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moviestarmartini · 4 months ago

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alta suciedad. — franco colapinto x f!reader

summary: while interviewing franco, you misunderstood what he meant with 'talented with his tongue'. lucky for you, he's more than willing to actually show you his skills.

wc: 2.9k

warnings: interviewer!reader, hispanic!reader, porn with an ounce of plot, set during media day of the austin gp, casual sex, oral sex (fem recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, pull out and pray, mean dom!franco, dumbification, degradation, a teeny amount of praise, aftercare, spanglish/sentences in spanish.

A/N: based on this request and took some inspo from this other anon, i'm literally giggling typing this in order to publish it. no specific song for today even though there's a few references even in the title. hope y'all are hungry!!

“I’m talented with my tongue.”

You didn’t have that much experience when it came to interviewing professionally— you’d been a kid reporter at the same sport you strived to get there, and in the course of getting there, you’ve seen a thousand and one million things that impressed you.

But this?

Your mouth hung open, giving him a few rapid blinks while your brain processed the information.

“You wanna see?” Franco Colapinto insisted, not reading your expression well enough, or ignoring it at the very least.

“¿Aquí?” You blinked, unable to process the event in the main language of the paddock. You were one of the youngest reporters there, but that didn’t mean you were inexperienced. That had just completely caught you off guard.

Franco cocked a brow before showing you and the camera how he could manipulate said organ so the sides touched and a tiny hole formed in the middle.

Yet again he surprised you, or more you surprised yourself with how further down the gutter your mind was at.

“Oh, good!” You snapped out of it, but he had seemingly finally connected the dots, or so the smirk in his face made it seem like it.

“Well, thank you for having us, Franco. Good luck during the weekend.” Your composure was back not even two seconds later, the cameraman soon signaled the transmission was off. A relieved sigh left your lips while your shoulders relaxed, giving your coworker the mic and transmitter to take to the media tent just a few steps away.

You were just turning back to head there as well, ready to get immersed in writing a report before your name was called. Your heels turned you around by force of habit, not realizing the tone in the driver’s voice might mean trouble.

“Yes?” You asked politely, hands clasped in front of you to avoid any chance of fidgeting. Your little crush was idiotic, or so you considered it from the day you first interviewed him.

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” He took a step closer in order to ask the question, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans.

“¿Perdón?” You realized that sounded rude, your voice repeating a better answer soon after. “Seguir trabajando, why?” A frown settled between your brows, head leaning slightly to the right. Where was this going exactly? The confusion only settled further when you noticed his eyes darting around before leaning in.

“Si querés que de verdad te enseñe que puedo hacer con mi lengua, entra al motorhome después de las siete, te dejo la puerta de atrás abierta. Mi cuarto está a la izquierda.” And with that, he pulled away, turned around and left.

You did the same, convinced the idea was just a figment of your imagination, the drought you’ve been suffering for more than a year to get there tricking every nerve in your brain to believe those words. It was settling into the late afternoon, and you worked at a pace Sonic would envy. His words bounced around your gray matter, and after much debating you stayed after the six pm mark, when everyone else left. You peered your head out of your station noticing how the place was almost empty. It was Thursday after all, the whole crews were not active until the following day.

The curiosity got the best of you, and you packed your bag to head there, skittish at the sight of anyone who crossed your way— or at least the few that did.

No one was used to walking behind the team buildings, never mind during what’s considered after hours. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you noticed the door ajar, and no one came in nor out to justify the fact.

“Thought you wouldn’t come.” Franco’s voice snapped you out of the hesitation, arms crossed over his chest.

“I thought I was supposed to come in by myself.” You got the bravery to counter with the way your heart sped up with adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“You’re late.” Franco’s response was quick, witty. His tone made you raise your brow; it was… different. Commanding, you could pinpoint.

“I shouldn’t come out and get you, vení.” Before you could even process it, he took your arm and dragged you inside, going straight down the hallway and taking a left before the door closed shut— no witnesses visible to what he had just done.

“You can sit wherever you like.” He invited, his voice was back to its playful tone. You nodded, putting your bag down by the door and sitting on the small couch near a corner.

“Sos muy bonita, ¿sabías?” He complimented while finishing to fix up his room, side eyeing you.

“Why am I here? What do you want?” You asked bluntly, not accepting the compliment.

“Look, if you wanted me to write positively about you on the piece, you already got it.” You carefully watched him take a seat next to you, and you both turned to face each other.

“Tonta también, ¿no?” It was as if you were ignoring each other’s words, and before you could get offended, his fingertips brushed your hair out of the way of your face. Any smart quip you could’ve thrown at him flew out the window, your lips parting.

“That’s just how you looked at me earlier. When you thought I was referring to something dirty. Tontita.” He inched closer. You couldn’t help but do the same, a bit eagerly, eliciting a laugh out of his lips.

“Do you like me?” It was his turn to be blunt. Without hesitation you nodded, squeezing your lips into a thin line after realizing that might’ve been a mistake. An embarrassing one at that.

“No pasa nada. Vos también me gustás preciosa…” His voice trailed with his head leaning closer, lips brushing against the prickled skin of your neck. “…inteligente…” A kiss pressed to the area. “…y al parecer, puta.”

The gasp disappeared between the blurred lines of your lips and his crashing, the term disappearing in your mind while you kissed him. Your hands gripped the material of his team shirt while his own lowered down your back, pulling you closer, almost on top of his lap.

“¿Hacés esto mucho? Sneak into other drivers’ rooms?” He asked while leaning back down to kiss your neck with a twinge of more harshness, ragged breath leaving your lips while you shook your head ‘no’

“¿Sos muda? Habla.” There was that commanding tone again, his fingers delving into the skin of your thighs to squeeze what he wanted out of you.

“No. Nunca.” You replied with a gulp, leaning your head back to recieve more kisses as a reward for your answer.

“So I’m the lucky winner?” It sounded something between a compliment and a joke, and you decided to humor him a little with a smile.

“One could say so.” You replied, thinking you’ve gotten the gist of it.

“I’m surprised. With that skirt…” He shook his head after tutting, making you figure out the context of his words. You were into it enough to not get offended by the allegation, normally would have defended yourself with the fact it was terribly hot outside. You didn’t like dressing similar to the rest of the reporters in the paddock, and maybe this once it played both in your favor and against it… sort of.

His lips captured yours again, his tongue swiping your bottom lip. You weren’t dumb— even if he liked to say so— parting your lips without complaint, feeling the way your tongues tangled together while he pushed you down until your back hit the fabric of the furniture.

The open mouth kisses started redirecting their path down your jaw, following a trail down the length of your neck. He took the opportunity to breathe your scent.

“Olés tan rico,” He groaned, the growing erection in his jeans pressing against your upper thigh.

“I can already imagine how that pretty pussy tastes. Can’t wait to make you cum just using my tongue.” The idea made you shudder, his hands raising your top to move it out of the way while he kept kissing back. You took the initiative to just pull it over your head and throw it somewhere else.

“You’re so good, stripping for me without having to ask.” Franco cooed, his pace slowing down when his mouth reached down your belly button, making him look at him expectantly.

What you didn’t expect was for him to just tug on your denim skirt up to completely move it out of the way without removing the piece, his knuckles brushing the spot marked with your aroused slickness, your hips involuntarily twitching to lean closer into his touch.

“Si solo te he besado y ya estás re mojadita,” Another coo left his mouth, this one with a certain amount of jest in it. You felt deeply embarrassed in a way your face displayed it, only making his smile grow in size.

Franco almost ripped off the underwear and chucked it somewhere in the room. No moment to adapt was left at your disposition, his tongue pressing flat against your wet core. The noise of a moan coming from you clashed with the hum of satisfaction he felt from the sheer taste of you.

“So sweet,” Franco praised, and those were the last words to come out of his mouth before he started to back up his words from earlier.

The whole situation felt like a dream. Not only the fact he made an advance upon noticing how far down the gutter your mind was, but the fact you even came there in the first place. Not that you regretted it, with how he flicked that sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue.

You didn’t believe his promise earlier— thinking it was just silly dirty talking— but he was proving you wrong. Your moans were the perfect evidence, fingers tangling in his curls while his left hand rose up to grope your exposed breast.

The shuffling noise outside the room made him perk up and away from your dripping cunt, chin glistening with your wetness. He pulled his index fingers to his lips to signal you to be quiet before continuing, but his attempt fell futile. You were reaching your release quick, his magic working a little too well. There was no warning; his other hand left the grip on your thigh to cover your mouth, holding it down a bit too roughly to send a message.

Your muffled moans and cries only set him off, teasing your entrance before licking the trail up to your clitoris, suckling on it. He fluttered his eyes open, and the sight was nothing but completely arousing. Your eyes were rolled back, column arching up while his expert affections tipped you over the edge. Your thighs simultaneously shivered and lightly squeezed his head, and it was enough for Franco to decide he was in heaven.

Once the overwhelming sensation started to wear off, your legs relaxed, allowing him to pull away. With a clearer mind you noticed how his chin and lips glistened before removing the substance with the back of his hand, as if it was just sauce from an actual meal.

“¿Por qué me mirás así?” Franco wondered at your blissful expression. “¿Ya te enamoraste, putita?” There was no verbal answer; he was eager to link his lips with yours again in yet another sloppy makeout session. This once, however, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t feel his erection pressing against your inner thigh.

Taking initiative, your hand lowered down his torso to fumble the button of his pants a little before being able to undo it. A groan followed by teeth tugging at your bottom lip was the reaction you gained from jerking him off slowly under his underwear. That gave you enough confidence to swipe your thumb across the leaking tip in order to tease him.

The sound of a moan from him echoed inside your mouth, a hum from satisfaction leaving consequently. However, your moment of dominance soon faded with his hand slapping yours away before spreading your legs even further— to the point it pulled on the muscles of your inner thigh just a little, the burning sensation mushing with pleasure— the skirt hiking up to rest on your torso.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He leaned in to whisper, feeling him nudge your entrance in order to tease you. The sensation that followed was something similar to your brain shutting down, managing to only nod. The smell of his cologne, his body pressing down on you.

Franco, Franco, Franco, Fran—

“¿Qué pasa tontita? Say it.” He egged you on, threatening to push himself inside, but not making it far enough to bring you satisfaction.

“Yes, por favor.” You begged, getting a chaste kiss for a reward followed by the intrusion spreading your warm walls. You saw the way Franco tried to keep it together, the façade crumbling under a groan. You felt too good. His mind could only pinpoint your body under his, the warmth hugging his stiff dick and electrifying every nerve of his being.

His mind couldn’t stop chanting your name.

“Move,” You asked nicely, though it came out in a huff. He found himself too enthralled to complain at your tone, instead complying.

The lower tone of his moans harmonized with the high pitched of yours, the sound of skin frantically coming in contact filling up the room enough for both of you two to forget what could possibly be going on outside. At least it had been a while since you last heard people outside doing whatever.

“Dios, que apretadita estás,” Franco groaned out loud, his lips brushing against yours. You took the leap, closing the distance between the two of you. But you couldn’t get much out of it due to your own fault, moans interrupting the session.

“No, besáme.” You whined when he pulled away slightly, and a smirk rose at his lips before he locked them with yours, pace increasing. You struggled to engage further, the moans and groans interrupting.

“No, besáme.” Franco replicated your plea from earlier before laughing between heavy breaths.

You couldn’t do anything but pucker your bottom lip out, not finding the words to complain about how mean he was being. Besides, all coherent thoughts disappeared the moment you felt your second orgasm peeking from behind you at a rapid rate. Your nails dug into the uncovered skin of his forearms, just below where the team shirt started covering his biceps.

“¿Por qué me apretás tanto?” He hissed before falling upon the realization, deciding to keep having his fun with you and slowing down.

“Fuck— ¡¿qué te pasa?!” You groaned, feeling the release reeling down into a sensation of being completely stuck midway.

“Dale, decime lo que quieres. De forma bonita, como vos.” He kept his thrusts slow and deep, trying to contain his own release from the pulsating walls squeezing the life out of his cock.

“I wanna cum,” You felt the embarrassment of having to request that out loud settle in your stomach, soon washed over by the sensation the quickening of his hips gave your core.

“Si, si. Franco, that’s it,” You cried out, hiding your face in the crook of his neck while your thighs shivered once more.

Your cunt was so warm and tight he almost didn’t pull out. Almost. After a groan left the back of his throat, droplets of white painted your lower abdomen, thankfully not staining your skirt.

He kept himself supported by his forearms, allowing him to lean in and kiss your forehead and cheeks.

There wasn’t much to be said, you knew that, and so did he. Carefully, he fixed his underwear and pants before getting up, muttering something under his breath in his attempt to find the wet wipes he knew he had… somewhere in the organized clutter of his room.

“Dejá que te limpio,” His voice was tender, the wet tissue dragging across your skin to remove the seminal liquid, before another carefully cleaned the sweat off your forehead and neck.

You thanked him with a nod, unable to hold eye contact for long. Once you felt comfortable you sat up, fixing your clothes and hair before getting up on your legs, still a bit wobbly. You took it upon yourself to clean the damp spot on the couch where you laid, still embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

Quickly, you slipped your underwear on, unaware of the pair of eyes following your every move with a cold calculation.

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” The question he asked to what seemed to be ages ago popped up again, making you turn, just as confused as you were earlier.

“Dormir… cenar. Ya veremos, dijo el ciego.” At your cheeky response his laughter echoed through the room, arms folded over his torso.

“¿Habrá un espacio para mí en esa cena o nos vemos mañana a la misma hora?” He took a step closer. Then another. And another. Until he stood in front of you, leaning down enough to whisper in your ear.

“No importa si no me querés ver hoy en la noche todo caballeroso, mañana procura llegar a tiempo y controlar esa boquita.” Yet again, his voice electrified goosebumps all over your skin.

What did you just get yourself into?

#𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼✽ — writing !#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto smut #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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princessbrunette · 5 months ago

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⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … COINCIDENCE ♡

track six of the short n’sweet series. pairing: toxic!jj x reader. based loosely on the song coincidence by sabrina carpenter. enjoy! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

you and kiara carerra were not similar in the slightest.

both beautiful in your own right, sure — but just… different. she was tomboyish, a natural beauty with the ‘cool girl’ charm. she knew makes of cars, how to play pool and actually be good at it. she got competitive and passionate at sports events. she could make a plain tank top and denim shorts look effortlessly gorgeous. she was kiara — and you were well, you. a real girly girl, nails were always done, not the biggest sports fan and you’d always make sure your bikini matched your flip flops even if you were going to be taking them off the second you reached the beach. you were two people that probably wouldn’t cross paths otherwise, but you can see why she had her eye on you and likewise.

infact, you remember the first time you saw jj maybank — and he’d done a double take to watch you go by while she was still at his side.

granted, it was the very end of their relationship. you’re talking — break up the next day end. but still, it was grounds for you to raise an eyebrow. doubt strikes your chest each time you remember it. what should have been flattering was actually waving red flags in your face.

it wasn’t just a glance either, if you were being totally honest. it was a greedy stare — one that travelled from your face to your feet, every ex girlfriends nightmare when he ended up at your side just a few weeks later.

just like that, kiara started to show up everywhere the two of you were. haunting you like a ghost. she didn’t seem like she loved parties before, much preferring to surf and grab food on a saturday evening — but since you coupled up with the maybank boy you’d think she was hunting for the next Project X — around each turn all dressed up with a drink in her hand, chatting happily away to all of jj’s friends that you didn’t know how to talk to. it set you on edge.

a revenge plot, sure — and you couldn’t blame the girl. you’d be scalded too. you knew to stay out of her way, despite the situation bothering you. you knew jj noticed her scheming, infact she’d occasionally find reasons to talk to him and you’d swallow it down. she was confrontational, you were not — and perhaps guilt was involved, because you’d pathetically glue your eyes to your shoes whenever she’d smugly approach. you daren’t start anything.

you felt paralysed when she approached the blonde at your side at the next party you were at. “dude, can we talk in private?” she stresses solemnly, even glancing your way in reference as if to say ‘without her.’ you look helpless, bless your heart— looking over to jj and just praying her tells her to fuck off finally. but he didn’t, and wouldn’t. he might have been a little toxic in his decision making, but you’d like to think on the inside he was too good of a guy to let her down like that. which is why he presses his lips together awkwardly and nods, giving you a reassuring little pat on your lower back before strolling off with her towards an empty room, running a hand through his hair. you watched him go, you watched her take him away.

you walk to the drinks table and pour way too much liquor into your cup. pope watches, standing nearby having definitely scoped out the situation and sends you this… look. he meant well, but the gaze of sympathy did nothing to reassure you. what did he know? why would he be sorry?

you down the drink, and next thing you know it’s been fifteen minutes and they’re still behind a closed door. you shove your cup into john b’s hand, who looks taken aback but guards it nonetheless, and you storm right up there without thinking. you’re done being the sweet, lenient girlfriend. he wants crazy? you can match that too.

“times up, you can get the fuck ou—” your voice trails off after you swing the door open with such a force. it’s not exactly the sight you were expecting to see, shocked that you weren’t witnessing a head of blonde hair between her spread legs. instead, she paces infront of him in tears, all while he sits on the edge of the bed awkwardly, brow creased. whatever was happening, it didn’t look like cheating.

“of fucking course.” kiara gestures to you before pushing past, wiping her eyes and leaving the room. you clear your throat awkwardly.

“wanna leave?” your voice comes softer this time and he blinks at you.

“‘ya.”

the drive home is weird and suspenseful. he’s gripping the steering wheel and you’re fidgeting and itching, dying to ask what happened. what you saw.

“i just don’t understand why she won’t leave you alone.” your voice decides on a solemn tone as you stare ahead at the dark road ahead of you. jj’s jaw ticks in irritation and his eyes flutter as if resisting an eye roll. you just about catch the expression when you turn your head, and no — it’s not what you were expecting.

“its not really like, up for discussion right now? so can we just—” his hand lurches forward to press the on button to the radio, music ringing out for not even a second before you shut it off just as fast, frowning now.

“no, that’s — don’t be unfair. i’ve been so fucking tolerant jj. you know i have. i have never asked— but— but can you not see how this might concern me?” you feel your face getting hot and your voice raising.

“alright we’re goin’ there— okay! look, babe — she’s my friend. i’ve known that chick since i was like fourteen so this whole issue is kinda bigger than you, i’ll be honest—”

“you’re in a relationship. you left her! why do i feel like i have to hold you so tight or you’re gonna run off to her!”

“i’on know maybe you should be lookin’ at your own trust issues ‘stead of pointing the finger at me.” he pulls into your drive, haphazardly parking the car but neither of you make a move to get out, turning your bodies to face one another.

“trust issues? jj do you really think it’s a coincidence that she shows up everywhere that we’re at? she’s trying to get you back and i don’t know what hold she has over you but you need to stop letting her run you if you wanna stay with me.” you assert, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. he rolls his eyes practically into space, leaning back in his seat as he runs a hand over his face.

“look. she got the wrong idea. last time me n’you had that big fight i… i went over to see her. nothin’ happened i just talked about��us, and i guess she just — she got her hopes up— that’s it, okay—”

“are you serious? jj are you fucking serious?” your voice shakes, and your feet move. you open the car door, being sure to slam it shut before marching to your door, trembling hands fumbling for the keys in your purse. he’s quick to follow, sighing at his own choice of words as he tries to block you from getting inside, continuing to ramble.

“dont be like that, mama. c’mon, you know i wouldn’t go there. you really don’t trust me— like at all?”

“the first time i saw you, you checked me out while you were still with her. you’re not above it.” you sniff angrily as you finally find your keys, shoving past to slot them in the keyhole. he grabs your arm as you pass him, stopping you in your tracks. you always forget how strong he is.

“it ain’t right. i know.” he defends, eyes wide and urgent as he stares down at you. he softens, trying to pull you toward him. “i know.”

“no you don’t. so what, when you lose feelings for me you’ll just toss me to the side when a hotter girl comes along? no thank you.” you shove him off you, storming into the living room and he curses, shutting your front door and chasing you in.

“i’on know what you want from me but i’mma guess it’s some kinda sick reassurance. i told you time and time again that me n’her just weren’t right. we outgrew eachother. end of freakin’ story. you know what? you know what babe? i’mma show you what you do to me.” you feel him on you, manhandling you like some kind of brute, a kidnapper of sorts and roughly lowering you to the ground so he can hold you down on your front no matter how hard you squirm.

nothing in your body is saying no despite your violent wriggling from his grip. infact, on instinct your back arches and you groan, petulantly.

“yeah, tha’s what i thought. all this ‘cos you wanted papa to show you how much he cares? that it? god damn you piss me off.” he grits his teeth, fighting your skirt off your body as he holds your body down with his knees, practically straddling you.

it doesn’t take long for you to get wet, not with the way he’s handling you, with the way he’s talking to you, a hand on your throat pulling your face off the carpet to listen good.

“i was in the room tellin’ her to stop playin’ in my girls face and she was cryin’. that what you wanted to hear? huh? that it’s you over anyone? ‘cus if that’s what you want i can drill it right into that brain all night. pull your panties to the side n’don’t lemme tell you twice.”

your glossy folds part for him when you arch harder, tears on your cheeks that you don’t remember falling as you reach back and peel the panties away from your cunt. you hear him belt buckle and you mewl from habit. it felt so good. it felt so good to be chosen.

“mhm. if i’m so bad, and such a pig, why am i holdin’ you down gettin’ ready to pound your shit right now and not with her? huh?”

you couldn’t answer. maybe this was bigger than you, maybe it wasn’t — but for now you’ll believe his every word. hard not to listen when he’s pushing his tip in.

#short n sweet series 🧁#toxic!jj #jj maybank prompt #and no this isn’t kiara shade it’s just a story

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novaursa · 5 months ago

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Where Dragons Dare (1/3)

- Summary: After you are left greatly injured by a dragon riding accident, the small council puts pressure on your father, King Viserys I, to have another male heir.

- Pairing: (male!targ) reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will go all the way up for the last two parts)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. ❤️ I hope you enjoy the first part. I've tried to fit into this one most of the information you've given me. The rest will be in the next two parts.

- Next part: 2

The council chamber buzzes with tension, thick as smoke, as the lords gathered around the long table cast uneasy glances at King Viserys. The king, grey hairs creeping into his Targaryen silver, wears the weight of the realm across his brow. His gaze is distant, fixed on the empty chair at the end of the table where you, his only son, should be sitting, were it not for the incident that left you bed-ridden, your ribs shattered and your leg mangled. The air is tight, a storm brewing beneath the grand stone arches and tapestries that adorn the walls.

Viserys lets out a weary sigh as Grand Maester Mellos, hunched and robed in the dull grays of his order, speaks. “Your Grace, the Prince’s injuries are… severe. His recovery remains uncertain, particularly with the damage sustained to his leg. There is concern that even if he does survive this ordeal, he may never ride Dallax again.” Mellos’ tone is cautious, as if picking each word with tweezers.

At that, Otto Hightower, ever poised and calculated, leans forward with his usual practiced air of concern. “It is regrettable, Your Grace, but these events could have been avoided had the young prince exercised more restraint. Dragonriding is no sport to be taken lightly, yet Prince Y/N chose to put himself and others at risk with those… dangerous maneuvers during Maiden’s Day celebrations.”

The jab is subtle, but the intent is sharp. Otto’s words are always carefully weighted, his voice smooth as oil yet edged like a blade. There’s a flicker of something behind Viserys’ eyes at the mention of your name, but it’s Corlys Velaryon who rises to your defense before your father can respond.

“Dangerous, you say, Lord Hightower? A dragonrider’s bond with his mount is not something to be dictated by the whims of others,” Corlys counters, his voice deep and resonant. “The Prince, young as he is, shares a bond with Dallax that most dragonriders would envy. To stifle that connection for fear of injury would be to deny what it means to be Targaryen.”

Tyland Lannister, ever opportunistic and sharp-eyed, cuts in with a smooth smile, “While that may be true, Lord Corlys, we cannot ignore the situation at hand. The heir is gravely injured, and we do not yet know the extent of his recovery. The Crown’s stability must be maintained, especially with Queen Aemma carrying another child. We all pray for a healthy son this time, as it would ensure—”

Viserys’ eyes narrow, cutting off Tyland mid-sentence. “You would dare place my son’s potential death before the birth of another heir?” There’s a warning in the king’s tone, though it lacks the sharpness it might have once had. He looks tired, older somehow, as if the weight of his crown presses down harder with each passing year. “Y/N will recover. He is strong, like his mother.”

Otto’s voice slices through the tension again, softer but no less cutting. “No one doubts the Prince’s strength, Your Grace. However, we must be practical. The realm must always have a clear line of succession. Given the uncertainty surrounding Prince Y/N’s condition, ensuring that the Crown is secure with another male heir is not an option to be taken lightly.”

Corlys shoots Otto a disdainful glance, his irritation evident. “It seems some here are quick to forget that Prince Y/N is still very much alive. Would you so easily cast him aside, Hightower?”

Otto doesn’t flinch. “I speak only of the reality we must face. The Prince’s injuries are a reminder of the dangers inherent to our lineage. Daemon Targaryen was much the same in his youth, reckless and bold. Look where that has led him. The realm cannot afford another… unsteady Targaryen to destabilize it.”

Viserys’ face hardens at the mention of Daemon, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It’s no secret that Otto sees you as another Daemon-in-the-making—bold, fiery, and likely to cause as much chaos as your uncle once did. But Corlys, undeterred, presses forward.

“The Prince is no Daemon, and it is folly to compare the two. Y/N is his father’s son, and he carries his mother’s heart in him as well. You speak of him as though he were already lost, yet he fights even now to return to us.”

Mellos interjects, his voice soft yet firm. “We must consider all possibilities. Should the worst happen, the realm would be thrown into disarray if another male heir is not secured. Queen Aemma’s pregnancy provides an opportunity to ensure stability. No one wishes harm upon Prince Y/N, but the Crown must prepare for all outcomes.”

The chamber falls silent as Viserys leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His eyes flicker from one lord to the next, the weight of their words heavy upon him. It is clear that this is not just about your health, but about the fear that haunts every Targaryen king—the fragility of power, and the burden of legacy.

At last, Viserys speaks, his voice measured but lined with steel. “Y/N is my son, my heir. He will recover. We will not speak of replacing him while he yet breathes and fights. The Queen’s child—should it be a boy—will not supplant my son’s birthright.”

The lords exchange uneasy glances, but none dare press the matter further. Otto’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes calculating, already plotting his next move. Corlys gives a satisfied nod, as if some silent victory has been won in this battle of words.

“Let us end this meeting,” Viserys declares, standing abruptly. “My son needs me at his side, not in this chamber, bickering over shadows.” With that, the King strides from the room, leaving the lords in tense silence.

The echoes of that discussion linger, the council divided, the seeds of doubt planted. But in the end, it is your fate, your strength, that will determine the realm’s future. Whether you rise again or fall will shape the course of House Targaryen’s history, and those who doubt you now will soon see just how much fire runs in your veins.

Alicent Hightower’s fingers work restlessly, picking at the skin around her nails until they redden, a nervous habit she can never seem to fully break. Her eyes, tinged with worry, flicker toward Rhaenyra, who paces before the hearth, her face a storm of emotions. The princess is rarely still, her movements a reflection of her restless energy. But today, there’s an undercurrent of unease in her steps.

Rhaenyra finally pauses, catching Alicent’s gaze, her expression softening just slightly. “You’re worried about him too, aren’t you?” Rhaenyra’s voice carries a note of exasperation, though it’s more for her brother than for Alicent. “Everyone is,” she adds, her tone a mix of annoyance and affection.

Alicent nods, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress as she carefully forms her next words. “I heard the fall was… grave. My brother, Gwayne, he’s been beside himself with worry. He asked after Prince Y/N’s condition, but I haven’t had the heart to tell him much, as I didn’t know the truth of it myself.” Her eyes search Rhaenyra’s for any sign of reassurance.

Rhaenyra gives a small, mirthless laugh, though there’s fondness in her voice. “It was a bad fall, yes. Several broken ribs, a twisted leg… it was awful to see him like that, especially with all the blood. But you know my brother—his head’s still intact, and that’s all he seems to care about. He was already jesting the moment I rushed in to see him after it happened. Can you imagine?” She shakes her head, lips curving slightly. “The first thing he told me was that the dragon landing was all Dallax’s fault, as if the creature hadn’t been trying to save him mid-air.”

Alicent lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction, and despite herself, a soft smile graces her lips at Rhaenyra’s words. “That does sound like him,” she says quietly, her voice warm with a touch of relief. “He’s always been kind to me, even when others were not. I thought I might visit him, to see how he fares. But I didn’t want to intrude… especially with everything happening.”

Rhaenyra’s sharp eyes catch the shift in Alicent’s tone, the nervous edge behind her request. Her smirk returns, a knowing look that dances in her violet eyes. “Is that all, Alicent? You simply wish to return a kindness?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but it isn’t cruel—rather, it’s affectionate, as one might tease a younger sister.

Alicent’s cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and her fingers return to picking at the skin of her thumb. “I only thought it would be polite…” she trails off, clearly flustered under Rhaenyra’s knowing gaze.

“Polite,” Rhaenyra repeats, almost to herself, savoring the word like it’s some private joke. Then, with a mischievous glint, she steps closer and leans in as if sharing a secret. “Why don’t we visit him now, then?” she suggests, her voice both challenging and inviting. “I was planning to see him anyway, and I imagine he’s bored out of his mind. You’d be doing him a favor by distracting him from all the fussing Grand Maester Mellos has been doing.”

Alicent blinks, caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. “Now?” she echoes, her heart skipping a beat. She had been expecting to arrange a visit discreetly, perhaps later in the day, but to go now, with no time to compose herself or prepare… She hesitates, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering wildly. But then, she straightens her spine, smoothing out the folds of her dress. “Yes,” she replies with quiet resolve, the flush still faint on her cheeks. “Let’s go now.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Good. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure of it.” She turns and leads the way, her stride confident and purposeful, and for a moment, Alicent is struck by how effortlessly her friend carries herself, a blend of grace and fire that draws everyone’s eyes.

Alicent hurries to match Rhaenyra’s pace, her thoughts racing as they walk down the long corridors of the Red Keep. She’s already imagining what she’ll say when she sees you, how she’ll carefully choose her words to avoid showing too much concern, or worse, revealing the affection she’s kept hidden for so long. It’s no secret that she and you share a certain awkwardness in each other’s presence, a tension that dances between propriety and something unspoken. But perhaps this visit will be different, she tells herself. Perhaps today she’ll find the courage to speak more freely, to let you see the care that lingers behind her usually composed exterior.

The clang of armor and the soft murmurs of passing courtiers fade into the background as the two young women make their way toward your chambers. The air seems heavier the closer they get, anticipation thickening with each step. Rhaenyra glances at Alicent from the corner of her eye, noting the way her friend’s hands twist together nervously. “You know,” Rhaenyra says casually, breaking the silence, “he’s probably expecting me to bring news of the council meeting. But I think he’ll be more interested in who I’ve brought along.”

Alicent’s breath hitches, but she quickly composes herself, offering a light, practiced smile. “I only hope I don’t disturb him.”

Rhaenyra chuckles softly. “Disturb him? You’re more likely to brighten his day, Alicent. He’s been locked away in that chamber long enough. I’d say he could use the company of someone with a gentle touch.”

As they near your chamber doors, the conversation fades, leaving only the echo of their footsteps in the dimly lit hallway. Alicent’s heart pounds in her chest, nerves battling with the quiet thrill of finally seeing you after days of anxious waiting. She takes a deep breath, her hand resting briefly over her stomach as if to steady herself, before glancing at Rhaenyra, who gives her an encouraging nod.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and the first thing Rhaenyra and Alicent see is Queen Aemma, heavily pregnant, perched on the edge of your bed, fussing over you with the care only a mother can give. Her hand smooths the unruly strands of silver hair from your forehead, her gaze filled with a mixture of sternness and deep worry.

“You should be resting more,” Aemma chides softly, adjusting the pillows behind you for the third time. “It’s a miracle you survived that fall. You push yourself too hard, my sweet boy.”

You chuckle, though the sound is edged with the discomfort you try to hide. “Mother, I’m hardly on death’s door,” you say, your voice light despite the tightness in your chest from the bruised ribs. “You’re embarrassing me, fussing like this in front of my guests. I’ve survived worse—remember the time Dallax nearly knocked me off during that storm over Dragonstone?”

Aemma gives you a look of mock disapproval, though her eyes glisten with affection. “That’s no reason for you to go risking your life every time you’re in the saddle. But I suppose I’ll leave you to your visitors. If you need anything, send for me at once.” She leans in, ignoring your protest, and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Behave yourself, and don’t be too stubborn,” she adds with a small smile, before gracefully rising from the bed.

As she turns, Aemma’s gaze softens when she sees Rhaenyra and Alicent by the door. “He’s in good hands now,” she says warmly, giving Rhaenyra a brief but knowing smile, before excusing herself from the room.

Once Aemma is gone, Rhaenyra moves closer, her usual air of confidence returning as she grins down at you. “So, how is my brave brother faring today? Still planning to be back in the saddle by week’s end, or has the council convinced you to take up a life of courtly entertainment with Mushroom?”

You chuckle again, though it comes out more like a wince. “Well, if I can’t fly, I suppose I can stand in the throne room and juggle while Mushroom tells his bawdy tales. It might be just what the court needs to liven things up.” Your eyes gleam with amusement, though there’s a hint of frustration beneath your humor, the kind only Rhaenyra would notice. You’ve never been one to take well to being bedridden.

Rhaenyra snorts in amusement, shaking her head. “I’d pay good coin to see that. Though I doubt our dear father would find it as amusing as the rest of us.”

Your gaze drifts then, catching sight of Alicent standing just a little behind Rhaenyra, her hands clasped together nervously. She gives you a small, polite curtsy, her cheeks tinged with a soft flush. “Prince Y/N,” she greets, her voice gentle, almost tentative. “I heard about your fall, and… I was worried. I hope I’m not intruding by coming here. I—”

“Alicent,” you interrupt, your tone softening as your expression shifts into one of genuine warmth. The playful banter fades, replaced by something quieter, more sincere. “You could never be a bother. I’m glad you’re here, truly.” Your words seem to ease some of the tension from her shoulders, and the corner of your mouth lifts into a reassuring smile.

Rhaenyra looks between the two of you, her smirk deepening, though she wisely stays silent for the moment, letting the exchange unfold.

Alicent takes a hesitant step closer, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she looks down at her hands. “I… I wanted to bring you something,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper as she reaches into the pocket of her gown and retrieves a small, delicately woven ribbon in shades of deep crimson and gold. “It’s just a token, to wish you a swift recovery. I know it’s nothing much, but I thought…” She trails off, the blush deepening on her cheeks as she holds it out to you.

You reach out to take it, your fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment—a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through you. The contact lingers in both of your thoughts longer than it physically lasts, and you catch the way her breath hitches slightly, the same way yours does. “Thank you, Alicent,” you say, your voice softer than before. “It means more than you know. I’ll keep it close—perhaps it’ll speed along this recovery of mine.” Your thumb brushes against the fabric of the ribbon, savoring the thoughtfulness behind the gift.

Alicent’s lips curl into a shy smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of relief and something else—something tender that neither of you have the words for yet. “I’m glad… if it helps even a little,” she murmurs.

Rhaenyra, ever perceptive, clears her throat pointedly, though there’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Well, now that you have such a fine token to aid in your recovery, brother, you’ll be back on your feet in no time. And if you do decide to take up juggling, I’ll make sure it’s the talk of the court.”

You roll your eyes at Rhaenyra’s teasing, but there’s warmth in your gaze as you turn back to Alicent. “Next time, maybe you could bring Gwayne along. I’m sure he’s been worrying just as much as you have.”

Alicent nods, still holding that shy smile. “I’ll see if he can visit soon. He’s always asking after you.”

Rhaenyra steps back, giving Alicent a pointed look before quirking an eyebrow at you. “So, shall we sit and keep you company, or do you have other princely duties to attend to from your bed?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, wincing slightly as your ribs protest. “I think I’m due for a bit of entertainment. It’s been dreadfully dull in here with nothing but Mellos’ remedies and reports from the small council. Stay—both of you.”

With that invitation, Rhaenyra finally settles into a chair near your bed, while Alicent quietly takes the seat on your other side. For a moment, a comfortable silence settles in, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet sounds of the Red Keep outside your window.

But beneath that surface calm, there’s a new feeling—not unpleasant, but charged with possibilities unspoken. You and Alicent exchange brief, sidelong glances, your minds both swirling with thoughts you’re not yet ready to give voice to. And though Rhaenyra pretends to be absorbed in adjusting her skirts, you know your twin far too well to miss the satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

The morning sun filters through the stone arches of the courtyard, casting crooked shadows as you make your way through the Red Keep. The steady thunk of your cane against the cobblestones marks each step, your gait still uneven from the injury. Though you’re no longer bedridden, the limp remains, a constant reminder of the fall that nearly cost you everything. Despite this, there’s a quiet determination in your stride—strength buried beneath the calm exterior. The deaths of your mother and brother cloak your soul and heart with grief, but you continue to go on as months drag on. Because your mother would wish for you to stay strong, you know this in your bones.

You’re just about to reach the library when you hear the low, familiar drawl of your uncle, Daemon Targaryen. “Another council meeting, and once again, your name was left unspoken,” he says, stepping out from the shadows of a nearby pillar. His silver hair gleams in the light, and there’s a sharp edge to his eyes that matches the curve of his smile—part amusement, part disdain.

You pause, turning to meet his gaze, though you remain composed, unbothered by the subtle provocation. “I’m used to it by now, uncle,” you reply, your voice even, almost indifferent. It’s not a complaint, merely a fact, a truth you’ve come to accept. The small council rarely considers your presence necessary these days, not when Otto Hightower holds sway over your father and lords like Tyland Lannister whisper about the need for more ‘stability’ in the line of succession.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing. “Used to it?” he echoes, his voice dropping with barely contained irritation. “They push you aside as if you’re nothing more than an afterthought, a decoration. And you’ve grown comfortable with it?” He steps closer, the intensity in his gaze unmistakable. “You’re the king’s son, his heir, yet you let them treat you like some soft-spoken scribe, buried in books and songs while that leech Otto tightens his hold around your father’s neck.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cane, though your expression remains calm. You meet his eyes steadily, unflinching in the face of his scorn. “I prefer to choose my battles, uncle,” you say quietly. “Like Dallax, I know when to show my teeth. There’s no sense in snapping them at shadows.”

Daemon scoffs, a mix of exasperation and grudging respect in his tone. “Spoken like a poet, not a dragon. You should be making them fear you, not waiting for the perfect moment that may never come. They should see fire in you, boy, not this... apathy.” His frustration is clear—he’s never had patience for subtleties or caution, preferring the boldness of action over waiting in the wings.

But you don’t flinch. You’ve long learned that the fire in your blood doesn’t need to be on display at every moment. “And where did being feared get you, uncle?” you ask with a hint of amusement in your voice. “You’ve been exiled twice, alienated half the court, and have more enemies than friends. If that’s the path you think I should follow, then perhaps I should throw more reckless tournaments and provoke the lords with tales of misrule.”

Daemon’s eyes flash, though there’s a hint of grudging admiration beneath the irritation. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but at least I act. I don’t hide behind patience while others pull the strings. You speak of showing your teeth when the time is right, but when will that time come? When Otto’s scheming has woven its webs so thick that there’s no air left to breathe?”

You give a small, knowing smile. “You mistake stillness for inaction. Even a dragon rests before it strikes.” Then, with a touch of humor, you add, “And besides, Dallax may have thrown me, but I landed well enough.”

That draws a snort from Daemon. “Landed, yes. With a leg that’ll remind you of it every day.” Despite his harsh words, there’s a glimmer of reluctant approval in his eyes. “But you’ve got a point—Dallax hasn’t eaten you yet, so perhaps you’ve earned a measure of respect. Just don’t think that quiet strategy will protect you forever. Sooner or later, you’ll need to show them who you are, nephew. And when you do, make sure they remember it.”

You nod slightly, letting the words hang between you for a moment before you turn away, your pace deliberate as you resume your walk. “I’ll keep that in mind, uncle,” you call over your shoulder, a hint of dry humor lacing your tone. “Perhaps one day, we’ll both show them our teeth together—when it truly matters.”

Daemon watches you go, his eyes lingering on your form as you disappear into the corridors. Despite the tension, there’s an unspoken understanding between you. You both know that fire is not always meant to be unleashed at every provocation—it can burn hotter when contained, waiting for the moment to strike with devastating precision.

But for now, you choose patience, aware that when the time comes, it will be all the more powerful for having been held in check. As you leave your uncle behind, a small, satisfied smile touches your lips. You know your strength, and you’ll reveal it when it’s most needed—not before.

The fire crackles quietly in the small chamber as Alicent sits across from her father, Otto Hightower. The room is dimly lit by the glow of the hearth, and the air feels heavy with unspoken tension. Otto’s eyes are fixed on his daughter, sharp and calculating, as he recounts the events of the recent small council meeting.

“The council remains divided,” he begins, his tone measured. “The matter of succession is still a delicate topic, but it’s clear that the King will not remain unmarried for long. The realm demands stability, and he knows it.”

Alicent’s brow furrows, her head snapping up at the implication in her father’s words. “Father, you can’t possibly be suggesting—”

Otto’s gaze remains steady, unyielding. “I’m not suggesting, Alicent. I’m stating a reality. The King is vulnerable, grieving, and the pressure of the realm weighs heavily on him. It’s only a matter of time before he considers remarriage, and when he does, you must be ready.”

Alicent’s expression hardens, a rare defiance flickering in her eyes. “I won’t do it,” she says firmly, though there’s a tremor beneath her voice. “I won’t be used like this.”

Otto’s patience visibly thins, a tightness forming around his mouth. “Is this about the Prince?” he asks, his voice edged with irritation. “You’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you? You think that because he’s been kind to you, that he’s somehow different, somehow worthy of your loyalty?”

Alicent shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers twisting in her lap as she struggles to find the right words. “He is different,” she insists, though her voice is quieter now. “Y/N is the heir, Father. He’s kind, thoughtful, and gentle in ways that others aren’t. He doesn’t play these games like the rest of them do.”

Otto’s expression tightens, his frustration barely masked. “The boy is reckless,” he snaps, his tone cutting through her protest. “Too much like Daemon, whether you see it or not. He flies that dragon of his in dangerous stunts to impress the smallfolk, and he’s already alienated half the council with his indifference to their politics. You think kindness will make him a strong king? He’s more likely to lead the realm into chaos than rule it with a steady hand.”

Alicent’s chest tightens, anger flaring in her eyes. “He’s not Daemon!” she retorts, her voice stronger this time. “He’s nothing like him. Y/N has a heart that Daemon lacks, and he cares deeply for those close to him. You only see what you want to see because it fits your plans.”

Otto’s eyes narrow, his patience worn thin. “And you see him through the lens of a girl smitten by his gentle words and kind gestures. You think he’ll protect you from the harsh realities of court, but you’re wrong, Alicent. This isn’t about what you want—it’s about what the realm needs. The King’s decision must be guided carefully, and you will play your part.”

Alicent’s heart races, her throat tightening with a mixture of fear and resentment. She knows there’s little room for argument when her father takes this tone. “I won’t betray him,” she whispers, her resolve wavering under the weight of her father’s expectations.

Otto leans forward, his gaze intense. “You’re not betraying him, you’re securing your future—and the future of our house. You will do what’s necessary when the time comes. The King’s affections can be swayed, and when they are, you must be there. You’re a clever girl, Alicent. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. Remember, loyalty to your house comes first.”

She lowers her gaze, the firelight casting shadows across her face. The thought of maneuvering against someone she’s grown to care for—a young man who has only ever shown her kindness—makes her stomach twist with guilt. But Otto’s expectations press down like a vice, and she knows all too well the consequences of disobedience.

“Prepare yourself,” Otto says, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “When I give the word, you must be ready to act.”

Alicent swallows, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of her father’s will. She nods, unable to muster more than that, her mind churning with conflicted thoughts as she tries to reconcile the path being laid out before her. Her heart aches with the burden of what she knows may come—sacrificing her desires for the sake of duty.

As the conversation falls into a tense silence, the crackling of the fire is the only sound that remains.

The Red Keep is quiet in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun casting shadows through the stone corridors. You walk with only a slight hitch in your step now, the limp almost entirely gone after months of healing. It’s a small victory, but one that fills you with a new sense of freedom, a reminder that you’ve come through the worst of it. Yet, as you round the corner into one of the smaller courtyards, the sight that meets you sends a jolt of concern straight through your chest.

Alicent is seated on a stone bench beneath a tall tree, her shoulders trembling with barely contained sobs. Her hands cover her face, and even from a distance, you can hear the quiet, heart-wrenching sounds of her crying. It’s a rare thing to see her like this; Alicent is usually so composed, so careful in maintaining the image of poise that’s expected of her. But here, alone—or so she thought—she’s unraveling.

Without a second thought, you approach her, the concern plain in your eyes. “Alicent,” you call softly, your voice gentle, almost hesitant as you close the distance between you. She startles slightly at the sound of your voice, quickly wiping at her tears in a futile attempt to regain her composure. But it’s clear that the floodgates have already opened, and there’s no hiding the raw emotion in her eyes.

“Y/N,” she manages, her voice catching as she forces a tremulous smile. “I didn’t think anyone would be here…”

You kneel down in front of her, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your leg. “What’s happened?” you ask, your voice full of warmth and concern. “You’re crying, Alicent. Talk to me. What’s troubling you?”

For a moment, she can’t meet your eyes, her hands clenching in her lap as she struggles to hold back more tears. But when she finally looks at you, the anguish in her gaze cuts straight to your heart. “It’s my father,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. “He’s… he’s been instructing me, pushing me to get close to the King. He… he wants me to…” Her words trail off as a fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks. “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a pawn in his games.”

Your expression softens even further as you take in the depth of her distress. Without hesitation, you reach out and gently cup her cheek, wiping away her tears with the pad of your thumb. “You’re not a pawn,” you murmur, your voice low and steady, infused with a tenderness that you reserve only for her. “You’re Alicent—kind, thoughtful, more than any of these schemes or plots.”

She closes her eyes at your touch, leaning into the comfort you offer, as if drawing strength from your presence. “But what choice do I have?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “He’s my father. If I don’t do as he asks, I’ll be seen as disobedient… or worse. I feel trapped, Y/N, and I hate it. I hate how helpless I feel.”

The fierce protectiveness that surges through you is almost overwhelming. You lean in closer, your other hand finding hers and holding it firmly, grounding her. “You’re not helpless,” you say with quiet determination. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You have my word, Alicent. No matter what schemes your father or anyone else tries to weave, I’ll be there. You’re not alone in this.”

Her eyes snap open at your words, searching your face for any hint of doubt, but all she finds is unwavering sincerity. There’s a softness in your gaze that she’s come to rely on, a steadiness that offers her a sense of safety she’s found nowhere else. “But how can you protect me from all of this?” she asks, her voice laced with desperation. “You can’t control what the King decides, or what my father pushes me to do.”

You smile, a gentle curve of your lips that holds both reassurance and quiet confidence. “Perhaps I can’t change everything,” you admit, your thumb still brushing away her tears. “But I can stand by you. I can make sure you don’t have to face any of this alone. And if they try to force your hand, they’ll have to deal with me first.”

Her breath catches at the intensity of your words, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the weight of courtly duties and schemes fading into the background. She clings to your hand, drawing strength from the way your fingers entwine with hers. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that.”

You squeeze her hand gently, offering a small but genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy, Alicent, not burdened with all these games. Whatever happens, you have a choice—and I’ll be here, no matter what.”

There’s a long pause as she looks at you, her heart in her eyes. It’s a look that speaks of more than just gratitude; it’s a mixture of emotions that neither of you can quite name yet, a deepening connection that lingers just beneath the surface. “I believe you,” she says softly, her voice steadying at last.

For a moment longer, you stay there, kneeling in front of her, your presence a quiet but steadfast comfort. The world outside the courtyard feels distant, irrelevant. Here, in this quiet corner of the Red Keep, the schemes and pressures of power seem to hold no sway.

As you help her rise to her feet, your hand still holding hers, you can see a spark of resolve returning to her eyes. “You are not alone,” you tell her, a promise wrapped in those simple words.

And for the first time in what feels like ages, Alicent allows herself to hope that she won’t be swallowed by the games of court—that, with you by her side, she might find a way to reclaim her own path amidst the chaos.

The council chamber is as it always is—filled with tension and the murmur of hushed conversations as lords and advisors deliberate the future of the realm. The lords gathered around the table speak in low voices, with Otto Hightower presiding over the meeting with his usual composed authority. Viserys, looking more weary than ever, listens half-heartedly as discussions about trade routes and tax levies dominate the conversation. Rhaenyra stands off to the side, holding the wine jug as she fulfills her role as cupbearer, her expression one of faint boredom—until the door suddenly creaks open.

All heads turn as you stride into the chamber, unannounced, your cane in hand though you walk with almost no noticeable limp. The lords freeze in surprise, the very air growing still as you make your way directly to your seat at the council table. Your presence is commanding, purposeful, as if you’ve planned this moment down to the finest detail. Rhaenyra’s eyes gleam with amusement as she watches from the sidelines, a smirk curling her lips—she’s the only one in the room not taken aback by your unexpected arrival.

The council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, unsure how to respond. Otto Hightower is the first to speak, his voice laced with thinly veiled irritation. “Your Grace, this is most inappropriate. You were not summoned—”

You cut him off sharply, your gaze piercing as it sweeps across the table. “And it is most inappropriate that I have not been summoned to these talks,” you say coolly, your tone brooking no argument. “I am the heir to the throne, yet it seems my presence is no longer deemed necessary while decisions are made that affect my future and that of this realm.”

Viserys opens his mouth to intercede, but you raise a hand, your eyes never leaving Otto’s. “Save your apologies, Father,” you continue, your voice growing firmer. “This is not a matter of oversight or courtesy. It’s a matter of respect—respect that has been slowly eroding while certain parties here conspire to keep me in the dark.”

Beesbury and Tyland exchange nervous glances, both lords visibly shifting in their seats. The weight of your accusation hangs in the air like a blade, unspoken but understood by all. Otto, however, remains collected, though there’s a glimmer of annoyance in his eyes. “No one seeks to replace you, Prince Y/N,” Viserys says, attempting to smooth over the tension. “You are my son, and my heir. There is no question about that.”

You scoff, your gaze now locked onto Otto with unyielding intensity. “Is that so?” you reply, your voice laced with challenge. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe when whispers circulate through the court, and when my own seat at this table has been deliberately left empty.” Your gaze flickers briefly to Beesbury and Tyland, who both quickly avert their eyes, before returning to Otto. “I know about the talks. I know about the concerns for the continuation of the Targaryen bloodline. If that is what worries this council so deeply, then perhaps it is time I address it myself.”

The room goes utterly silent, every lord and advisor hanging onto your next words. Viserys looks puzzled, while Rhaenyra’s smirk widens, her eyes alight with curiosity and pride. “What are you saying?” Viserys asks, trying to understand where this is leading.

You straighten in your chair, your voice clear and decisive as you deliver your next statement. “I have decided that I will marry.”

The words drop like a stone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the room. Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, while several of the lords exchange stunned looks. Even Rhaenyra, though aware of your intentions, seems momentarily caught off guard by how bluntly you’ve declared it. But the greatest reaction comes from Otto Hightower, who immediately tenses, his carefully constructed mask of composure slipping just slightly.

“Marry?” Otto repeats, disbelief tinging his voice. “Your Grace, this is a most sudden decision—”

“Sudden, perhaps,” you say, cutting him off again, “but necessary. If the continuation of the Targaryen line is such a concern, then I will see to it myself. And I already know who I intend to wed.”

The room waits with bated breath, every eye fixed on you as you pause for dramatic effect. Then, with absolute certainty, you deliver the bombshell: “I will marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

A shocked silence follows, broken only by the sound of Otto’s breath catching in his throat. The lords gape, disbelief etched into their faces, and Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, a mix of confusion and relief crossing his features. But it is Otto whose reaction is most striking—his face blanches, a rare display of genuine shock. “This is…” he begins, clearly scrambling for control, “This is not—”

You turn to him, your expression hardening, your voice cold and edged. “Are you offended, Lord Hand?” you ask pointedly. “That your daughter would one day be Queen? Is this not the very opportunity you’ve sought?”

Otto’s mouth opens, but no words come out as he searches for a response. You can see him weighing his options, assessing whether to push back or accept the twist of fate you’ve thrown at him. Before he can gather his wits, Corlys Velaryon’s deep voice rumbles through the chamber, breaking the silence.

“If Lord Hightower finds this match disagreeable, perhaps the Prince would consider my daughter, Laena, instead. The blood of Old Valyria would be preserved, and such a union would strengthen House Targaryen’s ties with the Velaryons.”

You hold back a smile at Corlys’s calculated offer, knowing full well that he’s taking advantage of Otto’s moment of hesitation. Otto’s eyes narrow at Corlys’s interjection, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he realizes he’s being cornered. Backing down would mean missing out on the very outcome he’s been subtly maneuvering toward, even if it wasn’t quite in the manner he’d intended.

After a long moment, Otto exhales slowly, carefully regaining his composure. “Of course, Your Grace,” he finally says, his tone clipped but respectful. “I… only wish for what is best for both you and the realm. If this is your decision, then I will see to it that the arrangements are made.”

You nod, satisfied, as you see the acceptance in his eyes. “Good,” you reply, your voice firm and unyielding. “Because I have no intention of letting anyone else dictate the future of this house. The realm needs strength, unity, and continuity, and I will see that it is achieved—on my terms.”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, realizing that they’ve just witnessed a pivotal shift in the dynamics of power within the Red Keep. Rhaenyra’s smirk remains, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she watches you assert your authority, while Viserys seems both relieved and unsettled by your newfound determination.

As the meeting continues, there’s no doubt left in anyone’s mind—you are no longer the sidelined prince. You are a force to be reckoned with, and the council now understands that you will not be ignored or underestimated.

The sun filters softly through the arched windows of the Red Keep, casting warm golden light over the ladies of the court as they gather in one of the sewing chambers. The room is filled with the gentle murmur of idle conversation, the sound of thread sliding through fabric, and the occasional soft laugh. Alicent sits among them, her focus on the delicate embroidery she’s working on. Her hands move with practiced grace, though her thoughts are distant, lingering on the conversation she had with her father and the weight of the expectations he’s placed on her.

She’s lost in her thoughts when a familiar figure bursts into the room with the energy of a brewing storm. Rhaenyra sweeps into the chamber, her eyes scanning the room until they land on Alicent. The princess’s expression is one of unbridled excitement, a grin wide and mischievous spreading across her face. “Alicent!” she calls out, her voice ringing with barely contained glee.

The ladies of the court look up from their work, startled by the princess’s sudden entrance. Alicent rises from her seat, her brow furrowing in confusion as she sets aside her embroidery. “Rhaenyra,” she says warmly, though with a hint of uncertainty. “What’s gotten into you? You look like a dragon who’s caught a sheep.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, her grin widening as she takes Alicent’s hands in her own. “I wanted to be the first to congratulate you,” she says, her eyes alight with barely restrained amusement.

Alicent blinks, bewilderment etched across her delicate features. “Congratulate me?” she repeats, glancing around at the other ladies, who are now watching the exchange with rapt attention. “I don’t understand—what are you talking about?”

Rhaenyra leans in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for the other ladies to hear and exchange curious glances. “You don’t know? Oh, Alicent, you’re going to be married.”

The world seems to tilt for Alicent, her breath catching in her throat as her heart pounds wildly in her chest. “Married?” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. “What… what do you mean? To whom?”

Rhaenyra’s grin softens into something more sincere as she watches the realization dawn on Alicent’s face. “To my brother, of course. Y/N announced it himself in the council meeting not half an hour ago. He declared that he’s decided to marry you.”

For a moment, the room seems to spin, the words hitting Alicent like a physical blow. Her chest tightens, and she feels a flush rise up her neck as her mind races to catch up with what she’s just heard. “He… he said that?” she asks, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something else—something that makes her heart skip a beat.

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she squeezes Alicent’s hands. “He did. Right there in front of everyone. You should have seen the look on Father’s face—he was stunned, and Otto nearly choked on his own breath. And you know what’s even better? He said it with such certainty, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’s chosen you, Alicent. You’re going to be a queen one day.”

Alicent’s legs feel weak beneath her as the gravity of the situation sinks in. Her mind flashes back to the conversation with her father, to the pressure and expectations, to the fear that she would be forced into a match she had no say in. But this—this is something entirely different. Y/N chose her. Not because of Otto’s schemes or because it was expected, but because he decided it. The thought is overwhelming, both terrifying and thrilling all at once.

She struggles to find her voice, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of disbelief, gratitude, and apprehension. “I… I never imagined…” she stammers, unable to form a coherent sentence as she tries to process what this means for her.

Rhaenyra’s expression softens as she sees the turmoil in Alicent’s eyes. “You’re shaking,” she says gently, releasing one of Alicent’s hands to brush a stray tear from her friend’s cheek. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you should have seen the way he spoke about it. He was so resolute, so determined. And you—you deserve this happiness, Alicent. You deserve someone who sees you as more than just a tool in their schemes.”

Alicent’s breath shudders as she tries to regain control of her racing thoughts. “But what if… what if this is just another game? What if he’s being pushed into this?” she whispers, her voice laced with fear and doubt.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her expression turning fierce. “No. This isn’t like that. My brother’s no fool, and he’s not one to be forced into anything he doesn’t want. This was his choice, and I think it’s about time someone reminded the court that he’s more than capable of making his own decisions.” Her grin returns, wry and full of pride. “And besides, I think you know him better than anyone else. You’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, and a fresh flush colors her cheeks. She’s known for some time that there’s been an unspoken connection between her and Y/N, but she never dared to hope it would lead to something so monumental. The thought of being his wife, of standing beside him as queen—it’s as daunting as it is exhilarating.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she finally manages, her voice thick with emotion.

Rhaenyra’s smile softens into something more tender as she pulls Alicent into a warm embrace. “Then don’t say anything yet. Let it sink in. But know this—you’re not alone, Alicent. You have me, and you have him. And now, you have a future that’s yours to shape.”

As they part, the ladies of the court begin whispering excitedly among themselves, the news spreading like wildfire through the chamber. But Alicent barely notices, her mind still spinning as she tries to grasp the enormity of what’s just been revealed. For better or worse, everything has changed in the span of a single afternoon.

And somewhere deep in her heart, beneath the fear and uncertainty, a flicker of hope begins to bloom.

The sound of your boots echoes as you step into the Dragonpit, each footfall deliberate and heavy against the ancient stone floor. The cavernous space looms around you, darkened by shadows cast by the great arches above, yet the air hums with the presence of power—dragons and their keepers. You wear a deep, crimson coat embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of coiling dragons, the rich fabric tailored perfectly to your frame. Beneath it, your tunic is a dark charcoal, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, and black riding gloves encase your hands. Your hair, a cascade of silver, is tied back in a loose knot, allowing a few strands to catch the breeze. The light armor you wear, adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, adds an edge of battle-readiness to your regal attire. Today is not merely for show—it’s a declaration of your return to the skies.

The Dragonkeepers, clad in leather armor and bearing the scars of long service to the dragons, bow slightly as you approach. Their deference is not out of fear, but out of respect for what is to come. With a silent nod from their leader, they move aside to reveal the imposing silhouette of your dragon.

Dallax emerges from the shadows, his massive form a study in sleek, predatory grace. His scales are a deep, inky black that gleams like polished obsidian under the faint light. Unlike most dragons, his eyes are not the usual shade of fire-yellow; they are a striking, luminescent green, gleaming with intelligence and an almost unsettling awareness. His pupils narrow to slits as he focuses on you, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. His body is built for agility and speed, lean but powerful, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. But it’s his teeth that make him most unique—when he’s calm, they are hidden away, retracting into his jaw, giving him a deceptively benign appearance. But you know better; when agitated or in the heat of battle, those teeth emerge like rows of daggers, sharp and menacing. It’s no wonder Rhaenyra affectionately calls him “Toothless” when she’s in a playful mood.

You take in the sight of him, a thrill running through your veins. It’s been months since you last mounted him, but the bond between you remains unshaken, as if it were a living thing forged in fire and blood. Dallax’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment, the unspoken understanding passes between dragon and rider. He has waited, patient but eager, for this moment as much as you have.

The Dragonkeepers pull back as you stride forward, your limp almost unnoticeable now, a testament to the months of recovery you’ve endured. With a firm hand, you reach up and grasp the saddle harness, your fingers gripping the familiar leather. In one smooth motion, you pull yourself up and swing your leg over Dallax’s back. You settle into the saddle, feeling the comforting weight of the straps as you secure yourself. Dallax shifts beneath you, his wings unfurling slightly, the dark membrane stretching wide, catching the breeze as if testing the air.

You take a deep breath, the scent of leather, smoke, and ancient stone filling your senses. “Fly,” you whisper in High Valyrian, a command and a plea all at once.

With a growl that vibrates through his entire frame, Dallax lowers himself briefly before launching into the air with a powerful surge of muscle. The ground falls away beneath you as his wings beat with precision, each stroke lifting you higher until the walls of the Dragonpit are a blur. The rush of wind tears at your hair, your coat billowing behind you like a banner as Dallax ascends into the open sky.

As you break free into the sunlight, the city of King’s Landing sprawls out below, the rooftops and winding streets glinting in the late afternoon light. Dallax roars—a sound both thrilling and terrifying—as he soars above the Red Keep, his shadow sweeping across the stone battlements like a predator stalking its prey.

From her chambers, Alicent stands by the window, her eyes fixed on the sky as she watches you fly. Her hands are clasped in front of her, a mixture of awe and fondness in her expression as she traces your flight path. You cut through the clouds with an effortless grace, Dallax responding to every shift of your body as if you are one being. For the first time in what feels like ages, there’s no tension in Alicent’s shoulders, only the quiet joy of seeing you in your element—free and commanding, a true Targaryen heir.

Behind her, Otto Hightower steps forward, his expression a mix of calculation and displeasure. He watches silently for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he observes the ease with which you handle your dragon, the majesty of it undeniable. “He’s just like his uncle,” Otto mutters, more to himself than to Alicent. “All fire and pride—reckless.”

Alicent doesn’t turn to face her father, but her smile lingers, soft and secret. “Perhaps,” she replies, her voice distant, her gaze still following your every move. “But there is more to him than you see, Father.”

Otto’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he says nothing more, turning away from the window. To him, dragons are dangerous, unpredictable forces that must be controlled. But to you, they are freedom itself—a reminder that no matter how thick the walls of the Red Keep or how intricate the webs of intrigue, you are a dragonrider first and foremost, and no one can cage that fire.

As you guide Dallax into a steep dive, pulling up at the last moment to skim over the rooftops of the city, you feel a deep, exhilarating rush. The wind in your face, the roar of your dragon, and the vast sky stretched out before you—it’s a sensation unmatched by anything else, a reminder that the world is yours to claim, one way or another.

You circle back toward the Red Keep, allowing Dallax to level out and glide effortlessly. From below, you see Alicent at the window, her face turned upward, her smile radiant and full of something unspoken—pride, affection, and hope. For a brief moment, you dip your wings in her direction, a silent acknowledgment that she sees you for who you are, beyond the politics and the expectations.

#house of the dragon #hotd alicent #hotd #alicent x y/n #alicent x you #alicent x reader #alicent hightower #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x male reader #hotd x you #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #daemon targaryen #otto hightower

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meiyudo · 6 months ago

Text

A Champion's Game

timeskip!ushijima x f!reader

Wakatoshi claims a win for Japan in the 2021 Olympics and you are able to witness his greatness on and off the court (established relationship)

word count: 6274

cw: fem!reader, fingering, Oral (m&f receiving), unprotected sex, cursing, P in V, they're v horny, minors dni

A/N: to my regulars who r here for vader and ani content- im sorry- something possessed me to write this after seeing one too many volleyball ads on the Tokyo subway tvs haha- will get back to ani stat (next fic is alr in the drafts hehe)

______________________________________

A deafening slam rang through the Olympic stadium as one of Japan’s monster generation players dealt the final (and winning) blow.

The crowds were silent for a moment, taking in all that had happened- painstakingly long, intense rallies for God knows how long. Both the Argentinian and Japanese teams scored unbelievable points with both teams using their versatile and skilled players in just the right way.

The match was stressful and every player was wearing down by the end but in the last moments one player unexpectedly stepped up.

Ushijima Wakatoshi- a man of few words and even fewer mistakes- was the one that ended the match with one of his famous spikes.

The arena bursted into a thunderous applause as Ushijima’s feet landed back onto the court below him.

His chest heaved in exhaustion and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead- once he realized he secured an Olympic win for his team he threw his left fist into the air and yelled out in celebration as his teammates swarmed him in excitement. But his olive eyes darted toward the crowd in search for the very reason he was able to muster up the energy to score.

You.

You were sitting pretty close to the court as you were sitting with the families and special guests of the other players. Originally you weren’t going to make it to watch Ushijima at any of his Olympic matches- your job didn’t really allow for long periods of leave and earlier in the year you had taken time off to visit relatives.

So a few months back when Wakatoahi told you the match schedule, you sadly shook your head and told him you wouldn’t be able to make it. Of course he was a little upset but he understood that your career was as important to you as volleyball was to him.

He did well not to show you how much it upset him, but after dating the guy for years, you could tell he was down. And rightfully so- you wanted to be there for one of the most important matches of your boyfriend’s career.

So for the weeks leading up to the Olympics, you had sneakily been networking a way to be able to come- every night after Wakatoshi would fall asleep, you’d slip out of bed to make phone calls, send emails, and work overtime on some projects that needed to be done.

You weren’t even sure if all of the extra work would pay off to allow you to go, but you did it nonetheless- at least it gave you a chance.

It wasn’t until a whole week after you dropped Toshi off at the Airport with a deep kiss that you got the glorious email from your boss allowing you your time off.

You sped home and hopped onto your computer to book a flight; since there was so much air traffic due to the iconic sporting event there weren’t many tickets left, but you found one for the next day…

His last game.

The flight would get in right as the game started and after you factored in going through customs and getting a taxi there- it put you a little over the halfway mark; you reminded yourself that it was better to get there late then to not show up at all.

The whole flight you prayed that you wouldn’t be too late so once the plane docked you were sprinting to customs and ordering an Uber in line.

It had been a long 24 hours to say the least, but at least you made it.

And oh was it worth it.

Once you got to the stadium you had a little bit of trouble getting to the VIP/ Athlete reserved space but thankfully Iwaizumi was walking by and let you in.

“I didn’t expect to see you here” the spiky haired man chuckled as he gave you a quick hug.

“Ushiwaka has really been pouting about you not being able to come for weeks”

You blushed as you thought of your big strong boyfriend brooding in the corner at practices while everyone else raved about the upcoming games.

“Yea, I’m honestly surprised, myself. I really didn’t think my boss was gonna let up” you admitted as Iwazumi walked you to the reserved section.

“Well the match is pretty tight- but either way Wakatoshi will be thrilled to see you” he said before heading back to the coaches.

The section was filled with other players’ significant others, families, and even a few of the older ones’ kids.

You quickly recognized Bokuto’s sisters as they excitedly motioned you over to sit with them- the Bokuto’s were always so inviting.

The three of you caught up briefly before the game entered its final moments- you excused yourself and walked straight up to the barrier between your section and the court so you could watch more intently.

On the court, Ushijima felt his body wearing out- sure he was used to long matches but the stress and exhaustion of this match created was finally catching up to him. It wasn’t until he saw his excitable teammate look to the stands to wave at his sisters that he also spared a glance.

There was no reason for him to look at the section since he had no one to look for, but he thought seeing some familiar faces might give him more motivation.

He felt his heart skip a beat once his tired eyes landed on an all too familiar figure. No one would have known how excited he was because of his usual stoicism but once he demanded the next balls be sent to him his teammates all began to realize.

Bokuto was the first to notice your arrival because you were sitting with his sisters but once Hinata realized the reason for Ushiwaka’s reinvigorated spirit, he loudly let the rest of the team know that they needed to toss Ushijima the balls. It was no secret to his team that your boyfriend was enamored with you and would become even more focused when you were around.

Especially now, Wakatoshi was determined to win the match and show you just how hard he had been working recently, so he did just what he said he would.

He won the game.

And that’s where you were now, waiting in the stands with your hands over your heart as you watched your victor celebrate with his team before closing the game with the traditional respects to their competition.

As soon as he could break away from the team he was running towards the stands with a wide smile on his usually stoic face. You waited in electric anticipation as he crossed the court for you- his taught muscles pulling, his hair bouncing, his tight jersey… he looked so damn good.

Once he reached the barrier you leaned down and reached out to him. Breathlessly, he kissed the back of your hand and held it to his face, making your heart flutter.

“My Love”, his deep voice rang; raspy from hours of shouting.

“You came.”

If you weren’t his lover, you would have missed the slight glaze of his olive eyes, a sheen of emotion only you could evoke.

“I couldn’t miss it, Toshi” you smiled, making his heart race.

____________________

Ushijima had never rushed off a court so quickly; he almost seemed to teleport to the showers right after the match.

The media might have tried to dig up dramatic romance stories with Ushijima as the main star but there was no doubt that the silent opposite hitter was enraptured by you.

No media outlet could replicate the amount of love that spilled from the photos of your reunion outside the locker room.

He exited the lockers with the others, but immediately made a bee-line for you, pulling you into a warm embrace. Before you could even congratulate him, the brown-haired man had scooped you up into his strong arms and slotted his lips against yours.

You gasped against him but gave in nonetheless; the adrenaline must have really been pumping through his veins because he had never been so forward in public. Once he finally broke the passion fueled kiss, he kept a strong hand on the back of your head as he rested his forehead against yours.

He smelled of his timbery body wash and natural musk that you inhaled greedily, his olive eyes still shining brightly as you placed gentle hands on the sides of his face. You had never seen him so happy.

“You did so well, baby- I’m so proud of you” you smiled as you pressed another kiss to his curved lips.

He was just about to respond when he was cut short by an exaggerated wolf whistle from Atsumu Miya. Usually Ushijima would grumble out of annoyance when his eccentric teammates would begin their teasing, but he genuinely couldn’t care less today.

He gently placed you back onto your feet and returned to his normal stoic expression once his teammates approached; he readied himself for a bit of small talk with a large hand still snaked around your waist.

“Hey hey hey, You must be pretty damn proud of your wonder boy, huh?” Bokuto smiled from behind the blonde man.

“I definitely am, but I can’t say I’m surprised, '' you said before smiling up at him; Ushijima’s eyes had returned to their usual indifferent state, but softened ever so slightly when he looked down at you.

“He’s been practicing really hard”.

Ushijima did smile at that.

“But all of you guys did really well, I can tell that you’ve been working on your jumps, Hinata-san, your accuracy has improved a lot since the last match I saw you in Miya-san. Oh! And Bokuto-san- You always have so much power behind your spikes!” you smiled as the small group of guys in front of you basked in your compliments (especially Bokuto).

Hinata blushed at your compliments while Atsumu thanked you; Bokuto on the other hand was getting a little too excited- asking you about his performance and how it compared to others. His enthusiasm didn’t bother you since you had known Koutaro for years but the silent man behind you was becoming a bit peeved.

Wakatoshi wouldn’t consider himself a jealous individual, but when his teammates were in front of you basically basking in your sweet words (words that he wanted for himself) he was becoming impatient. In the midst of this conversation he realized that he didn’t even know how long you’d be able to stay since your work was so stingy- then he really wanted to go.

He wanted to celebrate this victory with you, savor your company, make love to you. Basically anything but still be here.

Ushijima was about to excuse the two of you when the other teammates came out of the lockers and friends, family and press came from the other side. Soon he was separated from you and flooded with congratulations and compliments from not only his teammates and their families but also people he didn’t even know began shoving microphones and cameras in his face. In the midst of his excitement and adrenaline, he completely forgot about the post game panel he was definitely going to be asked to be on. He clenched his jaw and calculated how quickly he would be able to get it over with.

You didn’t mind waiting for him, after all this was his big day and he deserved all of the recognition he got, but you did know that he wasn’t the biggest fan of all of the fanfare. Once he was rushed into the after-game panel (which you also forgot about), you waited on the sidelines with the other teammates to watch.

“So Ushijima, we saw you wearing down about ¾ of the way into the match but then at the very end you seemed to perk right up, hitting point after point! What reinvigorated you that late into the game?” a tall reporter with tortoise shell glasses asked.

The cameras were on Ushijima again; he sat up straight and nodded before pulling the mic closer; soon, his deep voice rang through the speaker system.

“Someone very important to me showed up unexpectedly.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his blunt response; the media always tried to get headline interviews with him but he really just wasn’t much of a talker.

“Any elaboration?” the interviewer almost begged.

Ushijima thought for a moment before shaking his head, “None. That is what happened”.

Defeated, the interviewer moved on to the next reporter’s question.

Once the panel concluded, Wakatoshi really just wanted to find you and go to his hotel but when he exited the room he was met with a lobby full of people eager to converse. He was running out of energy (energy he wanted to save for you).

Ushijima sighed when he finally spotted you across the room talking to Bokuto and his black haired friend from highschool… What was his name again?

Nevermind. He needed to be alone with you.

As he approached the three of you he finally heard your sweet voice.

“Ahhh I’ve heard great things about that shonen! How do you like-”

Your eyes widened when you felt the familiar sensation of your boyfriend’s strong arm pulling you close to his chest.

“Toshi! There you are!” you squealed, squeezing his forearm.

“I was just asking Bokuto-san if he had seen you when Akaashi showed up! You remember Akaashi-san right? He was the setter for our highschool’s volleyball team when we were all at Fukurodani!” you smiled.

Oh, yes- Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto’s boyfriend.

Ushijima gave the other silent man a curt nod, “Hope life has been treating you well, Akaashi.”

“It has, I see you have been doing well too. Congratulations by the way- you really are amazing on the court” Akaashi said before the other volleyball player began to pout.

“Babe, you still think I’m just as amazing right?” Bokuto whined. Akaashi playfully rolled his eyes before turning to the buff man beside him.

You watched the pair for a moment before you felt Ushijima tighten his grip around your waist- you knew his social battery was running out and that he was getting overstimulated. You turned towards him to see his pupils begin to dilate at your sudden attention.

You brushed his cheek with your soft palm before pressing a tender kiss to his chest, “I know baby, we’ll leave right after this”.

Ushijima hummed in response, he loved how well you could read him. He spent most of his life being misunderstood and making matters worse when he tried to explain; but it was just like a whole different world when it came to you.

You exaggeratedly looked down at your watch before announcing that you didn’t know how late it had gotten. You bid the couple farewell before your boyfriend trailed you towards the private exit.

He took your black backpack from you and slung it over his shoulder and held your purse with his free hand; he was always so thoughtful.

Ushijima scanned the area to make sure there would be no more unwanted attention to disturb you and him; once he concluded you were in the clear he bent down to press a kiss to your temple as he gently held your head closer to his lips.

“I’ve missed you so much, My love” he sighed into your soft floral-scented hair.

“Where’s your suitcase?” Ushijima stopped to ask before exiting the facility.

“I just have my backpack and purse” you shyly smiled hoping your routine oriented boyfriend wouldn’t scold you for forgetting the necessities.

But much to your surprise he just nodded, “No problem, I’ll take you shopping later”.

God, sometimes you forgot your boyfriend was a world famous athlete (with a world famous salary).

Once you reached his private car, he tossed your bag in the back before opening the car door for you. His warm hand rested itself on your thigh once he was situated next to you in the black leather seat. The driver paid no heed to you and Wakatoshi as he kept his trained eyes on the busy street in front of him.

With the hotel so close in reach, Wakatoshi felt his excitement (and something else) growing once more- now that he was away from the crowds and with you.

Ushijima hadn’t even imagined how after the game would go if you were here because he was so sure you’d miss it. He supposed that he would just go back to his room, call you and then go to sleep, but now that you were here, he had no plan at all.

All he knew was that your thighs were tensing with every brush of his hand and your nicely manicured nails were subtly clawing at his bicep. He hesitated before looking towards you because he knew exactly what expression was on your pretty little face and he didn’t know if he had enough self control left to hold himself back.

Like the answer to a prayer the driver pulled into the circle of the hotel the athletes were staying in- Ushijima thanked the man and helped you out of the car before discreetly tucking his growing length into his waistband.

You barely had time to marvel at the fancy hotel before your eager boyfriend was ushering you into the elegant elevator. He pressed the 11th floor and took his place by your side; of course he was eager, but he still had the decency to not go too wild with the risk of being caught.

He snaked an arm around your waist and gave your ass a tight squeeze as he exhaled shakily. The elevator dinged and soon you were at your floor- Ushijima basically carried you to the room, key card ready to open the heavy wooden door. Once inside he shut the door and turned to you with open arms; you knew what he wanted and gladly complied.

You jumped into his arms and wrapped your legs around his waist as he ran his desperate hands up and down your body. He hungrily kissed you while you raked your fingers through his hair.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Toshi” you breathed into his kiss making him weak in the knees.

Wakatoshi took a moment to admire your flushed face and all at once he felt his high returning to him. His team just won their final Olympic match. He scored the last winning points. You were there and witnessed the whole thing.

You were here.

He just won an Olympic match.

Nothing could bring him down right now.

He was brought out of his hazy thoughts once you began grinding your hips against his. He drew his brows together and groaned as you drug your manicured nails across his broad shoulders.

Soon he had you caged under his expansive figure; lying on the plush comforter of the large king bed, you relished the overwhelming heat radiating off of your boyfriend’s large frame.

Ushijima felt every muscle in his tired body begin to tense as your burning touch traveled the expanse of his sculpted body.

“Missed you so much” he panted into the side of your neck between greedy kisses and bites.

His light brown hair was soft between your fingers as you lightly tugged the loose strands. He moved his attention to your clothed breasts as he pawed at the soft mounds through your tight shirt.

“I can see that” you giggled as you lightly caressed the underside of his thick cock through his sweats.

“But respectfully, Toshi- I think I missed you more” you said with a slight smirk as you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him down onto you so that his bulge was flush against your pulsing core.

His eyes shut and he breathed out a small “shit…” as your skilled fingers worked to undo his bottoms. As soon as the tie was undone he was quick to shove the pants down.

Your breath caught in your throat as you clearly saw his thick long cock straining against the stretchy fabric of his boxer briefs. God how was Wakatoshi even real?

Before you could finish drooling over the sight of his massive bulge, he had your bottoms off too. You had worn a matching set because you knew that no matter which way the game went, you’d still be seeing your lover today. Funny thing was that the match was so early that it was barely noon and you were already getting to it.

Wakatoshi sat back on his haunches and just admired the sight before him. The large man’s chest heaved as he watched the damp spot on your panties begin to widen with every passing moment. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he looked concerned, but you knew he was just taking everything in.

“Baby…” you cooed as you slowly sat up to meet his eyes.

He quickly snapped out of his daze and tightly grabbed your hips; he kneaded at the flesh slowly but sensually, slightly running his callused hands up your waist. You couldn’t help but moan as one of his long fingers ran under the waistband of your panties, just to pull it back so it snapped you harshly.

You yelped and squeezed your thighs closer together making Wakatoshi groan.

“Take your top off.” your stoic boyfriend demanded in his usual flat tone, as if he were asking you to pass the TV remote.

You bit your lip at the sound of his deep voice and quickly discarded the top. Your plump breasts were now on display for him to enjoy, though they were still being cradled by your fancy bra. A bra that was part of a special set Toshi bought you for your most recent anniversary- you really knew just how to drive him crazy.

He leaned back down so that he was hovering above you as he slowly began to suck the exposed region of your left tit. You breathed his name so naturally as he skillfully unclasped and removed the tiny garment.

“No fair~ I wanna see you too” you fake pouted as you tugged on the bottom of his shirt, to which he responded with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Soon he was pulling off his tight white shirt in a swift motion over his head, before tossing it into the growing pile of discarded clothes. You were quick to run your nails down his tight chest with a glint of mischief in your eyes, “much better”.

Wakatoshi dawned a rare smirk and shook his head, “you’re such a needy girl, aren't you”.

With an innocent smile you nodded your head and batted your pretty lashes, “Jus’ want you Toshi”.

He exhaled through his nose and eagerly attached his lips to the soft skin down the column of your throat making you gasp.

“Baby- don’t bite too hard, what if we have to go out later” you exclaimed, thinking about how the team might want to celebrate their victory later.

Your boyfriend mumbled something into your neck before moving down to your breasts, he licked the sensitive buds before sloppily taking a tit into his mouth and palming the other with his strong left hand.

His attention had you squirming under his hold, arching your back unintentionally. Wakatoshi could read your signals like no other, so he took the opportunity to snake his free hand around your waist and pull your hips closer to his throbbing dick. He was slick with pre already but didn’t want to give into his urges just yet; he needed to pleasure you first.

Soon his kisses moved southward; eventually he had your panties in between his pearly teeth and he slid them down your smooth legs. You groaned as the cool hotel air hit your core and your hand immediately grasped Wakatoshi’s bicep.

Wakatoshi felt an unbelievable wave of lust take him over as soon as he laid eyes on your pretty pussy. His dick twitched and he gave an experimental lick to your dripping core; he held an iron grip on your thighs as he shoved his whole face into you.

You moaned at the feeling of his straight nose bumping against your sensitive bud and skilled mouth lapping up your juices.

Wakatoshi’s arousal pooled in his stomach as he slid his tongue between your folds collecting your essence. He devoured you as if he were a man starved; grinding his hips into the mattress below him every once in a while to release some of his building tension.

Ushijima was a simple man with simple pleasures and nothing- nothing-in the world made him happier than pleasuring you. It was pornographic the way he buried himself into your dripping core, grunting against you everytime you squeezed your thighs around his head.

“Mmph- T-Toshi, feels soo good” you moaned as you squeezed your eyes shut and tugged at his hair.

Your praise earned you a deep groan from your boyfriend who swiftly inserted two digits into your slick hole in hopes of more blissful reactions. His cock throbbed as you swiveled your hips so that his fingers reached deeper into you.

“Gonna- gonna cum baby- Toshi aahh” you squealed as you came around your boyfriend's thick fingers.

Wakatoshi moaned as he happily lapped up your juices and clamped your thighs in his iron grip. Your body shivered with the echoes of your orgasm and before you could catch your breath you felt the warm lips of your boyfriend slotting against yours.

“You taste amazing, My Love” your hulking boyfriend groaned against your lips.

You clawed at his broad back before he rose to his knees to take in the view of your flushed face and marked body under him.

yYour lust returned all at once when you laid eyes on his painfully hard cock; it was so heavy that it was struggling to stand up, thick veins bulging with every subtle movement, dark tip and angry red just dribbling with pre-cum.

You salivated as you observed the twitch of his large, circular balls each time you raked a nail down his meaty thigh. You needed to please him- you eagerly sat up and took a seat on your knees, face to face with his angry cock.

Ushijima wasn’t naive, he knew what that position entailed, but he couldn’t help but lightly tease you, “What're you doing, Honey?” his low voice grumbled.

“Just giving my Olympic victor a proper reward- is that alright with you?” you shyly smiled, batting your lashes at the man towering above you.

Wakatoshi was at a loss for words as you kitten licked his sensitive tip before pressing a trail of burning kisses along his shaft, and finally lightly suckling his aching balls. Without warning, you returned to the main event and swallowed him down in one swift gulp.

A guttural moan ripped its way from your boyfriend's throat as he balled his fists.

Wakatoshi felt lightheaded as he took in the sight before him; the love of his life sitting on her knees before him, praising him for his victory- sweet lips usually reserved for tender kisses, making a mess of his throbbing cock.

You had been with Wakatoshi long enough to know just how to rile him up; there was one vein in particular that ran up the bottom of his shaft to wrap around the left side that always throbbed the hardest. Initially you lightly followed it with the tip of your tongue to get his breath to hitch.

“Baby~” he exhaled in a low groan as you gently squeezed his sensitive balls with your dominant hand.

The vibrations of your moans and whimpers on his cock shot straight up his spine making him lurch forward and grip the mahogany headboard of the hotel bed. His wrists shook as he leaned over your back and bowed his head, getting a perfect view of your arched back as you continued swallowing his length greedily.

He groaned with a low rumble at the sight; placing a large hand over his face and slowly dragging it down until it only covered his mouth. God- the image of you on your knees for him was enough to make him cum right then and there.

But no. He needed to hold it a little longer.

The enticing globes of your ass jiggled as your thighs clenched together in anticipation; so how could Wakatoshi not land a hard smack on your ass?

You whined on his dick and felt his tip strike the back of your throat suddenly, making you gag a little. Ushijima couldn't help the smirk that landed itself onto his flushed face. He settled his left hand tightly around the base of your throat as you pulled yourself off of his pulsing cock with a loud pop.

Before you could realize what he was doing, Wakatoshi pulled you into a deep and messy kiss- not many men would want to taste themselves on your lips, but Ushijima always thought that was trivial. He loved you and all you did and had been doing was for him- why would he not kiss you?

As he pulled you closer, you reached back in between his thighs to grip his meaty cock to continue your previous agenda.

“Feels so good~” the low timbre of his voice shot straight to your core as he praised you against your lips.

“Mhmm, does it Toshi?”

He nodded before tensing and gently shoving you onto your back against the stack of pillows at the head of the bed. You landed lightly with surprise at the sudden movement; what was that for?

Your questions were answered as you observed your boyfriend sit back onto his heels with a pained and concentrated expression. His breaths were shaky and shallow as he fought the urge to cum; he gripped the sheets for a few seconds before slowly releasing the cloth once the feeling subsided.

You giggled at his state- “What’s goin on baby?” you teased.

“Need to be in you. Now.” he stated with a demanding tone as his olive eyes shot open- pupils almost completely dilated.

Instead of verbally answering you pounced onto him and wrapped your arms around his neck as you slotted your tongue against his, panting with each brush for his strong hands.

“Shit babe- Let me go get a condom” Wakatoshi groaned as you began to pump his cock again.

He gently released his grasp on you and started for his bag when you called out a pathetic “wait”.

He immediately turned to you, brow slightly raised; “What is it my Love?”.

“D’ya wanna do it raw?” you shyly asked, plating with the rings on your manicured fingers.

Ushijima thought he must have been dreaming, “Pardon?”.

“Do you want to fuck me raw, Wakatoshi” you stated with much more confidence, as you caressed your breasts for his viewing pleasure.

Your words went straight to his dick because a thick gush of pre came dribbling out of his sensitive slit. Something in him snapped and he succumbed to his animalistic desires; before you knew it he was balls deep in your tight pussy, thrusting in and out with all of his might.

No matter how many times you had him, Wakatoshi’s size was always an adjustment; he was just so big, so thick, so heavy. It was always a feat to stretch out enough to accommodate his sheer girth, but you did it everytime without fail. And without fail, everytime felt like it was the first time he was fucking your tight cunt.

Ushijima’s grip on you was sure to leave bruises tomorrow, but today- you give any fucks, you just needed him to keep hitting that spot deep inside of you- that spot no one else could reach.

“F-Fuck Toshi!! t’s soo good- Oh my Godd” you moaned as your eyes rolled back.

“S’ tight for me- gripping on me so tight” Wakatoshi grunted as he struggled to pull himself back; your greedy cunt just sucked him in too far.

“You liked watching me play today, huh?” he huffed as he slowly pulled himself out so that only his tip was left inside.

“Y-You're my champion baby- s’ proud of you'' you nodded as you clawed at his biceps.

He smirked and sank back into your warm, perfectly molded pussy with a guttural moan- “It was all for you, My Love. A-all f’ you” he promised into your ear as he resumed his earlier pace.

“I-I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum Toshi! Oh fuck! shit-” you started stammering once he snaked his skilled fingers down towards your clit while still mercilessly thrusting in and out of your messied hole.

Wakatoshi’s thighs began to tremble and he knew he was at the end of his rope; he was pushed further once your walls began fluttering and clenching around him from your orgasm.

You came with his name on your tongue and arms around his neck as you pulled him flush against you. Nothing felt better than this- Wakatoshi couldn’t handle it anymore and wrapped his strong arms around you and began wildly bucking his hips into your tired cunt as you squealed into his neck and held on for dear life.

He became sloppy as he felt his heavy, sensitive balls began drawing up in anticipation; “My L-Love, I’m going to cum- fuck- I’m cumming- I-I’m cumming” Wakatoshi moaned into your ear as he tried to pull himself out of the tight grip your pretty pussy had on him but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t quick enough. Soon he was babbling apologies as he spilled his warm seed into your fucked out pussy.

“I’m sorry, I-I couldn’t pull out. I’m so sorry” he wailed as his hips continued to involuntarily buck up with the remnants of his orgasm passing through.

“It’s ok Toshi- It’s ok, feels so good- so warm” you babbled as your exhaustion took hold.

He took a minute to catch his breath before gently pulling out of you; he cringed as his sensitive dick finally exited your warmth. Once he was out you whimpered a bit at the empty feeling before you felt him begging to clean you up with a towel.

“I hope I wasn’t too rough, Dear- I’m sorry” he said, gently wiping his spend off of you.

“No no- It’s ok Toshi, I liked it” you sleepily smiled.

Once his worries subsided, Wakatoshi pressed gentle kisses to your peaceful face.

“Thank you, My Love- thank you for everything” he said softly.

You only hummed in response and waited patiently for him to return to your side. Tiredly, you turned over to rest your cheek on Wakatoshi’s large chest but as soon as you laid down his phone began to buzz crazily. You knew he didn’t have notifications on for anything except messages and emails so that definitely had to eb the Olympic group chat.

He was about to silence his phone when you asked him what the boys were talking about. You smiled to yourself as you watched your boyfriend’s face return to its usual neutral scowl while he read the flood of texts.

“They want to go out tonight to celebrate.” he said with no detectable emotion.

“Oh that's fun! What are you going to wear?” you asked eagerly, wondering what fit he would choose tonight.

But instead of answering he just quirked a brow, “What do you mean? I’m not going.”

You shot up in shock with an exaggerated gasp, “Not going?! Toshi you just won your Olympic match and you aren’t going to celebrate with your team?!”.

“No. You are here and I want to spend time with you.” he stated very matter-of-factly.

“Baby. I love you and I think it’s so sweet that you want to spend time with me- but you HAVE to go out” you whined pawed at his tight pecs.

“But-” he began.

“But nothing! You earned that win and you deserve to celebrate”.

He sat silently for a moment, mulling over how to get you to let off a little, he just wanted to spend time with you.

“They want to go out tonight but it’s already 5 pm” he said.

Now it was your turn to think.

“Ok, tell you what- how about I go with you and we take five minutes to chill, take a shower and then take a nap until we have to get ready to go out. We were probably going to get a few drinks tonight anyways, right? And this way you have an out if the party is getting too hectic- you can just say I flew in late and am sleepy. How does that sound?”

That was a solid plan, how could he say no to that? He hummed in agreement before placing his phone back down, drawing you close, and shutting his eyes for a moment.

Ever since you entered his life the year after your high school graduations, everything in his life shifted. The immovable force that ran his life- the force so trained on volleyball and success was suddenly derailed ever so slightly. Now there was you; with your random interests, your beautiful smile, your tenderness, your heart. And suddenly life had more meaning; he had a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to get better, a reason to work on aspects of himself outside of his athletic performance.

A reason to love.

______________________

Hello haikyuu fans who gave me a chance :) I mainly write Star Wars content but ngl being in Tokyo has made me get back into haikyuu lol- little secret I had a “secret” 10k plus anime tiktok acc back when anime tok was trendy in 2020- but dw I wasn’t one of those fans haha// toshi has always been my #1 animated man

Thx for @toshisdecadence for getting me inspired to finally write for toshi :?

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ladyddanger · 1 year ago

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thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

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gothamgf · 2 months ago

Text

bleachers — s.es + l.cy

tags sports!riize basketball!eunseok fencer!eunseok fencer!reader anton!swimmer, college au, fluff, angst, slight nsfw, hurt/comfort

wc 14k

summary when twenty-five twenty-one meets challengers.

author's note each 🤺 is a time jump!

(apple music playlist)

(spotify playlist)

You afforded the front-row.

Yet, sat right under the nose bleeds.

A coat of velvety darkness covered the Grand Palais, raising the public, and everyone involved’s pulses to its climax.

The hall tensed in its fullness, gradually silencing itself.

Each and everyone’s mouths watering for victory in the name of their country, loved ones, or themselves.

Light beams shot out of nowhere, putting on a grand show for the beginning of the awaited event.

The Men Fencing Finals at the Paris 2024 Olympics.

🤺

BEEP

13-0

Coach Lee manifested every single muscle of hers to stop herself from letting out a loud sigh of disappointment. She knew she’d let it out in a few minutes anyway. The only thing comforting her sorrow in witnessing her own student fail so miserably, was you, her little « protégée ».

It was your opponent’s fifth time of trying to quit the game ever since you’ve started playing.

It was, in consequence, one of those days where you knew the real training would only come after hours, once you would beg your coach to play a real match against you.

Only, one of you would always ask for a rematch, and a match point to determine who turned out to be the winner of whatever day it was.

So, in the meantime, you’d become the distracted teenager you rarely allowed yourself to be.

« Please coach, I’ll never be as fast as her, just let me train on the mannequin… » whined Aeri’s to the unimpressed olympian champion, fully knowing her request will be met with a stern negative response. Useless negotiations started, followed with a series of beginner-level advices. Well, not beginner-level, but certainly nothing a competitor for the national team should be listening to at the moment.

You took their bickering as an opportunity to cool off, dropping your suffocating mask on the floor. You then opened your water bottle with quick dexterity, without ever letting your sword out of your grasp. You were seen without it so rarely, word spread that you slept and showered with it. The truth wasn’t that far.

The voices of everyone in the gym were muffled as the second bell of the afternoon ringed, and chatter bloomed out of the school’s walls. Normally, you’d be on your way to close the windows, so that nothing could disturb the hours left of training. But your skin sprinkled in sweat, and the ongoing match required no real focus on either part whatsoever.

So you stayed there, and kept on drinking, sun-kissed.

When the breeze would stop blowing on your face, you’d immediately pray for more, and for 2023 to come faster. It would be your very first Asia Games, if you’d manage to qualify for it, and before that, if you’d manage to qualify for the Korean women’s fencing team.

You knew you would.

The mere thought of it made your stomach tie itself in impossibly tight knots.

In the clouds, floated the white of your suit, tattooed of your name in the colors of your country. The wind whispered chants celebrating it, as well as your scores going high, point by point, pushing you towards victory. And in the blinding reflections of the high school building’s windows, millions of medals shined. Your mind already displayed them in your room, in which you left an empty wall since you were 7.

Your bones shook with impatience. Two dozens of months, and you’d be there.

Palpable greatness.

Life have never tasted any better than on a random Thursday afternoon of a long high school day. And your heart never felt any lighter than when you were full of youth, hope, and thirsty for victory.

Arms crossed and wrapped on the windowsill, your body slouched on it, you quickly checked if the interrupting conversation was near to be over. You caught the coach fiercely teaching Aeri how to make convincing feints, as if she was teaching her a choreography. Aeri offered you a desperate smile, as you mouthed her encouraging words to lighten up her mood. She couldn’t do anything but sigh. You giggled and let your eyes wander back into the outside world. Your back straightened itself the second you saw the building you were secretly eyeing this whole time open up its doors.

The basketball building.

At this hour, they were going to run a few rounds on the track field before going back to training in their gymnasium.

It’s not that you memorized it on purpose, you just knew.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The school’s team was so prestigious some of the students already had fan clubs within the school, and in other’s as well. It mainly consisted of little stickers of their favorite member’s number on the juniors’ lockers. Or, blocking entire days before their games to craft posters, decorations, and even merchandising. They swore it was to motivate them, but the « Marry Me Sungchan » cardboards told otherwise.

You thought it was all very silly, yet quite thrilling to have some of the « Riizing Boys » in your promotion. What a lie it would be to say none of them have tickled their way into your heart, but it would also take actual torture for you to admit it in front of your teammates.

Your nose fully peeked out of the window when you watched the first tall guys step out.

And there he was, Lee Anton, with his silver jersey and long tousled hair.

Your stomach tied itself in knots again as he looked back to the team, flashing them a million dollar smile, slowly jogging towards the track field, and warming-up his twisted body. Droplets already formed on his forehead as the unforgiving sun coated the giggling players.

Their happiness affected you. And perhaps, watching hot boys made life a little more worth living, or so your 18-year-old self thought. You also thought you were looking (oogling) at the team in its entirety, when a chestnut haired boy rushed to take place next to them on the starting line, their coach closing the door after him. He just wore a white t-shirt, and was definitely unfamiliar to you.

He was new.

And new is exciting.

You kept watching him, comparing his physique with the other members, trying to figure out the sound of his voice and most importantly, what his face looked like. All of their broad backs and shoulders were turned to you, lowered to the ground, as they prepared themselves for the jog. You thought to yourself that they’d run fast enough for you to catch a glimpse of the new guy when they’d get closer to your window.

But the whistle of their coach synchronized with yours, ripping you out of your reverie.

« Come on, let’s play again. » Coach Lee calmly ordered. « And remember Aeri, her muscles. Look at the way her muscles move, and anticipate your strike alright? »

Aeri nodded unconvincingly, knowing that it will be over in a few points anyway. She put on her helmet in a swift motion, seeming slightly more boosted than minutes ago. You, on the contrary, put a little more time to get ready.

Your body might’ve been En Garde, but your mind was still on the track field, among the « Riizing Boys » and the faceless newbie.

« Prêts? » Coach Lee exclaimed, her arms open on each side of her body.

The growing sound of the basketball teams’s step tangled with the sound of your own heartbeat.

« Which club trains here? » A voice from outside the window asked.

You instinctively turned your head.

« Allez! »

The new guy was looking at you.

And you were looking at him.

BEEP

13-1

🤺

The seat to your left was empty, whereas the one to your right was occupied by a pre-teen girl wearing both France and South Korea’s colors. You figured you’d find out who her hearts belongs to once the match would begin.

« Now welcoming, France’s athlete : Yannick Borel ! » An automatic voice announced through the speakers.

The girl screamed as loudly as she possibly could.

You didn’t need to wait after all.

The fencer’s walk was determined, slow and strong. The volume of the cheers made you slightly worry about the glass ceiling. You applauded still, feeling quite sorry in advance for the next athlete, knowing he won’t get half as much cheers as his opponent.

You rapidly came to the realization that you might’ve under-estimated his popularity. The second his name was announced, you nearly jumped in surprise, hearing the girl next to you let out a inhumane screech.

A sting that could not be stopped by any means attacked your heart as his name echoed through the Palace Hall. Huge screen glowed, his face and name plastered all over them, cheered in a country at the end of the world. Envy and pride fought within your overwhelmed soul, tied to him in ways that justified your presence here, as much as it made it questionable.

« Now welcoming, South Korea’s athlete : Song Eunseok ! »

🤺

« Good session girls! » Coach Lee started cheering on to conclude the day. « Aeri, Manon and Y/N, it’s your turn to clean the room, I want to see my reflection on the floor tomorrow morning hm? Good night everyone, drink water and sleep for at the very least 9 hours, understood? »

You all agreed and greeted the coach back, as she left the gymnasium to her usual mantra. The doors were still clapping the wind when you rushed towards one of your juniors, begging her to trade your place this one time.

This one time, and last week’s time.

Promising her another autograph from Seunghan wasn’t enough, so the bid went up and your offer was now his signature on her sword. At this very moment, you finally understood what authors meant by « Her eyes glowed ». You took her struggle to say thank you as a « yes », and bowed to her appreciatively before rushing to the lockers. As you peeled your fencing suit out of your body and changed to your uniform, the note you received this morning fell on the floor.

You got it during your French lessons with Mr. Vidal, half asleep and half drooling on the back of your hand. Your table mate gently tapped on your forehead, jolting you awake. Your beauty sleep, interrupted only for you to receive a crumpled piece of notebook that has been passed around from the very back of the amphitheater, where you felt a gaze burning through your nape.

« Meet me at the bleachers.

-seok »

And there you were, walking towards the blue bleachers as the Korean sun painted them orange.

Again.

You saw his silhouette shaking two tiny strawberry yakults, the straws already planted on both of them. Your pearly eyes glowed from miles away.

Excitement from meeting up with his new friend energized him, as if the previous 8 hours of intensive training vanished right there and then.

« No fancy fencing outfit today? » He playfully asked, carefully watching you climb up the stairs, two by two.

« And hopefully you have your own jersey now? » You cheekily replied as you remember teasing him for always training in what seemed to be the same white t-shirt.

« I still can’t decide on a number… » He replied, lying through his teeth, both of you knowing the truth. He was still on a trial period.

« Well, what’s your birthday? » You plopped next to him, downing the strawberry milk as if you haven’t drank in years.

« 19 and 03 are taken… » He dramatically sighed, taking a sip out of his.

« Well… Speaking of 03… » Your interest spiking as soon as you heard Anton’s jersey number. Your back straightening itself on its own.

Eunseok contained a smile, throwing his sport bag onto his lap. You stopped breathing as soon as you took a glimpse at the silver fabric shining inside. He paused, and lifted the jersey to your face.

« AAAH! » You loudly gasped.

« SHH! » He hushed you, trying so hard not to laugh at you. « They’re still inside the gymnasium, oh my God… you’re insufferable… »

Fan-girling sounds escaped out of your bouncing body. The peak of excitement and joy plastered all over your face, as rarely as you expressed it.

The truth was that, selling your youth to your sport built walls around you, which made building meaningful, yet carefree friendships close to impossible. Your teammates seemed to be your friend group, from the outside. But the giddying, feet kicking and giggling teenager you knew you were, only ever existed within the four walls of your bedroom. You’ve journaled about how lonely it was to have no girl sitting cross-legged at the end of your bed, ranting, from sunset to sunrise.

Such is the cost of being so excellent in your discipline.

No one seeks friendship in a playground foe.

Good thing Eunseok had no wishes to challenge you. Or at least, without a sports career, or a scholarship at stake.

Turned out 18 days of makeshift apprenticeship were enough for you to build the type of connexion you’ve longed for, since forever. It broke through the walls of youthful insecurity and shyness the day he caught you cleaning up the fencing studio on your own.

You were on the third part of your sold out concert, the imaginary crowd going wild as you crossed the stage doing tricks with your broom turned microphone, turned guitar. Closed windows muffled the sound of your favorite band blasting through the stereo, as it has countless times before. There were no blinds, however, that could hide the silhouette of your body following severals choreographies for half an hour.

Especially, from the late jogger on the tracking field.

You remember feeling as if you’ve jumped to the roof when he knocked on the glass, teeth showing through his wide smile, framed by glistening cheekbones. The highest level of shame took over your whole being, immediately assuming he was about to make you the joke of his entire time here. Or worse, he would act as if you’ve never existed.

In reality, he just mouthed for you to open up. You did, reluctantly so, fully aware of how cruel boys could be.

« There’s a duo part coming after, right? » He asked, nodding his head to the rythm, waiting for the said part. He sang it, as passionately as he could, not a single note of his, on key. He tilted his head waiting for you to hop on the duet.

Not once did he offer you mockery coated side-eyes.

No. He was all friendship, dimples, and love for One Direction.

Finding comfort in each other so rapidly, bloomed doubts on what truly lied within your heart.

It was no difficult thing to admit that you have never wondered if there wasn’t a bit of attraction between the two of you. Though, the mere reminder of Lee Anton’s existence, made every single man that you have ever known disappear from the surface of Earth.

So yes, when Eunseok held his promise of getting you one of his jersey’s in exchange of clandestine fencing lessons, your heart pounded its way out of your ribs.

« Thank you, Thank you, Thank you !! » You beamed at him, diving into a hug.

« You know » He started in a slightly strained voice, his hands ghosting over your back « Don’t freak out but, » He paused. « I told him it was for you. »

The summer breeze suddenly chilled your nape, down to the bottom of your back. Waves of embarrassment as strong as this could break down cruising ships in seconds.

Your bodies automatically distanced themselves, as your expression died.

« What. » You barely muttered.

« Yeah… he’s a bit over his jerseys going to high schoolers and juniors he doesn’t know and stuff. I had to tell him but… »

You cut him right there. « You couldn’t lie? You couldn’t say it was for your little sister or like, anyone else but me? »

You stared at a piece of void in horror. It creeped. The slow realization that all of the chances, as small as they were, with your first college crush definitely turned into dust creeped on you. You were just a fan now, to him. You asked yourself why you would ever trust a man to be your wingman when you let your face rest on your palms.

Eunseok’s smirk haven’t left his face, though. « Can you let me finish? »

You didn’t respond.

He sighed at how dramatic you were acting, in his opinion. « When I told him it was for you… »

He paused. « He actually looked… quite happy about it. »

🤺

2-2

No weapons were allowed in the arena, but if anyone had a knife, they could easily cut through the tension that vibrated in the air. Waves from chatter to silence formed in between points, helping out the fencers to filter out their thoughts. Song Eunseok’s were now racing with heavy, borderline abusive motivations to create a gap of points between him and Yannick Borel.

There were few things he hated more than equalizing point with his opponent. The idea of utter loss, a silver medal, caused by a single point could make him go feral.

But now was no time to go feral.

Now was the time to place his feet apart from each other. To flex his knees, bend his sword and agitate it out of habit. To then giggle his arms, one last time, and wait for the referee’s voice to echo through his mic.

He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second and felt the tingle of his opponent’s last strike on him.

The fourth right rib. He would try to hit here again. And he knew just how to keep him from doing that.

« En Garde. »

You were sitting at the edge of your seat, his hate for equal scores coming from you. You, who couldn’t help but hope for your late night lessons from 4 years ago to still be tattooed in his mind.

« Prêts ? »

All the sweat you poured until the school’s track fields’ lights went out, and your only way back home was from his passenger seat. Those trainings he paid with inviting you to his court, only so you could flirt with his curly-haired teammate.

BEEP

Your youth together.

You hoped he didn’t forget your youth together.

2-3

It was like watching the two of you dance again.

🤺

« There’s no way I can jump that high » You stated in defeat, breaking your neck from looking at the hoop.

« Are you kidding? I saw you correct the cheerleaders’ choreo the other day… »

You shushed him, partly amused and partly annoyed from shooting only three scores since you’ve started training with him. It has been 2 weeks.

Nothing was at stake there, no career, no scholarship, or not even a trophy. But the frustration of doing so many so mistakes when you were more than used to being excellent, couldn’t be helped. Especially since Eunseok has proven himself to be quite a fast learner from your not so amateur fencing sessions.

« Let’s do it together one more time, hm? » He offered, clearly sensing your growing frustration.

You nodded, eyes closed, gathering every ounce of focus that was left in your body.

Why where you there when Anton was nowhere to be seen anyway?

When you felt ready, you looked to your side, ready to mimic Eunseok’s movements as you have done countless times before.

But you’ve turned your head to nothing.

A breath ghosted over your neck.

Fingertips on your left wrist, and a palm on your hip.

« Bend your knees. » He softly spoke.

The phrase ran twice, or thrice in your head before you actually registered and executed it. Your body temperature shifted, hoping it went unnoticed. And before you could form any other thought, his whole body stretched yours out towards the hoop. You automatically jumped, but he stayed on the ground, his hands now both pushing on your under arms. He boosted your jump, practically lifting you like you weighed nothing. You nearly screamed out of fright from the sudden gain of height.

« Shoot ! » He shouted, shattering the blossoming tension.

You did, and you scored, and you laughed, and he laughed. And coming down from the height, only made your excitement and adrenaline jump through the roof. Once you calmed down to your senses, you teasingly hit him with the ball instead of celebrating.

« Amazing shot, champ, how did you that? » He sarcastically chuckled, resting his hands on his knees.

You couldn’t help but think he was probably wiping off your arm-pit sweat from his palms.

« It’s called talent. » You breathlessly replied, plopping down on the floor with your legs splayed out.

« That’s a real basketball player answer there, you might get qualified for the team before me."

« I’m no real basketball player, though. » You stated, cutting out whatever game you were both playing at. « I literally have to be your puppet to score. »

« Were you having fun? » He asked, « Being my puppet? »

« Well, even though I didn’t ask to be… » You looked up at him, the spotlights making his traits manlier than you were used to see. « Yeah. »

He collected the ball from the floor, dribbling it for a few seconds before effortlessly scoring, looking right into your eyes. « Then you’re a real basketball player. »

« So fucking cheesy… » You sighed, smiling to the ground.

Half an hour later, Eunseok was mopping the squeaky court as he waited for your « just got home » text. He would usually enjoy some music while cleaning, just like you did. But that day was for racing thoughts, and the squelch of his soapy mop on the wooden floor was just what he needed as a background sound. The way he touched you earlier haven’t quite left his mind. Before that, he had never tried to initiate anything physical with you. But you always did. Pressing on his abs and back muscles to help him have good fencer posture. Or wrapping your fingers around his to teach him how to have a solid, yet, swift hold on her backup sword. Like any good coach would.

Eunseok kept rummaging his thoughts about how he held you today, if you perhaps thought it was too much, or if you thought nothing of it. He saw the goosebumps rise from under your skin, though. And he felt it heat up.

« Someone’s in love… », Sohee said from the swinging doors.

Eunseok’s heart jolted, his body remained unmoved. He eyed his smirking teammate from the reflection on the huge window in front of him. « The hell are you even doing here? »

« Not flirting with Y/N L/N, what about you? » He sarcastically replied, crossing his arms.

Despite the slipperiness of the floor, Eunseok raced towards him, screaming incoherent things to his youngest. Their improvised game of tag, giggling from the sights of each other’s bouncing hair, made the previous teasing dust up in the records of history.

« Just admit it, you have a thing for Anton’s girl. » Sohee exclaimed with a loud smile on his freckled face.

Hearing that incorrect way of describing you made him icky, for a reason he was only admitting to himself, for now. Eunseok ran faster, shouting a childish « Hey! », Sohee finally within his reach, when his phone vibrated against his clothed thigh. He automatically stopped in his tracks, right after jumping over the benches. His friend’s eyes sparkled with thirst for drama, the sight of Eunseok’s lighted up smile ready to be spread in future gossip sessions.

But Eunseok, as blissful as he could be, kept blushing at your awaited notification.

It was followed by a messy, half asleep goodnight text. To which he replied :

⌈ Sweet dreams, Y/N. ⌋

His finger hovered over the send button. Was it Sohee’s defying look over his phone that made him send this all or nothing second text? Or was it because he came to the realization that he didn’t like the fact that « Anton’s girl » could soon be a very correct way of describing you ?

It was up to your interpretation anyway. Perhaps, it would mean nothing to you.

So he sent :

⌈ ❤️ ⌋

Like any good friend would.

🤺

It has only been 6 minutes since the match has started. Six terribly long minutes of observing your college’s best friend compete in the most important match of his life, with only yourself to debate or cheer with.

The time on your phone was rarely left unchecked, as for your watch, it would be the next second, as if time went by faster on the latter. There was a fencing olympic finale entertaining you, and a chanting crowd to follow along to. Nevertheless, pure loneliness bubbled right inside of you, perched with thousands of sports fans.

It was never lonely down there, you reminisced.

A goal in mind, a weapon in hand, and a person to dance with was all you ever needed to feel fulfilled. To feel happy.

You’d search for your partner’s sweet spot until they’d succeed to your teasing touches.

Growing tensions, magnifying attractions, and the electronic sounds of the scores accumulating turning into music. There would be a moment in which both of you would understand each other completely, the map of each your souls clearly traced in the lines of your body.

Synchronization.

Harmony.

The common folk mostly thought of fencing only as competition and infliction of pain. A deadly duel, resulting into a victor and a loser. But beneath the protective gear, and under the pulsing pearly skin of fencers, lied infinite pleasure.

For both players.

And sometimes, even for the referee.

Fencing was all about mutual connexion, understanding, and love.

And all of that came with patience, which left your body each an every minute there, sitting with a crowd that didn’t know Song Eunseok like you did.

Nor the secret stake of the match.

That’s what, partly, justified your loneliness.

You hoped he didn’t feel any of that loneliness, as well.

Because if he did, if he wasn’t having any fun, he would 100% lose.

He took off his mask, strong breathes huffing out of his chest, as he waited for the referee’s verdict. He couldn’t help but twist the sweat off his pink glossy lips, lick them and bite them.

The anticipation that grew within you, and your misplaced curiosity for his freshly licked lips, made you react a little later than you should have when you heard footsteps approaching you.

There’s a hand on the crook of your neck.

« So sorry my love, some fans wanted pictures. » Anton breathlessly whispered in your ear, before kissing it.

🤺

City lights shimmered all over the floor you slowly walked on. Your teammate’s complaints were muffled by the sound of your own troubles fogging your brain. There were no words to describe how much you loathed doing bad performances.

And your coach pretending like it wasn’t the case.

And the fact that the only thing keeping you away from being better, was your mental state.

And your mental state, being the way it was because of a guy.

Anton hadn’t talked to you today.

You wore his jersey, today.

Embarrassment grew each and every time you felt a stare a second too long on the shining letters on your back. You’ve never wanted to hide under your epidermis more than when you walked by the team’s table at lunch, and received a glance, but no smile from him.

It could have been just that, until the most irritating chuckles made their way into your ears, coming from their way.

If you could’ve died right there, it would have been a miracle.

And if your sword could actually kill, Eunseok’s head would’ve been on a spike.

Well, truth was that your mental state was that way, because of two guys.

It could also only be because of today’s treason, but it wasn’t.

Eunseok hasn’t left your mind a single day since you’ve met.

It has been three months, now.

Spring was ending, now.

Your friendship grew out of the school’s walls with goodnight texts, stretching into nightly, hours long conversations. Your thumbs would get sore from all the texting, so it shifted to calls. And video calls. During the weekends, too.

Eunseok then swore you needed to practice your shoots on your days off as well. He happened to have a park with a hoop, right at the end of the street in which he lived. So you met up there, every Saturdays, and practiced.

He’d always drive you back home if those sessions, that eventually turned in gossip sessions, lasted until nighttime.

Until one day, when his older brother went on a trip with his car.

There were no buses anymore, and your parents have had a little drink.

Moments later, you left your shoes next to his by the entrance, ate with his parents and baby brother, saw Eunseok under his dining’s room light, and brushed your teeth next to him, laughing at the huge foam around his mouth.

His mother’s smell was all over your skin and hair when you got out of the shower.

His own smell embraced you when you dived into his previous basketball team’s jersey.

And being there, all up in his brother’s sheets, with his father snoring in the other room, scared you. It scared you because you felt like you could get used to this.

Your lids grew heavier, as you silently wished to get used to it.

You opened them back up when your phone lit up by your face.

« I have popcorn. » Eunseok had texted you.

You didn’t need more to be tiptoeing to his bedroom.

« I’m out of here by 3 am, understood? » You warned him as you quietly closed the door behind you, knowing that it might cause trouble to be found here in the morning. He solemnly nodded, before breaking into a grin as he watched you get comfy by him, against his headboard.

Hours after demolishing the popcorn bag, you were still there, sharing life stories in the dark, from the funniest to the most unspeakable ones. You told him about how you puked on yourself after your first kiss, and he told you about all the nasty things he had seen in the showers of all the sports teams he had been in. He swore he hadn’t participated, but he gave away way too much details.

It was way past the bedtime both of you knew you wouldn’t respect anyway, when he decided to put on one of your favorite animated movie on his laptop. Your reciting of the lines became more and more incoherent, and he spent more and more time watching you flutter your eyelashes shut.

You fell asleep to the feeling of Eunseok’s fingers waltzing on your temple, and woke up in his brother’s bedroom.

« Do you speak French in your sleep because of fencing, or because of Ratatouille ? » He had asked you the next day, watching you wash your face through the bathroom mirror.

All of this shouldn’t have affected you the way it did, you thought.

You were just happy to get closer to your friend, you thought.

You were like brothers and sisters now, you thought.

Replaying this in your head has made you oddly silent, as you kept on walking among your teammates. You were so silent, you started to recognize the now very familiar sound of a basketball rapidly bouncing, then clashing against the metal outdoor hoop.

« Oh, Guys, I forgot something at the gym. » You lied to the group of gasping girls. « You guys can go ahead. See you tomorrow! »

You rapidly pretended to walk back, immediately missing the shelter of Aeri’s umbrella as they cheerfully waved to you. Seeing their giggling backs under the rain made you wish to make more efforts to befriend them. An inexplicable rush of nostalgia washed over you, as raindrops coated your scalp. You were in your feels. And going to investigate towards the small court wasn’t going to help anything, no matter who was dramatically shooting hoops under the rain.

It could’ve been one of the guys you were desperate to avoid tonight.

Though, you couldn’t help but hope it was one of them.

You took a turn and quietly walked towards the huge white hoodie, cutting the mystery short.

« Think you’re Troy Bolton or something? » you teasingly asked. You knew better than to be mad at him off the start, even though you truly were.

Eunseok turned around, missing the point he was about to miss anyway.

The fruit of his restless thoughts materialized before him.

If you thought you were going mad over your sleepover at his’, it was solely because you knew nothing of how much it ran him, truly crazy.

He introduced you to his parents, picked you up when you were sleeping, smelt your morning breath, and have spent, since then, hours to think about the next time he could have you that way again. Without acting like the worst, traitor, dipshit friend ever.

You were slowly tearing him into pieces, with no one but Sohee as a witness.

The abandoned ball wasn’t bouncing off the floor nearly as fast as your pounding hearts.

« If you consider yourself Gabriella, then it should be Anton’s role. » He stated, leaning down to pick it up. His tone ended up being colder than both of you expected it to be.

« I’m not really sure he’d like to be my Troy anyway… » You scoffed, crossing your bare forearms. « But you all could be a little less cruel about it. » You then spat at him, slightly ashamed.

He stopped in his motions, his back facing you. « What are you even talking about? »

You huffed a laugh, the frustration turning into a lump of sorrow in your throat. Have boys always been this oblivious to the fucked up things they do? « You know exactly what I’m talking about. »

« No, I don’t actually. I don’t know, Y/N. » He turned to face you, jaw clenched. « And you really need to stop playing around, especially now. » He bitterly added. His tone was filled with despise, as if he was grounding some naughty spoiled kid. It vexed you.

« Is it not playing around when you let me hope that he likes me ? And proceed to then laugh at me, with him, behind my back? » You shouted, taking a few steps towards him, wondering where his common sense possibly went.

You didn’t mean for your voice to crack so easily. And you were pissed at his confused, twisted eyebrows under his wet strands of hair.

« Lunch? Today? » You tried to refresh his memory.

His expression shifted. A defeated smirk threatened to mark his face, as he slowly made the wet ball bounce from one of his hands to the other.

« I can assure you, we weren’t laughing at you. » He calmly stated, now taking in your shivering form from under the flickering lamp post.

You sighed out a big chunk of air, with closed eyes and your head held up high. Was it out of relief, annoyance or, as a way to relax your severely tensed muscles? You couldn’t tell, at all.

But you knew what you felt. You felt sick of fighting the very person you’d go to when days were as shitty as today.

So you decided to trust his words, though it felt too early to fully believe in them.

« Whatever. He didn’t even talk to me today. » You muttered.

If this had happened a few weeks before, Eunseok would have confessed that the team was laughing at Anton’s reddening ears to the sight of you, proudly walking with his name on your back.

However, whatever reason that was making him pull a dry sweater from his sports bag, was making him keep it all to himself.

« You can’t afford to catch a cold, champ. » He softly spoke, as he stood up, closed the gap between you, and wrapped it around your shoulders.

« So can’t you. » You replied, looking up to his face. He covered the top of yours with the hood of his sweater, slid his hands on your shoulders, and left them there.

It wasn’t his first time taking the time to explore the map of your face. He retraced it all, meanwhile you felt like a first time explorer. The lamp-post lighting softly bounced of his high cheekbones, and made his earring shimmer. You couldn’t make up the sweat sliding down his forehead from the raindrops drenching him, in all places. From his ridiculously big eyes and lashes, to his puckered pouty lips, passing by his straight nose bridge, he was glowing.

He was beautifully glowing.

Your focus went back down his mouth. You blinked, a lot. You swore it was moving a second ago. But it wasn’t anymore.

He had just finished talking and you haven’t heard a thing.

« Sorry what did you say? » You asked, coughing your way out of awkwardness.

He swallowed down a now flustered smirk and replied in all seriousness. « Our coach. He’s involved with a bribing case. »

It took you a second too long to recover from your previous embarrassment, and register the dramatic information you have just gotten. « What? » You finally exclaimed.

« Yeah. » He looked down, your saddened expression pulling him back through the same deception he had faced earlier. «The headmasters were quick to announce that there would be no actually good replacement for the rest of the year though. Some are staying, some are switching sports, and others are switching… schools. » He sighed. He also remembered how hard he had gasped when Shohei, the one guy he was the most excited to train with, announced him that he’d fly out to Japan to have a chance at his dream basketball team.

He paused, and half heartedly chuckled, « I wasn’t even selected so my choices are… Thin. That’s why I’m here. Stress-releasing. » He freed your shoulders of his tender grasp, burying his freezing hands in his hanging jogger’s pockets.

You’ve let the rain wash over you for a moment, watching Eunseok’s gaze empty itself. You, quite selfishly, mentally placed yourself in his shoes. You knew you’d have gone bat-shit crazy if you were left with the choices of making a drastic change in your life in order to keep chasing after your dreams, or abandoning them completely. In your golden age. Just because of a man.

Your heart broke for the promising athlete before you.

It broke for your best friend.

« God… » You gasped in horror. « I can’t even… begin to imagine how hard that must be for you.»

« For all of you. » You added, Anton coming to your mind, and his, to his own demise.

He dropped his head and bitterly nodded to your statement. As you watched him stand there thoroughly defeated and fighting tears, you’ve found yourself powerless, and lacking of words strong enough to provide him any satisfying reassurance. So, you instinctively reached for his head and placed it on your shoulder, like he would do when you’d fail anything, from getting Anton’s attention, to exams.

His arms immediately wrapped around your back and waist for warmth, comfort, anything, like a man starved. He had convinced himself that you were going to turn into sand if he didn’t hold you tightly enough, hence the grip he had on you, that, despite yourself, made your face flush warm against his wet, cold body. The sound of the raindrops hitting his nape made you shiver for him. You attempted at covering it with your hand, but was rather caressing the small parcel of skin.

You weren’t deaf to the sound of his breathing losing its regularity, though.

Added up to his chest, beating against yours, his heart was helplessly finding ways of digging its way down your ribcage.

You liked the feel of it, though.

So you held him tighter, too.

« You really need to stop playing around. » He whispered, right into your ear.

« What are you talking about? » You softly spoke, right back into his ear.

He took another deep breath before his palms found their way onto your hips. He unglued your body from his, watching you look up at him with a puzzled, yet dazed look. « You think the coach’s thing is the only stressing me out? »

The world consisted only of the raindrops sliding off your huffed out bodies, and the lamp-post illuminating you. An aura surrounded the man, through your blurry, rained on gaze.

« I like you, Y/N. »

There was no time for another thought to be formed in your mind before he leaned in to kiss you.

Song Eunseok kissed you.

His lips on yours were gone as quickly as they’ve landed. Your next view were the droplets free falling from his eyelashes. Behind them, secretly lied a gaze you mentally ordered yourself to memorize forever. You weren’t sure if it was love, though. Because how could you be sure of feeling an emotion you’ve never encountered before? And where were the fireworks that the stories you’ve been fed with your entire life have promised you?

You didn’t hate it.

Whatever you felt, you wanted to feel more of it.

He watched you reach for the back of his head with one hand, and the side of his neck with the other. He watched you lift yourself on your tippy toes, and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

You planted a new kiss on his wet lips. Only, you felt like you couldn’t get enough of of it.

Eunseok swore he could taste victory better on your lips than on any of the trophies he had left a peck on. He anchored you to him when he felt your toes struggling to stand still. And he prayed, to all of the higher forces that could exist, to make the moment last as long as possible.

Not a single ounce of lust seeped through the near-divine kiss you shared, even after your tongues have exchanged many caresses of their own.

Both of you found your opponents there, kissing like you fenced, wondering if each of your physical encounters would end up feeling so familiar.

Him, strategically attacking you with an unsettling force.

You, brutally uncovering all of his weaknesses after studying his every moves.

Everything that your unsatisfied, complexed selves have been craving for, you ended up founding in the warmth of each your own dearest friend’s.

Your phone lit up once in your back pocket, but you couldn’t care less about anything else that wasn’t Eunseok eating your mouth open. His large cold hands slid their way down there, with the pretext of protecting themselves in said pockets. Your phone vibrated once again, and he felt it too.

« Duty calls? » He whispered against your lips, both of yours covered in spit and fucked out smiles.

You scoffed, punched his forearm as a punishment for his wandering hands, and dived back into the kiss you started missing the second you left it.

His stupid smile couldn’t be forced out of his lipgloss smeared lips as he lazily kept on kissing you, too.

He was on cloud nine. It was so grossly obvious. Yet, thinking about all the time he had spent fancying you, made you want to kiss him a little harder.

If it weren’t for the third, infuriating vibration against your butt-cheek, you would have been glued to his lips until sunrise.

You reached for your phone in your back pocket, while he made your head rest on his chest to shelter you. He covered your phone and the top of your head with his hand, too, as it lat up your chest. It lat up Anton’s jersey.

The mere sight of it made it harder for him to swallow remains of your saliva.

He innocently thought the notifications were just from your dad cockblocking him.

But it would be underestimating his friends’ power over you.

Plus, you were staring at your phone’s notifications center for way too long.

⌈ Lovely outfit today. ⌋

⌈ Would you wear it again Friday night? ⌋

⌈ I want to take you out, Y/N. ⌋

The inevitable smile that creeped on the lips he had just kissed, made his heart bleed to fatality.

🤺

Eunseok just lost a point.

Anton’s hand was still glued to your shoulder, even after dozens of people crossed lengths of bleachers, hopping over strangers’ knees, just to have the privilege of sharing a picture with him. You were rarely invited in them though, or acknowledged at all. Knowing your spotlight-craving nature, you were surprisingly unbothered by your partner’s new surge of fame.

In fact, it made you love him more. You once shamelessly admitted to your girl friends how one’s sportsmanship could determine your attraction, and feelings for them.

The more medals someone would win, the more points they’d win to get you.

Anton cracked the code when he first tasted your lips, right after he beat his personal record for the 200M Freestyle in the selections for the school’s swim team. You celebrated in the very same pool he had newly decided to offer his body to, arms wrapped around his soaked shoulders, sharing wet, languorous kisses and splashed giggles.

He couldn’t get enough of the way your face would lit up after each and every prizes he would bring home over the years.

So he kept swimming.

And kept winning.

Just to come back to you, forget it all and drown in your eyes again.

Your eyes happened to be just enough for him to be here, in Paris, collecting gold medals like pebbles. The last three days all ended with your most cherished trophy coming running over to you, spinning you around, feeding on the laughter and cheers he swam to win all along.

His addiction to the proud look plastered all over your face whenever you glanced at him could have got him banished from competitions.

He once pillow-talked to you about his theory of your past lives, being that he once was a greek athlete, a pioneer olympian, that only competed in worship of you. He kissed each of your knuckles afterwards, and later that day, came back with your initial added in one of the Olympic rings tattooed on his right bicep.

He sat down, finally free of his whispered meet and greet, kissed your shoulder, and turned his focus back on the match, almost forgetting the bitter taste of his presence there. He grounded himself by firmly holding your knee, as the bleachers suddenly felt too high for him.

You, however, were almost annihilated by the game, wondering just how will Eunseok get his point back. You were almost starting to get upset by it. By everything mad that has ever happened to you, too. You thought it boiled down, the resurfacing anger from the day he decided to switch schools without telling you.

Was it really resurfacing anger, though, when it has been burning your guts every single day since 2017?

Will it ever truly leave you, when the mere thought of fencing makes you feel 18 and abandoned again?

Will you ever be at peace with the man you were cheering for, next to the man you shared keys with?

🤺

You were sending undelivered texts to Eunseok with your right hand, and holding your new boyfriend’s arm with the left one.

« You should eat, it’s going cold. » Anton told you, softly shimmying your cheek out of his shoulder.

You absently nodded, not even bothering to straighten up and pretending to obey. Every single soul around the table could see your mind wandering elsewhere, but they had much more interesting topics to focus on. Like practice, competitions, and Asia Games. All of their non-athlete friends and lovers barely kept it together as they felt like their heads were going to explode from hearing too much sporty non-sense. Even though you have finally acquired your title of « Riizing Boys’ Girlfriend, » you weren’t quite included in the second bubble of conversation that formed over lunch. No, you preferred having one with the ghost of your true first kiss who has decided to vanish from the surface of earth four days ago.

Your messages delivered, though, four days sooner.

Your concern for his absence seemed to torment no one else but you. Anytime you’d ask one of his ex-teammates, their reply would leave you even more lost and confused. You have stopped interrogating the team after the third player, Wonbin, « jokingly » replied he must’ve been sick of being around you every day. But also, to not raise any suspicion on the fogged up nature of your friendship.

Anton had gained your attention once again, asking you to eat once again, but the very little appetite you had was definitely lost when you saw your text bubble switch to green, in the corner of your eye.

There was no way.

You quietly excused yourself out of the table, as discreetly as you could.

However, your discretion happened to not have gone unnoticed by Sohee, who followed your steps right after unwrapping his arm around his emo brunette girlfriend’s shoulders.

Your lonesome session of deeply inhaling the fading spring’s breeze was cut short by him walking up to you, burying the worry that crushed him in his huge jean’s pockets.

« It kills me to see you like this. » He simply stated.

You were taken aback by it, as you weren’t that close to him.

But Eunseok is, or was.

You smiled, and assured him that you were fine through your knotted throat.

« No you’re not. » He sighs, his gaze fixated on your unevenly concealed eye-bags. « Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this but I will anyway. My girl keeps telling me how bad it is to keep that away from you, and fuck it, she’s right. »

You braced yourself, arms crossed, and nodded. « What’s up? »

« Anton doesn’t know either though… » He added, before looking around and leaning towards you.

Seconds later, you are hit with the news that scooped the ground right off your feet.

Not by surprise, because you expected it.

You saw it coming like a lunge.

And there was no way to avoid the deadly strike, and scar it left on your poor self.

Eunseok left to study in Japan.

And broke contact with you.

4 years later

March 2021

« Are you sure you’re okay? » Jimin asked, as you were losing a third point into your first practice game of the day.

You nodded, out of breath, admitting to your years-long opponent that your entire body was particularly sore today.

She snatched her mask off, revealing a smirk curving her glossy lips « Oh right, it was Anton’s birthday yesterday, I almost forgot. »

You teasingly attacked her with your sword, shushing her up from revealing a half-truth. All three of her strikes have hit marked spots from the night before, you kept having stomach butterflies-inducing flashbacks of. What has gotten into him, you wondered, reminiscing the way your hip bones knocked on the kitchen counter, bathroom sink, and shower wall, all in an impossibly short span.

The other source of your lack of focus was not so thrilling. It was quite the opposite, since it actually terrified you, since you’ve listened, in disbelief, to your college best friend’s whereabouts on the radio. Hearing about it against your will for the past couple of years have made your grieving journey harder than it should’ve been. Four years, in which you’ve entered your twenties, moved in with your college crush, integrated the National Fencing team, adopted a kitten, and buried gold fishes have passed. Four years of secretly scrolling through Japan’s national fencing team social media posts, under Anton’s spoon, lullabied by his soft snoring.

You hated yourself for it, though.

But no hate you could feel against someone could possibly surpass the one you felt for Eunseok.

Which is why you nearly crashed yourself into a tree when you heard the reason your coach was about to gather your team in the conference room.

Song Eunseok has come back home.

Neither did the radio host’s or your coach’s voice have made it real enough for you to believe it.

It wasn’t until he walked in under camera flashes that you’ve felt it.

Everything.

You felt everything come back.

The creaking sound of the bleachers under your youthful laughs. The strawberry milk flavored, moonlit practices. The soaked kiss. His brother’s sheets and his mother’s shower gel.

And the pain, the agonizing, visceral pain of everything being ripped out of your life on a random Thursday.

Once the white blocky flashing lights stopped concealing the face that was once your home, you were hit with the stupid realization that, that man was your first love.

As he blinked the lingering blindness, he looked for your face in the seated crowd.

And when he did find you, he smiled.

He smiled at you, offering you nothing but friendship and dimples.

As if it was enough.

As if stupid dimples were enough to forgive leaving you in the other side of the sea, for a stupid sport. For your stupid sport.

You couldn’t stand any of the bullshit he was standing on. You were mad, mad enough to leave the room, not as discreetly as you once did.

How dared he come back bothering the peace you have worked so hard to build, after he had so easily destroyed it? How could he smile so prettily for the cameras, knowing the one person he should be apologizing to on his knees is standing right there, apology-less? How could he not learn from his errors, and warn you this time?

The walls of what you called home more than the one you shared with your boyfriend, suffocated you for the very first time. So you left them, and drove. And you could’ve gone to the warmth of Anton’s arms, of your bed or of your bathtub.

But your mind longed for stress-relief, instead of relaxation.

Although, your tensed and sore body screamed for the latter.

« Practice starts in an hour, alright? » Sohee stated, leaning on the door’s frame, the same worried expression frowning his youthful face.

Maybe, it was your heart that made you stand in front of a hoop.

« I’ll let Anton know you’re here » he added to deaf ears before leaving you, as you already started to loudly dribble the heavy ball on the shining wooden ground of the Seoul’s Basketball Team’s practice room.

You thought you were strong enough to feed your mind with thirst for scoring points, without ever drifting to Eunseok’s lips pressed against your ear, teaching you how to win.

As you failed yet another shot, you also thought of the fact that you have never gotten close to winning against him in his discipline, when you have once shared a 9-15 points combat.

He had been lying, you were just now realizing, dribbling away your confusion, making sense of the late epiphany you were now having.

He didn’t approach you to teach him fencing.

He wasn’t a genius, nor a fast-learner as he repeated.

He already knew how to play.

There just wasn’t any male fencing team.

And he just wanted to spend time with you.

You scored.

You were his first love, too.

You picked up the ball, and scored again.

He loved you so much, he crossed the sea so he wouldn’t have to see his first love get with what he thought was yours.

You felt lighter all of the sudden. As if the soreness and bruises from last night’s have been washed down your body. You felt light enough to dunk without sitting on Eunseok’s shoulder, for once.

You truly felt like it.

So you jumped, higher than you ever have in your life, and dunked.

Adrenaline rushed in your veins in such a delightful way, that you have forgotten that as an athlete, listening to your body was the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t scores, performances, peers, sponsors, or money. It was your body. But it was too late to remember it now.

You were on the floor.

And you couldn’t believe the thud followed by a cracking sound, was the sound of your knee.

It couldn’t be.

🤺

Anton’s hand still rested right there, squeezing it every time a player scored.

Uncertainty resided within your heart in his attempt to reassure you. Each squeezes feeling like thousands of swords plunging in the wound left by your crushed lifelong dreams.

He meant well, though. He meant them like kisses.

So you covered his hand with your palm, grounding yourself too, on the touch of your partner of 7 years.

You thought you’d feel more sick than that, watching your first fencing game ever since the incident.

It was not a harmless sight, nonetheless.

You missed it all so bad, thinking of it for more than a minute would make you undeniably cry rivers, for your grief was still young and fresh. It has only been two years since the Asia games’ doors closed right in front of your hopeful soul.

Since you have been amputated of the life you have been building since you were a child.

Since you have died on a basketball court.

Your forehead sweat would never uncomfortably trickle down your collarbones under the hot white suit again.

You never got to unpack a new one again, smelling the fresh new fabric for days, until it would absorb your own salty smell.

Your sword would never accidentally hit someone on public transportation again.

And no one else would ever say that you were glued to it, whenever someone would see you eat, with it laid next to your food.

You would never train at the gym with your teammates turned friends, giggling on the stair master for minutes again.

You would never turn teammates into friends again.

You would never plug, and unplug yourself to the score counting matching again.

And you would never roar from your guts whenever you’d win again.

You would never win again.

You never played again.

🤺

From Anton’s arms, carrying you princess-style as he screamed for help, to the sun-bathed rehab center, a million things you were unable to properly recollect, have happened.

You have seen therapists that have tried to find you a new purpose in life in the span of 60 minutes weekly consultations, eaten countless of close to tasteless food, received an overwhelming amount of bouquets from all of the coaches, teammates and friends you ever had, and cried after each and every one of their visits. You have dried gallons of your parent’s, Anton’s and every of your loved one’s tears. You have also started knitting, as Sungchan’s bride-to-be have brought you a starting kit to keep up with a new distraction, other than the torturing one you had of keeping up with fencing news. Keeping up with the life you should be living. The life you spent your days and nights mourning, within the four walls of your hospital room. You have even witnessed the reformation of the « Riizing Boys » within those same walls. The six of them filled it with laughter, as they decided to come playing cards and performing karaoke to you every weekends.

All of them, except for Eunseok.

His absence haunted your convalescence. Every day for 6 weeks, you’d meet the depressing grey ceiling first, as his face would pop-up in your mind. And every night for 6 weeks, your eyelids would heavily close to the hope of him showing up, leaning against the huge doorframe one day.

You’d toss and turn in your sleep, wondering whether shame, guilt or none of the above refrained him from coming to visit you. And Anton, as sweet as he was, would only slip his hand out of yours when he’d be sure of your arrival in Morphea’s embrace. As long as you had him, you’d think it would be easier to forget Eunseok’s existence altogether. But you were only a girl who missed her college best friend, and the body she used to live for.

Complaints and whines once slipped out of your mouth in the safe company of a handful of your girl friends.

« He ain’t shit anyway », have Sohee’s high school sweetheart spat. Every one of them thoroughly nodded, agreeing to the brown-eyed woman’s truthful statement.

« If I were you, » Started Sungchan’s promised, « I’d ask for Anton to beat him up. »

You laughed, fully knowing, by looking at her piercing blue eyes, that she meant it in all seriousness. Watching all of them tear him apart with witty insults and embarrassing memories of him during your college years brought peace to your heart. You weren’t alone, grieving the Eunseok you once knew, who’d carry bandages in his cargo pants’ pockets every day, for every single one of your aches, as tiny as they could be. The girls would sneak in the dark chocolates you’d share with him, high up in the bleachers, whilst you lined your future in the early evening stars. They’d also just sit there, merging complains and praises of their respective partners, as you crocheted them tops for their up-coming events you should’ve attended alongside them.

Your bones would hurt less and less, whilst your prayers for his return would make themselves rarer and rarer. As you took your first trembling, impossibly challenging steps in the hospitals corridors, the idea that the hollow place in your heart for fencing could only be filled with love for a kid with Anton, bloomed in your head. You couldn’t imagine loving anything else.

And you were everything, but ready to love again.

Your third re-walking session of the week have just ended when the hospital’s garden have looked most promenade-worthy. Soon enough, you were half hopping, half limping with your crutches among slow troupes of retired people, and limb-less recovering adults. Despite the nice track your healing was on, you have not quite often found yourself inhaling the herbal scented air, the freshly produced oxygen out of the tall trees that traced a rounded path. Finding an empty bench was a dreadful task, since everyone seemed to have chosen to take a break at the same time as you.

You eventually found one, by a duck and koi pond. Little ducklings following around their mama suddenly made you miss Anton, when you’ve heard way too healthy steps to be from a wounded stroller, like you, right behind you. The way the rocks were smashed beneath their feet, instead of seductively dragging on the ground, immediately eliminated your boyfriend from the guessing list.

Fear and curiosity fought a tough battle within you, as you debated whether you should turn around, or limp out of here.

It could just be a nurse, you thought to yourself.

Though you were far from believing in yourself.

You didn’t even flinch, when the silhouette of a chestnut haired man quietly sat besides you.

The koi fishes kept on aimlessly turning round and round, deep in the emerald water, and the duck family jumped out of it, one by one, as if they were giving you space to talk it out.

Or find something to talk about.

Clapping leaves, summer scented crickets, random droplets and wheelchairs’ wheels rolling on the rocky path.

You were hearing everything, but an apology.

You felt like tearing up, like dying even, when he finally spoke up.

« Break up with him. » He started.

« Be my coach. » He pleated.

Clapping leaves, summer scented crickets, random droplets, wheelchairs’ wheels rolling on the rocky path…

And a slap.

« What the fuck is wrong with you? » You asked, the tingling sensation lingering on your palm.

« I’m still in love with you. » He truthfully replied, his cheek reddening.

Your ribs felt like shattering under the extreme pounding of your heart. Heat, flushed the entirety of your numbed-down, heavily medicated body. The cracking of his voice in his followings words made you realize that the only cause of your overwhelmed state was what came out of his mouth. You weren’t even looking at him, yet. And the slap seemed to already belong to history.

« I… don’t think there are enough words to express how sorry I am. I left you before I could even give us a chance. I am so fucking stupid, and so fucking sorry. And… I’ve read it, you know. The last text you ever sent me. And, I couldn’t forget our kiss, too. To this day, I still replay it, like I’m a fucking broken disc, trying to make sense of a single kiss we shared years ago… Because you haunt me. You always have. And I’m barely brave enough to face you. And you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. »

He paused.

« If I could give you my career, my knee, my entire life, I would. In a heartbeat. »

He breathed out, letting his head down, accepting the fact that you, turning to look into his eyes, was not happening, no matter how much you were fighting every single one of your muscles to not succumb.

« Fence through me, Y/N. Coach me, live everything I took from you through me. I miss you. I miss everything about you. I miss you so much that, » He practically collapses, kneeling on the humid grass before you, his nose grazing your broken bone. « I want to be anything for you, and I will do anything for you. Please. »

As if you were programmed to do so, your palm found his thick glowing hair, smoothly gliding beneath your hand. The thoughts that formed in your head made you tremble, as the truth of your following statement planted daggers through your heart and knee.

« I’m not the girl you miss anymore. »

Your eyes went from the calming auras forming at the surface of the pond, to the stillness of his figure.

« You’re not just a knee, Y/N. » He replied, looking up to you.

Was it the way the teary gaze you fell in love with dived into yours, or the fact that he was the one who just pronounced the very phrase you wished for your parents, doctors, therapists, and boyfriend to tell you, that made your entire self break into tears.

The blood that pumped through your veins, rushed with ache for the unbearable, impossible love that has just crashed onto you, your life and story.

This was it, the fireworks they talked about in novels.

And there he was sniffing on his knees, as your face melted in your soaked palms. Your imagination could have been playing you tricks, drunk on your own tears, but you swore you could hear a bunch of passing-by people gasping and congratulating your « proposal ». Eunseok took notice of your sobs growing in intensity from the irony of it all, and sat back next to you, his thigh now glued to yours. His entire body shielded you from your own violent shakes.

The shushing, and sea-like sound of the weeping willow’s leaves soothed you to sheer sadness, instead of devastation.

He protectively held you for a while.

A while long enough for his tear-stained shirt to dry, whilst your head was still laying on it.

Against the strong, trembling surface of his chest, you thought of how silly it was of you to believe that you would remain unfazed, unmoved, grossed out even, by whatever he’d have to tell you at this stage of your rehabilitation. It was way too late to apologize, and the damage was way beyond repair by now. Or so you thought, before he’d crawl out of his guilt, begging to your feet for you, and everything you selfishly wished for.

Nevertheless, your cries reflected no relief nor blissful satisfaction in being declared unconditional, almost over-the-top love to.

You cried out of grief, again.

You were now witnessing what could have been the start of the story you have silently, shamefully prayed for, and peeled out of your thoughts when you’d shampoo for a bit too long. The passionate declaration that would fast-forward to a happy, lively, and sporty marriage, that you would daydream about in every rides you’d take. The fireworks, the love that burns the blood and twists the bones, that you have looked for in every corners of the pools you’d have secret dates with your boyfriend.

You loved Anton, though.

Which is why your eyes would take days to completely dry.

Eunseok walked you back into your room, softly pushing on a wheelchair, since love has weakened you all over. He tried to break a laugh out of you with slaloms motions, or teased you by having longer than necessary conversations with whoever passed by him. You’d try to roll away to get faster to your room, but he’d grip on your chair hard enough to refrain you from it. It made you giggle. There were few things that he did that didn’t have this effect on you.

He never changed, only became a better fencer.

So, easier to love.

Thus, impossible to let go of.

And you were doomed to do it.

3 mere hours weren’t close to enough to catch up on 7 years apart, especially since it used to take you entire evenings to properly retell what happened over lunch, even though you sat at the ends of the same table.

But there was no time to tell him about your pregnancy scare, the 6 months long fight you’ve had with Anton’s coach, the day you went skydiving, or the drama that happened over that one couple in your class you used to hate on back then. Because Anton would be there in less than half an hour. And because you cared about him, there was no way you’d have Eunseok like this again.

Each and every seconds that passed before the inevitable felt all too cruel.

Here you sat, under the ugly grey light of the room. It would be the last one you’d shine in as the best friend you once were to him, and vice versa.

Even under the ugly grey light, setting eyes on him only further confirmed the truth you were terrified to spend a lifetime coping with.

It was him.

Your greatest love was him.

After all, Anton never fenced with you.

The conversation you were having on each of the boys’ career unwillingly died down now. Silence sat right between you, amplifying your fear of saying goodbye. It was palpable, the force that linked the two of you, now at breaking point.

The way your throat painfully knotted itself even made you doubt on the way you parted from fencing. Was it less, or as painful as choosing your boyfriend of seven years, the one guy you have fantasized about all your youth, over the one person who made the word « soulmate » make sense ?

Each of you exchanged sorry glances, carefully coated in humble gratefulness for the moment.

« Tell me there’s a way. » He ended up sighing, lacing his fingers together, wishing for his other hand to be yours.

You tilted your head in confusion, curiosity, and in all honesty, slight fear of what he was about to say.

« Tell me there’s a way I can be yours. »

His last desperate word lingered in the air. The air that felt harder to breathe all of the sudden.

He was right, there had to be a way.

So you searched for inspiration on his face, lightly twisted in worry. And found it, on the tiny horizontal scar right above his left eyebrow. Seeing it up-close made you 18 again, watching your sword wiggling around in his hands as he yelled out matching sound effects. The memory of a single tear of blood slowly falling along his startled face made you chuckle on your growing tears. And here stood the adult version of the boy you were, and will always be, deeply fond of.

You still couldn’t believe you were losing him.

Sport was the most beautiful thing that have ever came into your life. Your baby teeth would fall into your helmet, and grow back during the youth you sacrificed to the épée. The only thing that made your parents buy four other shelves for your trophies was setting your mind to win. Your mind never lusted over anything else than winning, and seeing others putting their entire self into it. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that you lived for it.

The thirst that turns your body in a unrecognizable anxiety-induced carnage, the adrenaline that endlessly floods from your brain to your toes, and the orgasmic, other-worldly sensation of having the victorious status placed upon you, shining like a crown.

And if you wouldn’t be able to live through it all again, you deserved to watch it unravel.

Your lips popped out of the cage of teeth you trapped them in.

A tiny smirk stretched them, illuminating your desperate face.

« Become an Olympic Champion next year. »

🤺

14-13

Anton’s hand felt too heavy on your knee, your scar jolted awake in bolts of pains by his sweet, sweet thumb grazing it. This abnormal pressure was shared by every pieces of fabric that stuck on your sprinkling skin. The scores and whistles controlled your now manual breathing. Your stomach tied itself around nothing recent to digest. You barely blinked, your blown up irises hysterically dancing in between the two players, studying their every movements. You also turned your knuckles a worrying shade of white as you gripped your plastic seat.

It was safe to say : you were losing your shit.

Eunseok have carelessly lost points all over the second part, screaming his rage out every time he did so. Your tongue could be bleeding from all those times you have refrained yourself from joining him in his act, or downstairs. Glancing at the score, realizing that you might be a point away for your world to collapse, was making your skin burn in all sorts of places, an acidic taste slowly blooming in your mouth. If it weren’t for the delightful, gut-wrenching spectacle you were a lucky live witness of, you’d be cursing yourself to the hells for that stupid challenge you gave him.

You actually thought he wouldn’t make it to the finale.

But now that he did, you found yourself praying for Yannick Borel’s immediate downfall.

« En Garde… »

He just had to miss two times.

« Prêts ? »

But he also just had to score, once.

« Allez ! »

You stopped breathing.

The players hopped in place, as did your indexes on the edge of your seat, as if they were little characters you controlled. The squeaky sound of their soles hitting the graphic floor echoed for a little while, until Eunseok decided to first break synchronization on their hops.

He feinted attacks on Borel’s under defensed’s left arm. And another one, down his thigh.

If Eunseok was a bolder fencer, he already would’ve had the point, you thought.

But he was the surprising the type.

The type you used to hate confronting.

Constantly playing defense, until they see a breach open, an opportunity to seize when your guard is down, and run to you with big steps, like a recurrent nightmare catching you up in your needed sleep.

Kissing you with death.

Borel understood, and grew accustomed to his attacking style at least 5 points ago.

Though, he still had a hard time defensing every parts of his body against it.

He defended his arm by wrapping it around his lower torso, crouched, now reaching for Eunseok’s thighs.

His sword swooped the air.

14-14

Eunseok landed from his jump, his point stinging Borel’s shoulder blades.

As soon as he scooped the victory off Yannick’s back, you were on your feet, screaming your lungs out. Anton jolted, placing his hand on your hips as an attempt to hold you if you were to fall. He looked up at you, watching you roar a « Come on » from the depths of your guts, a sound he has never quite heard before.

Under the Palais’ stadium lights, each and every strands of the crown of your hair, backlit to shades of blues and golds, made you look like an actual goddess. There he sat, in awe of the woman he was certain he could spend a lifetime worshipping. And there you stood, knowing you should be peeling your eyes away from Eunseok’s sweaty smile of relief plastered all over the screens, especially since Anton had a light grip on your shirt, but you thoroughly knew that you couldn’t. You couldn’t stop looking at him, the dark shiny hair strands that were glued to his forehead, the dimples that dug through his cheeks, and then, the switch in his eyes and furrowed eyebrows, when it was time to put the mask on, and lock back in.

You were the last of your row to sit back down as the arena grew quieter.

Waves of panic in it’s purest state crashed on your entire being, in forces that felt as if your soul would detach itself from your body. You were reaching stress-levels you thought unbeatable minutes ago. Anton quickly took notice of your trembling legs, and perfect manicure progressively getting ruined. His hands shielded yours from your shaking teeth, as he made you look at him for a second, thankfully, during time-out.

The sight of his soft traits relaxed yours in a miraculous instant.

His touch cooled you down.

His thumb lovingly caressing the side of your fist slowed down your breathing.

And as if your heart haven’t found enough peace in him, he reached for your hair, petting it, murmuring « Are you okay? » to the thresholds of your tortured soul.

You nodded, gulping your huge lie down your chest, where you felt a big pressure. It finally came down to you, in a flash, the absolute stupidity of your challenge.

You were possibly a point away from losing the one thing that made your life hold together.

The person who picked you up, pieces by pieces, from your shattered state on the court’s floor, to your first teary-eyed jogging session along the Han River.

The one person you’ve granted access to each and every parts of your body.

The one person who’d peel all of the pistachios, and gut out all the pomegranates for you.

The one person who’d sneak a sample of your perfume in all of his coat’s pockets.

The one person you’d cook for his mother, father, siblings, and himself.

The one person you’ve made a home with, and made a home of.

In the end, Anton has proved himself to be your favorite person in the entire world.

In the end, you were the one that always refused to teach him fencing, for your own selfish sake, when all he wanted was to know you, and each of the worlds you belonged to completely.

There was a part of your soul that you’ve denied him access to, and instead of complaining, or forcing you, he just waited.

You never ended your nod, your head still hanging low, out of shame, guilt, pain and everything else that has been crushing you for the entirety of the combat. Your partner peeked at your hidden face, and needed no more information than the muffled sound of you sniffing to bury your head in his chest. The last point was about to be gained, by a player or another, but you couldn’t peel yourself away from him. You couldn’t watch it.

It was better this way.

Everything was better in Anton’s arms.

Even losing him.

The same squeaky sound of the fencer’s shoes on the platform echoed yet again through the hall. The church-like silence that dances with them, though, have never felt so heavy on everyone’s shoulders. It was okay, though, with Anton’s palms on yours, and the beating of his heart to focus on. It oddly felt comforting to imagine that he knew about what was at stake here. His tight hold on you, feeling like the last grasp of air a drowning person would do. His focused eyes, replacing yours, as if you sent him to battle to death with Eunseok for you.

The actual battle that occurred beneath you felt like a never-ending one. As calm and still as you could be, you tested your patience and almost meditated to the sound of Eunseok’s hops and grunts, tickling your burning ear. Even if you’ve mentally fought yourself a few times to just fuck it and turn around, Anton wouldn’t allow you.

You were stuck to the bone, until the whistle would blow.

And it did.

And the announcer’s voice from the speakers, unknowingly, cracked open your life into two, one part of which you will never know the outcome of.

A part you were doomed to mourn, again, forever.

15-14

—

The sea of blue bleachers slowly cleared itself above you, as the Korean, French, and German flags lowered themselves to the ground. The rain of confettis slowly died down, also, pooling on people’s hair and shoulders. The crowd left in waves, the time in between the beautiful spectacle of sport they were all privileged enough to see, and the train of their lives about to restart, hanging in the air, lingering. Your eyes aimlessly swept around the Grand Palais, encountering as many celebrating and saddened faces as it could in a matter of seconds.

Though, it left you thoughtless.

You felt like nothing but a bag of blood, bones and flesh, walking in your man’s steps, lighter and lighter as you walked, free of all the stress that previously crushed your heart.

He guided you to an event you were certain of replaying throughout the rest of your life, but you numbly followed him still.

And you arrived to destination. Your first view being Eunseok’s shoes a meter away from yours.

Losing your knee, your life, your entire career, and processing it all from the beginning each time you fell asleep, was a hundred times easier than simply looking up.

Anton, your sweet Anton, slipped his hand out of your grasp to swiftly put it on your lower back, before he went reaching for Eunseok, who just like you, simply missed his college best friend.

The devastating sight of their embrace cured you from your aches. You saw love pour out of them, for each other. So much, that you briefly caught yourself suspecting a secret connexion, as some of the lingering touches and glances they offered each other happened to be a second too long. An inch too loving.

You didn’t have time, to investigate, though, as it was now your cue to get stabbed in the heart. You thought you’d explode out of love when you’d crash into Eunseok’s arms, and feel his heavy, dangling medal dig its way into your ribs. You thought you’d faint, or die, even.

Even though they were close to happening, none of them occurred.

He caged you in his sobbing body, matching yours, you melted, as did he. Your respective embraces crushed each of you, as much as it soothed you. You, by the salty smell of your firsts loves, fencing and Eunseok. And him, by the vanilla smell of the hair he’d lock in a singular braid before you’d go to battle, whether it was under the bleachers, or projectors. He had to stop himself from running his hand through it, for the sole public of this scene silently grew impatient, and jealous.

You knew it.

He knew it.

And you stayed there, privately celebrating, inhaling and already missing each other.

Before he could peel himself off, you heard him whisper an apology by the crook of your neck, instantly raising the hairs on it, and making your fists tremble around his fresh suit.

He patted the new growing sobs away on your back, and looked up to the glass ceiling, through which he caught the moon, looking down on your doomed, broken souls.

You eventually parted, as the universe, and the referee decided.

« Congratulations on your medal, Eunseok. » You managed to say, looking directly into his eyes.

You haven’t known any heavier burden to carry other than the white silver rock on your ring finger, matching the shiny medal that covered the pieces you left his heart in.

« Congratulations on your wedding, Y/N. » He replied, sincerely smiling.

GOTHAMGF©

author's note : muahahaha.... this is my very first riize work and work in a long while. hope you enjoyed, I really liked writing this :)

#riize ff #riize masterlist #eunseok #anton #riize ensemble #riize school #eunsoek x reader #Anton x reader #fencing ff #basketball ff #swimmer anton #riize imagines

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biibini · 1 year ago

Note

okay so not many people explore this often but i think so hard about the softer side of mizu like when she was married to m*kio (🤢). Yes, we get a lot of the butch lesbian mizu content where shes the tough gf and all, but what about with a gf just calling mizu pretty!!! calling her beautiful and holding her face!!! telling her that shes the most gorgeous woman!!! MIZU DESERVES SOME SOFT COMPLIMENTS TOO ABOUT HER BEAUTY BC SHE IS GORGEOUS ! ! ! 😭❤️

fluff modern!mizu x reader headcannons

tags: fluff, mizu x reader, modern au, cute moments, pretty mizu, compliments, kissing, kisses on the cheek, gifting, flower bouquets, safe relationship, mizu deserves this :(

a/n: FUCK M*K*O !! she is my gorgeous beautiful girl!! ok school isn’t that bad but i do have a weekend trip so i'll be lowk MIA :(

modern!mizu tries to put up a tough front

but with you, the barrier breaks down and she feels comfortable exploring new aspects of herself

she's never felt that kind of safety

she barely felt it with m*k*o after learning his true nature

as time passes by with u, she begins to bring her guard down

compliment modern!mizu and she immediately doesn't know what to do or what to believe

earlier on in ur relationship, u helped her get dressed for a sports-day after party held by the school

in celebration of a well balanced and eventful day, there was a formal event for athletes and their plus ones

and mizu didn't know how to present herself

yeah she had the clothes

but she had trouble styling it

u came over to fix her clothes in ur beautiful blue dress that totally didn't compliment her eyes

mizu showered u with compliments, saying how her "pretty girl was so dressed up beautifully"

or calling u a "beautiful sight"

without thinking, u called her "my beautiful girl" as u fixed her hair

she immediately went quiet

"Mizu?", you questioned. She had gone silent after your compliment. "Did I say something wrong? I'm so sorry, I'll just-"

You look up to find her, her mouth agape. Not out of disgust. Instead, Mizu whiplashed by your words, her face flaring red. Only three words and she's suddenly out of commission.

yeah, mizu would def short circuit

and she did for a brief moment

until she snapped and kissed u

and totally not ruin ur makeup

modern!mizu loves it when u cup her face while y'all kissing or make out

mizu mainly is the one talking and touching during heated moments but even the soft feeling of her significant other’s touch makes her stomach fill with butterflies

or if ur just chilling in bed and u start tracing her face

externally, she’s relaxing

internally, she’s mesmerized by ur touch

when u trace around her eyes and lips and play w her hair, she has never felt such softness and safety

or even if u cup her face to give her a kiss on the cheek before u leave for work or class

it makes her feel secure and happy

modern!mizu loves being called pretty

she still likes dressing more masc but that doesnt mean she isnt pretty

especially if u compliment her eyes

or her strangely healthy hair

the fact that its long and still shiny

sometimes u pray u had her hair genes bc wtf this isnt fair

“Your hair is so pretty, it’s not fair.”, you say as you play with Mizu’s hair. It was late at night and while she was busy figuring out calculations for a project, you were busy relaxing.

She hummed in acknowledgement. With her back still turned, you ran your hair through her scalp, feeling the silky texture of her raven hair.

Normally, Mizu would just tie her hair up to focus late at night. Tonight would be a little different since you were still up.

As your hands sectioned continued to run through her hair, Mizu relaxed. In a calm state, she solved the equations with ease, listening to the faint lofi studying music guide her thoughts into the night.

Time passed yet Mizu never felt it until she realized your hands had slowed down. She turned back to see you, eyes heavy and ready to doze off.

She looked back at her nearly completed homework. One problem couldn’t hurt in the morning.

Mizu shut off the desk lamp and silently collected her things in a neat pile. She rests your head on your pillows and pull the covers on top of you. With one foot into dreamland, Mizu gives you a kiss on your forehead.

modern!mizu’s favorite places to get kissed are her cheeks

she loves any kisses from u tbh

whenever u would give a goodbye kiss, she always forgets ab the “final” kiss

it’s so simple yet so endearing

when u guys first started dating, u were a little hesitant on ending the first few dates with a kiss

so u choose a simple peck on her cheek instead

u could see blush form on her cheeks afterwards

and they still flush to this day

after mizu went back to her place after the date, she would not stop smiling

it lowkey threw off ringo for a while

modern!mizu enjoys fresh flowers

it seems small but it’s a pretty reminder of ur love

she never got flowers as a gift in her previous relationship so she wasn’t use to these gifts

(yeah fuck u m*k*o)

it makes her heart warm every time she sees the vase on her desk

preferably, she likes peonies bc of how fluffy and full they bloom

but if u bring a new bouquet, she’ll gladly clean and take care of it

u insist that u will do it

but once u saw her carefully pluck and cut the bouquet, u let mizu have her way

she just looks so joyful getting new flowers to take care of

when the flowers start to fully bloom, mizu likes to check and make sure they have enough water

basically she gives them the love and care they need

(im crying sobbing while writing this)

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kiryoutann · 5 months ago

Text

disclaimer and cw: fem! reader. one-nightstand, unplanned pregnancy, vomitting.

CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST.

journalist! reader, abandoning her draft of an article about SpecGru's (your favorite hockey team) recent win, is forced by her coworkers to "have some fun" AND got dragged to a party. seated around a table full of alcohol that your friends have ordered, loud music blares around you almost to the point of damaging your eardrums.

they say you deserve it - something about how they know you're burying yourself in work not only because you're a workaholic and a huge fan of SpecGru, but also to distract yourself from your recent breakup with your cheating ex.

"honey, you need to forget him, at least just for tonight! look around you, that guy over there has been eyeing you for a while. why don't i hold your drink so you can say hi to him?" one exclaimed, and the others cheered in agreement.

at first, you were reluctant, continuing to plant your back against the back of the couch as if glued to it. but, glass by glass, the alcohol lowers your inhibitions and ability to think rationally. you then slam the glass on the table and approach the brunette with confidence, your friends' cheers ringing out behind you.

so why is it that when you wake up in a strange room - with strange walls and an even stranger bed - the man next to you is a blonde?

you would've just shrug this off and slip out of the bed like any other woman after a one-night stand if he was someone else. but, you recognize that face everywhere - that stubbled jaw and inked left arm peeking out from under the covers. simon riley, SpecGru's top defender.

this must be a dream, you think. this must be some weird, absurd dream you harvested after spending too much time in front of your laptop browsing about him outside of his athletic abilities (whether he's actually single, dating rumors, or some secret Instagram account he has). cause, honestly? out of all the pretty guys in SpecGru, simon is the one who catches your eye.

you slap yourself lightly, intending to wake yourself up from this too-good-to-be-true dream. one slap. two slaps. and the third one is so hard that the said man shifts and grumbles in his sleep. before you can get out of bed, he opens his eyes and looks at you confused.

"uh.. hi," you try, wincing at your own nervousness. "i'm.. well, i'll be going now."

you don't give simon time to respond because the next thing you know, you're already gathering your clothes and heading out of the five-star hotel room.

and of course. of course simon has to give you a "souvenir". cause two months after, you're sitting on the toilet with a positive pregnancy test. you've had your suspicions, but now that you have proof to hold, the fear creeps into your spine.

the cost of living alone is enough to put a dent in your bank account, let alone having a baby? with the father somewhere far and you can only see him on television every time he plays at the hockey rink.

yet, turns out, SOMEHOW, simon isn't as far away as you thought.

two weeks in limbo considering what to do, your boss assigns you to cover this sport lunch event at a hotel. his briefing is short, but you don't think anything of it. probably because you already have a lot on your plate. besides, going means more bonuses for you to receive.

but boy, it's a disaster at first sight.

simon fucking riley is there, with a few of his teammates. his presence is hard to avoid as he stands like a fucking mammoth in the room. you're smaller than him, so you hope, pray to god and the gods in the sky that your size makes it hard for him to spot you (if he even remembers you).

misplaced optimism, apparently. because firstly, simon has the eyes of an eagle. and secondly, for some reason, he remembers you (or even remembers everyone he's ever slept with? you wonder what he's got stacked up in his hippocampus.)

fucking eggs. the second you smell it, you feel your breakfast kicking, wanting to breach your throat. you excuse yourself, walking briskly towards where the toilets are probably located. out of the corner of your eye, you see simon get up from his chair, but you couldn't care less when you're at risk of staining the expensive marble.

"ma'am?" a deep voice called out to you. simon. you felt the stomach acid reaching the tip of your throat now.

to make the day better, this stupid hallway is too long, and simon turns out to be quite determined in his pursuit. when he grabs your hand, you turn to him and-

you stained his armani suit with your vomit. his face was twisted in disgust mixed with shock, but his grip on you didn't loosen. drawing a conclusion, simon knew what this was all about.

well, at least you don't have to worry about the marble now.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x pregnant reader #simon ghost riley x pregnant reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff

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cranberryjuice-posts · 1 year ago

Text

So don’t freak out

Synopsis - Clarisse is Bad at keeping secrets

Pairings - college! Clarisse x mortal fem! Reader

IMPORTANT - this FIC takes Place after PJO and HOO and is during TOA, so spoilers are ahead, this is basically cannon clarisse outside of camp

It had been a year since clarisse left camp. After the war against the Roman’s and Gaea she was just ready to finally attend college and be a ‘normal’ girl.

So far everything was going great. In an advance intro to Greek mythology and culture course mainly she took since she needed a fine arts credit she met you. You were just some mortal girl, at first she didn’t really notice you but after being assigned on a project together she quickly realized how much she liked you.

Even after you introduced clarisse to your friend group and invited her out to eat she just couldn’t get you out of her mind. She would pray to her father and Aphrodite in hopes for advice little did she know Aphrodite was playing match maker against ares better judgement.

After a few months clarisse caved and asked you out.. Even after a few dates she was still to nervous to ask the question so you did, that’s how you two started to date.

Your relationship was perfect. You loved spending time with clarisse and her mother, you also love playing with her hair and watching her when she would dominate the court no matter what sport it was in the gym.

——

You were sitting by clarisse in her dorm room as you did an assignment. “Uh huh, you know you really enjoy the story of achilles and Patroclus”

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “Shut up”

“I’m serious!” You joked “I don’t know it’s just the way you talk about him and write his story it’s like you are him, or maybe you lost your Patroclus so you relate” you smiled at first but soon straightened your position when she grew quiet. “Did I..”

“No.. no” clarisse sighed and set her pen down before rubbing her eyes.. she let out a sigh and looked over at you gently grabbing your hand. “About two years ago.. there was this big event in my life. I had a best friend named silena.. she was my everything and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love her.. silena had recently lost her boyfriend and when she had died in the accident which was my fault, it hurt.. a lot. I did everything I could to save her and I even got vengeance for her, so In a way yeah I lost my Patroclus but that’s ok.. I have you now” she leaned over and kissed your cheek wanting to cheer you up some.

You rubbed her hand softly.. you had so many questions but decided against it not wanting to press the issues.

——

It was Saturday. Clarisse was messing around with you as you two were walking back towards the college campus while laughing together after going on a date. You let go of her hand and walked ahead before stopping so you could take some pictures of her..

Once clarisse caught up and took your phone out of your hand she leaned down and kissed you. “You know your dumb right” you rolled your eyes. “Yeah I’m aware”

There was a loud bang from an alley way.. while you thought nothing of it You noticed clarisse tensing up. “Babe-“

She grabbed you and forced you behind her. “Don’t move” she instructed. You were confused, what you saw was a stray dog eating some trash but clarisse was acting like she saw a monster. “Y/n” she whispered and grabbed your waist. “We’re gonna run”

“Lise what’s going on”

“I’ll explain later but we need to RUN!” She yelled and grabbed your hand running down the street with the barking dog now chasing you.. you had never seen clarisse act like this..

Turn after turn after turn. All you knew was that clarisse continued to run with you in her hand, you looked back and for a moment the dog chasing you… it wasn’t a dog it looked bigger meaner.. hellish even. You didn’t understand and you didn’t want to.

Eventually clarisse threw you into a random gas station and slammed against a shelf panting.. the dog sat patiently outside not moving but eerily watched as you and clarisse caught your breath. Clarisse dragged you to the bathroom and locked the door. “Look—“

“Clarisse what the fuck is going on!” You yelled, your dress now messed up along side your now frizzy hair and sweaty face. “It’s a dog!”

She held her head down before looking at you with concern. “It’s.. a dog” You spoke however this time less assure in yourself.

Clarisse shook her head and opened the bathroom door.. she walked out for a moment before coming back and nodding her head in a different direction. “Common this way” she softly took your hand, you squinted your eyes thinking you were seeing things.. it was almost like clarisse had a spear? In her Hand more specifically an Ancient Greek style spear. You shook your head and the spear disappeared leaving only clarisses keys in her hand.

You left out the back way and took a longer way back to campus.. neither of you spoke until you got to clarisses dorm.

You sat down on her bed and watched as she hung her keys on the wall.. there it was again the spear but it left as soon as you saw it.

“Claire”

“Hm” she flatly spoke and opened her computer.

“That wasn’t a dog was it..” you spoke quietly. She sent an email before sighing and walking infront of you taking your hands. “No.. no it wasn’t”

“Can I Tell You something Crazy” You mumbled, clarisse nodded while squeezing your hands. “The dog…. It almost looked like a hellhound like from Mr. Anthony’s talk on Greek monsters, I know I sound crazy.. but it only lasted for a second”

“That’s” she gave a dramatic sigh. “That’s because it was a hellhound” You looked up confused. “Y/n.. there’s something you need to know”

This was to much. You didn’t like any of this clarisses tone the apparent hell hound chasing you NOW the spear on the wall clear as day not disappearing. You faced clarisse again and nodded. “All those myths you know and love.. their real and I am a daughter of ares”

At first there was silence until you started to laugh. Clarisse looked back at you offended all while you just laughed. “You’ve gotta be joking!” Clarisse was starting to grow irritated, you calmed down.. noticed clarisses face you Just scoff. “Right because Zeus and hades and fucking ares all exist? Clarisse baby I love you but if your seeing things we can get you help I mean me seeing a hellhound of everything was probably just a result of the alcohol I had earlier and some adrenaline”

Clarisse tapped her foot before letting go and going to her night stand. You watched as she rummaged through until she pulled out a golden coin. “What are You Gonna do with that” You asked with a smile.

“Prove to you I’m not lying” she sighed and grabbed a crystal her roommate had, she propped it up on a table and flashed her phones flashlight through it to make a prism and stepped back. “Oh Iris, goddess of the Rainbow, please accept my offering."

She tossed the coin into the cystals light and it dissolved..your smile dropped and was replaced by confusion. “Camp halfblood Dionysius”

The prism shimmered and soon showed a reflection of a middle aged man sitting at a table with a centaur beside him.

Chiron looked up and smiled. “Ah clarisse daughter of ares, what can I do for you”

Mr.D looked over and rolled his eyes. “Clementine always a pleasure” his tone clearly sarcastic

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “You mean clarisse”

“Same thing”

You had a look of horror on your face as you watched the scene before you. “Claire.. did you say Chiron as in the centaur guy” The two men exchanged looks wondering what the call was really about.

She nodded and held her hand out now showing Chiron and Mr. D You.. there was some silence until Mr.D complained.

—

She ended the Iris message and turned to face you. “You believe me Now” You nodded slowly, she chuckled and walked over grabbing your cheeks and kissing your forehead.

“I.. have a shit ton to explain” she sighed but smiled as you hugged her in response. Clarisse was worried, you were a mortal now stepping into her world but one thing clarisse knew was that you weren’t gonna get hurt she would make sure of that.

Clarisse - and uh that was the battle of manhatten

Y/n - YOU KILLED A DRAKON IN ONE SHOT

Clarisse - …Yeah? THATS ALL YOU TOOK FROM THE STORY

——

Y/n - so have you met Hecate

Clarisse - no Just because I’m a demigod doesn’t mean I’ve met every god, but why her?

Y/n - because she’s cool as shit that’s why

——

Y/n - you shoved a kids head into a toilet because he killed the Minotaur

Clarisse - SUPPOSEDLY killed the Minotaur I mean Percy’s strong now but he was a runt then

Y/n - oh my god clarisse 😭

#lesbian #wlw #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse my beloved #clarisse larue #clarisse x reader #percy jackson show #pjo fandom #percy jackson #percy jackson fanfiction #pjo fanfic

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thelastofhyde · 9 months ago

Text

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut.

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass.

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp.

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste.

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips.

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs.

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over.

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment.

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically.

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too.

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

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