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Jamshedpur Student Secures Coveted RIMC Admission
Vedanta Sharma clinches sole Jharkhand seat at prestigious military college Kavyapta Global School student Vedanta Sharma gains admission to the elite Rashtriya Indian Military College in Dehradun. JAMSHEDPUR â Vedanta Sharma, a student from Kavyapta Global School in Jamshedpur, has secured admission to the prestigious Rashtriya Indian Military College (RIMC) in Dehradun. Sharma, son of SnigdhaâŠ
#à€¶à€żà€à„à€·à€Ÿ#competitive college admissions#education#future military leaders#Indian Armed Forces preparation#Jharkhand student achievement#Kadma Jamshedpur#Kavyapta Global School Jamshedpur#military education in India#Rashtriya Indian Military College#Union Ministry of Defence#Vedanta Sharma RIMC admission
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Dehradun, known for its serene environment and educational institutions, offers several coaching centers that specialize in preparing candidates for the CDS examination. CDS is a highly competitive exam conducted by the Union Public Service Commission (UPSC) for recruitment into the Indian Army, Navy, and Air Force.
#CDS Coaching in Dehradun#Best CDS Institutes#CDS Exam Preparation#Dehradun CDS Coaching#Indian Armed Forces Coaching
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đđđđđđ đđ đđđ? | chapter thirteen
đ©đđąđ«đąđ§đ : art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig đŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ: youâve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and youâre forced to embrace a life in the sport youâve been too afraid to claim for yourself. đ°đšđ«đ đđšđźđ§đ: 6.7k đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ (đŹ): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, use of y/n đ§đšđđ: hi my loves iâm back!! thank you all for your patience while i was sick and preparing for the new semester, i appreciate all your kind messages so much x đ©đ«đđŻ | đ§đđ±đ
đđđđđđđđđ đđđđđđâ đ
đđđđ â đđđđ đ, đđđđÂ
âNewcomer on the professional tennis scene, Y/N Y/L/N surprised virtually everyone when she won the Ladiesâ Semi Final two days ago,â an English-accented sports journalist said on TV as you waited for your cue to step onto the court for the finals. âSheâs not only the most technically excellent player of her age, but she has the fastest serve on the WTA tour.â
âSheâs a remarkable player,â the other journalist agreed. You watched them play back a clip from your most recent match, highlighting one of your aces. âBut if she wants to win on Centre Court here at Wimbledon for the very first time, sheâs going to have to start embracing her volleys. Maybe she should take a leaf out of her boyfriendâs book.â
âPatrick Zweig? He only made it to the second round!â
âYes, but he played some very entertaining tennis this week. It was a joy to watch and very well suited to a grass court!âÂ
âItâs true, Zweig plays a sneaky game of tennis. He keeps his opponent on his feet.âÂ
âIn any case, the whole world is sure to be watching Y/N Y/L/N tonight, eager to see her take on Anna Mueller.â
âNow, this isnât the first time Y/L/N and Mueller have played. They faced off numerous times in junior tournaments, and Y/L/N already beat her at Indian Wells, Milan, Roland-Garros, and the US Open last year. They have yet to play each other in a final, though, and Y/L/N has no grand slam titles to Muellerâs two.â
âWill it be experience and longevity that give Mueller the win, or will new talent Y/L/N take the match with precision and speed?â
âWe will soon see.â
You had never been this nervous before a match until your second time at Wimbledon.Â
For the first time in your professional career, just a year and a half after entering the tennis world, you made it to the final round of a grand slam tournament. The other tournaments you had won within the last year put your name on the map, allowing you to garner attention and recognition from your peers and spectators.
But a grand slam title meant you would be a part of history.
It was everything you wanted, everything you worked and struggled for. Your heart pounded so quickly that you thought it might leap out of your skin, and your quickening breath made spots appear in your vision. The pressure mounted, not just because your life goal was an armâs length away, but from all the people who had their eyes on you. Some scrutinising, some rooting for you.Â
Bracing your hands on your thighs, you closed your eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It felt like you were losing control. Everything you did to maintain your anxiety felt like it was slipping through your fingers, just like your dream of becoming a grand slam winner.Â
Tashiâs voice rang in your ears. Youâre going to be fucking miserable, and youâre going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you. Artâs voice joined Tashi. Everyone knows that tennis is more of a mental game than a physical game. You have a lot of anxiety, andâŠ
The sound of your phone getting a text message interrupted your tornado of negative thoughts.Â
PAT đ: Donât listen to any of those assholes, they donât matter. I love you so much and Iâm proud of you no matter what happens today. Hold your head up high and do your best, nothing else matters. Donât forget to breathe, pretty girl. P x
As you stepped onto the court, the cheers of the crowd were deafening. You could feel the vibrations of their applause through the soles of your shoes; the energy was electric, and the buzzing of quiet chatter set you on edge. Remembering Patrickâs advice, you breathed deeply and waved to the crowd, smiling as you headed for your bench. Everyone on your team was sitting in the playerâs box with Patrick and your dad, and it was a relief to see them there supporting you.Â
âLadies and gentlemen, welcome to this final round match. This match will be played as the best of three sets,â the umpire said. âTo the left of the chair, from Switzerland, Anna Mueller. To the right of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. Y/L/N won the toss and elected to serve.â
From his seat in your box, Patrick chuckled. âI bet Anna Muellerâs terrified right now,â he commented. âGoing into a match against Y/N and having her serve first would push me over the edge if I was playing her.âÂ
Next to Patrick, your father happily declared, âIf Mueller wasnât nervous to play Y/N before, she will be once she realises how many aces she has up her sleeve.â
Mueller crouched behind the baseline, nervously twirling her racket between her hands. Her poker face wasnât nearly as good as yours, betraying her fear as you bounced the ball and prepared to serve. Knowing that you had this effect on your opponent, even before the game had started, made you feel powerful.Â
With a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through your veins, you tossed the ball in the air and served it over the tennis net. Mueller ran in the wrong direction, expecting you to serve to her backhand, and cursed when she couldnât change courses fast enough to return the ball.
Your first ace of the game. 15-love.
Mueller played nervously. She knew your baseline game was strong, but her mistake was assuming that you could only play from the baseline. You decided to play closer to the net, consistently hitting gently when Mueller expected you to go hard and fast, making it impossible for her to generate the power needed to return well.
When you took the first set 6-0, Mueller cursed and turned to her box to yell something at her coach. During the changeover, you could hear her muttering to herself, failing to compose her posture and expression. She looked panicked and angry. From experience, you knew that the right amount of anxiety could help you focus on the match, but anger would destroy a playerâs self-control and concentration.
When you served an ace at the beginning of the next set, Mueller stomped her foot angrily and challenged the call. The call held up, declaring your serve was in and awarding you the point. You watched in shock as Muellerâs face twisted with fury, her eyes blazing as she smashed her racket against the ground. Over and over again, the crowd gasped and booed as the frame cracked and the strings bent out of shape.Â
âCode violation, racket abuse. Warning, Mueller.âÂ
From his seat, Patrick smirked, applauding the action while you maintained professionalism. He was the type of player who occasionally broke his racket or committed other code violations, so Patrick admired your ability to hold back. There was something rewarding about watching your opponent fall apart as you waited for her to get it together so you could keep playing.Â
The atmosphere of the game changed after Muellerâs outburst. Releasing her anger had done Mueller well, and one of her backhands shot forth like a lightning bolt, making it impossible for you to return. She got a few points in, making you run for it. Sweat glistened on your brows, and your heart pounded, a steady drum beat that echoed the rhythm of your feet as you struggled to return some of Muellerâs balls. The crowd watched in awe as she started finding her rhythm, pushing through the fatigue with a newfound unwavering focus.Â
Mueller looked incredibly smug to have caught up with you. So, you let her win a little bit.Â
Your father frowned when you served into the net twice, giving Mueller the point. âWhatâs she doing?â he muttered quietly. âAre the nerves getting to her?â
Patrick shook his head, chuckling as he realised, âSheâs throwing the set on purpose.â A smirk graced his lips when he remembered how you used to do the same thing when you played Tashi. âShe wants Mueller to think sheâs beating her.â
You let yourself enjoy it, toying with Mueller and never letting her know what you planned next. When you volleyed the ball back to her, she sprinted to the net. Just when she got used to playing close to the net, you hit a flat groundstroke past her. Once Mueller realised your pattern, she stayed closer to the baseline, and you hit her with your drop shots, far too close to the net for her to return.
Quickly, you caught up, 7-7. You needed one last game to win the match, and it was your turn to serve.Â
Two aces in a row. Mueller yelled in frustration and anger when she missed both serves, once to her forehand and once to her backhand. Your focus sharpened with each passing moment. Serving was your area of expertise. You had the match exactly where you wanted it.Â
With each point you won, your confidence grew. Your movements were fluid and instinctive; your racket felt like an extension of your arm, sending powerful, precise shots that left Mueller scrambling to return them. Like always, your serves were lightning fast, unerring and spectacular, kissing the line every time without fail.Â
Mueller chased down every ball, but exhaustion was setting in, and her anger had returned. She was irritated that you had let her win, annoyed that it had boosted her ego so much, and furious that she couldnât get in your head the way you got in hers.Â
You were playing the best tennis of your life, each moment a testament to your skill and resilience over the years. The beauty of your game captivated the spectators, leaving the crowd in awe of your mesmerising strokes and masterful returns. The more points you won, the closer you got to winning the tournament. Tension and excitement were palpable, mounting in a crescendo of enthusiastic applause and standing ovations.
âMatch point.âÂ
The cacophony of cheers faded into the background as you bounced the ball in your hand. You were good at keeping the pressure of winning off your shoulders, but the enormity of this point pressed down on you heavily. With your stomach in knots, you adjusted your grip on your tennis racket. Amid all the stress, anxiety, and fear, you felt a spark of determination.Â
You didnât just want to win; you deserved it.Â
You served her backhand, which Mueller anticipated and hit back with equal intensity. The ball hit the ground awkwardly on your side of the net, creating minimal bounce with little power. Regardless, you hit it hard. As the two of you rallied back and forth, you followed the sports journalist from earlierâs advice and used a trick shot Patrick had taught you. When Mueller hit your forehand, you pretended to miss the ball. She celebrated, prematurely stopping while you hit the ball back between your legs, surprising Mueller and making her trip as she tried to return the ball.Â
As Mueller landed on the floor, the ball bounced on her side of the net for a second time, earning you the point and the Wimbledon Ladiesâ Singles title.Â
An overwhelming surge of triumph and disbelief hit you all at once. Your ears rang, drowning out the cacophony of the crowdâs ecstatic roars as you collapsed to your knees, dropping your racket. The weight of victory crashed upon you, and tears streamed down your face as you sobbed. Each teardrop released the intense pressure and emotion you had carried through the gruelling tournament.Â
You cried for your mother, who you no longer needed to please; for Tashi, your former best friend who would not be here to celebrate this moment with you; and you cried for yourself, the person who got through it all and made it to the other side.Â
When you wiped the tears from your cheeks and stood to shake your opponentâs hand, the world around you blurred back into focus. The cheers and applause of the crowd went from being a distant echo to a deafening roar. Mueller barely touched your hand before going to shake the umpireâs andâfor a brief, solitary momentâyou were enveloped by a profound sense of accomplishment.Â
You did it.
After waving to the crowd and thanking the umpire, you turned to your playerâs box. There, Patrick stood applauding your victory. His heart swelled with immeasurable pride and love for you, feeling an overwhelming admiration for your strength and dedication. You laughed, running across the court towards the box and excusing yourself as you squeezed past ball boys and line judges. Stepping up on one of the nearby benches, you lifted yourself closer to your boyfriend, who leaned over the railing, giggling.
Up close, Patrickâs eyes were misty, and a broad, genuine smile spread across his face. Every sacrifice you made, every early morning and late night, came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. He could hardly contain his excitement.Â
âYou just fucking won Wimbledon!â Patrick yelled. âYou were incredible!â
âI love you,â you replied, equally breathless and giddy. âI couldnât have done it without you, Pat.âÂ
Pushing up on your toes, you hooked your arms around Patrickâs shoulders and kissed him. The crowd cheered even louder around you, but you didnât care. Nothing and nobody else mattered at that moment. All you knew was that you had just achieved something incredible and Patrick was the only person you wanted to celebrate it with. He held your head carefully and kissed you hard, expressing his passionate pride with every press of his lips.
âThank you. For reminding me to breathe,â you acknowledged when you parted, gazing up at your boyfriend with sparkling eyes. âAnd for teaching me your favourite trick shot.â
Patrick chuckled, taking one of your hands and pressing several kisses to the back of it. âThat was all you, gorgeous. I had nothing to do with it. This win belongs to you,â he said sincerely. âFuck, I love you, pretty girl.â
Art Donaldson stood in the crowd, his heart heavy with pride and melancholy as he watched you give Patrick a final kiss before returning to the court for your interview. It was a privilege to watch every powerful swing of your racket and every point you earned. Art was reminded of the countless hours you had poured into your practice, the determination that had always driven you while you were at Stanford. He had once been the one to share in those moments of victory with you, celebrating every win with the joy you now showed on the court.Â
But now, as Art saw the happiness in your eyes and heard the crowdâs cheers, a wave of sadness washed over him. He was no longer part of your triumphs. He was just another face in the sea of supporters, knowing your victory wouldnât be shared with him.
Artâs gaze flickered between you standing on the court and Patrick sitting with your father in the playerâs box. His former best friend looked happier than Art had ever seen him, and knowing that your memory of this day would always be intertwined with your relationship with Patrick filled Art with an ugly jealousy.Â
He knew he had no right to your life and joy, but Art wanted to celebrate with you. He wanted to tell you that he was proud of you and always knew you had the talent and perseverance to succeed. In fact, there were a lot of things Art wanted to say, including a sincere apology for what he said the night you broke up. But you had moved on, and you were happy, and the last thing Art wanted to do was ruin any of that for you.Â
So instead, Art got up and pushed through the crowd, making his way to the exit as he heard your voice thanking Patrick for his love and support over the loudspeakers.
đđđđđđđđđđ đđđđ â đđđđđđ ïżœïżœïżœïżœđ, đđđđ
It felt good.Â
Sitting in the booth with Tashi was almost like when Art used to sit in the dining hall with her at Stanford, back when you, Art, and Tashi were all attached at the hip.
A month ago, Art and Tashi graduated and began working in the professional tennis world, but it meant nothing to either of them without their best friends by their sides. Neither of them could have guessed that you and Patrick would leave behind such a huge hole when you stopped being friends with them.
âMaybe you wanna jump ship?â Art said, half-joking as he signed the bill and paid for their meal. âCome be my assistant coach?â When Tashi stared dumbfoundedly at him, he grinned. âOh, I get it. You want to work with someone who has a little bit more potential.âÂ
âNo!â Tashi protested. âNo. No, itâs not that. I mean, you have plenty of potential. Itâs justââ she cut herself off, nervously observing the blond sitting in front of her. It had been years since you and Art broke up, but it felt like yesterday. âYou think that would be a good idea?âÂ
âWhy not?â Art retorted. Tashi gestured vaguely, referencing their complex shared past. âThat was a long time agoââÂ
ââIt was not that long ago,â she disagreed, interrupting Artâs attempt at nonchalance.Â
âWell, it feels like a long time ago,â Art mumbled.Â
âSo, youâre saying youâre not in love with her anymore?â Tashi argued, raising a questioning eyebrow at her old friend.Â
Art schooled his expression, not wanting to give his lingering emotions away. But Tashi saw through it, recognising the familiar signs that indicated his love for you still ran deep. His features softened at the mention of you, and there was a faraway look in his icy blue eyes.
Back when you were dating Artâand Tashi and Patrick were casually seeing each otherâPatrick used to describe the look on his best friendâs face when he first laid eyes on you. That look of pure, absolute adoration and love never once faded from Artâs face at the mention or sight of you. Tashi knew with certainty that it would never fade.
âWell, Iâm not holding my breath waiting for her,â Art retorted. âThat ship has clearly sailed.â
âDoesnât mean you arenât clutching the hull for dear life,â Tashi remarked, using Artâs ship analogy against him. âDid you see her at Wimbledon?â
âOf course I did,â Art replied, fiddling anxiously with the napkin on the table.Â
âShe was incredible, wasnât she? I mean, I always knew she had it in her, but watching her win that finalâŠâ Tashi sighed.
If she was as good a friend to you as she always thought, she would have noticed that you used to hold back to help Tashi pursue her dreams of being the best tennis player in the world. Upon reflection, Tashi realised she would never be as good a friend to you as you were to her, and she should never have considered you to be less talented, hard-working, or capable than herself.
âIt was like nothing Iâve ever seen before,â Tashi said proudly.
Art agreed, âSheâs officially a grand slam winner, the whole world was watching her that day.â
Tashi nodded. âItâs weird, isnât it?â Her lips curved in a disappointed frown, recalling all the times you and Tashi promised you would always be there to celebrate each othersâ accomplishments when you were teenagers. âAll of a sudden, the whole world feels entitled to a part of her. Instead of going through this journey with her, weâre on the outside looking in, just like everybody else.â
âIt was pretty surreal,â Art affirmed. âI mean, I always knew what she was capable of. I remember all those late nights, talking about what she would do if she ever won a grand slam. And now that she has, I canât help but feel a little lost.â
âLike you should be there with her,â Tashi guessed. She gave Art a sympathetic smile, her eyes soft with understanding. âI know exactly what you mean.â
Art sighed, leaning back in his booth. âWe used to be the people who knew her best in the world,â he recalled. âAnd now, we arenât a part of her life anymore. Itâs not just about tennis or success, itâs about her. She didnât just hold us all together, she was seeped into the essence of everything I did and everything I dreamed.â The vulnerable honesty in Artâs voice made Tashi swallow harshly. âWhat am I supposed to do without her now? None of my plans ever accounted for me reaching this point in my life without her in it.â
Artâs words rendered them both silent.
You used to take up so much space in their lives, filling a void neither of them knew existed until you left them. Thinking about you and reflecting on your absence was always bittersweet. There was so much warmth and joy in their memories of you, but they were constantly paired with painful reminders of how much they hurt you. You, who only ever wanted to love and be loved.Â
âMaybe this is what we deserve for hurting her in the first place,â Tashi offered. âThe things I said to her that dayââ she inhaled sharply, pain filling her chest as she recalled the argument that ended your friendshipâ âI donât blame her for wanting nothing to do with me.â
âThe look on her face when I told her I went to see you the night you foughtâŠâ Art shook his head in disappointment, his jaw clenched tightly as the frustration simmered beneath the surface. âI should have told her I went to confront you for hurting her. I should have told her I was desperate to figure out why she was inconsolable, but I let her believe I went to you because I was on your side. I was so angry and frustrated during the break up that I told her things just because I knew they would hurt her. Who does that to someone they love?â
âUs, apparently,â Tashi said, grumbling like she couldnât believe what they did to you. Reaching across the table, Tashi covered Artâs hand with hers, offering a small, bittersweet smile. âMy mom says that Y/N was my life lesson,â she explained. âThat losing her was supposed to teach me something.â
âYeah?â Art met her eyes and frowned. âWhat did it teach you?â
âTo hold on,â Tashi declared. âWhen you meet someone like her, someone whoâs warm and loving and far kinder to you than you deserve, you hold on to her. Because going through life without her is unimaginably worse than when sheâs by your side.âÂ
It hurt to reflect on how much worse life was without you. You had been everything to Art for so long, and his eyes stung with tears every time he thought of you. The emptiness you left behind felt insurmountable, a constant ache he couldnât escape. Every moment without you reminded him of what heâd lost, of how your presence had once filled his world with light and purpose.
Now, that light was gone, leaving him to navigate the shadows of what used to be; the pain of your absence was a relentless companion.
Art pulled his hand away and cleared his throat, staring at his lap. âThis is really stupid, but, uh⊠After your injury⊠I couldnât help but just think about what would have happened if I had beaten Patrick,â he confessed.Â
Tashi froze at the mention of how you met Art and Patrick.Â
She knew Art well enough to understand that everything he did led back to you and how he lost you. No matter how badly Art wanted to change the past, Tashi knew you would always love him and Patrick throughout your life.Â
In a way, Tashi, Art, and Patrick were the three great loves of your life.
One for a friendship that was supposed to last a lifetime, one for the boy who made you realise what it was like to be loved, and one for the man who would wait a lifetime just for a minute of happiness with you.
No matter how much you once loved Art, Tashi knew you would love Patrick in every life, too. It didnât matter what order you met them in; you were the catalyst that changed each of their lives.Â
Tashi thought she was the only objective spectator to your relationships with Art and Patrick. She was your best friend at Stanford when you dated Art, and she was practically a stranger now that you were with Patrick. Watching your romantic relationship unfold on TV and in newspapers and magazines was entirely different from having a front-row seat back in college, but Tashi knew you well enough to see how deeply and genuinely you loved Patrick, just as you had loved Art.
âSo you want me to join your team because you couldnât win Y/Nâs number that day?â
Art lifted his head to meet Tashiâs gaze. âNo,â he denied. âI want you to join my team because I want to win.â
Tashi suppressed a grin. She should have known that if it wasnât about you, it was about Patrick. âI think youâd beat him now if you guys played,â she commented, sipping her coffee. âDonât you think?âÂ
It was a challenge that Tashi knew Art would easily see through.Â
Perhaps Art could beat Patrick if their history wasnât complicated by you entering their lives. If the two of them were just best friends trying to make it in the tennis world, Art had the skills, practice, and tenacity to win now. After all, he had dedicated himself to the sport at Stanford and had an excellent team supporting him, while Patrick continued to rely on raw talent. As Art steadily climbed the ranks with every game, Patrick floundered somewhere in the lower 200s.Â
But all of this was negated by one simple fact. Patrick had the one thing that Art truly wanted: you.Â
If Art and Patrick played a match tomorrow, you would be in Patrickâs player box, cheering his name and applauding his wins. Your presence at the matchâand in Patrickâs lifeâwould be more than enough for Art to lose every time he faced his former best friend, just as he lost you. The only thing that could give Art a chance to beat Patrick would be having you on his side.Â
âDonât know,â Art replied cryptically. âWe, uh⊠havenât played professionally, and donât keep in touch.â Tashi laughed, nearly choking on her coffee. âWhat?âÂ
She cleared her throat. âJust⊠She never saw it,â Tashi explained. âThe rivalry between you and Patrick. Ever since that night we first met, she always assumed the two of you were after me.â She shook her head, visibly entertained. âShe used to say that I was the sun and she was the moon. But, God, wasnât she just everything? The moon and the stars and everything in between, that was her.â Tashi and Art shared a soft, sentimental expression. âI never understood why she couldnât see it. Everything was over the moment you and Patrick met her, and I knew none of us would ever be the same.â
A small smile stretched across Artâs lips. âYeahâŠâÂ
Tashi was rightâyou had been everything to him.Â
Art felt it the moment his eyes first met yours, an instant connection that went beyond mere attraction. It was as if something within him recognised you, a deep and undeniable pull that resonated in both his body and heart. It wasnât just about your smile or how you moved; it was how your presence seemed to complete something in him, filling a void he hadnât even known existed.
You became his anchor, the one person who made everything else make sense, and from that moment on, he knew his life would never be the same without you.
âWe joked that we werenât homewreckers the night we met you, butâŠâ Tashi trailed off, sighing as she set her mug on the table and crossed her arms. âI never thought it would come between me and her. I always thought I was a better friend than that. And I hate it, but running into you today is the closest Iâve felt to her in years,â she confessed.
Sitting there opposite your former best friend, Art couldnât help but agree. So many parts of you lived on in Tashi, remnants of your lifelong friendship that had shaped both of you in ways he could now see clearly. The way she tilted her head when deep in thought mirrored your own, a habit youâd both picked up during your countless late-night conversations. That amused, all-knowing expression on Tashiâs face when Art tried to lie to her was uncannily similar to yours.Â
Even her choice of words, the little phrases and inside jokes that only you two shared, brought you vividly to life at that moment, making it feel like a part of you was still there, sitting right across from Art.
âYeah, me too,â Art agreed, trying to keep the sudden gust of sadness out of his tone.Â
To make matters worse, seeing Tashi was the closest Art had felt to you and Patrick in a very long time.Â
It brought back memories of his former best friend, who had once been his world. There was a time when the four of you felt inseparable, and now, sitting there, Art could almost hear the echoes of those days. The way Tashi absentmindedly rubbed her forearm was like Patrick used to, a nervous habit that always surfaced during serious conversations. Tashiâs honest recount of how much she missed you felt like a mirror image of how much Art missed Patrick. Being with Tashi now, it was impossible not to feel the empty space left by the absence of the friendships that had once defined them both.
That night, as Tashi stepped into Artâs hotel room, the invisible string that still bound them both to you seemed to tighten, pulling them a little closer to where you slept just a few floors away.
đ đđđđ đđđ
đđđ đđđ đđ đđđđ â đđđđđđ đđ, đđđđ
âI just got off the phone with Elora,â you declared, stepping into your shared hotel room with Patrick and finding your boyfriend lounging on the bed with the TV on. âIâve been asked to play an exhibition match tomorrow. Just something quick and fun before the first round to boost ticket sales for the qualifiers. A bunch of American players from the tour will be there.â
You dropped onto the bed beside Patrick, kicking off your shoes and curling up in his awaiting arms. The two of you had been travelling together for over a year, sharing rooms while on tour and cohabitating in every aspect of your lives. It was like a reward after enduring a long-distance relationship during your final year at Stanford. Instead of just talking on the phone and occasionally getting surprise visits from Patrick, you went everywhere together and supported each other at every match and tournament you attended.
The two of you had slipped into an easy routine. Having the same profession meant that you were constantly going to the same places, and it made travelling and sightseeing so much more special. After working hard for over two weeks at each tournament, exploring new cities with Patrick was the ideal way to wind down and relax. There was something incredibly special and romantic about doing every day of your life with him.
Your relationship had been grabbing headlines ever since the press caught on to the fact that you were together over a year ago, but the attention ramped up exponentially after you won Wimbledon.
What used to be short articles about an up-and-coming, attractive couple in the tennis world had snowballed into detailed timelines of your dates and public appearances with Patrick. Luckily, the public adored you, and there was very little criticism or negativity surrounding your relationship. Other players on the WTA and ATP tour often teased you about being real celebrities, pointing out how rare it was to win public favour as much as you and Patrick did.
Even though this shift was odd, and you had yet to get used to the constant eyes on you, there were perks to having your picture taken professionally every time you went on a date with your boyfriend. You had framed your favourite newspaper clipping, a beautiful picture of you kissing Patrick after winning Wimbledon, with the heading The Darlings of the Tennis World written above it in a large, bold font.
âGreat,â Patrick drawled, blinking lazily as he wrapped his arms around you. His hands gravitated under your shirt to draw circles on the bare skin of your midriff, immediately sending butterflies to your stomach. âWhich unlucky girlâs getting her ass handed to her while you beat her in straight sets?â he joked, knowing any match you played would end in a crushing defeat for the other player.Â
âActuallyâŠâ you trailed off, sending him your best smile as Patrick drew his head back to meet your gaze.Â
He observed your innocent expression with quizzical, unsure eyes. Even though you were giving him your sweetest look, there was something mischievous about the glint in your eyes. When realisation hit him, Patrick sighed and said, âIâm the unlucky girl, arenât I?â His distraught tone made laughter bubble from your lips.
âSmart and handsome? I really hit the jackpot,â you teased, buttering him up with compliments so that he would agree more readily. âCome on, Pat, itâll be fun!âÂ
âOh yeah, really fun!â Patrick agreed sarcastically, matching your energetic tone. âLike how a lion treats a lamb during slaughter!â
You rolled your eyes, stifling your laughter at your boyfriendâs dramatics. âDonât worry, pretty girl, Iâll go easy on you,â you said, imitating his voice and tone. He had never used those exact words about playing tennis, but Patrickâs tone was always thick with the same arrogant confidence. âThink about it! If you play against me, youâll get to see that winning serve of mine up close and personal.â
âExcuse me, Iâve been on the opposing end of your winning serve plenty of times during practice,â Patrick defended. âI always knew you were better than me, gorgeous, but I donât remember agreeing to public humiliation when we started dating!â
âDrama queen,â you accused. âIt really will be fun! Weâll be micâd up and we can talk and joke the entire time. Itâs the best of three sets and itâll be just like practising together. Come on, what do you say?â At Patrickâs uncertain expression, you sat up in bed and swung a leg over his lap to straddle him. The fire that instantaneously burned in his gaze made you smirk triumphantly. âIâll be really grateful if you do it,â you said suggestively, placing your hands on his chest and grinning. âPretty please?â
âWell, since you said pretty please,â Patrick joked, unable to keep the wide smile off his face when you tilted your head at him. âSure. Whatâs one more event where everyone thinks youâre out of my league?â
Happily, you exclaimed, âThatâs the spirit!âÂ
âWaitââ Patrick frowned when you got up from his lap and began scurrying around the room looking for your phoneâ âI thought you were going to show me how grateful you are?â
You snorted. âNice try. You can have your reward after the exhibition match,â you declared, chuckling quietly.
âYou drive a hard bargain,â Patrick complained.
âDonât act like you donât love the chase,â you retorted, winking as you texted Elora that you and Patrick were happy to participate in the exhibition match.Â
From his place on your shared bed, Patrick rolled onto his stomach and observed you. It was hard to imagine that he had only known you for four years. Your participation in his life felt so insurmountably important that it was like he had known you his entire life. You had seamlessly woven yourself into the fabric of Patrickâs daily existence, shaping his world with a depth and significance that defied the brevity of time.Â
Unlike Tashi and Art, Patrick realised early on that you were someone he should hold on to. His life before you had been filled with disappointment from his family, and Patrick recognised what a rarity you were. Having already lost you before when his relationships with Tashi and Art ended, Patrick knew losing you meant losing something irreplaceable. Your presence filled gaps he hadnât noticed before he met you, making it obvious that you were someone worth cherishing.Â
As you picked up a phone call from your coach, Patrick went on his laptop and checked how much money was in his savings account. He won enough matches to pay for plane tickets, tennis equipment, and other daily necessities, saving an immense amount of money because the fat cheque you got from Nike every month more than covered your shared accommodations. Over the last year, in particular, Patrick had started saving for something very special.Â
An engagement ring.
As much as Patrick wanted you to have the very best, an engagement ring from Harry Winston or Bulgari just wasnât within his budget. He was entitled to a family heirloom ring, but Patrick didnât want to give you something from his family. Any engagement ring he chose had to represent you and your relationship with him, rather than the generations of unhappy, reluctant marriages his family seemed destined to repeat.
After carefully perusing different stores and comparing the cost and quality of various rings, Patrick found the perfect one at Cartier. It was simple and classic, exactly the style you had mentioned you preferred offhandedly on several occasions. To his surprise, it didnât cost an arm and a leg, and he had almost saved enough to get you the exact ring he wanted you to have.
After Wimbledon, you noticed and commented on the fact that Patrick was training harder than ever. To you, it seemed like he was finally starting to take himself more seriously. Instead of coasting on his natural talent, Patrick began seeing your physical trainer with you and even quit smoking to improve his stamina. What you didnât know was that he was doing all of this to increase his chances of winning more matches at the US Open, where a significant amount of prize money was on the line.
In Patrickâs mind, the more matches he won, the more money he could take home, and the nicer your engagement ring could be.Â
âHey, do you know what ring size you are?â Patrick asked as casually as he could when your phone call was over. âJess got a bunch of rings that donât fit her and she was wondering if you want them instead?â
âThatâs so sweet, I canât believe she thought of me,â you acknowledged, grinning. Ever since you met Patrick and his extended family last year, you were constantly invited to spend time with his cousins Jess and Alex. While Patrick wasnât best friends with them, they were the closest family he had, so you had accepted several invitations over the past year. âI would love that, Jess has amazing taste in jewellery! Tell her Iâm an eight in ring size, but Iâll squeeze into anything she wants to give me,â you joked, not thinking much of Patrickâs question.Â
With shaking hands, Patrick sent a text with your ring size to the sales associate at the Cartier store in New York, who had been keeping him updated on when the exact ring he wanted was available. Once the US Open was over, all Patrick had to do was head to Manhattan and pick up the ring. It had taken him almost four months to find the perfect one for you, and then it was just a matter of winning enough prize money to afford it. As long as Patrick won two rounds at the US Open next week, heâd have enough to buy your engagement ring.
Then he would have to decide how and when to propose to you.
#challengers x reader#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#art donaldson#patrick zweig#art donaldson imagine#patrick zweig imagine#patrick zweig x you#art donaldson x you#challengers fanfiction#mike faist x reader#josh o connor x reader#tashi duncan#fic: guilty as sin?
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Part 22: Free
A March 2025 Hinny Microfic for @ginnystrophyhusband using Prompt 5
927 words (some of which were written for the original @hinnymicrofic November 2023 prompt 'Run', thought I never actually finished it)
All the March prompts that I write will be set in the same universe as, and form a prequel to, this fic.
Fair warning - it's going to be fluffy!
This little series has ended up with a lot more actual story than I expected, so if you'd like a bit more context to what's actually going on here, you might want to...
Read them all from the beginning on AO3
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It starts innocently enough, with a throwaway comment he makes while theyâre snuggled up together on the sofa on Friday evening. The remains of their Indian takeaway lies abandoned on the coffee table in front of them, and Ginnyâs already in her pyjamas, checked flannel things that are at least two sizes too big (âWhat? I like to be comfortable!â). His arm is slung around her shoulders, and her feet, encased in those ridiculous fluffy slippers she loves so much, are curled up underneath her.Â
Ginny snorts with laughter. âDonât be ridiculous, Harry!âÂ
Her response surprises him, though he isnât sure whether itâs her laughter or her incredulity thatâs the most perplexing. âOf course I could!â
Ginny wriggles out from underneath his arm and swings herself around to face him, leaning against the opposite arm of the sofa with her feet in his lap. âHarry. Iâm a professional athlete. There is absolutely no way you could beat me in a race.â
Her tone is similar to the one that he uses when heâs explaining things to Teddy, which only entrenches his position further. âI didnât mean on a broom. I meant on foot. You know, a running race,â he tells her, trying not to sound like heâs annoyed. Which he isnât. Well, not really, anyway.
She shakes her head. âI know what you meant. Youâre still being ridiculous.â
Okay, now he actually is a bit annoyed. âI donât know why you think itâs so stupid. Aurors have to be fit too.â
Ginny smirks at him. âLook, Iâm not doubting youâre fit.â She leans a little closer, one hand sliding under his t-shirt and across his stomach. âI mean, I of all people know exactly how fit you are.â
He shivers at her touch, but forces himself to reach down and removes her hand anyway. âNice try, Weasley, but you canât distract me that easily. I absolutely could beat you.â
She cocks an eyebrow. âAlright then. Prove it.â
And that, of course, sets a fire under Harryâs competitive side. Itâs yet another thing that the two of them have in common, because Ginny isnât about to back down either. This, then, is how they come to be standing on the beach the following morning at what Harry thinks is a perfectly reasonable hour, and what Ginny rather more colourfully describes as the arsecrack of dawn, dressed in workout gear and ready to race.
Harryâs not annoyed anymore because firstly, of course heâs going to win and secondly, heâs about to prove himself right. Itâs almost a shame, because Ginnyâs bum looks spectacular in the shorts sheâs wearing and coming home first means heâll miss out on the view, but needs must; sometimes itâs a trial being so selfless.
They squabble good-naturedly about the distance for a few minutes. He favours a sprint, she wants something longer, and he eventually, magnanimously, concedes, because it doesnât really matter. Heâs confident either way. Twice up and down the beach is about two kilometres, first one back to their gateâs the winner. Heâs got it in the bag.Â
They both start cagily, keeping pace with one another, neither prepared to show their hand too early, which gives Harry the opportunity to appreciate the moment. It isnât an understatement to say that he adores running, and he especially adores running here, so it isnât long before he starts to really enjoy himself.Â
Itâs a beautiful morning, with a light breeze coming off the Atlantic to temper the summer warmth. The tide is out, and the sand is hard-packed, that air has a fresh bite of salt that feels soothing to his lungs, and the clear blue sky seems to go on forever.Â
When he runs here, Harry feels so free. Itâs the closest heâs come to the feeling of flying with both feet still on the ground. As he eases into his running, he feels all the stress, all the worry, just melt away. He enters a calm, meditative space that is otherwise closed to him.Â
Itâs just about as zen as Harry ever gets, and thereâs a part of him that thinks maybe it doesnât matter who wins. That same part knows that whatever happens, heâs already won, just being here with Ginny.Â
The rest of him, however, suddenly realises that sheâs pulled away from him, apparently noticing and taking advantage of his distraction to kick on and open up a lead of about twenty metres. Heâs so annoyed with himself that he doesnât even dwell on the fact that he was right about how fabulous she looks from behind, and instead picks up the pace, determined to catch her.Â
It is⊠way harder than he thought it would be. He has to dig so deep to reel her in, kicking so hard in a final sprint that even he thinks he might be taking this a bit too seriously. But heâs so close now, just a few more metres and thenâŠ
âFuck!â spits Ginny, as Harry lunges for the gate, touching it just inches ahead of her. âMy stupid short arms! I would have had you!â
âYeah, you would,â he admits, bending at the waist as he catches his breath. âThat was close!â
âI should have gone out harder. You only won because you and your bloody long legs outsprinted me!â
He grins up at her. âGuilty as charged, mâlady.âÂ
As heâs hoped, her irritated demeanour cracks and she leans back against the gate. âIâll get you next time, Potter,â she warns him.
He has no doubt that sheâs absolutely right.
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What are you gonna do about that?
Pairing: Ari Levinson x girlfriend!Reader
Summary: Ari being the softest boyfriend and asking a v important question.Â
Warnings: None đ€
Word count: ~600
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Youâve surely lost track of time by now. Between the serene sounds of the water and the slight breeze rustling the trees and grass, itâs easy to do. You purposely found the quietest part of the beach to ensure you could relax without interruption â Or so you thought.
Although your eyes are closed underneath your sunglasses, you can feel a large shadow approach and cast over you. It feels familiar⊠The size and the quiet footsteps as it gets closer.
Your inkling is proven right when it speaks â âYou look pretty.â
He expected you to jump, but you let out a laugh. Youâd know Ariâs voice anywhere, it would never scare you.
âIâm just laying here.â
His eyes continue to wander, taking the sight of you in â Your skin, albeit due to a sheen of sweat, looks like itâs glowing under the midday sun.Â
âWell, you look pretty laid out in front of me,â he teases.Â
If your eyes were open, youâd roll them. âHuh, that sounds familiarâŠâ As if he hadnât said the same thing to you last night in bed.Â
âCan I lay here?âÂ
Peeking an eye open, you see him pointing to the spot next to you. Patting the sand, you give him a nod.Â
âItâs too hot for you to touch me,â you warn, closing your eyes again. âI hope thatâs not what youâre thinking.â
âNot at all,â he laughs, laying next to you, keeping space between your bodies because he agrees, especially regretting the fact he didnât come prepared with a towel to lay on instead of the scorching sand.Â
Nevertheless, he canât resist being this close to you and not touching you. His hand inches closer to yours, giving himself away when his pinky brushes against yours.Â
âCan I at least hold your hand?â He whispers.
With an exaggerated sigh, you happily take his hand. âI suppose thatâs fine. How was your morning?â
âYou know how my morning was,â he smirks, tilting his head to see if heâs gotten you to crack a smile at the thought of how he woke you up this morning and kept you in his bed longer than you had anticipated.
âAfter that, I mean,â you laugh, flustered thinking back to it.
âWell, you knowâŠâ He sighs, recounting the few mundane things he did. Working out, second shower⊠âMissed you a lot.â
âWhatever,â you chuckle softly, suppressing the huge smile youâd break into otherwise.Â
âI mean it,â he promises, voice low and serious. You can sense him roll onto his side to face you. He gently rests his hand on your cheek to get you to turn your head and look at him. âI hate watching you leave to go back to your place each morning.â
âUh-huh,â you hum slowly, following along but forcing yourself to not look excited in case youâre just getting your hopes up. âSo, what are you gonna do about that?â
âIâm gonna ask you to move in with me,â he smiles. âWould you wanna move in with me?â
âReally?â You finally let yourself get giddy.Â
âYeah, really,â he laughs, leaning down to finally give you the kiss heâs been dying to give you. âSo?â
âOf course,â you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him where he is. âI love you so much.â
âYouâre so sweaty,â he teases, cringing as he uses a corner of your towel to wipe your forehead before quickly giving you another kiss, not giving you the chance to call him the three-letter word that was going to follow your gasp. âBut I love you, too.â
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Tag list: @patzammit @denisemarieangelina @thummbelina @pppsssyyyccchhhiiiccc @astheskycries @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @la-cey @turtoix @katiew1973 @harrysthiccthighss @tvckerlance @rocketrhap3000 @mrspeacem1nusone @murdcox @geminievans1 @doozywoozy @americasass91 @dwights-new-plague @wwwmarissa92 @redhairedfeistynerd @whxre4cevans @aubreeskailynn @white-wolf1940 @melchills-j @xoxabs88xox @before-we-get-started @chrissquares @christowhore @ice-dtae @mariestark @justile @rogersbarber @dilfbarber @livstilinski @payperhearts @vintagestarlight @gitasor @chaeycunty @miss-ariella @bemysugarbean @t-stark35 @seitmai @reginaphalange2403 @raelorns21 @mrsgweasley @pandaxnienke
#ari levinson#ari levinson x reader#ari levinson fanfiction#chris evans x reader#chris evans fanfiction#ari levinson imagine#ari levinson fanfic#chris evans x y/n
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Sugar II (part 5)
Jake Kiszka x reader
18+ only! Minors do not interact!
Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, angst, language, dirty talk, digital penetration, etc etc.
So sorry for the waitâŠIâve been so busy and Iâm scatterbrained as it is. I love you all and appreciate your patience as always! My lovelies, you all own my heart â€ïž Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, Iâll add my taglist tomorrow, I promise. Tonight, Iâm tipsy and in a turkey coma. xoxo
Itâs early when your heavy eyes reluctantly drift open. Quiet. Silent. Save for the serene, rhythmic push and pull of his soft breath against the nape of your neck. In and out, in and out, like a whispered incantation sent to lull you into his placid waters.
Morning light is threatening to steal the darkness away, inching its way into the room, casting a muted, purple glow against the wall. You snuggle in closer to him and watch the moon prepare to fight the battle it wages ceaselessly. It loses to the sun again and again, and this morning will be no different.
How you wish the moon could win just this once. How you loathe the sun for refusing its slumber. How dare it steal this night away from you? How dare it force you to face the gravity of this life youâve built without him? Of choice? Of pain either way?
Jake has insisted on sending the others along, promising he wonât be far behind. That heâll take a car, or catch a short flightâŠvowing to appear on stage for sound check - the prodigal son returning to whichever arena is next on the list.
You hadnât needed to hear the opposite end of the conversation last night to know that Josh couldnât have been happy about itâŠbut, even after all this time, you still know them both well enough to know that Jakeâs heels were dug in and that Josh - knowing this, too - wouldnât fight him too viciously.
âYou awake?â His voice, gorgeously gruff with sleep, hushes against your skin just before his lips find a place there with a delicate kiss.
A hum rasps out of you as you stroke your fingers down his forearm, not trusting yourself to speak over the lump pulsing in your throat.
If he understands the reason for your quiet, he doesnât let on, âGod, how fucking perfect is this? You smell so good.â
He trails off, nestling in against you as his arms tighten their hold, tucking you right in until you can feel the drum of his beautiful heart tapping a steady beat against your shoulder blade.
âDo you remember the first time we woke up next to each other?â His lips graze across your bare shoulder gingerly as he whispers to you, calming your mind with his soothing cadence.
âYes,â how could you ever forget? âIt was the morning you told me you loved me. Then we went downstairs and Josh shoveled pancakes onto our plates until we were sick.â
His hand disappears beneath the sheets to feather along your breast..tickling over your nipple until it pebbles, âThat was a beautiful morning with my beautiful girl, but it wasn't the first.â
Confused, you sift through memories rapidly. So many of them, and so many of them himâŠflashes of his face, so stunning and serene in his devotion, his voice, his laugh. Darkened eyes devouring you from above, owning you like a deity you are hopeless to deny, his hands, his heart, his love.
Suddenly, there it is - crystal clear as the spring you had visited that long ago weekend. The memory brings a nostalgic smile playing across your lips. You had all been so young then. So naive of what was to come. Untouchable laughter echoing off trees that had been standing, solemn and still, long enough to know it wouldnât last. âThe UPâŠcamping at Indian Lake. You forgot your tent when we were packing up, and Josh had the most fun making fun of you about it becauseââ
He interrupts with a spot on impression of his twin, âWho the fuck goes camping and forgets their tent? Thatâs likeââ
You chime in as well, âGoing to the vet without your dog.â
âI woke up beside you and I justâŠâ he falls silent for a beat and then marches on with a shaky breath, âYou were sleeping so peacefully, so sweetly, like an angel - and he was out there by the fire causing chaos and frying eggs. I laid there beside you and pretended you were mine. Made up a little life for us in my head. We had three girls and a cat who sunbathed at their feet during tea parties in the backyard. They looked just like you. I loved you, and you loved me back.â
âTell me more.â You urge so softly, youâve hardly made a sound. âTell me about our life.â
He cuddles in closer, cheek nuzzling into your tangled hair. âI buy you the most beautiful house youâve ever seen. And it has a great big covered porch where we like to sit in the evenings. We hold hands on the swing and watch the girls make up elaborate games with the fireflies. Our youngest is the bossiest, and you say she reminds you of Josh. Thereâs a place in the side yard. I leveled it out just after we moved in so you could plant a garden, and I help you harvest tomatoes in the evenings because you always plant too many.â
âI do not plant too many,â your laugh is gentle, wistful. âI make salsa for your stupid brothers.â
âYes,â he agrees, nodding along as he continues stroking over your chest, abandoning your breast for the thrum of your heart beneath his palm. âYou make salsa for my stupid brothers. The girls complain and bargain for time when we tell them itâs time for baths, but you step in and order them inside because I canât tell them no.â
âYouâre no help at all.â You sigh, sinking into the soft domesticity of the picture he is painting just for you.
âYes, I am.â He argues, kissing along your jaw. âI help with baths, and then I play them all the prettiest songs Iâve ever written for you until their eyes are hazy enough to drift away. And then I hold your hand some more down the hall, and I close our bedroom door, and I lay you down and remind you of how much I love you until you sound like all those pretty songs Iâve written for you.â
âYeah?â You canât help the girlish giggle that floats off your tongue. He turns you into liquid bliss so effortlessly, speaking to you like a lullaby until warm, worshipful devotion swells in your chest, leaving room for nothing but Jake.
âYeah.â His tongue travels over the shell of your ear as he breathes promises into it, twisting and tightening your belly way down deep âAnd sometimes I remind you slow and sweetâŠsometimes I hold you like bone china and move gently, and softly, until youâre shaking and fluttering around me, all silk and velvet walls like flower petals. And other times, I give it to you nasty. Fuck you filthy, and dirty, and hard so youâll remember who my pretty little fuck doll isâŠand you take my cock like a whore with my hand over your mouth so you donât wake the neighbors.â
His touch remains far too innocent for the words dripping from his lips like salacious prayers. Itâs still playing softly over your heart - perhaps just to feel the quickening of its beats, perhaps just because he has missed it so.
âTouch me.â you shiver as the plea rolls off your tongue, anticipating the way he will give into you, and the way it will feel when he does.
âI am touching you.â Heâs burying his face in your hair, breathing you in, filling his lungs with everything he has missed so desperately.
âDonât tease me.â Thereâs a pout edging its way into your tone, and he is positively weak for it. Heâd like to think that you have never sounded this way for anyone else. Heâd like to believe that he has never heard you sound this wayâŠthat you have never begged for him with such soft urgency on your tongue.
âShh, sugar,â he soothes, and the way it slows your pulse like a drugâŠwell, you can almost believe that nothing has ever been wrong with your world. You can almost believe that youâve lived all of your lifetimes here in this room with him, wrapped up in the sheets, safe and so, so loved. âyou know Iâm gonna take care of my girl. You just close your eyes, baby, alright? Just close your eyes.â
Your eyes flutter shut as though he has willed them so, and then his fingers are winding the gentlest trail down your body, slipping like hot silk down your stomach, and then to your thigh to pull it to the side, opening you up for him.
âI think about this all the time.â he confesses, sweeping his fingertips against your entrance and then over your clit once his touch is slick and warm. âLying with you. Talking with you in bed the way we used to. Feeling your hair tickle my cheek. Watching you sigh for me, wet and aching for me, for what I can give youâŠnobody else.â
âNobody else, Jake,â you nod feverishly as he begins drawing delicate circles over your swollen clit. âNobody else.â
âDo you think about me, too?â his mouth hovers over your pulse, tracing an S for his sugar against it. âWhen youâre all alone?â
His touch is picking up in pace, those goddamed fingers of his that seem to somehow vibrate, they know every inch of youâŠhow to touch you. How to take you apart. How to play you. You are his favorite instrument.
âYes,â it stutters out of you, inarticulate and clumsily, but he loves it all the more for it.
âYeah?â there it is, that smug air in his tone that makes your entire body throb with want. âDoes my sweet little girl touch herself when no one is around to see? Does my sugar call my name when she slips her hand between these pretty thighs?â
âJake, pleaseâŠâ your grip has found its way around his wrist, tight and sure, to keep his hand where you so badly need it.
âStop begging, baby,â he croons, pressing kisses against your temple, âIâm gonna take care of you. Iâm gonna make you feel good. Gonna make you cum, soft and gentle, âcause youâre my beautiful fucking girl. And then youâre going to ride my cock filthy, fuck doll.â
A sound that you ought to be ashamed of claws its way out of your chest, feral and furious in your need as you rock your hips into his hand. His pace never falters, never varies, as he whispers praise and vulgarities into your ear, skilled fingers swirling and swirling and swirling over your clit until youâre right fucking there.
âCome on, pretty girlâŠâ more kisses to your temple as adulation tumbles from his lips endlessly. âGive it to me, sugar, give it to me.â
It spreads itself out in your body like a heavy swallow of red wine. unfurling inside you like euphoric heat, curling your toes and prickling your scalp as it trips up your spine. Itâs so delicate and light, his touch like a feather against your clit as it trembles and twitchesâŠand just like always, he knows, and works you through it softly, gingerly, reverently, until the tide pulls back.
âYou made a mess, baby.â he teases, whispering into the crook of your neck with a smile on his lips and his fingers now curling across the pillow of his tongue.
âWhose fault is that?â you pant back, working hard to chase down your breath.
âIâll own making a mess of your pretty cunt any day, sweetheartâŠany fucking day.â
You roll your eyes without much conviction, for you adore his obscene prose âPoetic.â
He rolls onto his back, tugging you along for the ride until you are perched above and straddling him.
He looks like a fallen, arcane angel beneath you, with his hair snarled and knotted against the pillow, eyes clouded with lust and darkened with blown pupils, lips pink and tumid - parted and pretty.
âYouâre beautiful.â you shake your head in wonder. He is exquisite. Ethereal. Flawless. Precious.
He shakes his head right back, cupping your cheek, âYouâre beautiful. My beautiful, beautiful sugar. I have loved you forever and I will love you always.â
With your cheeks heating under his awestruck scrutiny, you bite down on your lip coylyâŠyou havenât forgotten that he likes a hint of innocence now and then. âDid I hear you mention something about riding your cock filthy, Jakey? Or did I misunderstand?â
His palm is wrapped around your throat in a breath, pulling your mouth down to his. He licks against your tongue with a menacing hum. âYou wanna ride my cock, baby? You wanna fuck me dirty while I lie back and watch you do all the work like my good little girl?â
A shiver shimmies your shoulders as your gaze flutters away abashedly, inexplicably shy.
âAw,â it isnât taunting, he sounds genuinely starstruck by the bashful blush coloring the apples of your cheeks. âLook at my sweetheart. Does it still make you a little soft when I tell you what a good girl you are for me? You like that?â
You nod, and this time, when your teeth sink into your bottom lip, it isnât contrived.
âI know, sugarâŠâ he pets at your face like youâre fragile, made of glass and dear to his heart. âIt always has. You are, you know? Youâre my very good girl and I love you more than anything in this whole fucking world. Nothing even comes close.â
Emboldened and driven half crazy by the love he is wringing from his heart, you rise up on your knees and issue an order, which doesnât make you a very good girl at all. âPut it in.â
A huff of wanton breath escapes him, and then, with one hand wrapped around his thick cock, and the other digging into your hip, he pulls you down and buries himself inside you.
âOh fuck, sweetheartâŠâ itâs a hitching groan that rattles in his chest. âLook at you, wrapped up sweet and pink around me. Pretty as a picture, arenât you, baby? Taking this cock. So fucking tight. You feel so good.â
âYeah,â you canât manage much else as your nails dig into his chest for purchase, head tipping back as you begin to ride him fast and hard, forgoing an easy lead upâŠyou need him too badly.
His tip, so thick and perfect, begins spoiling over the sweetest spot inside you when he angles your hipsâŠknocking against it until the air is punching from your lungs with every downward swivel of your hips.
âThatâs the spot right there, isnât it, sugar?â he voice, rasping and strangled with pleasure drags you closer and closer. âRight there, huh? Thatâs where my girl needs my cockâŠright fucking there.â
âYes! Right thereâŠâ you repeat, blathering on with your hands on your own tits, twisting and tugging at your nipples as your thighs burn and scream for mercy you donât care to give them. âRight there right there right thereâŠâ
âYeah? You want it right there?â his thumb drops to your clit as he drinks you in, savoring you as you work yourself into a frenzy above him. âYou take it right there, pretty girlâŠyou just fucking take it.â
You can feel him twitching and straining inside your clenching cunt, and you know desperate little spurts of precum must be steadily leaking from his cockâŠthe thought only serves to make you coil around him even more viciously.
âSugar,â thereâs a frantic edge coloring his tone now. Heâs close. âPlease, babyâŠyouâre squeezing meâŠso fuckingâŠfuck, fuckâŠease up, sweetheart, please. Relax that sweet little cunt for me. Baby, baby, babyâŠâ he thrashes his head back and forth against the pillow, brow furrowed and tipped up as though he is anguished.
âNo.â youâre wild and panting, sweating and clawing at his chest with unhinged need. âIâm gonna cum.â
âOh godâŠâ it hushes out of him, winded and ragged, like heâs afraid he wonât make it long enough to get you there. âCâmon, pretty girl, come on. Right on my cock. Soak it, sweetheart. I want you all fucking over me.â
âFuck me back,â youâre clutching at his shoulders now, scrambling for purchase against his drenched, glistening skin. âHard. Fuck me back.â
His hips begin driving up to meet you, hard and fast, slamming his cock into you over and over through gritted teeth and gutteral grunts of pleasure and agony as he fights his own release.
Arms up suddenly, he curls them violently around your shoulders, holding you still against his lap as best he can, but you continue to grind into him, working yourself back and forth over his cock, chasing and chasing and chasing that end you so badly need.
âHold fucking still,â grits out through clenched teeth as your lips press and sway against his sweating forehead, âIâm gonna cum, sugar. Donât move, donât move!â
His palm lands hard against your ass in punishment for your disobedience, gripping and pulling at it, but it merely spurs you on.
âYou said you wanted me to ride your cock filthy,â your words are airy puffs of taunting breath. âso fucking take it Jakey, take it.â
He doubles over into you, burying his face between your breasts and crying out into their rounded softness as he lets go inside you, painting you warm and wetter than you already wereâŠbiting and sucking, consuming you as if he wants to swallow you whole.
Itâs your name, whimpering and keening out of him like a psalm that sends you tumbling along right behind him with a gushing pulse and a shaking inward pull of breath that exhales with his name to match your own still lingering on his lips.
A strange calm finds you both as you struggle to breathe wrapped up tight and tangled together in the ruined sheets and humid air. But it is a familiar calmâŠone that so often crept in between the two of you after you had lost yourselves the way youâve just lost yourselves.
âNo one,â his fingers tap down your spine and linger in the dimples that grace the base, âcould ever make me feel the way you make me feel, sugar. No one. Ever.â
âJake.â you sigh, and he hears a thousand words inside it.
âI know, baby.â heâs stroking through your hair now, pacifying you so all of that feverish energy will seep from your veins gently. âI know.â
~
The sun has bullied its way into the sky fully, washcloth he so lovingly swept over you now rinsed and folded over the bathroom sink, glass of water he carried in, sipped at and now lazily dripping condensation onto the nightstand.
Top sheet pulled over the fitted sheet in a half-hearted attempt to rectify the wrongs inflicted towards the bed, your bodies are twisted up below the soft, generic duvet.
âYouâre going to leave, arenât you?â He whispers, tracing his fingers along the bridge of your nose. âI can feel it.â
âWhat happens now, Jake?â You stroke his nose right back. âIâm just going to walk away from my life and follow you around the world? Like nothing ever happened?â
âYes.â He says it like it could all be just that easy, and how you wish that were so.
âIt doesnât work that way.â Heâs a dreamer. Always has been.
âSo, tell me how it works then, sugar.â He pulls you into a blink of a kiss. âYou go back to him, and I go back to misery and thatâs it for you and I? We wake up every morning for the rest of our lives wishing things were different? Aching for each other? You tell me how that makes fucking sense.â
âBecause this is real life, Jake.â Do you even believe your own bullshit? You have to, right? âThis isnât some pretty little story youâre telling. We arenât picking tomatoes in the garden.â
God, how you hate yourself.
âWe could be though.â His promises would be so lovely to slip away intoâŠif only it could be that simple. Itâs as if he can read your mind when he says, âIt could be so simple, sugar. None of this other shit matters. We matter.â
He canât be argued with, so instead, you simply nestle your cheek against his chest and linger in this time you have left with him.
âWill you at least leave me your number before you go? So I can call to say hello every once in a while?â
Heâs giving in far too easily. Heâs lying. You know he is, and he knows it just as well. He isnât going away, and he doesnât plan on giving up.
He has decided to stand his ground this time around. This time, for you, he has decided to fightâŠ
and god help anyone who tries to stand in his way.
Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @jakesgrapejuice @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake
#greta van fleet#greta van fleet fic#greta van fleet fan fiction#greta van fleet smut#fanfic#greta van fic#greta van smut#gvf fic#jake gvf#jake kiskza#jake kiszka fanfiction#josh kiszka#jake kiszka smut#gvf jake#josh gvf#gvf josh#gvf smut
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Battle of Queenston Heights
The Battle of Queenston Heights (13 October 1812) was a major battle in the War of 1812. A US army, under General Stephen Van Rensselaer, crossed the Niagara River in an attempted invasion of Canada but was repulsed by a British, Canadian, and Mohawk force. The British victory came at the cost of General Isaac Brock, killed in the fighting.
Death of General Brock at Queenston Heights
John David Kelly (Public Domain)
Background: Fall of Detroit
In late June 1812, shortly after the United States had issued its declaration of war against the United Kingdom, the US began preparing for an invasion of British-controlled Canada. Ostensibly, the purpose of the invasion was to deprive Britain of a staging ground from where they could launch their own attack into US territory. But many of the 'War Hawks' â as the prowar faction in Congress was called â envisaged a more permanent outcome, believing that the invasion would result in Canada finally joining the Union. The annexation of Canada would greatly increase the United States' dominion over North America and would, in the words of one war-hungry congressman, "drive the British from our continent" (Berton, 98).
The invasion was to be four-pronged. Brigadier General William Hull, sitting with his 2,500-man army at Fort Detroit, would lead the first thrust, crossing over the Detroit River into Upper Canada (modern-day Southern Ontario). He would be followed by Major General Stephen Van Rensselaer, who would cross the Niagara River to capture Queenston, and by Major General Henry Dearborn, who would sail up Lake Champlain to capture Montreal, while a fourth US army crossed the St. Lawrence River to wreak havoc in Ontario. Most Americans believed it would be an easy campaign, that the Canadians, oppressed by the tyranny of British rule, would welcome their southern brethren with open arms. As former President Thomas Jefferson predicted, the invasion was expected to be nothing more than "a mere matter of marching" (Wood, 677).
But of course, it would not be so easy. General Hull began his invasion on 12 July, crossing over the Detroit River and establishing a base of operations at the small town of Sandwich, where he issued a proclamation calling on all Canadians to either join him or remain neutral. But Hull soon lost his nerve; deathly afraid of Native Americans, he was disturbed by reports of more Indigenous nations joining the British side and, moreover, feared that the arrival of enemy reinforcements could cut him off from US territory. On 8 August, after nearly a month of dithering on Canadian soil, he retreated to Detroit, where he was soon besieged by an Anglo-Indian force under Major General Isaac Brock and the great Shawnee chieftain Tecumseh. Brock and Tecumseh utilized psychological warfare to convince Hull that their army was larger than it really was, leading the American general to surrender both his army and Detroit without a fight on 16 August. The Siege of Detroit not only thwarted the first part of the US invasion but also left the British in control of the entire Michigan Territory.
Hull was widely castigated for his defeat â indeed, he would later be court-martialed and sentenced to death, before the sentence was commuted to dismissal from the army. But he had at least set foot on Canadian territory, which was more than can be said about his counterparts. General Van Rensselaer had tried, but he did not have the necessary supplies or reinforcements to mount a successful crossing; what militia forces he did have refused to cross the Niagara, arguing that they were merely a defensive force and were not obliged to fight outside the United States. General Dearborn, likewise, was stuck at Albany, New York, unable to fill the enlistment quotas needed for an attack. "We have as yet a shadow of a regular force," his second-in-command would write, "inferior, even in numbers, to half of what the enemy already has in the field" (Taylor, 182). Dearborn was therefore relieved when, on 9 August, a British major arrived at his camp to offer an armistice. Dearborn readily accepted before passing along news of the armistice to President James Madison for his approval and instructing Van Rensselaer, his subordinate, to do nothing that might provoke the British. The invasion had, therefore, completely failed, leaving the US in a worse position as the armistice settled over the Niagara frontier.
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I just got an idea for a request. Yandere hashira plus kanao and Aoi and tengens wives with a foreign reader who was requested to come to Japan to slay demons by the master, except this reader isnât a human, instead they are a naga, a mythological snake human hybrid creature from Indian mythology that protects humans from demonsâŠadditionally this readers body I built with a human upper half and snake lower half with their snake half being long enough to completely wrap up 10 people. Please and thank you
The Serpent Protector of Japan
Summary:
Summoned by the Master of the Demon Slayer Corps, a nagaâa revered, mythological creature from Indiaâenters the world of the Hashira. The nagaâs duty to protect humans from demons aligns perfectly with the Corpsâ mission, but their presence sparks a whirlwind of fascination, jealousy, and obsession among some of the Hashira and close allies.
The Arrival
The foreign naga arrives at the Demon Slayer Corps estate, their shimmering serpent tail gliding gracefully along the stone pathway. Their upper half is undeniably humanâstrong arms, a regal posture, and a face that radiates wisdom and authority. The lower half, however, is a strikingly long, iridescent snake body, coiled elegantly yet with enough force to crack stone if necessary.
The Hashira are gathered, the Masterâs instructions to meet this âforeign protectorïżœïżœ piquing everyoneâs curiosity.
As they step forward, the naga greets them with a deep, melodic voice. âI am [Name]. Your Master has called for my assistance to protect humanity from demons. My kind has fought these creatures for centuries.â
âą Shinobu Kocho: The Insect Hashiraâs calm demeanor hides a rapidly growing obsession. Sheâs fascinated by the nagaâs physiology and abilities, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. âSuch a unique creature⊠I must study you. For science, of course,â she says sweetly, but her thoughts are far from innocent. She becomes possessive, often requesting the nagaâs presence in her laboratory under the guise of research.
âą Sanemi Shinazugawa: The Wind Hashira tries to keep his distance, masking his obsession with sharp words and disdainful glares. However, he finds himself drawn to the nagaâs unmatched strength and grace. He secretly follows them during missions, his heart racing every time he sees them in action.
âą Mitsuri Kanroji: The Love Hashira is immediately smitten. âYouâre so beautiful!â she exclaims, her eyes sparkling as she admires their majestic form. Her feelings quickly evolve into a deep infatuation, and sheâs often found clinging to the naga, offering them handmade snacks and shy confessions of admiration.
âą Muichiro Tokito: The Mist Hashira is quiet but intensely possessive. Heâs intrigued by the nagaâs enigmatic aura and often stares at them with an unreadable expression. His obsession manifests in subtle waysâhe ensures no one else gets too close, often stepping in with a blank stare when someone tries.
âą Tengen Uzui and His Wives: The flamboyant Sound Hashira and his three wives are captivated by the nagaâs exotic beauty and power. Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru each develop their own unique obsession. Suma is clingy and overly emotional, often wrapping herself around the nagaâs human half. Makio is fiercely competitive, constantly challenging the naga to sparring matches to impress them. Hinatsuru, the calmest, uses her subtle charm to stay close, often offering to bandage wounds or prepare meals. Tengen himself finds their presence âflamboyantâ enough to constantly praise, though his wivesâ obsession soon stirs jealousy even in him.
âą Kanao Tsuyuri: At first shy and reserved, Kanao watches the naga from afar. Her fascination grows into an intense attachment as she begins to mimic their movements and techniques. She secretly follows them on missions, ensuring their safety without revealing herself.
âą Aoi Kanzaki: Though initially annoyed at the attention the naga receives, Aoi canât help but be drawn to their protective nature. Her feelings shift from irritation to quiet longing, and she finds excuses to be around them, such as offering tea or helping with injuries.
Gyomei Himejima: The Stone Hashira is initially calm and reverent upon meeting the naga. Heâs deeply respectful of their divine origins, often clasping his prayer beads and murmuring prayers in their presence. However, his admiration gradually twists into obsession. Gyomei begins offering prayers for the nagaâs safety every day, becoming fiercely protective of them. He refuses to let them out of his sight during missions, insisting that itâs his duty to shield them from harm. âYou are a gift to this world,â he says in a soft yet firm tone. âI will not allow anything, mortal or demon, to taint your purity.â
Giyuu Tomioka: The Water Hashiraâs aloof demeanor hides a deep and growing infatuation with the naga. Heâs mesmerized by their grace and power, though he struggles to express his feelings openly. Instead, he shows his obsession through actions, such as silently standing guard outside their quarters or leaving small, thoughtful giftsâa polished stone, a rare flower, or a perfectly prepared meal. When others try to approach the naga, Giyuuâs quiet nature turns icy. His piercing glare and clipped words are enough to make most back off. âYou should leave. They donât need you here,â he says, his tone calm but laced with menace. Despite his possessiveness, Giyuuâs subtle, protective gestures eventually make the naga take notice, though his inability to confess his feelings keeps them in the dark about the depth of his obsession.
Kyojuro Rengoku: The Flame Hashiraâs fiery personality pairs with an equally intense obsession. From the moment he meets the naga, heâs completely enthralled by their presence. âYou are magnificent!â he exclaims with his usual exuberance. âA being of legend, here to protect us all! I am honored to fight alongside you!â Rengokuâs admiration quickly turns into a burning obsession. He becomes the nagaâs most vocal admirer, constantly praising them in front of others and insisting that theyâre destined to fight together. His bright, cheerful demeanor hides a jealous streakâhe becomes visibly irritated when others monopolize the nagaâs attention.
Obanai Iguro: The Serpent Hashira is deeply intrigued by the naga from the moment they meet. The connection between his serpent motif and their snake-like lower half feels almost fated to him. However, his fascination quickly spirals into possessiveness.Obanai sees the naga as a kindred spirit and believes that only he can truly understand them. âWe are alike,â he says one day, his mismatched eyes boring into theirs. âNo one else could ever comprehend what itâs like to be seen as something other.â His jealousy is fierce, and he often uses his snake, Kaburamaru, to keep tabs on the naga. If someone else gets too close, Kaburamaru âaccidentallyâ slithers into their path, disrupting their interactions. Despite his reserved nature, Obanai becomes more daring over time, often pulling the naga aside for private conversations. He speaks in a low, intimate tone, his words dripping with both admiration and a subtle warning: âYou donât need anyone else. They donât understand you like I do.â
#gothicxreylover#gender neutral reader#yandere x reader#yandere imagines#demon slayer x you#yandere demon slayer#yandere gyomei#yandere tengen#yandere mitsuri#yandere shinobu#Yandere Aoi#yandere kanao#yandere muichiro#yandere sanemi#yandere rengoku
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àŠźàŠšà§àŠ° àŠźàŠŸàŠšà§àŠ· - Soulmate
[Steve Rogers x Indian!bengali!GN!reader
Summary: your heart is aching for a home that no longer exists. Steve finds you in the middle of emotional turmoil.
Warning: homesickness, childhood trauma if you squint, mention of political disturbance, fluff, cursing, Steve being an absolute sweetheart, Steve also getting the feels]

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After the third round of knocking incessantly at your bedroom door, Steve huffed. He didn't want to intrude, in case you weren't decent or something.
"Sorry y/n," he muttered before twisting the handle, fully expecting to find it closed, unyielding.
His eyes widened, first in mild surprise at the ease with which he'd made it in: no locked doors. Then in shock, since his favourite person - you - was currently curled up on the floor, facing the sunset. Knees pulled up to your chest and tears streaming down your face as you whimpered softly now and then.
The next emotion was confusion at the music playing in the room - something that sounded like a folk song sung by a gravelly male voice in a language he didn't understand. However, he'd heard you speak or sing in it to yourself enough to know it was Bengali.
He joined you on the floor, quietly tapping your arm.
You turned your head to look at him, making no effort to wipe away the salty moisture on your cheeks. "I miss home."
Three words. Just three words from you tugged violently on his heart-strings, making him scoot closer and wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer. You let him engulf you, finding comfort in him.
He didn't bother asking any questions. He knew the answers. Unfair elections and totalitarian practices had completely destroyed the political opposition in India five years ago. You'd watched democracy fall apart slowly but surely within fifteen years. Your beloved state of West Bengal, safe from the ruling party till then, had been overpowered too.
You'd run. You'd wished you could stay and do something, be a patriot, but you'd run. Forced yourself to throw yourself and your best efforts into medical school, even if your heart had ached for a different subject instead. You'd clenched your jaw and survived five years of suffocating dictatorship (nobody ever called it that but that's what it was) and communal riots. Then, the moment you'd graduated, you'd packed your things and left your homeland for a stable future.
You hadn't taken anyone with you. Your family wasn't the best and you'd made the decision to go no contact with them while still in high school. You'd lied to them about where you would be living, promised them you'd call. At the airport, just before boarding, you'd sent your mother the final text you'd silently prepared beforehand, listing everything she'd done wrong and refused to make up for and why you felt wronged. You'd apologised for being so harsh, and for abandoning them, but explained that you needed to protect yourself and you couldn't do it while staying with them. Then you'd thrown away your phone.
It was for the best, for your best, but you still missed the carefree life of your early years. Carefree, not in the sense that you weren't being hurt over and over, but carefree in the sense that you were naĂŻve enough not to realise you were being hurt. You were alone in this new environment. Yes, you'd found friends, you'd found Steve. But a part of you still felt lonely.
Steve knew all of this. He'd held you close the day you poured all of it out. And he held you close now as the homesickness returned.
"I'm a fucking coward," you sniffle. "I should've stayed and tried to fight. Spoken up. Done something. Said something. Anything. I didn't even try. Like a selfish bitch."
He pressed a kiss to your head, stroking your hair and shushing you. He'd save that conversation for later. Right now you didn't need a response from him, you needed to let your feelings out. He'd always be here to wipe your tears away and get you back on your feet.
You hugged him tighter, and he pulled you into his lap, leaning against the bed as he closed his eyes, focusing on the song playing on loop.
Weirdly, it felt like home. Nevermind that he understood nothing. There was something earthen and rustic about the song and its ambience, something that called to him. He thought of his mother. A little voice in him said she'd love this music too. He felt his own eyes water as well, and blinked to prevent them from spilling.
You turned in his arms a little so now your back was to his chest, and you both watched the sun go down in silence.
When you'd calmed down, he brought one of your hands up to his lips. "Do you feel like going out and getting some ice cream? Or brownies?"
You giggled - despite the surge of emotions earlier. "I'd love that. Thank you," you met his calm and loving eyes, genuine gratitude in your own.
"Of course, honey."
Minutes later, as you held on to him from behind while his motorcycle wove in and out of traffic, you felt some of the weight lifting off your chest. Life had been rough, but it was better now. You were better now. Safe and loved. You'd be okay, right?
You rubbed his arm softly. He found your hand and squeezed it three times at a red light.
Yeah, you'd be okay.
[AN: This is the direct product of me being homesick, while sitting in my hometown, and being terrified for the future. Steve is my comfort character so I wrote this solely to calm myself; this is the most self-indulgent piece I've ever written. I know most of you won't relate to this much, but I hope that for once, you can put yourself in my place and at least try to understand the emotions in this fic rather than agonise over the details which don't apply to you.
AN 2: India is quasi-federal in structural, meaning while there is a Prime Minister to govern the entire country, every state also has their individual Chief Minister and Cabinet of Ministers for the affairs of said state. The party in power at the Centre isn't always the ruling party in every state. West Bengal is one of such states where the part in power is different from the one at the Centre...so far.
Current affairs in the country are really bad. Abuse of legislation, silencing the national press, completely altering the Constitution, bribing the judiciary, rigging the polls - it's all happening. It's bad enough that the UN and even other countries have criticised the central administration here. This fic is me being super scared that what I mentioned here will actually happen. Elections are this month, and like many other civilians, I'm desperately praying it doesn't take a turn for the worse.
AN 3: The song linked above is the inspiration for the title. àŠźàŠšà§àŠ° àŠźàŠŸàŠšà§àŠ· (moner manush) translates to "soulmate". It is one of the most popular Baul songs. Baul are a category of Bengali folk songs which have double meanings. Most songs, at first listen, appear to be aimed at a lover, however, they can also be meant for God. It depends on how you wish to interpret them. They're a highly respected part of Bengali heritage and can be easily identified by the sound of the ektara in the instrumental, a one stringed musical instrument.]
Tagging my desi friends:
@mainly-marvel @slut-for-henry-cavill @averageambivert
#steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x indian!reader#steve rogers x bengali!reader#steve rogers x you#steve rogers x gender neutral!reader#steve rogers x gn!reader#steve rogers fluff#steve rogers comfort#Youtube
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Indian Navy SSR Medical Assistant Syllabus#ssr#navy#trending#viral#syllabus
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Welcome to our channel! In this video, we dive deep into the comprehensive syllabus for the Indian Navy SSR ( Secondary Recruit) Medical Assistant position Join us at Man Defence Academy, where are proud to top-notch training programs specifically for aspirants to excel in the Navy.
Our instructors will guide you through each segment of the syllabus covering the medical assistant exam. basic medical knowledge and fitness to understand the duties and responsibilities of a Navy Medical Assistant, and ensure every aspect is explained and understood.
Call: 77997 99221 Web: www.manasadefenceacademy.com
#indian#ssr#medical assistant#navy training#ence exams#manasa defence academy#military careers#navy recruitment#medical assistant syllabus#navy exam#armed forces#defence coaching#navy preparation#student training#career in navy#navy aspirants#tips#job in armed forces#competitive exams#manasa academy#Youtube
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Speaking of which! (NDTV article):
New Delhi is preparing a grand welcome for all the South Asian leaders who will attend Prime Minister Narendra Modi's swearing-in ceremony on Sunday. PM Modi will take oath for a record third term on Sunday, and several heads of state will attend the ceremony, including Maldives President Mohamed Muizzu.
Relations between India and Maldives have deteriorated since Muizzu assumed office in November last year. During his election campaign, he often criticised India and demanded a complete withdrawal of Indian military personnel.
All Indian armed forces have left the nation and have now been replaced by civilians.
But India extended an olive branch inviting him to the swearing-in ceremony of PM Modi. President Muizzu expressed his gratitude to PM Modi for the invitation, adding that he would be honoured to attend this historic event.
"He also stated that he looks forward to working with the Prime Minister to further strengthen the close relations with India, noting that Maldives-India relations are heading in the positive direction, as would be demonstrated by this visit," the official release said.
This will mark the pro-China president's first official visit to India since assuming office on November 17 last year. Unlike his predecessors, who made the first port of call to New Delhi after assuming office, Muizzu had travelled to Turkey first and to China for his first state visit in January.
Ahead of his arrival in Delhi, a huge banner has been put up outside the Foreign Ministry which features both PM Modi and Muizzu.
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Conquer the Battlefield: Your Ultimate Guide to NDA Exams
Unleash your inner warrior! Share your NDA exam dreams, questions, and tips in the comments below!
Step onto the Battlefield of Dreams: Cracking the NDA Exam with Confidence Ever dreamt of donning the olive green, of soaring amidst the clouds, or commanding the vast canvas of the ocean? The National Defence Academy ( NDA exam ) could be your gateway to transforming these dreams into reality. But conquering this coveted path demands not just unwavering ambition, but also a strategic roadmapâŠ

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#Air Force#Army#career guidance#defence academy#Indian Armed Forces#medical test#Navy#NDA exams#NDA preparation#NDA strategies#NDA syllabus#NDA tips#NDA written test#officer training#SSB interview
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Axis of Resistance Summary: October 10, 2024 Al-Aqsa Flood's Harvest of Good Tidings
đRED SEA Yemeni Armed Forces đ»Targeted American oil ship âOLYMPIC SPIRITâ with 11 ballistic missiles + 2 drones: direct, severe hits đINDIAN OCEAN Yemeni Armed Forces đ»Targeted the ship âST. JOHNâ with cruise missile: direct hit đEAST KHAN YOUNIS Al-Qassam Brigades đ»Targeted reconnaissance patrol of 2 jeeps & 4 soldiers with suicide drone: success đNORTHWEST GAZA CITY Saraya Al-Quds Brigades đ»Sniped soldier in Al-Tawam area đWEST JABALIA CAMP, NORTH GAZA Al-Qassam Brigades đ»Destroyed tank with high-impact IED in Al-Zahraa neighborhood đ»Targeted tank with an explosive device near Civil Defense đ»Clashed with special zionist force at point-blank range: killed & wounded đCENTRAL JABALIA CAMP, NORTH GAZA Saraya Al-Quds Brigades đ»Targeted vehicles with anti-tank shells + clashed with invading forces near Riyad al-Salihin Mosque at zero-distance Al-Qassam Brigades đ»Targeted tank with tandem shell near Umm Al-Mu'minin Aisha Mosque đEAST JABALIA CAMP, NORTH GAZA Al-Qassam Brigades đ»Bombarded forces with mortars đ»Executed complex ambush, (1.) trapping mechanized infantry company of 12 military vehicles & truck of soldiers, detonating Shuath explosive on truck of soldiers, Ra'adiya explosive on Humvee + jeep with tandem shell, then (2.) advanced towards ambush area, eliminating remaining soldiers at point-blank range with light weapons + (3.) targeted several soldiers who fled towards house with anti-personnel explosive: killed & wounded đ»Continued pre-prepared ambush, (4.) targeting with Tandem shell + Shuath explosive 2 tanks deployed with rescue force: success đ»Sniped soldier Saraya Al-Quds Brigades đ»Bombed soldiers & vehicles infiltrating Civil Administration area with mortars Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades đ»Bombed stationed vehicles with heavy mortars Martyr Abu Ali Mustafa + National Resistance Brigades đ»Targeted gatherings with mortars đFARA'A CAMP, TUBAS, WEST BANK Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades đ»Fierce clashes with machine guns + explosives on forces storming the camp south of Tubas city đ»Fierce clashes continued đ»Ambushed force in the Shahin neighborhood, fierce clashes at point-blank range using machine guns đTULKAREM, WEST BANK Saraya Al-Quds Brigades đ»Detonated explosive device on vehicles storming the town of Anabta: sleeve đ»Violent clashes from point-zero with infantry forces: fatal injuries đNABLUS, WEST BANK Al-Aqsa Martyrsâ Brigades đ»Fierce clashes using machine guns + Zoufi explosive devices on forces invading the east & Balata camp đNOUR SHAMS CAMP, TULKAREM, WEST BANK Saraya Al-Quds Brigades đ»Detonated explosive device on military vehicle: confirmed injuries đ»Fierce clashes with heavy bullets on invading forces đ»Detonated high-impact IED bulldozer đ»Targeted forces with heavy bullets đ»Targeted forces across the camp with heavy bullet đ»Detonated high-impact âMarioâ IED on bulldozer đ»Fierce clashes with all strength & ability against forces & vehicles đ»Targeted invading forces with heavy bullets in fighting axes đ»Fierce clashes with infantry forces from point-zero in: direct casualties đ»Resistance sniper unit targeted occupation sniper locations in a house Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades đ»Fierce clashes with machine guns + IEDs on forces & vehicles đ»Targeted infiltrating forces đ»Targeted invading forces with heavy bullets + IEDs đ»Detonated IEDs on soldiers & vehicles: direct hits Al-Asifah Forces đ»Detonated Asif type IED on military vehicles: confirmed casualties đ»Targeted forces with barrages of direct gunfire đHAIFA DISTRICT, OCCUPIED INTERIOR Hezbollah đ»Targeted "Zevulun" area, north of Haifa with a large rocket barrage đNORTHERN DISTRICT, OCCUPIED INTERIOR Islamic Resistance in Iraq đ»Attacked vital target with drones đ»Drone-attacked vital target for 2nd time Hezbollah đ»Targeted "Kiryat Shmona" settlement with a large rocket barrage đ»Targeted soldiers in "Beit Hillel" with a rocket barrage
#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#israel#palestine news#tel aviv#current events#jerusalem#yemen
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Bonita Wa Wa Calachaw Nuñez (December 25, 1888 â May 12, 1972), was born on Christmas Day in 1888 in the Southern California desert, near the town of Valley Center. She was adopted by an unmarried, wealthy, Irish American woman named Mary Duggan, and she was raised by Mary and her brother, the prominent New York physician, Dr. Cornelius Duggan.
When Nuñez was older, Mary Duggan attempted to get her into Barnard College, but she was refused admittance due to her race. Nuñez later wrote about this rejection stating, "I have not forgotten I was denied the Right [sic] of a college education."
As an adult, and beginning around World War I, Nuñez became active in the Pan-Indian Movement and fought for the rights of Native Americans to join the armed forces. This fight led to her close friendship with the Apache scholar, Dr. Carlos Montezuma. After this, she fought tirelessly for the rights of Native Americans. She often received letters from Native Americans from all over the country, and she would respond with letters of her own as well as money from her welfare checks to help them.
After Mary's death, Nuñez became destitute, and in order to survive, she began selling an "Indian Liniment" made of "Secret Herbs" on the streets of New York City. In the 1920s she began selling her oil paintings on Greenwich Village sidewalks and she quickly became well known in the Greenwich Village outdoor art shows.
Nuñez died in New York City on May 12, 1972 at the age of 83. Her cause of death is not discussed in writings about her work and life, but author Stan Steiner states that "One Spring day she decided that she would die. And two weeks later she was dead." In preparation for her death, she sent 20 of her favorite paintings to the National Museum of the American Indian, settled her affairs (giving the keys to her apartment along with her bankbook and instructions that she should be cremated to a neighbor), and went to the hospital. The doctors ran tests when she arrived, they found no signs of illness, and declared her to be medically healthy. However, before she could be discharged and sent home, Nuñez died at the hospital.
Credit: Wikipedia.
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The Battle of âNegro Fortâ â Inside America's Forgotten Slave Rebellion - MilitaryHistoryNow.com

A year after the Battle of New Orleans, runaway slaves armed by the British occupied a stockade in Spanish Florida. The so called âNegro Fortâ became a mecca for other fugitives from Southern plantations. In 1816, the U.S. Army arrived to crush the settlement. (Image source: WikiCommons)
âThe Battle of the âNegro Fort,â marks a critical moment when the federal government took a decisive stance in support of slavery and its expansion.â
By Matt Clavin
THE TIDAL MARSHES of Floridaâs Apalachicola River were still under the authority of the Spanish crown in 1816, yet the events that took place there would go on to become a forgotten yet tragic chapter in the long and bloody history of American slavery.
It was during that year that an army of fugitive slaves, armed with foreign weaponry and united by dreams of freedom, would fight and die against a legion of American troops and allied Creek Indians dispatched by a future U.S. president bent on their destruction.
The Battle of the âNegro Fortâ marks a critical moment when the federal government took a decisive stance in support of slavery and its expansion.
What would become known as Negro Fort actually sprung from the War of 1812, one of the United Statesâ most misunderstood conflicts. During the contestâs third and final summer, Britain landed hundreds of troops on Floridaâs Gulf Coast in preparation of an invasion of the southern United States.

Still Spanish territories at the time, East Florida and West Florida were neutral in the second war between the American Republic and the United Kingdom. Yet, the uncontested arrival of British troops there suggested the local authorities had ostensibly sided with the redcoats.
Americansâ fears of a Spanish-British alliances only increased when a detachment of Royal Marines erected a sizeable fort on the eastern shore of the Apalachicola River in the Florida Panhandle. Commanders of the new outpost then called upon Native Americans and fugitive African American slaves from across the region to join the British at the fort and together take up arms against the United States. Eventually, more than a thousand Creek, Choctaw, and Seminole Indians, along with several hundred runaways from southern plantations, accepted the invitation.

Following the final ratification of the Treaty of Ghent in the spring of 1815, the British withdrew their forces from Florida. With their powerful allies suddenly gone, most of the Indians gathered at the Apalachicola fort returned to their homes. But the hundreds of fugitive slaves inside the stockade had no place to go and so remained at the abandoned British post. And with the fortâs massive earthworks, wooden palisades and stone buildings at their disposal, along with an arsenal of hundreds of muskets, swords, bayonets and dozens of cannon, the runaways chose to remain there come what may.

Under an informal system of government that can best be described as martial law, this militant black community organized daily for its defence. At the same time, it established important relationships with the neighbouring Choctaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, who provided food and other sustenance in return for weapons and ammunition.
Negro fort was, in a word, formidable.
One British officer who, following the Treaty of Ghent, set out to assist some of the fugitiveâs former owners regain their valuable property offered a curt assessment of fortâs inhabitants.
âThe blacks are very violent & say they will die to a man rather than return.â

In the coming weeks and months, Hawkins and a number of prominent frontier citizens and officials flooded Washington with reports of rebellious slaves and their savage Indian allies running wild across the southern frontier. The accounts were almost entirely exaggerated.
Although clashes between Indians and settlers on disputed lands throughout the American south were commonplace in the early 19th Century, aside from inspiring an exodus of fugitive slaves from the southern states into Florida, the Negro Fort posed no threat to the United States.
None of this stopped the commander of the United Statesâ southern army, General Jackson, from taking bold and aggressive action against the settlement.

Through a careful and calculating correspondence, Jackson ordered General Edmund Gaines, a hero of the War of 1812, invade Florida with 100 regulars, destroy the fort and return all of its black inhabitants to their American and Spanish owners. To ensure an American victory with as few friendly casualties as possible, Jackson secured the assistance of hundreds of Creek warriors by promising them a cash reward of as much as $50 dollars a head for every black slave returned to captivity.

Over the course of the next two weeks, hundreds of pro-American Creek warriors clashed with black rebels in the dense woods surrounding the fort, which at times descended into bloody hand-to-hand combat.
With American troops watching from a safe distance, the number of casualties went unrecordedâthough it must have been considerable.
When a failed sortie by the fortâs defenders was repulsed, an American eyewitness suspected it was only a ruse.
âMany circumstances convinced us,â army doctor Marcus Buck wrote to his father, âthat most of them determined never to be taken alive.â
With a pause in the ground fighting, American army and navy vessels on the river exchanged cannonfire with the fortâs defenders for several days.
The bombardment continued to the morning of July 27, when a heated cannonball, or âhotshot,â fired from U.S. Gunboat 154 flew over walls of Negro Fortâs massive inner citadel, landing directly on a gunpowder magazine.

The response of American officials to the destruction of Negro Fort was muted, largely because the entire campaign was illegal. After all, with neither congressional nor executive authority, the United States armed forces had invaded a foreign territory.
By contrast, southern slave owners hailed the battleâs outcome as the dawning of a new day. A Georgia writer expressed this view when reporting âthe capture of the Negro and Indian Fort, on Apalachicola.â He explained that because of the efforts of his âbrave countrymen,â the southern and western frontiers were now free of the âpredatory incursionsâ posed by black and Indian bandits âwhose numbers were daily augmenting; and whose strength and resources presented a fearful aspect to our peaceful borders.â

Within two years of the Battle of Negro Fort, Jackson and the American army again invaded Florida. The resulting First Seminole War would be the first of three wars between the United States and Floridaâs black and Indian population who simply refused to submit to their northern American neighbours.
Though Negro Fort survived for only a year, its memory endured in the hearts and minds of hundreds of its inhabitants who had abandoned the outpost prior to its destruction. By fleeing to the Florida peninsula and aligning with the Seminole Indians, most of these former slaves carved out difficult but free lives on the outer edges of the American republic.
As many as one hundred of them were even more fortunate, finding not only freedom but peace and tranquility in the West Indies. By boarding trading vessels and escaping to the Bahama Islands several years after the Battle of Negro Fort, they completed the improbable journey from American slaves to British subjects.
#The Battle of âNegro Fortâ â Inside America's Forgotten Slave Rebellion#florida#negro fort#negro abraham#Freedmen#seminole indians#florida enslaved#history of slave settlements in florida
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