#If you’re not the author then shut the fuck up about the casting

[shiftingwithmars]

Author: *Casts actors that look like how they imagined the character and wanted the character to look like* Fandom: YOU’RE WRONG YOU PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!! *Writes entire essay with slurs included*

[eliotquillon]

looking back i find it so funny how much i was dragging my feet and complaining about wayward being a cassia centric standalone because wayward is now 1000% my favourite of the two books and i care so much more about the side characters in it than the ones in witherward. i have read so much ya fantasy over the years that it’s very rare for my pre-read vibe checks to be wrong but hannah mathewson humbled me so bad with wayward lmaooo

[leclerc-hs]

marked - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader Summary: a request from anon ‘Charles marking you as his’ Warnings: smut, choking, language, 18+ Word Count: 546 Author’s Note: I apologize for it being short!!!! I think I want to attempt to write a short series maybe. Any ideas on what it should be about? ALSO HAPPY FERRARI LOCKOUT DAY. I am praying we can stay on podium today lmaooo French edits made by @shewantsvengeance!!!!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

IF YOU HAD to ask anybody, they would tell you that Charles was a rather generous being. He was always willing to provide help to someone in need. When your friend’s house had a gas leak, he provided her a space to crash for the time being. Whenever somebody needed a ride, he was the person to call. If you forgot your wallet, don’t worry he already covered it anyways.

So, when your apartment was deemed unlivable due to remodeling, he promptly extended a warm welcoming haven for you to find solace in.

The dynamic between you and Charles was a peculiar one, not yet falling into the category of an official couple yet possessing an unmistakable intensity. It was as if a protective aura enveloped the two of you; anyone daring to cast even a fleeting thought in your direction was met with a foreboding presence. Regardless of the official label, you were his. He was yours.

Which is how you found yourself here. In this present moment. With Charles hand gripped around your neck as you straddled him on the couch.

“Fuck,” he grunted as you hastily worked yourself over his cock. The deep groan he elicited had your lip quivering. His hands grasped onto your hips tightly, guiding you. “Gonna take it all, huh?”

“Gonna be a good cumslut for me, princesse?” He wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Shut up and make me cum already,” you couldn’t help but bite back. He possessed a remarkable talent for teasing, edging you for what has felt like hours. It was torment, pushing you to the threshold of your orgasm but then denying it before you could jump over the edge.

“Feisty, hm?” his hands slipped back up to your neck, squeezing hard. “Don’t be a brat.”

Tiny beads of sweat started to form on the edge of his eyebrow, the veins of his neck visible. You wished you could take a picture.

You felt your hips start to lose rhythm as your legs grew weaker. You are a whimpering wet mess. “Can’t even ride me properly,” a smirk formed on his lips.

“Please, Cha,” you begged, currently on the verge of having a break down from the frustration. “I need-“

“Need me to fuck you? Can’t get yourself off alone baby? So useless.” He was laughing. It made your pussy clench harder. You didn’t even have to respond before Charles was flipping you under him on the couch. Your hands immediately grasping onto the back of the couch for support as he fucked you from behind.

He leaned forward, his body arched over yours, his lips found a place on your neck. With a deliberate intention, he sucked hard. No doubt leaving a dark purple like bruise on the cusp of your neck and jaw. Claiming you.

The mixture of his fervent sucking with the drilling of his hips was more than enough to send you teetering over the edge this time. His, right behind you. You were screaming, tears escaping your eyes as you felt yourself squeezing all around his cock.

You were both out of breath. Collapsed on one another on the couch. Completely ruined, that’s how you felt. The giant reddish purple on your neck was sore, Charles finger tracing it with a smile.

“Everyone will know you’re mine now.”

[sunsburns]

naked in manhattan

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader / implied art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you’re just hours away from a flight that will change your career forever—one that will take you to london, england, for the 2012 olympics, a milestone you never thought you’d reach. thrilled yet trembling with nerves, you find yourself at the hotel bar, celebrating alone. it does not help when you run into art donaldson and… his wife?

—or: you and tashi rekindle an old flame

word count: 6.9k

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, semi-public sex (a gym at the middle of the night so idk if that counts), mid-challengers movie (a year after the atlanta scene with tashi and patrick), angst with no comfort, fingering, homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, no use of y/n, old situationship best described in terms of “casual” by chappell roan (iykyk), art is lowkey a shit starter

author’s note: so i finished this a while back and added it to my queue and did not realize i put it for july instead of june so LOL MY BAD. this is kinda like a prequel to “good luck, babe!” but you don't need to read that to get this. alsoooo thank you for all the love and feedback in “good luck, babe!” i’ve read every single message and tried to reply to all of them! you guys are so sweet and inspired me to write more! thank you thank you <3 i hope you enjoy this one!

Manhattan, New York City, 2012

"I hope you're planning on getting laid tonight."

Your drink is cold, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you swirl the straw absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the hotel bar casts a warm, golden glow over everything, making the polished wood of the bar counter gleam. Around you, the murmur of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses create a lively yet intimate ambiance. You glance at the TV mounted in the corner, where a muted sports channel displays highlights from a basketball game.

You try not to snort into your drink at the words of Patrick Zweig on the other end of the call. You push your phone closer to your ear, unable to bite back the grin spreading across your face.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"What?" Patrick's tone is mockingly innocent, full of playful mischief.

"I thought you called to say something a little more... I don't know, sincere? Heartwarming?"

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that you can practically feel through the phone. In the background, you hear the faint sounds of a city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a dog. The noise fades slightly as Patrick likely moves to a quieter spot, and you can almost picture him getting in his car in some other state—you think he's in Arizona.

"The only kind of warming I wanna hear about is cockwarming," he retorts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You make a face, "You're disgusting."

"I mean it," he insists, still laughing. "I'm actually so jealous of you right now. You qualified for the Olympics, for fuck's sake! How's your mom doing? Did she have a heart attack? Did she call you already? I hope she packed you some condoms. There's gonna be such a wide variety. Literally every country in the world."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick."

Your mother did call, her voice crackling with emotion over the phone just before Patrick rang you. She told you how proud she is of you, how she can't wait to watch you play and tell everyone she knows that her daughter is an Olympic tennis player. A gold medalist, maybe.

Her words echo in your mind, filling you with a warmth that battles the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the blend of fruity and bitter flavours, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts. You try not to spill it on your Ralph Lauren sweater, custom-made, just for the Olympics, with your name stitched on the arm.

Around you, the hotel bar is alive with the buzz of other athletes celebrating with their teams. The fellowship is appreciable as laughter and cheers fill the air. But for some single athletes, like yourself, it's a different story. You feel as if you're in high school all over again, too awkward to make friends, hoping someone braver than you will come by and say hello first.

"You better not be sitting at the bar alone, drinking that orange juice you like."

"A sangria isn't just juice, you dick," you retort, rolling your eyes.

"You're such a loser."

You do feel a little bit like a loser, sitting alone at the bar, but you know you shouldn't. You're hours away from your flight to London where you'll have the chance to play tennis in the Olympics. This is all you've ever wanted since you were a child, all you've been working for—sweat, blood, and tears. You can't even remember a time when you've dreamt of something other than this.

Tennis has always been your escape, your sanctuary. You remember those early days when you played with second-hand rackets and makeshift nets, the local court becoming your second home.

And then there was Patrick, your closest… friend(?) and fiercest rival. His encouragement, his competition, and his company kept you grounded and motivated. When the going got tough, the dream felt too distant, and all of it made you feel far too guilty as if you had stolen someone else's life, Patrick was there to reassure you that you deserved it just as much as the next. Without him, you likely would have walked away from the sport you love.

"I can't believe you made it to the Olympics before me," Patrick's voice pulls you back to the present, a mix of envy and pride lacing his words. You can almost see the playful smirk on his face, a familiar expression that often surfaced during your countless matches together.

"I wish you were here, Pat." Your voice softens, the longing evident. It was hard to track down Patrick Zweig, especially while he was constantly on the move, hopping from state to state, playing as many challengers as he could sign up for, each match a stepping stone toward his dream of winning the US Open. And you think he will. You've played against him enough times to know he's better than you at hitting a ball with a racket.

There were nights when you'd both crash in a shabby motel or back at your place after a gruelling day on the court, strategizing and critiquing each other's play styles (sometimes in more than just tennis). His tenacity was a beacon for you, pushing you to strive harder and to reach further.

His voice softens, becoming more earnest. "Yeah, me too. I'll try to get tickets for one of your games in London. If not, I'll catch up with your mom and watch it with her. Is your dad still in the picture?"

You roll your eyes, a reflex to his familiar teasing. "Oh, my god."

"I'm just asking," he chuckles. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, 'cause I've got a date tonight. But call me when you land."

"Oh, yeah, okay." You try not to let the disappointment seep into your voice, but it's hard. It's not like you and Patrick were together, at least not publicly, at least not in the sense that you couldn't see other people. But even as you tell yourself that, a knot tightens in your chest.

It feels a bit teenageish, you think, messing around with friends and acting like it means nothing just to avoid making things awkward. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were leaving something unsaid, something unacknowledged. Patrick was one of the few people in your life who kept you on your toes and made you feel good—truly good.

Now, the idea of him with someone else, going on dates while you chase your dreams, feels like a betrayal you can't quite articulate. But what right do you have to feel that way? You never made things official, never dared to cross that line.

You never bothered to search for love outside of tennis.

"Have fun on your date," you manage to say. It comes out more brittle than you'd hoped. "Talk to you later."

"Bye!" he says, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart. His voice is light and carefree, and why wouldn't it be?

You end the call and set your phone down on the bar with a bit more force than intended, the hollow thud echoing your frustration. The bartender glances your way and you try to flash him an honest smile before ordering another drink. The TV overhead flickers, switching from basketball highlights to a recap of the latest tennis matches. You watch the screen without really seeing it.

The bar is still lively, yet you feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. You can't help but feel like you're stuck in limbo—caught between your dreams and the reality of your personal life.

You take a deep breath and a long sip of the rest of your first drink, the cool liquid doing little to ease the heat of frustration building inside you. You tell yourself you should be happy, grateful even. But right now, all you can think about is Patrick, and how much easier it would be if he were here with you.

But he's not. And maybe he never will be.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe you will die alone, your tennis racket as your only companion.

"This seat taken?" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You turn, startled, "No-" you start, but then the blur of blonde hair comes to focus and you're stumbling over your words, "Art? What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh," he smiles, a shy faint red blush already growing on his pale skin. He sits beside you, almost hesitantly, "Just stopping by the city. I saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"Hi." You return his smile, albeit a bit warily.

It's been years since you last spoke to Art properly, though your paths have crossed a few times. You've seen him in magazines, TV, and brief passings usually at major tournaments—Wimbledon, the Australian Open, the US Open. Each time, there were shy smiles and waves from across the room, lingering eyes, and awkward conversations where mutual friends tried to reintroduce you as if you hadn't once known each other

Art looks different every time you see him. His hair, now a little shorter than you remember, still maintains that boyish shagginess. There's a darker tan on his skin, evidence of his time spent under the sun. Some days he has a brighter smile, other days, it's a smile that never reaches his eyes.

As he sits there, you can't help but think of how golden his hair used to look whenever he wore his old Stanford hat, the one he used to pull low over his eyes during your college days. The memory makes you aware that you're staring, maybe a little too long. But he's looking at you too, his blue eyes trailing from one end of your face to the other, as if trying to memorize it all, capturing a photograph of who you are now.

A warmth spreads through you under his gaze, and when he finally looks away, you turn too, tapping at your empty glass, pretending to seem interested in the way the ice has started to melt.

But your eyes betray you, slowly trailing back to him. You watch the way he sits, the way he calls over the bartender and orders himself a glass of water. You try not to notice the deep timbre his voice has gained over the years, and how it resonates in the noisy bar. He looks at you, then the empty seat on your other side, and finally scans the room anxiously, as if he's searching for someone or something.

"He's not here," you finally say, breaking the silence that has grown too heavy. "If that's what you're wondering."

He nods, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. "What city is he in now?"

"Vegas, I think."

He makes a face and rests his chin on his hand. "There's no challengers in Vegas this month."

"Then he's just visiting. I don't know." The truth is, you don't want to talk about Patrick right now. Especially not with Art. Not after the way they ended things. You watch Art shrug, and the bartender sets your drink in front of you. You take a grateful sip, savouring the blend of flavours. Art holds his glass carefully, and the two of you sit in strained silence for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background.

You can't help but ask, "What are you doing here? In Manhattan?"

"I have an interview tomorrow. For the New York Times," Art says, leaning back slightly. He seems a little surprised as if he expected you to sit there without acknowledging him for the whole night. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you. "They're doing a piece on my career, the highs, the lows... the beginning and stuff."

You study his face, trying to gauge his emotions. You know what it's like to be interviewed, to have a team of people making you look your best for photos and another team crafting answers to help you maintain your reputation. It’s exhausting and thrilling all at once. "Congrats, I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. If anything, I should be congratulating you. Olympics? That's huge..." He continues talking, his lips moving, but you’re barely registering the words. For the first time that night, he seems genuinely enthusiastic, a faint spark in his eyes as he talks about you, about London, gesturing with his hand in excitement.

That's when you notice it. The gold around his finger. It glimmers under the warm lights of the bar, catching your eye like a beacon. You can't stop staring at it even after he's done talking.

"Oh, yeah. It's great." The words feel hollow as they leave your mouth. You struggle to find the right response, not wanting to be rude. "You're married?"

His face falls, and he looks down at his hand resting on his lap. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We, uh..." He scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting up to meet yours briefly before looking away. He seems nervous, like he's bracing for your reaction, worried to tell you, as if you weren’t supposed to know at all. "We got married last year. We kept pushing the date for a while because we were... we were busy... and stuff just kept getting in the way."

"We...?"

"Tashi."

"Tashi," you echo, the name tasting foreign and bitter on your tongue. "You're married? You married each other?"

He nods, "Yeah, we've been engaged for a few years now. You haven't heard?"

You feel a lump form in your throat. "No, uh. My coach tries to keep me away from certain news... my mom suggested it. So I don't get uh, distracted."

This is exactly the kind of situation your team has been trying to avoid.

The reality of his words sinks in, and you feel a sharp pang of something—loss, regret, maybe even jealousy. The air around you feels thicker and harder to breathe. Each word he says feels like another brick being laid on your chest, pressing down, making it harder to stay composed.

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

You force a smile, but it's a fragile thing, threatening to shatter at any moment. "That's... that's great, Art. I'm happy for you. Really. How was... how was the wedding?" Your mind races with thoughts of broken promises and missed opportunities. You imagine Tashi in her wedding dress; you know she looked beautiful. The image stabs at you, and you wince.

"It was beautiful. Both our families came in, and we kept it traditional, in a church. It was..." He pauses, watching you before adding, "It was a small ceremony. Private. Just family."

His words twist the knife deeper. Tashi's family used to see you as such. "No, yeah, I get it. Wouldn't want any trouble at the wedding. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for the both of you." You turn to the bartender, desperate to keep your voice steady. "Hey, can I get another drink? Something stronger?"

Patrick was right; your stupid orange juice won't get you through the night.

Art watches you with concern, his brow furrowing. "How many of those have you had?"

You laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. "Not enough."

"Does your coach know you're drinking?"

"Does yours know you're talking to me?"

Art leans back, his posture stiffening. He turns to his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he takes another sip. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You watch as he processes your words, his expression shifting from defensiveness to something more pained. You instantly feel a pang of guilt, realizing you've struck a nerve.

You've heard all about Tashi's coaching with Art. Whispers in the locker rooms during tournaments, hushed conversations about how she's pushing him until he cracks. You never wanted to believe it, never wanted to think that Tashi, of all people, would be the one to break him down.

"She calls you Ace, you know."

You make a face at the name. A journalist had written an article about you a few years ago when you won your first US Open, nicknaming you Ace since your serves were almost impossible to hit. The nickname stuck, plastered across headlines, magazine covers, and merchandise. People even bet on you becoming the youngest tennis player with the most aces in history before the season ended. You were only off by a dozen.

"Does she?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected.

"You do have a killer serve."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Killer." The word feels bitter on your tongue. "Tashi used to hit those back at me like it was nothing."

Art nods, taking another sip of his drink before pausing to look at you. "Only 'cause she knows you."

"Knew," you correct him.

The silence stretches again, heavier this time. You're about to say something, anything to break it, when Art speaks again, his voice softer, more earnest.

"I miss you."

What. The. Fuck.

"I do," he insists, leaning forward, his eyes searching yours. "I miss hanging out with you. I miss playing with you. Watching your games live and not recorded on my TV."

"Art, c'mon." You feel the dread crawling up your throat, wishing you had left the bar sooner. Every word he says seems to pull you deeper into a past you've been trying to escape. Art has done nothing but throw you off your game all night.

"I miss you outside of tennis, too," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I miss our late-night walks, studying in the library. You remember those?"

"Of course I do."

"Tashi misses you, too," he says, and you can tell he's crossing a line, testing your patience. You can feel the corner of your mouth twitch, your eyes unable to meet his. "She tells me every night. She's always keeping up with your stats, watching all of your games, rewatching your old ones. She makes notes for you, how you could improve. She wants to coach you."

"Art, stop it," you finally snap, turning to face him. The night feels ruined, any semblance of peace shattered. Was this all some elaborate scheme against you? After all these years, is this how they repay you? Out of spite? Is that what it is, a way to get back at you because you somehow got it all, and Tashi's taking whatever she can scrape off from Art?

"I don't want her to coach me. And I highly doubt she wants to coach me either."

"I booked the hotel," he says suddenly, his voice softer, more sincere. "She doesn't know you're here. And I really think it will be good for you two to talk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, placing it carefully on the bar in front of you. "Here's our room number. I'll be out tonight with some friends, so the room is yours till late. Just, don't kill each other or break anything if you fight."

"I'm not going—"

"She really does miss you," he interrupts, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might understand, might relent.

You stare at the piece of paper, feeling its presence like a burning brand. Art stands up, hesitating for a moment as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it. "I mean it. Think about it," he murmurs before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space of your mind.

You watch him go, each step he takes pulling at the threads of your carefully constructed facade. As he nears the entrance, your eyes follow him instinctively, and that's when you see her. Tashi. She's standing there, with her bags looking around with a familiar intensity, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours.

You feel sick.

Meeting Art was a pleasant surprise; he makes your heart race and your cheeks burn. But Tashi makes your heart stop and your brain shut off.

She looks different—older, more mature, hair straight and cut to a mid-length but also a lighter colour—but still heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes you.

She opens her mouth as if to say something when Art stands next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but no words come out.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The weight of her gaze is too much. You're the first to look away. You stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. "Excuse me," you mutter to the bartender, slapping a couple of bucks on the counter. Your voice feels distant, and detached, as if it belongs to someone else.

You push through the crowd, your mind a chaotic whirl of emotions. You need air. You need space.

As you reach the elevator, you can feel Tashi's eyes still on you. But you keep moving, your footsteps quickening with each step. You need to focus on tennis. That's the only thing that's never let you down.

Tashi had once picked tennis over you, and now it was your turn to do the same.

You reach your room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you finally let out the breath you've been holding. The walls seem to close in on you, and you slide down to the floor.

You need to remember why you're here. For the game. For the dream. And that has to be enough.

Only one problem.

You can't sleep.

Hours later, you find yourself in the hotel gym, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness of the night. Your mind is racing, a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions you can't control. Desperate for an outlet, you hop on a treadmill and start running, hoping to exhaust yourself into some semblance of peace.

Anything is better than sitting in the hotel lobby, scouring the internet on the public computer for any proof of Art and Tashi's marriage while drinking wine straight from the bottle.

Art was right, it was a small wedding. There were almost no photos of it caught by the paparazzi, only articles upon articles talking about it, magazine covers and everything. God, how could you have missed this? How out of the loop were you?

There was only one photo posted, and it was from Tashi's Facebook and Instagram from less than a year ago; a picture of just her hand holding onto Art's, where you can see her wedding ring. There was no caption. But the photo had millions of likes.

You wonder if Patrick knew. He probably did. He stalks her account religiously and only recently started to tone it down. And then there's you, who had her blocked on everything since your last argument.

The music playing in your ears drowns out the world around you, a heavy beat pulsing as you hum along. Your eyes fixate on the rising numbers on the treadmill screen, sometimes glancing out the window at the city skyline, other times catching your silhouette in the glass reflection.

Sweat makes your clothes cling to you like a second skin, rolling down your spine in rivulets. You're still a little tipsy from your drinks, the taste lingering in your cheeks, but you think you're sober enough that a few more miles will drain it all out.

Art's words are burned into your mind. The wedding you were never invited to, how he suddenly wants to be friends again. You can see where he's coming from; tennis is lonely. You're lonely. You press the button to go faster, your legs burning as you push yourself harder, trying to escape the thoughts that chase you.

You don't hear the door click open, and it takes a few seconds for you to spot the reflection of someone walking behind you in the window's reflection, rolling out a pink yoga mat. But they don't step onto it, they don't move, and even worse, you catch their eye in the reflection.

Fuck.

It's Tashi Duncan.

Your heart lurches in your chest. You quickly look away, panic setting in. You turn your music up higher and make the treadmill run faster, the machine whirring louder in response. Your pulse races, not just from the exertion, but from the presence of the one person you can't bear to face right now.

In the corner of your eye, you see her approach you. When you hear her call out your name between songs, you pretend you can't hear her. You pretend to be captivated by the sight of the city at night, pretend that you're lost in the music as P!nk's voice blares into your ears, cursing out one of her old lovers.

You wonder how long you can keep the act up.

Tashi moves with a determination that you've always admired and feared. She walks around your treadmill, eyes locked onto you with a fierce intensity. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unplugs the machine from the wall, forcing it to power down abruptly.

Not long enough.

"What the fuck?" You huff, yanking out your earbuds. "What's your fucking problem?"

"You're my problem," she says, her voice steady, unyielding as she rolls her eyes.

"I haven't said a word to you."

"And that's my problem. I'm talking to you," Her gaze bores into yours, refusing to be ignored. You can see the resolve in her eyes, the same decisiveness that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court.

"I'm busy," you snap, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, both from the exertion and the emotional storm raging inside you. You feel trapped, cornered by the very person you’ve been trying to avoid.

You bite your tongue, stepping off the treadmill and walking around her when she steps in front of you. You make a straight line for your bag, watching her from the mirrors as she follows you closely.

"Can you listen?" It's more of a demand than an ask, "I just... Art told me what he did. He's a little shit, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. You have other shit to worry about."

You're taking long chugs from your water, staring at her without saying a word. Part of it is because you have nothing to say to her, and another is because you're afraid that if you speak, she'll see through you.

Tashi's eyes roam over you, lingering on your shorts and the way the wires from your earbuds snake from your iPod, under your tank, and peek out from under your sports bra. Her gaze is both appraising and filled with something unresolved between you. When you don't respond, she sighs. "You look great, by the way. On the court. You've changed your approach. You're vicious."

The compliment stings more than it soothes. You still don't say anything, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.

"...Or maybe you've always been. I haven't seen you in a long time. So a lot could've changed, I don't know."

You lower your bottle, swallowing the water. It feels cold as it runs down your throat, a stark contrast to the heat of your rising anger. You can't help the way your eyes drop to her hand when you pull your hair down from its ponytail. The sight of the ring on her finger feels like a punch to the gut.

She notices.

"We didn't want you to find out this way."

Your eyes snap up to hers. "And how was I supposed to find out?"

Tashi looks taken aback for a moment, her confident façade faltering. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I don't know. Maybe we should've told you. Should've invited you. But I thought... I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know. I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had."

Your laugh is bitter, devoid of any real amusement. "Easier?

"Look," Tashi begins, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "I'm not a fan of the way I ended things. But I think that keeping a grudge for this long is embarrassing. We were teenagers."

"You're right," you concede with a bitter chuckle, "it is embarrassing. But you know what's even more embarrassing?" Your voice rises, fueled by a mixture of frustration and hurt. "Having your husband come to me and tell me how much he misses me. And how you miss me. But you don't have the guts to tell me that yourself, do you? Do you miss me, Tashi?"

"Of course I miss you," she scoffs, her tone defensive. "You were my best friend. My serving partner. We played and won doubles together."

"Is that all I was to you?"

"Was there supposed to be anything more?"

There it is, the moment you've been dreading, the confrontation you've been avoiding. You can feel the familiar ache in your chest, "You know I fucking loved you, Tashi," you admit. "And yeah, whatever, everyone loved you. No one could get enough of Tashi Duncan. But you know damn well I loved you for more than just that."

"Loved?" She steps closer, her eyes searching yours. "You don't love me anymore?"

"No," you tell her. "I don't. I dropped out of your groupie a while ago."

"What do you love, then?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the distance between you closing.

"I love tennis," you confess, your gaze never leaving hers. "I love winning. Turns out I'm great at both. And I love that too. And people love me. That's more than you could ever give me. Or Art."

"Even Patrick?" The mention of his name is a sharp jab; she's trying to get under your skin.

"I don't know, you tell me." You're taunting her. And you love the way she falters for a split second. "You saw him at the Open last year, didn't you?"

The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you. "Listen," she says, her voice dropping lower, "I just came here to tie some loose ends. For Art's sake. He says It'll be good for me."

"Okay," you reply, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation in your favour. Hook, line and sinker. "Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Hook.

Tashi's eyes narrow slightly, but she takes the bait, her expression shifting to one of determination. "You raise your arm too high when you serve. You're gonna dislocate your shoulder one day."

"I bet you're waiting for the day I do."

"I can make you the best."

"Am I not already?"

Line.

"You're one of the best at most. But not the best. I'd be surprised if you bring back bronze. You're too short-tempered for silver. Let me coach you. I'll make sure you bring back gold."

"I don't need you," you say, the words catching in your throat.

"We both know you do," she whispers, her breath warm against your lips.

And sinker.

In that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. The words hang in the air, a silent challenge. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the closeness almost unbearable.

Without another thought, your lips crash together in a desperate kiss, a release of all the pent-up tension and longing that has simmered between you for far too long.

It's a whirlwind of heat and passion, each touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume everything in its path. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your body pressed against hers with a fierce urgency.

The kiss deepens a symphony of desire and desperation, all the words you couldn't say pouring into it with a fervour that borders on reckless abandon. You can feel yourself start to become absorbed into the bubble that is Tashi Duncan, it sucks you in, and it scares you, makes you feel as if you're sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

She grips the back of your neck, hard enough that her nails dig into the skin. Tashi waits for your gasp, and when you do, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, past your teeth until it collides with your own.

You're moaning, groaning into her mouth with the way she shoves you until your back hits the mirror behind you. You're arching into her at the way she fucking smiles against your lips at your reaction.

It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Almost in the same way Art is. You know it. She knows it. But in your defence, it's been a while since you've been kissed, it's been a while since someone's touched you this way, with heat and flavour. You're a little dizzy from it, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Tashi sucks your tongue into her mouth and you buck your hips against the thigh she's pressed between your legs.

There's a sweetness that lingers when she bites your lip, you wonder if she's wearing lipgloss, maybe chapstick. You hope she can't tell you've been drinking, that talking to Art made you spiral, that you've been bluffing since the moment she walked into the gym. Since the night she packed her things and told you she was leaving Stanford, her scholarship has no use since she can't play anymore.

When her hands run down your neck to your waist, gliding over the sweat on your skin, you can feel the cold touch of her wedding ring. It's frigid, making you shiver when Tashi starts to lick up the column of your throat. You almost feel bad about how wet you've become.

"Tashi..." you huff, her hands found their way to the base of your ass, guiding you to rock faster against her, only making you whine. Her grasp is tight, wanting. She pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your crotch closer to hers and then pushing you back down on her leg. She repeats the motion a few times, rolling her own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto her.

Tashi rewards you with a quiet moan—oh, you want her to do that again, you're going to make her do that again, louder and louder—and then, with a touch so light you could cry, she traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

You can feel your stomach nearly drop, "You're married, Tashi."

She pulls away just to laugh at you. One finger traces your slit through your shorts, and you hear yourself moan. She raises her brows, a challenging look in her eyes, "Are you jealous?"

You try to scoff, but the cold glass of the mirror behind you squeaks when you shift. Even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once.

"What would Art say?" You try to say, your hair falling over your face as you try to collect some kind of morality. If you were caught, you can already imagine the headlines and the stories people would write about you. "What would he do if he found us right now?"

"I don't know," Tashi hums, leaning closer. She pretends to think as if the answer isn't obvious, teasing you a little when she gets close enough to kiss you but doesn't. "He'd probably ask to join."

You can't stop the way that thought alone makes you melt. You remember the jokes Patrick used to make back when you were in college, of you and Tashi being his wet dreams. You can almost imagine, how he would moan at everything, want everything, his whiney moans too similar to the ones he makes when he's on the court.

Tashi rubs gently at your pussy a few more times like she's exploring you, and then suddenly she taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and she sighs against your mouth. "You're so wet. You like it when I touch you?"

"Yeah, please... touch me." You nod. And in your head, you're telling yourself you only like it because you haven't been with anyone since Patrick left for his tour.

Tashi kisses you again, and it's a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath her shirt she starts to fumble with your waistband, and you're both angry and resentful and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet.

Her fingers are clumsily slipping into your underwear and then she's there, her fingers are brushing right against your clit—you're so wet that her fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time she reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Tashi leaves you gasping and she teases you for it. "So sensitive," she taunts against your lips, pressing her thumb against your clit so she can see you squirm, pumping her fingers at an urgent pace to hear you moan. "So needy."

With each movement, she scissors her fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and she starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? I am, aren't I? I'm exactly what you need. C'mon say you want me. Tell me you need me, Ace."

"Maybe—" You're breathless, and the nickname has you tugging at her hair again, "Shit, I saw the way you made Art. He... oh god... he wouldn't be half the athlete without you. I also... I also wouldn't want to ruin my shoulder... while—while serving."

"I'm not talking about tennis."

For a moment, you worry that you've fallen for a trap, that you've said too much. You're vulnerable, a little drunk on lust and wine, and Tashi isn't stupid to not catch your sapphic crush on her since the two of you became friends, an old high school love that's never really disappeared, from slumber party kisses and how you've gawked at her, at her husband and even her ex-boyfriend.

"C'mon, Tash, you're always talking about tennis."

"Not this time."

You barely catch onto what she says. Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that she's given up on pumping her fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach—"I think I'm close... oh, I don't—fuck—keep touching me like that."

She bites your neck until you say her name. You pull her hair until she moans. Her touch is blistering against your skin. She says your name in a breathy drawl like she's pleading with you, humouring you, wanting to take everything from you.

"Keep going, please, please don't stop," you all but shout, and Tashi continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of her hand means the heel of her palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into her hand—you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you.

Every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Tashi whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming—

Distantly, you can feel her fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting—and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto her lap—but other than that, all you know is the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once. A hot sting against your skin that reminds you of the sun whenever you're on the tennis court, deep into the game you've turned into the love of your life.

It can't have possibly been this long since the last time you've gotten laid, right?

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Tashi is heaving for breath against your shoulder and her fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. "You're so pretty, you know that? No tennis talk."

You lean your head back against the mirror, a slow grin forming on your lips, "You don't think I'm pretty when I play."

"I think you're hot when you play."

You peek a glance at Tashi, meeting her eyes as she watches you, watching the way you catch your breath, skin shining against the fluorescent lights of the gym, similar to how you shine on the court. Yeah, you're a sight for sore fucking eyes.

Tashi takes slow, taunting steps back and away from you, and then she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes, you can see the most fucked-out look on her face just at the taste of your cum.

She licks her fingers clean—you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight—before opening her eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "I'll be in my room," she rolls up her pink mat (which she never used) and picks up her bag, "I'm sure you know the number. I'm hoping you can return the favour and touch me or something. You know, before you leave in the morning."

tags 🏷️: @begoniaespresso / @sceletaflores / @too-deviant / @wolflover384 / @sevikasblackgf / @supercutszns / @diorrfairy / @24kmar / @apolloscastellan

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[messylxve]

old flame | aaron hotchner x reader

part two

content warning: angst, yearning, sad hotch, tension is THICC, mentions of abduction, guns, pregnant character, angry cops

pt1 pt3

Aaron still thinks about you most days. There was not much he clung onto from his years before, but you were one of the few he couldn’t let go of.

He supposed it was because you were one of the few things he never got closure for. You had just disappeared one day, completely untraceable as if you never wanted to be seen by him again.

And he didn’t know why.

It was a rather quiet day in the BAU. Morgan and Prentiss goofed off while Reid rambled on about…something. Aaron stuck it out in his office per usual.

He should have been doing paperwork, but his mind wandered elsewhere. It wandered to the picture in his wallet. He gazed at it sadly, wondering when it all went wrong.

The picture was of you and him: a selfie taken on a camera from when the two of you went to a store late at night and decided to cart each other around in the shopping carts.

Strange how some of the happy memories he had left, were of you.

“Hotch.”

He flipped his wallet shut, his attention now on JJ as she stood at the doorway of his office. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “What do you have?”

“Multiple abductions in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Two girls, a woman, and a boy. All ranging in ages, but all related to officers under the police force.”

“What’s the time difference between each?”

JJ shook her head, flipping through one of the folders. “Three days.”

Hotch quickly pocketed his wallet and stood from his desk. “We’ll do the debriefing on the jet, alert the others. Wheels up in 10.”

To say it was chaos in Harrisburg Police precinct was an understatement. Phones rang endlessly, people rushed around and the sound of arguing echoed from the chief’s office.

“It's not usually like this,” one officer greeted. “This has become personal for a few of us and they aren't taking it lightly.”

Hotch scanned over the precinct, the uneasiness in the air radiating out to his team. “I suggest you take those officers off the case. We can't afford any distractions from anyone to interfere with this.”

“That's what were working on,” he nodded over to the office where four uniformed individuals crowded around a desk. “They aren't making it easy.”

Hotch’s frown deepened before looking around. “Do you have a space for my team to set up?”

“Yes, right this way,” he motioned for the group to follow him before turning back to Hotch. “Chief wants you in her office before we begin breaking things down.”

“Thank you.”

Hotch didn't know why he didn’t suspect something when he heard the shouting the first time. Walking closer, he realized he knew that voice. It was the voice that had haunted him for years.

“Do not question my authority again. The four of you are suspended from this case. If I hear another complaint, argument or so much of a whisper about my decision your guns will be confiscated until the case is closed. Am I clear?”

Aaron’s heart stuttered. His hand found the doorframe to grip as he watched in awe.

A small chorus of ‘yes chief’ followed your reprimand from all but one officer.

“Am. I. Clear. Smith?”

The man grit his teeth, staring you dead in the eye. “Yes chief.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Each officer left the room, leaving the two of you alone and suddenly you felt like kids all over again.

“Aaron.”

“y/n,” he breathed out. “I didn’t know—,”

“Neither did I,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he was talking about. You felt your defenses slip away for the first time in a long time in his presence. You hated to admit it but it felt good. Seeing him again despite all of the years away.

But that look in his eyes, the pain and heartbreak. It took you right back to the day you fucked up.

It was almost as a spell was casted, Aaron saw your walls form again.

You cleared your throat and folded your arms. “There are only so many officers I can have on the field for this, so I thank you and your team for being here.”

“I- of course.”

Aaron had never felt so unsure during a case.

“Agent Smith says he was on the phone with her right before it happened and she hung up quickly,” you mused, standing in the front entryway of the Smith home with Hotch and Morgan. “Jessica Smith was 8 months pregnant when taken…”

“Which means she couldn’t have put up much of a fight,” Hotch finished your thoughts. Your eyes found his for just a moment and your heart stuttered in its chest. Had it been so many years ago, the two of you would have laughed about it, or shouted jinx, but not anymore.

“But she still would have put up some semblance of a struggle. She didn’t fight at all.” You cleared your throat.

Morgan looked oddly between the two of you, crossing his arms. “Right, so is it possible the unsub had a weapon. Threatened her to let him in.”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t think so, the unsub had to be someone she trusted.”

“But didn’t want around the kids,” you muttered, eyes staring down the entryway.

Morgan furrowed his brows. “What makes you say that.”

Your eyes flickered up to Hotch, that’s where they wanted to go, but you trained them on Morgan instead. “The other kids were home, would’ve ran to the door to see who might be there.”

Hotch watches you carefully as you walk over to the door, your gloved hand closing it. “Mom makes it to the door first, sees the unsub through the peephole and recognizes him, but thinks it might not be a good idea for the husband to know he was there.”

You turn away from the door, facing the men. “She hangs up the phone abruptly, tells the kids to go play and leaves her phone right here on the table before opening up the door.”

You open the door slowly and step outside, noting the mud on the welcome mat leading to the the first few feet of the house.

“The mud from the prints match the ones at the other scenes, but they don’t run through the house…they stop here.”

“She didnt want him far into the house at all,” Hotch finished off again.

“So that means the unsub is someone each family knows and Jessica recognizes, but is a sore subject, not wanting her husband to know he was there,” Morgan theorizes.

“Someone who was fired or discharged,” you realized.

Hotch furrowed his brows. “Have you recently let go of officers.”

You nodded your head. “A few. But there’s no way to go through files like that without getting unneeded attention from other officers.”

Hotch turned to Morgan. “Call Garcia, tell her—,”

“No need,” you interrupted. “I have direct files saved to my personal computer. It’ll be faster.”

Hotch eyes stayed on you, contemplating his choices.

“Morgan, get back to the precinct, update the others. l/n and I will retrieve the files.”

The car ride was…awkward to say the least.

Hotch had a million things he wanted to say, he needed to say. But somewhere between his heart and his voice, it died upon delivery.

“Spit it out,” you blurted out suddenly, forcing his attention to you.

“What?”

“You’re twiddling your thumbs and biting the inside of your cheek. Every time you look at me you take this gasp of air. What do you want to tell me?”

So many years had passed and yet you could still read him like the back of your hand.

“That was impressive back there…” he swallowed hard. “You’d make a good profil—,”

“Please don’t tell me you cooked up all of your guts just to tell me I’d be a good profiler,” you laughed.

It sounded harsh, but there was something in your tone that eased Aaron’s heart. He laughed too for the first time in a long time.

“No I guess not.”

However just as easily as the moment eased up, it easily tensed back into that painful silence.

“Why did you leave,” he blurted out finally.

Your smile dissolved so quickly, it pained Aaron to be the reason it was even there.

“I got an offer from UPenn. Full ride.”

Aaron frowned. “Congratulations.” It was genuine, despite how hollow his voice sounded. “But that’s not the real reason is it.”

Your voice suddenly felt very raw as you attempted to swallow back your emotions, but just as quickly as they left, it came back. “No…”

“Why—,”

“Because,” you burst out. “After that night, when you begged me to…” you couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. “…what we did…I couldn’t go back to what we were. It hurt too much to. I was ready to tell you everything when I saw you again but…you and Haley. She… I couldn’t do that to her.”

You were bearing your emotions out, on the verge of tears releasing every pent up emotion since that night and Aaron never felt more stupid in his life.

They had finally come at a red light when Aaron spoke up. “What night? What did I…what did I ask you to do?”

He was terrified of your answer.

But you. Everything in you stopped. Your heart, your brain, even your breath. Everything was so silent when you turned your head and finally looked him in the eye for the first time in ages.

“You really don’t remember?”

He shook his head. “No.”

No

No

No

His single word reverberated through your bones, sinking deep into your soul. What do you mean no?

You turned to the road, a humorless chuckle falling from your lips. “You don’t even remember.”

“y/n,” Aaron called your name with such desperation. “Please.”

You looked back at him, hearing that tone in his voice. Suddenly you were taken back to that night. Between the pleas in his voice and that depressingly sad look in his eyes, he looked just the way he did all those nights ago.

God how long is this light?

“You were drunk. Haley accused you of being in love with me. You begged me to kiss you to prove it was a lie.”

His heart squeezed in his chest and his lungs felt as if it was wrapped in barbed wire. It hurt.

“Did I?”

Your eyes flickered over to him for just a millisecond.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

part three out now!!

taglist: @mackannkees @gghostwriter

[vienssunshine]

You Taste Sweeter Than Revenge

pairing: Josh Washington x fem reader nsfw word count: 4.2k content warning: non-con elements (voyeurism) author's note: I think Josh having a love interest would get in the way of his "prank"

Finally, finally, you get a moment to yourself. You lean your head back against the wooden door of the guest room, basking in your long-awaited solitude.

The process of getting everyone up and settled at the Washingtons’ lodge was draining: Chris wouldn’t shut up about how he caught Sam snooping on his phone, Emily and Jess were at each other's throats over Mike, and Mike and Matt kept competing to be the alpha of the group. 

And then there was Josh. Though not as much of a headache as the others, he stirred up some feelings in you that are…more intense than you expected. 

Compared to the strong personalities of your friend group, Josh is someone you can relax around; he’s a little peculiar, but sweet and charming in his own way. You two have a strong friendship, however, due to his tendency to be a flirt, you sometimes question the nature of your bond. His teasing affects you more than you’re willing to admit, especially since you find him easy to look at. Thankfully, the comforting knowledge that he says that kind of stuff to everyone allows you to maintain the friendship and keep your attraction as low-key as possible. 

Except, you’re having a difficult time with that right now. You can only blame yourself, you’ve been suppressing your feelings towards Josh for so long that it makes sense they’d bubble back up at some point. You just didn’t expect it to be tonight, or to be this bad—every cell in your body is pulsing with desire. 

You make your way over to the bed, lying down on it and staring at the ceiling.

Fuck, how does he do this to you?

It started simple, totally harmless. Sam wanted hot water to take a bath, so Josh brought you down to the basement to help him out.

"Hey, it worked!" you exclaimed after hearing the low rumble of the boiler firing up.

“Attagirl,” Josh said, giving you a high-five.

His praise caused a shy smile to break out across your face before you could stop it, making you pray he didn't notice. He did.

"Seems like you're really into high-fives," Josh remarked, "Or, is it the person you're high-fiving?"

He's like this with everyone, you reminded yourself, any flirty banter was nothing special.

"Just love a good high-five," you said, avoiding his eyes by looking down to the basement’s cracked cement.

“Floor that interesting?” he teased, taking a step forward.

His movement prompted you to step back, but you stumbled when your heel hit the shelving unit full of boxes behind you.

Josh’s hands landed on your shoulders, steadying you, but even after you recovered, they stayed there, unmoving. With your eyes now adjusted to the dim basement light, you could note that he had moved much closer than what was necessary to help you. One small lean forward would press his chest to yours. 

“Josh?” you said, searching for an explanation for the sudden but—though it makes you feel guilty thinking it—welcome closeness. 

A mischievous grin lit up his face and he returned your question with one of his own: “Scared?”

You let your hand fall down onto his chest, fingers fiddling with a button on his flannel. “Not at all,” you responded. You attempted to make eye contact with him after answering, but it felt too intimate with him so close, so you turned your gaze away, yet no matter where you cast it, you’d still see him, his body was enveloping yours.

“Ah, I see, so you’re scared and a liar,” Josh retorts with a smirk. His hand came up to your jaw, holding your face still so you couldn’t avoid looking at him anymore, “What’re you so afraid of, little kitten?” 

“Don’t call me that,” you deflected, rolling your eyes. Even though you were trying to come off as unaffected, little sparks flickered and fizzed in your body like summertime fireworks. Was this how a friend should make you feel?

“Oh? Is there something better I should call you instead?” Josh said, tracing his thumb along your jaw. “I can come up with something. Let’s see…honey?” He shook his head, “Nah, too marital. Hmmm, baby? That’s pretty basic, isn’t it?” 

“You done yet?” you huffed, shifting your weight and continuing to pretend that hearing him call you pet names wasn’t making your stomach flip. He was being more persistent than usual, it made you wonder what was going on with him tonight.

“I guess I’m not good at this whole romantic nickname thing.” He released your jaw from his hold so his fingers could travel up and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “What if I just told you how pretty you are instead?” 

Usually you could fend off his flirty comments by retorting with a somewhat decent response, but you were entirely at a loss for what to say. It didn’t help that your body was working against you, fully responding to Josh’s advances in a distractingly enthusiastic way. It’s hard to figure out why he’s being so aggressive with his flirting when your heart is thundering in your ears.

You try to move back, only to be reminded of the shelves of storage keeping you in place, sandwiching you between them and Josh’s large frame. Since retreat wasn’t an option, you tried to diffuse the situation as best you could. 

“Slow down there,” you said with a nervous laugh, “A girl could get the wrong idea.” 

With your palm on his chest, you felt his heart begin to pound. Josh’s hands moved down to your waist, traveling more hesitantly than his brusque teasing suggested they would. You forced yourself to keep your expression unchanging when they rested on the curve of your torso, sending scattered bolts of electricity up your sides. There was anxious authenticity in his tone as Josh said, “Maybe I’ve been wanting you to get that idea for some time now.”

You weren’t sure what to think, was he trying to say he was into you? But, that couldn’t be it, he flirts with everyone, not just you. A conversation he had with Chris that was particularly homoerotic came to mind. It was clear you weren’t special. However, there have been multiple times his attention towards you felt heavy-handed, though you tried to not overthink it, not wanting to be wrong about his intentions. Regardless, as he spoke to you, there was an undeniable charge in the air, the anticipation of what his possible confession meant buzzing around the two of you. If he was saying what you thought he was, this could be your chance to tell him how you’ve felt all this time.

His eyes flicked over your face and just as you opened your mouth to respond, a loud noise made both of you jump.

It was a metallic, dull sound filling the basement with its unsettlingly rhythmic beat. Both of you turned your heads to one of the hallways in the basement where the sound was coming from. 

“Uh, sorry to interrupt this, but, and I really don’t want to, I think we should check that out,” you told Josh.

He blinked, reorienting himself, and then said, “Yeah, uh…sure, let’s go.”

You both began to walk deeper into the basement, closing in on the origin of the unnatural noise. It bellowed through the basement’s cement walls, consuming the hallway with its ominous tone. You followed a few paces behind Josh, but as you got further down the hall, you brought your hand forward and wrapped your fingers around his forearm. Being able to feel him made you feel safer. He paused for a second, but didn’t say anything, so you kept your hand on him as you advanced.

You were about to turn the corner and follow the noise further down into the basement when a shadowy figure jumped out at you. Your heart stopped beating for a second, only resuming its rapid pounding after you had turned and begun to run from the intruder. 

Sprinting down the hallway, you yelled for Josh to run, the next and only thought in your brain being the escape that was the basement door. The masked figure followed in hot pursuit, just a few strides behind you. 

You jumped up the basement stairs three at a time until you reached and nearly collided with the door, needing to step back before trying to pull it open. You yanked and you pulled, but the door was unyielding. You were screaming nonsense at Josh, and he was responding to you as best he could, telling you that everything was going to be okay. His arm hovered around you protectively, separating you from the approaching intruder. 

The masked figure reached the top of the stairs and Josh stepped toward him, taking on a defensive stance. Then, the man draped in black held his arms up above his head and let out a ghostly wail that sounded…stupid. 

Your eyebrows pressed together, and you choked out a “Huh?”, looking over to Josh, who had cracked a smile. 

Your eyes darted between the two men, trying to work out what was going on. The intruder pulled off his mask, revealing Chris underneath, cracking up at the ingenious of his own prank. 

“You’re fucking kidding me,” you said, face burning up. 

“Good one, Cochise,” Josh congratulated.

You punched Chris in the shoulder, huffing how his prank wasn’t as funny as he thought it was, which only made him laugh harder.

“Were you in on this?” You turned to Josh, trying to mask your feeling of betrayal.

“Nope,” Josh chuckled, patting Chris on the back, “But I wish I had been.” 

“Whatever, you two,” you said, grabbing the basement’s key from Chris and storming out of there.

“Hey, wait up!” Josh called after you.

“Let her go, Josh,” Chris said, “C’mon, I finally found the Ouija board.” 

“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” Josh responded, hurrying to follow you into the guest room hallway. 

You had your hand on the doorknob of your room when you felt his fingers around your other wrist, tugging you back. 

“Not in the mood, Josh,” you said, pulling your hand away. Though, you didn’t attempt to open the wooden door again, instead turning to face him. 

“Hey, it was just a prank, right? You know Chris, he was just kidding around. No harm, no foul,” Josh said. If he were intending to make you feel better, it would be helpful if he said that like he fully believed it.

You sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal. I just-I probably looked so stupid.”

Josh stepped closer. “You were scared, I was too,” he said, his hand landing on the side of your arm, squeezing it, “No shame in that.” He let out a small chuckle, “I’m taking notes, Chris did a damn good job.”

“I guess,” you shrugged. 

Josh stared back at you, puzzled, before breaking out into a small grin, “I know there was one part that I really liked.” 

You looked away, appearing to find the sight of the doors lining the shadowy hall more interesting than him, but still took the bait, “And what part was that?”

Josh’s hand traveled down your arm, not once separating from it, to encircle your wrist. You shifted your gaze back to watch him place your hand on his forearm, the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel allowing direct contact with his warm skin. “I like that, when you’re scared, you hold onto me,” he confessed. 

The air of indifference is hard to maintain now, but you still try. “I didn’t know you were so observant, Josh.” 

He rested his hand on top of yours. “Just with you.”

You cursed yourself for how easy it was for him to win you over with a stupid, corny comment. Any embarrassment from the prank was superseded by the new tingly sensation in your stomach. Though, the adrenaline must have remained because you want to do something about the fact that, for all the time you’ve known Josh, you’ve never once tried flirting back.

Your fingers tightened around his forearm, noting the musculature present underneath his tan skin. You hadn’t realized how strong he had gotten. “Y’know, Josh,” you started.

“Yeah?” he breathed. He can feel your hand flex underneath his palm as you stroke your thumb along his arm with gentle swipes.

It was scary to even hint at how much you were feeling him right then, but you pushed through. “Maybe, I just like touching you,” you offered, “Scared or not.”

He exhaled unevenly, seemingly going to great lengths to keep himself still. It was new, to feel like your words had weight, for them to be the reason his gaze felt so heavy as he raked it over your body. The interaction felt dangerous but exciting; you didn’t want to shy away anymore.

“Josh!” Chris’ voice reverberated through the lodge.

“I really am gonna kill him,” you muttered. Josh let his arm drop back to its place by his side. 

“Get in line,” he said, which earned a giggle from you.

Another call from Chris, “Where are you, bro? Ashley’s here. C’mon, it’s Ouija board time!”

Josh shook his head, “I…I should go, I can’t leave them hanging.”

“You sure you don't want to stay?” you asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes. It’s funny, how you were just running away from him and were now trying to keep him from leaving.

He stiffened, seemingly weighing his options in his mind. His hesitation made you smile, you liked having an influence over him. 

But it was not enough, because he relaxed into his typical playful energy, saying, “Unfortunately, I’m already tied up. I’ve got big plans for those two tonight.” 

You frown, “Yeah, I bet the Ouija board madness will be one for the books.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he replied. Then he continued more earnestly, “But maybe we can hang out later? Finish our conversation?” 

You pressed your lips together; you didn’t want to wait. However, it was probably for the better, if you were to have Josh, you would want it without interruptions.

“Okay, let’s talk later,” you agreed. He nodded, stepping back to go join Chris, but, before he could, you grabbed his shoulder and pushed yourself up on your toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was quick and impulsive, but for some reason, you felt that if you hadn’t done it then, you wouldn’t get the chance in the future. 

“Later, then,” he said, a soft smile spreading across his face. He turned and walked back to find Chris, leaving you standing all alone in the long hallway, longing for more.

So now you lie spread out on a quilt atop the guest room bed, head spinning as you relive your conversations with Josh. You should’ve invited him in; the want pulsing through the veins in your body wouldn’t be so hard to manage if you did. But to deal with Chris and the teasing that would have ensued from your ruthless friend group wouldn’t be much fun either.

Your arms wrap around your sides, hugging yourself as you think about being down in the basement with him, how his voice lowered when he spoke more seriously about his feelings, how you could feel the waves of heat radiating off his body despite the area’s chilled atmosphere. You’ve never had him that close to you before; the closest you’ve ever been was when he dared you to go on the Ferris wheel at a local fair with him, claiming you were too chicken to do it, and the small cart forced you to sit hip-to-hip as he laughed and you bit back your terror.

The memory makes you realize how long you’ve wanted this for. How long you’ve stifled your feelings, your attraction, your desire. Now that it’s happening, knowing that he feels the same way, it’s hard to hold back. 

The cold winter storm outside does little to hinder the warmth dripping down your stomach like honey as, for the first time, you let yourself wonder what would have happened if it went further, wish it went further. 

Your hands travel down to the waistband of your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them. You’re aching right now; you just want to feel better.

Only, though you don’t know it, there’s a camera in your room. And through its lens, there’s someone who’s watching.

Josh removes his skull-like mask so he can get a better look at the footage in front of him. He had come down to his hide-out in the basement, intending to electronically lock the gates around the lodge so he can continue enacting his revenge, but something on one of the multiple television screens stacked atop his desk drew his attention.

Even if the recording is black and white and somewhat obscured by pixelation, there’s no doubt that it’s you, sprawled out over one of the guest beds, pulling off your pants and bringing your hands down between your thighs. 

Josh looks behind him, feeling like he shouldn’t be seeing this, but returns his gaze to the screen anyway, eyes widening as you begin to touch yourself, running your fingertips atop the soaked gusset of your underwear. Your head falls back onto one of the pillows lined up along the bed’s wooden headboard, eyes shut in bliss at long-awaited contact. 

Josh steps forward, locks whatever gate he no longer really cares for, and turns his full attention to the glowing screen. He had the strength to refuse you earlier, though not without difficulty, especially after you kissed him, but that resource has since been depleted as he’s unable tear himself away from the tv, completely entranced. He has other things he should be doing, things he’s been planning for a year now, but he just can’t. 

Your eyebrows are pressed together and your mouth slightly ajar as you begin to enjoy the feeling of your fingers, falling into a sensual, pleasurable rhythm. A slight rush of air escapes Josh’s lips as his body heats up, reminiscent of when he was pushed up against you in the basement. He found it hard to focus on his words with the way your body felt so soft underneath his hands. He can only imagine what it would be like if he were with you now, feeling your hot skin against his. He wonders if you’re imagining the same, wonders if that’s what’s getting you off, the fantasy of it being his fingers stroking the wet fabric of your underwear, making you jolt and twitch under his touch.

Josh isn’t sure when he got hard, maybe he has been this whole time, but what he knows now is that his erection is starting to ache. His gaze doesn’t falter from your body and its movements as his gloved hand travels downwards so he can palm himself through his overalls, desperate to relieve even just a fraction of the desire thrumming through his body.

He groans when you tug off your underwear, exposing yourself fully. You bring your hands to your soaked folds, touch now unobstructed by cloth, and start to draw slow circles on your clit.

Oh, you really like that. Josh drinks in every detail, intent on knowing how you like to be touched so he can burn into his memory. It’s an intimate moment, that you and Josh are both pleasuring yourselves together, even if you don’t know you’re sharing it. 

You twist and turn on the bed, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you as your fingers pick up in speed, applying more pressure to your sensitive clit. Though, that hand only stays tangled in the sheets for a moment, finding a better use pressed against your open mouth in a half-hearted attempt to muffle your sweet pants and moans. 

Josh wonders if you’re hoping he’ll hear you and come in to catch you in the act; the thought has his hips bucking into the surface of his gloved hand, finding just friction to be unsatisfactory. 

Then you break him, because as you’re running your fingertips along your glistening folds, you mouth his name. Josh. It’s undeniable now, you’re touching yourself while thinking of him.

He should be focusing on the prank, his revenge, everything he’s worked so hard to do, but all he can feel is the urge to fuck his fist at the sight of you purring his name. 

He peels off his overalls, letting them fall by his boots, and unzips his dark jeans so he can pull out his dick, wrapping his hand around it. It’s hot to the touch and leaking pre-cum, no doubt a product of the strenuous sexual tension underlying your conversations. He begins to run his hand along his length, the extent of his own arousal making him shudder from the movement. 

His forearm is covered in veins that travel underneath his skin like lightning, and as he pumps his needy cock, they stretch and bulge with his movements. Not so long ago, your hand rested on the same forearm that flexes as Josh fucks himself. He can feel it now, phantom grazes of your delicate fingers tracing his veins as he drives his dick through the tight grasp of his hand. Oh, how he wants you to be there, for you to be the one touching him.

He crumples forward, a single arm pressed against the table’s edge as his only means of support. God, the desire is eating him alive.

He should have just taken you when you were down in the basement. Pulled you into him and pressed his lips to yours, creepy sound be damned.

You’d be flustered of course, and probably try to act like you didn’t know what happened, all despite the fact that he knows you’d kiss him back with equal passion. You try to act tough, but he can tell that his little comments get you hot. Josh knew you were going to crack at some point, and the way you’re writhing around on a bed in his lodge proves him right.

If only you weren’t so damn stubborn about hiding your feelings. It’s been so obvious that you’re into him, with your bashful smiles or secret glances you don’t think he catches, but, at every opportunity he’s tried to give you, you shy away.

He should teach you a lesson for your coy attitude, you need to learn that being direct with him is what’s best. He contemplates going to find you in the guest room and fucking your brains out, it would show you how much you’ve been missing by being shy. 

Though, Josh likes the idea of punishing you more. He’d like to get his revenge on you for prolonging his frustrating and tortuous weeks of pining after you, trying to get it into your head how much he liked you. 

If he were to have his way, he would edge you, get you so close that you’re whining his name, pleading for your release, and then watch your expression turn when he withholds it from you. Maybe he’d earn a cute pout, or even better, you’d beg for him to continue. Josh curls into himself, his movements faster and sloppier, desire running rampant through his body.

He watches you sink a finger into your soaked entrance, seeking to relieve the painful emptiness of your canal. Josh wonders if it’s enough. The desperate roll of your hips as you try to push your finger deeper tells him it’s not, that you need more—that you need him. He watches you pause for a second, a cute frown on your lips, as you come to the same realization he has: it’ll never be enough if it’s not him. Josh exhales sharply, exalted.

You still try your hardest, though you can’t be blamed for the fruitless effort with your head so dizzy from lust. You push your finger in and out of your wet vagina as your other hand stimulates your clit, though awkwardly. It would be so much easier—feel so much better—if he were with you.

Josh sees no need to punish you for the heartache you put him through anymore, you’re doing it yourself right now, working so hard despite the fact that you’re unable to get yourself over the edge. He likes that you’re probably longing for him right now, wishing he were there to make you feel good.

It might be his sadistic side, or the fact that he feels needed, that does it for him, but your struggle gets Josh to his limit, his hand gripping onto the side of the table as he bucks his hips into his dripping hand. With a sloppy pump, he comes, white ropes shooting out as he presses his eyes shut in utter bliss. He seriously considers that you could turn into an obsession of his, if you haven’t already. 

Josh takes a deep breath, trying to calm his uneven breathing, and realizes you’ve given up on getting yourself off, redressing yourself while dissatisfaction mars your pretty face. He feels bad for a second, wanting to make you feel better, but his eyes flick to another screen to realize Chris is waking up from the sleeping gas, meaning Josh is short on time if he wants to fake his own death. 

He cleans himself off, redresses, and after one last look at the screen, he leaves.

He’ll deal with you later. 

[sydnikov]

Jersey || J. Hughes

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Jack Hughes/fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Summary: You and Jack got into a fight before he left for a game. To get back at him, you showed up at the bar you knew the Devils frequented after they won a game wearing the other team’s jersey. Only, a fan of said-team’s jersey gets a little too handsy, and even when fighting, Jack won’t stand for another man touching his girl.

Warnings: Cursing, alcohol consumption, touching w/out consent, mild and/or potential assault, kissing, mild angst, lots of fluff at the end

A/N: This is purely self-indulgent… Though I am a little nervous because I’ve never been a Jack Hughes girlie until recently, plus before my beloved hurricanes eliminated the devils I was battling my growing hatred for him LMAO but, anyways, I still have never written for him before, so lemme know what y’all think about this one... Happy reading <3

“Are you done yet?” Jack Hughes said as he raced around the apartment looking for his bag, briefly casting you a look of irritation as he rushed by.

Scowling, you merely spun around to follow his movements. “Did you even hear a word I just said?”

Jack released a sound of triumph as he found his bag by the couch and threw it over his shoulder. “About what?” he asked, purposefully dodging the topic you were trying to hint at. “You bitching about my ‘nighttime activities’ again?” he muttered, intending to just push back your problem with him for another day.

“I heard that,” you hissed, taking brief satisfaction in the way his neck flushed red at being caught. “So, what, I’m just some nagging girlfriend to you, then? Is that it?”

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as he tied the last lace on his shoe. “I don’t know, babe,” he said. “Can we just do this later?” Finally, he met your eyes for the first time that evening and found stubbornness and frustration staring back at him.

“So you can stay out until four in the morning again doing God knows what?” You scoffed, crossing your arms.

Jack, fed up, stood up and merely shook his head. He said your name through gritted teeth, a spark of genuine anger showing for the first time since starting this conversation. “I have a game to get to. I don’t know what your problem is but you’re really getting on my nerves right now and I really don’t want to hear it.”

Jack, feeling slightly guilty at the way he just spoke to you but not wanting to be the first to apologize, deliberately avoided looking at your face before grabbing his phone and marching out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, tugging at his hair once before releasing a strained breath. Not able to stop himself, Jack looked back at your shared apartment and debated being late to his game just to talk to you, but his stubbornness ultimately won out and with one shake of his head, he tried to cast you and your fight out of his mind until after he came home.

You’d still be there, waiting for him like always, after all, right?

You, meanwhile, stared at the door your boyfriend had just walked through in shock. Anger, frustration, confusion, and the strongest of them all: hurt, rolled through you in waves as you processed the conversation that just happened.

And the ‘problem’ you had with Jack, exactly?

It started out small—nothing huge, or anything. Jack didn’t have many red flags, if any at all – unless you counted him being a professional hockey player – so the fact that you’d been having so many problems recently was a mystery to you, as well.

Well, your relationship had just reached the 1-year milestone, and you only moved in together about a month ago… That’s when you started having problems, you supposed.

Jack’s season playing for the New Jersey Devils had started out strong immediately, and it was clear this was going to be one of his best seasons yet if not the best. The NHL was booking interviews with him, the Devils’ social media had practically turned into a Jack fan page, and the city had just fallen in love with him.

He absorbed the attention like a sponge, of course, like he couldn’t get enough of it. While he was clearly riding the high of being such a hot player right now, he hadn’t ever let it get to his head. His teammates, family, you, would never let him hear the end of it if his ego got too big.

So, here begs the question: why was Jack coming home later and later, texting you when away less, coming up with excuses on why he had to bail on weekly date nights?

Your insecurities had been eating you up lately, and the fact that Jack didn’t even see the problem made it worse. Was he cheating on you? You couldn’t help but ask yourself during many late nights, curled up in the bed you shared, alone, staring at the digital clock on the bedside table as the hours crept by.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you wiped at your eyes before finally tearing them away from the front door after accepting he wasn’t coming back. Making your way to the kitchen, you poured yourself a glass of water to cool your heated body when the vibration of your phone from your pocket interrupted you.

Feeling your heart swell with the hope that maybe it was Jack, you quickly pulled it out only to be disappointed when it was just one of your friends—then you felt bad for feeling disappointed because you loved your friends, as pushy as they could be, sometimes.

Want to hit up a bar? Is what one of them texted in a group chat with you and a few others. Normally, on a night like this where you were wallowing in the emptiness felt by Jack’s continued absence, you’d deny such an offer and merely drown yourself in the cheap wine you kept stashed, but…

A notification from a Devils news site interrupted your thoughts, and that’s where a devious idea struck your mind. Your boyfriend’s team was playing the Philadelphia Flyers tonight, a division rival, and you just so happened to have a close friend who was from the area.

I’m in, you responded to the group chat and couldn’t help but laugh at the string of fire emojis that followed. Wiping the remaining tears from your eyes, you texted said-Philly friend separately and asked if she had any jerseys she’d be willing to spare.

The text bubble that showed she was typing appeared, and then her response came. I have a Konecny jersey. Why?

Perfect.

Two hours later, you were in an Uber on your way to the designated club for the night which just so happened to be a bar that your boyfriend and his teammates frequented after a win. You sported black flared jeans and stilettos, and the star piece of your whole look: a Philadelphia Flyers jersey stamped with Travis Konecny’s name.

You wholeheartedly intended for Jack to see it to rile him up; he had a vicious jealousy streak, and a time like this was the perfect time to ignite it, especially after the 7-0 shutout win they took tonight.

Once you arrived, you tipped the Uber driver and walked in, a happy sway to your step because you felt like you were finally gaining the upper hand in your little feud with your boyfriend. As you walked into the club you were immediately bombarded with the sounds of booming music and flashing lights—the red-to-orange jersey ratio was almost comical, for the amount of ecstatic Devils fans far beat the few Flyers fans scattered throughout the room.

Drunken cheers of your name made you giggle as you found the table your friends had claimed. Like almost every patron in the bar, they were all sporting New Jersey Devils' colors or merch in some way—except for you and the friend who lent you the jersey you were currently wearing, of course.

“Never took you for a Philly fan,” said one of the girls, followed by several agreements. “What’s Jack gonna say when he sees you?”

So he was here, then, you hummed to yourself, briefly scanning the room for any sign of the team. “He’s here already?” you casually asked, leaning back against the booth and sipping on the drink one of your friends handed you.

“Yeah, they’re over in the booth across from us,” they pointed, helping you locate a large group of men and women who you, sure enough, identified as New Jersey Devils players and fan girls hanging off their arms. Feeling your heart seize up because what if Jack had someone hanging off of him, you only released the breath you’d been holding when you saw him near the back of the group talking to Nico.

Your friends saw the brief look of trepidation on your face and didn’t take long to fit the puzzle pieces together. “Are you and Jack still having problems?”

Smiling bitterly, you only shrugged. “Nothing too bad, really. I just want to get back at him for taking me for granted, y’know?”

Immediately, more shots were ordered and you couldn’t help but grin as you tossed the alcohol down your throat, feeling immensely better with the slight buzz that came after.

More confident, too.

Tossing your hair over your shoulder, you announced you were going to the bathroom but merely used it as an excuse to walk by the Devils group, intent on catching your boyfriend’s eye.

Feeling an arm brush against you, you were momentarily distracted when you turned around to find a man about your age looking down at you with a grin that told you he was already several shots ahead of you. He was sporting a Flyers jersey, too.

“You from Philly?” you think the man asked, but it was hard to understand the slur of his words over the loud boom of the music.

You gave him a tightlipped smile before giving your response. Despite the fact you were on a mission to make your boyfriend jealous, you weren’t actually wanting nor intending to cross a line. “No,” you shrugged, taking a small step back. “But I can still be a fan, right?”

As the man laughed, you turned your head back towards where you last saw Jack and sucked in a breath when you saw the look on his face.

Jack had seen you the moment you walked into the bar. He was just drawn to you like that, noticed every little detail about you—including the bright orange Flyers jersey you were currently wearing that made him clench his hand around his drink so hard the glass almost shattered.

What the fuck? He practically growled as he watched you walk up to your friends without sparing him a glance. You hadn’t noticed him yet, and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel relieved or guilty, because what were you even doing here? You normally always stayed in.

Then Jack had the realization that oh, yeah, you did always stay in—because of him, his schedule, his late nights, and he couldn’t even be bothered to come home to you until the early hours of the morning.

Well then, he thought. That solved the mystery of why you’d been so pissed off at him lately.

The forward anxiously ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t blame you, either.

“Why do you look like you just fucked up?” Nico’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and Jack only cast him a quick glance before relocating you just as you stood up from your booth.

“Because I did,” he said, not taking his eyes off of you as some idiot wearing a Flyers jersey grabbed your attention. “Badly. Very badly.”

Nico followed his teammate’s gaze, furrowing his brow in confusion until he saw you, wearing a—

“Oh,”

Jack had the face of one who couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill you or the guy next to you who still hadn’t taken the hint that you weren’t nearly as interested in him as he was in you. The centerman’s eyes were abnormally dark in the club’s dim lighting, simmering with jealousy and protectiveness.

But that was the entire point of coming here tonight, wasn’t it?

Plastering on a wide, fake smile, you met your boyfriend’s searing gaze and merely shot him a pointed look before attempting to make conversation with the inadvertently talkative man still blabbering on beside you.

He was handsome in a rugged kind of way if you were into that sort of thing, and towered over you in both height and weight much like Jack, but whereas with your boyfriend the size difference made you feel safe and protected, this guy just made you feel smothered and uncomfortable.

He was well past drunk, though, so you figured he couldn’t do that much harm. You hadn’t let him come very close to you either and were trying to maintain a respectful distance knowing Jack was probably having a very hard time restraining himself from marching over and making a scene.

You were just trying to get back at him, as petty as it may be…

The man whose name you later found out to be Todd managed to keep a fifteen-minute conversation going on about himself – which you found mildly impressive – so when he finally started to trail off, you began to make your escape.

“Nice talking with you, but my friends are probably looking for me,” you said, dodging Todd’s attempts at trying to touch you.

“Awe, c’mon, babe, I’m sure they don’t care,” Todd tried to wink, but it looked like he was having some type of muscle spasm instead. You nervously laughed, trying to back away, but then he suddenly stepped in front of you and got so close you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Don’t be a tease, now,” he slurred, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. You tried backing away, but quickly hit the counter of the bar where you were now caged in. Fuck, you gulped, feeling very uncomfortable as he crept his hands up your waist. “Get off me, please,” you said, trying to sound stern, but even you could hear the shakiness in your words.

Panicked, your eyes darted around the room looking for any of your friends you came with or even any of the guys you passed earlier, but in the darkness of the club, you came up empty. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling helpless and regretting all of your life choices leading up to this moment, and tried to get away from the face that was steadily creeping closer until you heard a voice all too familiar.

A thunderous voice suddenly boomed over the music, and your eyes shot open in shock at the sight in front of you.

“Get the fuck off of her,” Jack's voice was livid, the edges of a growl erupting from his chest as you watched his hand clamp down on Todd’s shoulder to forcefully yank him away. “Ever heard of consent, asshole?”

You watched, stunned, as your boyfriend’s dark eyes glared daggers into Todd’s whose collar was currently in his grasp. Jack might have been a few inches shorter, but he was stronger and clearly more sober as Todd stumbled in his grasp.

“Dude, chill,” you sucked in a breath as he tried pleading with your murderous-looking boyfriend. “I didn't know she was your girl,” trying to get away from a potential brawl, you stumbled back and in your confusion ran right into someone.

Having just been practically assaulted, you jumped as a hand came to rest on your shoulder. You were sure you resembled something of a startled animal and felt almost embarrassed at the situation you found yourself in.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s just me!” Nico’s reassuring voice immediately had you relaxing, and you released a breath as you spun around to face him. Gladly taking the arm the captain offered, you smiled shakily.

“You okay?” He asked once you were safely next to him. You nodded slowly, blinking past the slight pounding of your head. “Yeah,” you replied, your eyes finding Jack and Todd still exchanging heated words a few feet away.

They had won your attention back just in time for you to watch the centerman shove your drunken pursuer to the floor and then step away immediately before doing something worse.

Jack’s eyes quickly found yours as he brushed his hair away from his face, scanning up and down your body for any sign of injury. You knew he was furious with you, but even pissed beyond belief, he was still the most attractive man in the world to you because of how he put your safety and well-being first.

He walked up to you then, nodding his thanks to his teammate for keeping you safe before pulling you into his chest. “Are you okay?” He murmured into the top of your hair, one of his hands squeezing your hip reassuringly.

You inhaled your boyfriend’s scent, burying your face in his shirt and reveling in the comfort his mere presence brought you. “I’m okay,” you whispered, feeling tired now that the night’s events had started to catch up to you. “I love you,”

You felt him murmur the exact words back, the tension slowly leaving his body the longer he held you in his arms and away from the idiot who had his hands on you.

Jack stepped back after a moment, keeping you tucked into his side with a protective arm wrapped around your waist. You kept your face pressed into his side, not yet willing to face reality.

All you wanted right now was him. And your bed, too.

“We’re going to head home for the night,” the centerman said to the rest of the group, hearing no disagreements as they spoke their goodbyes. You lifted your head only slightly to say your own goodbye, giving an extra thankful smile to Nico who merely waved you off.

As you finished talking to the rest of his teammates, you tapped Jack's shoulder and spoke into his ear over the loud music. “I’m going to say bye to my friends real quick,”

Jack had a look of apprehension and even worry on his face, so you stood up on your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll be fast, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “But nothing more than that. I’ll be by the door.”

You cast him a grateful smile before slipping away, locating two of your friends still sitting at the booth looking far more inebriated than before. “Jack and I are heading home,” you told them.

“Oh! You guys worked it out?”

You bit your lip, fiddling with one of your sleeves. Huh, orange wasn’t really your color.  “Not exactly,” quickly glancing back towards your boyfriend waiting by the club doors, you winced when you saw his darkened expression. “He’s a little angry with me…”

“Because of the jersey?” they asked, curious. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

You decided you were going to blame the hideous Flyers jersey you were wearing for the series of unfortunate events that happened tonight.

Speaking of, you needed to give it back to the friend who lent it to you, at some point.

“I’ll see you guys,” you muttered, purposefully dodging their questions as you waved goodbye. Luckily, they were too drunk to argue.

You made your way back through the crowd, Jack meeting you halfway to lace your fingers together before leading you to the exit. His pace was quick, and determined, making you wonder just what exactly he had planned.

The cold Jersey air sobered you immensely once you were outside, ridding you of the effects the alcohol had left on you earlier. You finally got a clear look at your boyfriend then, admiring the sharp cut of his jawline and the way he was still fuming even as you walked to his car.

“Jack?” you tried, watching as he pulled open the passenger door for you. “Get in,” he said, avoiding your imploring eyes. “And take that off. You know it looks awful,” he added the last part as an afterthought, scowling at the sight of you wearing a jersey sans his name.

You thought about making a joke but decided against it when you saw the look on his face. He didn't look like he was in the mood for games right now, and something told you you didn't want to test him.

“I’m not wearing anything underneath,” you responded meekly. You heard Jack sigh, and you briefly looked up to find him pulling out a hoodie he had in his backseat.

It was red, of course, a Devils hoodie with his surname printed on the back. The hockey player stared at you, arms crossed and eyebrows raised and that's when you realized he was waiting.

“What, you mean change now?” you squeaked, feeling your eyes widen at the seriousness in his eyes. “Jack, we’re in a public parking lot,”

“And?” he asked, almost sassy considering the situation. “You really think I’ll let anyone look at you?” his muscled arms tensed out of reflex, further cementing his point.

You clenched your jaw, opening your mouth to argue, but then Jack took two quick strides towards you until you were standing chest-to-chest.

He said your name once, placing his hands on your waist to pull you closer. “I almost beat that guy back in the bar to death for placing his hands on you. I would have, actually, if it weren’t for seeing you look so scared next to Nico,” he murmured, staring into your eyes so deeply you couldn’t look away.

“It’s bad enough having to see you wear our rival’s jersey, which I deserve, by the way, because I’ve been an ass to you—but if I have to see you wearing someone’s name that isn’t my own for the rest of the night any longer, I might commit a crime.

“Please,” he breathed, tilting his head downwards to brush your lips together. “Take off the damn jersey.”

All you could do was nod. Yes sir. You maintained eye contact all while you slipped the jersey from your shoulders, feeling immensely better without the scratchy fabric on your skin. Jack wordlessly handed you his hoodie, and you slid it on without complaint.

It was several sizes too big for you; it was loose around your waist and hips and the sleeves were too long for your arms, but you didn’t care one bit because it smelled just like him and made you feel safe and warm and most importantly:

Home.

Jack raked his eyes up and down your body in approval, but he was still tense even as he opened the passenger door for you and shut it once you were in without a word.

You had a feeling you were going to be in for it when you got home, and even with his anger – whether it was directed at you or himself – you didn’t quite blame him.

The only thing you weren’t quite sure of is if he was angry because you semi-flirted with another man or wore a jersey that wasn’t his… Both are completely plausible possibilities.

Jack, meanwhile, had to stop himself from looking your way because he knew he was going to snap, and that wasn’t fair on you. Yes, he had to sit back and watch another guy blatantly hit on you while wearing the opposing team’s jersey, but… You didn’t reciprocate any advances, and he would never fault you for the actions of another.

Just the mere thought of the jackass who had his hands on you made his knuckles turn white on the grip he had on the steering wheel. If not for the terrified look on your face to snap him out of it, he had no doubt he would have pummeled the guy to the ground.

And at the same time, he knew he wasn’t angry with you but angry with himself instead because you had done nothing to warrant his behavior towards you and could even go as far as to say he deserved it, too.

He just wished he hadn’t walked out on you before—you wouldn’t have been almost assaulted if he hadn’t.

Alas, his anger – no matter who it was directed at – radiating off of him in waves was palpable and kept you tense and unsure of what to say or do the entire ride home.

When you finally arrived back at the apartment, the two of you remained silent as you worked around each other in getting ready for bed. For the first time in months he was going to fall asleep in the same bed as you, at the same time, you noted.

The brooding centerman muttered something aloud from the other side of the room, and you looked at him questionably. Jack met your eyes, an emotion unknown brewing in his own that made you curious.

“Orange is such an ugly color,” he said. “What convinced you to even wear that?”

A teasing mood he was in, then. “To make you jealous. Did it work?”

Jack scoffed, taking a few steps forward to playfully grab at your hips causing you to grip his biceps for stability. “It worked, alright,” he murmured, and then his eyes turned dark as he remembered the night’s end result before the two of you left. “I would’ve pummeled him if it weren’t for the guys.”

You bit your lip at the sight of his protectiveness for you written all over his face, hating that you were having a serious conversation now and all you could think about was how attractive he is.

“Then you would have gotten arrested, and probably suspended from the team,” you replied, bringing his attention back to you. Jack cracked a small smile, hair falling over his eyes as his gaze dropped.

“Worth it.” your boyfriend then brought you in close to wrap his arms around you, burying his head in his favorite spot where your neck met your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment, his grip on you tightening.

You had no complaints at his sudden burst of physical affection and happily burrowed your head in his chest, breathing in his comforting scent. “For what?”

You might have accepted the fact he was trying to make up for all the fighting over the last few months, but you weren’t just going to let it go, either.

After all, it was only due to you going out of your way to invoke such a strong reaction that got him to pull his head out of his ass.

“For everything,” his mind raced over all the ways he had been treating you wrongly, and had a hard time forming his words in such a way that covered it all. “For never coming home to you, and acting like you were ridiculous for feeling insecure,” he quickly clarified.

You made a noncommittal noise, muffled by the fabric of his shirt your face was pressed against. “I felt crazy—still do feel kind of crazy,” the tears came back then, the emotions – anger, frustration, sadness, fear – of the night catching up to you. “Did I… Was I doing something wrong?”

Jack felt his heart break at the sheer amount of emotion in your voice, and while knowing that the alcohol in your system was partly to blame for your unfiltered honesty, he knew the words you were speaking were still true.

He had to approach this conversation delicately.

He whispered your name, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek and sliding it under your chin so you’d meet his eyes. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, okay? I hear you. You’re valid, how you’re feeling is valid.

“I’m the stupid one, okay? You did nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. Well—except for wearing that jersey. But, hey, I don’t even blame you for that, either. I deserved it, yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, not willing to accept his apology because you still felt like he was being too forgiving.

Jack, not being able to stand you hiding from him, gently brought both his hands to your face so he could bring you closer and press a kiss to your lips. “Stop demeaning yourself. You’re better than that—certainly better than me.”

Your laugh was shaky, remnants of tears in your voice undeniable. “I don’t know. I wore that stupid jersey, after all. To make you mad. Deliberately.”

“And it worked,” he replied, refusing to let you shy away from him when you tried ducking your head again. “Very well, in fact. It was really smart, actually; I’m almost proud of you for thinking of it.”

Jack was already making you feel miles better compared to how you were feeling before, and you knew he was using his humor on purpose. His corny jokes were what drew you to him in the first place, after all.

“Almost proud?” you couldn’t help but tease back. “Maybe I should wear a Hurricanes jersey next time. Ooh, or the Rangers,”

The centerman had enough then, and with a wicked grin threw you over his shoulder to bring you into the bathroom. You weren’t drunk, but you were a bit tipsy, and he just wanted to use it as an excuse to really take care of you.

He also just felt really bad, like a shitty boyfriend, too. He had a lot of making up to do and knew this was only the first step.

“There will be no jerseys owned by you unless they are Devils’ red and have my name on the back, yeah?” you pouted as he set you down on the counter next to the sink.

“Fine. Orange is an ugly color, anyways.”

Jack hummed in agreement as he wet a washcloth with warm water and then began to gently wipe down your face. He worked in silence, concentrated on the task at hand while you just admired his face.

Okay, yeah, you were still a little tipsy. Your boyfriend always looked good, but maybe it was just about what happened tonight that had you really appreciating his looks.

“What’re you staring at?” Jack said, biting his lip to hide the grin threatening to break through. He loved that you couldn’t keep your eyes off him.

“You,” you replied with no hesitation, giggling when he proceeded to wipe directly over your eye at your witty comment. “I can’t help it. You’re just so pretty. Why do you like me, again?”

Your boyfriend scoffed, tossing the washcloth somewhere on the sink before pulling you closer to him. “Pretty? What if I lose a tooth, would you still like me then?” he briefly washed his hands, and then turned back to you. “And why do I love you, you mean? That’s easy. Let me show you.”

“Show me?” you muttered, your brain still running slow. “What do you mean, ‘show me’—”

That’s when he interrupted you by picking you up, moving your legs to wrap around his waist before carrying you to the bed.

Jack kicked off his shoes before falling on his back first while taking you with him. You ended up sprawled on his chest, his arms holding you close as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes.

“Being able to manhandle me is why you love me?” you said teasingly. “Noted,”

The centerman groaned dramatically. Knowing you were about to speak, he interrupted your next sentence by kissing you and grinned into your lips when you sighed with pleasure and brought your hands up to tangle in his hair.

“Done being sassy now?” your boyfriend hummed as he slowly pulled back, looking every bit the mischievous devil as the team he played for.

“Hmm,” you blinked lazily, stretching as if you were a satisfied cat, and wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close. “As long as you stay here with me,”

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

A few minutes later of the two of you making up for lost time, you had eventually moved to be cuddling under the bed sheets as the little spoon, just how you liked it.

“Don’t wear that jersey again,” Jack grumbled into your neck, pressing a few butterfly kisses to the skin exposed to the air.

“Seriously?” you giggled, attempting to turn around in his arms but being stopped due to the strength of his hold.

“Dead serious. It almost killed me.”

You were used to his dramatics by now but knew he was speaking from his heart because jerseys really did mean a lot to sports players, hockey players especially. Wearing Jack’s name might have just been superficial, but it was still a sure thing and a testament to the seriousness of your relationship.

Wearing someone else’s name, especially someone from an opposing team, was an insult to that even though it was just a piece of clothing at the end of the day.

“Better stay on my good side, then,” you teased, but knew you wouldn’t ever wear any other jersey but Jack’s again. He learned his lesson, as did you.

Teasingly nipping at your neck, your boyfriend merely laughed before burying his head in your shoulder and closing his eyes.

You snuggled closer to the warm wall of muscle behind you, reveling in the comfort of knowing your relationship was stronger than ever.

“I love you,” you said, quietly, staring out the window as the stars looked down upon you.

“Love you, too,” Jack whined at the sharp pain he felt from your arm as it swatted at him, and then quickly clarified. “I mean, I love you—I love you, too!”

You grinned, and you knew he could practically feel it which made the small victory even more satisfactory.

Jack muttered something else under his breath, one word suspiciously sounding like ‘jersey’, and then he was out like a light.

Exasperatedly, you sighed. Hockey players.

You wouldn’t wear a jersey that didn’t have the name ‘Hughes’ and his number printed on it ever again.

A/N: Did you guys like the missing tooth reference? One of my favorite lines in this tbh, I just love poking fun at situations like those lol. Anyways, please please please reblog and comment because it means the world to me and makes writing so much more worth it. I hope y’all enjoyed :))

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[kechiwrites]

quick study

miguel o'hara x obsessed lab tech!reader

kinktober countdown, day one (spanking).

synopsis: Miguel wanted you to move on because he was weak. Because he'd always been aware he was gonna give in to you eventually, always knew you’d wear him down and he'd take that sweet ass of yours for a ride.

wc: 3.3k

cw: stalker!reader, but like...in a cute way, spanking, (mentions of) drunk sex, oral (male receiving), handjobs, no gendered pronouns, afab!reader, riding, praying, miguel prioritizing getting his nut over his personal safety, reader has a tattoo, my piss poor spanish (used sparingly, i swear, no use of y/n ever.

author's note: i do headcanon miguel as vaguely catholic, and as an ass man, argue with the wall. mdni. special thanks to kitten, kee and ketsl for being my soundboards and spanish tutors.

Miguel’s head is pounding, like he took a brick to the back of the head, twice. 

A fucking heavy brick.

His mouth is dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, the sandpaper sensation making him desperate for water. Light pierces through the parted section of his blackout curtains, forcing the geneticist to screw his eyes shut tight. He turns, ready to slide back into the easy unconsciousness of sleep, when a low moan startles him. Immediately, his entire body tenses, and he shoots an arm out to take hold of the intruder. 

For his troubles, he ends up with a handful of soft, warm skin and an even more drawn out sound of pleasure. It's enough motivation for Miguel to fully open his eyes and take in his surroundings. His wide, scarred hand covers an exposed shoulder, long, powerful fingers pressed to your shoulder blade. He knows that shoulder. Fuck. He knows that fucking tattoo. The spindly, intricate black ink design decorates your back, disappearing under his black blanket. His heart races with panic, thudding in his chest, he doesn't remember a fucking thing, certainly not taking you home to his place after a lab wide staff social with an open bar. Definitely not stripping to his fucking birthday suit and watching you do the same. 

Wait. Okay. Maybe you’re not naked, maybe you’re just topless. 

Miguel shoots a quick prayer to Guadeloupe, lifting and kissing the gold cross that hangs around his neck, before he raises the blanket covering your lower body, praying to see any kind of underwear covering you.

No goddamn dice.

Miguel does not see underwear. Instead, Miguel gets an eyeful of the ass he's been fantasizing about for months. It's perfect, just like he thought it'd be. Soft, perfect and begging to be bitten, spanked, groped. Your tattoo stops right at your tailbone, the pointy arrowhead-esque end tapering off between the twin dimples bracketing your lower back. 

You fucked. There's no way you didn't. There's no way, drunk or sober (and you had both been ridiculously hammered) he would get you to strip down and not sink his teeth into every inch of your body he could get his hands on. He removes his hand from your shoulder, and nearly screams when he unveils a faint half circle decorating the skin where your shoulder becomes your neck. He suspects there's a lot more where those came from. 

You begin to stir, probably jarred from sleep by the sound of Miguel lamenting his own birth. You open your eyes slowly, sleep in the corners of your eyes, squint near identical to Miguel's. You come to a lot slower than Miguel, casting confused glances around the room before your bleary gaze settles on Miguel's face. Your confusion is palpable, like you’re trying to understand where the fuck you are, and why the fuck Miguel is there too. He can almost see when you remember the night before, the social, the drinks, the way you giggled and sighed, drifted after Miguel from room to room in the ritzy hotel bar, where the party had been thrown. 

"Do not say a word." He growls, reaching over the side of his bed to search for a pair of boxers. "This didn't fucking happen. You're gonna wipe this shit from your mind, understand me? Whatever I did, whatever we did? Never happened." He spits. Irritation at his lack of self control heats up his skin, making him want to claw at his face. He can't find his underwear, his fingers only coming across a tiny g-string that you must've shirked. Or maybe Miguel had torn it off you? Or- fuck, he didn't know. He didn't know anything. 

And wasn’t that a trip. 

All that fucking time holding himself back, restraining himself, all for me to blow it over fancy whiskey sours? Nice fucking going, O’Hara. 

"I…I guess you aren't very…happy about it huh?" When you do speak, directly against his order, the pain and embarrassment in your voice are glaringly evident, and they cut through Miguel's wallowing almost immediately. He lifts his face from his hands, and claps both of them onto your shoulders, shaking you a bit, watching your head bobble from side to side while you clutch his blanket to your body, attempting and failing to hide your chest from view.

"Look…I don't fucking remember it." He hisses through his teeth. Your mouth parts in surprise, eyes wide as petri dishes, and he removes his hands like he's been scalded, his palms tingling from the contact. He balls his hands together, till his knuckles crack with the strain, trying to suppress both the urge to touch you again and the urge to hit something. 

It isn't fair. 

Miguel is not fucking stupid. Yes, you are crazy, and a stalker and probably more than a little dangerous. It was painfully, excruciatingly obvious you were obsessed with him, even before you’d formally met. 

Alchemax’s lab technicians rarely have reason to linger, they pick up samples, they drop off samples, occasionally they’ll ask for input on a report or two. But you? You always seemed to just be…around. Loitering on his floor long enough to wave a hello, to ask him if he wanted a coffee or a bagel, to show off your new “lab shoes”. Which, sure, isn’t all that odd on its own, definitely not cause for alarm, maybe you were just friendly, or bored. No, what tipped Miguel off was how you acted when you thought he couldn’t see you; the long stares, the bit lips, the quiet little laughs to yourself, like you were picturing things. Then, he’d caught you stealing his lab coat, snatching it from his locker and pressing the stark, white fabric to your face before shoving it into your bag and scurrying back to your lair home. The security camera that recorded you couldn’t lie. 

And, call him an idiot, he hadn’t reported you. And you’d stepped it up. Started speaking to him directly, cornering him when he was alone, “running into him” after work hours, before work hours, on weekends. Soon, he was seeing you everywhere, dodging your attempts at “quality time”, praying to God you’d realize he’s fucking boring and move on to some other unfortunate victim.

Not because he was afraid. He balances lab hours with bench pressing, and you…definitely don’t. He watched you struggle with jostling snacks out of the faulty vending machine on the 13th floor.

Miguel wanted you to move on because he was weak. Because he'd always been aware he was gonna give in to you eventually, always knew you’d wear him down and he'd take that sweet ass of yours for a ride. Just once, then he'd let you down easy, so you didn't get clingy or assign more meaning to the hookup than there was. He also knew that crazy people gave the best fucking head, the kind of shit that'd make a grown man weep, the kind of head Miguel would consider doing time for.

And he was too fucking drunk to remember it happening.

"Oh! That's okay!" You chirp, dejection quickly forgotten in the wake of Miguel's confession. You drop the blanket along with all modesty, exposing the curve of your tits and the soft jut of your stomach. Every inch of your skin looks velvety to the touch, tailor made to make Miguel salivate. You push back the cover, flipping nimbly onto your hands and knees. Slowly, you crawl towards Miguel, prowling towards him with single minded focus. The temperature of the room skyrockets, and the geneticist's breath stutters at the sight of your breasts sandwiched between your arms, your hips and thighs swaying and shifting while you advance. Your eyes almost glow in the lowlight of his bedroom, catching the sun filtering in and casting them in golden light. Your hair falls forward, sticking to the spit slick surface of your bottom lip. You look like temptation sent straight from hell, a succubus created by the devil with the sole purpose to drag Miguel to the fiery depths by his cock. 

"I remember everything." Your hand falls heavy on his thigh, and he can't help the interested thump in his groin. Your nails scratch his skin, the sensation so feather light, he worries he imagined it.

"Uh…" he stumbles for words, eyes dropping to the hand brushing his inner thigh. He needs to shut this down. Has to shut this down. Sex with you was supposed to be a one time thing, even if his recollection of that one time was lost in the haze of intoxication.

"And I can remind you. I can be so good at reminding you."  You’re whispering, but it doesn't fucking matter. Every word spilling from your bee stung lips thud through his mind like the heavy bass at a nightclub, knocking insistently at his ear drum for access to his brain. He begins to pray for strength in his mind.

"I don't think that's-" You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, leering, hungry eyes following his happy trail before they flick back up to meet his eye playfully.

Dios te salve, María; llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. 

"You liked it so much. Said you never fucked anyone without a condom before. Said it felt perfect. Said you couldn't go back." 

Yeah, that fucking sounded like him. 

Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús.

"Look-"

You mouth a kiss at his shoulder, a sweet little gesture that turns into you dragging your tongue over the large vein lining the side of his neck. You puff a hot breath against his skin, crowding close enough for you to crush your chest against his, the hard tips of your nipples making themselves evident.

¿Cómo coño va el resto de la oración?

He's lost in the drugging spiral of your eyes, choking on his own tongue when you wrap a firm hand around his cock, squeezing and stroking with graceful finesse. His hips helplessly jerk to follow the movement, chasing the mindless pleasure you provide. He lets his head fall back, Adam's apple bobbing with each dry, laboured swallow. 

"Fuck." He whimpers, fucking whimpers, trying in vain to resist, but when you lowers your mouth and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, flicking your tongue against the crown, he lets go of it all.

And you, you don't miss a step, cementing your hand around the hilt and forcing the entirety of his dick down your throat in one go. Then instead of bobbing up and down like a goddamn normal person, You swallow. Again. And again. And again. Milking Miguel for all he's worth, never granting him a second of solace. Your tongue sneaks out, easing the path of his cock, dragging the flexing pink muscle against the spot where his shaft meets his balls. All the while humming and giggling as best you can manage around his length, sending vibrations through his legs to the soles of his feet and back again.

Crazy person. Crazy head. He fucking knew it.

He grits his teeth so hard he's worried they'll shatter, knotting his hand in your hair and grinding your face against his pelvis, fucking your face like it was the last thing he'd ever do. 

And with the way you were sucking him off, it just might be.

"Fuck!" He coughs, banging his free hand against his headboard, "I'm gonna-" he tapers off into a drawn out groan, planting his feet in preparation. Unfortunately, You pick that exact moment to pull off, shocking Miguel with cool air on his spit soaked dick. His cock twitches angrily, the tip near purple with need. 

"W-whuh?" He stammers, his mind racing to keep up with the lightning fast developments between the two of you.

“You can’t come yet! That’s not how it happened.” You sing-song, like you’re teasing him, like this was a cute little game you and him were playing. You swing your leg over his hip so you can straddle him. The light from his window illuminates your side, lighting up your silhouette with warm orange sunbeams. “No, no, no.” Your laugh is the tinkling of glass wind chimes in the entryway of a haunted house. “You came right here.” You pat your abdomen, and Miguel has to bite on his knuckle when he catches your meaning. His eyes drift lower and the scientist is blown away by how visibly wet you are. He tries to reach out, to touch, to feel, but You grab his wrists before he can make contact. 

“We gotta get you to remember, Miguel! I’ll show you.” You push his hands back, until both of his arms are bent and his head is resting on his joined hands. 

“You stay just like that,” you murmur, your eyes liquid pools of molten colour, hooded with desire. “I’ll take care of everything.” It’s all Miguel can do to nod like a fucking idiot when you take hold of his cock again, giving it two or three strokes before you notches his head against the already clenching entrance of your cunt. You begin your descent, shuddering with pleasure and keening loudly, letting air whiz through your teeth when Miguel is only half inside. 

“Ah…wanted this so bad. And now I get it again. Couldn’t think of anything else.” You rock your hips, allowing another inch of Miguel to sink inside your pussy. You continue to speak, tone delirious and euphoric, “So deep already!” You press a finger to your stomach, sinking onto his erection and following his place inside you with the tip of a digit. You both follow his path with your eyes, until he’s fully seated inside. He watches as your eyes roll back into your empty little head, watches you palm your chest and swivel your hips, rubbing your clit against Miguel’s pelvis in time with your teasing hand. From the new vantage point Miguel can see the imprints of his own teeth decorating your legs, a trail of his hunger from the night before.

You rise and fall on him, dropping the weight of your mass onto his hips, gripping his shaft like a vice. Every resounding clap throws Miguel’s mind into disarray. 

He wishes his hands were on your hips. 

He likes keeping his hands behind his head. 

He wishes he could watch your ass shake and roll against him. 

He loves watching your tits bounce with every thrust.

He couldn’t decide what would be better, couldn’t decide how he wanted the image of you riding his cock permanently imprinted in his mind. 

Guess he’d just have to do this again. 

Bummer.

“You know,” you pant, fucking up and down on him, never losing your rhythm, even as you feverishly speak to him. You brace your hands on his shins, forcing your own back to arch, showing off your chest even further. “I think I could get addicted to this.” Your voice is breathy and high, and you laugh out loud, giggling non-stop, expression caught between delight and disbelief. “I-I can’t give this up. I can’t forget, Miguel. I won’t.” 

Madre de Dios, you are a psycho.

You circle your hips again, clenching down on him before letting yourself fall forward, squishing your breasts against him, and grabbing at his face, dipping your tongue between his lips until he kisses you back, tangles his tongue with yours. Miguel’s head spins, your scent, the slide of your damp skin on his, your greedy little cunt throbbing around him, all reduce him to rubble. He bites into your shoulder again, in nearly the exact same spot he had the night prior. Miguel wrenches his hands from their relaxed position, bringing both palms down on your ass, hard. You shriek out loud, tongue lolling out of your mouth, the impact shoving you brutally over the edge.

His dick aches for the same release, jolting and twitching as he takes control, planting his feet again and fucking up into your dripping entrance. He pushes your body up, so he can see all of you. Stare with incredulous, hardcoded lust at your swaying form. Miguel spanks you again and again, on your tits, your ass, your thighs, smacks what he can reach of your belly and grunts when you beg for more, raining down blows on every available inch of skin.

“Miguel!” You cry out, pussy fluttering around him. You try to grab at him, try to maintain your hold, wrapping your hand around the cross on his neck. Later, he’ll be grateful for the necklace’s strong chain, otherwise the childhood gift would’ve been long gone. Miguel wrenches your hand off it, letting you lace your trembling fingers with his. 

Even being fucked like a ragdoll doesn’t stop you from being strange. You eyeball your joined hands, a manic, out of control grin smeared like paint over your face. “O-our hands are k-kissing!” You huff out, bringing your joined palms to your lips and sucking on two of Miguel’s fingers, fucking your mouth with them like you did with his cock.

Strange as hell, but fuck if you didn’t make him moan like a bitch. 

Your pussy clings to him, refusing to let him go, every drag in and out tears at the already frayed fabric of Miguel’s control. 

“I’m gonna-” he repeats, and you cut him off again, though this time, mercifully, you don’t pull away. 

“Inside! Come inside” You demand, words slurred around his fingers. You crash down on him even harder, forcing him so deep he swears the tip of his cock breaches your cervix, and by the way you, his little stalker, bucks and screams when he comes inside you, he’d say it's more than a little likely. Heavy gluts of his seed fill you quickly, painting your insides white in waves.

“Ooooh.” You collapse forward, your cheek pressed to his chest, ear directly above his heart. Your shoulders jostle and shake in the aftermath, body shivering with the last remnants of your orgasms. Miguel feels appropriately drained, as though you’d been drinking directly from his life source, draining his vitality through his dick. Your fingers are still intertwined, and Miguel can’t bring himself to break the connection, staring at the union and squeezing your soft hand in his own brutish palm. 

“You are…fucking persistant.” He mutters, shifting you further up his body but not completely pulling out, allowing for your head to find rest in between his neck and shoulder. 

“Mmm.” you murmur, beyond words. “Sorry.” your voice is raspy, well used, and Miguel can’t help the little surge of pride he feels, remembering your screams.

He snorts and reaches down to grope at your ass and thigh. “You aren’t sorry.”

“Well…no. But!” You lift your face to stare at him, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while. You can come in me as many times as you want. You can leave me chained to your bed. Oh! Or you could use my-”

“I get it!” Miguel covers your mouth with his hand, exhaustion settling deep in his bones despite waking from sleep not long ago. “Fuck. Just…shut up for now, okay? Can you do that?” He feels your plush lips open against his palm.

“Aht!” He cuts you off before you can disobey, and relaxes in full when you elect to nod, closing your mouth and settling against him again.

“Good. Let’s just be quiet, hm?”

You linger in silence for a while, you, breathing in the scent of Miguel’s skin and Miguel, brushing his fingertips against your spine.

It’s serene, it’s sweet, he can almost pretend you’re normal.

“I give a really great tit job too.”

Almost.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

whew, squeezed it in under the wire. i promise tomorrow's will come earlier.

support city girls with daddy issues and catholic guilt, reblog what you like.

[lovelytsunoda]

tell me something girl (are you happy in this modern world) // tom “iceman” kazansky

summary: after thirty years of marriage, heather kazansky reflects on the time she spent and the love she shared with tom as she prepares to write her eulogy and say goodbye to her husband.

pairing: tom kazansky x wife!oc (named heather)

warnings: canon character death (Tom) and mentions of gooses death from the original movie, depictions of grief, mentions of mental health and medication,

authors note: this is the fic I firmly believe I was put on this earth to write. I wanted to do so much more with it, but honestly would have ended up with like 16k words or something like that.

April 2022, Miramar, California.

“is that the admirals wife?”

“jake, shut the fuck up.”

heather kazasnky had never thought of herself as an impressive woman. she always found herself timid, shy and a little anxious. it wasn’t until the first offshoots of gray started to sprout in her hair, and she’d watched all three of her children grow up that she truly thought sh had done something impressive with her life.

she sat alone at a table in the corner of the hard deck, oblivious to the wandering eyes of her husbands trainees as her slender fingers navigated the keyboard of her MacBook.

“heather?”

she started at the voice, cheeks marred with the flush of someone who had just been sobbing as she turned to look at the speaker.

“peter,” she hummed. “it’s good to see you, maverick.”

heather got to her feet, pulling the other pilot in for a tight hug. “nice to see you too, heather. how are you doing.”

“the best I can. the kids are supposed to be coming up tonight to help with the funerals.”

there were always going to be two funerals. the first was the formal military funeral, where her husband would be buried in the same cemetery as nick bradshaw, and the other was more like a reception, something more human and less structured. for the people who knew him not as admiral kazansky, but as tom.

“I miss him, mav. the house feels strange without him in it. I’ve spent so long being heather kazansky, I don’t know how to go back to being just heather.”

maverick shook his head, taking a seat next to her. “you’re still you, heather. you’re still a mother to three incredible kids, and grandmother to two.”

“with another on the way.” she coughed, somehow managing a smile. “joshua’s new girlfriend is expecting. he told tom before he died.”

“congratulations, heather. how are the kids doing?”

“as well as can be expected. as usual, mitchell is the glue holding us together. cassie’s a wreck. she always was her father’s daughter. and for it to happen so soon after she had jamie just seems cruel. tom was going to retire, did you know that? he was ready to put his papers in, we were going to go to greece. it was finally us time again. he gave so much of himself to this country, and I was so excited to finally have him back.”

pete rested a hand on heathers shoulder, squeezing it through the fur of her cardigan. she was strong despite her age, still well built and sturdy, face marred with laugh lines but not a single telltale old woman wrinkle. “I’m so sorry, heather.”

“thank you.”

she turned back to her laptop, showing the other pilot what she was doing. “I’m gathering pictures for the reception. but most of them are of me. tom always had his fucking camera with him. I should have let the kids do this part. all I’m doing is making myself cry.”

she cast her eyes back to her laptop screen, resisting the urge to reach out and run her finger over the photo, soaking in the good memories as they came flooding back. in the picture, she and tom stood on one side of the kitchen counter, laughing with each other as they cut gingerbread cookies.

it had been their first christmas together.

“oh my god,” maverick laughed. “is that iceman in a cable knit?”

“he was so nervous about meeting my dad for the first time. I had to talk him out of wearing his dress whites.”

December 1985, Richmond, Virginia.

they had been together for six months, give or take the few weeks his team had spent deployed in the gulf, and nothing had intimidated tom kazansky more than meeting his girlfriends father. he had wanted to wear his navy dress whites in an attempt to make a good impression before heather had laughed and made him change into jeans and a sweater before they left the apartment.

even then, he had changed sweaters four times before setting on the white cable knit he was currently wearing.

iceman knew how stressed his girl got during the holidays. her family could bring out the worst in her, and they were both highly strung when they walked in the door.

now, she was off to the side with her sister, cradling a mug of hot coco in her hands as she watched him with a smile, chuckling as he dropped a cup of flour down the front of his jeans.

“you really like him, don’t you?”

heather looked back at her sister, who raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of her hot chocolate.

“I do. I really do, abigail. he makes me feel like I’m worth loving, if that makes sense. everything with tom is just so…easy.”

abigail frowned. “he’s a lieutenant, isn’t he? that means he’s going to be deployed a lot. are you sure you can handle that?”

heather sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “we’re trying. he was out in the gulf for a few weeks in september, and we got through it.”

“he’s barely taken his eyes off you since you got here. and when he looks at you, I don’t see anything other than pure, unfiltered love. I bet he’s got a polaroid of you in his cockpit.”

heather laughed, a warm and giddy feeling in her chest. it was clear how much her family loved iceman, and how quickly they were welcoming him into the fold.

“you know I’m losing him for two months in the new year. he’s off to california, got into some fancy fighter jet training program.”

“you can still go see him, right?”

“yeah, I’ve got a few vacation days saved u- oh fuck.” heather cursed, thrusting her mug into abigail’s arms as she saw what her boyfriend was doing. “give me one second, I’ve gotta stop him from screwing up the gingerbread.”

she pushed up the sleeves of her jacquard sweater, socks skidding across the kitchen tiles as she loosely knotted her hair behind her head.

“kaz, sweetie, give me the rolling pin. you’ve gotta knead the dough.” she smiles softly, putting herself between the pilot and the counter.

one of tom’s flour coated hands came to rest as her waist, his chin on the top of her head as she watched her dip her hands into the bowl of flour, and proceed to knead the gingerbread dough by hand. her lovers hands came to rest over hers, his lips soft and warm against her skin as they kneaded the gingerbread dough together.

“see, you don’t always know everything, lieutenant.” she hummed giddily, running her thumb over his wrist.

“yeah, but I know I love you, and that’s all I need.” Tom laughed, gently using his finger to guide her head towards his and placing a soft kiss on her lips.

April 2022, Miramar, California.

heather paused, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "i loved that man so much, pete."

the hard deck was getting busier, off-duty pilots and seamen flooding in from the base at miramar as shifts changed for the day. heather knew all about the dagger squad and the hazy series of events that brought pete mitchell back to the academy, often having to speak for her husband in meetings once his first cancer operation had left him unable to speak for himself.

"auntie heather!" a familiar face looked over from the pool table. bradley bradshaw was a spitting image of his father, right down to the way that his moustache was trimmed.

for heather, it sometimes felt like seeing a ghost.

"brad!" she perked up, waving him over to the table. "how are you?"

when she first came to visit her husband at miramar, somethign about carole bradshaw had pulled heather in. she hadn't known the bradshaw's long, but by the time that goose's accident happened, she felt like she had known that family her whole life.

she did what she could to help carole out afterwards, especially when it came to raising bradley, but as rooster got older and time flew by, it was so easy for carole and heather to fall out of touch.

"you look just like your dad." she hummed, hugging the pilot. "it's like seeing nick again."

bradley nodded solemnly. "i was sorry to hear about admiral kazansky."

"thank you. it had been a long time coming, but there's no way to properly prepare to lose the man you love."

rooster gestures to the group behind him, the mismatched group of people coming to meet him at the table. “aunt heather, I’d like you to meet the dagger squad: jake, natasha, robert, reuben and javy. we knew the admiral well.”

“hi.” heather said weakly, introducing herself. “I’m heather, the admirals wife. or, widow, I guess. I’m still not used to saying that.”

“are you getting ready for the funeral?” jake asked, promptly getting jabbed in the rib cage by natasha.

“what hangman means to say is: we all respected your husband very much, and we would be honoured to help you plan his memorial service.” phoenix corrected, taking heathers hand between both of her own.

“thank you for the offer, natasha.” heather smiled. “bradley, I want to show you something.”

she sat back in front of her laptop, using the touchscreen to pull up a video taken the first summer she came to visit miramar. she had timed the visit to coincide with her birthday, a small selfish part of her unable to fathom spending her birthday without tom.

bradley pulled up a chair next to the table, watching as the screen crackled to life, the date stamp in the corner reading june of 1986. they were inside the o bar, the video opening with heather resting her head on tom’s shoulder, then panning over to the massive birthday cake and sparklers set in front of her. carole bradshaw sat on one side of her, and charlie blackwood was at the head of the table, sitting next to maverick.

“is that my mom?” Bradley smiled fondly. “she looks so full of life.”

“she was.” heather laughed. “and you might remember charlie, she was one of mavericks many lovers.”

“hey!” pete scoffed. “things just didn’t work out.”

“she was always too good for you, pete.” heather laughed, pointing to another space on the screen. the group was singing happy birthday, supported by a rockabilly piano backing track. “bradley, there’s your dad.”

goose was sitting in front of the grand piano, a toothpick hanging between his teeth as he hammered away at the ivory keys, aviator glasses over his eyes.

“happy birthday dear heather, happy birthday to you.”

the camera panned back to heather and tom as she blew out the cake candles. tom pulled her in to a soft kiss while the rest of the table cheered, and then the video cut to black.

“mitchell has been digitizing all of this stuff for us. I caught tom watching our wedding videos before he died.”

“remember when slider and wolfman got absolutely shitfaced at your wedding and tripped down the reception stairs?” maverick laughed to himself “did anybody ever get that on video?”

heather shook her head, a bright smile on her tear stained face as she hunted through the original wedding folder. “I’ve got you one better.”

September 1987, Monterrey, California.

mrs. heather kazansky. she could get used to that.

she was sitting with her sister and tom’s parents, the former two who were conversing with each other in polish. she twirled her wedding band on her finger, face flushed and spirits high as she looked on at her husband.

tom was with maverick and slider, the group of aviators dressed in their best white uniforms, beer bottles lifted high as they drunkenly hollered the words to an old rod stewart song.

“and I know your name is rita, because your perfume smells sweeter.”

abigail was filming, zooming the camera lens in on heather as she asked: “are you sure you don’t wanna back out now? till death do you part, you’re bound to this dumbass now.”

heather laughed, playfully smacking at the camera. “yes, I’m sure!”

“stay with me, come on stay with me!”

sliders voice was three decibels louder than everybody else, and he was also significantly drunker. one of the bridesmaids had her eyes on him, and there wasn’t a doubt in anybody’s mind that ron kerner would have somebody in his bed that night.

iceman’s face was flushed, his arm thrown around maverick as they rocked on their feet, skin sweaty and hair mussed.

but in the midst of all this chaos, he still managed to look over at his new wife, blowing her the softest kiss. she smiled, catching the kiss in her hands and pressing it to her heart, a moment her sister was able to capture frame for frame on digital video.

tom had watched the video hundreds of times as he sat alone in his office, struggling to come to terms with the fact that he’d be leaving not just the love of his life, but his three beautiful children as well.

April 2022. Miramar, California.

“that’s the kind of love that people only dream about.” natasha smiled softly. “you’re lucky you got to spend as much time with him as you did. most couples don’t make it as long as you guys did.”

heather smiled shakily, reaching for her drink. she’d left the sprite so long that the ice had half melted, condensation dripping down the glass.

“he was so good with the kids, you know. I was on and off depressed for a while after joshua was born. my mental health had never been perfect and I was on a low dose anti-anxiety medication for a long time. but after Josh was born, everything just got so much harder and I could barley get out of bed in the mornings. tom would take the kids to school, make their lunches. he was teaching full time at top gun by then, so he took a few days off to stay with me, make me feel like myself again.”

“he was a good man.” robert smiled, rubbing her shoulder.

“yeah, he was.” heather bit her bottom lip, pulling a photo up on her laptop that had the dagger squad letting out a chorus of ‘awe’s’

the picture was taken in 1989. tom was dressed in a gray waffle knit shirt, a pair of pit viper sunglasses on his forehead as he held a smiling baby in his arms. mitchell’s wide eyes looked up at his dad, his tiny fingers wrapped around in of tom’s larger ones.

his name was mitchell ronald kazansky, because tom had made a lame bet with maverick and slider (that he lost) and had to name his firstborn after both of them (because he was a fucking idiot at times, but she loved him anyways).

the boys were both easy children, but cassandra? she was a daddy’s girl through and through, and tom would have moved heaven and earth for his little girl. whatever cassie wanted, she often got, well into adulthood even. she was the spitting image of her father, from her honey blonde hair right down to the birthmark on the underside of her jaw.

when tom walked her down the aisle at her wedding three years ago, he cried all the way to the altar. but not half as much as he sobbed when he held his granddaughter for the first time, cancer-stricken and barely able to speak, but still brimming with joy as he held jamie to his chest.

“he lead a good life. one he was proud of. he used his last words to tell me as much.” heather choked out, overwhelmed by emotions. “I just wish we’d had more time.”

pete placed his hand over hers, squeezing it reassuringly as natasha rubbed her back, and rooster gently squeezed her shoulder.

there was still so much love that heather kazansky still had to give.

still so much love that she was surrounded by.

and maybe that was tom’s way, even from the grave, to tell her that everything would still be alright.

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @httpiastri @sidcrosbyspuck @twinkodium @sidcrosbyspuck @oconso @thatsdemko @lorarri

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Seven (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Phew! Well, the last couple of chapters were a lot, hey? I wonder what will happen next, tee hee! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. You give me life! ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

“Hey,” you croak, as Frankie cracks the door to your room, finding you laying in the glum light. You’re on top of the covers and hugging your pillow to your chest, body curled around the white mass like you’re trying to form a human s’more.  

Of course, you can’t sleep. You’re just slumped there, despondent, blinking into the crow black dark. Your tears have subsided, at least. But you feel sapped. Like you barely have any energy to feel anything anymore. 

“Hey,” Frankie returns, dipping the mattress as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Benny send you?” You had insisted Benny go and get some shut eye, after comforting you for the better part of half an hour. There were hugs and warm tea and threats to handle Pope if he’d done something to deserve it. He hadn’t, you’d explained. He hadn’t done a damn thing worse than you, at least.  

“Negative.” 

You hum neutrally and scooch your body up so that you’re sitting with your back to the headboard, knees drawn up around the pillow you still cling to like a security blanket. 

“I’m gonna say something, okay?” Frankie says firmly, and you brace, fully expecting to receive some tough love. You note with relief, however, that as the man turns his head towards you, his eyes are nothing but soft. “You and me. We’re going back to your sister’s tomorrow. Get you some space.” 

Space from him. That much is implied. 

“No, Frankie.” Your throat tightens. All you’ve had is space. For months. The last thing you need is more. 

He places a hand on your knee, his tone firm and almost paternal. He’s going to make a damn good father, you think, with a swell of pride. “That’s what we’ll do. It’s not going to be like this anymore. We’re gonna stop taking chunks out of each other.” 

All you had wanted to do was to be close again. You’d never meant-

“-Frankie.” 

“Just think about it.” 

You nod, and Frankie pats your knee. Stifles a yawn. Presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He looks wiped. With a gust of breath he stands, preparing to leave. “G’night, chiquita. Get some rest, alright?”

“Yeah. And Frankie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry, by the way.” 

“What for?” 

You sweep your hand through the air. “For the drama. Et cetera.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“Do you know…” You cast a sidelong glance towards the black pane of the window. “Is… he coming back?”

The man drags his tongue along his lip. He does that when he’s uncertain. “He’ll be back.” 

“How do you know?” You don’t remember the last time you felt or sounded so small.  

“Because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment,” Frankie attempts a lopsided smile, his cheek tugging on the corner of his mouth; but it drops when he realises his joke hasn’t landed. “Just… try to get some rest. Okay?”

You nod, and you watch Frankie leave, his face murky but kind through the shadows as he gently tugs your door closed behind him. 

When he’s gone, you wait a moment for his footsteps to retreat and then you cross to the window, cracking it open far enough that you can hear the gentle shush of the waves. Far enough that you could hear either the sound of a truck pulling away in the dead of night, or the front door clicking gently closed, perhaps. 

You lie back on top of the bed covers, flat on your back, and your limbs stretched out like a starfish. You lie with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling - exhausted, but wide awake. 

And, after who knows how long like this, you hear footsteps tramping on to the porch. You hear the front door gently being latched, and the soft pad of someone travelling up the stairs. You hear the footsteps pause outside of your door for a moment and you hold your breath. You imagine an outstretched fist, primed to knock, but you dismiss this as wishful thinking. You’ve done a lot of that lately. Too much. 

Then, finally, you hear him shuffle into his room, clicking the door shut behind him. 

Only then - when you know he’s back - can you sleep. 

And, as you drift off, your thoughts of him merge with the soporific sounds of the waves. 

You’d doubt, with how much you’ve ached for him already, that you could hurt anymore, but you know fine well that it’s possible. After all, the waves break over and over, don’t they? 

They break, and they break, and they break. 

***

The following morning is an awkward affair. Everyone is tetchy, and even after a very necessary lie-in, residual grumpiness abounds. 

It figures. A shouting match and a rude awakening will do that. 

Still, the day must go on. You get knocked down? You keep moving. 

Will, ever an early riser and a true hero, brews up the first pot of coffee. Starts cooking up some breakfast, and, one by one, you and the boys filter downstairs, chasing the scent of sustenance. 

“Don’t even,” you say to Tom the moment he opens his mouth, the room falling silent as you waddle sleepily downstairs, gravitating straight towards the caffeine and the relative safety of Will. Frankie, Benny, and Tom are sat around the dining table, and, you note -because of course you do- that Santiago is glaringly absent. 

Maybe Frankie advised him not to come downstairs just yet. Perhaps he’s simply sulking. Or sleeping. Or avoiding you. Perhaps, maybe, possibly a million and one things, which you’ll never know the reasoning behind. 

It doesn’t even matter now. 

You’re done trying to figure him out. Since when did that ever get you anywhere useful? 

Instead then, you attempt to refocus. To divert your attention away from your sun, and towards the wider constellation of stars you are proud to call your squad. And, of course, to your plate of breakfast - that deserves attention too. 

The one thing you refuse to focus on, for the moment, is the elephant in the room. 

Still, you glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs. 

“What else is new with you then, Benny boy? Seeing anyone?” You reach for just about the only topic you hadn’t covered with him yesterday evening - when you had been trying ever so valiantly to distract yourself from Santiago and all that he entails. 

In response, his baby blues dance with mischief and he grins, raising one arm to pop a bicep in celebration even as he shovels forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth with the other. “I had myself a date the other night.” He probably flexes in his sleep, this man. 

“She stay for breakfast, Benjamin?” Frankie interjects, finally managing to be vocal again now that he’s been provided with the sweet hit of his second mug of caffeine. 

“‘Catfish. She was breakfast.” 

You hear Will groan from over at the stove. “Too much information, Ben.” 

Ben, meanwhile, looks entirely unapologetic. 

“Whatever happened to being a gentleman, huh? The way your Granny raised you?” Tom enquires with a thin smile. “Thought gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell.” 

“Oh, but I was a gentleman, Redfly. Let her finish first ‘n’ everythin’.” Benny offers a shit-eating grin, and you are once again grateful for the distraction as the room descends into fond bickering, the back-and-forth culminating in Will whipping his sibling with a rolled tea towel for continuing to overshare, accidentally catching Tom in the crossfire. 

“Those dirty-minded individuals asked the questions, man,” Benny defends, jabbing his finger around in a circle at the rest of you in accusation. “They always wanna know what action I’m getting. Hell, no-one ever asks me what I’m readin’.” 

You snicker. 

You glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs. 

“Of course not. We’re trying to live vicariously through you, man,” Tom interjects. “We don’t want to vicariously read things.” 

“Especially not the pretentious shit you read, Benjamin,” Frankie digs, before collecting up the plates and conveying them over to the sink. And, given a natural lull in the conversation, Benny takes the opportunity to grab your attention. 

“You still up for training later, hon? I’m tabled for a beastly session this afternoon.” 

It briefly crosses your mind to wonder where Benny gets his abundance of energy. You, on the other hand, can’t even be bothered to trace that train of thought through to completion. “Yeah. Maybe, Ben. I, uh, need to drive into town this morning though.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, with a mouthful of streaky bacon, swivelling his cap to sit backwards on his head as though that will help him pay better attention to you. 

You glance once more -only briefly, of course- towards the mouth of the stairs. 

“Mmm-hmm. Need to grab something from the pharmacy.” You blink, attempting to look as innocent as possible, but your face burns with a flare of heat, and you can’t help but scratch your nose self-consciously. 

You feel as though they all know the purpose of your trip - somehow - even though that’s impossible. And, you pray that even if they do, that they will at least have the courtesy to let it slide. 

Unfortunately though, you suddenly remember that Tom exists, and that therefore, you’re likely not getting away with it that easy. 

“You and Pope all out of condoms or something?” he guffaws around the lip of his coffee mug as he takes a deep swig. 

“Tom,” Frankie warns, subtly shaking his head as he comes to retake his seat by you. 

Oddly though, Tom’s comment barely even manages to irk you. You pat your defender on the arm. “Frankie. I’m fine.” 

He surveys you regardless, to be sure, and you are grateful for it. Frankie knows fine well that Tom has a talent for rubbing you up the wrong way. The two of you have never quite seen eye to eye. 

“See, she can handle herself just fine,” Tom reminds him pointedly. He never did like the way the rest of the boys fussed so damn hard over you. His tone has the veneer of light-heartedness. “You can take a joke, right?” 

Your lips twitch around some halfway cruel retort, but, turns out, you truly have no ire left today. You’re all out - and besides, you’re not looking to burn any more bridges than you have already on this trip. 

“Listen,” you begin sincerely, cradling your mug of coffee between your palms. Deciding to nip this in the bud before it spirals. “Are we good, Tom? I was a little bit hot-tempered yesterday. I’m sorry.” 

Once again, you glance towards the mouth of the stairs. Your gaze lingers a fraction longer this time, until it ticks back to Tom. 

He looks at you levelly for a moment over the rim of his mug, before his brown eyes begin to shine with a dull, metered-out warmth. Nothing like the warmth of your sun, of course, but shining on your more brightly than Tom had deigned to in a long while, at least. “Sure we are. So long as you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night again. I need my beauty sleep.”

You hold your palms up in rare surrender. “You got it.” 

“What was all that about, anyway?” Tom needles, shuffling forward in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Beside you, you can sense Frankie and Benny ready to knock him back should he dare to overstep. You wonder suddenly if you’re too harsh on the guy. If you need to loosen off, be a little kinder. 

You wrap both hands more tightly around your coffee now, letting the warmth bleed through into your interlaced fingertips and the steam rise under your chin. “The usual,” you dismiss, not wanting to go into specifics. That would involve replaying it all. Would call for a digging out of the shrapnel lodged in your chest - an activity far too involved to undertake alongside a lazy breakfast. “Sometimes a storm is what it takes to clear the air, right?”  

“And?” Tom cranes forwards a little more. You clock Frankie’s nostrils flaring subtly in annoyance. “Is the air clear now?”

You know what Tom’s asking. Was anything resolved? Are you two done? 

Is all this over? 

Apparently curious, all three of the men direct their gaze toward you, keenly awaiting your answer. You even reach for one -an answer- but you come up lacking, and your uncertainty carves a notch into your brow. Makes your mouth go dry. Your gaze flicks to the mouth of the stairs, and this time, you can’t look away from it. “I…”

Thankfully, unfortunately, you are saved and damned all at once as Santiago finally appears. Emerging from the spot you’ve been glancing intermittently at all through breakfast. 

All the faces in the kitchen turn abruptly towards him as his careless footfalls sound out, and suddenly his eager skip down the stairs entirely loses steam. His pace slows, dragging to a dead halt by the time he has reached the base of the stairs. 

Your eyes go as wide as they can, through no fault of your own, and despite being the focus of the whole group’s attention, Santiago stares straight ahead at you. Of course he does. Only you, as though there is no-one else in the room to acknowledge.

“Morning,” he addresses, solely to you, his expression impassive, yes - but certainly not harsh. Not angry. 

“Morning,“ you respond, as brightly as possible, your eyes still wide and unblinking, and it is a little unnerving as every other head in the room swivels simultaneously around to face you. Oh good. Because you’d worried this might be awkward. You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Will has bacon,” you offer stiffly, your whole body so full of tension it feels brittle; like it could snap. 

As if the product of some hive mind, the heads swivel in unison back towards Santiago. He doesn’t drop his gaze from you, however. Doesn’t even blink - just looks between your left eye and right repeatedly. “Fabulous. Thanks.” 

Sure. Okay. This is totally normal. Except… you don’t think you’ve ever heard Santiago describe something as “fabulous” in his life. But why not start now, hey? This is fine. 

You watch him turn. Walk towards Will and the stove top, and when his gaze finally drops from yours it is like the taut line which was drawn across the room finally snaps, blissfully allowing some of the tension to sag with it. 

“Good timing, Garcia. Here.” Will doesn’t miss a beat, transferring the spatula into Santiago’s hand and shuffling him seamlessly into his position before he can clock what’s happening. “I’m officially passing the torch of Breakfast Duty into your capable hands.“ 

“Uh. Sure,” Santiago obliges, obediently beginning to move the sizzling strips around the pan as Benny stands, already crowding him to jostle for seconds. Will slaps the waffled tea towel across Santiago’s shoulder for good measure too, and you die a little inside at how goddamn domestic he looks. Especially since he’s still wearing his fluffy sheepskin slippers. Rocking his bedhead of gently tousled, greying curls. 

It makes you yearn. 

“Want a ride into town, soldier?” Will calls to you across the space, jutting his chin up at you and snapping you from your stupor. Immediately, you scrape your chair back, the gentle throb of nerves making you eager to animate. Eager to jump on any excuse to get the hell out of there. 

“Yes! Please!” 

You scoop up your plate and cutlery, and you attempt to take Frankie’s to the sink too. That is, until he protectively winds his arm around it like a bear defending its cub and begins actively batting your hand away. You guess he wants second helpings too. 

You sidle over to the stove then, where Santiago is dedicating himself to his latest occupation with vigour, Benny equally invested in hovering with his empty plate - and not above begging for scraps. 

“Where to in town?” Santiago asks in a hushed voice, his thick eyebrow arcing. You dismiss your plate into the dish bowl to soak, and he pauses his spatula duties momentarily to await your response. 

“Pharmacy.” You look at him pointedly. 

His face crumples with something resembling apology. Or - perhaps more likely - regret. “Okay.”

Your eyes lock for a moment, and he looks so different to you this morning than he had in the dead of the night. It is more than the gentle morning sun giving a soft glow to his features, the dusting of late summer freckles on his nose popping in the light. It is more than the wholesome appearance of him cooking up breakfast. More than the hush in his tone, and the way his chin dips down, making his eyes look big and round and gentle as he looks at you from beneath his long sweep of lashes. 

You suspect that he is purposefully making himself soft. Blunting his harsh edges so deliberately and so entirely that you fear he will sluice to the floor like the insides of a cracked egg. “You, uh… You need anything? Need me to…?” 

Santiago. Honey. You’ve done quite enough already. 

“No,” you say, but the word doesn’t audibly make it out the first time around. You clear your throat. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay.” 

Your gaze dips to the dried, rogue fleck of toothpaste right on the corner of his mouth. You can’t explain why, but this tiny, human detail makes your chest ache. “Talk later?” 

He forces his sober expression to twist into a halfway smile. His eyes grow big and earnest, that cup of coffee gaze gently warming you. “Okay.” 

Don’t, you inwardly plead with him. Don’t give me hope. Don’t break me again, Santiago. 

A niggle plays at your brow. It’s odd, really. You remember the words and venom spat from each of your mouths yesterday. Of course you do. But you can no longer feel the all-consuming ire that came along with them. That part -that feeling- is absent. Every scrap of anger consumed. It seems as alien to you as the raging storm must feel to the clear morning which follows. 

And so, you can’t help it. Really can’t help it. You dip forwards to kiss Santiago, softly. Right on the point of his beautifully high cheekbone, giving his tea-towel adorned shoulder a light squeeze. 

You leave, then, to the sight of that subtle crimson flush darkening his cheeks, your gesture evidently both confounding and flustering him. 

You leave too, to the sound of Benny yelling “Look alive, Pope! Don’t burn my goddamn bacon!”. The spatula has gone limp in his hand as Santiago’s gaze trails after you, and the tension is once again pulled taut like a string across the room. You imagine a festival of blush red balloons tied all along it, rising and dancing like your hope. 

You leave, with an answer to Tom’s question. 

You and Santiago? Is it over? 

No. It’s not done.

But you are done with being angry. 

You’re done breaking, and no longer will you throw yourself against those rocks. 

***

The time away from the house was useful, and the scenes of the open coast slipping by smoothed your roughened edges out like a tossed, worn pebble. The salt-saturated air humming through your wound-down window had you drinking in deep, energising lungfuls. Then, there was Will’s steady, reassuring drawl, and all the feelings of security that came along with it. 

Steady, dependendable, straightforward Will. You always knew where you stood with him. 

At least, that’s who he had always been to you. Not the volatile, ticking time bomb you’d heard he’d become since he’d gotten out. Since he’d almost choked a man out in the tinned produce aisle. 

It was good to have time to talk with him. You were endlessly glad to hear the ways Will was moving forward. You were glad -first and foremost- for him, of course; but you couldn’t deny it bolstered your own hope too. To know that there was a route out? A path onward - even when some things attempted to drag you back? It felt good. 

Speaking of things which dragged you to them, you were also grateful that Will didn’t press you (too much) on Santiago-shaped matters. In fairness, at this point the whole squad is probably sick to death of the topic. Regardless though, it was refreshing to talk about other things. About Will’s new life. His bizarro public speaking gig. His worry for Benny, as an unfailingly attentive and loyal big bro. His insistence that the “kid” is not living up to his full potential. 

Benny’s doing fine, you had assured him. Benny’s… buoyant. 

So, in sum, it was safe to say that despite everything, by the time you had arrived back to the house you’d felt decompressed. It made you wonder if - maybe - last night’s storm really had succeeded in clearing the air. Of course, that depended on Santiago too, and where he was at today. Whether he had any more drama brewing, up in that pretty head of his. 

From his vibe this morning though? You had gotten the sense that he was oh so tired too. 

It didn’t change anything of course. The fighting. The fucking. Not really. Not any of it. The anger, once given its release valve, had simply moved through you like weather. It had turned out, it was all mostly bluster. Ephemeral. Shifting. And it couldn’t touch the truth of things, could it? The permanence and depth of your love for him? Not really. 

It did change something in you though, that unforgiving storm. If nothing else, it had made you acutely aware of how powerless you are. Your weather cannot move the mountains, and Santiago is as stubborn and immoveable as a wall of rock.

You’d believed, at one time, that perhaps you could succeed in shifting him. Encouraging him. Convincing him.

But now you know for sure. 

The only way he’s running into your arms is of his own accord. In his own good time. 

When he’s ready.

If he ever is, of course; ready. And on that topic, you’re less and less sure that he ever will be. That Santiago will ever be ready to be loved by you. 

It’s sad in one way to realise that. But in another way, it’s freeing. To give up. To stop trying to shape things into what you’d hoped they could be, and to simply let things be whatever they are. To make peace with the truth of things. And peace? It may sound counterintuitive, but as a soldier, peace is all you’d ever really wanted. 

Perhaps that’s why you feel calm as you pace down the track back to the house. Why there’s a spring in your step as you fix up a sandwich for yourself and Will, heading out across the dunes to where the boys laze by that frilled edge of ocean. Perhaps you feel calm because you really have exhausted all of your options. 

Because there’s truly nothing else you can do. 

Because it’s out of your control. 

Because you cannot move mountains. 

And so, when you join the group and Santiago flashes you a tentative and oh so pure smile? You return it easily this time. 

You can’t change yourself and how you feel. You’ve tried that. You certainly can’t change him. You’ve tried that too. 

And… why would you want to, anyway, huh? To change him? In so many ways, you think, as you watch his rich, scratchy laugh bob in his throat, and see those delicious crinkles radiate from around his eyes, he’s perfect exactly as he is. 

After all, he’s your best friend. 

And, for the remainder of the afternoon, you simply want to focus on that. 

For today, you reckon you’ll simply have to try to see him in pieces. In fragments. 

You don’t want to admit to yourself that’s the only way you can make it through, but when you do realise, it strikes you. If you too find it hard to reconcile who he’s always been to you with all that he could be, then maybe you and he never were so different after all. 

He certainly could never grasp all of you at once, could he?

***

The rest of the day passes pleasantly - much to everyone’s relief, you suspect. After the card games wrap up, there is plenty more entertainment to be had. There is time whiled away goofing around with a football and a frisbee. There’s a grill session on the dunes and chilled beers and music. When the heat becomes too sticky, too intense, there are sea swims and splashing around in the waves and everyone trying to dunk Benny. There’s solitary time too. Time for sunbathing and reading and podcasting and naps; and, in between, there is the cyclical eruption and waning of amiable chatter - whenever someone sparks up with a talking point.

In sum, you all opt to just be with each other. No particular agenda in mind, and it feels good. Really good. 

You’ve missed them all. Hell, even Tom, though you’d never tell him that to his face. 

The stretch of beach you’ve claimed is stunning too. The sands are golden and fine-grained and the water is perfectly temperate; but, it’s a hidden gem, the patch not attracting a fraction of the stifling crowds you’d find along the main drag. Throughout the day, other people come and go, of course. There’s the family with the adorable little kids, for example. The little boy, in particular, who had seemed to take a real liking to Benny - and who’d even roped him into helping build sandcastles. You’d watched, fondly, as each of your squad’s faces had split with wholesome, eye-swallowing grins at the adorableness of it all. There was the lone woman who spent 45 minutes giving you evil eyes - apparently, you’d deducted, for daring to be surrounded by five attractive men. You’d even suspected she might march over and punch you at one point, judging from the hate seething in her eyes when Will had asked you to slather-up his milky-white back with his trusty factor 50. 

Mostly though, it had stayed pretty quiet, and you and the boys had more or less had the beach all to yourselves. 

Various members of the group would filter off every now and again, of course. To replenish supplies, grab a new book, or buy an ice cream from the truck which pulled up. But, there had always been a core contingent remaining, even as the intensity of the day’s heat had begun to burn off, replaced with a softer, gentler, and more oranged glow. 

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t realise it, until it had already happened.

That by now, you and Santiago were alone. 

You look up from your book and all of a sudden, you are the only one left lounging on the blankets. You look out to the water, and Santiago is the only figure to be found there too, currently floating on his back, bobbing over each gentle, orange-frilled wave which laps up to the shore. 

Christ. When did it get so late? 

Santiago must realise the predicament at a similar moment to you, you think, as by the time you have finished swivelling your head to scan the sands for signs of anyone else -finding no-one but a distant dog walker- he has already begun to wade out of the water. 

It is something you have watched him do so many times today, but now that it is just the two of you, this time it hits just a little different. This time, you notice him. Really notice him. Can’t help it. You watch him rise out of the water in the golden glow of the descending sun, and shake the rivulets of water from his darkened, wetted curls. See his tan chest emerge first, the colour in his shoulders a deeper, richer brown already from a day soaking up the sun. That silver chain of his swinging and glinting in between his smooth, shapely pecs. And, you note the soft cushion of his tummy swelling over the waistband of his swim shorts, the garment sodden and clinging tightly to his ample hips and thighs. Even slipping down just a little as he wades from out of the water, revealing a hint of his happy trail as he beelines directly towards where you lay. 

Your stomach twists with a deep, hot yearning, and you are grateful that you have at least a moment to compose yourself before he arrives, sea-shined and dripping, at your now deserted camp. You have the wherewithal, at least, to throw him a towel as he reaches you, trying not to stare (too much) as he begins to dry himself off. 

“Thanks,” he offers, with a lazy flash of teeth, and you unconsciously rearrange yourself, very suddenly aware - now that you’re alone - that you are stripped right down to your flimsy bikini. 

You see a swallow sink down Santi’s corded throat as his eyes skim down the length of you, but he is quick to obscure it. He’s still playing nice. Softening himself, you think. 

With a laugh as roughly hewn as driftwood, he flicks some water at you after scrunching his hand through his sodden curls, spraying cold flecks across the bare expanse of your belly, causing you to tense and squeal. His shoulders shake with gentle mirth, and, once he’s towelled off and wrung out his shorts a little, he spreads his towel out next to you, parking his ample ass down. 

“Didn’t feel like a swim? The water’s nice.” 

“Nah.” 

His head swivels about, eyes traversing the length of the beach. He scoops a hand around his stubble, and you hear it rasp like sand. “Where the shit did everybody go?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “Beats me. I was far too engrossed in my trashy novel to notice.”  You dog-ear the page of said book and put it to one-side before leaning back, supporting your torso on bent elbows, legs still elongated before you and crossed neatly at the ankle. The position pushes your breasts out, and you swear Santiago tries valiantly to look just about anywhere else - more or less succeeding too. 

“Then… I think we’re alone now.” 

A mischievous smile catches the corners of your mouth. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.” 

You turn your head towards him, to see if he’s picked up on your song-lyric-inspired choice of words, but the solemnity of his expression catches you off-guard. His brows are drawn down, the sockets of his eyes all shadowed despite the golden hour glow still pouring over the horizon, lighting the stark contours of him. 

In unison, the two of you shift position, coming to sit cross-legged. Side-by-side, looking out over the ocean. It seems easier that way, you think. Not to face each other directly as you each say whatever it is you need to say. 

You know that it’s come time to say it. That it’s overdue. 

Besides, it’s undeniably beautiful, looking out across the view like this. Enjoying the lapping waves and the undulating, orange zest water stretched out below that burning sky. Now cooling, post-dip, Santiago reaches over for his trusty tartan blanket. Silently, he first tucks it around his shoulders, then he passes it around yours. It’s a stretch for the square of fabric, and so you huddle a little closer to one another, finding it is even more warming as your bodies press together. The wetness of his thigh, from those water-logged, sand-coated trunks contacts you too, but you make no effort to move away, instead resting your folded thigh just on top of his. 

You can smell the ocean on him. Salt and sunshine and sunscreen. He smells like summer.

You look out across the landscape with renewed concentration as you wait for him to speak, not ready to face whatever expression his features may offer. You look outward with vigour while you wait for him to look inward, and you worry that his words - when they come - will surely be more ugly than the sight before you. Will be bitter and not sweet. 

You even brace for it. 

You’re so used to the storm. 

Still, when he eventually speaks, you are surprised. Surprised that he is calm and steady. That his voice is like slow, warm sand pooling into your cupped hands. That his words are both bitter and sweet. “Hey. C’mere.” You link your arm into him. Lean your head onto his shoulder as his tone grows wistful. “Do you… Do you remember that night in Philadelphia?” 

You smile immediately. There had been only one such night in Philadelphia. 

It had been your birthday. You and Santiago had been catching a connecting flight, heading back from a deployment and en route to meet the boys off-base to celebrate. However, all the planes had been grounded due to some technical hitch with the tower. You’d been bummed that your plans had been ruined; but Santiago had come through. Had gifted you one of the best nights of your life. A very silly, drunken night, if you recall. 

You cringe, hazy, smooth-edged memories flooding back. You clap a hand to your face with residual embarrassment. “Christ. The karaoke.” 

Santiago chuckles warmly, and you feel his laugh reverberate through you. “It wasn’t karaoke! You hijacked the goddamn wedding band.” 

Your hand clamps in dismay over your mouth now, and you lift your head from his shoulder to face him. “Oh my god. You’re right.” 

Your laughs mingle together in the tight space between you, becoming indistinguishable, like the tide and the shore. “I still can’t believe you blagged our way into a wedding reception.” 

“I can’t believe it took us so long to get rumbled,” his hand settles over yours, where your arm is still hooked into his.

You beam at him. “Thank God I’m stealthy.”

He pumps his eyebrows, entirely incredulous. “You? Yeah right.” 

“I’m sure I must’ve helped, Pope.”  

“No, cariño, no. You were not helping.” He scratches at his layer of scruff. “Shit. What was it… What did you tell the kid on the desk your name was, again?” 

You try to recall, and when you remember you snort in a full-blown laugh. Your ensuing, chaotic giggle planes tears of joy out of the corners of your eyes. “Mariana Trench!”

“You’re fucking despicable. You know that?” Santiago laughs along with you, and God. It feels good. Really good. It feels effortless, your mirth sharing space like this instead of your anger.  Your laughs mingle then dissipate, withdrawing gently like the retreat of a wave. 

You lean your head back on to his shoulder, but your giggle fit is evidently not wholly through - not just yet. Your shoulders begin to shake up against him - gently at first, and then with a rising chuckle. “Whiskey in the jar-o,” you sing under your breath, wistfully recalling your drunken duet of choice. “Fuck, Santi. That was a good night.” 

He rests his head on top of yours, the weight of it a comfort. “Yeah. Yeah it was,” he agrees. “Jesus, I’m telling you though. They were lucky we showed up. Before we livened things up? The dance floor was as dead as a battlefield after one of Redfly’s sweeps.” 

You hum at the fond memory, a soft smile arcing over your face. He has you curious though. “What made you think of that night?” Why this memory, out of everything?

He stiffens noticeably up against you. Sits more upright. Presses his palms together. “That was, uh. That was the night that I-” 

“-Vomited into a soup tureen?” You interject with a snort, as another random memory flashes back to you.

“No. Nope,” Santi counters decisively. “That was Cat’s Oma’s 80th.” 

You giggle chaotically again. “Oh yeah. Shit.” You miss that lady. She was a sweetie. 

“Hey. Listen,” Santiago begins with far more gravity. Enough gravity that you shift, turning your body as he draws your gaze to him. You had been waiting for this moment to arrive; but, now that it’s here, you wish you could cling on to the sweet things for a few moments longer. Still, you settle opposite him now, the two of you still cross-legged but positioned face to face. He adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging on each corner. With a watery smile, you slide your palms on to his wrecked, perfect knees and give him a gentle squeeze there, seemingly pushing his croaked words out with the gesture too. “I want to say that I’m sorry.” 

You have nothing for a moment. No words, at least. Nothing but the motion of your hands smoothing back and forth over his knees. Nothing but the pained expression as your eyes swim with an ocean of feeling, deep enough to rival the vast body of water before you. 

You note that his eyes are wet too as he settles his own hands over yours, gathering them up into his grasp. He stares down intently at your hands, his brow notching with a deep frown. He drags in a slow breath and releases it. “This got so fucked up, and… that’s not it at all.” He looks back to you then, his umber eyes shining with remorse. Deep regret welling in his resonant tone. “That’s not how I want to show up for you.” 

Your tongue, too, reaches for an apology as readily as your hands had reached out for him. “Fuck, Santiago. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry too.” You had never meant to hurt him. You had never wanted that. 

He drops his gaze to your neat pairing of hands. Gingerly begins to smooth the rough, sea-pruned pads of his thumbs over your knuckles, your skin humming dully where he touches. “I mean it. I’m sorry for everything.” The tendons in his jaw clench, muscles slipping over bone. He drags your cupped hand into his lap, drawing an absent-minded spiral in your palm with the pad of his thumb. The sensation makes a pleasant tingle bed down beneath your skin. “I swear. I never meant for my bullshit to affect you. Christ - that was the whole fucking point. Thought the least I could do, after everything, was protect you from that.” 

At his earnest words, your chest tightens, and you abruptly halt the dance of his fingers by clasping his hands, gathering them between your own palms like a prayer. Your voice cracks in half like a broken promise. “Santiago. For Christ’s sake. You think I need protecting?” The implication in his words cleaves your heart in two. “From you?” 

He shrugs with one shoulder. Sniffs. The muscle in his cheek tugs up, and you feel his hands go clammy in your grasp.

He frees himself from your grip for a moment, before continuing to skim his fingers up and down your forearm arm in a gentle, tender dance. The lightness of his touch contrasts starkly with the heaviness settling into his brow, his wet, puppy dog eyes swimming beneath. “I dunno. I was always a better fucking soldier than I was a friend.” He swallows, his voice so soft you can barely hear him. “Than I was… anything else you might’ve needed me to be.” 

“No. That’s not true,” you respond adamantly, your head shaking vigorously from side to side. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“Except when it counted.”

“No!” you emphasise, the thrust of your words carrying your whole body forward. You shift position, transferring on to folded knees, crouching before him in the sand. Reaching, to slip your palms up to each side of his face, and you hold him like a prayer now. “No, Santiago. Especially when it counted. Believe me.”

He tries to turn away from you - you see it. He tries to begin his retreat, like usual, but this time, you capture his roughened cheek with one palm and you hold his gaze with yours. You speak firmly, willing him to understand. “Santiago Garcia. Idiota. You’re my hero.” 

He scoffs lightly. His face twitches with scepticism. With doubt. With this self-deprecation he always carries, usually so well concealed by his confidence and easy charm. And yet, as you caress his stubble-flecked cheek with your palm, he sinks gratefully into your touch. Leans against it, his eyes fanning closed and his long lashes splaying down towards his cheeks. 

“God,” he breathes softly in Spanish, barely audible. “No-one has called me that in a long time." He lives in a world of aliases and nicknames, and you see the weight of his grief twist his face at hearing his name fall from your mouth. 

“I mean it. Do you hear me?” you plead, snagging his eyes to yours as they drift open. “You have made my life more beautiful in a thousand ways. You’re not -and you never were- something I need protecting from.” You regard Santiago, and his pretty eyes glisten, wet with a well of scarcely contained emotion -starlight in his lashes. “I love you, Santiago. Whatever has happened. Whatever happens. I love you. Not when you’re this ‘perfect’ version of yourself you finally deem worthy of love.” You search his eyes “That’s bullshit. I love you. I love you now.”

Santiago slowly, gradually musters a nod, and you smooth your hands over him. Over his shoulders. the nape of his neck. His chest. Trying to plaster over the evident cracks as his emotion crashes like a wave against rocks. He scoops a hand around his stubble, his lower lip now downturned. Trembling with feeling. Fat, liquid tears shining in his eyes, threatening to overspill. “I love you too.” 

What a terrible, sad thing, you think. That you love each other. That there’s such bounty and abundance, but that at the same time… it is never quite enough. 

Maybe one day, it will be; enough. 

For now though, it is still something which causes you pain. And, you can see -more clearly than ever now- that it hurts him too. 

His eyes dance over everything but you. His face twists. Contorts and tightens as he wrestles with it, but he cannot hold back the tide a moment longer. Full, wet tears spill down Santiago’s cheeks, and he makes some attempt to fumble them away, until they grow too numerous. You reach for him instead, and for a moment he tries to gently bat your hand away. “Hey,” you scold, protest, smooth. “Santiago.” His eyes drop, and his gaze fixes intently on a spot in the sand as you gingerly scoop his tears away with your crooked forefinger. The finger you then trace lovingly along the length of his jaw. The finger you trace along his eyebrow. The point of his cheekbone. Every place the waning golden light paints him. Your eyes dance over him. Every contour. Every sharp angle and every hollow. Every soft, silver curl. And he stays perfectly still. Unmoving, as though he is afraid your touch will withdraw like a tide at any moment. 

“I missed you,” you whisper, and it is at once bitter and sweet. “It hurts. It… hurts to be without you.”

For a stretched moment, you do not believe he will respond, the only sign of movement from him a lone tear sluicing down his sculpted cheek. But, eventually, his words come. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I need to find a way it doesn’t hurt you to be with me.” You shake your head, a protest dying on your lips as Santiago drags your hands to him. “I know you won’t buy this. You don’t have to. But I do want out. I swear it’s just this one last job with Lorea. And then I can… Then maybe we can…”

He trails off, his words waning. Breaking on the rocks. 

He never could articulate a future with you, could he? Never could seem to dream that up.

You could be angry about that, you suppose, but you truly have no more anger left to give. You could be sad instead but, turns out, you’re out of that feeling too. All you have left to offer in this moment, in fact, is a small, resigned smile.

“It’s okay,” you smooth, and what’s more, you mean it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Your fingers play over the leather and beads of his bracelets. Over the tendons in his wrist. The light hairs on his forearms.

You’re done with all of that now. Done trying to push him towards a future you’re not even sure he wants with you. Not sure he ever wanted. It’s funny almost, as you sit here, letting the future go. You sit here with him, so much history humming between you it’s like standing amidst ruins. Like you are two statues, memories and stories carved into your bodies. Sometimes, it feels like the past is all you have. But, you are thankful when the sinking, orange segment of sun draws you to it, reminding you there is one more thing you have. Something between the past and future. 

You have the here and now. 

You reach for it. 

It’s all you’ve got. Might be all you ever have with him. 

You twist your body, turning outward again, away from him. You fold your knees up to your chin and you loop your arms around them, fixing your eyes straight ahead on the undulating ocean. 

“That’s one thing I always loved about you, you know,” you push out. “How you always live smack bang in the moment. I’m constantly wishing it all the fuck away, aren’t I? Always thinking fifty steps ahead.”

Santiago follows your lead, swivelling to face the sunset too. His body becomes all right angles as he plants his elbows on the points of his spread knees, his butt and the soles of his feet flat to the floor, his hands loosely laced together in the space between his legs.  “You should. You should think about that stuff. You deserve all that. Everything you talked about last night.”

His words cause a tight lump to rise in your throat. 

Do you? 

Does he really believe that? 

Because, if so, then why in the hell don’t you deserve him? Why can’t he be the one to give it to you? 

You offer a theory. 

“Does it bore you, or something? The thought of a future like that?” The question emerges tattered, torn on hooks in your throat which try to hold it back; but it’s something you’ve wondered for too long to suppress it any longer. You’ve wondered without ever wanting to push that thought too far - too afraid of the answer. 

“Yeah,” he says levelly, not a hint of doubt in his voice, and you hold your breath. “With anyone else, yeah. But not with you.” You are relieved but that fades ever so quickly, your face crumpling into something halfway petulant. 

“Then… why?” 

Why is he still running? 

Why is he running from the life you could offer him if it’s something he wants too? 

You hear Santiago tug in and release a deep sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see him lace his fingers together, soothing his thumb over his own hand like he’s retracing your comfort. “Because… I’m not brave like you.” His voice tips up at the end. Like a question. He reserves all of his doubt for himself, then? It’s not you he refuses to believe in? 

“You’re ridiculous. You’re the bravest man I know.” 

“Heh. Yeah,” he lifts a hand to self-consciously scratch at the bristle of hairs at the nape of his neck. You hug your knees more tightly to your chest. “Running into bullets. Eliminating threats, sure. But… running into safe hands? I’m a fucking coward.”

You hum, a neutral, bland sound which expresses neither agreement nor disagreement. Which takes you nowhere. 

There’s nowhere left to go. 

Perhaps the road ends here. 

Dead end after dead end. 

Only resignation. 

“Maybe we were on the same path, once upon a time, huh?” You throw the statement out with little conviction. You’re giving up on the idea that your words or your actions can make the slightest bit of difference to what could be. For now, you simply wish to make sense of what is. “Maybe - I dunno. Maybe I just ran too far ahead. Racing towards this dream of the future, before you were ready to go there. Maybe I just created too much distance.” 

Santiago hums now too. A tight, pensive sound. “Huh. Is that what you think happened?” 

You rub your palms over your own face. Dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. You have as much energy as a spent wave. “Uch. I don’t know.” Wordlessly, tentatively, Santiago reaches, retucking the soft tartan blanket around your shoulders. You manage to smile softly at him, surprised that it does not feel at all forced. “Maybe we just forget all that now. Maybe we just… I dunno. Live in the moment?”

Santiago’s palm draws slow circles on your upper back. You shuffle a little closer to him. “Okay. Then what do you want?” he enquires. “Right now? In this moment?” 

His arm weighs over your shoulder, huddling you closer. “Oh. I don’t know. What does it even matter?” 

“We leave here tomorrow. So tell me. What do you want right now?” 

You could imagine that you are tired of wanting. That all you want is a moment free of wanting anything at all. But that’s not true, is it? You want the very same thing you’ve craved for so long. You want him. Finally though, something in you has shifted. You find yourself able to envisage a future which is far more immediate. Something you can grasp now instead of distantly yearning for. 

The words feel hard and tight in your chest, but by the time they reach your lips, they feel so very soft and loose. Easy to sound out. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. All this time I missed you so much.” Unconsciously, Santiago holds you just a little more tightly. “I just…”

“What?” he whispers. 

“I want us to fall asleep together. I want to hold you. I just want us to have one moment like that, Santi. Peaceful, you know? After everything, don’t we at least deserve that?” You tug in a breath to launch your next words, your throat closing protectively around them. Making them sound small. “And… And maybe…” 

“What? What else?” 

“Can’t we just fuck and feel happy about it? Can’t we have just one fucking moment together that doesn’t feel like an ending?”

You wait, your raw-wound words laid out in a line on the sand. You brace. You brace for them to be washed away. To have the salt poured in. 

“Okay.” 

Your eyes snap to his in surprise, and you find his soft, ardent gaze dancing over your features. “Okay?” 

Santiago’s fingers lace with yours, and he tugs you to standing. “Come with me. Come on.” 

He gathers up the remaining supplies, slinging the filled beach bag over one shoulder. Then, he folds his other arm around your middle. Tucks you into him. You let him lead you to the house, and it’s nice. It’s nice that for once, you’re not begging him to follow. 

You let him lead you up the dunes, back to the house, and up the stairs. 

You leave the golden, sinking sun behind you, but with Santiago’s warm, molten gaze shining on you, you still feel the sun on your face. 

[vitentia]

SAY YES TO HEAVEN .lıllıl.

pairings ━━ rockstar!ellie williams x artist!girlfriend!reader (no physical descriptions used but female pronouns are used)

warnings ━━ little bit of teasing but sfw, teeth rotting fluff

synopsis ━━ you and Ellie came from entirely different worlds. she was all about the limelight, you preferred pen names, she lived for the burns and cramps on her fingers after a long show, while you preferred the satisfaction of finishing a strenuous piece of work. but when Ellie wakes up to find you taking a page from her book, everything makes sense again.

authors note ━━ i needed more fun ellie fics without the smut so I decided to write it myself in case anyone feels the same lol.

Wow.

Ellie’s friends often joke about her beings whipped but, fuck, she’d never felt it until now. Watching your eyes dart back and forth between her position and your canvas was truly a sight to behold. To be honest, she didn’t quite know what was going on when her eyes fluttered open with a blue tinted light casted over the room.

She’d assumed herself dead and was quite comfortable with the heaven she was casted upon, not that she though she’d be in heaven in the first but, hey.

At first, she took a sharp inhale and sat up abruptly, looking around like a madman before your frantic hands waved her down.

“No, no, no, no! Don’t move!” You stood up from your seat across from the couch she was napping on and pushed her on her back.

“Damn, woman! Let me wake up first.” She joked, squinting her eyes as you pushed and prodded at her face to position it just right.

Once you were happy with the pose, you skipped back over to your spot and began dipping your brush into the watercolor paint.

She smiled to herself, “Are you drawing me while I sleep, Mr. Goldberg?”

You gave her a pointed look and continued your simple strokes. “It was golden hour and you looked so calm, sue me.”

“Does this mean I can go back to sleep?”

“No.”

Ellie clicked her teeth but remained still, her eyes tracing over your…everything for the entirety of the time she was laying there. Silence remained a safety blanket over the both of you and, for once, her ears stopped ringing.

“I thought you were in a art slump, what happened?”

You sighed with a shy smile. “You happened.”

“Aww babe-“ she cooed, sitting up on her elbows until you fully moved out from behind the canvas.

“Don’t!-“

“Sorry!” Ellie apologized, immediately going back to her position. Once she was comfortable she gave you a smile. “Better?”

Giving her the “I see you” gesture, you slid back on your chair and switched brushes. “I thought about what you said.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Wh…what did I say?”

“The…the fight we had last week, it had me thinking.” Ellie sucked in a breath, ready to interrupt. “Don’t speak until I’m done, Ellie Williams.” She shut her mouth. “You’re right, I am too…obsessive with my art. Honestly, I think I was so defensive because it’s true. I don’t take risks with my art, I don’t branch out, and when I don’t feel like it’s good I just self implode and hate it and myself. But you’re…not.”

“Well-“

“You’re so confident about everything you do. When you fail or mess up you just…laugh? It blows me away every time. You blow me away, Ellie.” You sighed and put down your brush. “When I came out of the shower and saw you asleep on the couch with the light hitting your face just right, you looked so serene I decided to take a page out of your book. Hence the watercolor.”

When you didn’t speak again, Ellie assumed she could speak now. “Does that mean I can move now?”

You chuckled lightly and stood up, holding your hand out for hers. She took it happily and immediately walked over to the canvas.

“Hang on, I’m not-“ Cut off by Ellie’s gasp, you assumed the worst and cringed, fiddling with your hands.

“Is that what I look like?!” Ellie exclaimed. From her hunched over position, she looked up at you with a childlike wonder in her eyes. “Hell, no wonder your so in love with me. Look at me!”

You gave her a playful glare as she stood to her full height and put her hands on her hips, proudly looking at her work. Ellie smiled widely at you and yanked you into her arms, fully encapsulating you in her entire being as she squeezed away all doubts and fears you still held.

“God, I’m so proud of you. I know it’s not easy for you to let loose but the fact that you did this just for me is unbelievable.” You cuddled into her hug, trying hiding your embarrassment from her eyes until she abruptly pulled away and gripped your cheeks with one hand and staring deeply into your eyes. “I will marry you, you know that?”

You tried to smile but were prevented from that when she pulled you into a kiss, and then another one, and another one, and another one, and-

“Okay, okay, okay! I get it.” You laughed, pulling away from a breath.

Still holding your cheeks, Ellie pulled away with a geeky smile. “We should have kids.”

You gave her a confused look.

“Forget the logistics of it. I just want another you. Forever and ever.” She waved away your confused and turned into laughter, pulling you into another hug.

“Now who’s obsessed, Mrs. Goldberg?”

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 - 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

» Part 2 [ PAIRING ] Dio Brando x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] The title is a Hamlet reference. I doubt any of this is historically accurate and I quite frankly do not give a fuck. Not beta read; we post like men. Oh and like don’t binge drink, it’s bad for you [ SYNOPSIS ] You and your toxic bestie, Dio Brando, get drunk and horny at your family’s country house after graduating from your respective colleges. [ WORD COUNT ] 2.8k [ CONTENT ] Canon AU, alcohol, y/n wears men’s clothing (yes, you hate all that fancy, upper-class finery. yes, you’re not like other girls.), voyeurism, dubcon, mutual masturbation, oral sex (m receiving), snowballing, teasing.

You were draped on the couch, taking up as much space as possible. Your head rested uncomfortably on the ornate armrest. The intricate, oak carvings couldn’t have been more unforgiving as they pressed against you. You found yourself resenting your parents’ taste in gaudy furniture, an aspect of them you never had a strong opinion about before this very moment.

Granted it wasn’t often you found yourself existing under these circumstances. How could your perception remain the same? There you were, drunk on whiskey in your father’s library while he entertained guests on the other side of your modest country house. Your contentious yet closest friend was seated on the other end of the couch, his large hands haphazardly resting on your bare feet. His head was tossed back, eyes shut. A slight scowl adorned his face. You suspected he was fighting off the spins.

“Are you alright?” You asked, nudging him with your foot.

No response. Not even a groan.

“Dio.”

“No.”

“What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing,” he yawned. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

“Come on.” You nudged him once more with your foot. “Entertain me. It’s the absolute least you could do.”

Silence. You sighed, saddened he refused to humor you. You gazed down at the floor and felt around for the bottle of whiskey the two of you had been nursing all night. The room was dimly lit, the chandelier above you barely casting off any light.

“Fuck,” you whispered as you knocked over the bottle.

It made a muffled thump as it collided with the plush carpet. You sighed again though this time it was tinged with relief. Sitting up, you opened the bottle and took a sip. The sound of your swallowing seemed to rouse the blonde. His eyes fluttered open and turned his gaze towards you.

“How pathetic,” he slurred. “Hand it over.”

A callous response but it still radiated warmth. It was part of your report, that tender snarkiness. For the most part Dio was a perfect gentleman which you felt was a little phony.

“You cannot expect me to do anything vaguely helpful after calling me pathetic.”

“I could have sworn you had a thicker skin,” he said as a slight smile crossed his face.

It would have been cruel to deny him so you handed over the bottle. His fingers brushed up against yours, the pads of them roughened by years of playing rugby. You thought about how they’d feel caressing your cheek. And you thought about how the weight of his palm would feel against your neck. Closing your eyes, you hoped to push the thoughts from your mind.

“My skin couldn’t be thinner,” you said exhaling.

Dio stifled a laugh before taking a sizable swig from the bottle. He wordlessly handed it back to you. You went to take another sip, but hesitated. Your skin was flushed and you felt like the temperature in the room had risen a few degrees.

“Where did all your conviction go? Didn’t you say something about getting so drunk you go blind?”

“I was coming off the high of graduating. I can't be held accountable.”

You rolled up the sleeves of your dress shirt and unfastened the first few buttons, incredibly thankful your parents suggested dinner be a more casual affair. You couldn’t imagine how miserable you’d be if you were cursed to wear a corset and bustle along with a florid gown.

“We should probably go back out there. Let them know we’re alive.”

You groaned. “But all those people...”

“There are seven people here including you, your parents, and me.”

“Do you want to go back out there?”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed.

“I am torn though,” you murmured before gulping down some whiskey, savoring the woody burn it left on your tongue. “Watching all those people kiss my father’s ass would be hilarious to see but I—I’m… It also sounds terrible… Because… I’d have to talk to… people.”

Dio clapped.

“Bravo. Your articulation is unmatched.”

You kicked him.

“Asshole. Be nice. We’re in my house.”

“Last time I checked you didn’t own it.”

“Last time I checked…” You struggled to put together a retort. “You… Fuck off.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

His frankness caught you off guard. You nearly choked on your own tongue.

“That’s not very gentlemanly of you,” you muttered, trying to cover up your growing embarrassment.

You always had a crush on Dio, but you buried it deep down inside yourself in hopes that it would dissipate. It wasn’t worth pursuing him. You told yourself a smattering of assumptions to aid it: he’s betrothed to someone else, he’s too popular for a slag like you, he probably snores, he’s not into women. You weren’t sure if any of those things were true, but you tried your damnedest to believe them wholeheartedly.

“I’ve drank too much to be a gentleman.”

Looking him in the face was a struggle. There was no way you could keep up your façade if you had to confront his copper-colored eyes.

“Don’t act like you’re not interested,” he teased.

You wanted to slap the devilish smirk off his face. He was right; you were very interested in having his cock throbbing your cunt. But the library wasn’t conspicuous. Hell, the doors didn’t even lock. Anyone could stumble upon the two of you.

You exhaled and decided to be frank.

“You’d have to be a fool not to notice I suppose.”

He inched closer to your end of the couch. You leaned away from him, hoping that keeping your distance would let you fight off your ardor.

“I’m not going to force myself on you. But you’d be a fool to deny me.”

“Good thing I don’t mind being a fool,” you said, laughing nervously.

“I, Dio, can’t accept that,” he slurred.

“Even if I wanted to… y—you’re too drunk. I’d be taking advantage of you.”

“You’re just as drunk as I am. Don’t be stupid.”

“Are you going to insult your way into my pants?”

“Only if it’s working,” he said before making grabby hands beckoning you to pass him the bottle.

You took a quick sip before handing it over. You watched in horror as he finished off the last of it. Sometimes you worried about his drinking, but your concern always felt hypocritical considering you were his drinking buddy. So many nights spent intoxicated, stumbling down empty streets, illuminated by moonlight.

“Is it working?” He asked expectantly.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“There’s no need to be so demure.”

His face was inches from yours. The aroma of whiskey radiated off him, the scent overwhelming your senses.

“You know you want me,” he purred.

“Even so my father’s down the hall. It’s too risky. I don’t even want to think about what my mother would do.”

“As if that doesn’t make it more intriguin—”

“Don’t tell me you want to get caught!” You exclaimed.

You quickly covered your mouth with your hands as if that would've muffled your previous comment. Your skin grew even warmer, the embarrassment becoming unbearable. You wanted to fuck him, to feel his rough hands all over your body. But you knew it would be a disaster if you were caught with Dio of all people. Your family found the blonde charming, but his status as an adopted son was a stain upon his existence. Sure, he had good manners and seamlessly adjusted to living in the lap of luxury, but he was still a low-class lout from the slums of London.

“Oh god no. That’d be awful, but you have to admit it’s sort of appealing. You did say you wanted to be entertained. I can’t think of a better way.”

“Dio…”

“Like I said, I won’t force myself on you. But I don’t plan on giving up so easily.”

“Th—that sounds rather ominous,” you laughed nervously.

He leaned in closer, the heat of his body intermingling with yours.

“You love it,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “You need me inside you.”

He glanced down and noticed he was unbuttoning his pants.

“I haven’t even agreed to anything yet!”

“Hm, I find it hard to believe you don’t at least want a peek.”

Damn. It. He was right. You desperately wanted to know what his cock looked like.

“If you’re that nervous I’m certain we can think of something else to do. I already have an idea.”

“And what is that exactly?” You asked.

“Let’s violate ourselves in front of each other.”

You cocked an eyebrow. Now that wasn’t a bad idea at all. You’d even argue it was a good one.

“That does sound thrilling. Though I may need more convincing.”

Dio leaned back against the arm rest. Once again he flashed a smirk only the devil himself could muster. You desperately tried to invoke some semblance of bravado to hide your simmering lack of composure. All bets were off however when he pulled out his cock. It was thick and long with a couple veins snaking around it, and it curved slightly upwards. It was gorgeous.

“Are you impressed?”

“No. I mean, very,” you choked out.

He licked his palm and began to stroke his raging erection. You were frozen in place, your eyes trained on the blonde masturbating in front of you. You were utterly transfixed, intoxicated by the playful gleam in his eyes.

“Are you waiting for a written invitation?” He questioned.

“What? N—no,” you stuttered as you undressed.

You dropped your trousers and undergarments on the floor in a heap. You felt so exposed compared to Dio. If your parents were to walk in he could easily force his cock back into his pants, but you were naked from the waist down which was much harder to disguise. You cursed yourself for chucking the throw pillows across the room when you first decided to hole up in the library.

“Quit pretending to be shy,” he hissed. “Spread your legs.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice. Any discomfort you previously felt melted away. You never realized how much power his words held over you. You repositioned yourself on the couch and spread your legs, letting him get a scenic view of your cunt. You cupped your hand around your mons and let your fingers drift down your clit. Your eyes were fixed on his cock, lust radiating from your gaze.

“You want me. I can tell,” he said, stating the obvious. “You couldn’t hide it if you tried. Pitiful.”

You hated how right he was. Having his cock buried in your cunt sounded spectacular. But you simply couldn’t, at least not tonight.

“I bet you’ve been waiting your whole life for something like this to happen.”

Once again, he was right.

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” you said as you spread apart your folds.

“I’ll do that once you stop being so obvious.”

“Liar. We both know you’ll always have a needlessly large ego.”

“Needlessly?”

Your legs tensed up, muscles constricting with pleasure.

“Ye—yeah,” you groaned. “You heard me.”

You slipped your fingers inside yourself, coating them with your fluids. Your cunt throbbed as you pulled them out and let them slide along your labia. You were so sensitive, almost certain your climax was on the horizon. You hated being so easy, so quick to come. But there was no way you’d be able to stave off the ecstasy enveloping your existence.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” Dio asked as he rubbed the tip of his cock with his thumb.

His cock was like a beacon, glistening with precum. You wanted to wrap your lips around it and let him fuck your mouth to his heart’s content. Your breathing gradually morphed into subdued panting. You were coming undone. Dio’s verbose declarations and moaning didn’t help. You didn’t expect him to be so vocal.

“You look as pathetic as ever,” he said, gripping the length of his cock.

“You don’t look much better.”

“Ha. Sure I don’t.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

He was holding it together better than you, but still he was slowly breaking down. His strokes grew faster, his hips bucking against his fist ever so slightly. You knew you were a sight to behold, that he was loving every second of this.

You went to speak but you were soon overwhelmed with pleasure. It was as if your body was sinking into the couch as your orgasm overtook you. It started as a tingle in your toes and then proceeded to barrel through your body like a wild animal. You held your free hand over your mouth to temper your moans.

“Uncover your mouth. I want to hear you say my name.”

You wanted to kick him off the couch, but refrained and relented.

Dropping your hand, you cried out his name.

“Again,” he ordered, clenching his jaw.

You repeatedly moaned his name, letting it fall from your lips like a prayer. You only stopped once the tingling and warmth invading your body ceased. You turned your attention back towards him. He looked so satisfied. Him deeming your declarations enjoyable filled you with pride.

“Would you mind if I helped you?”

Dio’s eyes widened though he quickly regained composure. He unfurled his hand from his cock and grinned.

“By all means,” he replied, gesturing towards his cock.

You got closer to him and gripped his cock. You brought your face closer to it and rolled your tongue against the tip. You ran your tongue along the underside, relishing in the low groan it elicited from him. You savored the precum that coated his cock.

“Who’s pathetic now?” You said, flicking the tip with your pointed tongue.

“Stop talking and suck.”

You rolled your eyes and proceeded to service him. You breathed through your nose and gradually took the full length of his cock into your mouth. He placed his hand on the base of your skull and pushed your head down. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to relent.

“Shit,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

You were taken by surprise when he began to fuck your mouth. He latched onto a chunk of your hair, forced his cock in and out of your mouth. Your head vigorously bobbed up and down. You didn’t even gag. The pride you felt was insurmountable. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he moaned.

You lived to be praised by Dio, to have his light shine down upon you. His words enraptured you and left you entangled in his charm.

His body tensed up and his hips rolled against your face. It didn’t take long for your mouth to get filled with the piquant taste of his cum. It flooded your mouth and seeped out from the corners, dribbling down your chin. Once he finished he gently pushed you off of his cock. You held his cum in your mouth and leaned in, cupping his face in your hands. Pressing your lips against his, you forced your tongue into his mouth. You let the cum you held in your mouth flow into his. He let out a grunt that seemed to have an air of unsureness, but he ultimately accepted your gift. Resting his hands on your back he passed his cum back to you. You broke the kiss and swallowed. You wiped your lips with the back of your hand and cleared your throat.

Suddenly everything felt rather awkward.

“That was—”

“I’m sorry!” You blurted out. “I should have asked before I did that. To just spring it on you wasn’t fair.”

“You have no business interrupting me,” he chided. “Like I was saying, that was—”

“Terrible. Horrible. Ghastly even.”

His tone softened. “Hush. It was great.”

He rubbed the back of your head and pulled you, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“You’re much more forgiving than I’d ever be.”

“I believe you earned it.” He ruffled your hair. “We ought to make ourselves decent. Show our faces. Let everyone know we’re still alive.”

“No, come on. Let’s make them think we perished,” you whined.

You were kidding obviously, but you had no desire to face your parents let alone everyone else. Dio merely shook his head and put his cock back in his pants. You stood up and put yourself back together. You stumbled a bit like a fawn taking its first steps. The blonde snickered at your gracelessness and slung his arm around you.

“What do we tell them if they ask what we’ve been up to?” You asked.

He appeared to be deep in thought.

“We should be honest. I don’t think I could bear lying to them all.”

He sounded so genuine. If you didn’t know him well, you’d be apt to believe him. But you knew he was more wolf than sheep. You elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’re the worst. I’m telling them you were puking in a vase and I had to console you.”

[streamdotpng]

acting news

streamer enid au! once again part 2

There's a taste on Enid's tongue when she speaks. It's sweet, flavorful and distracting - addicting she can almost say. No wonder she keeps talking and talking, murmuring about anything just to taste that drug stuck in her mouth. 

It's why she couldn't fully focus on her stream, why her eyes aren't drawn to the colourful lights of the game she was playing on autopilot. Something was distracting her and she didn't know what. 

It isn't until she hears the slow yet measured footsteps passing by her door that it finally clicks and a smile grows on Enid's face.

Right, she ate well yesterday. 

Chat is as noisy as always, clamouring with their normal chatter but they seem to be confused as to why Enid suddenly decided to shut up. 

"streamer going insane?" 

"U see that glaze in her eyes? Bet she’s high on chocolate"

“You can get high on chocolate???”

“Ofc not this is y u dont believe everything in the internet” 

The werewolf quickly looked back to the game, a lil snort bubbling in her throat. Chat definitely has their moments, these were one of them. To think people wonder why she was streaming, it's for dumb reasons like this.

"hi guys what's happenin" 

"ur mom is what's happenin" 

“Yall so rude ;-; i was just asking”

A sound alert is the one that fully snaps Enid back to attention. With a quick thank you to one Sokoe-chan, she finally dragged her eyes away from the game to give a very concerned look at the camera, her eyes just reading that mess of a convo. 

“What the fuck chat?” she murmured, but the tone definitely couldn't hide the upward quirk of her lips. “Also I don't get high on chocolate, that's not how werewolves work.”

Chat begins to spark at that, questions of ‘duh, dogs are allergic that makes so much sense’ to ‘who made you the werewolf expert huh!?’ 

It makes Enid lean back as she builds a house. She’s playing minecraft after all, albeit one with horror mods but considering that the sun was up and her chests were full, she decided to go and finally build a house.

Before her chat remembers and calls her homeless.

She shivers at that, can you really blame her? It's hard to build things when you’re being chased and only have your own flesh and bone to keep you running.

The sound of rattling bones rings through her headphones and Enid’s cheeks burned as she gave her full attention back to chat. It's still a little shocking to have people pay for a free live stream, so she does try her best to give her gratitude to any supporters. “Thank you again Sokoe-chan for the ten gifted!” 

The text to speech drawled in reply “did you hear that Lunal curse is getting a movie adaption exclamation mark exclamation mark question mark.”

Enid’s eyes widened as she immediately straightened and pulled herself close to the camera. “Really?!” she places a hand on her chest, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “My wife is going to do amazing, I'm telling you.” Enid points at the screen, a bright smile on her face. “Ain’t nobody can beat my woman! Imagine being a director and the main actor-”

As the werewolf goes on a tangent, chat meanwhile has their own thoughts.

“There she goes”

“Can you blame her?! Wednesday does such a good job as Viper”

“It just feels a lil self insert for the author to act out the main role yknow?”

“Hey now, if it works then it works”

“Just sayin!”

“Brother ur in the wrong channel to be dissing Wednesday”

“Endespair is a huge W.A simp after all”

Enid paused in her words to raise a brow. “Hey hey, nothing wrong with saying your thoughts but you’re treading a thin line there man.” she waves her hand around. “She’s giving good content and getting that bag! Besides, she auditioned for that role and the others greenlit her to be Viper.” 

Most of the chat agrees, some even citing a few articles of the process. This definitely wasn’t a new topic in terms of Viper’s casting.

The tone overall seemed rather easy going, everyone vibing until a comment pops in that makes Enid’s lips drop and her brows to furrow.

“Trust a dog to be at someones heel”

“HEY”

“Too far dude wtf”

“MODS”

“U AINT ACCEPTED HERE”

A stormy look crossed Enid’s face and the ban hammer dropped. The wolf sighs, escaping the game to the menu as she gives a look. 

“we’re boutta be scolded againnn”

“Its not our fault!”

“Sjdklajdklsja father forgive us”

“Pls not again, i havent recovered from the last lashing”

Enid’s look is affronted, but chat’s lil attempts to make her smile works. “You guys make it sound like I abuse you or something,” she laughs and for a moment, chat thinks they’re off the hook before she removes her glasses to raise a brow at the camera.

A classic look of disappointment.

“Dangit thought that was going to work”

“Lowkey i dont mind being scolded if its endespair”

“Daddy issues right here”

“Ay no need to call me out like that”

Normally, Enid would hold out for a few more seconds, just to make the tension palpable enough to fuck with her audience until the loud sounds of bones rattling makes her shoulders drop.

This is why she can’t be serious until it's really needed.

“Lunaslandingpad threw 50 gifted subs into the pile” spoke the alert but just before it could continue, Enid paused it to let out a harsh and very tired sigh.

One so filled with emotion that it makes Chat pause themselves as she rubbed at her eyes before sliding on her frames.

“One, no bribing me to feel better,” Enid starts and immediately, chat clammors in agreement. “Two, none of those dog comments. Not only is that a shitty thing to do but I have werewolf tagged on stream to make sure others like me find it easier so don’t make me regret it.” A shine of white is shown, her fangs seemed to almost be bared if it weren’t for the hand that covers anything below her nose. “Last, there is nothing wrong with criticising a piece of work but don’t bring that stuff here.”

Silence filled the air as Enid leant back, her lips pursed as she crossed her arms. “Got it?”

“Ofcourse!”

“Yesser”

message deleted by moderator

“WE SAW THAT” “Caught in 4k”

Soon, Enid’s scowl turned into a bigger raised brow before rolling her eyes as she opened up the mod log to see the rather.. Thirsty comment. “You all really gotta think before you type.” her head shakes as she laughs. “you guys are lucky i wouldn’t have you guys any other way.” 

Taglist: @agathaharkness-simp​ @lunaslandingpad​

[romione-trope-fest]

Shell Cottage

Title: Shell Cottage

Author: adenei

Trope: Only One Bed

Summary: What if Shell Cottage wasn’t Bill and Fleur’s home/safehouse during the war…because there was no Voldemort? What if the Weasley kids used it for something else entirely? A something that was bestowed upon each Weasley kid before they entered their seventh year. And what if Ron used that something to his advantage, finally giving him a shot at getting together with Hermione?

WC: 7,738 (in 3 parts. part 1 here)

TW: alcohol use, frivolity, bed sharing.

**********

Part 1

  It’s an unusually warm summer day in Ottery St. Catchpole, and Ron welcomes the sun shining down on his face as he ventures outside. Summer’s always been his favorite season. When he was younger it was because his siblings would all be home from Hogwarts, so he had lots of options for playmates. And when he’d started school, it meant a nice long break from never-ending assignments and exams throughout the year.

  This summer is different, though. It’s officially his last as a student, which means it could be the final time he’ll have minimal responsibilities before he’s expected to pursue a career—and it’s coming to an end far too quickly. In two short weeks, he’ll be entering his seventh and final year of Hogwarts, and then this time next year? Well, who knows exactly what his future holds.

  Ron walks out to the garden, summoned by his brothers for a pick-up game of Quidditch, but no one’s there yet. It’s a rare afternoon when everyone stopped by to visit and hang out, much to Mrs. Weasley’s delight. They rarely spent time together aside from Sunday dinner, so the impromptu visit sent their mum into a tizzy. 

  They made some excuse about wanting to help Ron and Ginny train for tryouts in a few weeks, but Ron thinks they all secretly miss flying. Nevertheless, it still struck him as peculiar when he couldn’t see anyone around. Especially considering Fred and George already had their brooms when Bill asked him to come play. He figured they’d be flying around warming up already.

  Weird.

  Nevertheless, Ron keeps his pace toward the broomshed. Even if it’s all some stupid prank, he figures he can still charm some Quaffles and get a little solo practice in at the very least. It doesn’t matter that he’s held the Gryffindor Keeper position for two years now, he still wants to earn it.

  Not that Harry would give it to anyone else, unless they totally outperformed him. But every season, every match, he’s gained more confidence and honed his skills. It’s not like he plans on going pro or anything, but still, he wants to maintain his position on the team.

  Finally reaching the broomshed, he opens the door to retrieve his Cleansweep, but is met instead with a pair of arms pulling him into the small space.

  “What the—”

  “It’s about time, Ronniekins,” Fred chides.

  George shuts the door behind him and casts some sort of silencing charm on it. “Yeah, can’t say this is where I’d prefer to spend my afternoon waiting for you.”

  “So why are you in here and not outside?” Ron asks, completely bewildered. “I thought we were going to play Quidditch?”

  “We are, but we have to talk to you first.” Impatience lingers in Fred’s tone before Bill clears his throat.

  “It’s a…private matter.”

  “Oh, fucking hell, not the sex talk again,” Ron groans.

  George grins. “We can if you—”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” Fred shrugs. “I happen to think we did a stellar job with our brotherly duty.”

  George nudges Bill. “Even provided Percy’s diagrams and everything.”

  Bill sniggers. “Did you really? Well, as much as I’d love to continue that conversation, we probably don’t have much time before Ginny comes outside and catches us in here.” Ron folds his arms as he waits for his oldest brother to continue.  “So, you’re about to start your seventh year in a couple weeks—”

  “Really? I had no idea.” Ron can’t help the quip, but he hates when people state the obvious.

  “Easy now, Ronniekins. As much as we love a good tradition, we don’t have to share this with you if you want to be all testy,” Fred warns.

  “Anyway.” Bill regains everyone’s attention. “As Fred so eloquently stated, we have a bit of a tradition that I started and has since been passed down to everyone.”

  “Even Percy,” George interjects.

  “Though I don’t think he threw much of a rager,” Fred shakes his head in disappointment.

  Bill chuckles. “No. I’m pretty sure he used the weekend for himself and Penelope and—”

  “No!” gasps Fred.

  A shit-eating grin plasters George’s face. “Did they—is that when he—no wonder he was such a bloody tosser all year!”

  “Acting even more pretentious than usual,” Fred continues.

  “All because he got—

  “Alright, alright. Percy’ll kill me if he finds out I told you so keep that to yourselves, yeah?”

  “Oh, come on, Bill. You’d crush him in a duel. He’s got nothing on you,” Fred ignores the point.

  Ron doesn’t realize until after the exchange that his eyes have widened at the information, and while he may have been annoyed before, he’s much more interested in what Bill has to say now.

  “So, are you going to tell me or…”

  Instead of answering right away, Bill digs into his pocket before brandishing a key.

  “What’s that to?” Ron presses again, and all three of his brothers grin widely.

  “Shell Cottage.”

  Shell Cottage. Where’s he heard that name before? He has to delve deep into his mind for any sort of recollection, and then it suddenly hits him.

  “Aunt Muriel’s summer home? But how do you—”

  “Dad used to check the place regularly when Muriel wasn’t staying there. But she stopped using it as her summer home years ago—just before my seventh year to be exact—and I’ve been in charge of making sure the place is alright ever since. ”

  “Okay…so, what? Did you borrow the place for a weekend?”

  Bill’s face falls slightly at Ron’s question and the twins stifle a groan. “Wow, Ron, way to ruin it.” George scolds.

  “I wasn’t trying to!” he defends. “It’s just—it was obvious…” 

  Bill doesn’t seem phased, though, as he continues. “Well, yeah. And since then, I’ve passed the key on to Charlie, Percy, and the twins a couple weeks before their seventh year starts at Hogwarts too. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Brilliant!” Ron reaches his hand out to take the key, but then hesitates. His eyes narrow slightly as he peers between his brothers. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” Bill reassures. “You can have the place for the weekend. Just make sure it’s cleaned up before you leave. And I don’t care who you invite as long as you’ve got a good alibi.”

  “Right. Yeah.” Ron takes the key when Bill thrusts it toward him. 

  The wheels begin to turn, formulating a plan in his mind. Obviously, he wants to invite his dorm-mates. They could hang out on the beach and he knows Seamus would be able to hook them up with Firewhiskey. It could be the ultimate guys weekend. Kind of like the ones they used to have when they were younger before Seamus started chasing girls and he and Harry got wrapped up with Quidditch.

  But then he thinks about how Percy supposedly took advantage of the space and—well, if he’s being honest with himself, he’d love to find a way to hang out with Hermione one-on-one. Maybe it would be the kick in the pants he needs to finally take the plunge and ask her out.

  Who says you can’t do both?

  Both…now there’s an idea. But before he can ruminate on it anymore, Fred interrupts his thoughts. 

  “Great, now if we’re all set here, let’s get out of this steambox.” He pushes past Ron to open the door.

  George follows. “I’ll go find Gin so she doesn’t try to hex our bollocks off for leaving her out.”

  Dammit. Ginny.

  She’s going to be so pissed if he leaves her out, but as is the tradition, Ron isn’t sure he should tell her. Besides, is it so wrong to have a weekend for just him and his friends without her? Harry’ll understand too, right?

  Eh, whatever. He’ll figure it out later. For now, he’ll enjoy an afternoon of Quidditch just like the old times, and later, when Harry comes for dinner, he’ll figure out exactly what his weekend with the key to Shell Cottage will hold.

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

Fantasy AU Vanderbell ❄️❄️

Naha Micah nearly fucking dies by freezing outside on Mount Hagen.

Enjoy on AO3 or Tumblr…

Author notes:

I am not the proudest with this work but OH WELL.

Micah and Dutch can be interpreted as sexual lovers, romantic lovers, or toxic friends, or something else if you wish.

Dutch uses “son” in this fic as a general form of endearment. It doesn’t mean he sees the person literally as his son.

Dutch has good ol complex mourning that really fucks with him. Can interpret it as a variety of PTSD if you’d like.

——-

Distinction between fall and winter was a concept that existed in the gut of animal and man but yielded no visual tell in the valley of Mount Hagen: It was white, cold, and hostile year round. And yet every man in the Bell Gang knew winter was climbing handhold by handhold in the rock face.

Fire crackled in the abandoned cabin the two outlaws had shaped up to become their temporary sanctuary. At one corner was a curled up beast, larger than the house was intended to house. The other, a long-bodied serpent man huddled next to the pseudo sun.

The larger beast lifted his head to cast a solemn look over his jacketed shoulders. His once silky curls of raven fur were now matted on his long neck, at one end was the body of a sphinx: a black leopard with wings of a dragon. The other end held the taut face of Dutch Van Der Linde, cheeks sunken and bearded with neglect.

Micah looked grayer in his age; his gold hair got silver at the roots til he had enough of it and cut it short. Even the scales running his Crotalus atrox body turned to cobblestone with each shed. Yet his eyes never dulled. Even now, staring into the fire he looked stronger than Dutch. The snake in him allowed for longer bouts without meals; unlike Dutch’s large stomach that demanded constant upkeep. Upkeep that hadn’t been happening for a day now that they came to the mountain.

Micah’s eye twitched to the side, “you’re lookin’ at me like you wanna eat me. Didn’t your mommy cuff you over the ear for starin’?” Dutch’s leopard ear twitched.

“We need food.”

“What would we catch: Deer, elk, moose?” He snapped.

“Don’t talk about killing deer,” he calmly said but the vibrations in the floorboards told of the withheld growl.

Micah slithered before him in a beat and arched over the sphinx’s lowered head, his last nerve was stretching thinner with his overgrown companion. “You need to get over yourself. Deer is all we have up here, now eat what my boys have caught or shut your snout and ssssstaarrrrve.”

Dutch’s dark eyes were glossy: He got despondent like this at times. Since reuniting to lead the gang, Dutch’s little grieving act had been making Micah question why he even liked this male. He’s nothing like what he used to be way back in 1899.

Micah rattled his tail, face growing redder. “I’m not helpin’ you! If you really cared about us then you’d listen to me and eat somethin’. I’m not goin’ to treat you like some damsel in distress who needs to be spoon fed.” Dutch barely twitched a whisker in response. “Die! Die and make room for those who want to live. If you come to your senses, you can find me outside: the men and I need to blow off some steam. You know, keeping the moral up. The shit you used to be good at!” Sliding scales turned to boot stomps and a slammed door. Dutch glanced up, the jacket that hung on the wall was gone; going with the nasty-tempered snake in men’s clothing.

The wood breathed its last will and collapsed into ash the same gray as his beard. The drawn curtains and fall of night made the darkroom gluttonous in its swallowing of Dutch. His mind grasped for stimulus: conjuring images of faces, trees, summer warmth, and what he could not return to; the familiars he could not return to life. Heavy paws covered his eyes, then ears, but aided no relief.

Micah in his infinite wisdom would have begun talking at length to provide distraction, or the polishing of blade and bullet would glimmer in his peripherals and pull his mind from the intangible. In the valleys of shallow sleep, his body would coil along the length of Dutch’s and squeeze tighter than a mother clings to her dying son. It was secret and they never spoke of it before, during, or after.

Longing for that security got him to balance his old bones and plant unsteady paw after unsteady paw towards the door. The human-sized exit laughed at his magnitude. A sphinx, even as thin as him could never fit through. To the door’s surprise, magical creatures had tricks up their sleeves. The long neck rose to the rafters before it began shortening. Muscled arms, dragging tail, and atrophied wings flexed then shrunk down till they were figments. Fur changed texture and shape till it was no more, and or repurposed into clothing. The large jacket shrunk in time until it rested snuggly on a human’s body. Dutch pushed open the door and pulled his gloved hands to his face as a wind gust welcomed him like dog licks.

His reputation as a legendary monster preceded him in papers and by word, and yet few men under Bell knew of the fantastical secret right under their noses. Micah too slipped under the radar of his men: it’s just how they had to live in this world.

The human men smoked and drinked and picked at their teeth around the miniature campsites they rooted in the rock. The trees that tolerated the beating above and the snow below provided ample defense from the elements. The men glanced at Dutch as he walked by with his head low. He wasn’t Micah, and that was all they cared about; he was Bell’s plus one and that was that.

He approached one of the men. His dry voice cracked under his breath, “Have you seen Micah?”

“Big man? Sure…” nodded the man with skepticism. He wasn’t going to ask why Micah was needed, no one did because they feared what answer they’d get on why the two men spent so long in their private cabin. “Last saw him headin’ that way. Was loudly talkin’ about sendin’ a huntin’ group out for something special.” Dutch didn’t thank them for their time, simply departed as a wind-blown ghost down the mountain.

He followed the footpath baked into the slope. So many desire paths, it felt like one big snake carved through like butter. But no snake no matter its size could survive slithering so far; all cold blooded monsters must slow to a stop at some point.

Deer musk struck his animal olfactory bulb before he saw it, a quiet bunch of men heaved deer over their shoulders towards Dutch. The cold air made the warm smell of recent life all the lighter, it sucked into his senses against his wishes and circled him like a noose. His boots flash frozen in place, the hoarse shouting of a sickly buck echoed down the mountain but no man could hear it, only Dutch.

Finally, he snapped from his moment. The men were still coming his way, he could smell the activity of the men behind him as they came to investigate the newest catch. His disguise was slipping with his self-contained torment scrambling his mind. He could feel his bushy tail developing under his pants, if he spent more time in view, he would surely be caught. His legs twitched to run and he only had one way out.

He fled off the beaten trail and trampled up to the dense forest. He kept going, going, going, til his clenched jaw could finally melt and his breathing no longer whited out his vision. His gate grew uneven, caught between walking upright and dropping to his hands and knees like his gut desired.

He dropped to his senses, retching and quivering but not to create bile, but to return to form: his large sphinx body popped its joints as he stood and took a deep breath, at last able to breath with his full lung capacity and not the fraction accessible in that minuscule humanoid body.

Dull though it was, the smell of gun oil and deer blood caught his twitching nose. So cold and far from camp, no sane man would be out here shining a weapon. The specific gun oil was familiar, one Dutch had smelled day after day during the downtime of the past year. His boulder-sized heart dropped.

Wide paw after paw, he bounded through the icy stalagmites of trees, keeping his head extended outwards to pinpoint the origins. Untouched snow fought him and pulled each arm and foot down like Mother Nature wasn’t sated by just one frozen victim. He endured with a ferocity to save that he wished he had all those years ago when it mattered most.

He passed blood spattered snow; A shallow bloody divot in the snow where something was shot. Human boots stomped through the snow and lead back to camp, but one set kept going. Dutch smelled gunpowder in the tracks. He followed them til they grew uneven in stride, then where the person collapsed. The tracks went on as a wiggling line, like a massive branch dragged through snow.

Ahead of him the tracks grew shallower in their ungulation til it ended at a circular hole melted in the snow, it was deep enough that he couldn’t see inside until he was upon it and curved his head over the lip.

In the basin was Micah’s curled up form, jacket gripped tight til his claws punched through the lapels. Snow drift landed on his form and stayed as pristine as if it touched ice. Not a twitch racked his frigid body.

“Son!” His throat felt sore uttering that word for the first time in a year. He leapt into the hole carved by body heat and scooped up Micah. Limp as a rag doll. cold as rock and pale as snow. To expect a response from his fanged lips would be to expect dirt to talk.

He panned down the rest of Micah’s body: his legs reverted back to their natural scaled state out of stress. His long lower body was unguarded to the cold, sapping him of body heat until he had nothing to do except die.

“Stupid, stupid snake,” Dutch grit through his teeth. He wrapped him around his neck, like Micah would do when hitching a ride. He popped his collar to shield his living scarf from the cold.

With each leap through the snow, he felt Micah’s body flop jaggedly up and down. He had to pause momentarily to readjust him, pull him tighter. If it wouldn’t result in Micah’s bone’s breaking, Dutch would have tied him in a knot to keep him stable.

Dutch always had a plan, but now? Nothing came to his feverish mind. All he had was the white expanse before him and the black speck of cabin in the distance.

What if the men spotted him? Mythical creatures had no place in America anymore, the Pinkertons showed them that when they hunted down his gang. Now was the century of humans: gangs of humans organized by humans to hunt down mythical creatures. The Bell gang had been in need of a score, maybe seeing a black sphinx contrasted by white snow would look like gold and jewels to their alcohol-swollen eyes.

The time to decide was cut short each second he sped closer to the forest edge. The cabin was at a lower elevation than they were; the forest claimed a raised slice of land that looked down on the cabin. The cliff edge and the cabin were a mighty distance.

Cold air rushed in from the edge, snowflakes darting for Dutch’s eyes to blind him. He squinted through the blur and could make out the dark-gray rock where the ledge ended and tree roots jutted out. He had no good option except doing what he did best: be a careless leader.

He lowered his head and pushed harder with each landing paw. The sky egged him on, chanting that he’d miss his step and fall. A body-length from the edge, he bunched his hind legs, when they came down at the cutting tip of the rock, he launched himself.

Wings fanned out, quivering as the thin membrane grew fragile with the cold near instantly. In a long fluid arch, he glided through the air, arms outstretched for the cabin roof. It was only seconds before the black tiles lunged for him.

He landed on the slanted surface with a thunder clap. The wood beam inside groaned with a splinter but kept its shape. The roof tiling fell under Dutch’s weight, sliding him backwards towards the rocks below. A misplaced hind paw dislodged a tile and lost his footing. He threw his clawed fists into the ridge beam at the peak, they sunk into the tough wood and cured tar, providing enough traction to pull himself up.

He sneaked down the front of the cabin in a controlled manner. Crouched at the front door, he allowed Micah’s body to slip from around his neck. Dutch transformed and yanked his monster counterpart up the stairs and through the door swung wide open. Micah, even if resembling half human in his current form, was larger and heavier than Dutch. It took multiple attempts to get Micah through the open layout and in front of the dead fireplace.

Men shouted down the mountain, they must have heard the echo ripple through the mountain. Hastily, Dutch ran to grab the living rug that laid lamely in the snow. He shouldered it past the threshold and slammed the door behind him. He stared at the pathway, anticipating a mob of men to come running with guns drawn. But the voices stayed distant, sounding like men more drunk than in the mindset for monster hunting. Dutch sighed and slipped back inside.

Micah was out of it. The degree of his rigidity and colorless features was emphasized by the hard, rich floorboards that contrasted him.

He shoved his companion into a pile before the fireplace. With fresh wood, paper, and a match or two, the fire came to life.

The human act was pointless in the privacy of the walls now. Dutch unfurled his long body from the constricting skin and curled around Micah. His neck ran across the pointed scales running Micah’s curves.

There was a twitch, sounding like falling sand in a glass bottle. Dutch peeked his eye open and looked at Micah in his arms. His tail fell from side to side, the segmentations knocking into each other dryly. The wagging became stronger until it was the fur-raising warning of a rattlesnake.

“Micah,” Dutch commanded alertness. He took Micah’s cheeks in his paw and shook him awake. Gray eyes struggled to break the crust of ice sealing them. His pupils were sluggish to constrict, then dilate to fine tune his vision. Micah stiffened and tried to wriggle away, out of the pan and into the fire. Dutch gripped him tighter and yanked him back. Pinned to the ground, Micah’s slitted eyes finally focused.

“Duuuuutchie, knew you wouldn’t let me die,” he slurred. All the worry in Dutch’s body drained like the blood from his cheeks hearing that insidious voice once more. He felt the weight of a body in his hands, perhaps as light as Arthur may have weighed at that moment Dutch turned away from him and chose this snake instead.

Dutch couldn’t grasp what to say to his face. His claws itched to sink in between his scales and show how he felt. He forcefully snorted in Micah’s face. Dutch released him and paced the opposite end of the room.

“Come on, don’t give me the cold shoulder,” gasped Micah at the loss of heat. His lower body was unresponsive, he used his arms to claw each floor board and drag himself forwards. A paw came down on his back and squashed him like a bug.

He was a spinning dime, “You can’t fault a man for trying to save his second in command! I was huntin’ with the men, they caught a deer but I needed to get somethin’ for you.”

His sickly sweet tone felt slimy under Dutch’s sweaty pads. He wiped them off on his chest fur and lumbered to the fireplace at the other end. Micah followed behind, quicker than before. He wrapped around Dutch’s torso and squeezed. The extent of Dutch’s thinning was felt in how tight Micah’s plump rolls could indent his abdomen. Grim as the reminder of his health was, Dutch felt reassurance in the quiver of his heart; winter was finding its way inside him with Micah as its Trojan horse and he welcomed it. Dutch crumpled to the floor, Micah grunted with his body being crushed. He wriggled to get comfortable amongst the salt-and-pepper fur.

“I haven’t slept well. Excuse me… I’m…” Dutch trailed off, eyes sinking into the fire. “I haven’t been myself, since…”

“That was a long time ago,” Micah brushed off the memory so easily. Dutch was still going in circles trying to untangle his fur of these burs. In between brief silence, Micah apologized, “I was too harsh before. I didn’t mean it.” Micah formed a smile but saw there was no progress cheering Dutch up.

Maybe Dutch was waiting for that: for Micah to drop the act he put on when caught causing more trouble than was warranted.

He caught Micah off guard with his question, “have you ever considered eating one of your men?”

Blue eyes twisted from the fire to Dutch’s face. His wide eyes squinted, then scowled as if analyzing his words for some underlying test of loyalty, or morality.

“No,” he cut. “We don’t eat humans, you know that.”

“What’s stopping you?” Dutch was a rock but his raspy voice was reverberant in Micah’s head. “There are so many men, and you told me yourself how disposable they are to you.”

“Monsters don’t eat humans: I don’t eat humans, you won’t be eatin’ humans. That is unless you fancy angerin’ the hornet’s nest. Kill one human and twenty more will follow.”

Stomach growls pulled both of them from the topic of taboos. Micah squeezed tighter and Dutch groaned at the disturbance to his abdomen. His head fell into his paws; he didn’t hide behind glamor and words anymore. His ill-wellness was on display to all that could see, and Micah was getting an eyeful.

“There will be food for you, we just need to wait. We will get off this mountain once the bounty hunters pick up the scent of someone easier to catch than me.” Micah patted Dutch’s shoulder, transitioning it into scrubbing his tangled neck fur and up to scratching Dutch’s ears. “I’d let you eat my human legs if it wouldn’t result in me bleedin’ out.”

His joke and jab of his shoulder elicited no reaction in Dutch apart from a slow, tired blink. Micah traced the scales on his cheeks with his claws and shakily inhaled.

“You and I could go huntin’ together? It could be nice, just the two of us: I do the hard work and you keep me from freezing my limbs off.”

A black tail swatted and covered Micah’s mouth. “Stop talking. Let an old man rest” Dutch curled his neck inwards til he surrounded him, cheek pressed to Micah’s upper body.

Micah couldn’t argue, he too was exceptionally tired: physically and emotionally. He let his upper body relax into Dutch’s neck like a regal bed calling his name. His constricting hold loosened but remained securely around the panther’s body.

“Have faith in me, Boss. We’re survivors.” But Dutch wasn’t convinced; Neither one of them could survive long without the other in this changing world of men, monster, and winter.

[noforkingclue]

The Proposal (Thomas Shelby x reader)

Summary: with the road leading away from Arrow House blocked, you’re forced to spend more time with one of the people you hate the most. Turns out, he has an interesting offer for you.

Author’s Note: written for @runnning-outof-time celebration!!! I went with the last column on the right: snowed in, enemies to lovers, must include: a proposal, angst

So, I might’ve stretched the prompts a liiitle bit. It’s more ‘enemies to future lovers’ and you didn’t specify that the proposal had to be romantic! Hope this still counts!

Any way, hope you like the fic! I had a lot of fun writing it.

Warnings: mentions of abuse

Peaky Blinders tag list: @stylesofloki, @ohshititsfenharel, @lenaskyler02

Thomas Shelby tag list: @alreadybroken-ts, @darlingdevil, @lyrxbz, @watercolorskyy, @notyour-valentine

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

You shivered as the icy wind gusted over you. You took a deep drag of your cigarette and slowly blew the smoke out. Snow fluttered to the ground, the only flakes visible to you were those right in front of you. The rest of them were lost to the inky darkness of the night. You didn’t realise just how dark the countryside got at night. How quiet and unnerving it was to someone who was used to city life. How easy it would be for you to disappear and get lost in a place that most city dwellers saw as a romantic escape.

A heavy coat was draped over your shoulders and you half looked over as Tommy came and stood next to you. He wordlessly lit a cigarette as the two of you watched the snowfall.

“You should come inside,” he said, “It’s too fucking cold out here. I’ve had a fire lit in your room.”

“I like the cold.”

“Why.”

“It reminds me just how far we’ve come. How far my family have come.”

You still remembered those bitterly cold nights huddled up with your siblings for any sort of warmth. Your father clawed his way out of the gutter, determined to build a better life for your family. If only you had known what the role he had given you was to be. You threw your cigarette stub onto the snow covered ground, smiling slightly as it hissed out.

“When will I be able to leave?” you asked

“You should stay.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Not until Monday.” Tommy said and you swore you could hear a hint of bitterness in his voice

Fuck. Today was Friday. You didn’t want to spend the weekend with Thomas Shelby. Strong hands gripped your shoulders and you tensed under his grip. After a second you shrugged him off and hugged yourself tightly.

“You’d be more comfortable inside.” Tommy said

“And I’d be more relaxed away for you, yet here I am.”

Tommy sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“I know you don’t want to be here.”

“No shit.”

“But you’re stuck here now.”

“Fucking brilliant.”

You walked off slightly as you took out your packet of cigarettes. The snow beneath you glowed slightly orange from the lights from Arrow House. You cursed as you tried to find your lighter.

“Looking for something?”

The crunch of Tommy’s footsteps slowly approaching you made you stiffen. The click of the lighter cut through the night like a knife and the glow from the flame cast eerie shadows over Tommy’s face. The darkness around him seemed even more deep and foreboding.

“Thanks.” You muttered as you reached for the lighter

“Let me.”

“I’m more than capable of doing this myself.”

“I know.”

Still, for some reason you let Tommy light your cigarette for you. You found yourself unwittingly captivated by his blue eyes and wondered just how many women had been in the same situation before you. The snapping shut of the lighter dragged you back out of your thoughts. A surprisingly comfortable silence lapsed over the two of you.

“On Monday you will be free to leave.” Said Tommy tensely

“You wouldn’t have been able to stop me.”

“Your father might have words to say about that.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what my father thinks.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Including you?”

The look Tommy gave you told you everything. You let out a disgusted noise and said,

“I’m more than just a pawn for men to push around a fucking chessboard.”

“I understand.”

“Not really. You could never understand my position.”

Tommy’s hands were back on your shoulders. He rubbed small circles against them and whispered,

“I have a proposal for you.”

You tried to pull free but Tommy roughly pulled you back against him. You swallowed thickly as his warm chest was pressed against your back. His hands slid down your arms and circled around your wrists.

“I’m not going to marry you,” you said, your voice cracking slightly at the thought, “I don’t want to. I’m not doing what my father wants me to. Not any more.”

“There are many types of proposals, are there not?”

“And what did you have in mind? I thought I made it very clear that I want no part of my father’s plan.”

When you tried to pull free Tommy sighed and spun you around. He used his coat to secure your arms against your sides. He pulled you close and you felt his lips brush aching close against yours.

“I know what you want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Control.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I can help you gain that.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“A partnership.”

“I have no interest in having a partnership with you.”

“I’m sure I can change your mind.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“But in this case I mean a strictly business partnership.”

“And what if I say no?”

“I doubt you will.”

The falling snow seemed to adsorb all sound. You could feel the flakes soak through Tommy’s coat and you resisted the urge to lean into his warm embrace. You wanted to accept his offer, to seek a bloody revenge for how your father had treated you.

But you couldn’t.

If you turned against your father who knew what he would do to those you cared about. Your mother, sisters, friends, fuck, even your brothers might be at risk. You had been on the receiving end of your father’s abuse once too often and you winced when Tommy brush a thumb over the bruise under your eye. Something flashed across his face, a look you had seen all too often.

Anger.

Tommy, as though he had read your mind, stepped away from you. You found yourself missing the warmth of his arms and you quickly looked away. You shuffled your feet as Tommy continued to look at you and you wished the darkness would swallow you whole. You wished that your father hadn’t sent you to Arrow House. You wished that there was any way out of your family other than the obvious choice that lay before you.

“My father,” you said, “If I turn against them in this way who knows what’ll happen.”

“Aren’t you turning against them by not agreeing to unite our families?”

“He’ll get over this,” you said, although doubt coiled in the pit of your stomach, “He’ll find another gang.”

“I can protect you from him.”

“There’s only so much you can do,” you said bitterly, “Even the almighty powerful Shelby family will eventually meet their match.”

“And you think it’ll be your father.”

“Has to be someone. Why not him?”

“You overestimate him, love.”

“Or maybe you’re underestimating him.”

You walked back towards Arrow House, brushing passed Tommy as you went.

“Now I’m off to bed,” you called over your shoulder, “Alone. You said a fire has been lit?”

“Correct.”

“Good. You’re right about one thing- it is fucking freezing.”

Tommy’s chuckle followed you as you made you way back towards the warmth.

“Y/n.”

You stopped at the door and turned around. Tommy slowly approached you, the deepening snow crunching under his foot.

“What.”

“You still have my coat.”

“My apologies.”

You lowered your arms as Tommy slowly slipped the thick coat off of your shoulders. He leant closer, lips brushing against your cheek as he said,

“Don’t forget, we still have two more days together. I’m sure I can change your mind.”

“I’ll look forward to your attempts.”

As you made your way to your room Tommy couldn’t help but smile. What he didn’t tell you was that it was predicted to continue to snow even heavier on Monday. You weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

By the end of the week, you’ll be completely his.