible things, he'd let down a lot of people and on top of it all, he was an asshole.

However, as you got to know the team better, he started to grow on you. You were both ex military which meant there was an instant sense of camaraderie shared between you and you began to notice little things about him that seemingly flew under the radar.

You eventually grew to see the man that his behind all that inflated bravado. He could be gentle when he wanted to, brave when he needed to and despite his valiant efforts to convince people otherwise, he was unwaveringly loyal. Almost to a fault.

No matter how much the team argued and bickered and made fun of him - directly to his face more often than not - he was always more than willing to throw himself into the line of fire for any one of them without hesitation. It was a habit of his that you simultaneously admired and despised.

Which brings us to your most recent mission. You along with John, Yelena and Ava had been sent to intercept an illegal weapons deal. You'd slipped up. The four of you had been discovered and a fight had broken out. You'd all arrived back to the tower relatively unscathed, however, things could have been - and almost were - a lot worse.

The team had been impulsive, made stupid mistakes and you were lucky to all have made it out alive. Everyone had behaved recklessly but there was one member of the team who'd been downright idiotic. You stepped off the jet, practically bursting with fury. You were ready to give him a piece of your mind as soon as his boots hit the tower floor.

“I can’t believe you! What the hell were you thinking, Walker?”

You were seething as you looked up at him, only inches from his face. You could feel hot blood pulsing in your veins.

“I was trying to protect you!”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m an avenger. I’m pretty sure I can protect myself!”

He rolled his eyes - his stupid, beautiful eyes - and crossed his arms over his chest beligerantly.

“You know, a 'thank you' would be nice. I did save your life after all!”

Your jaw dropped as though it had been unhinged from your skull.

“Seriously? You’re asking me to thank you right now? Like hell I will! I’m not thanking you for being a self-sacrificing moron who jumps into the line of gunfire without even thinking about the consequences!”

The rest of the team, who'd been scattered around the living quarters, minding their own business, when you'd entered, were watching tensely. Bucky sent Yelena a questioning glance; a silent "what the hell happened?", but didn't dare get involved. They could practicaly see the anger radiating off you in waves.

John stepped closer to you, his jaw clenched like it did when he was trying hard not to let the anger take hold of him.

“He was going to kill you!”

“And what? Killing you instead would be so much better?”

You squared your shoulders. You were a decent length shorter than him but the look of pure rage in your eyes made you no less intimidating.

Walker, however, didn’t back down.

“In case you’re forgetting, I’m a super soldier! I can handle a bullet wound. You’re not! Okay? You’re.. you’re….”

“I’m what?” You responded, voice low and threatening. “I’m human? I’m fragile? I can’t take care of myself?”

“Yes!” John yelled, frustratedly running a hand through his matted blond hair.

There was a beat of silence, tension so thick between you that it could be cut with a knife. The others were sitting to attention now, watching cautiously, trying to read the energy of the room. Ava and Yelena looked ready to step in and pull the two of you apart in case things escalated. There was a deadly look in your eyes; a pure, biting hatred as you glared up at the man you usually looked at with such fondness.

It wasn’t uncommon for you and John to bicker. You were both stubborn - too stubborn for your own good. You were bound to clash from time to time. However, the team also saw the undeniable bond between you - the affection for each other that often led to a swift mutual forgiveness. One minute you were ready to kill each other and the next you were huddled together on the couch watching Netflix.

They knew how you felt about each other, it was seemingly obvious to everyone but yourselves and up until now, the team had been counting the days until you and Walker realised it too.

From the look of hurt on your face, however, they could tell this fight was different. John’s words had struck a cord inside of you. They’d pressed down on a bruise of insecurity that you’d been trying so hard to conceal. While most of your team was compiled of super-soldiers and people with crazy physical enhancements. You were nothing more than a well trained spy with a few good weapons. You couldn’t help but feel inadequate to the other members of the New Avengers. And despite all they did to convince you otherwise, you often felt more like a hindrance than a hero.

It was then that Yelena stepped forward tentatively, her hands out like she was trying to tame a wild animal. She could see the way you glared daggers, the way your jaw flexed and hands clenched into fists by your sides.

"Okay guys, calm down. Let's talk this through like adults."

Her words fell on deaf ears. You could feel your body flooding with a new feeling — one that overpowered the boiling rage inside of you: shame.

Without another thought, you turned on your heel and stormed off down the corridor.

In the following days, you did your best to avoid running into John. You'd abandoned your early morning trainings together in favour of working out at night after everyone had gone to bed. You ate dinner alone, instead of with the rest of the team. You didn't join them for movie night or lounge around in the living area in the afternoons for fear of being confronted with him.

His words had wounded you. They'd cut deep into your psyche and gnawed away at your already shaky self-esteem. You could hear his voice playing over and over again. You didn't know why it got to you so much. Maybe the words hurt all the more because they were true — or maybe because it was John that said them.

You were still thinking about the argument almost four days later when you were in the kitchen making lunch with Yelena.

John stepped into the room and you froze, almost dropping the knife you were using to cut carrots. Your gaze lingered over him for a moment. He was sweaty and out of breath, shirt clinging to his chisled chest. Your gaze lingered longer than you meant for it to but when his crystal blue eyes met your own, you quickly averted it.

John tentitively moved forward, walking towards where you and Yelena stood behind the kitchen island. He seemed nervous, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. It was the first time he'd seen you in days and he'd missed your company desparately. He'd wanted to apologise right away after he'd cooled off from your argument but pride had stopped him - in addition to your adamant avoidance of him.

Now, he just felt awkward.

"What are you making?"

The question was directed towards you but you didn't respond, instead just kept working away at the vegetables in front of you without even looking up.

"We're trying a new stirfry recipe," Yelena supplied, sending him an awkward smile as her eyes flickered back and forth between the two of you.

"Oh, cool. Smells good," John murmered.

"Do you want some?" Yelena invited. "You're welcome to join us. There's lots to go around."

John hesitated for a moment, like he wasn't sure what the right answer was. You still hadn't spoken to him. He could see the way your jaw was clenched and how chopping the vegetables as though you had a personal vendetta against them.

After a moment he swallowed thickly. "No thanks. I'm okay. I'm going to go shower. You guys enjoy, though."

His eyes lingered on your form a moment longer before he turned on his heel and walked back towards the elevator.

Yelena looked at you with a raised brow as you continued your cooking as if nothing had happened.

"Okay, what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

She rolled her eyes at your dismissive tone. "You know what I mean! You're giving him the silent treatment now? What are you? Ten years old?"

You shrugged as you looked up at her. "I'm pissed off, okay?"

"So what? You're just going to keep ignoring him forever?"

You bit your lip as you leaned up against the kitchen counter, abandoning your task. You're eyes bore into hers as you let out a heafty sigh. "Yeah! Maybe I am?"

She looked back at you like you'd started speaking in another language. "Come on! That's crazy! You guys are friends."

"Not anymore, okay?"

With that you turned back to the food, trying to ignore the burning of Yelena's gaze on your back.

The following afternoon, you stepped into the elevator on the ground floor of the tower, coffee in hand. You'd gone for a walk, hoping to clear your head and needed a boost of caffine to get you through the rest of the day.

You hadn't slept well the night prior - or the last few nights in fact. You hated to admit it, but things with John were weighing on you. It was exhausting, being mad for so long but you couldn't help it.

You were still thinking about him when the elevator doors opened.

You're heart dropped as John stepped in beside you. For fucks sake, you thought to yourself. It seemed like you couldn't avoid the man no matter how hard you tried. He was everywhere.

"Hey," he muttered awkwardly, not quite meeting your eyes as the doors closed and you began to ascend.

You hummed dismissively in response.

You felt like you were standing there beside him forever as the life climbed the numerous floors of the tower. The only sound to break the silence was the low hum of the elevator music, like a torturous soundtrack to your irritation. You silently wished that the building wasn't so damn tall.

Then, just as you were approaching the living quarters, there was a jolt. You stumbled forward as the carridge shook and then came to a grinding holt. Instinctively John wrapped a hand around your arm to steady you.

"What the hell?" he muttered softly. He retracted his touch before you had the chance to react to it.

He moved towards the button panel, pressing the open door button aggressively a bunch of times, only for nothing to happen.

"God damn it," you muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. This was just perfect.

"Well, it looks like we're stuck," John stated. You rolled your eyes.

"Yeah no shit, genius."

He frowned. "Hey! Look-"

Before he could finish what he was saying the speaker in the lift crackled to life and a voice rang out through the small space.

"Hey guys. How's it going in there?"

Your brows furrowed. "Ava? What the hell is going on?"

"Sorry guys, there seems to have been a small malfunction. We were messing around and Alexei sort of accidentally punched the control panel and it seems to have broken the elevator," Ava's bashfull voice replied.

"Seriously?" John exclaimed.

"Well how long's it going to take to get us out of here?" you huffed.

"I'm not sure," Ava replied. "We've alerted Val's team so someone should be here to fix it soon."

"Great. This is just perfect," you mumbled to yourself. "Out of anyone in the world to get stuck in a confined space with, it had to be John fucking Walker."

John sighed thickly. "Hey, come on. That's a bit uncalled for, don't you think?."

In retrospect, maybe it was. But in that moment, not much could be done to quell your irritability.

"Oh is it now?" you snapped at him. He took a step backwards.

"I think so!" he shrugged. "Look, I know I said some shit and I was being an ass but you've blown this whole thing out of proportion."

You shook your head at him in disbelief. "You know, I honestly can't believe you right now. You think that I'm the one that took things to far? After you basically called me a helpless liability to the team who apparently can't go on a mission without needing a babysitter."

You watched him tense before you, huffing like he didn't want to argue with you again, but you didn't give him much choice in the matter. All the anger and hurt that you'd shoved down over the last fe days was swelling to the surface and this time there was no where for you to storm off to.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to!" you exclaimed. "Whenever we're in the field, you're never more than five feet away from me. You're just always there watching me like you're waiting for me to fuck up!"

You could feel your eyes burning but you forced the tears down, instead directing all the pent up emotions towards the man standing before you.

"That's not what I'm doing!"

"Then what the hell is it?"

"I'm trying to protect you, okay? You're my... my teammate. It's my job to look out for you out there."

You shook your head in disbelief. "How? By running directly into the line of fire, like an idiot? Because let me tell you something, John. You can't protect anyone if you're dead."

He didn't say anything to that, just averted his eyes downwards, suddenly becoming very interested in his shoes. The tears that had been threataning to spill forth began to blur your vision and you let out a heavy breath.

"All this self-sacrificing bullshit has to stop okay? It doesn't make you a hero, it makes you an idiot. I know you feel like you have things to atone for but getting yourself killed isn't going to fix anything you've done."

The words were bitter as they rolled from your tongue but from the look in John's eyes, that still refused to meet your own, he knew they were true.

"How do you think the team would feel if you died, huh? Or your son?" you continued, trying to keep the shakiness from your voice. "Or me? How do you think I'd feel knowing that you died because I fucked up?'

You couldn't hold back anymore and tears began to slowly spill down your face. It was your worst nightmare, having any of your teammates hurt because of your inadequacy. But the thought of losing John tore you open in an entirely different way. Just the thought of it made your chest ache like you'd never felt before. Maybe that's really why you'd been so angry at him. Maybe deep down, you were just scared.

"Hey, come on," he breathed, his voice growing unbearably soft. He stepped forward tentitively at the sight of your falling tears. He reached out like he wanted to touch you but thought better of it and pulled away before he made contact.

"I'm not trying to prove anything. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

There was a pregnant pause as you looked up at him. He let out a sigh, gears churning in his head like he was trying to find the right words but couldn't quite reach them.

"I don't hover because I think you're incompetent. You're one of the best fighters I've ever seen. I do it because I...ah," he cleared his throat awkwardly, words halting on the tip of his tongue. Your borws furrowed as you waited with bated breath for an explination.

"I just... I care about you, okay? I don't want you to get hurt. The other day, when I saw that guy point his gun at you? It's like instinct took over. I didn't even think about it, I just ran towards you before I could stop myself. All I knew was, I couldn't let him hurt you."

Your breath caught in your throat at the confession, heart pounding against your ribs. You didn't know what to say.

John reached out then, a calloused hand moving to cup your cheek. He ran a thumb gently along the countours of your cheekbone, wiping away the stray tears that had managed to slip past your defenses.

"I'm sorry, for everything. Just..." he let out a deep agonising breath and you felt the walls around you begin to crumble. "Just please don't keep shutting me out."

He looked down at you softly, crystal eyes bursting with so much unspoken emotion. You couldn't help yourself. You leaned forward and kissed him.

He seemed surprised by the action at first. You felt him freeze beneath your fingers but he didn't pull away. Then, after a second, he began to kiss you back.

It was different than how you'd imagined it all those times before. It was more raw and passionate and filled with an unbriddled intensity. John kissed you with a hunger, his hands moving to grip your waist as if to remind himself that you were real and you were his.

You pulled away breathless, one hand still resting at the base of his neck. There was a crease in his brows and an uncertanty in his gaze. Like he was scared that this was all a dream that he was about to wake up from. You closed your eyes and rested your forhead against his.

"I think," you took a deep breath, steeling yourself to say the words that had rested on the tip of your tongue for so long. The words you always thought but never dared to speak out loud. "That I'm in love with you."

You didn't dare pull away. You didn't want to see his face for fear of being dissapointed. However, theheavy breath he released upon hearing those words told you everything you needed to know.

Then, tenderly but with out hesitation, he collapsed into you, pulling your body to his in a muscular embrace. You stood there for a moment, in silence, just breathing each other in.

"I love you too." The words were muttered into your hair, so soft that you almost didn't hear them. "I'll always protect you. Even when you don't want me to. I just can't help it."

You chuckled lightly at that, using a hand to stroke his soft, blond hair.

It was in that moment that the elevator jolted back to life, suddenly. You broke away from each other as you resumed your ascent towards the higher floors of the tour.

John moved to your side, entertwining your fingers with his own, just as the elevator doors slid open.

"Well, well, well," Yelena teased, eyes falling on the two of you as you stepped across the threshold. "Looks like you aren't fighting anymore."

You rolled yor eyes at her. "No, apparently not."

"Good," Ava piped up. "It was getting exhausting."

"Did something happen while you were in there?" Bob asked, raisoing a brow knowingly and gesturing to your intertwind hands.

John shrugged. "Let's just say we talked some stuff out."

The rest of your teammates shared satisfied smirks as you and John made your excite into the ajoining room. Ava moved to stand at Yelena's side.

"Well, it seems as though your plan worked."

Yelena snickered. "There's nothing like trapping two people in a confied space to encourage them to kiss and make up."

"Seems you're right about that," Bob responded, eyes flickering in the direction that you and John had wandered off.

"Just to be clear," Ava muttered. "We're never telling them we orchestrated all of this, right?"

"Oh, absolutely not," Yelena confirmed.

"Good," Ava sighed. "I mean, you've seen how she gets when she's angry at someone."

#thunderbolts #john walker x reader #john walker #yelena belova #ava starr #bob reynolds #alexei shostakov #thunderbolts fanfic

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