#THE WAY THERE WAS NO ONE WORSE OF A MATCH BASED ON THESE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunsburns · 16 days ago

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wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her.

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear.

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

2K notes · View notes

heirofnight · 4 months ago

Text

finally

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 4.6k - this one's a doozy, buckle up.

based on this request: Hi hi can I get an angsty Azriel x fem!reader fic. Basically they’re mates but they don’t have the best relationship for whatever reason. Rhysand sends them on a mission somewhere and somehow Azriels mind gets taken over and he attacks reader. She doesn’t want to leave Azriel even though he begs her to before he lost control because despite everything she did love him. Reader ends up getting hurt but was thankfully able to reach out to Rhysand in time. Rhysand then clears Azriels mind from whatever was done to him. Azriel ofc beats himself up over it, but then they kiss and makeup.

content warnings: talk of death, reader gets attacked, choking

a/n: this was a TRIP to write. for all of you requesting angst, i'm serving it on a silver platter. i hope you love it! first time writing a fic based on a request, so i hope i did it justice. let me know what you think! as always, lightly edited. pls ignore any mistakes <3

"are you serious?", you spat out, scoffing in disbelief. you crossed your arms across your chest immediately, your body language depicting just how frustrated you were.

azriel stood next to you, keeping way too much distance for a male that was apparently, allegedly your mate.

some mate, you sneered within your swirling mind. you'd both still refused to accept the bond, and if anything, it had just made the already avoidant relationship between the both of you even worse.

you were convinced that this was some sort of divine mistake, there was simply no way that azriel was your mate. we have absolutely nothing in common, another brief thought that had you glancing at him from the corner of your peripheral - just to find him standing in the exact same stance that you currently held. arms crossed, body language defensive, expression stoic.

you cleared your throat and quickly dropped your arms to your sides, straightening your spine before meeting rhys' violet gaze once more. his eyes sparkled with amusement, knowing exactly what you were thinking. whether you were that transparent, or he had actually caught you with your mental shields down - you didn't know. the wards within your mind were the least of your concerns right now.

"i am absolutely serious, i'm afraid", rhys smirked, enjoying the entertainment of watching both you and azriel spiral towards an inevitable juvenile skirmish. especially at his own hand.

azriel huffed a frustrated breath, his shadows becoming more frenzied as they ebbed and flowed around his body. you glanced at him once more, noticed the way his wings had drooped in defeat. you found yourself beginning to admire his side profile, his sculpted, pretty features calling to you in a moment of weakness. you quickly averted your gaze.

you'd never claimed he wasn't attractive, that much about him was painfully obvious. and since he was - unfortunately - your mate, there were moments where it felt as though every fiber, cell, and atom of your body were screaming for his. you'd wondered if he ever felt the same.

"rhys, this is ridiculous. there is no reason for her to join me. i never have help on missions - i never need it," his words grew more strained as he spoke, his last words ending in a near-snarl.

you rolled your eyes at his arrogance, throwing your hands up in exasperation before letting them slap against your thighs. "oh, i'm so sorry, azriel. how could i possibly offer any significant knowledge or assistance with this job, when you're already the most wisest, skilled, and capable male ever gifted by the gods? how can any of us forget - we pale in comparison to the all-feared shadowsinger," your tone was mocking as you turned towards him, cheeks reddening in exasperation.

azriel met your gaze, eyes narrowed as he deadpanned, "most wise".

you narrowed your own gaze to match his, "what?", you scoffed out.

"you said most wisest. that makes no sense. i believe you meant most wise," he stated dryly, tone emotionless.

your cheeks reddened further, expression twisting into one of pure anger. it didn't help that you heard rhys struggling to hold back a bark of laughter.

"okay, honestly, fuck yo-", you began, ready to spit pure venom straight into his veins with your words.

"enough," rhys commanded, voice booming. you froze, huffing out a breath before looking over at the high lord - he was now standing, his hands braced against the surface of his desk. his eyes held no amusement, no laughter. he was fed up.

"you are to both deploy on this mission. you are to both work together to track down this rebel group of daemati, and you are to both report back here with your findings. you keep each other safe. you work together. and you stop this childish bickering," rhys stated, his tone taking on a quality of pure nobility.

he looked between both you and azriel with striking violet eyes. "you leave tomorrow. am i clear?", the high lord questioned, and you knew he required an answer.

"yes," you and your mate replied at the same time, in the same brooding tone. rhys quirked an eyebrow at that, smirking slyly.

"great. have fun, you two," he gave a swooping gesture with his arm in dismissal.

the next morning, you and azriel departed right after breakfast. it was a shared - albeit silent - meal, and you found yourself glancing up at him behind the rim of your glass every single time you took a sip. you didn't know it, but azriel was sparing you the same glances as he ate his porridge.

the rebel group of daemati were last known to be located near the northern edge of the day court's borders - nearing the court of nightmares. the plan was to teleport close to the border itself, and you and azriel both knew that you'd more than likely have to track them from that location to wherever they were now.

you'd left from the house of wind's balcony after eating - azriel reluctantly placing a large hand on your shoulder before teleporting you both in a blanket of darkness and swirling shadows.

once the shadows dissipated, you'd found yourselves in a chilled, heavily wooded patch of forest. you blinked a few times, gaining your bearings. before your eyes had even fully focused on where you were, azriel was stalking off to your left, already on the prowl.

you rolled your eyes, jogging after him in order to catch up. "is your plan to 'accidentally' lose me in the woods?", you sneered, your legs burning as you tried to keep up with his long strides. you crouched down hastily to avoid a low-hanging branch that almost collided with your cheek. you'd been too busy glaring at the side of azriel's head to notice it.

he huffed, his boots crunching against fallen leaves. "keep up, and you won't get lost," he offered, his shadows darting out ahead of him to scout the surrounding area for traces of your target.

you grumbled, eyeing his smoky tendrils as they swirled in different directions. "prick," you said under your breath, pushing another branch out of your path.

you could have sworn you saw the corner of his lips quirk upward at your comment, an action that you would have almost found endearing if it weren't for the current situation you found yourself in. as much as you didn't want to admit it to yourself, you were nervous. you'd never been on a mission, especially not one that felt as high stakes as this one. daemati were dangerous. able to enter, control - and if trained enough, completely shatter - minds without so much as blinking. sure, as a scholar, you'd had brief knowledge on how to handle their kind, but coming across one daemati was rare - much less an entire pissed off group of them.

this could end terribly. and you did not want to be the one to sabotage this outing.

one single coil of shadow darted back towards azriel, whispering against the shell of his ear. "this way," he pointed to your right with a scarred hand, and you adjusted your path accordingly. you found your gaze following his hand as he lowered it to his side once more, and azriel glanced down, noticing where your eyes had landed.

he felt his pulse quicken, not sure what to make of your sudden interest in his hands. it was already an insecurity of his, and he knew that you'd not be shy to prey on that fact.

he cleared his throat, running that same hand through his hair in order to break your gaze. you inhaled a sharp breath, realizing you'd been caught. you opted to stare straight ahead instead, the normal silence between the both of you now feeling awkward.

should you say something? you didn't want him to think you'd been looking at the skin of his hands in disgust. it was the furthest thing from the truth. and while you weren't the hugest fan of his, you would never think poorly of him in regards to his trauma.

"i -," you started, clearing your own throat now. he glanced over at you from the corner of his eye, not urging you to finish.

"i've always thought they were beautiful - your hands," you said sincerely, voice nothing more than a whisper that you were certain a gust of wind could carry away on a breeze - never to be heard.

he took a deep breath, blowing it out through his nose harshly.

"thank you," he said softly, nodding once.

a lifeline, that's what it felt like.

my mate, he thought to himself, trudging forward.

you'd both continued on in comfortable silence for the next few hours. the bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach was beginning to unravel, and you had to admit: you felt safe with azriel. not that you'd assumed he'd leave you for dead at any point during this mission - at the very least, rhys had commanded he return you to velaris safely. even if azriel somehow personally wanted you dead, he wouldn't defy his high lord's orders.

regardless, you were beginning to feel safe alongside him on your own accord.

a few times, you'd attempted to speak. pointing out various birds that you'd seen perched in the high branches of trees, or remarking on types of flowers that you'd walk past - many of which weren't native to velaris. azriel would notice the way your voice perked up as you spoke of them, noticed a certain kind of wistful joy that crept into your eyes, widening your pupils.

his own gaze began to soften as he observed you, finding your wholesome awe endearing. he listened carefully as you passionately explained each finding. cute, he'd thought briefly, warming up to your company. your hair whipped around you on a stray breeze, a strand catching right across your nose. his hand twitched, the urge to effortlessly brush it from your face filling him to the brim. but before he was able to build up the courage to do so, you'd beat him to it, and his hand stilled.

you were just about to point out yet another bird flying across the dusk-dusted sky when a familiar tendril of shadow approached azriel's ear.

"silence," he whispered in a hushed tone, halting his steps. he tensed up alongside you, his wings pulling in tightly at his back.

you closed your mouth, swallowing what you'd meant to say. you froze in place slightly behind him, waiting with shallow breaths for his next order.

"up ahead," he whispered, nodding his chin towards what looked to be a plume of smoke rising into the chilled air. your eyes followed the path of his gaze, and you squinted to make out the scene before you.

azriel crouched next to your still-standing form as he attempted to get a better look from a different angle.

it appeared to be a campsite of some sort - whoever was stationed there had clearly decided to stop traveling for the evening. the sun was quickly lowering behind the mountain range in the distance, and the air was even more frigid than when you'd both begun your trek. you felt a shiver wrack through your body, and azriel glanced up at you, frowning slightly.

he watched as you studied the growing fire before the both of you, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. you looked down at him, your eyes meeting for the first time all day. your breath hitched at the eye contact, and you faltered for a moment.

"so do we-", you spoke quietly.

"let's just-", he spoke at the same time.

you smiled warmly, dropping your head and huffing out a laugh.

he smirked, grabbing your wrist gently to pull you down to his level. "my shadows picked up on a few daemati tracks. i'm assuming its a small group - they must have decided to stop here for the evening. i'm guessing it's four, maybe five of them," he explained in a hushed tone, his eyes finding the campsite once more.

you thought for a moment, observing him.

"so, what's the best way to go about this?", you asked, voice soft.

he was about to reply, but his body froze, mouth poised to speak but nothing emerged.

there was a momentary pause before his expression transformed into one of pain, pure agony. he grunted, bracing his arms against the ground beneath him. his eyes were screwed shut in pain.

you startled, falling back onto your butt as you took in the scene before you with wide eyes.

no, no no no.

you supposed your brain knew what was happening before your body could react.

and that's when you felt it, a stifling, world-ending level of pain - unrelenting pain that felt so real, so true. but it wasn't your own pain. it was azriel's, through the white-hot golden bond that tethered the two of you together. until this moment, azriel had made sure to keep his emotions sequestered from you - you had done the same. out of pure spite, disdain for the cauldron's decision to fuse the two of you together for eternity.

until this moment. when azriel opened the floodgates of his own mind, letting you in. warning you.

"az," you breathed out, moving to rest a hand on his shoulder in gut-wrenching fear.

he gritted his teeth, letting out a horrible groan of distress.

"leave," he gnashed out, his voice strained. he let out another roar of pain.

you shook your head, eyes wide and pained.

"no, azriel. no. i'm not," you said sternly, voice watery.

"y/n," he forced out, nails digging into the dirt beneath him as he fought the intrusion of the daemati.

"y/n," he repeated, groaning once more, "it has me. it's going to make me hurt you," he strained, "you have to go. contact rhys, and go," he fell onto his side, wings flaring in exertion.

you scrambled towards him, placing a hand on his forehead. your heart was beating so rapidly, you were half-expecting it to leap from your throat and join azriel's form on the dampened ground.

all you could do was shake your head, over and over and over.

"no, no, no," you whispered, eyes filling with tears. you felt a fear so absolute, wholly understanding right then the pure agony that crawled into every crevice when the person on the other end of that golden rope was in danger. you couldn't leave him, you refused. every fiber of your being rebuked the thought. you peered down at his writhing form, his face pinched in pain. he was still the most beautiful male you'd ever seen.

you let out a gutteral noise of distress. you wasted so much time - so much time resenting azriel. fighting with him. throwing jabs at him. hating the gods, the cauldron, for linking the two of you. for what?

all that time wasted, and now his mind was no longer his. you would never get to express your love for the male before you - never get to experience the love that the both of you so immensely deserved.

"azriel," you choked out, pressing your shaking hands to every part of his body you could possibly touch. you glanced up, surveying your surroundings quickly. that's when you saw him, the daemati.

he'd kept his distance, but you made out the shape of his dark form within the trees. you couldn't even see his face, but you could clearly see the way his head tilted to the right, unnaturally slow. he was using his powers to fully infiltrate azriel's mind.

but your mate was putting up a fight. your strong, powerful mate.

azriel was doing everything within his power to not succumb to the daemati's will, his body feeling like it was going to split in half. the pain, the unrelenting, bone crushing pain, was enough to make him wish he could somehow force himself completely unconscious.

and still, through it all, he could not tear his thoughts away from you. a dangerous game, as he was dealing with a species of fae that was literally able to break into the walls of his mind, utilizing his deepest fears against him.

and right now, his biggest fear was losing you. hurting you.

he roared out, blue siphons blazing, vibrating against his skin.

one singular mantra stamped itself through his mind as he attempted to fight off the daemati clawing at his iron-clad wards long enough to convince you to flee, to leave him there to suffer alone - just as he always had:

my mate, fight for your mate, keep her safe, fight for your mate, keep her safe, my mate

you froze, mesmerized by the form that was tearing azriel's mind apart chamber-by-chamber.

then, it happened, and it happened quickly: azriel, now fully under its control, lunged toward you. he tackled you backwards, into the dirt and leaves beneath the both of you.

you screamed, bracing your hands against his chest. you dared to look into his hazel eyes, orbs that were no longer his own.

what you saw terrified you. pupils blown wide.

death himself.

a large, scarred hand found its way to your throat, and you thrashed wildly beneath him. he was unphased by the fight you tried to give him - he was too strong, and you were too scared.

rhys, rhys please, you chanted into your mind, hoping somehow he'd be able to hear you. it was a long shot - you knew that. you'd never once communicated with rhys mind-to-mind, but it was your only chance.

you were going to die at the hands of your mate. and it all felt so ironic, since azriel hated you anyway.

rhys, please, your pleads grew frantic, and azriel's hand gripped tighter around your neck.

the edges of your vision began to go dark, and you grabbed azriel's chin, peering into his eyes with all of the strength that you could muster. "azriel. it's me. it's y/n - it's your mate. please, az. i'm so sorry for everything," you strained against his grip, throat tightening. you wouldn't be conscious for much longer. if there was any chance that he - the real him - could hear you, you had to try to get through.

"i'm so, so sorry, az," you spluttered out, eyes growing heavy.

you sent one more plead to rhys through your mind before everything went dark.

your eyes fluttered open slowly, a groan leaving your throat before you were even fully awake. your neck ached, the skin there burned. your whole body felt tense, tight, and stiff.

you blinked, eyes heavy, trying to take in your surroundings. you recognized the ceiling above you, knew that the soft sheets pulled up to your chin were the ones adorning your bed at the house of wind.

you were home. you were alive.

the events with azriel, the forest - the daemati - came rushing back at full-speed, leaving you breathless. you tried to sit up, but your entire body screamed with the sudden movement.

fuck.

"there she is," you heard a familiar silk-coated voice. rhys. you glanced over towards the sound, and found the high lord perched in an armchair next to your bed.

"rhys," you spoke hoarsely. he stood then, approaching your side with feline grace.

he smiled down at you, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

"quite a fan of the dramatics, aren't you, y/n," he teased soothingly, taking a seat on the side of your mattress gently. "you had all of us frightened half to death," he added, surveying your face as he took note of your current state.

you groaned quietly, raising a hand to feel at your throat. it was obviously bruised - you didn't need to see it to know that.

"azriel," you whispered hoarsely, shaking your head to yourself. you were safe, so surely azriel must be too ... right? the thought of anything otherwise had your stomach lurching. you felt for the bond, felt for azriel's presence, and were met with emptiness - just like you had been until the daemati attacked.

"azriel is just fine, y/n," rhys spoke gently, a knowing tone in his voice. "i heard you, that day in the forest. i arrived just in time. it took a few days, but...," he trailed off, moving a strand of hair from your face, "but i was able to completely heal az from the damage the daemati caused," he finished, letting out an exhale.

you felt tears springing to your eyes immediately, unable to control your reaction to the news. "i'm so sorry, rhys," you choked out, a shaky breath escaping through your nose.

"now, now," he soothed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. "none of that, none of that at all," he continued, eyes softening as he met your broken gaze.

"you did nothing wrong, y/n. you stayed at the side of your mate, even in the face of lethal danger. you summoned me," he paused for a moment, watching you.

"you didn't allow him to experience that alone. and while you staying there may not have been the ... most wisest ... thing to do," rhys teased, referencing your last conversation amongst the two males, "i still commend you. i, myself, have not made the smartest decisions where feyre's safety is concerned," he wiped another tear threatening to cascade onto your sheets.

you let out a watery laugh at his teasing, shaking your head.

"he hates me, rhys," you whispered, eyes finding the ceiling once more.

rhys let out a dry chuckle at your statement, sighing to himself.

"on the contrary, y/n, i think you'll find that az feels the complete opposite," he whispered, voice lilting.

you met his gaze, eyes narrowing.

just then, there was a gentle knock on your bedroom door. one that was made with the intention to not disturb your sleeping, healing form.

the door opened, and azriel crept in, wings pulled together against his back in order to avoid jostling any of your shelved belongings. he was trying to be as silent as possible, not yet aware that you were awake.

"i brought a glass of water, rhys, just in case she wak-," his words caught in his throat once his eyes made their way to yours. your opened, very awake, eyes.

"i have some very important paperwork to attend to," rhys spoke. "numbers to run, high lord duties - things of that nature," he grinned slyly, removing himself from your beside and strutting towards the door. he turned back towards you before leaving, bowing his head once. "i'm glad that you're okay, y/n. please let me know if you need anything," he said gently, before making his exit.

azriel still stood off to the side, frozen. his eyes were fused to the bruise that spanned your throat - a bruise that was in the shape of his own hand.

"hi," you whispered hoarsely, clearing your throat.

"i'm so....- i am so fucking sorry, y/n," azriel whispered, stunned. his grip tightened around the glass of water in his hand, and you were momentarily concerned that it may splinter under the pressure.

"az," you began to speak, scooting your body up against the row of pillows propped behind you. "we both know that none of this is your fault. you fought it, i saw-," you pleaded, eyebrows cinched.

"no," he cut you off, voice stern, but quiet.

"no," he repeated, stepping towards you. "i should have never allowed rhysand to send you out on a mission this dangerous. there is no excuse. i could have killed...", he trailed off, approaching you almost hesitantly, as if he were scared to get too close. "i could have killed you," he finished, voice strained and full of regret.

you shook your head, reaching for him now, and he approached you. a moth to a flame. he set the glass of water down and allowed you to take his hand. the same one that was wrapped around your neck just days ago.

"this hand, a hand that i find so beautiful, this hand that belongs to you - my mate - would have never done this to me. and i know that," you whispered, tearing up once more.

he dropped his head, wings drooping - the very tips touching the floor.

he squeezed your hand once, sitting on your bedside dejectedly.

"i heard you," he whispered after a short pause. "i heard you begging me to stop. i just couldn't -,"

"i know," you cut him off, not wanting him to spiral into a pit of despair that would engulf him entirely.

his shadows began to lazily twirl around him, a few breaking away from his body in favor of worrying over you instead.

he loosed a deep breath, staring at the floor for awhile. you allowed him to ponder, think through all of the horrible events of the last few days. as awful as your attack was, you couldn't begin to imagine the toll it took on azriel. his mind was infiltrated, ripped apart, and his body was no longer his. you could not even fathom it.

"the daemati made me attack you because he knew we were mates. he sensed the bond. and ...-," he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief, "he knew how important your safety was to me. he got into my head, and into my thoughts. he saw how important you are," he whispered, finding your eyes.

your eyes shut, a tear escaping from the corners. he reached out a hand, a sure hand.

he wouldn't allow another moment to pass where he wanted to touch you, but held himself back.

you felt him wipe the tears away, his touch so gentle, it made your chest ache.

"i am sorry, you know," you whispered, sniffling. "i'm sorry for all the shit i've given you. i truly never resented the mating bond as much as i let on. it was just-...", you shook your head, eyes fluttering open once more to find his honeyed gaze. "it was a defense mechanism, because i knew you didn't want the bond, didn't want me, and i didn't want to look stupid - pining after a male that was ashamed of me," you rushed out, cheeks tinting pink at the confession.

his brows furrowed, and he huffed out a breath as he shook his head slowly, "y/n," he started, letting out this dry ghost of a laugh - although it lacked any humor. "no, that's not it at all. i was ... elated, to learn that you were my mate. but i thought that you wouldn't want me. after all this time, i'd come to terms with the fact that i would never ... never find my mate. our paths wouldn't cross, or i'd somehow get myself killed before i could find her," he paused for a moment, shaking his head. "but, no. i was ecstatic. especially because it was you. so full of fire and strength. beautiful - agonizingly so. your excitement for life radiates from your very core. i was, and still am, so proud to have been paired with you. i couldn't have chosen anyone better," he admitted, his eyes soft and full of adoration.

you were absolutely crying now, and your grip on his hand tightened as you let out a soft sob.

"we're such idiots," you croaked out, a hand coming up to cover your eyes.

he let out a soft laugh then, his own eyes becoming watery.

"perfect for each other. two idiot mates," he offered, a real, true smile spreading across his dimpled cheeks.

you laughed along with him, bringing his scarred knuckles up to your lips to nuzzle along them softly. the action made azriel still for a moment, and you felt an overwhelming wave of full, adoring emotions and bright, fizzling warmth hurdle directly into your chest. his emotions. he'd opened his side of the bond once more, but this time, for a very different reason. your wide eyes found his, and you returned the sentiment. you sent every ounce of love, unbridled and true, right into his chest. his breathing became ragged, his bottom lip quivering at the feeling. he was so loved, and gods, so were you.

you tugged on that golden string that was directly connected to the pit of his chest, tied right around his heart. he leaned towards you on instinct, and he knew at that moment that he would follow wherever you led him.

"my mate," he whispered, reaching down to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

you tilted your head up slightly, your full lips finding his own.

"finally," you whispered against his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to his waiting lips.

a/n: well, this one took 3 hours and cracked me in half along the way. if you made it this far, pls lmk what you thought! thanks for reading <3

#acotar #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel fluff #azriel imagine #azriel x reader #azriel x you

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rosenclaws · 17 days ago

Note

Congratulations on the 600 followers!!!

Can I request a smut/NSFW drabble.. I'm thinking worst logan..

Neighbour(?) Reader got asked out as a joke and he finds her upset.. (plus size if possible if not no worriessss!!!!)

Love your work!!

And congrats again on all the followers that's AMAZING!!

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI, fem!reader, plus sized!reader, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, logan low key has a thigh kink, pet names (princess and pretty girl)

600 follower drabble masterlist

wc: 1.3k

a/n: Worst logan my love. Also this is my first time writing explicitly plus sized so please let me know if I need to change anything!! I hope you like it <33 Also this turned into way more than a drabble lol.

Men really were the fucking worst. Actually the fucking worst. What reason could someone have to do something so cruel? For a joke? A laugh? To hurt someone so badly just for fun? You sat at the damn restaurant for an hour checking your phone.

When you finally did get ahold of that asshole he just laughed at you. Told you it was a joke, that he'd never seriously be into someone like you. Your eyes welled with tears but you refused to let them fall in public. God, you can still feel the stares of people around you. The whispers.

How sad, that poor girl.

Did you see her check her phone over and over again?

Don't stare, she probably already feels bad enough...

Their words stung more than that assholes. You aren't stupid, you know that you aren't stereotypically attractive. You don't match the girls in magazines.

But that doesn't mean you don't deserve basic human respect. You didn't even like the guy, in fact, based on his horrible personality you were really doing him a favor.

You angrily stomped up the stairs and through the hallway. You should feel bad about the noise but you just can't bring yourself to care. You slam your door closed and toss your things onto your couch. A knock on the door almost makes you scream. Whoever it was needs to take the hint.

"What." You say as you rip open your door.

"Oh. It's you." You say flatly.

Any other time you'd be thrilled to see your hot neighbor at your door but right now it felt like another reminder of your failed love life.

"What crawled up your ass? Could hear you muttering a mile away." He asks and you roll your eyes.

"Brought you a peace offering." He holds up a bottle of wine and you decide to let him in.

"You're a man Logan. Why are men such shallow assholes?" You take another sip.

"Date gone bad princess?"

"I wouldn't even call it a date." You swirl your drink around in the glass.

To admit what really happened feels embarrassing. Especially to Logan. You had a massive crush on the man. That started the minute you met him. Your nice but weird neighbor Wade introduced the two of you one night. The second you looked into those gorgeous eyes and shook his big hands it was over.

"Hello? You still there?" Logan waves his hand in front of your face and you snap out of your thoughts. Deciding this day couldn't get any worse so you might as well just tell him.

"I got stood up. Turns out he asked me out as a joke."

"What a fucking dick." Logan growls. His hand tightened around the beer can in his hand.

"He said he'd never be into someone like me." You say with a huff. Drinking the last of your wine.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

“Come on Logan, you’re a million years old you know what I’m talking about.” You gesture to yourself and it seems to click in his head.

“So what? Who fucking cares about that.” The can crushes under his intense grip the longer he thinks about it. You pour yourself more wine before answering him.

“Apparently, most people do.”

“Well, he’s an idiot. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” He sees you brush him off and it bothers him. He’s not the kind of guy to lie to make you feel better. So why you don’t believe him is beyond him. He sees things as they are.

“I know a beautiful woman when I see one princess.” He smirks as he inches closer to you.

You’ve been the subject of Logan’s wet dreams for a while now. Your sweet laugh and pretty face. The sinful things he’s thought about. He’d feel ashamed but he knows you’ve got the hots for him too. Your staring isn’t as subtle as you think. Plus his super hearing allows for him to pick up on your more…intimate moments. He doesn’t mean to hear them, but he does.

“Logan…” Your breath catches in your throat as he cages you into the couch. His strong arms are on full display for you as you shrink into the couch. He’s got this feral grin on his face that both excites you and makes you nervous.

“Only boys can’t see past that bullshit. I’m a man. A man who knows how to please a woman like you.” He purrs.

Are you dreaming? Is this really happening? His knee nudges its way between your legs. The rough material of his jeans rubs against your panties. The friction makes you squirm.

“You gonna let me make you feel good pretty girl?” He whispers in your ear. His hand slips under your dress, fingers brushing over your clothed cunt. Teasing your skin with his touch.

“Please fuck!” You gasp as you claw at his shirt.

He reaches and tears it to shreds. Your mouth waters as you see his back muscles stretching and bulging, free of any clothing to hide him away. He’s a man on a mission as he lifts your dress up. His massive shoulders push your legs apart. You couldn’t close them even if you wanted to, which you don’t. He pulls your panties to the side and licks his lips.

“Just know she’s ripe and sweet. All for me.” His claws peek out and your heartbeat quickens as the sharp metal cuts through the fabric of your underwear.

“There we go.” He throws the scraps to the side and wraps his arms around your thighs. Hands digging into your soft skin. He squeezes your thighs and you hear a low purr coming from his throat.

“Fuck!” You moan as Logan buries his face in your pussy. There’s no holding back as he laps like an animal feasting on its favorite treat.

“So fucking sweet, god bury me in these thighs.” He mumbles.

His brain fogs with pleasure as he buries his tongue as far as it will go. You’re trapped in feeling his every torturous move. His grip is bruisingly delicious.

“Logan logan fuck don’t stop!” You tug hard on his hair as you grind your hips against his mouth. You’re losing it in pleasure as his tongue flicks across your clit.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” He lifts his head, eyes clouded with lust as he tilts his head back. Savoring the taste of you as he prepares to dive back in. He’d die a happy man just to be suffocated between your beautiful thighs.

“Stupid fucking boys, you don’t need them right pretty girl? Not when you have me. I’ll make you come so hard you’ll never think of anyone else again.” You nod along to whatever he is saying.

Your head is up in the clouds as he sucks on your clit. Determined to make you scream his name. His wish is granted as he relentlessly plays toys with your clit. His tongue works magic as he brings your orgasm crashing down.

“Logan!” Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you lose yourself in pleasure.

Your senses muddle together as whimpers tumble from your lips, body buzzing with a warm and fuzzy feeling. It doesn’t last long as Logan refuses to let up. Working you into overstimulation until you’re pushing his head away weakly.

“Too much for you?” He licks his lips, a cocky smile on his face.

“No, I just. Need a break.” You say breathlessly as you try and control your breathing.

Your eyes travel down his chest. Admiring his muscles and stupidly attractive arms. His cock is straining in his pants. You let out a small yelp as he picks you up effortlessly.

Man, you love his mutant strength. Logan gently places you on your bed. He toys with your dress as he resists the urge to rip it apart.

“What was that guy's name again?” He asks as he unbuckles his belt. You open your mouth to answer but he cuts you off. He didn’t want an answer anyway.

“Doesn’t matter, You won’t remember it by the time I’m done with you.”

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x you #600 followers #wolverine smut

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golden--flowers · 2 years ago

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Thinking about IDs and stuff since my health card is expiring, and my passport will next year, and remembering it might me a good idea to get the gender marker on my passport changed to the one that will get me the least trouble, because when I was changing my name I was convinced to leave it

#Okay the thing is though there isn't one that will give the least trouble kind of #In airports people will be looking at you and people may be scanning your body with a thing to look at your genitals #One of those happens more often and one of them is worse in every way #I think I want less trouble with the one that happens more often?#There isn't really a perfect solution right now though #Please remove all gender markers from documents and identification please #Thabk you #Okay also not like I'm planning on being in an airport anytime soon #but it's good to be prepared Just In Case #And have a passport handy #OKAY ALSO #It's kind of silly to think that if your genitals don't match what they think they should be like based on your appearance #that the gender marker on your passport matching what they think should match your genitals would make them NOT harass you #I guess I was kind of overwhelmed and not thinking this through very well originally #Anyways #On my list of things to do

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unriding · 3 months ago

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KINKTOBER DAY 3 — CUCKOLDING. Hayato Suo x AFAB! Reader, ft. Sakura Haruka ﾉ In which Sakura doesn’t think he’s ever held his phone in his non-dominant hand… until tonight.

NOTE — This was written with the aim of being as gender neutral as possible, but is still tagged as AFAB just in case. With that being said, here’s my submission for @ficsforgaza’s 2024 Kinktober Collab! Thank you for taking the time to organize this & also thank you to those who sent in requests!

ft. Hayato Suo (top) x AFAB! Reader (bottom) — Established relationship (Sakura x Reader), Sakura lets Suo have reader for a night. Cuckolding, masturbation (Sakura), consen. recording, praise, creampie (mention), light choking + fear play, very heavy overstimulation, mention of cum eating + toys (dildo) ﾉ 1096 wc

Attachment: 1 Video.

Sakura’s brow twitches at the smiling emoji attached just beneath the video. It looks a little bit too happy for his liking— smiles like it can see him squirming through the screen.

He clicks onto the video, now comfortable enough to shift his phone into his left hand so the other can slip underneath the blankets to grab the base of his cock.

It’s much more sensitive than usual— twitches against his palm and he winces. Luckily enough for him, his room is completely silent aside from the sound of his own breathing. It’s a good thing. If anyone was near him and caught a glimpse of what he was about to do, he thinks he might actually die of embarrassment.

The video starts off with a loud rustling before he hears the muffled sound of laughter- a lighthearted chuckle.

It’s the same one he hears on a daily basis, and his cock throbs— this time dripping pre-cum onto his stomach- though he can’t find it in himself to tear his eyes off the screen for even a moment to clean it off.

“…..Eyes on me…. remember?” The microphone just barely picks up the voice, but Sakura can still make out the words. “We went through this earlier, didn’t we?”

The lewd cry that follows makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. It takes him less than one second to recognize it as you— even if he’s never heard you sound so thoroughly ruined before. “Shit,” Sakura grumbles to himself. He’s leaking so much.

If you were with him instead of Suo tonight, would you be licking up the cum that’s spilled onto his stomach? You’ve always had that terrible habit of teasing him with your tongue. Did you learn that from Suo too?

“Oh dear.” Suo’s voice sounds much clearer now. “Let’s try and last a little longer, okay? Sakura will be watching soon, after all.”

He emphasizes ‘Sakura,’ and you instantly respond to the sound of your boyfriend’s name with a whine. “‘S so- sensitive. I c-can’t…Suo..!”

He can understand you even with the way your words come out unsteady from how hard Suo’s fucking you.

Sakura’s cock feels heavy in his hand when he finally starts jerking up and down, trying to listen carefully and match his pace with Suo’s. It’s hard. He’s breathing loudly— almost panting at this point, and you’re not being much quieter either.

“You still have one more in you,” Suo coos. “Give me one more so Sakura can see, okay? Here.”

The two of you finally come into view. Suo adjusts the camera once more before turning back to you, giving you a light slap to your cheek- just enough to snap you out of your daze. “Ready? Let’s give him a good one.”

“O-okay.. I’ll try.”

God, you sound so broken.

You look even worse off. Your arms are covering your eyes, mouth parted open in loud pants, and your body inches further up the bed with each thrust of his hips. Your lips look swollen too.

Suo must not have liked your habit of hiding from him, because he slows down and gives you a low hum. A warning. You tear your arms off your face as soon as you hear it, dazed eyes narrowing in your best attempt to focus and look at him properly.

“Better.” He smiles. “So tell us… does it feel good?”

You nod, and his pace slows again. “No.”

“I taught you better than that, didn’t I? Use your words. Tell Sakura exactly how you feel.” Suo leans down until his earrings tickle your cheek, and you practically shrink underneath his gaze. “Where do you feel it?”

Sakura forgets to breathe when he watches Suo push your thighs up towards your face with a sweet smile, letting him slam deeper inside you— your thighs instinctively jerking and slapping against his own.

“Ah!” Your head falls back against the pillows, and he tilts his head with a content grin. “Oh. Here?”

“M-mhm… there!”

Suo’s eyes darken, and the panic that rises to your face almost makes Sakura cum on the spot. “No! Wait— I meant… ah… I do.. feel it..! Deep. Super deep… ah… it feels so good..”

You seem relieved when he gives you a pleased smile in response. “Mhm. Good. You’re so good.” He rubs his thumb along your jaw, then moves up towards your cheek. “Keep doing that. Keep talking to Sakura when I reward you.

“I’ll make you feel even better if you tell him all the things you want to try with him after tonight.”

His hand moves down to linger over your neck, and your eyes widen. He feels you swallow a nervous gulp underneath his fingers. “Well? Go on.”

It’s cute how your face still burns at the request even in your delirious state. You’re still able to feel embarrassed— the both of them can tell with just one look at you. Though he still has the rest of the night before he gives you back to Sakura. If he’s watching the video now, that means Suo’s job is done and that it went well.

“H-Haru…”

The whimper that leaves his lips at the sound of you calling out to him is pathetic. “Suo… he.. ah— told me to go on all fours. He said.. to keep my face against the mattress— ah! So.. he pushed it down for me. Filled me up with cum… and then he gave me.. this.”

You weakly nod at the dildo beside your head, gasping when you feel Suo’s cock twitch inside you at the mere memory. “Suo said.. to plug it up… keep it all inside.”

“Mhm.” He smiles at you like he’s proud. “And then?”

“S-said to clean it all off with my tongue— and.. and show him my mouth. And then he said— ah.. to do all that with you next, Haru—” he interrupts you with an amused laugh.

“That’s right. Sakura— you’re watching, right?”

“I’ve taught them a lot of things tonight.” He gives you a light squeeze around your throat, and you clench down around his length. “You’re welcome to ask your partner all about them. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to replicate what they learned with me.”

He turns to you.

“Isn’t that right? I just felt you squeeze.” You almost nod— but you catch yourself just in time. “Y-yes.”

“Mhm. It's good to be honest, isn't it? You’re so good. Let’s wrap this up now. We shouldn’t make Sakura wait too long.”

graphics by @ ficsforgaza ; animated line divider by @ cafekitsune

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ghostaholics · 1 year ago

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𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn!reader (aside from a single idiom whose origin uses masculine language/pronouns - every man for himself) ➸ SUMMARY: Against all odds, the Lieutenant accidentally falls asleep on your shoulder. Unfortunately, there are witnesses to the precarious situation (just your luck that it would be Gaz and Soap). ➸ WORD COUNT: 2k

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄: don't poke the bear.

Danger in your line of work typically consists of trying to walk away from a mission while still being left completely intact (i.e. the goal is to make it out alive, in one piece). You’ve survived a great number of ordeals: cornered into a shootout with a dwindling supply of ammo, tiptoed your way through a field of pressure-sensitive IEDs, dove towards probable death (with an awfully high probability of splattering onto hot, concrete hell like a bug on a windshield) because your helo was sent tail spinning courtesy of a perfectly-aimed RPG – and really, the list goes on.

It's been child’s play, in the grand scheme of things. An extensive catalogue of life-or-death scenarios accounts for your entire military career. And sure, this might be a bit of a stretch, but you'd wager that none of those instances thus far have been as high-stakes as the current predicament you’ve found yourself in.

Jesus-fucking-Christ. Why’d Ghost have to fall asleep on you?

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: avoid sitting next to him on the plane ride home. You've had to learn it the hard way.

And the kicker is that this whole thing could’ve been avoided; it didn’t have to be your problem. You could’ve sentenced any one of the other soldiers to your seat. Every man for himself, right? Get off scot-free, have a normal trip back to base with plenty of legroom so that you’re not cramped. Theoretically, it would've been beautiful – a passenger's paradise, the closest you could get to a first-class ticket.

But no.

Instead, play the Good Samaritan; extend your hand out with an act of benevolence. What’s the harm, right? So, you'd spared the poor guy, said you wouldn't mind switching places with him because he'd looked as white as a damn sheet at the idea of being crammed beside this behemoth of a lieutenant who's infamously every FNG's living nightmare.

Yeah, well hindsight is 20/20. Had you known what was going to happen, you would've had no reservations about throwing him under the bus. Sayonara, mate.

Law of the jungle, plain and simple.

To make matters worse, he is, in fact, exhibiting terrible flight etiquette. His head (which is dead weight and feels about as pleasant as a fucking bowling ball, mind you) has taken up every inch of real estate on your shoulder and is practically tucked into the curve of your neck; you’ll need to take a trip to the chiropractor’s after this – several, probably. The edge of his skull mask is digging into you. And, the cherry on top: get this – he’s man-spreading, so his left leg's trespassing into your own territory and brushing against your thigh. Utter lack of regard for personal space.

Incredible.

You’d still rather die than wake him up, though. You're not sure what'll happen if you do, but that's a risk you're not willing to take.

All things considered, an achy shoulder is a much better alternative than incurring the wrath of one angry Lieutenant. He's more subdued in this kind of context. To be completely honest, if you weren't already well-acquainted with him, you'd find it endearing.

From here, it's easy to see the simple rise and fall of his chest, steady and even. Slow inhale in, slow exhale out. He's at peace, a rhythmic lull that matches your own breathing. You can't quite put your finger on the exact moment he fell asleep. (He's got a habit of shutting his eyes and folding his arms over his chest when he isn't in the mood to converse with the other soldiers onboard. But God willing, he would never voluntarily loll his head onto your shoulder.) For what it's worth, he deserves the rest – never been one to do it this soundly as countless missions have taught you that he's usually a light sleeper. You remember him roughly prodding the toe of his boot at Soap's arm once when the Scot was conked out and his snores were a bit loud for Ghost's taste.

Rather odd then, that the Lieutenant even managed to allow himself to doze off like this. It’s too loud, too unsteady – the droning of the plane engine doesn't exactly make for good white noise and the turbulence outside is jostling the cabin around. Moreover, this puts him in a position of vulnerability, and he’s not the type to let his guard down so easily.

But somehow he did it with you beside him.

You try not to think about the implications of that.

𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄, 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄.

Because, Soap's just woken up from his nap, the first among the entire company of soldiers in the cabin still sleeping, excluding yourself. His seat's parallel to yours, straight across the walkway within direct line of sight, so he’s got an unobstructed view of you and Ghost. Soap sends a questioning glance in your direction, eyebrow quirked. A look that says, The hell's going on?

The level of your voice is down; it's at a conservative decibel to avoid rousing the others. Yet you convey your distress with the same amount of passion as if you were stuck in the middle of a losing firefight. "MacTavish, help."

Soap works with bombs for a living. Surely, he's capable of defusing situations too.

Alright the man’s a demolitions expert, but that’s semantics.

He blinks like he's trying to make sense of the situation. Though, it's pretty obvious what the problem is here. You're not sure why he’s got to take a moment and contemplate it. You need a solution, now. And he's moving at a snail's pace.

For a second, you think he might sympathize with your plight.

But then his mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin and when he nudges Gaz awake, you know right then and there that you're absolutely fucked.

More witnesses.

Great.

Because that’s just what you need, isn’t it?

Gaz drags a hand down his face. He pans over to his right to figure out why he’s been jolted awake so suddenly, and sees Soap who’s inexplicably, nauseatingly jovial before his eyes land on you.

Much like Soap’s original reaction, Gaz can’t help but offer a quizzical expression. The confusion is evident. His brows are drawn together because he knows that the L.t. wouldn't fall asleep on your shoulder.

Soap's shifting, sliding his hand into his pocket before pulling out his phone. He messes with it – a few taps here, a few swipes there. And then before you're registering what's happening, he's aiming it straight at you, like one of those mums getting a snapshot of their kids in matching jumpers during the holidays.

"Say cheese."

An indignant gasp leaves your mouth. "If you so much as—

"Soap, no. Don't do that." Gaz says from beside him, plucking the phone out of his hands. He tsks him with a click of his tongue. Stern disapproval in spades. The meaning is clear: it’s a big thumbs down from the Brit. He’s not endorsing this type of behavior. “Gone mad now, have you?” he asks in admonishment.

You release a sigh of relief. Finally, some moral support. He's reliable. Your faith in him is unshakable. Always could count on Gaz to get you out of—

"Have to shoot with a wide angle, see? Or else it'll look wonky," he corrects, flipping the phone horizontally before handing it back to Soap.

"Aye, thanks mate.”

Gaz's smile isn't as excessive as Soap's but the smirk gracing his face tells you he's relishing in your misery all the same.

Fucking traitor.

"Knobheads—"

They’d risk their own hides to save you from certain death. You've seen it in Cairo, Valencia, and Seoul. Good men. Good hearts in the right place as well. However, they're also the type to embarrass you at every opportunity – public humiliation being somewhere on that roster as well. And for that, you want to strangle them.

"Rude,” Soap comments pointedly.

"Bite me, MacTavish."

"Just wake him up if it's bothering you," Gaz supplies unhelpfully.

"If you were in my shoes, would you do it?"

"'Course, not," he snorts. "I don’t have a death wish.”

“Well, I also prefer my head on my shoulders, thank you very much," you whisper furiously, nearly hissing at him.

And Soap is admiring his handiwork, when he coos, “Aw, the two o' you make quite the pair." He briefly twists the screen so that you can catch a glimpse of it, and even from this distance, you can confirm that he's captured the shot. Annoyingly well, to add insult to injury. Angle? Spot-on. Lighting? Brilliant. It's interesting, has character. Black and white photography. He's managed to make a stunning composition and your upper lip is curling up into a sneer of disgust at his artistic eye. How infuriating.

"I'll send this to the Cap. He’ll get a kick outta it."

"Sod off."

"He'll appreciate bein' included."

Gaz matches the energy with an equally gleeful smile, now delighted by the idea. “Hey, and the L.t. he looks—”

“—cute," Soap has the audacity to finish for him.

What.

There are many words that you’d use to describe Ghost.

Cutthroat, maybe. Imposing. Glacial. Taciturn. A stringent set of ideals that makes him the perfect soldier: disciplined, honed, fierce. Intimidating, if he's not fighting on your side – someone you'd much rather have on your team than against, unless you fancied death. He can be a stone-cold terror on occasion. The man’s been penned as a walking horror story by those in the military. Given his iron-hearted demeanor, you'd be hard-pressed to disagree with that statement; there's not much room to call his steel-encased resolve into question.

So, yeah. Above all else, he's certainly not cute.

Your eyes narrow at them. "Congratulations, the both of you have officially made the top of my shitlist."

Soap, indifferent to your crisis, asks, "Want a copy for your wallpaper?"

There's another heated remark waiting on the tip of your tongue, because there's no way in hell that you would and you're ready to tell him off, about to give him an earful.

But somebody else beats you to it.

“Wipe that picture, or I’ll wring your bloody necks.”

Ice surges through your veins. Goosebumps break out across your skin. Because that voice belongs to one person. Oh, Christ. Never in a million years would you want to be on the receiving end of it.

There's anxiety warping in your chest. You're scared stiff, paralyzed with fear in a way that implores you to remain stock-still. The coarse fabric of your trousers bunches underneath your palms as you try not to freak out. This isn't your fault. None of it is.

And here's the worst part: Ghost hasn't lifted his head from your shoulder yet.

But Soap's unfazed. He blinks a couple of times, seems like he's weighing his options – as if there's something else he could choose besides following his lieutenant's command – yeah, right. He wises up, settling for a simple answer in the end. "Alright, Ghost." His smile makes a reappearance, sweet and well-meaning. Troublemaker. "Any chance you'd like a copy before I do away with it?"

"What kind of fuckin' question is that, Johnny?" he grumbles. "Obviously."

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄:

"I take it you don't think I'm cute then. Have I got that right?"

"I'm sorry... mind repeating that again, sir?"

"You didn't have anything to say about Soap's comment."

"I have a feeling that whatever I answer will get my arse handed to me, L.t."

He's smiling in response – like sunshine trapped behind clouds. Despite it being obscured by the mask, you can see his eyes crinkling at the corners, which makes the black charcoal that's lining them begin to crease a bit. "Permission to speak freely, Sergeant. You have the floor."

Your mouth parts in surprise. Well, then. Maybe you stand corrected. And so, you appraise him momentarily, giving it some serious thought. There's more to Ghost than you give him credit for. He's terse and rough around the edges, but respected for a reason. Admirable. Someone you think highly of and has deserved your approval. The mask undeniably provides an air of intrigue. “I suppose you can be,” you start off, gradually warming up to him being more approachable. “When you’re not terrorizing the new recruits, that is.”

#i got lazy again #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fic #cod mw x reader #cod mw 2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty fic #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley fluff

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hailmaryfullofgrace55675 · 11 months ago

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for a few years now (like since at least 2021) i’ve been occasionally seeing isolated individuals try on “AFAB trans woman”, “AFAB transfem”, “AMAB trans man”, “AMAB transmasc” and dreading the possibility of this becoming an inclus/exclus thing where there’s a huge vicious debate and a ton of people develop calcified stances that it’s “valid” because they are straight ticket voters on uses of language being “valid”. i’ve recently come across multiple fairly high-note promotions of each of 1) yeah, sure, anyone can be a trans woman (normal understanding of the language of AGAB, replaces meaning of “trans woman” with “someone who is a woman and also trans” or, worse “someone who identifies with the vibe of trans womanhood”) and 2) your AGAB is whatever you decide it is, maybe even a neolabel (completely opposite the concept of gender assignment at birth). i’m crossing my fingers that these uses somehow go no further, or that if they do the ensuing fight blows over quickly.

as an individual topic, it’s frustrating because it points to the complete failure on a lot of people’s parts to absorb or understand the basic premises of this idea of transgender.

we live in a world where, when humans are born, the adults around them decide what role they are going to have in a system of male/female boy/girl man/woman. usually they pick based on a quick look at the child’s external genitalia. if the quick look doesn’t match their idea of what a baby boy or baby girl is supposed to look like, they might or might not do further physical investigation, and either way they will pick a role for the child. if the child doesn’t look one of the ways expected, they might enforce this decision through surgery to conform the child’s body to their ideal for the role they chose. whether the decision was immediate or after deliberation, whether surgery was performed or not performed, this process of role picking is coercive. a first act of coercion in a childhood of coercion in a lifetime of coercion.

children are raised to the roles they were assigned. sometimes this involves the deliberate imposition of a lot of restrictions and expectations about how the child will look and behave, sometimes fewer, sometimes almost none but that they will agree that they are what the adults said they were. even if it is only the last, the child will sooner or later feel the weight of much greater expectations, because they will become aware that wider society says girls should look girly and do girl things and boys should look boyish and do boy things. sometimes it becomes apparent that a child’s body is growing to not match the adults’ idea of what a male body or a female body is supposed to look like or do. if this happens, the adults might allow or force the child to switch roles, might ease or double down on their expectations, and might or might not give the child a choice in whether they biomedically intervene in the child’s physical development.

sometimes, a person grows to refuse the role they were assigned and adopt a new one. sometimes they only refuse the role they were assigned. sometimes they only adopt a new one. sometimes they only refuse the expectations and restrictions. sometimes they refuse being a boy-male-man or girl-female-woman. sometimes they first do this as a child, sometimes as an adolescent, sometimes as an adult. sometimes they conform to the expectations and restrictions for the role they adopt on purpose, other times less so, other times not at all. sometimes they seek to change their body. rejecting one’s assigned role is an opportunity to escape the pain of the old coercion and find new joys in new, chosen ways of being.

to adopt a new role is simultaneously to adopt that role and to adopt the social position of a role-adopter and the social position of one-who-has-moved-from-that-role-to-this-role. these social positions come with expectations and restrictions in addition to the ones associated with the role adopted. having rejected the assigned role, more possibilities are available to a person. there is a great deal of free choice available for those who are willing to make it. sometimes there are special roles that are never assigned at birth and can only be taken on by someone conscious enough to choose.

gender assignment at birth isn’t an identity, it’s an act of coercion. trans womanhood isn’t a feeling, it’s a particular confluence of adoption and abandonment in a social system premised on gender assignment.

the prospect of discourse fights over “AFAB trans girls” and etc. is unpleasant because they’ll suck super bad and exhaust tons of people for nothing, but more present and disturbing is this even being an issue. understanding the nature of gender assignment is such a keystone in trans theory that i genuinely do not know what models of transness people are functioning on without it.

#trans #transgender #gender #longpost #effortpost

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mr-cha-n · 4 months ago

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Crossing the Finish Line

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genres: fluff, angst, athletes AU

Warnings: Profanities, drinking, reader is a bit of an asshole, exercise

Word Count: 17.4k

Summary: Winning is the only thing that matters, except if you're raising money for a charity event with an infuriatingly good-looking swimmer.

The burn of your muscles and the sweat on your brow are a satisfying reminder of how far you've come.

Reaching for the water bottle at the base of the wall, you take a well-deserved gulp before turning to your coach, who’s approaching with a towel in hand, clapping proudly.

"If you can recreate that in Tokyo, you won’t have to worry about coming home empty-handed!" Sungjin grins, his pride almost matching your own as you bask in the achievement of a personal best—almost.

"I guess I'll just have to keep at it to make sure of that," You smile gingerly, leaning forward to grab the towel and dab the moisture from your face.

"Well, motivation’s never been your problem," he says, raising an eyebrow as if to protest, but instead, he simply gestures back to the climbing wall, hinting for you to continue.

You know Sungjin thinks you’re pushing yourself too hard, but as you square up to the lead course in front of you, feeling that familiar sense of belonging and purpose the wall brings, you’re certain even he has to admit the hard work is paying off.

With a steadying breath, your hands dip into the chalk bag at your waist. Just a little faster, a little stronger, and you’ll be up there competing with the greats of your sport. The clarity of your purpose washes over you; you know your place in the world, and you’re determined to reach it.

"Done already?"

Iseul's voice pulls you out of your thoughts as you realize you've been staring at the chipped paint on your admittedly worse-for-wear front door.

The shiny black hands on the cockerel-shaped clock at the entrance to your apartment read 9:20 pm. Glancing between the clock, the half-filled pot of chilli simmering on the stove, and your roommate’s teasing look, you realize you’ve missed dinner.

"Honey, I'm home!" you sing-song, spreading your arms wide to envelop Iseul in an apologetic hug. She screeches and runs away, but her laughter lets you know that all is forgiven for your late arrival.

"Sorry for missing dinner, Sullie. I got caught up in that headspace again and completely forgot you were cooking tonight."

"Don’t be sorry, just be grateful I left you some—it should still be warm!" she hums, offering you a reassuring glance.

You feel her eyes on you as you hang your jacket up and begin ladling out the leftover chilli into your favourite bowl.

"What is it?" you ask, tentatively meeting her gaze.

"I just—" she pauses, her expression softening as she searches for the right words. "I’m worried about you. You spend all day at the training gym or the actual gym. I know you’ve got important milestones coming up, and I’ll be there cheering you on from the sidelines, but your whole life can’t revolve around competitions. You’re not going out, seeing friends, meeting new people—"

"I don’t need you setting me up on another blind date if that’s what you’re suggesting," you interject, raising an eyebrow as you take a bite of chilli. "And I have enough friends."

"When was the last time you saw anyone other than me or your coaching team?"

When was the last time you'd seen any of your other friends?

The corner of your mouth twitches in defensive annoyance, trying to come up with a reply that you both know won't be truthful.

"Okay, fine. You might have a point. How about I promise to see people after Tokyo? I’ll even make an appearance at one of your wretched salsa classes."

You’ve attended exactly one of Iseul’s salsa classes and vowed never to repeat the experience. Sixty minutes of humiliation in a class way above the beginner level you were promised, stumbling through the steps only to collide with your rather handsome dance partner and send both of you crashing to the floor. Needless to say, you’ve managed to avoid that class—and that man—ever since.

"You can’t just avoid people for a month, squid!" Iseul protests. "Maybe you could—"

"No," you warn, dread filling you as you anticipate her next suggestion.

"Come on, I think it would be fun! You could-"

"I don't want to!"

"And what if you didn't have a choice?"

That stops you in your tracks. Blinking slowly, you set down your fork and look blankly at your best friend.

"What ... does that mean?" You ask cautiously.

Iseul grimaces, swallowing hard before replying.

"Okay, don’t be mad." That’s never a good sign. "I might have sent the campaign info to Sungjin."

Your brain feels like it’s been doused in ice water as you process what she’s done.

"You mean to say, I decided three months ago that I definitely didn’t want to do the campaign, and you, despite this, still sent the info to my head coach, who will undoubtedly force me to do it for 'good publicity' and 'sponsorship opportunities'?" you scowl, shooting her your best attempt at a withering look.

"That may, perhaps, be correct." She confesses, giving you a look you’d only reserve for your mother after sneaking out without permission.

A long, loud sigh drags its way out of your body.

"Iseul ... really?"

"...yeah, really."

"God, I don't even remember what the campaign was about!" You complain, pushing the half-eaten bowl of chilli aside, your appetite gone with this new revelation.

"Oh! Here, I have the email up!" Iseul beams, clearly feeling far more helpful than you currently think she deserves to feel.

"Of course you do." You glare, moving to look at the computer screen beside her.

Dear Miss (Y/l/n),

As the excitement builds for the upcoming Olympic competition in Tokyo, we are organizing a special event that combines the spirit of athleticism with the power of giving back to the community.

We are thrilled to invite you to participate in our Road to the Rings relay event, scheduled to take place in the week commencing 5 July. This unique relay will bring together athletes like yourself to not only celebrate the Olympic spirit but also to raise awareness and funds for the KSPO.

As a respected athlete, your involvement would greatly enhance the impact of this event. Not only will this be an opportunity to showcase your support for a meaningful cause, but it will also allow you to connect with fellow athletes and fans in a memorable and inspiring way.

Your participation would include:

Joining a team of athletes in a two-day relay through Tokyo city

Promoting the event on your social media platforms

Engaging with fans during the event to share the importance of the cause we are supporting.

With your help, we can make this an unforgettable experience and a powerful force for good. We would be honoured to have you as part of this initiative.

Please let us know if you are available to join us by replying to this email or contacting Soma Kimiko at [email protected] by 31 May.

Thank you for considering this opportunity to make a difference through sport.

Warm regards,

Hu Chunho

International Olympic Committee

"Thank god, the deadline for this passed ages ago." You sigh, relief washing over you.

The guilty look that remains stamped on Iseul's face does not inspire confidence in you.

"Well, about that—don’t quote me on this, but I think Sungjin might have contacted them, and they may have agreed to let you join anyway?"

"Shit." You swear, wracking your brain for a way out and coming up empty. "Let me call Sungjin; maybe I can convince him to change his mind."

Surrounded by athletes you’ve never met but who all clearly know each other, you scan the crowd for the one face that could save you from your awkward solitude. Soon enough, you manage to catch a glimpse of your teammate, Jeon Wonwoo, across the sea of people. As you begin to wade through the crowd toward him, you realize he’s not alone like you’d hoped but is at the centre of a large group of athletes, all laughing and taking photos outside the Olympic Village entrance.

You've all been allowed early access for the event, a privilege everyone else seems stoaked about, but has left you out of your depth and far from where you want to be.

Deciding that you can morph your embarrassment into a cool, solo mystique rather than face meeting all of Wonwoo’s friends, you pull out your headphones and start wandering around the entrance, feigning busyness.

Keeping one eye on the other athletes, and the other half-heartedly on the information board in front of you, you quickly realise that no one else cares about what you're doing and feel yourself relaxing into the music.

All this waiting has made you hungry, and you wonder if there will be food available in the village or if you’ll have to brave your rudimentary Japanese to find your own sustenance. Surely they'll give you access to the village resources - you'll need to use the gym and the climbing equipment at least -

A sharp tap on your shoulder interrupts your thoughts.

Swivelling around, you’re met face-to-face with a tall, muscular man whose lips are moving, but you can’t hear a word. Gaping at him in confusion, you’re about to tell him he’s not saying anything when he gestures to his ear, miming pulling something out of it—oh, right, your earphones.

You scramble to pull your left earbud from your ear.

"Sorry, I was just saying that they're letting us into the village now."

"Oh, uh thank you! And I thought the language barrier would be my biggest comprehension issue!" You exclaim with a smile too wide and a laugh too loud. The cringe instantly seems into your body as the man cocks one eyebrow at you, and it takes all of your will not to shrivel up under his gaze.

You force yourself to keep smiling, even as the heat of embarrassment creeps up your neck. Clearing your throat, you quickly try to recover. "I guess I'm just a little nervous," you admit with a small, sheepish grin, hoping to smooth over the awkwardness. "I've been waiting to be here for a long time, and now that I'm actually here, I'm not sure what to expect."

The man’s eyebrow slowly lowers, and you catch a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He nods slightly, the tension easing just a bit. "It's natural to feel that way," he says, his tone softening. "The games can be... overwhelming at first."

Relieved that the moment has passed, you take a deep breath and offer a more genuine smile. "Thanks for letting me know, we should probably head off before they leave us behind."

"I'm not too worried about that," He lets out a little laugh. As you both start to walk, you finally take in the small crowd that has gathered outside the gates. Though you can’t make out what they’re shouting, the team flags and posters bearing the man’s face clue you in on the nature of the turnout.

Pressing your lips together, you nod your head in mock understanding. "I see, can't keep the fanclub waiting?"

His head snaps away from the crowd to meet your eyes, and for a split second, you worry you’ve said the wrong thing. But then you catch the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"They're more persistent than I expected," he says, his tone light but tinged with weariness. "But I suppose it comes with the territory."

Relieved that he didn't take offence, you relax slightly, feeling a bit more at ease. "Must be exhausting, though," you offer, your voice softer now. "All that attention."

He gives a small shrug, glancing back at the crowd with a resigned expression. "You get used to it," he says, but there's a hint of something in his voice. "But we should really get moving. Don't want to keep anyone waiting—fans or otherwise."

You nod, falling into step beside him as you both head towards the entryway. The buzz of the crowd fades into the background as you walk, the earlier awkwardness slowly dissolving into a comfortable silence.

Once inside the village, the man turns to you again, a curious look on his face. "So, first Olympics?"

You nod, a bit of excitement creeping back into your voice. "Yeah, it’s been a dream for as long as I can remember."

"Well, you’ve got a lot to look forward to," he says, offering a small smile. "It’s an experience like no other."

You smile back, feeling a bit of your nervousness melt away. "I’m sure it will be."

Weary from the day but still buzzing with anticipation, you finally make it to your assigned room. The sight of the cardboard bed brings a huff of amusement. You flop down onto it, savouring the comfort even if it’s temporary. You have the room to yourself for now, but it’s clear that another athlete will be joining you once the games officially begin. For the moment, though, you relish the peace and quiet.

You managed to grab some sashimi from a nearby restaurant earlier on, and with your hunger sated, you start to settle in, considering whether to crack open a book or simply drift off into an early night’s sleep.

A pounding knock on your door quickly dashes those plans.

"Hey! (Y/n)?" A familiarly deep voice calls out, and you drag yourself up to let your teammate into your room.

"Wonwoo, what a nice surprise." you greet him with a forced grin, his chuckle telling you he’s not fooled.

"Don’t tell me you were planning to spend your first night in Tokyo cooped up in here?" he teases, and you respond by chucking a pillow at him.

"Do you not get exhausted from travelling like a normal person?"

"The plane journey was like three hours, tops." He retorts, falling onto your absentee roommate's bed.

"You have a point." You concede. "And yet, a nice warm bath and a book call to me."

"God, you're so dull!"

"What are you on about? You read more than anyone I know!"

"Yes, but I'm not reading now, am I? That should tell you something..."

You hate that his logic is making sense to you. Giving him a long, squinty-eyed stare, you eventually give in.

"So, what’s the plan? Not that I’m going, I’m just curious."

Perking up, Wonwoo lifts himself off the bed with a speed you usually only see on the climbing wall. The sly grin that spreads across his face makes you instantly wary.

"A few friends are gathering in one of the common rooms for some drinks and mingling. People might split off later to go clubbing or karaoke or something, but you could just come to the party part if you’re interested. It’s just down the corridor—you wouldn’t be able to sleep with the noise anyway."

You mull it over, remembering the promise you made to Iseul before you left.

"Fine, maybe I’ll make an appearance." The satisfied grin on Wonwoo’s face forces you to hold back an eye roll. Your expression softens, hesitating to confide your apprehensions. "Just… don’t ditch me, okay? I don’t really know anyone else here."

Wonwoo’s playful demeanour shifts to one of gentle understanding as he nods in agreement.

"It’ll be a good chance to meet some new people—they’re really nice." He notices your screwed-up look of unease. "And I’ll introduce you. Don’t worry, the room is like 300 square feet; you’re not gonna lose track of me."

"Alright, fine. Now get out—I have to get changed!" You playfully whack his arm with your remaining pillow, and his laughter echoes in your room as he leaves, making the decision feel a little less daunting.

Rummaging through the unemptied suitcase on your bedroom floor, you thank Iseul for the scrunched-up red dress at the bottom of the case. Throwing it on with your probably unnecessary black leather jacket and some knee-high black boots, you feel like you at least look like you belong at a party.

Lining your lips with a rouge that matches the dress, and blasting some hyper pop to get you pumped up, you take a deep breath, realizing that, despite your nerves, this could be a chance to really settle in, to find your place not just in the competition, but among the people who, like you, have worked so hard to be here.

The bass of the music drums into the back of your skull as you fix yourself a drink in the small common room kitchen. You'd beelined straight to the drinks, grateful to give yourself something to do and to get some liquid courage before you face up to the other athletes.

Taking a sip from your cup, you scan the room for the face of your friend. As promised, you make eye contact with Wonwoo on the other side of the room, who flags you over to come talk to his friends. Revving yourself up for socialising, you make sure to keep an easy smile plastered to your face as you head over to join him.

"Hey, guys, this is my fellow climber, (Y/n). This is (Y/n)'s first Olympics, so ease her in gently!"

A flurry of names and greetings follow, and you take in none of them.

"Between the nerves and the secretive partying, I feel like it's the first day of high school again." You joke, trying to break the ice.

"Ha, if only I was cool enough to be invited to parties my first year of high school!" A lanky man with frosted tips replies, chuckling into his drink.

"I feel like that explains a lot about you, Chunghee." A pretty woman with a knowing smile laughs. Looking towards you, she leans forward, half-whispering, half-speaking. "He's been making up for it ever since," She teases, earning a playful shove from Chungee, who rolls his eyes but grins nonetheless.

You laugh along with them, feeling the tension in your shoulders start to ease as the group’s friendly energy begins to draw you in. The music still pounds in the background, but it seems less overwhelming now.

Wonwoo nudges you lightly, a reassuring smile on his face. "You settling in okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," you nod, glancing around at the group. "It's just a bit surreal, you know? One minute, I'm in my usual training routine, and now I’m here, surrounded by all these amazing athletes. It’s a lot to take in."

"Tell me about it," the woman who teased Chunghee chimes in. "I still remember my first Olympics—it felt like stepping into another world. But don’t worry, by the time the opening ceremony rolls around, you’ll feel right at home."

"Thanks," you say, genuinely touched by the support. "I’m excited—nervous, but excited."

"Excited is good," Wonwoo says, clinking his drink against yours. "And hey, you've always got tonight to get embarrassingly wasted and earn your spot in the Olympic Village Hall of Fame!"

"Speaking of, I got in late for my first Olympics, so my first night ended up being the night of the opening ceremony. I got nervous sick in my room beforehand and used the twenty minutes I had to get absolutely hammered. Next thing I know, I'm tripping over my own feet holding the Olympic torch and trying not to set everything on fire. To this day, the other athletes still call me 'Torch Tango' after I somehow managed to spin around and do a full pirouette, nearly taking out the torchbearer behind me," A jovial woman standing to the right of Wonwoo chimes to a chorus of laughter.

You find yourself laughing along with them, the image of her drunkenly dancing with the Olympic torch so absurd that you can't help but be amused. "That sounds both terrifying and hilarious," you say, shaking your head. "I can’t imagine how you pulled that off."

"Trust me, it wasn’t on purpose!" she replies, still giggling. "But it broke the ice for me. I figured if I could survive that level of embarrassment in front of the entire world, I could handle anything the games threw at me."

"You know, that’s actually kind of inspiring," Wonwoo chimes in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe (Y/n) here should start off with a bang like that, get all the nerves out of the way early."

You shoot him a mock glare, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. "Let’s not tempt fate, okay? I’d rather not be remembered as 'the one who set the Olympic Village on fire.'"

The group chuckles, and Chunghee raises his glass in a mock toast. "To avoiding accidental arson and to surviving our first Olympics without becoming memes!"

"Cheers to that," you agree, clinking your drink against his. The mood in the room is light and warm, and the camaraderie in the group is palpable. You feel yourself relaxing even more as the conversation flows naturally from one topic to the next. Stories of past competitions, travel mishaps, and favourite training rituals are shared, and before long, you find yourself laughing along, no longer worried about making a good impression.

You catch Wonwoo’s eye across the group, and he gives you a small nod, as if to say, "See? I told you it’d be fine." And as you take another sip of your drink, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

Moving back to grab a second round of drinks, you overhear the conversation loudly playing out on the other side of the room.

"-definitely Haneul, she's an Olympic medalist in shooting. I'm not gonna get mauled by a tiger if she's protecting me!" A passionate voice calls out to a chorus of laughter.

You peer around to see a group of about eight to ten people occupying the common room sofas and floor in one big circle. Amongst the group, you spot the man from earlier, leaning back in his position on the couch with an easy laugh and a cup in one hand.

"No offence, Haneul, but if I'm trying to survive a deserted island, I think I'd have bigger priorities than shooting wild animals with a non-existent gun." Another man replies. "I know who I'd want."

"Oh yeah, who?" The original voice calls back, belonging to a confident-looking woman dressed in all black.

"Kim Mingyu, obviously. A world-renowned swimmer, self-made handyman, and absolute gym lad. Not only could he cook me meals, but he'd cuddle me around the fire to keep me warm. And if that didn't work, then his hoards of lovers would track him down and rescue us!"

Kim Mingyu... you recognise that name. The group are now all laughing and nodding at the man on the floor, and you quickly put together the pieces. The fan club, the name, and the admittedly handsome face - the man you'd spoken to earlier was the infamous breaststroke swimmer. You'd seen countless articles in the newspaper about his latest fling, being caught at a rowdy party, and, of course, the record-breaking swims. You hadn't made the connection at first - he'd been so down-to-earth during your brief conversation that it was hard to reconcile that with the image of the notorious athlete plastered across the tabloids.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing there, hovering on the edge of the group with your fresh drink in hand, when suddenly Mingyu catches your eye. His laughter subsides as he notices you, and without missing a beat, he flashes you a toothy grin.

"What about you, Mingyu? Who would you bring? You can't pick yourself!"

"You guys have got it all wrong - I'm not the best pick." He starts, putting his cup down in mock seriousness. "I'd bring someone who could gather food, get resources, and save me if I fell off a cliff. The obvious choice is (Y/n)," You feel your heartbeat skyrocket as your name leaves his mouth and the group of debaters swivel round to look at you. "She's literally a world champion in climbing. She could climb a tree for food, wood, or leaves to craft things, and she's the only person here I'd trust to be able to pull me up if I was swinging from her grip off of the edge of a cliff."

You didn't know that he knew who you were. Your heart patters at the realisation, and you feel a blush begin to creep up the side of your neck.

"Oh, I'd be a bad choice," You respond shakily. Mingyu gives you an inquisitive look to carry on.

"I'm deathly allergic to nuts, if the island had any I'd have to choose between insta-death or starvation - not a very good ally if I'm dead."

His gaze lingers, a playful curiosity flickering in his eyes, and it takes all your willpower not to squirm under the attention. You force a laugh, trying to shake off the growing tension. "So, I guess we’ll have to make sure there’s a nut-free island for me to survive on," you quip, attempting to keep the mood light.

Mingyu grins, leaning back against the couch with a nonchalant shrug. "Don’t worry, I’d make sure of it. Can't have my survival expert checking out early."

The group laughs, and the conversation shifts back to the hypothetical island debate.

"I'm sure you've had your ear chatted off about the games, but have you got any interesting plans for afterwards?" The woman in the black outfit, who happens to be sitting closest to you, calls out.

Double-checking that she is speaking to you first, you perch down next to her.

"Nothing too serious - an unavoidable salsa class and more training probably. There was one sponsorship deal my team got sent with Samsung, but I don't think I'm gonna do it,"

"You're seriously considering turning it down?" Mingyu asks, and you hadn't even realised that he'd been listening to your conversation. "That's a huge opportunity."

"Sure, but I didn't come here for sponsorships. I just want to compete, to push myself. The whole media circus that comes with it ... I don't want it."

You can feel the weight of his disbelief on you.

Mingu leans forward, his expression more serious than you've seen before.

"You do realise that sponsorships are part of the game, right? They're what keep you here, you can't just ignore that."

You feel a flicker of frustration at his words. "I get that, but it's not why I'm here. Not everyone's looking for the celebrity lifestyle; sometimes it's okay to not have your whole life plastered over the daily newspaper."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The icy look in his eyes is entirely different to the friendly aura you'd experienced earlier.

You hadn't meant for it to come out that way, but the words had slipped out before you could stop them. The tension in the room thickens instantly, and you feel a knot of regret tighten in your chest.

"It means - it doesn't mean anything. That's just not my priority," You reply, trying to appear calm despite the hard edge to your voice.

"Not everything in life is about winning a race, you know that right?" He retorts, and you feel yourself scoff.

How could he think that?

That's why you were all here, what brought you together - a mutual dedication to being the best. To deny it was naive.

"-hey, man, we're heading out now, you coming?" The deserted island man leans over Mingyu's shoulder, pulling his arm towards the crowd gathering at the exit of the common room. Mingyu gives you one last look, before nodding at his friend.

"Yeah, coming."

"Thank you everyone for being here! My name is Hu Chunho, and I am the coordinator of this event!"

You wince as the sound of the loudspeaker makes your head pang. You'd managed to get in a quick training session early this morning, and had not been surprised to see a host of other athletes in the gym already.

"As you all know, we're here to help raise money and awareness before the Olympic Games start. We've set up a fun two days for you guys - and hopefully a fun experience for all those following along at home. Throughout the city, we've set up checkpoints. Taking it in turns, you will be asked to travel to each consecutive checkpoint and complete a task with your teammate when you get there. The winning team will be crowned based on a mixture of factors, including points for each task, the most money raised, and the best viral moment! Remember, getting people engaged and donating is the aim of the game! Now, a list of the teams has been posted on the door over there - please get ready, fill up your bottles, and connect with your teammate and we will begin in 30."

You are faced with the true task of your trip, and the reason why you wanted to avoid it in the first place. Your brain skips in circles as you try to work out how to balance your dislike for social media with your need to win. The challenge ahead feels like it’s pulling you in two different directions—on one hand, the competitive spirit that has driven you this far pushes you to give your all, to win this event just like any other. On the other hand, the idea of chasing “viral moments” and being under the scrutiny of social media makes your stomach turn. You’re here to climb, to compete, not to entertain the masses with antics designed to go viral.

But there’s no backing out now. You’ve committed to this, and like it or not, it’s part of the game.

With a sigh, you weave through the crowd to where the team list is posted, each step a reminder of the tightrope you’re about to walk. As you scan the list for your name, your heart skips a beat when you find it—right next to Kim Mingyu’s.

Of course. You should’ve seen that coming. It’s like the universe has a sense of humour. Mingyu, the guy who’s practically a social media darling, always in the spotlight, the one who you'd argued with about embracing this side of sport last night. You can already imagine the smug grin on his face when he finds out.

You glance around, searching for him in the growing crowd of athletes, and spot him near the front, chatting animatedly with a group of other competitors. As if sensing your gaze, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours across the room. He flashes that familiar, easygoing smile and you wonder if that's meant for you or for the series of onlookers around.

Your pulse quickens as Mingyu’s gaze lingers on you. For a moment, you consider slipping away, avoiding the inevitable confrontation. But that would be cowardly, and if there’s one thing you’ve prided yourself on throughout your career, it’s facing challenges head-on. So, you straighten your shoulders and start making your way toward him.

As you approach, the group he’s with gradually shifts their focus to you, and the hum of their conversation quiets. Mingyu’s smile broadens, clearly amused by your reluctant approach.

“Looks like we’re teammates,” he says casually, as if the tension from last night’s conversation had never happened.

You manage a nod, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling up inside you. “Yeah, seems like it.”

One of the other athletes, a sprinter you vaguely recognize, perks up. “You guys make a good team—power and endurance. Should be interesting to see how you handle the challenges.”

“Thanks,” you reply, keeping your tone polite. You turn back to Mingyu, who’s watching you with that same inscrutable expression. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Mingyu echoes, tilting his head slightly. “I thought we were just winging it.”

His nonchalance grates on you. Of course, he’d suggest going with the flow. That’s probably how he handles everything—charming his way through life with a smile and a shrug. But you’re not wired that way. You need a strategy, a clear path to victory.

“I don’t know about you,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “but I’d like to win this thing. So, maybe we should come up with a plan.”

Mingyu studies you for a moment, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. “Alright,” he says finally. “What do you have in mind?”

You hadn’t expected him to concede so easily, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. “Well, we know that completing the tasks is important, but so is raising money and creating those ‘viral moments.’ I think we should focus on playing to our strengths—use your popularity to get the attention and donations, and I’ll focus on the physical challenges.”

Mingyu nods slowly. “Makes sense. But we should also make sure we’re having fun with it. If we’re too focused on winning, people will notice, and it might turn them off from supporting us.”

You bite back the urge to argue, realizing that he has a point. This event isn’t just about competition; it’s about engaging with the audience, making them want to be part of your journey. And as much as you hate to admit it, Mingyu’s easygoing nature might actually help with that.

“Fine,” you agree, “but we still need to stay on top of the challenges. No slacking off.”

Mingyu grins again, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Deal. Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

The tension between you eases slightly as you both start discussing potential strategies, and by the time Hu Chunho’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker again, you feel a bit more prepared for what’s ahead.

“Alright, athletes, it’s time to head to your first checkpoint! Good luck, and remember—have fun!”

You'd agreed that Mingu would take on the first challenge so that he could introduce your tasks to the audience, and god you are glad that he did. As you'd hopped into the car to get a lift over to Meiji Jingu, the shrine that was to be the first checkpoint, you saw Mingyu being handed a traditional bow and quiver full of arrows. You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as the realization dawned on you: the first challenge was archery, something you had no experience with and Mingyu, as far as you knew, wasn’t exactly an expert in either. But, you had to admit, he looked the part—focused and serious, with the bow in his hands, and that ever-present confidence on his face.

As you lean back in the car, you are relieved that Mingyu is the one in the spotlight. You know how to navigate the climbing wall, how to plan your routes and push your body to its limits, but this? This is something entirely different.

On your journey, you watch the live stream coming from Mingyu's phone as he runs through the park to get to the shrine. He's happily chatting away to the audience with a level of casualness you've never experienced in the rare times you've been forced into the public spotlight. Watching him jogging along, bow and quiver in hand, hair tousled in the morning breeze, you wonder if he might go viral just for this image alone.

When you arrive at Meiji Jingu, the historic shrine surrounded by ancient trees, the atmosphere is electric. The shrine grounds are bustling with people—locals and tourists alike, all eager to see the Olympic athletes tackle this unique challenge. Cameras are everywhere, capturing every moment for the live stream, and you can acutely feel the eyes of thousands, maybe millions, watching from around the world.

After a short wait for the running athletes to arrive, you spot Mingyu and the other contestants entering the competition zone. At this moment, you can't help but admire the serene beauty of the shrine. The towering Torii gate, the carefully manicured gardens, and the ancient architecture give the place a sense of calm—at odds with the tension brewing in your stomach.

You spot Mingyu a little way off, adjusting his grip on the bow, chatting casually with one of the event organizers. Even from a distance, you can see the ease in his posture, the way he seems to be soaking in the energy of the crowd rather than shying away from it. As much as you hate to admit it, Mingyu seems in his element here.

"Hey, ready to show off those archery skills?" you call out, approaching him to take over the live stream duties for the team whilst he shoots.

He turns to you, flashing that trademark smile into the camera. "Ready as I'll ever be. How hard can it be, right?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "I’m glad it’s you and not me up there. I don’t think I’d even hit the target."

"Well, let's hope I do, or we’re both going to be in trouble," Mingyu jokes, but there is a seriousness in his eyes that tells you he is more focused than he lets on.

An organizer approaches, signalling that it is time to begin. The challenge is simple: hit the target as close to the centre as possible. The closer the shot, the more money raised for charity, and the more points your team would earn.

Mingyu takes his position, and you can feel the collective anticipation of the crowd as they quiet down, all eyes on him. The camera drones hover above, ready to capture every moment.

The camera in your own hand is shaking slightly. You steady your hand and your nerves as you narrate what you are seeing to the phone.

He draws the bowstring back, his movements surprisingly smooth for someone who, as far as you knew, has never held a bow before. You hold your breath, the tension in the air palpable as Mingyu focuses on the target.

Then, with a steady exhale, he releases the arrow. It soars through the air, and you watch, heart pounding, as it flies towards the target.

It isn’t a bullseye, but it is close—closer than you’d expected. The crowd erupt in cheers and applause, and you can’t help but join in, a grin spreading across your face. Mingyu turns to you, raising his arms in a mock victory pose, and you laugh, shaking your head at his theatrics and making sure to get the moment on camera.

“Not bad, Kim. Not bad at all,” you call out, genuinely impressed.

He jogs over to you, still holding the bow, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Told you we’d figure this out. Now it’s your turn to show me what you’ve got.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Let’s just hope the next challenge is something that doesn’t involve me embarrassing myself in front of the entire world.”

As the car pulls away from Meiji Jingu, you glance at Mingyu, who is scrolling through the latest updates on his phone, probably checking the social media response to his archery skills.

The city of Tokyo rushes by outside the window, vibrant and alive, and you feel a renewed sense of determination. This isn’t just a challenge—it is an opportunity. To prove yourself, not just as an athlete, but as someone who could rise to the occasion, no matter what it demanded.

“Looks like people are pretty impressed with your archery skills,” you remark, breaking the silence between you.

Mingyu glances up, his smile widening. “Yeah, not bad for a first try, huh? They’re calling it beginner’s luck, but I’ll take it.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Hey, whatever works. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he teases, flashing a playful grin. “So, any guesses on what the next challenge might be?”

You shrug, glancing out the window as the car slows down, weaving through a narrower street lined with small shops and eateries. “No idea. But I’m hoping it’s something more in my wheelhouse.”

The car eventually comes to a stop in front of a small, unassuming building. The sign above the entrance reads 'Nihonbashi Hamacho' in elegant calligraphy, and as you step out of the car, you notice the rich aroma of fresh food wafting through the air. A group of event organizers are already waiting, along with a few locals who have gathered, curious about what is happening.

Mingyu looks around, taking in the scene. “Smells good. Maybe the next challenge involves food?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the possibility. “Wouldn’t mind that at all. But how would that tie into a charity event?”

As if on cue, one of the organizers approaches, holding up a small card with instructions. “Welcome to the second checkpoint, Nihonbashi Hamacho,” she begins with a smile. “Your task here is to make traditional Japanese soba noodles. You will then serve them to local residents, who will donate based on how well they think you did. The team with the highest donations at this checkpoint will earn the most points.”

You exchange a glance with Mingyu, a mixture of surprise and amusement on both your faces. Cooking wasn’t exactly what you’d expected, but it is certainly a unique challenge.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Mingyu says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Think you can pull it off?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. “But I’m sure it’ll be entertaining to watch me try.”

The organizers lead you into the building, which turns out to be a small, cozy kitchen set up specifically for the challenge. Everything is neatly arranged—flour, water, rolling pins, and a large wooden cutting board. A local chef stands by, ready to give instructions and oversee your efforts.

Mingyu immediately steps up to the station, eyeing the ingredients with a curious expression. “Alright, let’s see if you can make some magic happen.”

You join him, rolling up your sleeves as the chef begins to explain the process. It sounds simple enough—mix the dough, roll it out, cut it into thin, even strips—but as you get started, it becomes clear that it is much harder than it looks. The dough is tricky to work with, and your first few attempts at rolling it out are uneven and lumpy.

To your side, Mingyu is playing up your cooking for the audience of local spectators and online viewers, and you find yourself slowly joining in with his antics.

His positive attitude is annoyingly infectious, and soon you find yourself relaxing into the task, focusing more on enjoying the experience rather than worrying about perfection. The chef occasionally offers tips, guiding you with a patient smile, and gradually, your noodles start to look more like actual soba.

After what feels like an eternity of rolling, cutting, and re-rolling, you finally have a decent batch of noodles ready. The chef gives a nod of approval, and the organizers quickly set up a small serving station outside, where the locals are already gathering, eager to try the soba made by Olympic athletes.

Mingyu and you take turns serving the noodles, chatting with the locals and trying to convince them that your cooking is worth a generous donation. The atmosphere is light and playful, with plenty of jokes and laughter, and to your surprise, people seem genuinely impressed with your efforts.

“Hey, not bad,” one of the locals says after taking a bite. “I’d donate just for the entertainment, but the noodles are actually pretty good!”

Mingyu grins, giving you a playful nudge. “See? We might have a future as soba chefs if this whole sports thing doesn’t work out.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but smile. The challenge has been a lot more enjoyable than you’d expected, and for the first time, you feel like you are really getting into the spirit of the event—engaging with people, raising money for a good cause, and, most importantly, having fun.

As the last bowl is served and the donations tallied, you and Mingyu stand back, watching the locals disperse with a sense of accomplishment. The organizers hand over the final donation amount, and you can’t help but feel a surge of pride at the total.

The other teams slowly gather their own tallies, but this time you are less concerned with your place in the rankings, and more with chatting to the remnant locals left in the area.

The car hums quietly as it moves through the busy streets of Tokyo. After the high of the soba noodle challenge, you find yourself falling into a contemplative silence. Mingyu, sitting beside you, is flipping through the comments and reactions on his phone, his earlier enthusiasm noticeably dimmed.

You glance over at him, sensing the shift in his mood. “Everything okay?” you ask, trying to keep your tone casual.

Mingyu doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Yeah, just…reading over the comments. Some of them are pretty harsh."

"Honestly, if it were up to me I'd just turn off the phone and focus on the tasks at hand." You grumble off-handedly, looking out at the Toyko skyline from the car.

"It's not really that simple if the whole point of being here is about raising awareness." He replies.

"Yeah but there's no point trying to pander to every person's perceptions of us. You're overthinking it."

As the car slows down at a red light, you spot a small street market tucked away in a side alley, illuminated by the warm glow of lanterns. The stalls are bustling with activity, vendors calling out to passersby, and the vibrant colours of fresh produce and handmade goods catch your eye.

"Hey, put the phone down and look at that!" You exclaim, nudging Mingyu and pointing out the window.

Mingyu looks up from his phone, following your gaze to the lively scene outside. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the sight. "That looks pretty cool," He admits, his tone lighter than it was just minutes ago.

"Let's take a pit stop and check it out - we can just say we got caught in traffic on the way," You suggest, excited by the atmosphere of the market. "It'll be a nice break."

Mingyu hesitates for a moment, but then nods, tucking his phone away into his pocket.

"Yeah, why not? Let's go."

You signal for the driver to pull over, promising to buy him a tasty snack to make up for the detour.

You step out into the cool evening air. The sound of the city is all around you, but the market feels like a little oasis of calm away from the noise of the competition and the city.

As you walk through the market, the sights, sounds, and smells envelop you. You can hear the sizzling of street food being cooked, the chatter of people bargaining with vendors, and the distant strumming of a guitar from a musician performing near the entrance. The aroma of grilled skewers and freshly baked bread makes your mouth water, and you realize how hungry you still are despite the soba noodles earlier.

Mingyu seems to relax as you both wander from stall to stall, occasionally stopping to admire the crafts or taste a sample offered by a vendor. You notice the tension ease from his shoulders, and the earlier clouds of doubt that hung over him seem to disappear.

At one stall, you find a small display of handcrafted jewellery. Delicate silver chains and intricately designed rings catch the light, and Mingyu picks up a simple bracelet, turning it over in his hands.

“This is nice,” he says, more to himself than to you. “My sister would love something like this.”

“You should get it for her,” you encourage, smiling softly up at him.

He nods, slipping the bracelet back into its place before handing over some cash to the vendor.

The sentimental thought behind the purchase, and Mingyu's affectionate and friendly atmosphere this whole trip seem entirely at odds with the image of the rakish, irresponsible party boy crafted of him in the headlines.

At the far end of the market, you come across a small food stall selling taiyaki. You order one each, Mingyu opting for custard while you go for red bean, and an extra one for your driver.

As you bite into the warm pastry, the sweetness spreads through your mouth, and you let out a contented sigh. Mingyu chuckles at your reaction, his earlier mood now completely gone.

“This was a good idea,” he admits, taking a bite of his own taiyaki. “I needed this.”

“Sometimes, it’s good to just disconnect and enjoy the moment,” you reply, leaning against a nearby railing as you savour the treat.

He looks at you with an expression you can't really distinguish but makes your stomach flip.

"I get why you and Wonwoo are friends - you're pretty similar." He finally says, and you find yourself looking up at him, intrigued to know what makes him say that.

"I mean, you might somehow be even more averse to human contact than him, but you both have a grounded connection to reality that I lack sometimes. I admire it."

Such a simple statement - a judgement of you that anyone could have made - has you feeling a little light-headed. It's just a moment of tender insight, perhaps blown out of proportion due to your lack of going out over the last few months, but you can't help but feel bashfully shy at his admiration.

And yet, in the back of your mind, a small doubt nags at you, wondering if this was his move - to shower someone with attention and make them feel seen just to leave after it gets boring again.

"Ha, ah, thanks." You say, unable to keep the awkwardness from your voice. "That's ironic - because grounded, you know, climbing and all ..."

He lets out a puff of laughter, but it feels strained and you're choking on the dead air between you.

"Right, let's get back - they'll probably start worrying soon!" You declare, jaggedly cutting into the silence. Spinning on your heel, you don't wait to see if he's following you or not.

As the car approaches the next checkpoint, Odaiba Marine Park, you take a moment to gather your thoughts. The sun is starting to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the city, and the air has cooled considerably.

The organisers greet you at the entrance to the park, explaining the next challenge: a swimming relay. The task involved swimming out to a buoy, retrieving a flag, and racing back to shore. It sounds straightforward enough - although swimming isn't exactly your strong suit.

"Finally, something I can show off in!" Mingyu grins, thanking the organiser who helped you at the entrance. You bite back a remark about how the whole day has really been about who can show off the most.

"Guess I'll be relying on you to carry us through this one." You chuckle, trying to hide the nerves building in you at the thought of failing.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got us covered. But you’re swimming too, right? It’s a relay, so we both have to take a turn.” He shrugs casually, and you wish you had the confidence he has.

“Right,” you say, forcing a smile. “Guess I’ll just have to do my best.”

The idea of letting your team down, of being the weak link, gnaws at you.

You walk onto the beach, the water glittering in the light of the low, late afternoon sun. The crowd of spectators and media are even larger here. The atmosphere is electric, with the excitement of the event palpable in the air.

As you and Mingyu make your way to the starting point, you try to block out the noise, the cameras, the expectations. All you have to do is get through this challenge.

The event coordinator greets you both, handing Mingyu a sleek wetsuit and giving you a similar one. “You’ve got about ten minutes to suit up and get ready. We’ll start the relay as soon as everyone’s in position.”

Mingyu takes the wetsuit with a confident nod, but you hesitate. The tight suit is designed for efficiency, but you can’t help but feel self-conscious as you pull it on, the material clinging to your skin. When you are finally suited up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the reflective surfaces nearby and have to resist the urge to cringe.

Together, you walk down to the water's edge, where the other teams are already gathering.

"Okay, game plan-" Mingyu gives you a small smile, and you know that he's only really talking strategy to calm you down. "You should take the first lap, and then I can make up for any time you lose - if I even need to!"

You nod, steeling your nerves. Competition is what you are good at, even if swimming is not. You're not going to let yourself down now.

As the starting signal blares, you take a deep breath and plunge into the water. The coolness of the ocean envelops you, and for a brief moment, it's all you can focus on - the sensation of the water against your skin, the rhythmic pull of your arms as you begin to swim.

You feel yourself slipping into that familiar headspace. Brutal efficiency and speed at the cost of the pain in your limbs only further motivates you as you manage to tune out the excited shouts of the spectators and other teams.

Reaching the buoy, you see two of the other teams had already grabbed their flags and turned around. Although the disappointment of not being first flares up in you, you know that all you need to do is keep up with the rest of the group and Mingyu will do the rest of the work for you.

Pushing your aching limbs to their limits, you splash your way back to the shoreline. Your bones sigh with relief as your fingertips graze the sand banks and you hear a splash behind you as Mingyu leaps into the water.

Pulling yourself up onto the beach, spluttering out some wayward water, you watch Mingyu's confident strides through the water. Although you've seen his races before on TV, watching it in real life is like nothing else. The powerful strokes, effortlessly pushing him forward, makes it clear that he was born to be in the water.

By the second quarter of his lap, he's already managed to take the lead. You feel yourself cheering out despite the burning sensation in your lungs. Reaching out for the second flag, he easily lifts it up, beginning to spin to turn back for the second lap.

Your excitement turns to confusion as you watch him just ... stop.

"What are you doing!? Keep going! We're going to win!" You yell, confusion bubbling over into frustration.

But he doesn't hear you, or isn't listening.

Mingyu has turned back around, having spotted another team struggling to untangle their flag from the buoy. Swimming over to them, he steadies the base of the buoy so that the swimmer is able to pull the flag free from its constraints.

Your stomach drops as the team previously in second place breaks out in excited screams, their second-leg swimmer touching the sand bank.

Looking back out at the water incredulously, disappointment searing through you, you watch Mingyu glide back towards the shore, pulling ahead of another team for a third-place position.

"What was that!?" You lash out, as Mingyu pulls himself up onto the bank, panting heavily with droplets of water dripping from his hair and eyelashes. He's looking up at you with a confused, puppy-dog expression, and it's only annoying you more.

"We could have won! Why did you stop?"

Mingyu takes a moment to catch his breath, water dripping from his face as he processes your words. His confusion slowly morphs into something more serious, his brows knitting together as he stands up to face you.

“They needed help,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your frustration only deepens, and you can feel the heat rising in your chest. “But we were winning, Mingyu! This is a competition—we’re here to win, not to play lifeguard!”

Mingyu’s expression hardens, the usual lightness in his eyes replaced by a quiet resolve. “I know it’s a competition, but it’s not just about winning. It’s about more than that—it’s about sportsmanship, about helping each other out. They were stuck, and I wasn’t going to just leave them there.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat. Deep down, you know he’s right. You’ve always valued integrity in sports, the idea that the game is bigger than the outcome. But in the heat of the moment, all you could see was the finish line, and the thought of losing—especially when victory had been within reach—had blinded you to everything else.

You let out a long breath, trying to rein in your emotions. “But we were so close… You were in the lead, Mingyu. We could’ve taken first.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh. "You're unbelievable."

He shakes his head, walks up the beach, and leaves you to stew in your quiet shame.

"You got mad at him because he ... helped someone?"

Iseul's obvious confusion is only making you feel worse.

"Yes, that's exactly what I did." You sigh into the phone. You'd called Iseul the moment you'd gotten back to your room, not even waiting to shower off the crusty salt water in your hair.

"Squid, that's a little bit insane." You can hear her grimacing on the other side of the line.

"I know," You admit, chewing on your bottom lip. "This whole day I've been so anal about winning, but the most enjoyable parts were all the times that I wasn't thinking about it! I liked making things for other people, getting to meet the fans, and exploring the Tokyo market. I don't know why I just blew up like that at the end, especially considering, as you said, he was just helping someone."

A long hum buzzes through the phone.

"I don't know squid," Iseul begins, carefully pacing her words. "I think you're so used to thinking about competitions and winning, and now you've been faced with a situation where that's not as important, and a person who has very different priorities to yourself, and you're struggling to deal with it."

"I know, you're right." You say, letting out a long breath. "It's just ... Mingyu's approach to all of this is so different from mine, and I guess a part of me is jealous that he's able to balance having fun and still doing well in competitions in a way that I've never been able to do."

Iseul's voice softens. "It's not a bad thing to want to win, but you have to remember that it's not the only thing that's important in life."

You nod, even though she can't see you. "I can't believe I let my frustration get the better of me. I didn't even give him credit for what he did. He was just being kind, and I ... I snapped at him."

"I don't think it's too late to make things right," Iseul says gently. "Talk to him. Apologise. It's okay to admit when you're wrong."

You fall silent for a moment, considering her words. The knot in your stomach tightens at the thought of facing Mingyu again, but you know that she's right. You can't just let this fester.

"Yeah," You finally say, your voice firmer. "I'll talk to him. I just hope he doesn't think I'm a complete asshole."

Iseul laughs softly. "Based on what you've said about him, Mingyu doesn't seem like the type to hold a grudge. He's experienced all of these pressures too, I'm sure he'll understand."

"Thanks, Sullie," You say, grateful for the calming presence of your friend.

"Anytime squid. Now go shower - you can't face up to the sexy man you heavily insulted smelling like sea rot!"

You chuckle, wishing her the best as you hang up the phone. For a moment, you linger at the edge of your bed, letting Iseul's words sink in. Dragging yourself in the shower, the warm water washes away the salt and the stress bubbling up in your mind. As the steam fills the bathroom, you replay the events in your mind, trying to figure out what you’ll say to Mingyu. Apologizing has never been easy for you, especially when it comes to admitting that your single-minded focus on winning might not always be the best approach.

Changing into something more comfortable - sort, worn jeans and a loose sweater - you make your way out to the rooftop garden in the Olympic Village. You aren't sure where you will find Mingyu, but you figure that if you were trying to decompress after a hard day this is where you'd go.

The garden was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of string lights that crisscrossed above the paths. The sky was a deep shade of indigo, dotted with the first stars of the night, and the distant hum of the city below felt like a comforting lullaby. You walked slowly along the path, taking in the scent of blooming flowers and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

As you rounded a corner, you spotted a familiar figure sitting on a bench, his face illuminated by the warm light. Mingyu was there, dressed in casual clothes, his hair still damp from his own shower. He was leaning back against the bench, staring up at the sky.

"Hey, mind if I sit?" You say, your voice tentative.

He looks up, emotions flashing across his eyes as he takes you in. The silence in the moment before he responds feels like it drags on for an eternity.

"Yeah, sure." He finally replies, a coldness to his tone that chills you more than the late evening air.

Carefully perching at the end of the bench, leaving enough room between you, you release a long breath, hoping for the courage to rectify the situation.

"I wanted to apologise for earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You were just trying to help, and I... I was so caught up in the idea of winning that I didn’t see what was really important."

Mingyu's gaze swings around to meet your own, and you can see that he's trying to beat down the anger he's feeling.

"Well, I appreciate that." He relies steelily. "But, you know, this whole obsession with winning isn't cool. You've had this problem with me all day about how I do things - that I'm more laid back, that I like to have fun, or be in the public spotlight. But, really, out of the two of us, it wasn't my actions that ruined the mood."

His words cut through the quiet of the rooftop garden, leaving you momentarily speechless. You knew this conversation wouldn't be easy, but hearing the hurt and frustration in Mingyu's voice brings the reality of the situation crashing down on you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions. "I know," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're right. I let my obsession with winning cloud my judgment, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry."

Mingyu’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies you, his expression guarded. "It’s not just about what happened today," he says, his voice measured. "It’s like... you’ve been judging me from the start. Like I don’t take this seriously because I’m not as intense as you are. But that’s not who I am. I love competing, but I also believe in enjoying the experience, in being kind to the people around me. That doesn’t make me any less dedicated."

The knot in your chest tightens as you realize just how deeply you’ve misjudged him. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own perspective that you failed to see things from his side.

"I don't know how to express how sorry I am. I got caught up in the winning, but I also got caught up in all the headlines and tabloid articles. I acted like I knew you before I actually did - even though all of your actions today have shown me the complete opposite of how they portray you."

You take in a deep, steadying breath.

"The truth is, you've made me confront a part of myself I've been running from for a while now. Your effortless friendliness, your kindness to everyone, and the way you live your life outside of the competition - it was like watching the truth that I'd been avoiding. The truth that my way of doing things, the complete focus to the detriment of every other part of my life, wasn't actually necessary after all. And that revelation wasn't something I wanted to confront. You just happened to be the unlucky recipient of my turmoil - just by existing - and that was entirely unfair of me. I understand if you think I'm a major asshole or a loser, but if you can find it in you to forgive me I promise all of that baggage will no longer be put on you."

The air weighs heavy in the aftermath of your confession.

Mingyu looks at you for a long moment, before slowly nodding his head.

"I don't think your an asshole or a loser," He says sincerely, with a small chuckle in his voice that immediately reverberates through your body and eases out the tension. "I do think that you should stop reading tabloid newspapers though."

You let out a small huff of laughter, releasing a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding.

"Look, I know what I said was harsh," He begins, and you quickly shake your head in disagreement. "No, it was. The drive you have is something that reminds me a lot of myself. You might not believe it now, but I used to do the exact same thing as you - head completely filled with both my own and other people's expectations. I honestly don't think there's anyone here that's gonna be any different. And your drive, it makes you great at what you do - and you are really great at it - but there's so much more to you than being good at climbing."

"That's the lesson I learned for myself, and that I'm still having to learn. Being good at swimming is not my only personality trait, nor is it the only thing I like to do. I still struggle with what other people expect of me, and, like you showed me today, sometimes I do need to get out of that social media bubble. I really did appreciate that, by the way." He continues.

You feel a wave of relief wash over you at both his forgiveness and his gratitude. Part of you feels even worse for judging this man who's been nothing but kind and introspective, but a larger part feels serene basking in the atmosphere of your late-night confessions.

"Can I ask you something?" You say softly, still apprehensive about disrupting the gentle calm that existed between you.

Mingyu nods, humming a 'yes' for you to continue. His posture is far more relaxed than when you first found him, and under the background lights of the cityscape you can't help but notice how beautiful he looks.

"All of the stuff about the partying and the girls - is any of it true? To be clear, it doesn't matter either way, I'd just like to get to know you better." You ask, feeling too shy to meet his eyes.

Mingyu chuckles, the sound warm and reassuring. "I mean, some of it's true I guess. I don't really think I've done enough to live up to the 'party boy' title though," he says, his tone light but honest. "Yeah, I've had my fun, gone to some parties, met some people, but it's not like I'm out every night getting into fights or causing trouble. The only reason it gets picked up on more than any other athlete is because I have a big following on social media so the stories sell more."

You nod, still too shy to meet his eyes, but you can sense the sincerity in his voice. It’s clear that he’s not trying to brush off the question or hide anything from you.

"I guess when you’re in the public eye, people tend to exaggerate things," he continues, his voice softening. "And, yeah, I’ve been with a few people, but it’s not like I’m out there chasing every girl I meet. Most of it is just rumours and assumptions. You know how it is—people like to talk."

You finally muster the courage to glance up at him, and the gentle look on his face tugs at your heartstrings. "I appreciate you being honest with me," you say quietly. "I didn’t mean to pry, I just… wanted to know the real you."

You watch his face contort from a peaceful smile to an excited expression, raised eyebrows and a large grin that makes you jittery.

"I have an idea - why don't we go out and do something fun? There's not gonna be many chances when the games actually begin, and you're gonna be too tired to want to. But Tokyo nightlife is unlike anything else, and that way we can get to know each other better outside of the pressures of the competition. What do you think?"

He's standing up, his hand outstretched for you to take and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest at the gesture.

This time, you don't need any time to decide. A broad smile taking over your face, you reach out to grab his hand and pull yourself up off of the bench with a small nod.

“Okay, let’s do it,” you say, feeling a rush of excitement that mirrors his own. There’s something thrilling about the spontaneity of the moment, the idea of exploring the city with him, away from the pressures of the competition and the watchful eyes of the media.

Mingyu’s grin widens as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Awesome! I know just the place,” he says, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “It’s this little rooftop bar with an amazing view of the city. I think you’ll love it.”

As you walk together through the vibrant streets of Tokyo, the city’s energy pulses around you. Neon signs flicker in a kaleidoscope of colours, and the sounds of laughter and music fill the air.

When you arrive at the rooftop bar, the view takes your breath away. The city sprawls out below you, a sea of lights stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s magical, and for a moment, you both stand there in silence, taking it all in.

Mingyu leads you to a cozy corner, where you settle into comfortable chairs with a perfect view of the skyline. The atmosphere is relaxed, the kind of place where you can talk for hours without feeling rushed. And that’s exactly what you do.

As the night wears on, the conversation flows easily. You talk about everything and nothing—your favourite places to travel, the challenges of balancing personal life with the demands of being an athlete, your dreams for the future. There’s a vulnerability in the way Mingyu opens up to you, sharing stories and thoughts he doesn’t often reveal. And you find yourself doing the same, feeling a sense of trust and connection that surprises you.

"You know, my flatmate, Iseul, she calls me squid?" You laugh, embarrassed by the childhood nickname.

"Woah, okay - was not expecting that! There must be a story there?" Mingyu replies, a light breeziness to his laughter.

"Nope, no explanation." You quip, shaking your head in mock indignation.

"Oh, come on!"

"Okay, yeah that was a lie." You chuckle. "In elementary school, on the first day of class, Iseul and I sat next to each other in science class. I'd just moved to the area - I think we were about eight or nine? - and I was so nervous to be in a new school and meet new people. Anyways, I hype myself up to talk to the cool looking girl with one of those summer holiday braids. As I go to open my mouth and speak, my pen explodes in my hand, covering my hands, my shirt, my face - everywhere. Iseul has called me squid ever since. I guess I'm just grateful she still decided to take a chance on me after that."

You peak your head downwards, your ears burning up as you let out an embarrassed laugh.

"Oh, wow - that's a pretty good nickname originator." Mingyu hums. "I never really had any proper nicknames in school, the best I've got is my sister calling me squishy when we were really young."

You release a relieved giggle, glad for the levity Mingyu is able to bring to each moment.

You push your hair back for your face in embarrassment, only to feel Mingyu leaning forward and pushing your hair behind your ear for you. With his face so close to your own and the feeling of his hands next to your face, you feel your smile drop and lips part in shock.

The moment only lasts a second, before his face has moved back again, his hands away from your hair.

Mingyu leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face as he watches the city lights flicker. “You know,” he says softly, “I’ve been to so many places, done so many things, but this… tonight… it feels different.”

You look at him, your heart swelling at his words. “I feel the same way,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m glad we did this.”

He turns to you, his eyes warm and full of something you can’t quite name. “Me too.”

As the night stretches and the bar begins to empty, neither of you are in a hurry to leave.

"I heard you guys didn't make it to karaoke yesterday, would you wanna go now?" You question, feeling a levity you haven't felt in a long time.

Mingyu's eyes light up at your suggestion. The look is honestly adorable, and you can't help but feel even more endeared towards this overly enthusiastic man.

"Karaoke? Now? Absolutely!" He exclaims, the smile across his face contagious.

"You really like karaoke, huh?" You tease, enjoying how animated he's become.

"Who doesn't?" He replies, standing up and offering you his hand once again. "Come on, we have to go before the night is over."

Together, you leave the now-empty bar behind, stepping out into the cool night air. The city is still alive, even at this late hour, and you can hear the faint sounds of heels clicking against the pavement as club-goers making their way home, takeaway boxes in hand.

As you walk towards the nearest karaoke spot, Mingyu is practically bouncing with anticipation. “Okay, but just to warn you,” he says with a playful grin, “I take karaoke very seriously. I’ve got a playlist and everything.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “A playlist? You’re really prepared.”

“Always,” he says with a wink. “But don’t worry, I’m up for anything. What’s your go-to karaoke song?”

You think for a moment, considering the question. “Probably something upbeat and fun. Maybe a classic pop song that everyone knows - some Shinee or BIG BANG?"

Mingyu nods approvingly. “Good choices. I’m all about the crowd-pleasers too. Nothing better than getting everyone singing along.”

By the time you reach the karaoke bar, you’re both buzzing with anticipation. The place is lively, with groups of people gathered around tables, cheering on their friends as they sing their hearts out. The atmosphere is warm and inviting, and you feel any lingering nerves melt away.

Mingyu arranges for a private room, and as you step inside, you’re greeted by colourful lights and a large screen displaying an endless list of songs. You can’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement for spending this time with Mingyu.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” Mingyu says, handing you the remote to choose the first song.

You scroll through the options, finally settling on a catchy, upbeat tune that you know will get the energy flowing. As the music starts, you grab the microphone and throw yourself into the performance, letting go of any self-consciousness. Mingyu watches with a grin, clapping along and cheering you on.

When your song ends, Mingyu takes his turn, picking a song with a dramatic flair. His voice is surprisingly good, and he belts out the lyrics with a passion that’s both impressive and hilarious. You can’t stop laughing, but you’re also genuinely impressed—he’s not kidding when he says he takes karaoke seriously.

The night continues like this, with the two of you trading songs, singing duets, and laughing until your sides hurt. There’s a carefree joy in the air, a sense of freedom that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s as if, for these few hours, you’re both able to forget about the pressures of the competition and just enjoy the moment.

As the final song of the night plays, a slow, sentimental tune, you find yourselves standing side by side, sharing the microphone. The playful banter fades, replaced by a quiet connection as you sing together. It’s a sweet, unexpected moment of closeness, and when the song ends, you both linger in the silence that follows.

Mingyu turns to you, his expression softening. "Thanks for this, it was a great suggestion." He says quietly.

You smile up at him, feeling the warmth of his words. "It was perfect."

The tension between you floods the room in a manner that feels entirely different to the argument earlier. The way he's looking at you and the fluttering of your heart - you feel yourself being sucked into his aura and he's not doing anything to stop it from happening.

But then it's all too much and all too fast, and your brain processes the situation, and you're here, with the most handsome man you've ever seen, and you're just you. With the little experience of romance you've had, dampened by the very little time you've ever spent trying to pursue it, you feel yourself floundering, unsure of what to do or if you've entirely misread the situation.

What if this was just a friendly night out between teammates? Something to clear the air after a disagreement? What if you're feeling something that he's not?

Breaking the eye contact and pulling your head back around to the karaoke machine, you let out a little, awkward cough.

"We should probably be heading back now - don't want to oversleep and miss the second day of tasks, right?" You say, attempting to keep your voice light but utterly failing.

"Right, yeah, definitely." Mingyu replies, and you can't bear turning back to look at him to further gauge his reaction.

You wake up early on the second day of the campaign. You had tossed and turned all night, your mind racing with endless thoughts about last night. Deciding it is better to get up and do something productive to clear your head, you end up getting up and heading down to the training pool for a few laps of calming cardio.

Reaching the pool, you strip down to your swimsuit, wrapping a tool around your body and holding on to your bag which you intend to just dump next to the pool.

The sight you are greeted with when you reach the pool stops you in your tracks. Mingyu is already there, cutting through the water with powerful, graceful strokes. He's completely in his element, his focus entirely on the rhythm of his movements, oblivious to your presence. For a moment, you stand there, towel clutched around you, watching him. There's something almost mesmerising about the way he moves, each stroke smooth and deliberate, a perfect blend of strength and precision.

As you continue to watch, a swirl of emotions churns within you. The memories of the previous night, the almost-kiss, and the way you pulled away flood your mind. Part of you wants to rush forward, to apologise, to explain your hesitation, but another part holds you back, uncertain of how to approach him.

Caught frozen between your two instincts, it's Mingyu who first notices you standing there. He stops at the edge of the pool, his eyes locking onto yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension lingers in the air, something unsettled and unspoken.

“Morning,” Mingyu says, his voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of something more—concern, maybe?

“Morning,” you reply, managing a small smile as you step closer, placing your bag down beside the pool. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

"Gotta keep a consistent routine going, even if I'm going to spend the day doing more exhausting physical activities." He nods, pulling himself out of the pool and reaching for a towel.

You can't help but marvel at his swimmer's physique. Broad shoulders, a muscular back, and water trickling down his toned stomach. You catch yourself staring, and feel embarrassingly predatory with the way you just ogled him.

"Of course!" Your voice comes out squeaky. "Same here; I just wanted to get in some cardio before the campaign starts again."

"The pool's all yours, I just finished." He makes eye contact with you, offering a small smile as he reaches down and grabs his own bag from the floor.

"Thanks!" It's all you can muster up, and you have to push the bubble of disappointment down as he leaps back up the steps towards the exit.

Perching at the side of the pool, you drop your bag and towel down and submerge yourself into the clarifyingly cold water, brushing aside everything but the feeling of your body moving through the water.

The energy around the Olympic Village is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of the day ahead. You can feel it in the air, in the quick, purposeful strides of athletes and the hurried conversations between event organizers.

As you finish your quick meal in the communal dining area, Hu Chunho’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers, calling all the participants to gather at the main event area. You can feel your heart rate pick up, your body already thrumming with the adrenaline that had become so familiar over the past day.

Rather than travelling by car, all the pairs are given a map of the city and offered clues to find specific landmarks or hidden spots around Tokyo.

Peering over at the map of the team next to you, you note that their clues are different to your own.

"I think we might all have different tasks," You say, looking from the map to Mingyu. He hums a note of understanding.

You look back down at your first clue.

'Where the world converges under neon lights, countless footsteps create a symphony of chaos and order. Stand where five paths meet and become part of Tokyo's heartbeat.'

"Oh, I know what this is!" Mingyu exclaims, a grin gracing his features. "It's Shibuya Crossing - the converging paths and neon lights. It has to be!"

You feel yourself smiling back at him, a spike of pride at his quick wit.

"You're right, I'm sure of it. Let's get going now!" You reply with excited glee.

With the destination clear in your minds, you and Mingyu waste no time. You quickly gather your things and set off toward the nearest subway station. The map in your hands outlines the general route, but Mingyu’s familiarity with the city helps you navigate through the bustling streets more efficiently.

The journey is a blur of fast-paced steps and fleeting glimpses of Tokyo’s vibrant city life. As you near Shibuya, the energy in the air intensifies. The streets grow more crowded, the buildings taller, and the lights brighter. When you finally arrive at Shibuya Crossing, the sight before you is both exhilarating and overwhelming.

The crossing is as chaotic and mesmerising as you imagined. Hundreds of people are waiting at the edges, ready to surge forward the moment the lights change. Neon signs tower above, flashing advertisements in a dazzling array of colours. It’s the epitome of organized chaos—a perfect reflection of Tokyo’s heartbeat.

“Here we are,” Mingyu says, his voice filled with awe as he takes in the scene. “It’s even more intense than I remember.”

You nod, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “Yeah, this is incredible. But what’s our next step? We’re here, but I’m sure we need to do something to complete the task.”

Mingyu pulls out the next clue, which had been tucked under the first. “‘Capture the moment where the world pauses and moves in perfect harmony. Your time in the spotlight will guide you to the next step.’”

You exchange a glance, both of you quickly understanding the challenge. “We need to take a photo or video of the crossing,” you suggest. “But it’s more than just capturing the chaos—we need to find that moment of perfect harmony.”

The two of you wait, watching the flow of people, searching for that precise moment when the crossing becomes a symphony of movement. After a few cycles of the lights changing, you finally see it—a brief pause when all the pedestrians are perfectly aligned in their crossings, creating a visual harmony that’s almost surreal.

“Now!” Mingyu says, raising his phone to capture the scene. You run into the centre of the crossing, spreading your arms up in the air and grinning as wide as you can before running back towards a chuckling Mingyu.

"Getting more into the spirit of things, huh?" He teases, and you feel your cheeks turning red.

"More points for a viral moment." You remind him playfully, feeling that familiar elevated pace as he smiles back at you.

You take a moment to appreciate the photo before Mingyu checks the time on his phone. “We should send this in to confirm we’ve completed the task. I think they’ll give us our next clue once we do.”

With a nod, you send off the photo, your heart still racing with the thrill of the moment.

Mingyu’s phone buzzes with a new notification. He checks it and grins, showing you the screen. “Looks like we’re moving on to the next location. Ready to keep going?”

You smile, the excitement in your chest bubbling over. “Absolutely. Let’s see where this adventure takes us next.”

'Where giants clash in a ring of honour, find the arena where tradition and strength reign supreme. Seek the sacred ground where wrestlers bow to ancient rituals and the thundering footsteps echo the spirit of Japan’s warriors.'

"Wait," you say, your eyes lighting up as you reread the clue. "Do we get to go to the sumo wrestling arena?"

Mingyu looks up from the clue, his own excitement building as he connects the dots. “Ryogoku Sumo Hall! That has to be it. The 'ring of honour' and 'giants clashing'—it’s definitely talking about sumo wrestling!”

With your destination clear, you both set off, navigating through the bustling streets of Tokyo. The journey takes you deeper into the heart of the city, where the modern skyscrapers slowly give way to more traditional structures. The closer you get to Ryogoku, the more the city's energy seems to shift.

The atmosphere around the hall is vibrant, with banners fluttering in the breeze and the faint sounds of drums echoing from within. It's as if the very air is charged with the spirit of the ancient sport.

As you and Mingyu step into the grand interior of Ryogoku Sumo Hall, you’re immediately struck by the rich history that permeates the space. The arena, with its towering roof and sacred dohyō at the centre, exudes a sense of reverence. You can almost hear the echoes of past matches and the cheers of crowds that have filled these seats over the years.

A guide approaches you with a warm smile, holding a scroll that seems fitting for the traditional setting. “Welcome to Ryogoku Sumo Hall,” she says. “Your task today is to immerse yourselves in the ancient traditions of sumo. You’ll be participating in a special challenge that combines both physical skill and cultural understanding.”

Mingyu and you exchange intrigued glances as the guide continues, “First, you’ll each don a mawashi, the traditional sumo belt. Then, you’ll enter the dohyō for a ceremonial shiko—this is the ritual leg-stomping exercise that all sumo wrestlers perform to purify the ring and demonstrate their strength.”

The guide gestures towards a small area where the costumes have been laid out for you. You both eagerly move to change, slipping into the mawashi with some assistance. It feels a bit awkward at first, but the sense of tradition and the significance of the garment quickly overtake any discomfort.

Once you’re ready, the guide leads you to the edge of the dohyō where a set of cameras and one of the event coordinators is waiting on the sidelines.

“The shiko involves raising your leg as high as you can and then stomping down forcefully,” the guide explains to you and the audience. “It symbolizes grounding yourself and dispelling any evil spirits. It’s as much about mental focus as it is physical strength.”

Mingyu steps into the ring first, his expression one of determined focus. He takes a deep breath, then lifts his leg high, bringing it down with a powerful stomp. The sound reverberates through the hall, and even from the sidelines, you can feel the intensity of the movement.

Encouraged by Mingyu’s performance, you follow suit. You step into the ring, feeling the cool clay beneath your feet. Taking a moment to centre yourself, you lift your leg, feeling the stretch in your muscles, and then bring it down with as much force as you can muster. The stomp resonates through the space, and for a moment, you feel totally connected to the earth of the theatre.

After completing the shiko, the guide smiles approvingly. “Well done,” she says. “For the final part of your task, you’ll need to demonstrate your understanding of the sumo rituals by performing a brief reenactment of the pre-match ceremonies. This includes the ritual clapping, salt-throwing, and bowing. It’s important to show respect and precision in each movement.”

You and Mingyu work together to recall the steps you’ve observed from past sumo matches. As you move through the rituals—clapping your hands sharply to summon the attention of the gods, throwing salt to purify the ring, and bowing to show respect to your opponent—you feel ever more connected to Mingyu.

As you finish the task, the guide hands you a small, ceremonial fan, a symbol of your successful completion of the challenge. “You’ve shown great respect and enthusiasm for our traditions,” she says. “Your next clue will lead you to your following adventure in Tokyo. But for now, take a moment to appreciate the history you’ve become a part of.”

You and Mingyu exchange a look of mutual pride, before offering one last wave to the audience and going to take off the costume.

Exiting the sumo hall through the front entrance, you hear a ding on your phone and pull it out to reveal the third clue.

'Where the flame of unity is rekindled, and the world’s eyes gather once more. Seek the grounds where champions are crowned, and the spirit of competition ignites the heart of Japan.'

"Back to the Olympic stadium?" Mingyu queries, looking over the clue.

"Sounds like it," You say, still uncertain. The clue's language is undeniably pointing back to the arena, but you're unsure of what could be waiting for you back at the beginning.

With the Tokyo National Stadium as your destination, the two of you pick up the pace, heading back through the city. The streets are familiar now, and the route to the stadium is etched into your memory from the many times you’ve travelled to and from the venue.

Stepping into the stadium, you spot two of the over teams already waiting in one corner of the track field, and make your way over to them.

"Guess we're all here for the final task?" Chunghee beams.

Taking a moment, you look around the stadium, completely soaking in the atmosphere. In a few weeks, you'll be back walking here with your whole team, representing your country. The sense of awe and pride has you feeling small under the arena lights.

Soon enough, the rest of the teams begin to filter into the stadium.

Feeling a presence behind you, you spin around expecting to see Mingyu. A smile breaks over your face as you see your other teammate walking up to you.

"Didn't catch you last night. Did you finally get that night in?" Wonwoo chuckles. His clothes are dirty, as if he's been rolling around in the mud somewhere.

"Not quite," You respond, a ghost of a smile flickering at your lips.

"Cryptic."

"Gotta keep you on your toes, haven't I?"

"Please, you're about as predictable as the sunrise." He teases, and you bat his arm in mock offence.

"You wouldn't be able to guess what I was doing if you tried." You retort.

"Oh, really? It wouldn't have something to do with the hunky swimmer that hasn't let you out of his sight since you got here?"

You feel your cheeks warm at Wonwoo's teasing, but quickly regain your composure, rolling your eyes in response. "Oh, please," you say, crossing your arms playfully. "You're just jealous of me and Mingyu's great teamwork."

Wonwoo smirks, clearly not buying your casual deflection. "Uh-huh, sure. But just so you know, you're not as subtle as you think." He winks, making you groan in mock frustration.

"Come on, Wonwoo, can we just focus on the tasks and not whatever wild theories you're cooking up in that head of yours?" You protest with a lightness to your tone.

He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll back off. But if I were a betting man, I'd put money on you two spending last night together. He's practically glowing today."

You shake your head, unable to suppress a smile. "Maybe it's you who's got the crush."

"I have it on good authority that I'm not the one with the crush."

"What's that supposed to mean-"

"Hey, man, ready for the final challenge?" Before you can finish your sentence, Wonwoo turns around to greet Mingyu who's walked over to the pair of you, but not without shooting you a knowing look first.

Mingyu nods, glancing at you with a smile. "Absolutely. What have you two been talking about?"

"Just catching up," You reply quickly, giving Wonoo a look that says to keep his mouth shut.

Wonwoo laughs, clapping Mingyu on the shoulder. "Yeah, nothing important. Let’s just say I’m curious to see how this day pans out."

The event coordinators hand you over the final task - although the course at the middle of the arena has already given the game away.

The last challenge of the day was revealed to be an intense relay race. Each team member would have to compete a different leg of the course, each designed to play to different strengths. The course was a mix of speed, agility, and sheer endurance - sprints though tight obstacle courses, balance tests on narrow means, and a gruelling final leg that involve scaling a steep incline with a weighted sack of rice together.

"Hey, so, how do you wanna play this?" Mingyu calls out, huddling next to you as to conceal your planning from the other teams. The warmth from his body next to you makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"Uh, um, I'm amenable. Is there a particular part you'd rather do?" You cough, looking over the course with an analytical eye.

"Your balance is undoubtedly better than mine, so maybe you should do the beam and I'll do the sprints?" He replies and you nod in agreement.

"That makes sense to me!" You smile before taking your phone from your pocket to take a photo of the two of you. "Gotta keep up the socials, right?"

Mingyu shakes his head in surprise, a small laugh escaping him.

"You must have had a good teacher."

You wink at him in response, and instantly feel the blush creeping back up your neck.

Looking around, you see the other teams still huddled together, getting ready and planning their strategies.

"So, uh, you and Wonwoo are close right?" Mingyu asks, the confident air to his tone noticeably lacking.

"Oh, yeah! We were in the same climbing club when we were younger - made it right to the top together." You smile, thinking back over the memories. "You know, one time, we both got stuck on this insanely tough route. Everyone else had given up, but not Wonwoo. He was determined to figure it out, and I obviously couldn't let him be the only one to finish, so we stayed there for hours. Eventually, we worked together to figure out the route, and we managed to do it. I swear, he more than anyone else taught me the value of perseverence, even if it was out of spite."

Mingyu listens intently, his expression softening as he watches the nostalgia play across your face. “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot together."

“Yeah, we have,” you reply, meeting his gaze. “He’s like a brother to me. We’ve always had each other’s backs, no matter what.”

Mingyu nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s really cool. It’s good to have someone to bring you back to earth."

"-to the starting positions! The team that performs best across all challenges will be crowned the champions. But remember, this is also about raising awanress and funds, to keep the energy high and the spirits up!"

“Ready?” Mingyu’s voice breaks through the announcement, and you look up to see him watching you, a question in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

The whistle blows, and the first leg of the relay begins. Mingyu takes off like a shot, his powerful strides eating up the ground as he navigates the winding course with ease. You watch him, your heart in your throat, feeling that familiar pressure being assauged by pride.

When it gets to your turn, you sprint up to the balance beam, forcing yourself to block out the noise of the crowd and focus solely on the task ahead. The beam is narrow, barely wider than your foot, and it wobbles slightly with every step you took. Every muscle in your body is tense, coiled like a spring, ready to react to the slightest imbalance, but you are in your element.

As you near the end of the beam, the crowd’s cheers grow louder, and you feel a surge of triumph as you leap off, landing smoothly on the other side. No time to celebrate, though—there is still the final climb ahead.

Running over to where Mingyu is waiting at the base of the incline, you begin to hoist the rice sacks over your shoulders, exchanging a determined nod before starting the final ascent. The incline is steep, and with the added weight of the sacks, every step becomes a test of endurance and strength. You focus on your breathing, matching your pace with Mingyu’s, both of you pushing each other to keep going despite the burning in your legs.

As you near the top, you catch sight of another team struggling halfway up the incline. One of their members has slipped, and their sack has tumbled down, spilling some of its contents. The other teammate is desperately trying to help, but it’s clear they’re exhausted and frustrated, their progress slow.

Mingyu notices too, glancing at you with a question in his eyes. “It's your call.” he says, his voice tight with effort.

You hesitate, the competitive part of you screaming to keep going, to push through and secure your victory. But another part of you, a bigger part, tugs at your conscience. You know what you have to do.

“Let’s help them,” you say, making the decision in a heartbeat.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and start making your way back down the incline. Mingyu follows without hesitation, both of you quickly reaching the struggling team. You offer a hand to the fallen teammate, helping them back to their feet, while Mingyu retrieves the spilled sack.

You can hear the live stream commentator yelling frenzily into the mic.

“Here, we’ve got this,” you say, as you and Mingyu steady their loads and start guiding them up the incline. The other team looks at you with a mix of surprise and gratitude, clearly touched by the gesture.

The climb is slower now, and you can feel the weight of the rice sacks digging into your shoulders, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction growing in your chest. When you finally reach the top, you help the other team place their sacks down before doing the same with yours. The other team thanks you breathlessly, clearly overwhelmed by your assistance.

As you all cross the finish line together, you know you’ve lost the race, but the sense of accomplishment in doing the right thing far outweighs the sting of defeat. The crowd’s cheers are louder than ever, and you can see that many of the spectators have noticed what you did.

Trying to regain your composure, you look over at Mingyu who is looking back at you with an affectionate smile.

"We didn't win." He pants, causing you to let out a sharp, breathless laugh.

Stepping closer, you place a steading hand on his arm. He looks up at you from his crouched over position, before moving to straighten up. Whether it is the adrenaline of the climb, or the confidence from your conversation with Wonwoo, you don't move away this time.

"I know," You smile, eyes sparkling. "I still feel like I've won something though."

"Oh, really?" He replies, moving closer still as that infamous grin breaks out across his face.

"Yeah." You nod, closing the gap between the two of you.

"You wanna make a real viral moment?" Mingyu asks, his tone light and jovial but his eyes conveying a sense of seriousness.

"You know what, I would actually quite like to." You respond, pushing onto your tiptoes to meet his lips with yours. Although you can hear the screams of the fans and other athletes alike behind you, the sound quickly fades into the background as the immense feeling of passion and joy overtakes you.

HIs hand cups your face, pulling you closer to him as his lips move against yours.

Finally breaking apart, he rests his head against yours, shallow breaths being exchanged between the two of you.

"You know that this is gonna make tabloid headlines tomorrow, right?"

#svt x reader #svt scenarios #svt imagines #seventeen scenarios #mingyu #kim mingyu #seventeen mingyu #mingyu x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen #kim mingyu x reader #mingyu fic

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4ngels0uls · 5 months ago

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oh please… just fuck me. - C.B

based of this

don’t like? don’t read.

summary: you get super high at a party, high to the point your on the verge of greening out. when you get home carrington immediately notices and try’s to put you to bed but you have other plans.

paring: fem!reader + bsf!carrington.

warnings: SMUT, mentions of weed, mentions of alcohol, best friends to fuck buddies, begging, use of y/n, basically of porn no plot😔, oral (fem!receiving),

a/n: i’m bored and i’m going to go kms, byeE. ALSO 300 FOLLOWERS 🤭🤭🤭 gosh i love you guys. in a gay way.

————————————————————

first person

i’m set at a party, dancing and feeling myself. the red solo cup in my hand as i bump my hips with my friends. laughing over the blasting music in the background. till some guy comes around. “want a joint?” he asks, “fuck yeah.” i answer as take it from his hand. i get a lighter from my friend and inhale the joint. i dance with the joint in my hand.

then i feel the weed hit me hard, and i mean hard. fucking acid hard. i’m panicking crazy. “i need to go home christina!” i yell over the music as she’s the only one that’s not drinking. “yeah okay!” she yells back.

i’m tripping BALLS, and i just want to go home to carrington, i love carrington so much, to the point were i caught feelings for him…

she gets all ready then we go over to her car. “do you mind if i finish this?” i ask and i’m BAKED asf, smiling like a maniac.

she smiles then nods “go ahead girl.” she says as i light the joint and roll the window down. i inhale the joint, choking on the smoke. “ahhh… i love you christina.” i say with passion. “i love you too y/n.” she chuckles.

————————————————————

i stumble through the door. “carringtonnnn!” i yell. “carringtonnnnn!” i yell again. carrington comes over and sees me smiling crazy. “fuck sakes y/n. your high?” he says, considering i said i won’t drink or smoke. i might have lied. i climb up the stairs like i’m a fucking child. “jesus y/n. c’mere let’s just go to bed, okay?” carrington says as he helps me walk to my room. i stumble through my room. i let a little whine out as i feel my thighs squeeze. “carringtonnn?” i whine.

he swallows when he hears my whine. “y-yeah?” he says with a dry, raspy voice. “m’ horny.” i whine. “w-what?” “i’m horny carringtonnn” “your just high.” he replies. “i need you.” i whine again. “no y/n you’ll regret it in the morning.” he says. “for fuck sakes carrington! i really like you and i’m horny so could you please jus fuc-“ i get cut off by him smashing his lips into mine.

i stay shocked for a second before kissing back immediately. he climbs on top of me. he kisses down my neck to my collarbone. he lifts my shirt up and throws it on the ground. he looks up at me and smiles as i smile back. he reaches for the back of my bra. he unclips it’s with ease. he throws that also as he takes his shirt off. he slides my nipple into his mouth as he begins to swirl his tongue around it.

i let a small whine out as he continues. “let’s take this off, hey?” he asks as i nod. he slides my sweat pants down my legs to see my bright red lacy thong. “matching set, huh?” he mumbles as you laugh a tiny bit. i nod as i look down at him. he slowly pulls the thong off, making me more impatient. “carringtonn oh please just fuck me..” i whine. “such a needy girl.” he says with a raspy tone. he finally takes the thong off and grabs my thighs and kisses my inner thighs, teasing me..again.

he decides to finally stop teasing and he sucks on my clit. i let a gasp out as he continues. “oh fuck.” i groan. i bite my lip as he continues. i begin to grind into his face as he continues. i let breathlessly moans out as he sucks on my clit.

i latch my hands onto his head, pulling his hair. “ohhh fuck carrington!” i moan out. he paces begins to fasten. he sticks his tongue into my hole, making this all worse. “fuck!” i moan loudly. i arch my back a little as eats my pussy like it’s his last ever meal. i bite my lip trying not to be as loud. “fuck me!” i scream as i cum on his chin and in his mouth. i slowly let go of his hair and quit arching my back, i pant as i lay back.

carrington chuckles as he goes up and hovers above me. “god your so hot.” he mumbled before attacking my neck. i wrap my arms around his neck. he pulls away and lines his dick up with my core. he teases by running his tip up and down my slits. “stop teasing.” i groan. eventually he shoves himself inside me, my core swallowing his cock. i instantly grip his shoulders. he goes down and takes my nipple into his mouth.

holy shit.. i’ve never had better high sex, i’ve never really actually had sex while i was high… i moan softly as he takes my nipple into his mouth. i feel his tongue swirling around my nipple. i hold his hand as he has my nipple in his mouth, thrusting deep inside me. jesus i feel like i’m fucking amazing… he pulls away from my nipple and begins to hold my hips and pounds into me like crazy. “o-o-oh fuck!” i scream though out his thrusts.

i arch my back at his thrusts. he pulls out and throws me over and puts me into doggy style. “arch your back, pretty girl.” he mumbles as i do what he wants me to do. i whine as he slams himself into me, making me scream. he grips my hips for him to thrust more than he is. “o-oh fuck carrington!” i scream as he’s fucking me like crazy. he grabs my wrists and puts them behind me, i clench my hand into a fist as i squeeze my eyes shut. a “a-ah ah a-ahh!” comes out each time he thrusts. “carrington!” is all i can think of right now.

my mind is completely blank. “fuck carrington! M’ close!” i scream. “yeah? are you?” he teases. he throws his head back and groans. “p-please i’m so close carrington!” i scream. “wait a little bit, okay baby?” he mumbles. i moan loudly as he continues to talk, while railing me like crazy. “p-please!” i moan. “can you wait for me, my love? i’m almost there.” he says, nicely but also him fucking me crazy. my legs shake from the pleasure.

he thrusts at an insane pace. “s-such a good girl.” he mumbles while groaning. “you wanna cum, pretty girl?” he groans. “p-please!” i scream. “g-go ahead now.” he smiles. as soon as i hear his words, my release crashes over me. “ohh fuckk!”. i scream as i arch my back. he’s right behind me, as soon as he hears and feels me cum, he’s instantly cumming with me, shooting his seed into me, my walls all white. he pulls out of me slowly.

i whine as he pulls out, his cum also leaking out of me. he stares in awe. “fuck your hot..” he mumbles as he lays beside me. “M’ tired.” i mumble as i lay on my side, closing my eyes. carrington goes over and spoons me. he kisses my cheek and i slowly fall asleep in his arms as he hugs me and spoons me, soon enough he’s asleep with me…

but oh please… just fuck me…

————————————————————

a/n

sorry for this being short. i’m writing another smut at the same time.

thanks for reading.

#carringtonsmut #carrington #carrington x reader #carrington bornstein #smut

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austinbutlerslovers · 4 months ago

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Benny Cross The Bikeriders Fantasy Part 5

Label Mature 18+

One shot/ Story Continuation

Chapter 5 Broken Promises

🔗 chapter 1 🔗 chapter 2 🔗 chapter 3 🔗 chapter 4

Summary When Benny is beaten to near death you tend and care for him night and day. The confident and strong man you once knew now seems lost forever in the unsure and frail Benny leaving you to put all the pieces back together.

♠️ Passionate Smut ♠️ Benny injured kink •fingering you while he’s hurt •oral on Benny for ego• riding Benny while he’s in pain • size kink• clit play • nipple play •Benny pushing his limits with sex• Benny claiming you • breeding kink • multiple orgasms •multiple creampies • aftercare

📖 Proof reader @purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia

Heavily Based on the Bikeriders Movie 🩸 Mentions of Blood (Benny beaten severely)

🏍️ Inspo: Anonymous Requests Combined • Benny injured weak & helpless • Benny needing constant care/ depending on you entirely •Benny whimpering and begging •Oral on Benny to make him feel better •Sex with Benny while he’s hurt to make him feel better •Benny pushing his limits during sex while while injured

Broken Promises

Benny drives his bike aimlessly, the roar of the engine and the rush of wind barely dulling the ache in his chest. There’s no plan, just the need to escape the storm of regret swirling inside him. He fucked up—like he always does. The thought gnaws at him, relentless and cruel. You’ll leave him, he’s sure of it, and he’ll be nothing more than a fleeting mistake in your otherwise perfect life.

He shakes the thought away, trying to convince himself that you love him, that you have to be completely in love with him. But deep down, he knows he’s messed up in the worst possible way.

He exposed you to the side of him that’s driven others away, and what’s worse is the realization that you deserve better—someone with a respectable life, someone who could offer you stability, not a rough-edged fucked up biker like him.

Benny’s mind races, but he doesn’t want to think anymore. He just wants to drink, to drown out the sorrows that threaten to swallow him whole. He’s been riding aimlessly for so long that he doesn’t even know where he is.

He finally pulls up to an unfamiliar bar and dismounts his bike, his legs heavy, the pain from the fight at the rally taking its toll.

He glances down at the bandage on his hand the pain of it dull compared to the hurt in his chest.

You would’ve taken him to the hospital gotten him fixed him up, cared for him tenderly. But he’s sure that’s over now. He looks at his wedding band, the images of you smiling radiantly in your wedding dress flash through his mind, the happiest day of his life. Tears almost well in his eyes but he blinks them back he doesn’t deserve you he knows it he has to let you go.

He slams the bar door open, the force of it matching the turmoil coursing inside him.

“Whiskey and a beer, and when I’m done, keep em coming,” he orders at the bartender, who nods silently.

Benny slumps down onto a stool, once settled, he quickly downs the whiskey, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction, and chases it with a cold beer that does little to quench the fire in his gut.

As the bartender goes to refill his drink, two men approach. The scent of sweat and stale beer hits Benny’s nose as one of them snarls, “Hey, shithead, you can’t wear that jacket in here.”

Benny barely glances at them, but the second man steps closer, his voice louder, more aggressive. “Hey, shithead, you hear my brother? You can’t wear that jacket.”

Benny’s eyes narrow as he looks at one, then the other. He’s itching for a fight, and if proving his loyalty to the club will numb the ache in his heart, he’s ready. Anything to take his mind off you. His blood pressure rises as he calmly sets his glass down. “You’d have to kill me to get this jacket off,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

Without warning, Benny feels a sharp, heavy blow to his back, a cheap shot that knocks him forward, sending pain shooting through his spine as he sees the broken wood from the barstool that was used.

He stumbles from his seat with the breath forced from his lungs, kneeling on the floor. Before he can recover, another vicious kick slams into his stomach. The force of it bends him double, his insides twisting in agony.

“Fuck,” he gasps, trying to suck in air, but there’s no time. A third kick lands hard against his ribs, a sickening crack reverberating through his body. The pain is blinding, his vision blurring as he goes down, his cheek scraping against the grimy floor. The scent of sweat, beer, and blood fills his nostrils, mingling with the sharp, metallic taste in his mouth.

He tries to crawl, his blood soaked palm slipping against the wooden floor, but the two brothers aren’t done. Benny feels a brutal kick connect with his side, the impact sending him sprawling against the barstools. His body spasms as he spits up blood, the taste of copper thick on his tongue.

The bar is spinning around him, the dim lights flickering as his head throbs in time with his heartbeat. The next thing he knows, rough hands are gripping his jacket, lifting him only to be thrown toward the front door. He crashes to the pavement outside with a bone jarring thud, the breath knocked out of him again.

“He won’t stay down!” one shouts in disbelief. Before he can even think to defend himself, another boot kicks into his face. The pain is explosive, a white hot flash that leaves his vision swimming. He knows they’ll kill him if this keeps up, they’ve gone too far.

Benny’s pushes himself up, only to collapse again under the crushing weight of his injuries. Blood drips from his mouth as he struggles once more, his body trembling with the effort. This time he manages to get one knee under him.

“He’s getting back up!” one of them shouts in frustration as he looms over Benny.

“I’ll keep him down“ the other snarls off to get something to maim him with. The taste of blood is sharp on Bennys tongue, his vision wavering with the strain to stay conscious.

Desperation surges through him, adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain. Bennys hand scrambles to his boot, fingers wrapping around the handle of the knife hidden there.

With a wild burst of energy, Benny pushes himself to his feet and slashes out, the blade slicing across the man’s face in front of him. The man screams in agony, clutching at his bloodied cheek.

“Oh shit, Henry!” the other man yells, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of his brothers mangled face.

But that horror quickly twists into fury. His gaze locks onto Benny with murderous intent, and he grabs a nearby shovel, his knuckles whitening around the handle as he barrels forward.

Benny finally feels a surge of triumph grinning as the man wails in agony clutching his blood streaked face. The small victory doesn’t last long. The second man crashes something heavy against the back of his skull.

The impact rings through Bennys head, disorienting him, and he drops to his knees, the world spinning violently as he slips to the ground clutching his head wet with fresh blood. “This’ll keep him down!,” he hears the man sneer.

Before Benny can react, the spade of a shovel sharply snaps through his ankle, the bones crunching beneath the weight. The pain is excruciating, a bright, searing agony that radiates up his leg as he groans seething through gritted teeth. it’s the final blow for his battered body as he begins losing consciousness.

The last thing he feels is the cold, hard pavement beneath him and the taste of blood in his mouth with all the pain of his injuries. Just before the darkness claims him, fleeting thoughts of you cross his mind, your smile, your touch, your voice but it’s all too late. The world fades to black, and his tormenting pain finally recedes into nothingness.

Decisions

You burst through the hospital doors, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. Fear gnawing at your insides, pushing you forward. Your eyes dart frantically across the lobby until they land on a group of bikers huddled together, faces grim. Spotting Corky you rush over, your voice cracking as you blurt out, “Where’s Benny!?!”

Corky exchanges a glance with Wahoo, who sighs heavily. “They won’t let us in, only family,” Corky says reluctantly.

Without a second thought, you practically sprint to the front desk, the words spilling out in a frantic rush. “I’m Mrs. Cross—I’m here for my husband, Benny Cross!” you almost shout, your voice trembling and rising, barely holding back the storm of panic threatening to overwhelm you.

The receptionist behind the desk gives you a sympathetic nod and quickly checks you in.

Within minutes, a nurse leads you down a long, sterile hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering above as you pass. Your hands instinctively cling to your arms, as if trying to physically hold yourself together.

The dread sits like a heavy weight in your chest, tightening with each step, but there’s also a fragile hint of relief—Benny is stable, he’s alive.

When you finally reach Benny’s hospital room, the nurse pulls his clipboard from the wall and begins reading his list of injuries, her voice low and clinical.

“Mrs. Cross, when your husband was brought in, he was severely attacked. He suffered fractured ribs, a fractured orbital socket, internal bleeding, blunt force trauma to the head resulting in a concussion, and the most pressing of his injuries—a severed Achilles tendon with a broken talus bone in his right ankle due to blunt force trauma. The injury is so severe that the surgeons are discussing the possibility of amputation.”

Her words hit you like a sledgehammer. Your breath catches, and a sharp pain stabs through your chest as you clutch the wall for support. The hallway spins, nausea threatening to overwhelm you, but you force yourself to stay upright. You can’t afford to be weak, not now.

The nurse continues, her voice gentler as she sees the look of shock and devastation across your face, as you struggle to process the gravity of the situation.

“Your husband is on a heavy medication for the pain now and has been treated for his injuries. The surgeon will discuss the options with you both regarding how you would like to proceed with his amputation in the morning.”

You nod, barely registering her words, your focus solely on the door as she pushes it open for you. With a deep breath, you gather your strength and step inside.

The room is dimly lit, the only sounds the steady beeping of monitors and the soft hum of medial machinery. Your eyes fall on Benny, lying motionless in the hospital bed.

His once strong, commanding presence now looks so fragile, covered in bruises and bandages. His face, usually so ruggedly handsome, is almost unrecognizable swollen and discolored under his right eye. His right leg is encased in a heavy white cast, elevated slightly above the bed, and you can see the bulk of bandages peeking out from under the sheets.

He looks so vulnerable, so different from the man who always seemed indestructible. The sight of him like this breaks your heart all over again.

You approach him slowly, your footsteps silent on the cold, tiled floor. As you get closer, Benny stirs, his eyes fluttering open. When he sees you, a flicker of something crosses his face relief, happiness, maybe even disbelief. He weakly smiles, twisted by pain.

“Benny,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He shivers, his battered body tensing as he tries to shift, to reach for you. But the pain is too much, and he winces, his breath hitching in his throat. Seeing him like this, struggling even to move, brings tears to your eyes, but you push them back. He needs your strength now, not your tears.

Carefully, you search for a place to touch him, a spot not covered by bruises or bandages. Finally, you find a small patch of uninjured skin on his arm and gently place your hand there, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I’m here,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his skin.

He closes his eyes in relief as he exhales shuddering a breath. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t come,” he rasps, his voice hoarse from pain and medication.

“Of course I came,” you reply, your voice heavy with emotion. “I’m here, Benny. I’m not going anywhere.”

Benny’s eyes open again, and he looks up at you with a mix of guilt and gratitude. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I fucked up….I let you down …and I left you.” He chokes out.

You shake your head, blinking back tears. “No, Benny. You didn’t let me down. You’ve never let me down, and Im still right here for you.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his eyes searching, desperate to believe your words. Then, slowly, he reaches up with his good hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your own, and despite everything, it gives you comfort.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, his eyes closing as exhaustion takes over.

“You deserve more than you think Benny,” you reply softly, your voice barely a whisper.

As the minutes pass, Benny drifts in and out of consciousness, the pain and medication pulling him under. You stay by his side, holding his hand, careful not to disturb the IV line or the bandages. You watch over him, your heart aching with love and worry.

Morning breaks with a muted glow through the hospital blinds, casting long shadows across the sterile room. You haven’t slept a wink, your eyes never leaving Benny as he lay beside you, his face pale and drawn with pain. You’ve spent the night doting on him and holding his hand, determined to be there for him, no matter what comes.

A gentle knock on the door draws your attention. You stiffen, knowing the doctor’s visit will bring the news he’s not ready to hear. Benny is sitting propped up with the help of pillows, his eyes closed as he rests against the headboard still groggy from the medication and pain. You squeeze his hand a little tighter to wake him as the doctor enters.

The doctor exchanges morning greetings as he walks over to Benny’s bedside, flipping through his medical chart in hand, his expression solemn. He takes a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before speaking in a low, steady voice.

“Mr. Cross, I’m afraid the injury to your ankle is extremely severe. The spade of a shovel penetrated deeply, causing extensive damage to your Achilles tendon and the surrounding soft tissue fracturing your tibia and breaking the talus bone. The prognosis for functional recovery is poor, walking without significant assistance or support will be highly unlikely. After assessing all available options, the only viable course of action is to proceed with a below knee amputation.”

The words hit Benny like a physical blow. You feel his entire body tense beside you. His eyes widen in shock, disbelief washing over his face.

The doctor continues, explaining the necessity, the risks, the slim chances of saving the foot, but Benny’s face is frozen in that same look of shock.

Bennys lips part slightly, as if trying to form words, but nothing comes out. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable and utterly devastated. This man, who has faced down danger more times than you can count, is now staring down a future he never imagined possible.

When the doctor finally finishes, he gives you both a moment, quietly excusing himself to let you process the news. The room falls into a heavy silence. You’re still holding Benny’s hand, but he’s not gripping back, his eyes distant, staring at a point far beyond the hospital walls.

You watch as the reality of what he just heard begins to sink in. His strong, handsome face starts to crumble. Tears well up in his eyes, and before you know it, they spill over, down his cheeks. The sight of Benny crying, breaks something inside you. He’s never cried, not in front of you, not ever and it’s as if the weight of the entire world has come crashing down on him in this single, moment.

He lowers his head, unable to look at you, his shoulders trembling as he begins to sob covering his face. Not just a tear or two, but deep, gut wrenching sobs that shake his entire body. You can’t bear it and move closer sitting beside him on the bed, wrapping your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you can.

You stroke his hair avoiding the bandage there and hold him close to your chest as his fingertips weakly cling to your dress.

Minutes pass before the sobs start to subside, leaving Benny breathless and shattered. His face is streaked with tears, his eyes red rimmed and haunted. Finally in a voice that’s barely a whisper,he looks you in the eyes as he pleads, “Please… don’t let them take my foot off”

You meet his gaze, your heart breaking all over again as you see the depth of despair in those blue eyes, the same eyes that have always been so strong. You gently caress his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your fingertips as he struggles to say more. Finally, he chokes out what he’s really been dreading, “If they take my foot off I can’t ride any more,” he shudders, his words heavy with sorrow and fear.

His confession surprises you, the full weight of his words sinking in you as you hold him close. Benny’s loyalty to the club runs so deep that the thought of losing his brotherhood is more terrifying to him than the loss of his own limb. Above all else, Benny is a Vandal, and without that, he fears he will lose himself entirely.

Burn it down

Word spreads like wildfire through town, whispers and rumors reaching every corner until they finally land at the Vandals’ clubhouse where everyone gathered after the rally. The air inside is thick with smoke and tension, the usual hum of conversation hushed as the members sense something brewing beneath the surface.

Cal is the first to get the call. The landline phone on the wall rings sharply, cutting through the heavy silence. He picks it up, his expression growing darker as Corky’s voice crackles through the receiver from the hospital. The news hits him like a punch to the gut. Benny had been jumped by members of a rival gang at a bar in Lakeside. The beating was so severe that they nearly severed his foot, leaving him in a hospital bed, fighting to keep his leg.

Cal’s hand tightens around the phone, his knuckles going white as he listens to the details. His eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering there as the full weight of the situation settles in. When the call ends, he slams the phone down, the sound echoing through the clubhouse, catching the attention of everyone around.

Without a word, Cal strides across the room to where Johnny is sitting, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. Cal leans in close, his voice low and laced with a dangerous edge as he whispers the confirmation.

Johnny’s face hardens immediately, his eyes darken, with a burning rage that simmers just beneath the surface his jaw tightening as he absorbs the full weight of the news. In his chest, he knows he’ll never let this go. One of his own was hurt, and someone was going to pay dearly for it.

Without a second thought, Johnny gathers the Vandals. There’s no need for words they can see the fury in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches, the barely restrained violence in his every movement. They mount their bikes, the roar of engines filling the air as they ride with purpose, their destination clear.

The bar comes into view, a building that now holds the weight of their wrath. The Vandals pull up in front, engines roaring as they line the street, the deafening sound echoing through the air. The bikers stay mounted, revving their engines menacingly, a warning to anyone inside that trouble has arrived.

Johnny dismounts first, his eyes narrowing as he strides toward the entrance, Cal and Brusy flanking him like shadows. The door swings open, and the atmosphere inside shifts immediately. The tension thickens, the air heavy with the unspoken threat as the patrons turn to see who just walked in. Everyone can feel the danger that now hangs over the room, knowing that the men standing in the doorway have come for retribution.

Johnny’s gaze sweeps the room before locking onto the bartender. His glare is enough to freeze the man in place. “I don’t want any trouble here,” the bartender stammers, fully aware of the reason for this unexpected visit.

Johnny pauses, already knowing exactly how he wants to exact revenge for Benny, as he steps closer to the bartender.

“Young kid got beat up in here real bad,” Johnny begins, his voice low and menacing, carrying the unmistakable promise of violence.

“I need you to tell me who did it. Write the names down, tell me where they live, and I’ll let you leave.”

The bartender, eyes wide with fear, doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a piece of paper and a pencil with shaking hands, scribbling down the names as quickly as he can. The presence of Johnny and the Vandals is overwhelming. When he finishes, he hands the paper over, his hand trembling.

Johnny takes it, glances at the names, then hands the paper to Cal. “Send a few guys, make sure they don’t walk again,” Johnny orders, his voice cold and unforgiving.

Cal exits the bar on his mission of retribution for Benny and gives the signal for the Vandals to head inside.

As the Vandals enter the bar and surround Johnny, their sheer presence amplifies the already building tension in the establishment. Sensing whats next the patrons begin to flee.

Johnny lights a cigarette, the flame flickering as he inhales deeply, the smoke curling around him.

“You can leave,” Johnny says to the bartender, his voice calm but filled with menace.

Desperate to save his livelihood, the bartender asks, “What about my bar?”

Johnny doesn’t even glance at the bartender, his gaze distant as he exhales a cloud of smoke. “Burn it down,” he orders to the Vandals coldly, flicking the lit match onto the floor.

The bartender barely has time to react before the Vandals spring into action. They trash the bar with ruthless efficiency, smashing tables, shattering glasses, and ripping bottles from the shelves. Liquor spills everywhere, creating a flammable torrent that they quickly ignite, setting the entire place ablaze.

Johnny, Cal, and the others step outside, lining the street as the flames take hold. The fire spreads quickly, its flickering light painting the night sky in ominous shades of orange and red. The heat intensifies, and the sound of crackling wood and shattering glass fills the air as the bar is consumed by the roaring blaze.

Johnny stands at the front, his expression unreadable as he watches the building burn. The flames dancing in his eyes, reflecting the rage that still simmers within him.

To his left, he notices the fire department arriving, their lights flashing. To his right, the police pull up, their cars blocking off the street. Yet, both the fire department and the police take no action as the building is consumed by the fire ignited by the Vandals.

Brusy, standing beside Johnny, glances nervously between the two groups. “Why aren’t they doing anything?” he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Johnny smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up as he watches the flames devour the building. He doesn’t take his eyes off the blaze as he replies, -“Because they’re scared.”

The fire rages on until the bar is reduced to nothing more than a pile of smoldering rubble. Johnny knows that the message has been sent. This is what happens when you mess with the Vandals. This is what happens when you hurt one of his own.

Long Road

When Benny is finally discharged from the hospital, he’s a shadow of the man you once knew. The powerful, confident presence he always carried has been stripped away, replaced by a hollow shell of uncertainty and pain.

His eyes, once so full of life and defiance, are now dim, the spark of confidence deadened by the trauma of his injuries. Benny struggles to navigate the world on crutches. His right leg remains, encased in a heavy cast with no promise that he’ll ever walk normally again. Each step up the stairs a painful reminder of how much life has changed for him.

You’ve already prepared the downstairs guest bedroom, anticipating that the stairs would be too much for him to handle. The room is decorated in deep, soothing shades of blue, with a large window offering a view of the garden.

All his clothing and medications are neatly arranged, and you’ve even brought a television into the space, knowing how much he loves to lose himself in movies and shows.

You wanted to create a space where Benny could feel comfortable, even if everything else in his life feels like it’s falling apart.

At first, Benny tries to hold onto some semblance of independence, but little by little, you watch as his dignity is stripped away. He can barely navigate the house without help, and you find yourself taking on the role of caregiver, administering his medications, changing his bandages, preparing his meals and changing the linens on his bed.

You help him every time he’s too weak to manage on his own, and each time you do, you see the shame flicker in his eyes.

When you dress him in the mornings he doesn’t even look you. With his body so tender and weak he does his best to pull his body through his clothing but always turns away in shame once you fully dress him, feeling unable to face you.

The hardest moments come when it’s time to bathe him. The once proud, strong man who could have easily overpowered you in the shower, now stands in silence, his foot propped on chair to keep his cast out. He watches you with a mixture of gratitude and deep, aching sadness as you carefully clean his body, avoiding the tender spots and bruises.

“You don’t have to do this,” Benny mutters one evening, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. His head hangs low, his gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding your eyes.

“Benny, I want to,” you reply gently, wringing out a washcloth and carefully wiping down his arms. “You know I’m here for you, no matter what.”you warmly smile.

He swallows hard, his throat tight with emotion. “I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you,” he says, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Not like this… not like some goddamn invalid.”

You pause, your heart aching at the raw vulnerability in his words. “You’re still you, Benny,” you say softly, trying to meet his eyes. “This doesn’t change that. You’ll get through this, and I’ll be right here with you.”

He finally looks up at you, his eyes filled with a pain that’s deeper than any physical wound. “But what if I can’t?” he whispers, the fear and self-doubt he’s been hiding finally spilling out. “What if this is all that’s left of me?”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it gently. “We’ll face it together, Benny you’re not alone.”

Benny closes his eyes, his jaw clenched feeling his emotions they are inescapable. The strong, invincible man he used to be seems like a distant memory now, replaced by someone who’s been forced to confront his own fragility. And yet, even in his weakness, you see the man you fell in love with, the one who’s willing to fight, even if he doesn’t believe in himself anymore.

When the shower is over your dry his hair and body, wrapping the towel snugly around his waist. You help him out offering your hand as he struggles to step. The flickering memory of how powerful he used to be, how he used to pull you close, lifting you off your feet, flashes through your mind. Now, he’s unsteady, relying on your strength to make it back to bed.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as you guide him to the bed, his voice filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow.

You smile at him feeling a sense of comfort knowing how much he needs you. “I’m going to take good care of you Benny.” you promise him.

He doesn’t respond, just nods weakly, his head hanging low. You gently remove his towel and his hands rest on your shoulders for support as he carefully lifts his good leg stepping into his pajama pants. His other leg, encased in cast remains stationary. You kneel lower and guide the fabric over his foot, maneuvering it gently around the cast, ensuring not to jar it.

Benny bears most of his weight on his good leg, trying to keep his balance as you inch the pants up, past his thighs, and finally over his hips. His muscles tense with the effort, and you can see the strain in his expression as he tries to suppress the discomfort.

As you reach for his white tee, your eyes linger on the bruises expanding across his chiseled physique. The once smooth, unblemished skin is now a patchwork of deep purples, sickly yellows, and angry reds, the marks of his brutal attack etched deeply into his flesh. The bruises that spread across his ribs and abs are the darkest and most menacing you’ve ever seen.

You pull the shirt over his head, and as he lifts his arms, he winces, a sharp intake of breath escaping him. The severe pain is evident in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that he tries to hide, but it’s there, unmistakable.

The simple task of bathing and dressing is exhausting, and he lowers himself onto the bed ready to rest. You pull the covers over him, smoothing them down gently, and sit beside him, running your fingers through his hair.

“You’re still my Benny,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Nothing’s going to change that.”

For a moment, he closes his eyes, letting himself believe you, letting himself hope. But the road ahead is long, and you both know it.

Days turn into weeks and the independence Benny once cherished seems like a distant memory now replaced by the reality of his current limitations. But slowly, very slowly, there are small signs of progress.

As the bruises gradually fade, little by little he begins to regain strength in his movements. With each task he manages to do on his own, a flicker of determination returns to his eyes. The Benny you know is still there, fighting to reclaim his life, one small victory at a time.

One afternoon when he’s feeling able, you take him for a walk in the garden. The sun is warm on your skin, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves, and the scent of blooming flowers fills the air. You hold his arm, guiding him carefully with his crutch along the stone path. His steps are cautious, but he’s moving, and that alone fills you with hope.

As you walk, Benny’s eyes scan the garden and his gaze falls on a patch of overgrown weeds, beginning to overtake the roses. You can see the frustration flash in his eyes. In the past, he would’ve bent down and yanked those weeds out without a second thought, his strong hands making quick work of the task. But now, he just stands there, his hand tightening on your arm.

You see the pain in his expression, the way his jaw tightens, and you reach up to lovingly touch his face, whispering softly, “Soon enough, Benny.” You smile, trying to reassure him, but his gaze remains fixed on the task he can no longer fulfill.

You gently pull him close, resting your head against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent comforting and uniquely him.

You run your hand softly down his arm, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. For a brief moment, he looks down at you, his eyes meeting yours and catching the warmth in your gaze. But then he quickly looks away, his eyes growing distant again.

Your heart sinks, aching for the intimacy you’ve lost. You miss the way he used to hold you, the way his hands would roam your body, claiming you with a passion that left you breathless. Now, his touches are faint and suppressed as if that piece of him is missing.

Still, you cling to the small signs of his returning strength, feeling a thrill each time he manages something on his own. But the distance between you remains, a silent barrier that grows with each passing day.

At night, he sleeps with his back to you, the warmth of his body just out of reach, and you lie there, staring at the ceiling as you have for weeks, yearning for the connection you once had.

Your mind often drifts to those intimate moments in the dark, when his body would press against yours, his breath warm and reassuring against your neck. You remember the way his hands would roam over your skin, tracing every curve of your body seeking you out with a need that matched his own. His kiss, once so erotic and all consuming, would leave you breathless.

Even now, with him only inches away, lying with his back to you, those memories stir something deep within. Your breathing becomes unsteady, your heart racing as the desire forms, the familiar ache building with every thought of how he used to take you.

Without thinking, you suddenly reach out toward him, your hand hovering just above the space between you. The temptation to touch him is almost overwhelming. But then you notice the unevenness in his breathing, labored as he sleeps in pain.

You know all too well how damaged he is, barely able to move without wincing, and the thought makes you pause. The urge to touch him is strong, but the memory of his pain holds you back.

You remind yourself that he needs rest, not another reminder of what he can’t fully engage in right now. With a deep breath, you pull your hand back, feeling the ache of unfulfilled desire settle in your chest.

Whimpers

The next evening, as you prepare to bathe him, Benny catches your hand. “I can do it,” he insists, his voice firmer and there’s a look in his eyes that you haven’t seen in a long time. You hesitate, unsure whether to push back or let him try.

You nod slowly, watching as he stands inside the tub, his knee bent to keep his casted foot elevated on the chair placed just beside it. He’s determined to prove something, to you, and to himself. You know you should leave him to it, give him the privacy he needs, but something keeps you there, lingering just out of sight and you slowly realize you want to do more than just care for him.

Benny begins to wash himself, his movements slow and deliberate, the warm water cascading over his body, highlighting every ridge and curve of his muscular frame.

His broad shoulders, marked by dark bruises of purple and yellow, glisten under the light, the water tracing the powerful lines of his torso.

As he runs the cloth over his chest, the defined ridges of his abs become more pronounced, slick and firm beneath the sparse bruising.

His strong arms, glisten with water, his biceps and triceps flexing slightly as he carefully cleans around the tender areas. The water flows over his skin, accentuating every hard line of his muscles, making his body look both powerful and vulnerable in its raw strength and beauty.

Your breath catches as you watch him, a rush of arousal flooding through you making you quickly turn away, trying to suppress the heat rising within.

The memories of how powerful he used to be in bed flood your mind, the way he would take control, leaving you weak and trembling beneath him. The feel of his mouth on you, the way his hands would explore every inch of your body. You squeeze your knees together, your breaths coming faster unable to suppress your overwhelming arousal.

“Hey,” Benny’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn back to see him struggling to reach the towel. “Can you…?”

You’re at his side in an instant, handing him the towel. Once he’s dried off he wraps the towel around his waist and you help him to the sink.

He stands on his own, bearing more weight on his good leg while holding the counter’s edge. You watch as he brushes his teeth, the mundane task somehow taking on a new significance.

You join him, the two of you side by side, as you spit and rinse. He leans down to wash his face and you reach out, placing your hand soothingly on his back. You can feel the muscles flexing beneath his skin, still strong despite everything else, and you trail your fingers along his spine, lingering longer than you should.

When he dries his face and stands up, you both look at each other in the mirror. Benny’s hair is slicked back, still damp from the shower, and though his tan skin has paled from weeks spent indoors, he’s still so handsome that takes your breath away. The sharp lines of his face are softened by exhaustion, but there’s a ruggedness to him that you’ve always loved.

“You look very handsome, Benny,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turns to you, and you stare at each other in the intimate space. The words he wants to say make his breath catch in his chest as if the thought of speaking them aloud is too much to bear.

His eyes flicker with uncertainty as he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly. He places it gently on your chest, his thumb lightly tracing over your skin in with a reverent touch, and before you can reach out to touch him, he lowers his eyes and pulls his hand away, the moment slipping through your fingers like sand.

The brief contact leaves you aching for him, a deep all consuming longing settles in your chest. When Benny reaches out to you again, your heart flutters, hope surging through you. But his voice soft and filled with hesitation as he breaks the silence. “Can you help me to bed?”

For a moment, dismay flickers through you, quickly replaced by a wave of guilt as you hear the tenderness in his request.

You push your physical thoughts of desire aside understanding how wounded he is and gently take his arm, guiding him with care toward the bed.

His weight bears heavily on you, the strain in his muscles evident as he struggles to maintain his balance.

He places one hand on the nightstand for balance as you hand him his soft pajama pants and a thin white undershirt. You watch for a moment as he pulls them on with slow, deliberate movements. A small smile tugs at your lips, seeing that he doesn’t need your help this time. Satisfied, you turn and head to the dresser, quickly slipping into your silk nightie.

You return to his side, carefully picking up each vial of his medications from the nightstand and dispensing the correct dosages into your palm.

Once he’s dressed, you bring him a glass of water, holding it steady as he takes his pills. You watch him swallow them down, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drains the glass. There’s a quiet intimacy in the moment, a routine you’ve fallen into, yet an aching distance lingers between you, a gap you can’t quite bridge.

Once he’s finally settled on his side with the covers pulled up to his waist, you climb into bed beside him, reaching over to click off the light.

As you’ve done all month, you lie back, staring at the ceiling. The guest bedroom is directly next to the garden, so you can watch the shadows of the trees sway above you. Their branches move gently in the night breeze, creating a dance of light and darkness across the ceiling.

The room is filled with the soft swaying of leaves outside, a sound that usually calms you, but tonight it only amplifies your desire for Benny.

You glance over at him, his back turned to you, his body tense even in the darkness. Your heart aches as you reach out, and this time your hand hesitantly touches his shoulder. His skin is warm beneath your fingers tips, his muscles tight and tense.

He doesn’t turn to face you, but his voice breaks the silence, low and heavy with an emotion you can’t quite recognize. “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he whispers, his words so soft they almost disappear into the air.

You keep your hand on his shoulder, feeling the conflict within him, the war between his pride and his vulnerability. You know what you’re about to do is impulsive, but you can’t stop yourself. The need to reconnect with him, to feel that intimacy again, the thought is overwhelming. Slowly, you slide closer, turning and wrapping your arms around him from behind.

You press a soft kiss to Bennys neck and his body tenses at your touch, his breath catching in his throat. “…Baby...” Benny whispers, his voice shaky, filled with uncertainty and apprehension.

“Shh,” you whisper softly, pressing your lips to the back of his neck again feeling the slight tremor that runs through him “Let me take care of you Benny.”

Your hand moves down, sliding beneath his waistband, your fingers brushing against his warm skin as you reach between his legs. You find his thick shaft, soft and unresponsive gently curling your hand around it. As you begin to stroke him softly, his hand suddenly rests on top of yours, stopping you.

“I can’t..” he whispers, his voice breaking, the words filled with so much pain and defeat that it tears at your heart. You can almost hear his pride shatter, the sound of it reverberating in the stillness of the room.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly feeling the depth of his anguish. You withdraw your hand, placing it instead on his back, rubbing soothing circles over his tight muscles, trying to comfort him the only way you can. “It’s alright, Benny. We don’t have to do anything. I’m here for you, no matter what.” You say reassuringly.

Benny doesn’t respond, but you can feel how he shakes slightly with each breath. The vulnerability he’s showing is both heartbreaking and precious, a side of him he’s never allowed anyone else to see.

You continue to rub his back, your touch gentle and soothing gradually feeling the tension in his muscles begin to ease under your hand as his breathing starts to slow.

The warmth of his skin under your fingertips and the scent of him so close stir something deep within you, the familiar ache forming involuntarily between your legs.

You quickly lay back, squeezing your thighs together, a soft sigh escaping your lips trying to calm yourself. But in the heat of the moment, driven by impulse, your fingers slip over the silk of your nightie and reach into the lace of your panties.

You find your aching clit, swollen and sensitive, and begin to circle it with a feather light touch. Each gentle stroke sends waves of pleasure through you, blending with the soothing caress of Benny’s back.

Your breaths grow rapid, heart pounding as you chase the edge of release, your fingers dancing over your sensitive skin. The weight of your emotional turmoil heightening your desire, leaving you craving the sweet relief of climax.

You keep your movements soft and quiet, not wanting to disturb Benny but the need is all consuming.

Benny shifts slightly, and at first, he seems oblivious, lost in his own pain. But then, you feel him turn over, his eyes locking with yours as he notices the subtle movements beneath the sheet.

Your hand slows to a stop feeling the uncertainty creeping in. For a moment, the room falls into a hush, the tension undeniable as you take a breath. His gaze lingers, full of curiosity and something deeper, as he takes in the sight of your flushed cheeks and the delicate rise and fall of your chest.

Without a word, Benny slowly pulls the sheets down, exposing your body to the cool night air. His gaze dark and intense as his eyes fixate on your hand nestled between your legs.

He looks back into your eyes searching and understanding what you need. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches out, his hand hovering just above yours for a moment, the anticipation building between you.

Then, with a delicate touch, he guides his hand gently slipping it over yours within your lace panties.

The warmth of his touch sends a wave of arousal through you and your heart skips a beat as his fingers press lightly against yours, guiding your movements and urging you to continue.

You feel a sense of surprise and relief as his hand squeezes yours, intensifying the pressure on your clit.The room fills with the soft, slick sounds of your wetness, his fingers moving seamlessly over yours feeling the rhythmic thrust of your fingers into yourself as your arousal spreads across your inner thighs.

Your heart races, and your breath hitches as he begins to guide your hand faster, pressing your palm against your swollen clit harder. Soft moans begin to escapes your lips and the sound ignites something deep within Benny.

With a steady hand, he gently removes your fingers, and replaces them with his own. His fingers glide up and down your soaked folds until they are slick with wetness then he slowly eases them deep inside of you.

A desperate moan falls from your lips being deprived of his touch for so long, the feeling of his fingers is profound as they fill you with a satisfying depth that makes your breath catch.

Your wetness coats his thrusting fingers as he moves them expertly within you , his touch is steady despite his injuries and the sound of your slickness fills the room, mixing with your pleasurable soft moans.

Benny is fully focused on you and slowly moves closer pressing his body against yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, intensifying the connection between you even more.

His fingers glide in and out of you with deliberate firm strokes, expertly teasing, and coaxing you toward release. Your core throbs with need, tightening with each pass of his fingers, until you’re overwhelmed by the way he knows exactly how to bring you to the brink.

You moan loudly feeling your body quivering as the pressure builds inside you and Benny moves his fingers faster.

He is focused entirely on you and the way your body responds to him, driving him to push you even further, making you feel everything you’ve been missing.

He presses his thumb to your aching clit and circles it with relentless precision building the pleasure so high it’s almost unbearable.

Your legs tremble as your hands clutch the sheets, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you endure the overwhelming sensation. The pressure inside of you coils tighter and tighter, until you’re at the brink of inevitable release.

“..Come for me baby ” Benny finally says having a surge of confidence knowing he’ll be able to satisfy you. “Show me how much you need me” he says craving your pleasure to rebuild his own.

And with a final, expert thrust of his fingers, you shatter. Your climax hits you like a tidal wave, crashing through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Your body convulses, your core tightening around his fingers as you cry out, the sound echoing through the room.

You pant heavily, your chest heaving as you come down from the high, your body trembling with aftershocks. The release is so powerful, you feel lightheaded, your mind spinning from the intense pleasure.

Benny withdraws his fingers slowly, his touch gentle as he pulls them from your throbbing core and he looks at you, his eyes dark with a desire you haven’t seen in a long time.

For a moment neither of you move, the silence only being broken by the sound of your labored breaths.

Benny’s eyes lock onto yours, a silent plea lingering in their depths as he glances down at your lips. The intimacy undeniably as he leans in, closing the distance with a slow, deliberate kiss.

His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving hesitantly at first, almost cautiously, as if he’s rediscovering something precious. His kiss deepens, and you feel his tongue slide gently into your mouth, coaxing a moan from you as explores with a slow, deliberate rhythm making your heart race.

The taste of him, and the way his lips and tongue move against yours, send sparks of pleasure racing down your spine.

Your hands finally reach him, roaming over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin and you find yourself wanting to give him back the pleasure he’s just given you.

Your hand moves lower, slipping beneath his waistband, seeking out his cock. Your touch is gentle at first, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft with a tender reverence. He’s only slightly hard, a stark contrast to how he used to be fully erect at the mere sight of you.

You can feel the hesitation in his body, the way he tenses, the lingering effects of pain and doubt clouding his response. You stroke him softly, trying to coax him to full arousal, but his cock remains the same, the weight of his injury hanging over him, holding him back.

Benny breaks the kiss, his eyes searching yours, trying to find the right words, the right way to explain why he’s not quite ready. You meet his gaze, your voice soft and filled with understanding, “Teach me how to please you with my mouth, Benny,” you say with a blend of tenderness and desire.

His eyes darken with a mix of conflict and lust. For a moment, he hesitates, then slowly nods, the need in him beginning to overpower his reservations. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’ll show you.”

Benny sits up, easing himself back to rest against the headboard. You gently slide your fingers to the hem of his undershirt, slowly lifting it over his head. As you pull the shirt off, your eyes trace the contours of his muscled body, each bruise telling a story of his pain, but also stirring something deeper inside you, a desire to make him feel good again.

The sight of him, strong yet vulnerable ignites a longing in your core. You place a pillow behind his back and with gentle hands, you begin to remove his pajama pants, easing them over his cast. Once fully naked Benny spreads his legs apart, making room for you as you settle between his thighs.

His body tenses with anticipation as you take in the sight of his cock, long and thick, though not yet fully hard, resting with an impressive weight between his legs. When you look up at him, there’s a mix of vulnerability and desire in his eyes, a silent plea for what’s to come.

You start slowly, kissing the sensitive skin along his inner thighs, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles as he reacts to your touch. Your lips trail closer to his cock, building the anticipation.

Benny watches you intently, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you finally kiss the head of his cock. Your warm tongue swirling around the tip, teasing him as you glance up at him through your lashes, silently asking him to guide you.

“That… feels good” he praises, his voice low and breathy. “Keep going…” he urges, his eyes filled with a raw intensity experiencing pleasure for the first time in what feels like forever.

You take his cock into your mouth feeling him harden against your tongue. His hips twitch involuntarily as you create a delicious suction, making him groan. You swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting a hint of saltiness that quickly dissipates, and he groans again, louder this time, the sound desperate and raw making your core throb with need.

“That’s it…” Benny mutters, his voice filled with satisfaction as his hand rests gently on your head lacing his fingers gently through your hair.

He lifts his hips slightly, wanting to push himself deeper into your mouth and you can feel the power shifting within him, his desire overtaking his initial hesitation.

“Take it …deeper” he urges, his hand tightening in your hair, guiding you as his cock fills your mouth completely causing an ache in your jaw.

You continue to glide your mouth along his heavy cock and it throbs against your tongue, growing harder with every suck.

“K-keep going, baby…” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, his need evident in every word as he savors the way you suck him off.

His tip brushes the back of your throat, and you slightly gag, the sensation causing your throat to tighten around him. The feel of it draws a deep groan from him, the pleasure undeniable.

Staring down at you, his eyes darken with lust as you try to take more of his cock and he groans in pleasure, savoring every gag of your inexperience as you keep going.

His grip on your hair tightens his breathes sharp as he begins to guide your head up and down on his throbbing cock.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to keep up, driven by the need to satisfy him, to give him everything he’s silently demanding.

His cock swells even harder and the pressure becomes too much, making it difficult for you to go on. A desperate whimper escapes your throat that vibrates his shaft and he groans in pleasure watching your body begin trembling with every effort.

His grip on your hair tightens as he fights the urge to take more from you realizing you’re giving him everything, pushing yourself to your limits and it makes his cock throb with an almost painful intensity.

His eyes go dark with a deep, simmering arousal craving more than just the pleasure of your mouth.

The thought of claiming you, of burying himself deep within you, overtakes him, and with a sudden, urgent need, he pulls your mouth all the way off his cock.

“I want all of you,” he confesses, his voice weaker and filled with urgency. You’re so desperate to feel him inside of you after pleasing his cock , that you don’t hesitate for a second.

His breath catches in his throat as you eagerly climb from between his legs, your excitement and longing undeniable as you straddle his lap feeling how wet you are as you position yourself on him.

He winces from the sudden movements and you see the pain you’ve caused, but your desire for him overtakes everything as you capture his mouth in a heated kiss.

He whimpers against your lips as your fingertips glide down his ribs over his bruises.

His body weakened from the beating he endured, makes every movement take more effort than usual, but having you like this, so eager and willing, makes him feel something special something powerful despite his condition.

It’s more than just desire, it’s the realization that even in his vulnerable state, you still want him, you still crave to have him.

You begin slowly grinding against his hardened cock, feeling the friction through the thin fabric of your panties and it makes Benny moan in your mouth.

He tries to continue kissing your lips, but the sensation of you moving on top of him is almost too much to bear and his body trembles slightly beneath you.

His hands slide up your sides, creeping under your nightie. He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull the nightie over your head, tossing it aside with a flick of his wrist. His eyes darken with lust as he takes in the sight of your breasts cupping each one with a tender squeeze. His fingers linger on your skin before they trail down, finding the waistband of your panties

Without a second thought, he digs his fingers into the lace and rips them apart. The sound of the fabric tearing makes you gasp, his lust for you intensified by his unrestrained need to take you.

He pulls you back into a searing kiss, wincing briefly as his battered ribs protest, but he doesn’t let it stop him. The intimacy between you is intense with the blend of vulnerability and raw desire making every touch, every kiss, feel profound and deeply intimate.

You break the kiss and rise slightly, allowing his hard cock to spring free and you both look down to watch it sway. Now painfully hard and thick it stands proudly. His shaft taunt and veiny, throbbing with need his tip red and swollen with arousal.

He shudders suddenly feeling his blood coursing so quickly, his breaths heavier, each one a mix of anticipation and the lingering pain from his injuries.

“I don’t want to hurt you Benny,” you say softly, your heart pounding with a mix of longing and regret.

You can hear his uneven breaths as his chest rises and falls, fighting to push past the discomfort. The strain in his eyes is evident, one still darkened by a bruise, revealing the toll his injuries are taking on him.

You reach up gently and lightly rub your thumb over the bruise, your touch tender as you try to soothe him, offering a silent comfort in the midst of his struggle.

“You won’t hurt me, baby,” he promises, and there’s a determination in his blue eyes that tells you he’s not backing down. He wants this as much as you do.

“Alright, Benny,” you whisper, surrendering to the pull of your desire. You cup his jaw, your touch gentle but filled with an urgent need as you bring your lips to his. The kiss is both tender and consuming, and you can feel the heavy breaths of exertion spilling into your mouth as his hands slide up to your waist.

Despite the pain radiating through his body, Benny’s resolve doesn’t waver. He’s determined to fulfill both your needs, to reclaim what you’ve both been missing.

His hands slide down your hips grasping firm, as he slowly begins guiding you down onto him.

His cock presses against your entrance and the resistance is immediate, your body sealed tight without him for so long. You can feel his breath hitch as he tries again, this time with force. His hands shake on your waist as he pushes into you with raw determination.

A shared moan tears from both of you, the sound raw, and desperate, as his cock finally penetrates, solid and unyielding, your walls gripping him with an unforgiving tightness.

You bury your face into his neck, moaning as his grip on you tightens, his hands steadying you as he pushes deeper, breaking himself into you, inch by inch.

“It’s alright, baby,” he breathes, his voice strained but reassuring, each exhale warm against your skin. His body trembles beneath you, his muscles tensing as he fights through the pain, but he refuses to stop. There’s something driving him, a need to claim you, to bury himself inside you until the pain is a distant memory.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes deeper. A loud moan spills from your lips as he finally fills you completely, holding you firmly in his lap, his control relenting as he waits, letting the initial discomfort melt into a wave of intense pleasure. You can feel him throbbing inside of you, every pulse sending jolts of sensation through your core

“I missed you baby,” Benny confesses, resting his forehead against yours, his breaths ragged and uneven as he feels your walls pleasurably tighten around his cock.

“I missed you too, Benny,” you pant, your lips brushing soft kisses against his, enduring the throbbing ache and the intense fullness of having him deep inside you again.

His hands move down to your hips, his grip firm and steady as he guides you in a slow, deliberate rhythm pulling you against him pressing you deeper into his lap as he curses under his breath.

“Fuck ….you feel good,” he whispers, his words heavy with raw desire as his blue eyes meet yours, filled with a vulnerability and intense yearning.

You bring your hands to his jaw, cradling his face as you kiss him softly. Your lips brushing over his filled with longing and he guides your hips to roll down in his lap harder, making you take every inch of his cock deeper.

You both moan into each others mouths feeling the waves of ecstasy surge through your core and Benny feels every inch of him consumed by the overwhelming pleasure of gliding tightly inside your walls again.

His moans turn into soft whimpers as you increase the pace, riding him harder clinging to the back of his neck. You pull him closer, using him for leverage as you glide down faster and harder on his cock.

The sharp sting of his injuries and the soreness of his bruises intensify each time you settle on him, but he holds on to the overwhelming pleasure wanting more despite the pain.

His breaths come in short, shallow gasps as he looks at you with a mix of desire and vulnerability in his eyes, his body protesting, strained from each painful effort.

“Don’t stop,” he pants, his voice weak, almost pleading, as his hips push up against you, his body chasing the pleasure you’re giving him. His cock is rock hard and throbbing with need as he grabs your hips, pulling you deeper into his lap, making you take him fully.

“Yes, Benny!” you cry out, your body arching into him as he guides you to ride him harder, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully, driving his cock deeper, claiming you completely.

The sound of his light breathy and whimpers resonate within you, sending a thrill through your entire body as you watch him trying not to lose himself.

You lean in kissing him deeply and his whimpers are muffled against your mouth as you feel the pleasure of his thick cock gliding in and out of your walls.

His grasp tightens on your hips his fingers digging in desperately, determined to stay with you despite the pain, his need for you overriding everything else.

You grind down on him with force, feeling his cock push deeper inside you and a loud, desperate moan tears from his throat

His heart pounds wildly as he struggles to hold on, the pleasure of being inside you driving him to the very edge.

Every thrust, every touch, every gasp shared between you feels like a reclaiming of something lost. You feel the press of his chest against yours, the frantic beat of his heart, and the desperate way his hands grasp your body.

“I-I’m close… n-need to come…,” he pants, his voice trembling, each word filled with the sound of his struggle to hold on just a little longer.

You hold him closer, your breath warm and seductive against his ear. “Come for me Benny,” you whisper pressing your body closer, moving in perfect rhythm with him, intensifying his pleasure and urging him toward release.

His touch lightens momentarily, his hands guiding your movements to ride him slower, the weakness in his body clashing with the desire raging inside him.

But then, with a deep, guttural groan, he tightens his grip on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he fights to reclaim control.

“I wanna… feel you come for me,” he breathes, his voice rough with determination. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he places one hand on the bed for stability. He bends his un-injured leg for support and thrusts his cock into you such precision it sends shockwaves of pleasure surging through your core.

“Benny oh god!” you scream in pleasure your walls clenching with every thrust of his cock, driving him to push you further.

“Fuck!” he cries out, his hands gripping you tighter as he drives his cock even harder, reclaiming a depth that makes your eyes roll back in pleasure. “That’s it…” he says through gritted teeth, his breath ragged. “Take it all,” he says with effort, his voice thick with intensity.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you moan loudly against him, pulling him closer as he fills you over and over again with a depth that has you seeing stars. His breaths are shallow and ragged against your neck filled with every effort it takes for him to keep going.

His eyes remain locked on you, watching every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face, his own need to see you unravel consuming him, pushing him to hold on just a little longer, to push you over the edge.

You can hear the change in him, the way his voice catches with every thrust, his moans breaking into breathless pants. The deep, primal groans and the whimpers of pleasure that slip out when he can’t hold back.

“Let me feel it,” he pleads, his voice strained, his blue eyes locked on yours with a desperate intensity. “I need to feel you come.” He breathes, the need in his eyes is unmistakable he’s silently begging to be taken with you.

Your pleasure builds to a peak, and with one final thrust, he hits that perfect spot deep inside of you, sending you spiraling into an intense orgasm.

Your body tenses, your nails digging into his shoulders. You cry out his name, your muscles clenching rhythmically around his cock.

Benny can feel every pulse and shudder of your release, and his groans become louder, more uncontrolled against you, the pain that once held him back replaced by the overwhelming sensation of pleasure.

His cock throbs inside your walls, and you can feel his entire body tensing, every muscle coiled tight as he nears his release.

With a final, broken moan, Benny gasps, “I’m gonna—” his words are cut off by a strangled moan as his orgasm crashes over him. His hips jerk violently against you and he releases, his cock pulsing as he spills into you.

You moan loudly, feeling the warm rush of his cum flood your walls and his body trembles with the intensity of his climax, every ounce of pain gone, replaced by the addictive high of pleasure.

His breaths come out hot and ragged against your neck, each exhale trembling with the remnants of his pleasure. He buries his face there, nuzzling against your skin as he softly pants and whimpers next to your ear.

You stay there, still connected, as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through your bodies, entwined in a profound connection of intimacy. Every exhale of his breath against your skin a testament to his determination, a silent promise that he gave you everything he had left.

You gently trail your fingertips along his shoulders, feeling the tension slowly melt away as he rests into you, his body still trembling slightly from the exertion.

As he holds you in his lap, you can feel the rapid, wild beating of his heart against yours, his sharp breaths the only sound in the quiet room, echoing softly against your neck.

“I love you so much Benny,” you whisper, your voice tender and filled with emotion as you feel him relax even more, his grip on you softening as he sinks deeper into the comfort of your embrace.

“I love you too, baby,” he murmurs softly against your skin, his voice warm and affectionate, his breaths weak uneven. With a gentle exhale against your skin he places a soft, lingering kiss on your shoulder.

His body rests heavily against yours as his breaths become softer and the weight of him begins pressing down on you as he struggles to stay awake.

“Benny, you need to rest,” you whisper gently, trying to rouse him from exhaustion.

“Alright,” he relents and his voice barely audible as every muscle in his body seems to weaken, the weight of fatigue pressing down on him.

Carefully you sit up, feeling the lingering warmth of his embrace as you place your hands gently over his chest. You slowly lift your hips up sliding his large cock from deep within your walls, hearing a faint slick sound as the tip finally slips out making both of you moan softly from loss of contact.

He gazes up at you affectionately, and you notice a look of deep satisfaction in his eyes one you haven’t seen in a long time.

“You feel good, Benny?” you ask with an affectionate smile. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you, his full lips parting as he pants for breath.

“Yeah” he breathes with a smile. You grin gently threading your fingers through his hair cradling the back of his head in your hands. You lean in and place a kiss on his forehead filled with pride and deep satisfaction.

The warmth of your touch and the gentle press of your lips make his eyes flutter closed as a soft sigh escapes his lips relaxing completely.

His arms hold you close as he presses his face against your chest, savoring the safety and comfort you bring him. The connection between you feels deeper than ever, a silent understanding that speaks volumes of your love for each other.

As Benny slowly releases you from his embrace, his arms tremble slightly with exhaustion. He shifts his body lower, his movements slow and unsteady as he places his palms on the bed for support.

You give him space as he lowers himself down, the effort leaving him almost too weak to move as he settles on the bed next to you.

With his final moments of strength, Benny pulls you into his strong arms, wrapping them around you in a protective embrace. You can feel the strain on his muscles, the way they tremble slightly, as if he’s trying to convey everything he feels through the simple act of holding you close.

His chest still rises and falls with soft breaths, a reminder of how much he’s given, how deeply he’s pushed past his own limits just to be with you.

“It’s okay, Benny,” you whisper softly, your thumb tracing comforting patterns along his cheek. “Just rest now… I’m not going anywhere.” You say softly, hoping to soothe the lingering tension in his body.

A soft sigh escapes his lips as he relaxes against you, his body slowly giving in to the exhaustion. His eyes flutter closed as sleep finally overtakes him. His grip on you loosens but his hands still hold you close, even in sleep.

The tension and pain that had been etched on his face gradually turn into peaceful serenity, and the faintest hint of a smile forms on his lips, a quiet sign that tonight a part of Benny has been reclaimed.

His Resolve

You and Benny are fully aware of Johnny’s fiery retribution with the Vandals after the injuries Benny sustained, it was impossible to miss.

The news had been plastered all over the papers and television, detailing how the Lakeside bar had been burned to the ground while Benny recovered in the hospital.

As Benny lay in bed, fresh out of surgery, it was the first time you heard him laugh since his injuries. The sound was weak and raspy, filled with a mix of satisfaction and respect for what his brotherhood had done on his behalf. It was a glimpse of the old Benny shining through.

Now, with Benny slowly regaining his strength over the past few weeks, it’s no surprise when you hear the faint rumble of a motorcycle in the distance as you wash the dishes.

You quickly go to collect Benny’s plate from lunch in the living room. He’s resting back on the couch, his leg propped up comfortably on an ottoman as he watches I Dream of Jeanie.

As you reach for his empty plate, you pause to observe him. The moment Benny hears the familiar rumble of a motorcycle approaching the house, he sits up, his eyes lighting up with unmistakable excitement.

“That has to be Johnny,” Benny says, a grin spreading across his face. You manage a weak smile, but inside, you can’t shake the resentment that’s formed, knowing Benny’s injuries were caused because he was beaten for wearing his colors.

Benny quickly tries to get up, grabbing the couch for support, but he struggles to gain his footing, his heart racing with too much excitement. In his haste, he knocks his crutch to the floor, reaching for it in futility, unable to pick it up.

“Benny, sit,” you say warmly, guiding him back down onto the couch. “I’ll bring him here. You’ll have plenty of time to run around once you’re fully healed,” you add, placing his crutch to rest on the arm of the couch.

“Alright, baby,” he says, and you look into his eager blue eyes as he tries to contain his excitement.

You reach the front door just as Johnny knocks. He grins as soon as he sees you. “Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, his voice carrying that familiar teasing tone. “Where’s the crippled old man?” he adds playfully.

“He’s in the living room,” you gesture with a warm smile. Johnny follows you inside, his boots echoing softly against the floor as he makes his way down the hall.

As you both enter the living room, Benny is relaxed with his arms spread across the back of the couch, practically vibrating with excitement. He’s trying to play it cool, but you can see how much he’s been looking forward to this moment.

“Look at you, all propped up like the queen,” Johnny teases, his eyes flicking to Benny’s casted foot resting on the ottoman.

“Who you calling Queen?” Benny shoots back, grinning broadly, his tone playful but carrying a hint of the old fire that’s been missing.

Johnny grins as he plops down next to Benny, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. He hands one to Benny and places another between his own lips. With a flick of his lighter, they’re both soon smoking together, the air quickly filling with the familiar haze.

“You look good, Benny. You look alright,” Johnny compliments, but then he notices you still standing in the entryway.

“Oh, you mind if we smoke in here, seeing as Benny’s all fucked up?” he asks, glancing at you.

“That’s fine, Johnny,” you reply, feeling a bit out of place. You walk over to the television and turn the volume down, trying to make yourself useful.

Johnny quickly turns his attention back to Benny. “The guys thought you might be really out of it,” he says, nodding toward Benny’s cast.

“He is out of it. He can’t walk, Johnny,” you interject, crossing your arms.

“What did the surgeon say?” Johnny asks, completely ignoring your comment.

Benny takes a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up as he exhales. “They cut through a tendon,” he says, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

“Jesus,” Johnny exclaims. “They tie it back together or what?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Benny replies, exhaling a stream of smoke.

The tension of feeling unwanted in the room makes you uncomfortable, especially as you see them both deep in conversation. With Benny clearly not needing you for anything you quickly excuse yourself, heading to the kitchen to make them drinks and give them space to talk.

The banter between Benny and Johnny flows easily and naturally, you hear Benny laugh loudly several times the sound echoing through the house as he has a fit.

You smile hearing him so happy and then feel a bitterness rising that you’ve never made him laugh that way.

The thought gnaws at you, and before you realize it, you’re squeezing the lemons more aggressively, the juice splattering as you make the lemonade.

When you enter the living room with the two glasses, the air is now thick with smoke. Johnny and Benny are just finishing their conversation as you hand Benny his fresh lemonade.

“We’d sure love to see you out there. It’s gonna be a big one, maybe the biggest one yet!” Johnny says enthusiastically.

“Biggest what?” you ask, curious, as you offer the other glass of lemonade to Johnny.

“I’m good, thanks,” he says, waving it off, still engrossed in their discussion.

“It’s a picnic,” Benny explains to you. “Johnny says they’re going all out for the Daytona one,” he continues, before turning to Johnny. “How long is that, eight weeks away?”

“Yeah,” Johnny confirms.

“I mean, I’ll still be in a cast by then, but—”

“A cast?!” Johnny interrupts. “Nah, nah, you can shift with your left foot. You can always use your front brake if ya can’t put no pressure on it,” he says, gesturing to Benny’s cast.

Benny thinks it over as he takes a drag from his cigarette and Johnny seeing his hesitation uses the brotherhood to lure his decision.

“You know the guys..the guys would love to see ya out there. They’re all really worried about you.”he says earnestly

Feeling irritated by the smoke and being ignored, you place Johnny’s untouched lemonade down on the mantle harder than you intended, the glass clinking sharply.

You walk to the window, sliding it up forcefully and hitting it into place with several loud whacks as the fresh air immediately rushes in.

Hearing their conversation halt mid-sentence, you turn to see both Johnny and Benny looking at you with their brows raised in concern.

The weight of their gaze makes you feel exposed, as if they’ve noticed the frustration you’ve been trying to hide all along.

Benny then turn to Johnny and makes his decision without you. “I’ll be there,” he says with certainty, his tone final.

“Alright” Johnny says with a wide grins clearly pleased with Bennys decision. “ I’ll get out of here,” Johnny says as he gets up. “You rest,” he adds, pointing at the cast. Benny smirk as he takes another long drag from cigarette.

Johnny gives you a brief nod, “sweetheart” he says his eyes barely meeting yours before he turns and heads for the door. He leaves without another word, his abruptness toward you making you feel slighted.

The front door slams shut, the sound grating on your nerves, amplifying the irritation that’s already boiling inside of you.

You stand there for a moment, piecing together the conversation and the choice Benny made without consulting you. The tension in the room thickens, your earlier discomfort now edged with frustration.

You walk closer to Benny, crossing your arms as you look over him relaxed against the couch smoking his cigarette with a careless ease.

“You wouldn’t really ride your motorcycle injured with a cast would Benny?” you ask, concern lacing your voice.

“I dunno,” he replies, waving his cigarette hand through the air dismissively. “Turn up the TV, would you?” He says in irritation hating that his injury prevents him from doing the simplest things himself.

But you stand firm, unmoving. “I don’t want you riding, Benny,” you say sternly.

He slowly glances over at you, raising an eyebrow at your firmness.

“Yeah, it scares me especially this soon after surgery. I don’t like it,” you continue, doubling down on your resolve.

Benny’s eyes narrow, his head tilting slightly. “You don’t like it?” he repeats, his voice carrying an edge as he squints at you.

“I get worried!” you say louder, the thought of him permanently injuring himself just to prove something to Johnny and the Vandals making your heart pound with anxiety.

The silence that follows your words is heavy with tension, and you can feel the growing distance between you and Benny with each passing second.

Benny takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring off into the distance, lost in thought as he weighs his options. His jaw tightening as you watch the internal struggle playing out in his mind.

“I should just go,” he finally says, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, his voice steady tinged with an underlying sadness.

His eyes flicker with a cold, distant determination, as he nods slightly. “I should just leave,” he repeats, the words heavy with finality.

His words hang in the air, and you feel your heart drop, the realization hitting you hard that he’s considering genuinely leaving again.

“What?” you respond, your voice rising in pitch as your resolve begins to soften.

He nods his head, a look of realization crossing his face as he stares off blankly into the distance.

“It’s better this way. You’d be better off,” he finally says, his voice low and steady. He raises the cigarette to his lips with a deliberate slowness, taking a long, drawn out drag, the smoke lingering as he exhales, solidifying the weight of his words.

“Stop it! Stop it!” you cry out, your voice trembling with desperation as the fear creeps in gripping your heart.

The memory of the last time he abandoned you abruptly flashing through your mind, he left you without a second thought once his mind was set, leaving you shattered and utterly alone. The panic begins to set in, a cold, suffocating sensation that makes it hard to breathe.

Benny continues, the hurt in his voice becoming more evident, “You wouldn’t have to take care of me, worry about me…”he says revealing the truth he’s been harboring.

You shake your head frantically, tears welling up in your eyes as you tremble at the implications of what he’s saying.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, letting his words sink in before exhaling slowly.

“When I heal up, I’ll leave,” he says with cold finality, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, as if the words are a sentence he’s already decided on.

The statement hits you hard, knocking the breath out of you, and you take a moment to gather your resolve.

Benny doesn’t say anything more and leans forward to stub out his cigarette, the action slow and deliberate, like he’s putting the final seal on a decision that’s been weighing on him for far too long.

He leans back, arms outstretched, a look of painful acceptance on his saddened face, torn between what he feels is right and what he desires.

In a moment of quiet understanding, you slowly sit on the couch beside Benny, finally able to see what he has always needed most of all. Your acceptance of his resolve, the need to do what he feels he must even when you don’t agree with the decision.

As you look up at him, your eyes are filled with a mix of sorrow and reluctant understanding, fully grasping that he’s been struggling with.

Benny meets your eyes with a look of determination and coldness, his emotions buried deep behind a wall of detachment.

Knowing exactly what he needs in this moment you lean against him and wrap your arms gently around his torso holding him closely and providing him the love and comfort he so desperately needs.

You nestle into him and press your face gently against his chest as he looks down at you with a sternness and confusion in his gaze but then, gradually, his expression softens and he wraps his strong arms around you and pulls you close with a grip that is both possessive and protective.

His face buries into your hair, and you can feel the tension in his body slowly begin to ease, knowing that even though you don’t agree with his decision, you still accept him for who he is.

His hands thread through your hair, cradling your head as he holds you against his chest. The silence between you is heavy with unspoken words until you finally break it.

“Benny, I don’t want you to go,” you relent, your voice soft, filled with a final act of surrender, understanding that he will do what he feels he must.

He plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his lips lingering as he deeply inhales your scent, something so beautiful and sweet, something that anchors him when he feels lost.

His thumbs gently trace reassuring circles on your back as he rests his head against yours, no longer torn between his loyalty to the brotherhood and his love for you.

In this moment, the conflict within him fades away,and he feels completely at peace in your embrace more grounded and connected than he has ever felt before in his life.

Just you

At night, as Benny stands in the shower, the warm water cascading over his tired muscles, he has only one thing on his mind…you. The steam fills the small bathroom, clouding the mirror as he steps out, dries off, and brushes his teeth.

He uses the door frame to steady himself as he makes his way to the nightstand, his movements slower as he balances on his uninjured leg but he’s determined to do everything himself to prove himself to you.

He quickly takes his medications, and climbs into bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief against his warm skin.

When you enter the bedroom, Benny’s heart skips a beat at the sight of you. You’re wearing a silk robe, which you slowly slip off to reveal a delicate nightie underneath. The fabric clings to your curves in a way that stirs something deep within him, awakening a longing to create something passionately between you.

As you glance around the room, you notice that Benny has already taken care of himself. He’s brushed his teeth, taken his medications, and is already tucked in, waiting for you.

“Do you need help with anything, Benny?” you ask softly, your voice tinged with pride, knowing he managed to take care of everything on his own.

Benny’s eyes lock onto yours from where he’s resting in bed. For a moment, you see a flicker of something …lust, perhaps, but then it’s gone, replaced by a steady, confident gaze. “Just you,” he says, his voice low, the words laced with an undertone that sends a thrill through you.

A smile plays on your lips as you nod feeling a sudden blush creeps up your cheeks from his words. “Alright, Benny, I won’t be long,” you say sweetly, heading to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face for the night.

Benny watches you go, a spark of desire igniting in his chest, seeing the soft sway of your hips, the gentle curves of your body. He aches with longing, his eyes following your every step, craving the closeness that’s just out of reach.

He lays back against his pillow, wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to show you how much he needs you, how deeply he loves you. His cock is already swelling with desire, hardening at the mere thought of you.

When you return and climb into bed with him you reach over and click off the light, plunging the room into the darkness of moonlight. With a small, sigh, you settle in, your body turned from Benny as you prepare for the usual nights sleep.

But Benny shifts in bed moving closer, his hand reaching out gently brushing against your hip. His touch soft and tender, a silent request for intimacy as he waits for your response.

You feel the eagerness in his touch and feeling a bit slighted from your argument earlier you teasingly ignore him.

He grows bolder, his fingers gripping your hip with a firm but gentle pressure, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles along the curve. Despite his advances, you stay unyielding.

“Baby,” he finally says softly, his voice low and pleading with desire. “I need you…”

His hand lingers poised on your hip awaiting for your response and you cover your mouth unable to stifle the soft unmistakable sound of a giggle that escapes.

Benny smiles understanding your playful challenge.

“You gonna make me work for it tonight, hm?” he asks, his voice low and teasing as his hand trails slowly along your side, the warmth of his touch sending a thrill through you.

A soft sigh escapes your lips as you nod, feeling the spark of anticipation growing between you. You bite your lip, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him. “Mm-hm,” you confirm with a nod.

Benny’s smiles slowly trailing his finger tips down your shoulder, his touch tantalizing and deliberate, sending a warm shiver through your body.

“I can’t get enough of you, baby,” he murmurs, his voice filled with longing. “Seeing you in your little nightie and now you teasing me like this..,” he says, pulling gently at the silk strap, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Now I need you, more than anything,” he confirms, his voice thick with desire as he leans in closer. His breath is soft against your neck. His chest presses firmly against your back as his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you intimately against him. “Don’t tease me like this baby,” he breathes into your ear, his lips grazing your skin.

You close your eyes, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the heat of his body and the intensity in his voice start to warm you up to his touch as you slowly give in. “Benny…,” you begin, your voice soft and breathless, but he shushes you with a quiet “shhh,” his breath warm against your ear as his hand slides down your side, the silk of your nightie gliding smoothly under his fingers as he teasing the edges of your panties with a feather-light touch.

“Mm Mmn, you wanted to tease me remember?” he says, his voice laced with a hint of satisfaction. “Now it’s my turn,” he continues, his tone deepening as his fingers widen their grasp, exploring your body with a possessive touch keeping you on edge. He draws out your anticipation with every firm deliberate squeeze. “Let’s see how much you can take,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine

His words break through, and you can feel the wetness increasing between your legs. You glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze, the heat in his eyes making your heart race. “You’re not playing fair Benny,” you whisper, your voice breathless.

Benny’s lips curve into a knowing smile as his hand continues its slow exploration, sliding under the silk of your nightie. “Who said I was playing?” he whispers, his voice heavy with desire. The look in his eyes is one of pure, unrestrained lust, and it sends a wave of heat through your body, making you ache to give in to him completely.

“Benny…” you begin softly, your voice tinged with need, but he silences you with a kiss on your lips, slow and deliberate. The tip of his tongue teasing yours, sending waves of heat through your body. You moan into his mouth, unable to contain the pleasure building inside you.

His hand slowly slips under your nightie, gliding over your heated skin. He finds the edge of your lace panties, his fingers slipping inside to explore the slickness of your arousal. His touch is teasing and slow, his fingers glide through your wetness, each stroke making you crave him even more.

Benny’s lips leave yours, trailing a line of kisses down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers continue their exploration as he slips them deep inside of you, finding that sensitive spot within and stroking it with a rhythm that makes your body tremble. Your whimpers mix with your gasps, each sound growing more desperate as the pleasure builds inside you.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers against your neck, his voice low with desire. “I love feeling you like this baby,” he praises.

As his fingers curl inside you, he increases the pressure, his thumb circling your clit in time with his strokes. The sensation is overwhelming, every touch sending you closer to the edge. Your hips begin to move against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, your breath coming in short, heated pants.

“That’s it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice filled with encouragement. “Let go for me baby. I want to feel you come.”

The combination of his skilled fingers and his his words send you spiraling closer to the edge, the pleasure mounting with each passing second. Your body quivers in anticipation, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch.

Benny’s kisses travel down your throat, his tongue flicking against your pulse point as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm.

You feel every nerve in your body lighting up with desire, your whimpers turning into needy moans as you get closer and closer to release.

Your breathing quickens, your body tightening around his fingers as you teeter on the edge of release. His other hand moves to your breast, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending even more sparks of pleasure through you. The intensity is almost too much to bear, and you can’t help but moan loudly as the tension coils its tightest within your core.

“Benny-!” you cry out, your voice breaking with pleasure as your walls clench around his fingers as you moan feeling the intensity so powerful it makes you see stars.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Come for me… soak my fingers, just like that.”

His words push you over the edge, and with a final stroke, you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulsing with waves of pleasure that seem to go on forever.

Your moans are unending, filling the room as Benny holds you close, his fingers continuing to coax every last tremor from your body. Your panting and whimpers become breathless gasps, your entire being lost in the overwhelming ecstasy that courses through you.

He presses his lips to your neck, whispering softly, “That’s it, baby… so good for me ” his voice full of satisfaction knowing he’s given you exactly what you needed.

You come down from your high, your body trembling and weak and Benny withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips with a satisfied smile. He licks your arousal from his fingers, savoring the taste with a look of deep satisfaction.

Then, with a gentle yet insistent touch he guides your lips to his for a soft, lingering kiss.

The taste of pleasure on your lips sends a thrill through Benny as you struggle to catch your breath, feeling completely spent and utterly fulfilled. But the lingering intensity in his gaze tells you he’s far from done.

His hand slips under your nightie, his fingers tracing slow, sensual patterns around your navel. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “I want to fill you up baby,” his voice heavy with desire, sending shivers of anticipation through your body.

“I want to create something lasting with you,” he reveals, his voice laced with intent. He lets the gravity of his words linger between you, his breath warm against your neck as his fingers trace slow, deliberate circles just below your belly button, lingering there with purpose.

His lips graze your ear as he leans in closer, “I want to have a baby with you,” he confesses, his voice tinged with longing, a deep need to create something permanent, something that binds you both in a way that nothing else can.

His touch feels different now, more intimate, as his hand moves gently across your stomach. The thought of carrying his child, of creating something lasting and beautiful with Benny, fills you with a deep profound sense of connection and love.

You turn your head slightly, your lips barely brushing his as you whisper, “I want that too, Benny.” Your voice is breathless, filled with anticipation and desire. You place your hand over his, pressing it more firmly against your stomach, silently encouraging him, letting him know you’re ready.

Benny’s eyes darken with intensity at your response, his fingers tightening their hold on you. “It’s all I want now,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with raw emotion. He leans in, kissing you softly at first, savoring the warmth of your lips. Then, his kiss deepens, growing urgent and passionate, making your heart race.

He pulls back just enough to say, “I’ll show you how much I want you,” his breath hot against your lips. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulls you closer pressing his hard insistent cock firmly against your thighs. The sudden, powerful contact makes you moan, revealing in the strength of his desire that he’s been holding back, waiting until this very moment to let you feel just how much he needs you.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Let me show you how much I love you,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with longing.

His hand glides up your side, fingers tracing lightly over the silk of your nightie and he hooks his finger under the strap, slipping it off your shoulder.

You help him with the other strap, feeling his breath warm against your neck as he guides the fabric lower. He presses soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder, each one more tender than the last, as he pulls the nightie down as far as he can.

You lift your hips, allowing him to hook his thumb into your panties, sliding them down along with the delicate nightie. He glides the fabric over your legs slipping everything off completely, leaving you naked and exposed beneath his gaze.

His hand finds your arm guiding you from your side onto your back and the away his hands move with such reverence and desire, makes your heart race.

“I know we can’t have a baby yet,” Benny says, his voice tense with lust, his eyes roaming over your body.

“But I’m going to practice tonight like it’s for keeps,” he promises.

Benny lifts himself over you, his movements controlled and steady. His body hovers above yours, the intensity in his eyes never wavering as he positions himself to take you completely

You reach up, trailing your hands along his broad shoulders holding them for support.

“Benny, I’m going to make sure we have that baby,” you promise him, your voice filled with resolve. “I’m stopping my pills tonight.”

His eyes gaze into yours with a strong sense of fulfillment and a slow satisfied smile forms at the corners of his lips.

With his strong arms braced on either side of your head, he lowers himself down, his lips capturing yours in a deep, sensual kiss, savoring every second, every touch, as if he’s determined to make you melt beneath him.

He settles between your thighs and his body is a delicious weight on yours. The sensation of his firm chest pressing against yours sends a thrill through you as the heat of his skin and the hard planes of his abs fit perfectly against your soft curves. It’s intoxicating, the strength of him surrounding you, making you feel both protected and utterly desired.

His hardened cock teasingly presses against your wetness,and the sensation makes you moan into his mouth which he captures in his heated kiss.

Your hands instinctively slide down his back, trailing over the firm muscles that tense beneath your fingertips. You reach down to the curve of your own hips, grasping the hem of your panties, desperate to remove the final barrier between you.

Benny’s lips trail down your neck, his kisses hot and lingering, and he helps you, his fingers brushing against yours as you tug at the delicate lace.

He grips the fabric firmly and there’s a brief pause, just enough time for you to feel the anticipation build, and then, with a sharp, satisfying tear, he rips the delicate lace apart. The sound of threads snapping fills the air, mingling with your soft gasp.

Benny slips the lace from your body and flings it aside, his mouth capturing yours in a heated kiss that is both raw and possessive. His body presses harder against you, his cock throbbing with need as he nudges it insistently against you.

His hands slide up your sides cupping your breasts as he circles your nipples with his thumbs, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

You moan softly into his mouth, arching your back, pressing your chest against his hands, craving more of his touch, more of him.

Benny pulls back, breaking the kiss his breaths heavy and uneven as he presses harder against your sensitive nipples, rolling them slowly under his thumbs. He watches you intently, savoring every cry, every moan that escapes your lips, taking his time to draw out your pleasure.

“I want to hear more of those sweet sounds,” he rasps, lowering his mouth to take one of your nipples between his lips. His tongue flicks teasingly over the sensitive peak before he sucks gently, working his lips and tongue in unison as your moans turn into soft, breathless cries.

His free hand continues to knead and tease your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers and pinching with just enough pressure to make you gasp. Your walls clench around nothing in response to the sensations he’s pulling from you.

Every lick, every pinch is planned, deliberate, keeping you teetering on the edge as he takes his time, savoring the way your body responds to him.

He shifts his body against yours, his hardened cock sliding through your soaked folds, spreading your wetness across your thighs. The slick heat between you only amplifying your physical need for each other.

“Baby, you’re so wet for me,” he groans, his voice thick with desire as he feels the slickness coating his length. He nudges his tip against your entrance, making you cry out, your hips lifting in response, seeking more of him.

His hands slide down from your breasts, gliding over your waist and settling firmly on your hips. His grip is possessive as he spreads your legs into the perfect position.

His cock is hard, throbbing with an almost painful need as the tip presses against your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with lust as he slowly pushes his hips forward.

His large cock eases into your slick tight walls sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body, your moans blending with his low, guttural groans as he pushes you to take it deeper.

He moves with deliberate slowness, savoring every inch as he fills you up. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pressure that has you arching into him, craving him as he continues to push. Benny groans, the sound deep and primal, as he buries himself into you completely his body trembling with the effort to hold back.

Your moans fill the room, mingling with his ragged breaths as he begins to move, each thrust measured, designed to push you closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tight, guiding you to meet each of his thrusts , the rhythm between you building, intensifying with each passing second.

“Baby.. you feel so good,” Benny pants, his voice rough with desire. His lips find yours again, capturing your moans as his pace quickens, the pleasure coursing through you both. You can feel the tension building, the sweet, unbearable pressure signaling your impending release. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as you surrender completely to the overwhelming sensation.

He breaks the kiss, his breath warm and uneven against your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up soon,” he whispers, his voice heavy with desire. “Gonna make you big and round, carrying our baby.” His hand slides possessively to rest on your stomach, his touch lingering and firm. “Everyone will know… how much I wanted this, how much I wanted you,” he breathes, his lips grazing your ear with each word

Benny’s other hand moves down, slipping between your legs his fingers brushing over your clit with deliberate, teasing strokes.

His fingers circle your clit, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through your body as his words sink in, heightening the intensity of the moment. “You want that, don’t you?” he breathes, his voice deepening with desire.

You moan in response, your breath hitching as you manage to say, “Y-yes!…Yes I want that Benny.”

“Good “ he says grinding his hips harder and pushing his cock deeper, as his hand continues its relentless assault on your clit. “I want you to come baby,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear, “come knowing what we’re going to make together… knowing how much I wanted to get you pregnant tonight.”

His words, his touch, and the deep, steady rhythm of his thrusts drives you to the edge. Your orgasm builds coiling the tension tighter and tighter until you can’t hold back any longer, it crashes through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you breathless, your body convulsing around him as you cry out his name.

“Take it deep for me” he groans with exertion feeling your walls tightening around his cock and a final, powerful thrust, Benny follows you into oblivion, his groans are guttural and raw, as he comes inside of you, his cock pulsing as his body trembles with the force of his release.

His breath comes in short, ragged pants as his hips gently grind against you, savoring every last moment of pleasure. Each spasm of his cock sending waves of warmth through your body.

He softly collapses against you, his breaths hot and ragged “The next one’s for keeps,” he says, his voice filled with exhaustion and excitement making a shared grin spread across both of your faces, knowing your mutual desire for the real thing.

He plants a tender kiss on your forehead, both of you spent but utterly satisfied, lost in the afterglow of a moment that feels like a new exciting path on your life adventure.

He’s Mine

After making sure Benny is settled in the morning, his breakfast finished and his medications taken, you sweetly kiss him on the forehead and tell him you’re going to make a quick dash to the grocery store.

As you get behind the wheel of your Mustang, you decisively head toward the Vandals’ club the grocery run was a rouse you had planned. The roar of the engine beneath you revs in the background of your focused thoughts. Your mind is set on a single goal: getting Benny out of the Vandals and claiming him all for yourself.

Once you arrive at the club you park the Mustang with precision, ensuring it’s securely locked before striding across the street. Dressed in a fitted crop top and high-waisted jeans, with a purse casually draped over your shoulder, you project confidence and determination. Each click of your heels against the pavement resonates with purpose as you approach the Vandal club.

With a deep breath, you push open the front door, your resolve unwavering.

The interior is dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of smoke and stale beer. Only a few members are scattered around, some lounging, others staggering with drunkenness. Their eyes follow you as you enter, faint whistles being heard some looking you over with curiosity and others something darker.

One of them, a long haired man with tattoos creeping up his neck, steps forward, his eyes narrowing as he gets a closer look. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawls, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “You lost, little lady? Or maybe you’re just looking for some company?” he adds with a sly grin.

You don’t hesitate, your voice cutting through his sleazy haze like a knife. “Where’s Johnny?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest, your stance firm and unyielding.

The man holds up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, a smirk playing on his lips. “Easy pretty lady. Johnny’s in the back. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Within minutes, you find yourself sitting face-to-face with Johnny in his office. The tension in the room is thick. You are leaned back in your chair, arms and legs crossed, barely concealing your irritation. Johnny, with his elbows resting on the table and fingers interlaced, has a look of avoidance on his face as he tries to gauge your mood.

You lock eyes with Johnny, your gaze unwavering as his eyes dart around, deliberately avoiding yours.

Beneath the surface, your anger simmers, but you keep it in check, your voice firm and resolute.

“You can’t have him, the club can’t have him,” you state, each word carrying the weight of your decision, leaving no room for argument.

Johnny raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “Who?”

Your voice sharpens, cutting through the tense air. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Benny!” you snap, sitting up straighter as your arms cross tighter against your chest.

Johnny’s smirk fades, replaced by a cold, calculating look as he finally grasps your intent. Before he can respond, you press on, your voice steady but charged with emotion.

“He’s mine,” you declare with a possessive edge staking your claim on Benny with every ounce of determination you have.

Johnny’s eyes lock onto yours, recognition dawning that you’re not to be taken lightly. Benny was right you are tougher than you look.

Johnny remains silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of your words. A flicker of respect crosses his face as he realizes you’re not backing down.

You lean in further, frustration and fear making your voice rise.

“If he keeps riding his motorcycle for the club, he’s going to die one way or another. It’ll kill him, and you know it!”

Johnny meets your eyes with mock concern, his voice dismissive. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

You don’t back down, your eyes brimming with the intensity of your emotions.

Johnny looks away from you, thinking it over, trying to convey the nature of Benny’s independence.

“I don’t own Benny, just like you don’t own Benny,” Johnny says, his tone hardening to emphasize the point.

“Ain’t nobody can tell that kid nothin’,” he continues, as if the matter is settled but your eyes still lock onto his undeterred.

“He’s grown,” Johnny adds, his tone firm as if that finalizes everything.

As you continue to stare him down Johnny makes Bennys independence clear.

“If he wants to ride a bike, he’s gonna ride a bike,” Johnny says with a shrug, the finality in his voice knowing Benny’s choices have always been for himself.

You lean forward, your voice firm and pleading. “Not if you tell him not to. Not if you tell him he’s out of the club.”

Johnny scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “C’mon,” he mutters.

Your anger flares, your eyes locking onto his.

“I’m his wife, NOT you,” you snap, each word sharp and pointed.

Johnny’s eyes narrow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” he quips

You meet his gaze, unwavering and full of raw emotion. “Oh, I know you love him, I love him too,” you confess, your words hanging in the air. “That’s why you’ve got to help me.”

For a brief moment, something flickers in Johnny’s eyes, something like hesitation or guilt, but it’s quickly replaced by his hardened expression. “Are you done?” he asks, his voice cold, his brows easing as if trying to brush off the weight of your words.

You shake your head, the tension still thick between you. “I don’t know, am I?” you retort, challenging him with your defiance.

Johnny leans back in his chair, his patience wearing thin, his eyes filled with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something he won’t name. “You got anything more to say?” he asks, his voice tight with barely contained annoyance.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you. “No. I said it,” you confirm, your voice final.

The silence that follows is heavy, an unspoken showdown as you both stare at each other. Finally, Johnny looks away, his expression twisted with annoyance . You stand abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor as you push it back, your heels echoing in the small office as you head for the door.

Before you leave, you turn back one last time, your voice sharp and definitive. “You can’t have him. The club can’t have him. he’s mine”

The door slams shut behind you, leaving Johnny alone with the truth he doesn’t want to face: you’re determined to separate Benny from his life, as a Vandal and he can’t allow that to happen.

🏍️ To be continued 🏍️

Part 5: For Keeps

With every thing stripped from Benny he begins to understand what he really wants out of life, and after a fateful turn of events putting your life at risk, his decision is finalized changing both of your lives forever.

🔗 Master List

🏍️ Benny Cross Tag List 🏍️

@finley-08 @ashleybutler-26 @ifuckindontknow @landlockedmermaid77 @jvanilly @oceanablue @12joeywheelerfangirl @autumnleaves1991-blog @presley1992 @rose-deathman @sillylittlethrowaway @lillypink @faephoria @butdaddyilovehim99 @nostalgichoya @ausssbutlershortstories @fallout-girl219

🏷️Always Tags Me List 💌

@lindszeppelin @abswifey @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @jessica987 @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @unicoreads @lovereadingfanfic @elvismylove04 @denised916 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @jkdaddy01 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @majestyjade

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love-byers · 5 months ago

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max's memories v.s. el's memories

here is every memory that comes to max in 4x04 when she's being vecna'd

that's 15 different memories that come to her UNPROMPTED

here is every memory that comes to el while she's being choked by vecna, and as her boyfriend is confessing his supposed love to her

one. singular. memory.

all of those memories with mike and she only thinks of one, and it's the one specific thing mike mentioned in his whole 2 minute long monologue

if there were no memories shown in that scene at all i would be a little more reluctant to compare these, but that fact that they show ONE confirms it for me.

because as mike is saying these things she has no memories that match what he is saying. "i love you on your good days and bad days, with your powers without your powers" nothing comes to her. because he's never acted that way to her.

i'm pretty sure that every single person finished season 4 believing that lucas and max are in love. and they never had to say it once. max didn't need lucas to go on a rant about how much he loves her even though they were distant and had issues. all he had to say was "i'm right here" and the happy memories came flooding to her.

and to make it EVEN WORSE.

not even 5 minutes after she hears mike's monologue, this happens:

here is all the memories that come to el when she saves max. and there are also multiple audio clips that play, including "Not Hopper, not Mike, you."

10 different memories.

unprompted.

milkvan is BONES.

someone made an amazing post about this based on a twitter thread i made that goes into this but WAYYYY deeper and way more organized than this, PLEASE go read it here

#stranger things #will byers #byler #mike wheeler #byler endgame #byler analysis #stranger things 4 #mike wheeler i know what you are #milkvan is bones #milkvan bones #elmax #el hopper #eleven hopper #max mayfield #lumax #lucas sinclair #lumax endgame or ill kms

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quackstr · 4 months ago

Text

late night hours

summary: boss!walter takes you in his office

tags: porn what plot, workplace sex, riding, blowjob/oral sex (m receiving), female reader, use of “slut”

word count: 2.2k

inspiration: rework of a fic of reader x karl mayer, which was inspired by his relationshop with bree.

it all started with a little of wine in his dimly lit office.

just hours later, you ended up laid on top his desk, your legs spread with him between. there was no time for careful undressing, the detective was simply too impatient for that: there were more buttons ripped apart and zips undone with teeth than clothes being handled appropriately and slowly.

and when he FINALLY pulls that tight little dress off of you, he relishes in the sight of your matching black lingerie, which tells one simple truth: you'd been planning this way before you even walked in.

walter was the type to be absolutely clueless to the effect he had on the ladies: what with his tall, muscular frame that had him towering over anyone. so perfect, yet so humble. which somehow made it worse…

you let him whisper sweet nothings with that deep, smooth voice as he sucks at your exposed neck before pushing him down to his chair with your stiletto. walter gives a low whistle as your heel slowly traces his chest, downwards towards his crotch. the shoe playfully rubs and teases him, repeating this taunting motion until walter is groaning.

"fuck-- baby- you're killing me over here--" he moans out, a smirk growing across his lips.

"am i?" you tease.

once you were satisfied with his begs, you jump off the desk and immediately fall to your knees. walter watches excitedly as you take your place between his thighs, removing his sweater and tossing it to the floor like every article of clothing before it.

you unfasten his belt, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time. eventually, after releasing himself from the prison of his pants, walter blows a deep sigh of relief.

you undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt and leave soft, sloppy kisses down his chest, producing a trail of red lipstick stamps.

then, you lick at his muscular abdomen and lower your point of worship at a leisurely pace, until you reach his cock, aching and throbbing as if it were about to jump out of his boxers at any moment. drooling, you mouth at it through the fabric, walter’s low growls filling the air.

it is a pathetic, yet hauntingly beautiful sight: your panting around the imprint of his dick and sniffing at his intoxicating scent.

"oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." he teased.

you scowl at him.

biting down on his boxers, you gradually manage to pull it down with just your teeth - walter watches with a smug look on his face, sinking back into his seat.

a groan spills from his lips as you pull down his boxers, unleashing his dick… all 7 inches..

you gulp - his cock is monstrous in length and girth.

veins trace the length and it seems to throb with your teasing touches, begging for more. as if your body moved by itself, his tip slips between your lips.

it feels hot. warmth fills your mouth as his dick sinks down your throat.

"good girl." a low grumble leaves his lips.

his words tremble as his cock disappears between your lips, and for the 3 inches which still evade your lips by the time you start to gag, you wrap your hand around and began to massage.

his girth is so impressive so even your hand struggles to handle him. for the length lodged inside your mouth, you give a gentle sunction.

"do you know how sexy you look with my cock down your throat?"

his hand moves to the back of your head, giving light guidance to your movement. the room fills with your lewd sucking noises. walter’s hand urges you to take more and more.

you allow him to push you down until your lips reach the base. mere seconds pass before you begin to struggle and gag uncontrollably, and a few more seconds pass before walter releases the back of your head.

"look at you, taking me so well--" he chuckles at your panting.

you take a second to catch your breath before you return to working. you can hear him suck in air sharply as you envelope one of his balls. walter groans as he leans back further in his chair.

"if i'd known what a good little cocksucker you were, I would've had you down here ages ago." he laughs.

"shut up." you spit out between gentle sucks, glaring at him as you stroke the length of his cock.

"love it when you talk back." walter says, holding up your hair into a ponytail as you return to sucking his length. he was a secret control freak, and as much as he loved watching you take the lead, he thought you had been doing that for long enough now.

just as he gently pushed down on your head, walter slowly lifts his leg and gently presses his heel into the flesh of your ass, driving you closer to him and goading more of his cock deeper inside your throat.

tears welling in the corners of your eyes, you continue to take as much of walter as he needed. you study his reactions, taking note of what he likes. quite funnily, walter’s eyes always seem to roll back into his head whenever you tease the slit of his tip; equally, you could never swirl your tongue around his dick without hearing a series of praises and grunts.

"fuck, baby, i'm so close---!" he groans out.

with those words, you quicken your pace, your head bobbing up and down with an impressive velocity. his hips begin to roll uncontrollably, shoving more of himself in you. your tongue presses against the underside of his cock, twisting and working with great drive.

walter drinks up the delicious sight, only made hotter by your submission to his hand. if only he could have you here, underneath his desk and working at his cock, during the day.

walter grunts loudly again and you feel his cock twitch violently inside your mouth.

"yea- here it comes, baby." you stifle your gag reflex and sheathe the entirety of his dick down your throat, choking as your feel the warm release pour down your throat.

for a few moments too long, walter holds your head down, rutting into you and releasing the final pieces of himself deep inside.

your head shoots up, having swallowed all his cum, albeit not without any struggle. still, walter continues to pump at his cock and hold your head at the crown of his cock. pushing your tongue out and awaiting the last of his load, the final ropes of cum spurt out.

however, you severely underestimate the power at which his cum shoots out, because whilst some of his load lands on your tongue as planned, it shoots across your whole face, including your lips, nose and eyelids.

with his index and middle fingers, walter wiped his semen off your face, scooping up the entirety and holding it to your lips.

"suck it."

your lips part to his demand and swallow his fingers. he urges his thick fingers inside until the knuckles were at your lips. walter presses his fingers onto your tongue, forcing his flavours around the inside of your mouth. your eyes showed hunger and he was feeding you.

walter taps his thigh, and you straddle his lap, his fingers still entrapped by your lips. then, incredibly slowly, he releases his fingers with a POP.

he draws you in for a kiss, a deep and passionate kiss. walter tastes himself on your tongue, and he loves how fucking filthy it is. your roll your hips into his dick, already growing hard again, and your ass is met by a firm smack on your ass and a loud yelp falling from your lips.

walter’s fingers tease at your pussy through the fabric whilst he laughes at your soft moans and whimpers. unable to support yourself, your arms wrap around his neck, with your head falling into his neck and inhaling his aftershave.

"you're soaked for me, baby," he teases as he continues to play with you like a toy. "been deprived of a good time for a while, haven't you?"

his hand slips inside your panties and presses himself between your lips. you hover over the man's cock, somehow already fully erect again, as you rock your hips into his fingers.

your moans are really loud. fortunately for the two of you, everyone else had already gone home: the two of you could be as noisy as you wanted, which walter almost definitely plans for you to. he mercilessly plays with your pussy, stunned at how your body reacts so beautifully to his touch.

you are too overcome with rapture to notice a strong arm wrap around and undo your bra in one swift movement. he grabs your tit, squeezing it tight.

in the same breath, you slip out of your panties, your entrance pressing against his aching cock. walter hugs you close, squeezing you against his well-built hairy chest. as he leans over to grab a condom, walter accidentally causes you to grind against his cock - the two of you moan out in unison.

walter rolls the condom on and feeds a generous glob of spit to his cock, rubbing it around. you place your hands on his shoulder before you lower yourself, allowing his dick to sink up slowly into your pussy.

whimpers escape your mouth. walter was just so fucking big.

"good girl--" he sigs, his nostrils flaring. "you're taking my cock so well."

you exhale in pleasure as you began to take in more and more of him. struggling to take in his beastly size, you hug him tight, though it results in his face buried in your tits. walter laps up a nipple and gives gentle suctions to your breast.

eventually, walter bottoms out with a deep groan erupting from his lips. his dick seems to press against your deepest insides. the two of you simply keep still for a few seconds, though it feels more like minutes. then, you begin to move again.

at first, it is slow and sensual, with the two of you falling into a passionate kiss, which seems to last forever and taste like paradise. his lips are soft yet hungry. his tongue is rough yet loving. his hands are gentle yet greedy. hips roll against eachother and you allow yours to rock deliciously into his body.

still with slow movements, walter grabs your hips and start to fuck upwards into your pussy. you match his pace and meet his tender thrusts. however, the absolute avarice in his eyes tells you that this gentleness and patience won’t last for too long.

and almost as if you had jinxed it, walter’s expression transitions to a smirk. the second warning is his tightening grasp on your hips, before his pace quickens suddenly.

as his rhythm evolves from leisurely to merciless, your moans fill the room, "oh- my- god-!"

"fuck- baby, you're fucking squeezing me." he almost reprimands, though the smile on his face suggests only bliss.

a harsh slap meets your ass.

fucking up into you at an ungodly speed, walter hugs you close by the hips. with no other choice, you collapse onto him, clutching him by his black curls.

“some good dick can turn any good girl into a naughty girl.” he teases.

“ngh-“ you’re too crazed to make any intelligible response. and walter smiles with self-satisfaction from watching you break yourself on his cock.

you pant out with each deep thrust.

“yes- yes- yes-“

suddenly, he slows and lets you go, leaning back into a relaxed position. a firm smack to your ass prompts you into moving again.

with your hands places on his chest for support, you throw your ass onto his dick. not quite meeting walter’s speed nor his ruthlessness, but it’s close.

walter leans back on his arms behind his head, amused from watching your feeble attempts to take his cock.

you regain your composure as your swirl your hips faster and ground into walter more and more. even for just a split second, you see his smug disguise slip, revealing an expression of pure lust.

you throw your head back as you feel your climax approach.

"what a good fucking slut." walter praises as his hands return to your ass and hips.

"yes-! yes--!" you exclaim through an exceptionally deep thrust. “hnghh!!"

his rhythm returns to his previous velocity - except that it is way sloppier.

"say it." walter says between grunts. "say that- you're just a dirty- little- slut— for me to fuck."

"i'm just dirty little slut!" you reply.

another smack.

"a dirty little slut for who?" walter chuckles darkly.

"just for you to fuck and nothing else!”

"good girl." he whispers as he holds you close.

he’s close too, you feel it. his noises are louder. his thrusts are reckless and his speed is slowing. and when you push down hard on his cock, walter just has to still.

"i'm close." he mutters weakly.

"already?"

fucker. you KNEW what you had done to him. your work to tease his cock so expertly was to be at blame.

“walter—“

“come for me.”

his sloppy thrusts grow faster as the two of you cry out in desperation and hunger. you embrace each other tightly as you finally let go of yourselves

the pleasure overwhelms you as you succumb to your orgasm. you slump over walter, who, too, chases his own high, eventually riding it out by swirling your hips around his cock, almost as if to tease out the last of his seed.

although breathless, your lips meet for a tired, messy kiss. walter’s tongue delves into your mouth and presses against your own as if it’s the last droplet of water in a desert.

#henry cavill #smut #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill smut #female reader #walter marshall #drabble #shortquack #night hunter

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thexsilentxwordsmith · 1 year ago

Text

Pussydrunk!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Cockdrunk!Fem!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: Simon comes home from deployment, hungry to have his pretty girl all to himself. Things get heated quick and before long you are both drunk off the feeling of the other. From this ask here.

Word Count: 5.4 k

Warnings:

The moment those heavy boots hit the threshold of the apartment, brown eyes are searching for you as Simon’s heart pounds in his ears the same as it had the entire drive over. He’s been gnawing at the bit since even before he returned to base a day ago, aching to get back to the gorgeous being living in his flat. The last month of his deployment he’s been on edge, counting down the days in agonizing fashion as the craving growing in the pit of his stomach gets worse and worse. Fuck, he’s missing you - all of you - something fierce.

Simon has missed those sweet moans of yours, the way you make his name sound so perfect through the stuttered gasps as you reach that level of incoherence that renders you completely useless; he has missed all the ways your body moves against and underneath him, writhing and back arching as his larger form overwhelms you; he has missed the way you fuck him, body begging for more even as you struggle to fit him all in and how beautiful it is to be inside you.

It is enough to drive the man insane.

From the bedroom you can hear the door opening and closing and rush to the living room as quick as your legs can move, carried by giddy nerves to see your lover again after so long. You knew he was meant to be in today, but not the time and so you’ve been on edge waiting and listening; as soon as you see him a deepening ache situates itself in your chest.

Simon clocks you as you come into the living room and he can’t find enough air to fill his lungs; by the way your cheeks instantly glow with warmth and your eyes sparkle he’s sure you are feeling the same tension fill the air around you the moment you two are in sight of one another. You are the one to close the distance as Simon’s limbs feel too heavy to move at first, blood being drawn to other places along his body that need it more now that he is near to the object of his desire.

“Hey there stranger,” you smile up into those familiar balaclava- clad features as your heartbeat steadily becomes more erratic from your body flooding with that desperate longing to be against him once again. It is always the same: when you two are apart for long periods when he has to be away the moment you are in front of one another again it is like striking a match in a room filled with gasoline. “Long time no see.”

He stares back down at you, light chocolate eyes taking in the face he hasn’t seen properly in too damn long. “Well ‘ello there yerself, pretty girl,” he returns, gravely tone sending chills down your spine as he drops the gear on his shoulder to the floor so that he has free range of motion to cup his calloused hand along your soft, delicate cheek. “It’s been a hot fuckin’ minute. Did ya miss me, luv?”

Before his brain can register what’s happening he senses something brush up against him in the small space still between your bodies and as his eyes travel down he sees that your hand is grabbing at his belt buckle, silky digits lacing themselves around the metal clasp. His eyes jump back up to yours instantly.

You aren’t wasting any time, are you? Fucking hell.

“Missed you a whole fucking lot, Simon,” you say under your breath as you give his belt a firm tug forward so that he has to take a step into you. Your thighs are already being rubbed together where you stand; it’s instant the way he can turn you on just by his presence alone. “Didn’t know when you’d be in; been waiting as patiently as I could, but I gotta say it hasn’t been easy. Got my nerves all flustered. How about you? Are you flustered, baby?”

You just have to do it, don’t you? That one damned gesture that always sends him reeling.

It isn’t a secret how the time apart makes him pine for you as if he is a man dying of thirst: for those hot, breathless moments spent between your thighs, for the way your bodies seem created only for the other, for the intense sensations of euphoria that only you can give him. So when your fingers hook into his belt to pull him in closer, you know what effect it will have on making him crumble, don’t you?

Eight months is far too fucking long not to have any piece of you and any little touch would have done the trick to do him in, but you know the exact combination that will have him throwing you on your back in a heartbeat. He is a man starved of his addiction and it’s about goddamn time he had another hit. As you tug at the leather with a smirk across your lips, doe-eyed stare not so innocent anymore, all that yearning that had been bubbling right under the calm surface of those autumn-colored eyes for eight long, agonizing months explodes with force.

No words, not a goddamn sound as that skull mask is ripped up off of Simon’s face in a flash quicker than your eyes can catch. Your body is moved by two strong arms more than capable of manhandling those curves with ease and find yourself slammed into the wall while he clasps your chin securely in his grip so that hungry lips can scramble to aggressively capture your own. While your lips dance, his free hand roams up under your clothes to grab ahold of any piece of available flesh as all that pent up desire surges through his veins like liquid fire. His fingertips tremble as they brush across all that soft, balmy skin along your abdomen and around your hips, making him produce a guttural moan into your open mouth that you are forced to swallow down.

That huge, hulking body of his with its prominent muscles bulging everywhere even through his clothing overwhelms your own as he pins you harder against the wall while his grip descends to around your ass so that he can bring your hips forward, clothed pelvis rutting into you to catch any extra bit of friction he can as that tenting at the crotch of his pants swells the longer he grinds against you. His mouth is insatiable, stealing sloppy, frantic kisses one after another until your lips burn from the abrasion… and yet you still aren’t satisfied.

Simon feels your nipples through your t-shirt stiffening as his chest rubs against them, a reminder to his numbing brain that there is even more of a feast for him waiting just beneath your clothes if he can just get them off you; the couple of nudes he keeps in his phone that you send him while he’s away are only a pale comparison to the real fucking thing and he’s been dying see it in person.

You’re close to one another, but not fucking close enough.

He needs skin on skin, curves molded into curves, cock buried in you deep. That’s the crux of it all - he needs to be reminded of what you feel like wrapped around him, lose his mind as your cunt gives him the sensation he can get nowhere else from no one else. It consumes him in that moment until his thoughts are filled with nothing but the oncoming ecstasy that will soon be his.

Feverish fingers slip themselves into the waistband at the back of your pants as he continues to rut against you, the few layers of fabric between you about to be reduced as he shoves down taking your pants over the arch of your ass until they fall around your ankles and you can step out of them. Your own fingers are already undoing the buckle of his belt before your clothes can hit the floor; thank fuck that Simon likes to keep his wardrobe uncomplicated when on leave.

“Christ, I’m so fuckin’ hard for ya, sweetheart,” he breathes the heated, desperate words against your raw lips as hips continue to grind on you and make your work that much more difficult, “it’s been hell being away for so long. I’ve been fuckin’ starved, baby. That sweet little pussy of yours is callin’ my fuckin’ name. I need it, I need ya…fuckin’ can’t wait another goddamn second.”

The muscles along his abdomen tense through his shirt as you brush against them until finally his belt comes loose and you can move onto the button securing his pants. You finish undoing everything just in time for him to tear that fucking shirt clean off your top half before doing exactly the same to his own.

The middle of his chest is flushed pink and hastily you lean in to press your lips to it, through the tingle against your mouth from tiny hairs brushing over the delicate skin you can feel he is so warm it’s like he’s heated from the inside out. That broad chest heaves up and down heavily with the weight of his lust-filled breaths as you dot tender pecks along the center before he can’t take anymore and picks you up, throws you over his shoulder, and hurriedly drags you off to the bedroom hungry and ready to indulge.

“That’s it,” Simon says in that brash tone that lets you know he’s reached his limit. “Can’t take this ache ‘nother goddamn second. You and that sweet thing between your legs are mine now.”

He’s able to make it across the apartment in no time and throws open the bedroom door so that it hits the wall behind it with a booming thud as he stalks to the bed and sets you down on the surface, making sure to remove the pants hanging loosely around his hips as quick as he can along with his boxers. The moment he’s free of the clothing binding him that thick, meaty appendage springs to life, bobbing at attention as the vein along it pulses, and your breath hitches as your eyes are drawn to it; he’s not the only one who’s hungry and its been a hot fucking minute since you’ve laid eyes on all he has to offer.

You barely have time to scramble up towards the pillows at the head of the bed before he is crawling up towards you, a predator’s gaze making his iris’ flash and sparkle with an internal fire in the scant bit of light from the bedside lamp that illuminates the room.

Simon’s shoulder muscles tense as he moves on all fours until he’s over you, his cock dangling down as he gets between your legs so that it drags over the petals of your pussy. You can feel it throb as it becomes even more engorged with blood at the stimulation and it makes your mouth salivate. A strained grunt echoes through his closed lips as the tip grazes over that silky, heated skin between your thighs; he’s already vibrating with pleasure… what the fuck is gonna happen when he gets inside?

Only one way to find out…

Simon pulls your legs up high around his waist, wide torso keeping you nice and spread for him. You claw at his shoulder blades with your nails as you shove your hips into him, body practically begging for him to get inside already. Screw any foreplay, you can’t afford to wait and let this frantic moment slip by. There is only one thing you want in you and it is already throbbing at its destination.

“Fuck, please Simon, just get inside me,” your plea sends a shiver down his spine. “I don’t want to fucking wait…waited long enough.”

Spitting into his hand he applies the moisture to your entrance, lubricating the opening with hard presses of his fingertips along your cunt to help get things moving in the right direction. “Been a while, baby,” he returns as he aligns the tip and presses it against you while trying not to fall apart at the seams, “ya sure ya can still fuckin’ take it all?”

You nod aggressively, the need to be filled out by him overwhelming your every sense. You’ve waited patiently all this time, chomping at the bit for him to get back to you and now that he is here between your legs it’s all you can think about. “Give it to me,” you demand. “I need it baby, please, I’m aching something terrible. I need to feel you inside me again.”

How could he ever deny a request like that from you?

The world falls away as the tip slips through the threshold of your body and inside and he has to stop as just the head alone stretching you wide sends him spiraling. Your back arches off of the bed as you squirm under him, mouth falling open with half-formed moans that get caught in the back of your throat as the tight space is beginning to fill. Simon shudders with ecstasy, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth to bite down in hopes that the sharp pain will force him to stay sane.

Another thrust shoves him in a bit more so that now he’s more than halfway there, but still has just a bit to go. Your body doesn’t stand a chance as you lay under him at his mercy. His fingernails graze your waist as his hands hold on tight; he has to fit it in, get to the base, completely surround himself within you. Taking a deep breath he gathers another burst of energy to thrust all the way until he bottoms out and you release a cry into the silence of the room.

“Goddamn ya feel so fuckin’ good princess, like a goddamn dream,” he gasps out as his head snaps down against your chest. “Pretty girl, my pretty fuckin’ girl, wanna keep ya fuckin’ full ‘a me all the time.”

Simon’s brain is quickly becoming mush as the warmness and growing wetness of your pussy makes his large form quiver at the bliss. You are no better, sanity slipping away as his hefty cock practically molds your walls to his specific shape as it rests inside. Hips begin to rock and are immediately punctuated by a deep-throated groan with each snap as he settles into a steady rhythm.

Thrust after thrust each one harder than the last pushes your body until it is shoved up and your head hits the wall behind the bed. Simon’s nose nuzzles into your neck as feeble whimpers leave the confines of your mouth and pack his head full. “Missed your sounds too,” he says, amidst another thrust. “Keep this up and it’s gonna be my fuckin’ end, sweetheart.” Another strong thrust follows and then another.

A yearning need to see himself fuck your gorgeous body suddenly engulfs his mind and so he slow sits himself up on his knees, making sure to keep himself inside you, so that he can get the perfect birdseye view of the beautiful way your body takes him in. It’s perfection and he cannot help but become absorbed in watching as each thrust in and out makes his cock disappear inside that narrow passage only to slip back out covered in more of your juices with each pass.

Over and over his hips rock into you, the muscles along his abdomen clenching, fingertips digging into your sides to hold you still as his speed steadily increases the longer he goes. Your music fills his head, whimpers of pleasure as he strikes against your g-spot from the angle he’s positioned in, and that is the only thing that is floating in there now as everything else becomes a blur.

The stoic and collected military officer is reduced to a glorious mess the longer he thrusts, drooling over you, going blind and delirious at the feeling of those tight, silky walls sucking him all in as they flutter around his cock. It’s been too long, too many nights spent alone without your company stuck half-way across the world with only his hand to keep him occupied when he can get a free moment, which those were few and far between. But nothing, nothing ever could compare to the feeling of you.

“Can’t get enough,” he stammers with a groan, so wrapped up in the moment that speech is near impossible to produce. “Fuckin’ desperate for ya, need more…need fuckin’ more…”

Simon is deep inside you and yet that ache is still monstrous, eating him alive so that anything outside of the ecstasy of your flesh is just fucking gone. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, he’s obsessed with your body. It isn’t enough though, never enough. You have completely consumed him; he is under your spell and nothing can break the charm.

His head is spinning, thoughts vacant like he is wasted; fuck, he’s high off the sensation of your pussy clenching around him. Now that he is inside you, there is no way he can leave anytime soon. There’s no goddamn way he’s going to let either of you come yet, not after how long you two have gone without each other.

That hot coil tensing in the pit of his stomach pulls tighter and tighter, but he will not let it snap… not yet. No, he needs this to last as long as he physically can keep it up and so he knows what he has to do and with all his strength he does it; that once intense pounding slows down until he stops amongst your whimpered mewling.

“What’re you doing?” you stutter, hips desperately trying to buck against him, but he pins them down for a bit.

“Uh, uh,” he shakes his head, “don’t ya fuckin’ dare think you’re gonna come yet. Ya feel too fuckin’ good to let go of.”

Oh shit… You were in for it now, but just how much you could have never guessed.

“No…no, please… I need you to keep going,” you plead as your throat strains to release the words, water rimming the whites of your eyes. That consuming ache is so deep in your bones it threatens to devour you whole, causing you to rip at the very seams as it permeates every fiber of your being until your entire form is primed like an explosive ready to combust. You can’t breathe, you can’t fucking think; everything is focused on how much the feeling of him is consuming all of you like a fire burning through dry tinder.

A shuddering breath escapes his lips; even stopping doesn’t help much, your body just feels too good and so he has to at least rut carefully against it. “I know, baby, I know,” he groans as his fingers dig into your hip to now force you to grind your clit into the base of his shaft. “But ya want this to fuckin’ last, yeah? Ya don’t wanna be done with me just yet, do ya?”

That thick, veiny appendage lay inside you, its girth stretching out the walls of your cunt to capacity as it simply rests there throbbing with the beat of his rapid heart rate, stewing in the filthy mess of juices he’s already made between your legs. You choke on a whimper as the stimulation to your clit sends a shockwave through to your toes and you clench them together, gathering some of the sheets into their grip.

“No,” you shake your head wildly. “You just feel so fucking good, I can’t help it… feels so good… I just wanna keep feeling good with you, Simon.”

“I know, sweet girl,” he praises as he leans forward and presses his burning lips to the skin on your stomach, knowing that no matter what you would have said he wasn’t going to let you tap out yet; he needs your pussy like he needs air to survive. “It’s been too fuckin’ long since we’ve been able ta do this…need ta make up for all the lost time.”

Simon’s dreamt about this the entire time you’ve been apart; insatiable, desperate, carnal fantasies about fucking your tight hole to within an inch of your sanity, making you come so hard that you can’t move for hours after. His cock has been throbbing for months with nothing but his fucking hand to take the edge off as he pictures filling out every inch of your hole until there is nowhere left for his cock to go.

Another couple of minutes of simply breathing, grinding, and focusing on the way the skin of your torso is so soft against his lips and he’s far enough from that ledge that he wants to start thrusting full force again. He leans down and wraps his arms around your body and you take it as a sign that he’s going to start up again, only for him to roll you both until you are the one on top now. The movement is unexpected, but you are more than willing to go along with it if it means you can take control of your own pleasure.

As he situates himself under you, his hands roam up and down your sides while he takes a second to enjoy how you look perched over him: full tits directly in his face, hair cascading around your cheeks as you peer down into his face, eyes rolling back in your head every time a sensitive point gets stimulated. You are his fucking fantasy when you get on top.

“I wanna have ya ride me for a bit,” he breathes. “Show me how good ya ride it, pretty girl. Make my cock your toy.”

As long as he stays inside you, you’ll do whatever the hell he wants.

Placing your hands on his hard chest for support while his hand moves back to your hips, Simon guides you up and down until you are bouncing in rhythm to match his racing heartbeat. Harder and harder he shoves you forcefully down to get as deep into you as possible until you can feel bruises rising where his hands have a hold of you, yet that doesn’t matter at all as you can only comprehend the way his cock is rendering you too fucking dumb to think of anything else.

Pushing down against his chest you bob up and down on your knees as best as you can, trying to keep up with his relentless pace. He told you to use him, but all you want is for him to make you his living fleshlight as you are forced to take it all. Your movements start to get sloppy after a time as you can hardly keep yourself focused anymore with how good it feels and Simon takes notice, though he is ready with the solution.

His hips start to strike up into your pussy as even though he is beneath you he is more than capable of taking control, not wanting to move into a new position just yet. You whimper and whine with your mouth hung open as each percussive hit sends shockwaves of euphoria ripping through you just like you want. This is too much for anyone to handle: you being entirely ravaged by him until you are so desperately lost in the pleasure of it all that you are in a complete state of full body bliss.

You can only sit and take every last delectable inch that he gives you as his massive girth stretches your walls with every thrust of his pelvis upward. The room fills with the wet, sticky music of your bodies slapping against each other as he works your hole as if this is the last chance he will ever get to fuck you and he needs to make it count.

Minute after minute, his full attention being focused solely on you, each stroke along that incredibly sensitive bundle of nerves inside your core drives you increasingly closer to that razor’s edge and threatens to violently throw you off at any point without notice. He must be feeling it too, for again his thrusting slows until he is simply grinding against you once again and that building pressure falls away.

Over and over again this happens, Simon edging you both closer and closer before struggling to back off and changing positions in a constant rotation, each position just as mind-numbing as the last now that you are cockdrunk. You find yourself on your knees with your head shoved into the mattress and then on your side with him pressed up against your back, bouncing on top with his hand desperately cupping at your tits and then returning to where it all started on your back, all the while the constant humping during the calmer moments keeps you primed and yet just far enough off the edge that each new round keeps building towards that desperate end.

Goddamn his stamina is something of legend, but when he wants something bad enough he will make it work no matter how hard he must push himself. And right now he cannot get enough of you no matter how he tries.

Fuck, your clit is throbbing so hard you think you might pass out, the room so warm your hair sticks to the sides of your face, the scent of sex pungent with each ragged breath shared between your close mouths; every single sense overstimulated to the point of barely being able to process it all. You are perched on his lap with your arms wrapped around his neck, foreheads pressed together tight with eyes shut.

Simon leans in to kiss your raw mouth, but even the contact from your lips makes him gasp from the sensitivity. Your legs are shaking violently now as he’s slowed once more, every muscle pushed to its limit as he rocks his hips into you just because it feels too good to ever stop completely. Both of you are sparkling from head to toe, coated with the speckled dew of perspiration to match the absolute mess Simon has made between your legs.

Smooth thighs glisten with that warm, moist, natural lubrication of your cunt as it dribbles out of you and onto the sheets beneath to leave a noticeable dark spot on the bed that’s still warm to the touch. Simon’s mouth waters as the taste buds along his tongue prick to life at the sight, begging to savor all your sweet nectar, but he tells himself to not get ahead of things.

The rest of the night you are going to be his and he will get everything he wants of it all before the end.

Just like you, Simon is out of his goddamn mind with pleasure. The sensation consumes everything inside him until there is nothing left; the only way he can communicate is through breathy groans and staggered grunts as if he is only an animal now. He craves to be the blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the only goddamn thing you need. And that is when he knows that he cannot hold off another second.

Without warning he pulls out of you only briefly so that he can aggressively flip you over onto your back, getting into position by kneeling in front of you as he throws your legs onto his broad, sculpted shoulders before he grips your hips and instantly re-enters you. This is it, though he can’t barely speak, it’s gonna happen whether he is ready or not so he is going to be damned sure to make it go off with a fucking bang.

Again Simon picks up his desperate pace, his abs dripping with sweat as they contract and release after each desperate thrust. Those brown eyes close off to the rest of the world, just absorbing every last second of that mind-numbing goodness that he can before he blows.

“F-fuck, Simon...mmmm…” you whine your plea as you can feel that warmth rising harshly in the pit of your stomach, “p-please… d-d-don’t stop.”

Your mind is all static, so lost on Simon’s cock that you cannot stand it; it’s overwhelming in its intensity that you actually aren’t entirely sure you want to come yet. If you could just stay suspended in this moment forever, you’d die happy. All that edging has done its job just as intended though and with a few more strong thrusts of him deep in your core, that is it: like a hot flash of white light you squeal out in unsteady whimpers as your orgasm rips through you with such force you nearly bolt off the bed as your back arches and your hips buck harshly against him.

A roar is released from within his chest, his body writhing as he holds on to your waist for dear life while he milks his cock inside you, coating your walls in his cum until he has no more left in him to give. He sounds like a wild animal and it makes your body vibrate with exhilaration; you are the one to make him come with such force he is reduced to more basic instincts.

You fall back against the bed as your body shakes violently with the force of your orgasm. Never has such intense pleasure overwhelmed you so thoroughly that your limbs tremble uncontrollably before and though the exhaustion overtakes you, it is euphoric. Simon slowly slips himself out of your pussy as he sits back, his overstimulated cock twitching with sensitivity as he removes it from your tightness.

You whimper a little, instantly missing the feeling of him stretching you out and honestly wishing he would have just stayed inside even longer, but you know if you don’t have even a small break that you are not going to survive.

His strong hands hold your vibrating legs apart as he sits back on the mattress exhausted and a million miles away as he watches as his cum dribbles out of your pussy like honey; goddamn did he stuff you to the brim. All you can do is lay there with your eyes shut tight, heart thudding against your ribs as you focus all your remaining brain power on breathing. From your head to the tips of your toes you sparkle with perspiration as if you are decked out in diamonds that shimmer in the low light of the room.

“Christ Simon…gonna kill me,” you chuckle lightly as your mouth finally is able to do something other than hang open.

Eyes still closed, the sensation of his lips brushing against your inner thigh catches your attention. “Not…yet,” his low, gruff voice hits your ears from between your legs, accent heavy with his fatigue. Why did that sound like a promise?

Your mouth is already forming the question when it instantly dies on your tongue as you become aware of a firm grip from those strong hands spreading your legs open even further as his body slides off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor to sit on his knees with his face at optimal level with your pussy.

“Simon?” you ask hastily as you struggle up to your elbow to see those dark eyes peer up at you just over the mound of your sex.

The corner of his mouth is barely visible, but you can see it upturn. He may have come, but he is nowhere near finished yet. “Still fuckin’ hungry for ya,” he growls before descending down into the ecstasy of the space in between your thighs.

Simon just needs to buy time until he can get it up again…good thing his tongue is always ready to go. Sharp features are instantly soaked as he dives in without hesitation, the scent of your arousal instantly clinging to his cheeks and making his cock begin to twitch. His mouth is filled with a combination of both of your flavors as his tongue does what it does best: find your clit like a pleasure-seeking missile. He is ready to get completely lost in you all over again, this time with his first favorite activity and all you can do is hold on as he straps you to his face.

Let the feast on your pussy continue…it’s gonna be a long fucking while until he’s done with you.

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