#and i was sitting across from them and i was like “i didn’t either…”

[stylesispunk]

"Blind faith" part vii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

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summary: Joel and you are heartbroken because of each other. You crave his touch and he craves yours. w.c: 6,7k warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40 and reader late 30s), angst, violence, a broken finger, mentions of death, manipulation, mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Reader is latina and english is not my first language and i'm stupid. a/n: I know I said I wouldn't make Joel suffer anymore because i'm still grieving and crying for him. But this story has angst and i'm sorry. Everything will be better soon. Thank you for all your love and I hope you enjoy it somehow.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"Yes, and two cups of coffee, please"

His voice this close to your ears felt like a punch to your gut. It disgusted you, the thought of being this close to him, to smell the reeking scent of his cologne, it made you want to vomit.  

the waitress wrote down the order while asking directly at you, "something else?"

Gabriel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you, “waffles? Do you love them”

"I don't want anything, thank you." you replied, in a monotonous voice, fidgeting with your fingers under the table. Your hands were still stained with Joel’s blood and your heart constricted.

“Bring them anyway” he said to the waitress. You could hear the sound of the pen writing down the order in the paper, but really nothing mattered to you right now.

You sat in a booth by the window, pale morning light spilling over the table, highlighting the dried, still darkening stains on your hands. No matter how many times you’d scrubbed them raw in that cracked porcelain sink, it clung to you, under your nails, in the creases of your skin.

Gabriel sat across from you, posture too casual for what he'd done, for what you’d both lived through. His jacket hung from the back of the seat, his sleeves rolled up, his hands pristine.

"Stop with that face and that fucking attitude. The priest didn��t die.” He said, “Besides, you made me look like a monster."

You finally raised your eyes to him, a dull, dead stare. “You are.”

His jaw clenched. “No. I’m not.”

“What you do makes you one.”

“I risked my own life for—”

“How many people have you killed, Gabriel?” your voice cut through the air like glass. “How many have you tortured these last months? How many more because someone told you to? Because you wore that damn soldier uniform and it let you believe you were untouchable?”

He opened his mouth, a retort rising in his throat. “You’re a—”

“Am I what?” you interrupted, pushing him to his own limits, your voice breaking, raw and unsteady. “A fucking burden? A communist? What am I to you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s mouth snapped shut, his jaw flexing, words hovering unsaid on his tongue like they’d burn him if he spoke them aloud. His gaze darkened, something mean and ugly flickering behind his eyes — and for the first time in months, you weren’t afraid of it. You were too tired, too hollow, too scraped clean of anything but rage and grief. Grieving a life, you couldn’t go back to.

He looked away then, out the window where the pale morning light spilled over empty streets, over a town that wasn’t home to either of you. His hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

“You were… the only thing that made any of this bearable,” he muttered. “And you ruined it.”

A humorless, bitter laugh clawed out of your throat. “I ruined it? You ruined it. You ruined the moment you lied to me. When you used me. You sold me out to the same people who murdered my friends, who would’ve killed my family, and you’re sitting here, in this fucking café, drinking coffee like any of that can be undone.”

The waitress passed by, hesitating for a second at the tension thickening the air around your table, but neither of you noticed.

“I risked my life to get you out,” Gabriel snapped.

“For what?” you fired back. “So you could drag me back in again? So, you could play savior one day and executioner the next?”

He leaned in, voice low and tight. “I was trying to save you from yourself.”

“No, Gabriel,” you said, finally meeting his eyes again. “You were trying to save your place. Your pride and ease the guilt you must feel every damn night.”

And for a split second — just one — you saw it crack in him. The anger. The guilt. The truth of it all. And you hated that a part of you still recognized the boy you’d once loved in that face.

“I want to kill you.” He spoke.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“I know,” you whispered, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. “And some days, I wish you would’ve done it that day.”

The words hung there between you like smoke, choking, heavy, impossible to take back. His expression faltered, something bleak and tired flashing through his eyes, and for a moment he looked like a man who’d lost every war he’d ever fought, including the one inside himself.

“I wake up every fucking day wanting to forget you,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “But I can’t. You haunt me.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I hope I do.”

Your heart pounding in your ears, stomach twisted into something tight and ugly.

“I moved names for you,” he said, softer now, like it mattered. Like it would made you less frigthened “I bought your family’s freedom. Paid for it with my life, my rank. You’ll never know what that cost me.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” You replied, “You knew what kind of person I was and I am. You were aware of my beliefs and my values.”

Gabriel’s jaw tensed, his hand curling into a fist on the table between the untouched cups of coffee. The silence stretched — thick, suffocating — before he finally spoke again, his voice low, bitter.

“I knew,” he admitted. “I knew you were fire and danger and a thousand things that could ruin me. And I didn’t care. I just… I wanted you. Even if it meant burning for it.”

You shook your head, a broken, hollow laugh catching in your throat. “That’s not love, Gabriel. That’s possession. You wanted me like people want land, or power — to claim, to own. Not to protect.”

He looked at you then, really looked — and for the first time, you saw it: the wreckage of a man he’d become. A soldier stripped of his command, a traitor in his own uniform, carrying ghosts in his chest that no war could bury.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I ruined everything.”

A lump formed in your throat, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall. “You didn’t ruin me,” you said quietly. “I’m still here. Despite you. Because of me.”

You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping against the worn floor. “I don’t owe you gratitude, Gabriel. Not for saving what you tried to destroy.”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

For a moment you forget the man in front of you was the same one who lured you into a fairy tale love story. Through lies he had braided himself because he knew you. He knew what you thought, what you did, what you love and what you hate. He knew your name and what you fought for, and as if you were a witch he tried to hunt you.

But he fell in love with you.

You paused, a breath hitching in your chest, before shaking your head without meeting his gaze. "For what? For killing my friends? For sending your soldiers friends to follow me? or do you want me to forgive you because you are the reason I'm exiled from my home?"

“I wanted to kill you,” he admitted, bitter and broken. “Every day since you ran. I told myself I would, when I found you. That I’d put a bullet in your head between those soft eyes of you and I would bury every part of me you ever touched.”

Your throat felt tight, a war raging in your chest between anger and the ache of remembering the boy he used to be, the one who had lured you, before you met the man in the uniform, before the orders, before blood stained both of his hands.

“But I couldn’t,” Gabriel said, quieter now. “Even with the gun in my hand last night when you looked at me like I was a monster. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, heart pounding in your ears.

“You were my ruin,” he breathed. “You still are.”

And for a long, terrible moment, the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut.

Gabriel let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the kind of sound scraped raw from a man unraveling. He leaned back in his seat, eyes dark, exhausted, something hollow flickering in them.

“What am I going to do to you now?” he repeated, voice like splintered glass. “I should drag you back. Deliver you like they wanted. Let them finish what I couldn’t.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table, pulse hammering. You forced yourself not to flinch.

“But I won’t,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t even know if it’s mercy or cowardice. Maybe both. Maybe I’m more afraid of what would happen to me if I stop knowing you existed.”

You stared at him then — really stared. At the man you once thought you came close to love. The boy who’d once sworn he’d never become one of them. And yet here he was, uniform or not, lost in a war of his own making.

“I don’t want your mercy,” you told him, voice low but unyielding, like a cut that didn’t bleed right away but hurt all the same. “And I don’t want your guilt. I don’t need your ghosts following me around to feel the weight of what’s already been taken.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the flicker of something — grief, fury, longing, maybe all of it tangled together — crossing his face before he looked down at the table, fingers curling into fists.

“You were my ruin,” he murmured again, as though the words themselves might explain away the things he’d done. “I wake up every day wanting to hate you, and I can’t. I wanted to kill you… I still want to. But more than that, I want to disappear inside you. And that’s the worst thing, isn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. The room felt smaller, the air thick with everything unsaid, everything shattered between you.

“Then disappear, Gabriel,” you said, looking away, the rays of sunshine filtering through the window felt like the hand you should take to in order to escape. “But do it far from me.”

“And letting you to go back to that priest that easily?” he asked, making you freeze.

The words hit you like a stone to the chest, sharp, sudden, heavy. You froze, hand still on the edge of the table, the brittle morning light spilling in around you. Your heart twisted at the mention of Joel; at the blood you’d scrubbed from your hands but still felt beneath your nails.

Slowly, you turned, meeting Gabriel’s gaze. His face was a ruin of its own now, anger and bitterness, some frayed thread of old love barely hanging on.

“He has nothing to do with this.” you said, though your voice betrayed you, cracking at the edges. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Gabriel huffed a humorless breath, leaning back like he needed the distance or he might reach for you. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “It seems to me like he is the one thing you don’t want me to touch now, but he still betrayed you.”

Gabriel stared at you, and for the first time, he looked tired. So fucking tired. “Did you seduce him with lap dances? I mean, the priest?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting into skin as you fought the heat behind your eyes.

“I don’t have to dance for someone to care about me, Gabriel,” you said, your voice low, steady despite the crack threading through it. “Not everyone sees me as a fucking possession or a fucking prize.”

His jaw clenched, something flickering behind those dark, exhausted eyes. The veneer of anger, of bitterness, peeled back for the barest second, and you saw it — the grief beneath it. The part of him that would rather destroy you than admit he never stopped loving you.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, unraveling at the seams. “You think he’s any different? You think he won’t leave you to rot the moment it stops being forbidden, the moment you become a liability?” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “At least I was honest about who I was.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest too deep, too familiar. “You were a lying coward,” you whispered.

For a moment, the world felt painfully, terribly still. The cold air from the open door brushed against your skin like a warning, like a promise you hadn’t made yet.

Gabriel swallowed, his throat working around words he didn’t say. And then, finally, he managed “I should kill you.”

The words should’ve made you flinch. But they didn’t.

You held his gaze, your chin high. “Then why don’t you?”

The room hung on the knife’s edge of that question. Gabriel’s stare didn’t waver, his voice a low, brutal rasp. “Because you’re already dead.”

The words didn’t land at first. Not fully. But then he added, with a cruel, quiet finality,

“Your family. They killed them.”

The air left your lungs in a single, sharp gasp, the room tilting, blurring at the edges. You staggered back a step, your fingers tightening around each other like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You searched his face, desperate for a flicker of a lie, for some crack in the story — but there was nothing. Just Gabriel, emptied out, a graveyard of a man delivering another death sentence.

And he wasn’t done.

“So, you’re lonely in a foreign country,” he went on, the words like daggers dressed in velvet, “with a forbidden lover who traded you the first chance he got. It seems to me like you’re already fucking dead, mi amor.”

He smiled then, if it could be called that. A grim, bitter thing.

“You have nothing left.”

The silence that followed was a kind of violence all its own. You couldn’t feel your hands anymore. Couldn’t hear anything past the roar in your ears.

But you wouldn’t let him see you break. Not here. Not now.

You straightened, the ache in your chest molten, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached.

“Then bury me, Gabriel,” you said softly, venom threaded through the tremor in your voice. It was breaking but you still keep going, “but you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

“But you don’t get to touch Joel,” you said, and your voice was steady now. Dangerous in its quiet. “He had nothing to do with this. With you. With the rot in your heart, you keep trying to pin on everyone else.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking there. For a moment, you almost thought he’d strike you. Or scream. Or crumble.

But instead, he laughed. A soft, empty sound.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mi amor,” he murmured, though his voice cracked on it. “The moment he touched you, the moment you looked at him like with love in your eyes, he made himself a part of this.”

You shook your head, “You’re still so desperate to make this about you,” you said desperate “What else do you want from me?” you sobbed.

His hand twitched against the table, a flicker of something — violence or grief, you couldn’t tell.

But you didn’t wait for the next venom-laced word.

“I swear to whatever gods are left, Gabriel,” you whispered as you point your finger towards him, “if you lay a single fucking finger on him—”

but you didn’t get to finish before a crack made your vision white out for a split second.

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as pain shot up your arm, blinding and immediate. Gabriel didn’t even flinch, his grip iron around your now broken finger, his face a mask of something monstrous and unrecognizable now.

“You don’t get to threaten me,” he hissed, his breath hot and sharp against your face, voice low and trembling with barely leashed fury. “Not after everything I did for you. Not when you made me like this.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not for him. Not for this.

“You were always like this,” you spat through the pain, your words shaking but vicious.

For a moment, something in his expression faltered, that flicker of the boy you once knew, the one who’d whispered promises against your skin in another life, in another world. But it was gone before you could name it.

He let your hand drop, your broken finger throbbing as it hung uselessly at your side. “Run, mi amor,” Gabriel murmured, almost gentle now, and it made your skin crawl. “You can run if you want but I know where you are.”

Joel's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him felt too bright, too harsh. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing — sterile white walls, the faint beep of machines in the background, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air.

For a moment, he just lay there, his mind tangled in confusion. Where was he? What had happened?

The dull ache in his head pulsed like a reminder, a warning. He shifted his body, but the pain stopped him, sharp and insistent. He groaned, wincing at the movement, his eyes darting around in a frantic search for something, anything that could give him clarity.

The beeping intensified, and a nurse came into view, her face kind but impersonal. She smiled at him. "You're awake," she said softly, though there was something about her voice that seemed distant.

"Where am I?" Joel's voice was hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in days.

"You're in a hospital," the nurse replied, checking his IV. "You’ve been unconscious for a while, but you’re stable now."

He swallowed, trying to process her words. "What happened? Why… how am I here?"

She hesitated for a second, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You were shot in the leg.” Carmen said, stepping inside the room. Her face seemed tired, full of anger, but also sadness covering her features. "You lost blood and ended up passing out. Billy and Mr. Langdon brought you here."

Joel's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Carmen's voice. His eyes flickered to her, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His thoughts were still a jumble, but her presence brought a mix of relief and dread all at once.

"Billy and Mr. Langdon?" He repeated her words, confusion furrowing his brow. It was like his memory had been wiped clean, leaving him only with fragments of names and faces that didn’t fit together.

Carmen nodded; her face tight. "We were with you at the church."

He looked at her, his gaze searching, but her expression was guarded. She seemed distant, like there was something she wasn't saying. He wanted to ask more, about what happened, about her, about everything, but his mouth felt dry, and the weight of her gaze made his chest tighten.

"What about her?" His voice cracked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He hated how weak it sounded.

Carmen’s eyes flickered to the side, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don’t know where she is, father.”

The words hit him like a slap.

"What do you mean?" His pulse quickened, panic rising in his throat. "How many days…?"

Carmen shook her head slowly, her eyes avoiding his. "Five.” She breathed, “No one does where she is. There’s no sign of her. No trace.”

Joel felt his heart drop, his breath becoming shallow, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Five days? It felt like the world was spinning out of control, slipping through his fingers. You’d been gone for five days, and he’d been lying here, helpless, trapped in his own body while you wherever you were—were out there out of his reach.

His chest tightened, the hospital room feeling smaller, suffocating. He wanted to push the covers off, to stand up, to search for you, but his leg, wrapped in bandages, screamed in protest.

"Where did he take her, Carmen? Where is she?” His voice broke, desperate, raw. His mind raced with images of her—her face, her eyes, the way she looked at him before everything had fallen apart. She couldn’t be gone, not like this.

Carmen’s gaze softened for a brief moment before she looked away, taking a step back. "I don’t know, father," she repeated, her voice quieter now, holding a weight of its own. "We’ve looked everywhere, but there's nothing. Just... nothing."

He could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, the pulse of panic growing louder with each passing second. "I need to find her," he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Carmen was already shaking her head.

"You’re in no condition to do anything right now." Her tone was sharp, "You can barely stand. You need to rest. Let us help."

"Help?" His eyes blazed with frustration, though the pain from his leg and body was a constant reminder of his own weakness. "I was helping. I—I failed her. I need to fix this, oh my—Carmen. I have to find her."

His hands gripped the sheets tightly, and his gaze darted around the room, as if the walls themselves might give him an answer. There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t just lay here.

Carmen sighed, a long, deep exhale that carried the weight of everything she’d been holding in. She moved closer to him.

“How did Gabriel find her?” she asked, sternly.

“Do you know about him?”

She nodded, “I do, but that’s not what I asked. I asked how?”

Joel’s throat worked around the knot forming there, his pulse a jagged, uneven thing beneath his skin. He looked up at Carmen, her face hard but her eyes carrying something heavier than anger — fear.

“I—I. He came to me t one night, to my office at the church telling me he was looking out for his fiancé who ran from the wedding,” he rasped, though the words felt like a lie the second they left his mouth. His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair. “I thought “poor guy” you know?”, for a moment he stopped, ashamed of himself,” Then he showed me the picture of the woman and it was her. I just felt so—"

Carmen didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at him like she could peel his words open and find the truth inside but that was enough for Joel to stop talking.

“I never knew he was a bad guy.” Joel said, his voice cracking, breaking open in a way he hated. “I was trying to help him.”

“By trading her as she was a fucking object?” Carmen asked quietly but mad enough.

Joel’s stomach twisted. A horrible, creeping thought clawed at the edges of his mind.

“Shit,” he whispered, his heart sinking.

Carmen’s eyes sharpened. “You better pray to whatever God you’ve still got left, Joel,” she said coldly. “Because if she’s dead because of you… I’ll finish what that bullet started.”

And for the first time since waking, Joel didn’t try to argue. He just closed his eyes, jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and whispered your name like a prayer.

“What do you know about this?” He asked. Heart breaking at the thought of you being in danger.

Carmen’s shoulders dropped, the weight of it pressing down on her, like she’d been waiting for this moment, for him to finally ask.

She pulled the chair closer, sitting down beside his bed. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, jaw tight, eyes distant like she was staring through the walls of that hospital room and into a past neither of them could outrun.

“I wasn’t supposed tell you this,” she said quietly. “But when you care about someone… you pay attention. You hear things you’re not meant to. See things people don’t think you’ll notice.”

Joel opened his eyes, turning his head to her, silent.

“Well, you know the part she is a ballerina dancer.” Carmen went on, voice low and steady, “She was a really good one, but she also was a really well-known activist too.” She went like she was reciting a ghost story she didn’t want to believe. “You know, things got dangerous for people like her or people who got another belief.”

Joel’s stomach twisted, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Gabriel was a soldier, well he is.” Carmen whispered. “He was ordered to haunt her, to silence her, so he lured her somehow, but when she found out the truth, she escaped the country and she ended up here.”

Joel’s throat felt raw. “Jesus Christ…”

“And you know what’s worse?” Carmen’s voice cracked, anger bleeding through. “He didn’t just leave her with nothing. He told everyone she was dead. She’s been running ever since. Hiding in places like this, with people like us, because there’s nowhere left for her to go.”

Joel felt sick. All those moments, the way you never talked about your past, how you flinched at certain things, how sometimes your eyes went far away like you were seeing ghosts.

And him? He had just trade you over jealousy.

“She didn’t tell me all of it,” Carmen admitted. “But she didn’t have to. I could see it. And then you showed up… and I saw the way she looked at you. Like maybe… maybe you made her forget for a second.”

Joel let out a shaky breath, guilt gnawing at every part of him. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” Carmen cut him off, softer now. “But meaning doesn’t matter. Not to men like Gabriel. And if he’s got her now…”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He won’t.”

Carmen met his eyes, a flicker of something like fragile hope in hers. “You are sinner but not for the reasons you think, Joel. You allowed your jealousy won and that doesn’t make you better than him.”

Joel winced like she’d struck him clean across the face. Because she wasn’t wrong. God, she wasn’t wrong.

The truth of it settled in his chest like hot lead, heavy and unmovable. He thought of every moment he’d let anger fester, every time he’d imagined you and Gabriel in the same room and let the bile rise in his throat instead of trusting you. How easy it’d been to believe the worst, to let jealousy twist him up until it swallowed everything else.

“I know,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words. “I know, Carmen.”

She looked away, her hand scrubbing tiredly over her face. “Then fix it,” she whispered. “You owe her that much.”

Joel nodded, jaw tight, his leg throbbing like hell but his mind already racing past the pain. Past the blood. Past the hospital walls.

“I’ll find her,” he said, more to himself than to Carmen. “I swear to God, I’ll find her.”

Carmen stood, the weight of grief and fury still clinging to her like a second skin. But there was something else too, the smallest thread of trust, like maybe, despite it all, she believed he could.

“She’s stronger than either of you deserve,” Carmen muttered, heading for the door. “She is better than any of those people in town.”

Joel’s eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything.

“I know,” he said quietly, the words barely carrying in the stillness of the room. “I always knew.”

Carmen paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, her shoulders tight and stiff beneath her jacket. She didn’t turn, but her voice reached him one last time.

“You’ve got one shot at this, Miller,” she said, low and rough. “If you’re gonna bleed for something, make sure it’s for her.

Then she was gone, leaving him with nothing but the steady beeping of the monitors and the unbearable weight of his own regret.

Joel leaned his head back against the pillow, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t have a plan yet. Didn’t know how the hell he was gonna stand on his own leg, let alone go toe to toe with Gabriel. But none of that mattered. Not when he could still hear your voice in his head, the way you used to say his name.

He wouldn’t let it end like this. Couldn’t.

It felt like a lifetime, and somehow no time at all. You’d lost count of the hours, of how many times Gabriel’s hand had closed around your wrist, your jaw, your throat — not always in violence, but always in control. He hadn’t let you out of his sight, not even when he slept. Not even when he pretended to.

The motel room was suffocating. Peeling floral wallpaper, a humming air conditioner that barely worked, and one single window you weren’t allowed near. It wasn’t chains that kept you here, it was him — the way his presence filled every inch of the space, leaving no room to breathe.

He barely spoke unless it was to taunt, to remind you of what you lost, or of what he thought you owed him. Sometimes he’d just stare at you in silence, sitting in the chair by the window with a glass of whatever he could steal or buy, his eyes glassy and distant like a man already halfway dead.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t scream. Not after the first night.

Instead, you waited. Counting every blink, every time he closed his eyes, every time his hand went to the bottle, every time his guard dropped a fraction.

Because you knew one thing: no one — not even a monster like Gabriel — could keep this kind of storm at bay forever.

And when he did sleep, it wasn’t peaceful. He murmured things in Spanish, names you didn’t recognize, curses, threats. And sometimes… yours.

The motel TV played old static-flickering movies in the background — westerns, cheap thrillers. You’d started tuning them out. The real horror was in this room.

But no matter how much you tried to steel yourself, to lock away the softer parts of you that Gabriel hadn’t managed to carve out yet — his name still found you in the quietest moments.

Joel.

You told yourself you hated him. That you had to. That after what he’d done, after the way his jealousy had made you a pawn in Gabriel’s hand again, there shouldn’t be a single piece of you left that ached for him.

But in the dim hours before dawn, when Gabriel was passed out in the chair and the flicker of the TV cast restless shadows on the walls, it was Joel’s face you saw.

Not in the way you last saw him, bloodied and broken in the church when it all went to hell. Not in anger, not in betrayal. But in the way he looked the night he let you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder for the first time. The way his calloused hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face like it meant something for the both of you.

Like you meant something important. And perhaps you’d been a fool.

Maybe in his weakness you made him sin and he despise you.

But you’d still clung to that warmth like a drowning thing, holding it close when the world wanted to rip it from your chest.

Even now when you should’ve wished him dead, should’ve cursed his name and vowed to forget him. It was Joel’s voice you heard in your head, rasped and rough. I got you. I swear. I love you.

And God, you didn’t know if he was okay.

Didn’t know if he was coming to save you from this.

Didn’t know if he even cared anymore.

But you still hoped. And that was the cruelest thing of all.

Because it was easier to survive when you believed no one was coming. When you told yourself you were already dead.

You pressed your face into your hands, the rough skin of your palms catching against the salt of your tears. The room stank of cheap liquor and sweat, of unwashed sheets and stale cigarette smoke, and the air felt so thick you could barely pull it into your lungs.

The sobs came in fits, shuddering, ugly things you’d tried to choke down for days. But tonight, tonight it all broke.

You cried for them. For your family.

For the mother who used to hum lullabies in the kitchen late at night, for the big brother who used to chase fireflies in the yard with you, for the father whose stern words somehow meant safety.

Dead.

They were dead and you wouldn’t get the chance to know see them or ever say goodbye.

Gabriel’s words had cut through you five days ago like a blade, and you’d pretended it hadn’t shattered something vital. Pretended you could outlast it, just like everything else. But it had festered inside you, a raw, gnawing grief that clawed its way to the surface now.

You cried for yourself too. For the girl you used to be, for the future you’d started to imagine, the one with stolen moments of peace and maybe, just maybe, love. A future that had Joel in it.

And you cried for your hand. Because somehow that stupid, broken, swollen finger felt like a final insult. Gabriel hadn’t taken you to a hospital. He hadn’t even wrapped it. Just left it to throb and pulse and turn shades of bruised purple and blue, a small, constant ache to remind you of what he could do.

The bone grated against itself when you moved it, and it made you dizzy with pain, but you clung to that pain. Because it meant you were still here.

Still alive.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all too.

You curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller than the grief, smaller than the hatred in Gabriel’s eyes, smaller than the crushing weight of being so utterly alone.

“I miss you,” you whispered into the dark. You didn’t know if it was meant for your family, or for Joel.

Maybe both. Your chest ached, the kind of ache that felt endless, like it might outlive you.

A soft, broken sound left your throat. You didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sob.It filled the stillness of the room, and you didn’t even have time to swallow it down before you heard the scrape of Gabriel’s chair against the floor.

His voice came from the corner, low and coarse. “Why are you crying, cariño?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. Your throat felt like it had been scraped raw, and your face was wet, the tears burning your skin. You just sat there, staring down at your lap, your good hand cradling the one he’d broken days ago.

The pain had changed over the last five days. It wasn’t sharp anymore, it was a steady, deep, nauseating throb that never really left, radiating up your wrist, making your whole arm feel useless and heavy. The bruising was worse now, swollen and dark, the shape of your finger misshapen.

You lifted your hand, showing it to him without a word.

The light from the old motel lamp caught on the mangled joint. The swelling, purpling skin. Your hand shook as you held it up, but your gaze stayed on him.

For a moment, Gabriel didn’t say a thing.

He just stared at it. At you.

And something flickered there, something too tangled to name. Regret, maybe.

“That why you’re sniffling like a little girl?” he asked, voice dry, like the whole thing bored him.

He took a drink from the glass in his hand, the ice clinking against the sides.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

“Are you gonna fix it?” you asked hoarsely, your voice a scrape of gravel.

His brow twitched. He set the glass down on the nightstand with a heavy, deliberate thunk and stood. The room felt smaller as he crossed it, each step measured and unhurried.

He crouched in front of you, too close, smelling of whiskey and smoke and the sickly tang of sweat.

His hand came up, fingers brushing your wrist like a threat disguised as tenderness.

He smiled at you, “Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words sounded like a trick, like something sharp wrapped in silk. He smiled when he said it, but it wasn’t the kind of smile people wore when they meant to help.

It was the kind predators gave right before they sank their teeth in.

“Why now?” you rasped, the words catching in your throat. You hated how small you sounded; how desperate you felt to cling to any scrap of hope and how sick it made you at the same time.

Gabriel’s smile stayed, but his eyes flickered, something colder, something careful.

“Because if I don’t,” he murmured, fingers grazing up your wrist toward your swollen hand, “you’ll lose it.” he shrugged, that easy, cruel nonchalance he wore like a second skin. “I figure you’re not much good to me all busted up like this.”

You swallowed hard, bile burning the back of your throat. It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t guilt. It was practicality. You were his, a possession, and even a broken thing had to be kept in working order.

“Get your shoes,” he said, standing up. “We leave in five.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t waste words. You just moved stiffly toward the corner where your worn boots sat, forcing your uninjured hand to tie them while your broken one throbbed in your lap. Every movement made your vision swim, but you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

Gabriel pulled on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and opened the motel room door, letting the stale night air rush in. The moon hung low and thin in the sky; the parking lot empty except for his beat-up truck he had rented.

“You try to run, I’ll break the other one,” he said casually, like it was nothing.

You didn’t reply. You just stepped out into the night, the cold hitting you like a slap, and followed him toward the truck.

But something in your chest stirred, a flicker of defiance even under all the fear and grief.

Because five days was a long time to be kept in a cage.

The hospital lights were too bright.

After five days in that cramped, suffocating motel room, they made your head pound, made your eyes sting. The antiseptic smell hit you hard, thick with bleach and something metallic underneath. You kept your gaze low, shoulders hunched, following the line of Gabriel’s shadow across the faded linoleum floors.

A nurse at the front desk gave you a curious glance, her eyes lingering on the bruises you hadn’t bothered to cover, the way your left hand hung limp and swelling. But when she met Gabriel’s stare, cold and hard like a wolf daring her to speak, she looked away.

“Broken finger,” Gabriel grunted, shoving paperwork at her. “Get it done quick.”

You barely registered the words. Your mind was a storm of noise and memory, a face, dark eyes you still dreamed about even when you tried not to, a voice that rasped your name like a promise.

I swear, I got you. I love you.

Joel.

God. Joel. You thought about him the other night at the church. About his leg and if he was okay.

You could almost feel him in the walls of this place, like a phantom. A brush of breath down your neck, a tug in your chest that you couldn’t explain. Like somewhere close by, something you’d lost was reaching back for you.

But you didn’t look.

Hope was a dangerous thing, and you couldn’t afford it anymore.

Two floors up, Joel lay in a hospital bed he hadn’t allow to leave yet. Carmen had forced him to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come, not with his mind stuck in loops of.

what if, where is she, what have I done.

The steady beeping of monitors, the faint intercom calls, the distant squeak of gurney wheels.

And for one dizzy second, he thought. He thought he caught a scent he knew better than his own

The faint trace of your perfume, buried under smoke.

He turned his head, pulse kicking hard.

Nothing there.

Just a nurse walking past.

Just a shadow at the end of the hallway.

“You’re losing it, old man,” he muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t stop staring at the door, some instinct deep in his marrow telling him that you were close.

And you were.

Less than thirty yards away.

A different wing. A different hallway.

But fate was cruel, and timing crueler.

And the storm hadn’t broken yet.

You were in a cold hallway, feeling the coldness of the air freezing on your skin, the same one that still craves the touch of the same callused palms that welcomed you to daylight the moment you were looking for it the most.

You still crave Joel’s touch on your face, his fingers wrapped around your own.

You missed his eyes finding yours across the room, sharing a secret language only both of you could understand.

And you missed him despite all.

But his cold eyes sliced your heart in half and you still waited for the moment.

Under the same moon.

Tags < 3 @jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

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@melsunshine @goodvibesonly421 @fallout-girl219 @darkalpacastranger @mirandablue1

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More (3)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

***************

Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.

The air was tense—heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.

You felt your stomach twist.

Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasn’t spectacular, but it got the job done—just enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.

But this wasn’t like last time.

This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didn’t know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadn’t let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caring—and caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.

The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They weren’t speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadable—somewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didn’t return it, but they didn’t look away either. That felt like enough.

Then, you saw him—Mason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.

He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice low. “You ready?”

You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed you—tapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, soft but certain. “We both are.”

You looked at him—and just like that, something inside you loosened.

Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victor’s party, trying not to be seen. He hadn’t mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. He’d seen you for what you were—another broken kid trying to survive something you weren’t built for.

He knew that look. He’d worn it once, too.

And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldn’t stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.

“It’s going to be fine,” you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didn’t have to question it. His loyalty wasn’t loud or showy—it was just there. Unshakable.

“Y/N. Mason.”

You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.

Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “You ready to make some jaws drop?” she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.

“Always,” you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. “I think I’m just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.”

Cashmere raised an eyebrow. “That’s either brilliant or reckless.”

“Maybe both,” you replied.

“As long as you scare them a little, you’ll land at least a nine,” Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. “I’m thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.”

Brutus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they’ll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.”

Enobaria grinned wider. “Sounds like a vacation compared to what’s coming.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.

“What about you two?”

Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “Spear work. Something fast and clean—show them I haven’t slowed down. I’m not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.”

Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. “Knives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wild—we’re aiming for tens, not twelves.”

She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. “What about you?”

Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targets—simulate a real fight. Or…” he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, “maybe someone here’s brave enough to volunteer.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Keep dreaming.”

But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:

“District One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.

Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, “See you on the other side.”

And then he was gone.

No hesitation. No second glance.

The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.

Enobaria was the first to break the silence. “We’ll head back to our seats,” she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didn’t want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the same—no words, just a quiet presence—and then they were gone.

“We should, too,” Mason murmured, giving Cashmere’s shoulder a squeeze.

You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.

“He’s going to do great,” you whispered. “And so will you. Okay?”

Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

“You too.”

She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.

Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, “Hello, my fishies.”

Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.

“I swear, before I die, I’m going to need a new nickname,” Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. “I can’t die with ‘Fishy’ on my tombstone.”

You nudge his knee playfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. I wouldn’t do that to you. But I would say, ‘Best Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,’” you add with a wink, your tone light.

Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. “Ready to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?” You can’t help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.

Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.

“Oh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,” you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been close—almost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.

You hear Cashmere’s name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.

Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. “It’s going to be fine,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no one—no one—can tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.”

Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what you’re doing—trying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. That’s why they love having you around.

“I’ll catch up with you two after, okay?” You give them both a final squeeze. “Good luck out there.”

They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.

“You’re being a great motivator. I’m feeling inspired,” Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.

You can’t help but scoff, shaking your head. “These are our friends. And we’re supposed to kill them like it’s nothing?” You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound.

Mason’s smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. “We all know how this is going to play out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. “And we promised we weren’t going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?”

You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. And let’s say… in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?” You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.

Mason’s eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. “That’s never going to happen. You know that,” he says, his tone heavy with certainty. “It’ll be someone else, or… it’ll be me.”

You can’t argue with that. It’s the cruel reality you’re both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.

Mason doesn’t have any comforting words—he knows they won’t help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing that’s keeping you from shattering in that moment.

You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.

Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.

And then, you hear it.

“District Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.”

Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.

Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of what’s to come, the fear—it’s all there, hanging between you two.

“Darling, it’s going to be fine,” he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.

You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. “Good luck,” you murmur, even though you’re not sure if either of you believe it.

He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. “You too,” he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. “See you on the other side.” His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then he’s gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.

Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.

You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. That’s all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.

“Are you ready for your assessment?”

You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Stupid question, I know. I’m sure you’ve been asked by everyone else. Should’ve said something else.”

It wasn’t what you expected—Peeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.

You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m ready enough to just get it over with,” you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. “Are you?”

He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. “Yeah, it’s kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.”

You shook your head slightly. “Everything’s changed, Peeta. You’re a Victor now. That means something.”

Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. “We both know I wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“I could say that about all of us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “None of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And it’s important, Peeta, that you start believing that. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out of the arena.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Haymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to recruit me?” you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasn’t exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.

He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, “I’m not saying we should be best friends or anything, but you’re important to Haymitch. I think you’re important to Katniss, too, even if she doesn’t show it.” His voice softened. “I’m just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her… and for us.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think your fiancée would agree,” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. “And I don’t think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.”

That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. “I’ve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that you’re on mine, too.” Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. “I’m behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. I’ll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “If you don’t trust my words, trust Haymitch’s. I’m on your side.”

Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.

“District Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.”

You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.

“I’ll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt.

Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.

Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“I think we should team up with District Five,” he said, his voice low but sure.

Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. “Okay,” she said quietly.

************

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years ago—before the Games, before all of this.

Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, you’d have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.

You were scared during your first Games, but this fear—it was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldn’t breathe.

The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.

"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.

"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."

A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "It’s supposed to mimic my first Games."

You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.

You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.

"I can’t believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.

"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m about to perform my best acting yet—pretend I’m not already dead inside—and then I’m gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."

Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrow’s a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "We’ll figure it out then."

The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.

Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.

"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.

"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.

"It’s annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, he’ll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.

You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."

Mason’s interview went off without a hitch. He played the ‘I’m about to die, and I never loved anyone’ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.

"And now, for one of the Capitol’s favorite girls, let’s hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.

Caesar Flickerman’s smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.

"Well, I’ve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.

"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isn’t it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But you—good news for you—you scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"

"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since I’m probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."

You saw Caesar’s smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.

"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, we’ve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Who’s there for you? Anyone special?"

You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored you—Haymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.

"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."

"I’m sure they’re watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they won’t watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.

"Uh…" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, that’s unfortunate, I’m sure they’ll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"

You didn’t even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring you’d been wearing around your neck. The same one you’d both always kept secret.

"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."

You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.

You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didn’t hide his emotions, even if you couldn’t hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.

"You’re married?" Caesar’s voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"

You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "I’m afraid I’m keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him."

You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death won’t erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? That’s something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "I’ve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "I’m one of the lucky ones."

The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That… that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "I’m sure he knows how deeply you love him. And he’s lucky to have someone like you."

"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.

The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.

You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "It’s going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."

Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panem’s crying right now."

You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.

"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katniss’s dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.

"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.

"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.

"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.

Mason tensed but you turned towards her.

"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.

"Plus, I’m sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.

You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.

"So, we’re really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.

You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."

*********

You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.

After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.

You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.

"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."

He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."

You didn’t respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.

Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasn’t happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"

Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I just hope we're not making a mistake. That’s all."

You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."

The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole time—it's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, we’ll do that too. I’m with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "I’ve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. I’m not about to stop now."

A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.

"Don’t let Cash hear that or she’ll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.

"I’m serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "You’re my best friend. And this… this fucking sucks."

Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. You’ve always been. And, I can’t really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."

You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.

You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told I’m her best friend, and you couldn’t wait five minutes to swoop in? That’s crazy."

Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."

You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"

He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.

He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and I’ll take care of you both out here."

Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldn’t notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.

Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.

The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.

Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew.

This was goodbye.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—whiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.

You wouldn’t see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be there—no time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. They’d tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.

So this… this was it.

The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.

You could die like this, you thought.

God, you wished you would die like this.

"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,” you breathed. “And I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."

His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfect—just like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that don’t taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."

"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. “Is it weird that I'm jealous of that us?”

"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.

Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. “This isn’t fair.” The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. “I just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter what—stay with her.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.

"I promise, Haymitch. I’ll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."

He stilled. Completely.

His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.

He hadn’t meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him that—your life for theirs. That wasn’t what this was.

"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. “That’s all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. I’ll take care of the kids. I promise. But you—you look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. “You care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,” you said, voice firm. “I’m going to protect them as much as I can. Nothing’s happening to those kids if I’m there.”

He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.

"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. “So you're going to make sure you survive.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at him—at the man you loved more than anything—and whispered, “Only one comes out alive, Mitch.”

Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.

“I’m not even in the top five of who should win.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.

You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.

You’d been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.

He needed you to fight.

He needed you to live.

He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.

But Plutarch didn’t want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. You’re his wife. You’re the only thing that matters.

"I—" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.

You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.

"There's thi—well, there's this... this plan... Plutarch—" Why couldn’t he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.

You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.

"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.

He faltered, looking at you like you’d read the last page of a book he hadn’t finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And that’s what terrified you.

"There's this plan—"

"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Don’t tell me."

He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like you’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand. "What...?"

"There's a reason why you can’t tell me, right?"

He hesitated… and nodded.

"Then it’s probably a good reason.”

"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?

Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough.

"Then don’t tell me."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "I’m telling you not to tell me. You were going to—and now I’m saying no. So if anything happens, it’s on me. Not you. Never you."

You could already see it in his eyes—the guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldn’t let it break him.

"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.

His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."

And that nearly broke you.

You had to look away, just for a second. "You’re putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And that’s okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. It’s for the greater cause—something bigger than just you and me."

He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.

"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.

"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss won’t want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, I’ll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course I’ll also look after Peeta, but—"

You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.

God, he looked at you—like you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.

Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.

You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Don’t tell me, Haymitch. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad. I’ll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.

"It’s always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "It’s always going to be you."

You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this moment—this closeness, this certainty—you would have. You’d carry it into the arena like armor.

"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives… the districts' hope still lives."

He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."

You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you it’s okay."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginning—I’m getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."

Your voice didn’t shake this time. Not when it mattered most.

You looked into his eyes and saw the war in them—saw him silently screaming I can’t lose you.

But he knew you were right.

"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, you’ll wake up back in District 12… and you’re going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. It’s what we’ve always wanted."

You smiled as you spoke, but he could see it—you weren’t just comforting him.

You were saying goodbye.

And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didn’t believe you’d see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.

Even when the cause didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the war—knowing you wouldn’t be part of it.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I feel like I’m making a mistake,” he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I could’ve saved my tributes, I would’ve.”

You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.

“You’re the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.”

That was the final blow.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. “So, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.”

You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasn’t the broken man the world always thought him to be.

“And I love you, Haymitch,” you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.

You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hour—just hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.

But it couldn’t.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. “You have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon… and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.”

He clung to you a little tighter. “I’ll be fine. Come back here.”

You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.

He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleep—it would be over for him. You’d never let that happen.

“Fine. Fine.”

You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.

Then you paused.

“Tell Effie I say that I love her… and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it for everything—for the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldn’t give you.

“I’m not,” you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. “I lived a beautiful life… with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything you’ve been through, we’re finally going to be at peace.”

He was breaking. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked.

“I need you,” he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.

“And you have me,” you whispered, “forever.”

You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied. “Remember your promise.”

You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you faltered—if you gave in—he would stay. And that was too dangerous.

The doors slid open.

And he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

But you gave him a little push.

Because you had to.

He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.

"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.

"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?

Haymitch didn’t know.

But you always found light, even at the end of the world.

“I’ll see you in the next lifetime,” you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.

The doors slid shut.

And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.

And that was it.

That was the sound that shattered him.

This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.

Let me know what you want to see!!!!

Previous Chapter

Taglist (If I'm missing you I'm sorry still new at this)

@nikki-is-a-nerd @quantumorquanta @starvedhoe @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @andthevillainshallrises @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @honeybunnyboobear @dedicatedfangirl2001 @godwhyamionhere @yoursrosie @darylmysavior @crossfandomslut @passionkillerphil @fallout-girl219 @ramennudel @onlyrealjoy @rosieleej @narliesstuff @flornegrastuff @aylinbsx @briiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzza @starkleila @fanboilingwriter @heidiland05 @escaping-reality8 @teenwolfbitches28 @notplutos @daisydark @velyssaraptor @fangirlbitch02 @needz1nk @mawwddu @chelseyyouraverageluigi

[wordsofwhimsy]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘎𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Angst, post-breakup blues, eventual payoff tho

Word Count: 2,299

Synopsis: Three weeks after a breakup he can’t shake, Mark finds himself aimlessly nursing milkshakes and regrets—until William drags him out for a night at the club to help him “move on.” But no amount of drinks, dancing, or pretty strangers can quiet the echo of what Mark lost.

Inspiration: 'All the Pretty Girls' by fun.

a/n: i’ve been sittin’ on this for a hot minute and figured might as well drop it in the chat – hope y’all don’t mind 👀

The Burger Mart smelled like fryer grease and teenage dreams deferred.

Mark sat in the booth by the window—the one you two used to claim like it was yours by birthright—hunched over a milkshake he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. Chocolate. Your favorite. He wasn’t even thinking about it when he ordered it. His body just… remembered.

He stirred it absentmindedly with the straw, head propped on his fist, eyes unfocused. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His sweater was riding up just enough for his suit to peak out and show off a stain, probably from when he crash-landed into a taco truck mid-patrol. He hadn’t cared enough to clean it.

William slid into the booth across from him with a heavy sigh.

"Okay," William said, dropping his phone onto the table with a dramatic clack. "I let you sulk. I let you eat your feelings. I even let you cry while watching that one sad episode of Avatar—which was kind of weird but whatever. But Mark, it’s been three weeks. Get your head out of your ex’s hoodie."

Mark didn’t look up. "It's not hers," he mumbled.

William gave him a pointed look. "You literally only bought that hoodie because she said you looked hot in dark blue."

Mark opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but then closed it again. Fair.

William leaned forward, voice softening just a little. "You miss her. I get it. But sitting here rewatching your relationship in your head like it's a Friends DVD collection isn’t helping. You need to get out. Meet people. Let someone buy you a drink. Or at the very least, force you to smile."

Mark scoffed. "I smile."

"You grimace," William corrected. "Like you're doing emotional taxes."

Mark finally looked up, eyes tired but still warm. “I don’t want to meet someone new.”

“Then don’t. Just… let someone meet you.” William gave him a look that was way too sincere for how casual he was trying to act. “Besides, I’m an excellent wingman. And if I can get you out of this mope-fest, maybe the rest of us can sleep at night again.”

Mark sighed. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to feel like he was moving on. But maybe sitting in the exact place you used to laugh across the table from him wasn’t doing him any favors either.

“…Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “But I’m not dancing.”

William grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “You say that now, but we’ll see.”

Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the ghost of a smile from twitching at the corner of his mouth.

—

The club pulsed with bass so heavy Mark could feel it in his teeth.

Neon lights cut across the dark space like strobes, catching on sequins, jewelry, and sweat. He wasn’t sure if the drink in his hand was his third or fourth—William kept handing them to him, and he hadn’t been keeping count. The burn in his throat helped, though. It made everything a little blurrier. A little easier.

He was standing in a loose circle with William and two girls they’d just met—Talia and Jess, or maybe it was Jenna? It didn’t matter. They were cute, confident, clearly into the whole “tall, sad, broody” vibe Mark had going on tonight.

And Mark was… trying. He really was.

He laughed at their jokes, nodded along to stories he only half-heard. His smile was soft around the edges, his eyes still a little distant. But he looked good. Alive. Normal.

“So what do you do, Mark?" one of the girls asked, leaning closer to hear him over the music.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, college. I go to Upstate U. Technically an English major but don’t ask me why—I guess I like pain?”

William snorted into his drink. “This man hasn’t read a single book for class since week two.”

Mark shrugged, flashing that crooked little smile that made people lean in. “My ex was a lit nerd. I thought if I read her favorite book, I’d understand her better.”

“Did it work?” the girl asked, grinning.

He looked into his drink. “Nope. Still trying.”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until the girls blinked at him.

“Oh,” he added quickly. “Sorry. That was—yeah. Anyway.”

They moved on. Kinda. For a minute.

The conversation drifted toward the topic of favorite music, and Mark’s face lit up just a little.

“She used to play this indie playlist every morning while she got ready,” he said without thinking, swaying a little with the beat of the club's current song. “Had this dumb little dance she’d do while brushing her teeth. It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Another blink from the girls.

William’s eyes narrowed like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.

“So, uh, any siblings?” one of them asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation somewhere else.

“Nah, just me. But her family kind of adopted me for a while. Her dad grilled me every time I came over. I think he secretly liked me, though—he let me have the last slice of pizza once.”

“Mark,” William hissed under his breath, elbowing him.

“What?” Mark blinked at him, genuinely confused. “I’m just talking.”

“You’re reciting your relationship timeline, dude.”

Mark blinked again. His buzzed haze shifted just enough for the realization to land.

Oh.

“Oh.”

The girl—Talia, he was pretty sure now—laughed, trying to keep things light. “Wow, she must’ve been something.”

Mark looked down at his drink again, swirling the melting ice around with his straw. His voice dropped just a little when he answered.

“She is.”

For a second, the noise of the club felt distant. Like the music was underwater and the lights were just colors bleeding together behind his eyes.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d come tonight. Maybe he thought being surrounded by people would help. Maybe he thought he’d forget how your laugh sounded when you were tired, or how you always ordered fries after saying you weren’t hungry.

But he didn’t forget. Couldn’t.

Because none of these pretty girls could measure up to you.

The night had worn on like a pair of shoes half a size too small—just enough discomfort to remind Mark he didn’t belong here.

The drinks had dulled the edges, but not enough. The music was still too loud, the lights too bright, and the ache behind his ribs just wouldn’t shut up.

William had drifted off somewhere—probably flirting with the bartender again—and Mark found himself leaning against the railing by the upstairs lounge area, drink in hand, trying to look like he wasn’t mentally replaying every dumb inside joke he used to share with you.

“Hey,” a voice came beside him. Soft. A little hesitant.

It was her—the girl from earlier. The one with the easy laugh and kind eyes. Jenna. Or maybe Jess. Definitely a J.

“You looked kinda lonely over here,” she said, smiling in that way people do when they’re trying not to scare off a sad dog. “Thought I’d come rescue you.”

Mark blinked. “Oh. Thanks. Yeah, I guess I… wandered.”

She leaned her hip against the railing next to him. “You wanna dance?”

He hesitated. His gut reaction was no, but then he remembered William’s voice in his head, practically begging him to try. Just give it a chance. Let someone meet him.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sure.”

The dance floor was slower now. Not as packed. The music had shifted to something dreamier, bass still thumping but with more space between the beats. Moodier. Intimate.

They found a spot under a flickering pink light, and she stepped in closer, hands grazing his arms.

Mark moved with her. Gentle, unsure. Her fingertips slid up to rest on his shoulders. She was smiling, looking up at him with that cautious sort of hope. Like maybe tonight could mean something.

“You’ve got one of those faces,” she murmured, “like you feel everything really deeply.”

Mark huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah… that’s kinda my curse.”

Her smile widened. “Well, maybe you just haven’t met someone who feels the same way. Yet.”

Mark’s breath hitched. He didn’t mean to think of you. But there you were.

The way you’d look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The quiet comfort of your hand in his. That time you whispered “I think I’m falling in love with you” so softly, like you were afraid of the words, but even more afraid they were true.

She stepped a little closer. Her head rested gently against his shoulder. It should’ve felt nice. It did. Kind of.

But not in the way he wanted.

Because even now—this close, this warm, this quiet—all he could think about was how your head used to fit there better.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her smile faltered at whatever expression was on his face.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, voice barely a whisper. “You’re… you’re great. Really. I’m just…”

“Not over it,” she finished for him, nodding softly. “I get it.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have—this was a mistake.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Hey. Don’t beat yourself up. Sometimes we try to move on before we’re ready. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Mark gave her a grateful, sad smile. “Thanks.”

As he turned to leave the dance floor, he glanced over his shoulder.

She was still standing there, watching him go, that hopeful expression faded into something quieter. Understanding.

Mark barely heard William over the music, his head still spinning from the failed almost-something on the dance floor.

“Dude! Where are you going?” William called, jogging up and grabbing Mark’s arm before he could disappear into the crowd. “You said you’d try. That was not trying. That was—I don’t even know what that was.”

Mark exhaled sharply. “I did try. I talked, I danced, I smiled. I mentioned my ex so many times I probably traumatized that poor girl. I’m done.”

“No, no,” William said, spinning him back toward the dance floor with all the force of a drama teacher trying to save the spring musical. “We came here to get your groove back, not to spiral in a parking lot. One more song. Just one. Then you can go do your sad-boy brooding in peace.”

Mark sighed deeply, already halfway to saying no. But William was giving him that look—the one he only used when he meant it. The “I care about you too much to let you rot” look.

“…One song,” Mark muttered, defeated.

“Atta boy,” William grinned, grabbing both their drinks from a nearby ledge. “Now pretend you’re not dying inside and maybe I’ll even buy you fries on the way home.”

They were only on the floor for about thirty seconds before Mark knew he couldn’t do it. The bass thudded in his chest, people bumped into him from every side, and all he could feel was wrongness—like he’d wandered into someone else’s life.

He turned to William, eyes apologetic. “I can’t.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pivoted, already pushing through the bodies, ready to find a wall to lean against or maybe just the nearest door—

And then it happened.

He crashed right into someone. Hard enough to stumble. He blinked, startled, ready to apologize—until he looked up. And the world just… stopped.

You.

Your eyes locked with his like magnets snapping together. Your mouth opened a little in surprise, but no words came out.

Mark’s breath left him like someone had knocked the wind out of his chest. “Y/N?”

Your eyes were wide. “Mark?”

He looked around for a second, almost like he was checking the sky for signs of divine intervention. “Are you real? Am I—?”

You gave a stunned half-laugh. “Yeah, I’m real. I came with my friends. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you were,” he said, heart beating so loud he could barely hear himself. “Jesus. This is—”

And then, right on cue, the next song started.

Your song.

That one you used to scream-sing in the car. The one that played the first night he kissed you. The one he hadn’t been able to listen to since the day you walked out of his life.

His mouth opened. Yours did too.

Neither of you moved for a second.

But then—like gravity had finally remembered what it was supposed to do—he stepped forward. You did too.

His hands found your waist like they never forgot how. Yours curled into the fabric of his hoodie like it was still yours.

He searched your face, not for permission—he already had it—but for something real. A signal. A yes.

Your lips quirked—barely. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

He kissed you.

And the world, for once, got it right.

The lights blurred, the bass fell away, and the only thing either of you could feel was the truth humming between your mouths: You hadn’t moved on.

Not really.

Because how could you, when nothing else felt like this?

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, and it wasn’t desperate—it was homecoming. It was the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It was everything crashing back and still somehow fitting together perfectly.

The song kept playing.

And somewhere behind you, William saw it happen, and just raised his hands to the sky like, Finally—thank god.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part Four

{“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” “You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. “Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”}

warnings/notes: emma's mom is a *raging* bitch in this. alcohol consumption (poor coping skills ig) shoutout to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for always having my back <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem oc) word count: 6.6 k (jfc i can't shut UP about these two)

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Late afternoon sunlight spilled in through the floor to ceiling windows as Emma moved through the kitchen. They’d returned from Jeddah just last night, the brutal triple header having stolen so much from both Emma and Max, they had retreated to their bedrooms right after getting home. It had been nearly noon before either of them emerged the next day, with Max coming out first to make breakfast for the both of them. 

Breakfast between the Max and Emma on mornings when they were home had become somewhat of a tradition, a tradition that Emma was quickly becoming attached to. She didn’t allow that thought to full form in her head though. It was too dangerous. Too familiar to admit that she was getting attached to Max on more than a professional level. She didn’t want to admit the way she looked for him whenever she walked into a room. She didn’t want to admit how her heart pounded the entire time Max was in the car on the track and that she couldn’t fully settle until saw the checkered flag after a race and knew he’d be safely in the garage soon. 

Admitting any of that didn’t appeal to Emma at all, so she buried it all so deep down in her chest that there was no way it could ever surface. 

She tried to tell herself it was just kindness and convenience, this little breakfast tradition of theirs. Whoever woke up first would be the one to start the meal and Emma always made sure the fridge was stocked with bacon, eggs, and whatever fruit she thought Max might like that week. They hadn’t been doing it long but it was something that both of them looked forward to, even if neither put words to their feelings. Emma wasn’t willing to examine the fact that maybe Max did it because he wanted to take care of her and that she did it for the same exact reason. 

Shortly after the meal was cleaned up the morning after returning from Jeddah, Max had left in a flurry of athletic gear and gatorade, talking about playing Lando, Carlos, and Charles in a game of padel but that he’d be back in time for dinner and to text him what she wanted him to pick up from the market. 

Emma had drifted about the apartment for an hour or so after Max left, the exhaustion of being away from the only soft place she had to land had seeped deep in her bones somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah. Everything she considered doing sounded like it required too much effort but guilt sat heavy in her chest in response to her desire to just relax. She knew Max wouldn’t mind, her not helping around the house. It wasn’t like the place was a disaster either but her idle hands felt wrong, like if she didn’t do something to productive she was ungrateful for everything Max had already done for her. 

Emma wanted to sit at the piano and play something but even that seemed to be too strenuous that day, her attention span for anything longer than a 15 second TikTok video was completely nonexistent. Emma was never sure how to handle days like this, the days where she was too tired to do much more than get up off the couch or do anything productive. These kinds of days had never been allowed in her home growing up. If you weren’t doing something productive or useful with your downtime, you were lazy. It was a mantra that was hammered into her consciousness so hard that even now, when she hadn’t lived at home for years, the words still haunted her. 

In the end, she had settled down on the couch before flipping through one of the dozens of streaming services Max had access to and settled on an old favorite: West Wing. Emma was half way through the episode where Mrs. Landingham was killed by a drunk driver in her brand new car, the anticipatory tears having started during the opening credits, when her phone buzzed to life. She half expected it to be Max telling her he’d decided to go out to dinner with the boys instead of coming home and that she was on her own for dinner but when she looked at the caller ID, her heart stuttered to a stop. 

MOM

“Of all the days for you to call…” Emma whispered, blowing out a breath. She spent several moments trying to decide if she had the strength to deal with her mother that afternoon. She knew the answer was ‘no’ but she’d been dodging her mom’s calls since before Japan so Emma knew it was time to face the music. 

As if he could sense her distress, Jimmy jumped up on the couch right as she answered, curling himself up into a ball in her lap and bumping her free hand with his head. Emma grinned down at the spotted cat. Max had insisted that Jimmy hated strangers and to not be surprised if he was quite standoffish but Jimmy had been nothing but sweet as sugar to Emma since day one. 

Much like his owner. 

Sliding the button on the screen of her phone, Emma lifted the device to her ear. “Hi Mom!” She tried to sound as happy as possible despite the aching exhaustion pulling at her extremities. 

“Emma, darling, how are you my dear?” The sickly sweet voice of her mother filled her ears, sending anxiety shooting down her spine. 

“I’m good, just trying to relax a bit.” 

“Ah, yes, I’m sure those girls you’re looking after run you quite ragged.” Something in her mother’s tone had Emma sitting up a bit straighter. She hadn’t lived through years of baiting and passive aggressive taunts to not recognize the beginnings of a fight brewing. 

“Well, about that…” Emma started, figuring there was no time like the present to fill her in on what had happened. Maybe her mother would surprise her and be on her side for once. 

“I had the most interesting discussion with Greta down the street this morning!” Her mother interrupts. 

Emma closes her eyes, dragging in a ragged breath. Clearly there was a reason for this call other than a friendly check in. These kinds of calls always came with an agenda set forth by Emma’s mother and Emma’s mother alone. She was helpless against it. The quicker she accepted that Gloria was in control of the call and she ws just alone for the ride, the quicker the call would be over and the sooner she could get back to crying over Mrs. Landingham. 

“Oh?” She asked reluctantly, knowing that this conversation has already been planned in advance and needed no help from Emma to move it along. 

“Yes! She said her and Frans were watching the Formula One race on Sunday evening and she said the funniest thing to me!” 

Emma’s heart stopped. Oh, here we go. 

Without waiting for a response, her mother continues. “She said that she swears she saw you at the race in one of the garages! I told her she must be mistaken because you were supposed to be in Monaco working the nanny job you insisted taking instead of returning to the school like your father and I had advised.” Her tone is light, innocent almost but Emma knows better. 

“Ah…well, Greta wasn’t wrong.” Emma’s stomach churns with anxiety as she fights to find the words. “I was in Jeddah for the race on Sunday.” 

Emma’s mother makes a small noise of surprise, even though Emma is fairly certain the surprise is feigned. “How nice of the family to give you the time off so quickly after starting a job!” She observes. 

Emma knows this is a trap but there’s nothing she can do about it but continue on. “Actually, I don’t work for the Dubois anymore, mom.” 

“Emma Jane Meyer, what are you talking about?” She asks sharply. 

There it was. The facts that her mother had been fishing for plainly stated and out in the open. Emma manages to stifle the heaving sigh she wants to let loose but she knows that’s a dangerous move, especially when her mother is out hunting for reasons to be angry.

 “It just didn’t work out mom, the family weren’t who they presented themselves to be.” 

On the other end of the phone, Emma’s mother makes a disapproving tutting sound that almost certainly was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “Well then, why aren’t you back home? How are you living in Monaco of all places without a job?” 

“I do have a job, mom.” Emma learned long ago that short answers were the best way to deal with Gloria. 

“Oh!” The genuine surprise at the exclamation has a heavy weight settling itself directly on Emma’s chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement on where my mind was going!” God, Gloria was always so supportive. “Well, go on then, what are you doing? Did you find another teaching job that quickly? I’m surprised the family didn’t reach out to the school to let them know of your…record.” 

White hot searing pain slices at Emma’s heart as she sits there, listening to the surprise and backhanded compliments she had always been so intimately acquainted with. Emma can’t let her mom see that she’s gotten to her. She can never show that kind of weakness or she gets eaten alive. 

“Do you remember Victoria’s brother Max? I’m working as his personal assistant.” 

“All those years spent in university and you’re an assistant?” The way her mother says ‘assistant’ makes it sound like Emma was selling her body on the streets for drugs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma closes her eyes. “It’s a good job mom. Max is busy and he needed the help. I’ve been to Japan, Bahrain, Cyprus and Saudi Arabia in the last three weeks alone. It’s actually a really good opportunity for me.” 

Gloria is silent for a beat, as if she’s struggling to find a chink in Emma’s existence. “He’s that racing car driver, yes?” 

“Yes, mom.” Emma fights the exhaustion that’s begging for her to be impatient and short with her mother because deep down, she knows it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “He drives Formula 1 cars for a living. That’s why Greta and Frans saw me on tv. I attend all the races with him and was watching him from the garage on Sunday.” 

“Well, what do you know about racing cars, Emma Jane?” The question is accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked Max into hiring her too. 

“Nothing, mother.” 

But she knew Max, and that was enough for her to care about something so foreign to her. 

“Then why in the world did he hire you?” 

Emma has to hold the phone away from her face for a moment, staring at the device like it was going to sting her. Why was she even entertaining this?

“I don’t know mother. Max is patient and the work I do is really racing adjacent. I don’t have to know about tire deg and sector times when all I do is manage his inbox and book his travel.” 

“Have you managed to find an apartment then? I’d imagine the Dubois didn’t allow you to stay. Max is certainly able to pay you well.” The speed at which Gloria changes the subject when she runs out of ammunition makes Emma’s head swim. 

“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” 

“You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. 

“Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?” 

“Well, you quit your teaching job with no notice to take a nannying job, which you promptly got fired from and are now shacking up with the man who signs your paychecks! I don’t know if I’d recognize you if I passed you on the street, Emma Jane!” 

“Oh for the love…” Emma whispers more to herself than to Gloria. “I can’t do this anymore.” She continues, louder now so her mother can hear. “When you want to have a clam, adult conversation you know where to find me.” Emma finally snaps, stabbing at the red End button without waiting for a reply. 

The silence that floods the room should feel soothing after the barbed words being exchanged moments before but as Emma leans back into the overstuffed couch, Jimmy managing to be brave enough to climb into her lap again, Emma feels anything but soothed. She had tried so hard to be neutral, to not give into the baiting that she knew was the goal the entire time but once again, she had failed. 

As Emma scratched between Jimmy’s ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally reaching the breaking point with her mother. 

***

Emma was angry.

Max could hear it. 

It wasn’t sobs or shouting that he heard as he returned from padel later that evening though. No, that wasn’t how Max knew Emma was angry. He knew she was angry because the sound floating out of the apartment was loud and angry, the epitome of heat and anguish in musical form. 

The piece Emma poured over while he quietly set his things down in the kitchen was sharp, short, and exasperated. It’s rough, ragged, and raw, the way Emma was sorting her way though whatever had happened while he’d been gone. As he settled into the living room, he made enough noise so Emma knew that he was back but not enough to distract. 

This had become sort of a routine in the short time she’d been staying with him. In the evenings when they were both relaxing, Emma would sit down at the piano and work through whatever she was feeling that day and Max would quietly sit on the couch or slip into his sim rig on the opposite side of the living room, volume down, so he could race and listen to her music. 

Tonight was different though. He’d never heard her play like this before and the moment he settled on the couch, Jimmy instantly bounding over to him to curl up in his lap, he knew she was working through something that he wanted to be around for. 

While Emma hadn’t been working for him long, and living with him for just a bit longer, the nature of their jobs forced them together for long hours in stressful situations over and over again for weeks on end so Max felt like he’d had a good enough chance to get to know Emma, to be able to read her well. It was sometime in between Japan and Bahrain that Max noticed how she avoided any talk of her parents or her past. If the subject of home came up, she deftly dodged any questions asked of her and even when they were alone, Emma remained quiet and careful. It was almost as if she was walking around afraid to get into trouble despite being incredibly competent at her job and a fully capable adult. 

Max got glimpses of her though, the Emma that tucked herself away behind heavily fortified walls that no one was allowed to breech. On nights like these, nights like the quiet ones they’d had in Cyprus between the races in Bahrain and Jeddah, Max got to know Emma better through how she played the piano. He knew how precious those moments were because in those little glimpses when she let her walls tumble down around her, Max saw her. Saw the hurt, the anger, the rejection but he also saw the hope, the commitment, the passion she had. Emma revealed so much of herself while her fingers danced over the keys when she played while he listened, more than she probably realized. 

It was easy to pick up on the anger radiating off of her body that evening not only because Max knew her but because Max understood the anger. He’d heard it, felt it in his own body time and time again. Knew the hurt of disappointing parents with high expectations. Knew what the anger felt like because he’d dealt with that last week in Jeddah after his penalty on Oscar which had cost him the race. 

He knew she was angry because he recognized the same demons in Emma that he was fighting with on a daily basis. 

The piece ended a few minutes after Max had settled into the couch, the silence blanketing the dimly lit Monaco apartment. Warm yellow lights cast a golden glow over the two of them as Emma sat at the bench for a few moments, flexing her fingers and staring at the sheet music in front of her. 

“You okay over there, Sunshine?” 

Emma’s heart fluttered at the nickname Max had started using in the last few weeks. The nickname she was desperately trying not to like. The breath she filled her lungs with was ragged but getting everything out of her body was so cathartic Emma almost felt steadied. “I think so.” She replied softly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Emma turned to face Max for the first time since she’d sensed him in the living room with her. She appreciated the way he was just loud enough to ensure he didn’t startle her anymore but was never so overtly there that she was distracted. Max is still dressed for padle, although his dark blond hair is still a touch damp, so Emma assumes he had showered at the club. The way his icy blue eyes watch her with a quiet confidence has Emma nodding despite the way she wants to shut down. Vulnerability was never rewarded in her house growing up so opening up to someone like Max was a terrifying prospect. 

Max pats the couch cushion next to him as a grin stretches across his face, rewarding her for her bravery. When she settles down beside him, Emma brings her knees up to her chest before circling her arms around them so she’s tucked into a protected ball.

It takes an amazing feat of strength for Max not to reach out and pull her into his lap. 

“What happened?” He asks quietly when she doesn’t offer up an explanation to the distress still rolling off of her in waves. 

“My mother happened.” She replies lightly, almost as if it’s a joke and it all clicks into place for Max with just those three words. 

Max sits and listens as Emma recounts the entire nightmare story from beginning to end. With each sentence, each quote from her mother, Max’s chest tightens and his blood pressure risees. As Emma tells her story though, she finds herself feeling lighter with each word that passes her lips. She’s never spoken to anyone other than Victoria about her upbringing, about how her parents treated her as an afterthought and a burden. It was never something she liked talking about because talking about it meant making it real. And making it real meant admitting that she was so unlovable that even her own parents didn’t want her. 

With each bit of story she releases, Emma sinks a little bit deeper into Max’s side. He doesn’t notice it at first, neither of them do, but when she tells him how she ended up hanging up on Gloria after she accused her of sleeping with Max, he looks over to see her head nestled gently on his shoulder. His arm goes around her shoulders instinctively, only seeking to comfort her and offer a silent word of thanks for entrusting him with what Max knows is a difficult story to tell. 

After a few moments of silence, Emma rises again and approaches the piano. Max watches curiously as she sits back down on the bench, fingers stretching out for the keys once again. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does the piano sound better than it did that first day?” He asks, trying to distract from the heavy feeling that hangs in the air still. 

Emma looks at him, head tilted like she’s surprised at the question. “You know what, it is.” She says after a beat. 

Max nods, satisfied grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I asked Charles to send over his piano guy to tune it while we were gone. I’ll let him know you approve.”  

Emma’s mouth drops open a bit at bit of information Max drops on her. “You…what?” 

Max looks at her and shrugs. “You said it was out of tune and so I wanted to fix it for you.” 

“You really are one of a kind, Verstappen.” She says with a shake of her head before turning back to the piano to play Clair de lune, something she knows is one of Max’s favorites. 

***

Max wasn’t sure how he’d done it but after an hour or two of cajoling, he’d gotten Emma to agree to go out with him, and the crew he’d played padle with that afternoon. He knew she needed it, could read it in the way her eyes went stormy and unfocused when she had been attempting to make dinner, the phone call from her mom still digging their cruel talons into her memory. 

Usually Emma fluttered around the kitchen while she was cooking, a quiet confidence radiating off of her while she deftly prepped whatever meal she’d been inspired to make that day. Max found himself sitting at the counter more often than not whenever she was in the kitchen, mesmerized by the way she moved around in the space that usually sat empty and silent, even when he was home. The way she seemed to know exactly what to start prepping, when to put something in the oven or in the pan, what seasonings to use without consulting a recipe most of the time. It was all fascinating to Max, who probably would’ve messed up boiling a pot of water. 

Tonight was different though. 

The pots clattered against each other just a bit louder than normal as she searched for the right one to sear the salmon Max had picked up at the market on his way home. Her movements as she chopped up the lemons for the sauce were stiffer than usual, more forced and stilted, compared to the smooth confidence he was used to from her. 

There weren’t big, body wracking sobs or tears, just quiet tight shoulders and less chatter as she worked to get dinner ready.

 He knew that she needed to get out of her head to escape the constant press of anger and anxiety because he’d been there and knew he’d go there again before the season was finished. Figuring out how to help Emma gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to pull himself out of his own spiral the next time it happened.

So when Max saw that familiar, long distance look in her eye he had called for a night out. She hadn’t been out in weeks, he reasoned, needed a chance to blow off some steam, didn’t she? There had been a quiet flicker of something on her face as Max stood in the kitchen telling her how she’d love Jimmy’z, how Charles and Lando and Carlos had been asking after her earlier that afternoon. She’d tried to argue that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate for a night out in Monaco but Max hadn’t bought that, insisting that anything she had in her closet would look perfect. 

“I’m not above begging, Sunshine.” Max had crooned as he put the last pan away after washing it by hand.

He didn’t miss the way she blushed at the nickname he’d become accustomed to calling lately.   

“Okay! Fine! You win.” She had laughed eventually, rolling her eyes but Max saw that smile creeping slowly across her face, bright and genuine. “It would be embarrassing to have to tell the boys how you got on your knees in front of me.” 

Max had gone pink at the image Emma’s words conjured in his mind. 

The image of him down on his knees for her was nothing compared to the images that popped into his mind the moment Emma stepped out of her bedroom an hour after agreeing to a night out. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in some sort of complicated braid situation creating a crown around of her head. Emma rarely wore her hair completely up but Max considered threatening another begging session to get her to wear it pulled back like that more often. The way it was swept up and out of her face showed off the long lines of her neck in such a dangerous way, Max’s grip on the marble countertop in front of him tightened painfully just looking at her and he hadn’t even gotten past her neck. 

The dangerously short lace dress that hugged curves Max hadn’t been aware she possessed fit her so sinfully well, his mouth ran dry. 

He must have been starting at the Ferrari red dress a little too hard because when Emma got closer, her face clouded with anxiety. “What?” She asked, awkwardly tugging at the spot where the fabric tightened around her hip. “Is it too much?” Emma huffed before dropping the sky high black heels in her hands down on the floor, the shoes clattering noisy against the tiled floor. “I knew it was too much. I’ll go change.” 

Emma made an attempt to turn around and retreat back to her bedroom but was stopped when Max surged forward, hands reaching for her without even thinking. He swore his fingers burned when they found the bare skin of her elbow. “You look good, Em! Perfect for Jimmy’z, I swear.” 

Emma flushed so deeply her cheeks nearly matched the red in her dress. “Yeah?” She murmured, slipping her feet into the heels in front of her. 

Max nods, “Yes, Sunshine. I promise.” 

She doesn’t look totally convinced but enough so that she continues back towards her bedroom. “Okay.” 

“You ready then?” 

He tries not to groan when Emma catches her bottom lip between her teeth, brows pinching together as if she’s already having second thoughts. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She says, nerves evident in the way she shrugs as if she’s not the most gorgeous person Max has ever seen in his entire life. 

“Perfect. Let’s go then.” 

***

Max regretted agreeing to this, he decided shortly after they arrived at Jimmy’z. The moment Lando had spotted Emma across the dance floor, his grin had gotten much too wolfish for Max’s liking. It got even worse as Emma weaved her way across the crowded club with him right behind her, his hand low on her back as he guided her through the crush of bodies. It felt like every single head in the darkened room swiveled in her direction, following her every move as if she were the sun and they were plants reaching towards her warmth. 

“Gentlemen!” Emma greeted, seemingly totally unaware of the effect she was having on every male in the room, including his friends. 

Lando stood first, opening his arms for a hug that Emma freely gave. “You look…” Lando’s gaze raked over Emma’s body and Max had to physically restrain himself from punching the McLaren driver. “Stunning tonight.” 

Emma went pink, ducking her head against the compliment Max knows she’s going to struggle to accept. “Thanks, Lan.” She murmurs and Max’s pulse stutters at the nickname. 

Carlos is Max’s next victim, taking Emma into his arms in a friendly hug but it sits all wrong in Max’s chest just the same. “So glad you agreed to come out with us tonight, Emma.” 

The casual kiss on the cheek Emma gives Carlos has Max seeing red. He clenches his jaw, forcing a tight smile onto his face as Emma’s passed to Charles. 

“You look good in Ferrari red, love. Maybe you should watch the next race from my garage.” Charles says, kissing her on both cheeks before he smirks over at Max’s murderous face. 

“Never going to happen, Charles.” Max grits out as Emma slips into the booth next to Lando. He slides into the booth on her other side, shooting Charles a glare that is meant to be intimidating. 

Charles just grins over his glass as he takes the seat across from the trio, beside Carlos. 

Max ignores it and dips his head towards Emma, the scent of her vanilla and spice perfume wrapping itself around his senses. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” 

Emma shakes her head before pointing towards Lando’s retreating frame, already making a beeline across the room towards the bar. “Lando’s got it, but thanks Max.” She chirps before leaning back into the plush leather booth. 

Max desperately shoves down the white hot sear of jealous that flashes in his chest. He listens quietly as Charles pulls Emma into a conversation he refuses to be a part of, focusing instead on the way her knee keeps touching his ever so casually. Every time he feels the press of her leg against his, he swears his heart stutters to a stop. 

Lando returns quickly, two glasses clutched tightly in his hands. “One double cran for the prettiest girl in Monaco.” He flirts, grinning like a schoolboy when he sees the muscle flutter in Max’s jaw. 

Max knows Lando’s MO. He’s seen it time and time again. He’s all charm and pretty words, designed to get his target to tumble into bed with him. Usually Max just rolls his eyes at his friends antics but with Emma it’s different. He feels…needlessly possessive and for someone who’s always gone out of his way to remain emotionally unavailable and unattached, it’s an unsettling feeling. 

Emma doesn’t belong to you, Max gently reminds himself. She’s his assistant, nothing more. She’s a grown woman who can choose who she wants to spend time with freely. Max just wished it was with him and not his on-track rival.  It was none of his business, truly and as he sat listening to Lando make Emma laugh he repeated that mantra over and over in his head. 

The conversations flows just as easily as the drinks do with the bottle service girls making several visits to the table, refilling the glasses as quickly as they’re drained. Emma is definitely tipsy by the time she finishes her third drink, the light dinner they’d shared a few hours earlier doing nothing to help slow the grip the alcohol has on her mood. Her laughter comes easier, a little louder than usual and she’s leaning into the Lando’s side with every sip that she takes. The way she’s returning Lando’s flirty banter, teasing him with the same energy he’s giving her, has Max’s jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, the DJ starts spinning a more sensual song, one that has Emma swaying back and forth before she downs her latest drink. Lando turns to Emma, a charming grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had enough chatting to last me the rest of the season. Dance with me?” 

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s standing and grabbing Emma’s hand. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice!” She quips but gets up regardless, following Lando out of the VIP area and onto the dance floor. 

Max watches Emma go, hips swinging back and forth with her hand captured tightly in Lando’s as they disappear into the crowd. His knuckles go white around his gin and tonic watching the McLaren driver turn Emma around on the dance floor, his hands landing low on her hips as he pulls her into him. Her body is loose from the alcohol and she wraps her arms around Lando’s neck as easy as breathing. 

He watched, stony glare on his face, as Emma stepped even closer into Lando’s grasp. Her hips swayed in time to the music that thrummed through Max’s chest. The bass thumping in time to the beat of Lando’s hands exploring all the parts of Emma Max wished were his alone. 

“You’re going to give yourself lockjaw if you keep clenching that hard.” Charles remarks, amused smily kicking up at the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Max’s eyes dart back towards Charles, mouth thinning into a straight line. 

“You’re trying to kill Lando with those daggers you’re shooting from your eyes.” Carlos observes, taking another sip of his drink, eyes bright with mischief. 

“I don’t know what you two are talking about. They’re just dancing.” 

“Uh huh.” Charles murmurs, though he sounds unconvinced. 

“It’s not like I own her, she’s just my assistant.” 

Charles snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t stopped staring at her since you both walked through the door.” 

Max flicks his gaze back to where Lando and Emma still connected in every place that mattered on the dance floor. “She had a rough day, I’m just concerned.” 

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days? Concer? Because it reads more like obsession.” Carlos teases as he turns to watch the couple on the dance floor.  

Max shoots Carlos a look that has him grinning over the rim of his drink, brows rising into his hairline. The three men continue to drink in silence, Max not so subtly watching Lando paw at Emma opening, Charles and Carlos watching their the steam practically pour from their friends ears. 

As the song ends, Lando takes Emma’s hand and leads her back towards the booth. He slides in first, then, with a playful tug on her hand, pulls Emma down onto his lap. Emma laughs, bright and slightly breathless. It’s a sound that Max is used to only hearing when it’s aimed at him. Her eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Max, a subtle fleeting glance to gauge his reaction. 

Max, jaw still tight, offers no reaction. He can’t. Refuses to give Lando the satisfaction and Emma a clue as to the storm roiling inside him. She’s vulnerable, drunk, and reeling from a difficult fight with her mother, now is not the time nor the place to get into a possessive pissing match with one of his best friends. So instead, he stares ahead, his expression carefully neutral, focusing on the flashing lights across the room as if they held the secrets of the universe. 

Seeing his response, a mischievous glint sparkles in Emma’s eye. She leans in close to Lando, her hand resting lightly on his arm to whisper in his ear, “I wore such a pretty dress just for Max and he’s barely looked at me all night” 

Lando doesn’t have to see her face to know Emma’s practically pouting. 

Normally, she wouldn’t share such a confession with anyone but the alcohol Emma’s consumed that night has her lips loose and her desire for Max ratcheted up a notch. Lando throws his head back, chuckling, his arm tightening around her waist. He didn’t mind being a means to an end for a night, especially if it meant cuddling up with a woman like Emma. 

Max doesn’t hear a single word she says but the sight of her whispering so intimately in Lando’s ear, the easy familiarity of their closeness, sends a primal wave of jealousy surging through his veins. His vision narrowed, the edges blurring a bit as his mind goes wild with speculation on what she could have been whispering in his ear. There was a feral growl building in his chest, a possessive rage that threatened to erupt. Max wanted to yank Emma away from Lando, right up off his lap, throw her over his shoulder and take her home where he fucked her so good she never wanted to look at another man ever again. He wanted to stake his claim. Wipe that sums grin off of his friends face. The causal touch, the shared secret, the blatant disregard for his presence. It was all too much. 

Max was on the verge of losing it and all he could do was sit there and take it.

The night continued on, the music pounding, the conversation blurring into a general hum that resembled a hive of hornets. Emma, despite her earlier energy from earlier, was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the day. The vibrant energy of the club was beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly heavy warm woolen blanker: too warm and too heavy all over, all at once. 

Max watched from his place in the booth as she disentangled herself from Lando’s comfortable hold, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks for the seat, Lan.” 

Lando grinned up at her, boyish dimples winking up at her from the corner of his mouth. “Anytime, Emmy. Anytime.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the nickname as her gaze drifted towards Max. He was sitting in the same spot he’d been in all night, still nursing the same drink from earlier. He watched as she took a few wobbly, tired steps to the other side of the table before slipping into the booth beside him. Her perfume, thick with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with the smell of the vodka she’d been drinking that night, flooded Max’s nose. 

“Hi.” She breathed, head coming to rest into the crook of Max’s neck. 

He straightened, surprised by this sudden closeness after a night spent watching Lando paw at her. Max looked down, chin brushing the smooth silk of her hair as he battled the urge to bury his nose in the locks. 

“Everything okay, Sunshine?” He asked, voice gruff. 

Emma scooted closer, so that her thigh was pressed into his and their shoulders were overlapping. “Yeah, I’m just getting a little tired, I think. Everything just kind of hit me all at once.” She gave a small, whiny sigh, burrowing her head even deeper into his neck. 

Max stiffened, knowing that Charles, Carlos and Lando were watching them with curious stares but also realizing Emma was overly uninhibited at the moment. He didn’t want to push her away but he also didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing that both would certainly lead to Emma feeling embarrassed. 

“Can you take me home now?” She asked sleepily. 

Max blinked, his breath catching in the back of his throat. “Home?” 

Emma nodded, eyes fluttering shut despite the loud chaos of the club pulling just beyond their bubble. “Yeah. It’s just…my bed sounds really good right now and I kind of want to cuddle with Jimmy and Sassy before I fall asleep.” 

Max’s heart clenched painfully. 

“Yeah, of course.” He stood slowly, guiding Emma along with him. Her body sagged into his grasp as Emma stumbled a bit. 

“Oops!” She giggled before reaching back to snatch her clutch from the table. “I’m going to pilates at 9am tomorrow, do either of you want to come with me?” She asked Lando and Charles while leaning heavily into Max’s side. 

All three men exchanged glances before nodding, smirks on their faces. “Sure, Emmy.” Lando chuckled, knowing that there was no way Emma would be out of bed anywhere close to 9am. 

“See you guys later.” Max said before slipping his arm around Emma’s waist and turning her towards the door. She was sober enough to make it to the door herself but unsteady on her feet enough that she leaned into Max’s side the entire walk to his car. 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

[the-witty-pen-name]

Can I Cut In?

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: alcohol consumption; fluff

Based off request: Heyyy, would you write something fluff about Ghost? Maybe reader overhear ghost talking to soap about how he likes y/n but it's afraid of make a move.

A/N: Thank you for the idea! @drownedinverse

Requests are open!

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you also didn’t keep walking when you definitely should have. Walking past one of the briefing rooms, you heard Soap and Ghost talking. You were going to just stop in and say hello on your way to the mess hall. You froze just before the doorway when you heard your name.

“Would you just drop it?” Ghost says, and you can tell he sounds irritated. You wince, your anxiety getting the better of you- convinced maybe you did something to annoy him.

Ghost always seemed to avoid you. You assumed maybe he just didn't like you- which was fine, he was always respectful and he never let it interfere when the two of you needed to work together. You hoped when you joined the taskforce you’d become close with everyone, but you accepted that Ghost and you wouldn’t be friendly- you don’t have to be friends with your coworkers.

“I just don’t understand what your issue is,” Soap replies, and he sounds exhausted. You can hear the heavy steps of his boots as he’s pacing back and forth.

“God, there is no issue-” he tries to insist, but Soap must have given him a look or something because he doesn’t even finish the sentence as his voice falls in defeat. “I just get so fucking nervous.”

“Nervous?” You hear Soap chuckle. Your brow furrows in confusion- Ghost… nervous? Because of you?

“What if I ask (y/n) and it goes horribly? It could ruin everything… Shit, it would be such a mess, Soap.”

“It’s a date, not the end of the world.”

A date? Ghost wants to ask you out? There’s no way- he avoids you any opportunity he can. He tolerates you at best- you can’t even bring yourself to believe your ears.

“It’s not just a date- and you know that Soap.”

Dating you would be complicated. For weeks Ghost imagined how asking you out would go. He imagines every possible rejection- from polite, to rude, to you just laughing in his face. He thinks he can stomach rejection, it’ll hurt- it would devastate him, but he could move on. What he fears more is if you said yes. He’s played it out in his head way too much. He’s worried about what it would be like to open himself up, to become vulnerable- just for the inevitable downfall that he always manages to find himself in. He’s convinced himself that no matter what he’d just end up losing you so up until now he’s just shoved his feelings down as always. But as time passes, and the feelings he holds for you becomes stronger- it’s becoming unbearable.

“Fine, be miserable forever,” Soap says in defeat and you decide to walk away quickly before either of them realizes you’d been there.

You’re eating at one of the long tables in the mess hall when Simon takes a seat on the bench across from you. His words that you overheard are practically ringing in your ear as he looks at you. This isn’t like him. Usually he sits away from you, at the other end of the table. You feel that your face is hot under his intense stare. He looks so nervous, and you know it has to do with the conversation you overheard. You think maybe he knows you heard them, and he’s here to set the record straight- you misunderstood everything.

“So,” he begins, his eyes now focused on the table in front of him, unable to meet your eye. “The guys mentioned maybe hitting a pub off base on our day off.”

“Oh?” You ask, tilting your head. He nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, uh, I- Soap, uh, you know, he’s trying to get a headcount- wants to know if you’re going, you know- to the pub, obviously.”

“Oh, um, yeah- I’ll try to be there,” you say with a smile.

The whole team is shocked to see Simon walk through the doors of the bar. He never opts to go out on his days off. He usually always stays behind, left to be by himself on base. Soap already knows why he’s here and he can’t help but find the whole situation amusing. He’s never seen his friend like this before.

“Holy shit! Look who it is,” Roach exclaims, lifting up his pint in Ghost’s direction. Ghost nods, maneuvering through the crowd to get to where the team has taken over the corner booth. He tries his best to hide his disappointment when he sees you aren’t there. He feels so defeated, and he’s almost tempted to just turn around and head back to the barracks.

He slides in next to Soap anyways. He grabs one of the unclaimed glasses from the middle of the table and pours himself a beer from the pitcher from the middle of the table. If he was here, he might as well drink his sorrows away.

The music is loud and it’s crowded when you arrive. Anxious butterflies swarm in your stomach. This is the first time the team has met outside of work since you joined the force. You’re hoping tonight will give you a chance to bond with them, and in the back of your mind, you’re hoping that Ghost is there.

Ghost sees you before you see them, and honestly, you take his breath away. This is the first time he’s seen you out of uniform and god, you looked amazing. Everything about you just made his heart practically beat out of his chest. He’s usually so much better at keeping his emotions at bay. He’s never let himself feel like this before.

But it’s you.

When your eyes find them as you scan the room, you smile and Ghost thinks you might be the death of him. He knows you’re being waved over by Soap and you’re smiling at him, but he can’t help but hope that maybe you’ll smile like that because of him. You’ve completely ruined him, and he can’t see past anything else except you when you’re in his atmosphere.

“Hi everyone,” you smile, not even hesitating to slide in next to Ghost. You smell good too, he feels like he might go insane. Everyone on the force greets you with a smile and a boisterous hello, except Ghost, who sits there with gritted teeth like being next to you is so uncomfortable that he’d rather be anywhere else.

You realize you must’ve misunderstood what you heard earlier. There’s no way he’s interested when he just asks like this whenever he’s around you. You start to feel especially foolish, looking down at the outfit you picked out especially to get his attention.

Price passes you a beer and you thank him with a polite smile. You clear your throat, trying to cut through the awkward tension you feel sitting next to Ghost. You can’t even imagine how you let yourself get wrapped up in the idea that he might actually like you.

The group gets lost in conversation as some time passes and you’re eventually able to focus on the group and not on Ghost. The music is loud and people are starting to dance, recognizing the song that someone put on through the jukebox.

“Oh I love this song,” you say with a grin, turning to watch the people who’ve started dancing. It looked like everyone was having so much fun. You turn back around and finish your drink.

“Come on,” Soap says with a grin, offering you his hand. Your eyes widen, pleasantly surprised as he leads you over to the floor. He puts a hand on your waist and leads you as you both dance to the fast paced song.

Ghost knows it’s just a friendly gesture on Soap’s part but he’s fuming. His eyes are shooting daggers at Soap the entire time, jealousy bubbling up inside him when he has no right to feel this way.

At the end of the song, Soap spins you and it makes you laugh, and you need to hold his shoulders afterwards because it leaves you dizzy. You’re both laughing, out of breath from trying to keep up with everyone else, and Ghost can’t watch it anymore.

The song changes, something much slower and couples around you begin to sway. Ghost gets up and strides over to you and Soap before you both begin dancing.

“Can I cut in?” He asks, and Soap steps aside. He pats Ghost on the shoulder, a grin on his face- his plan working out exactly as he hoped. You rest your arms around Ghost’s broad shoulders, and his hands rest on the small of your back.

“I didn’t think you were a dancer,” you say after a few moments. Ghost chuckles.

“I’m not,” he answers.

“Oh,” you reply, and you both fall into silence again. There’s an unspoken tension and a nervousness that the two of you feel.

He’s so nervous. He can hardly steady his breathing, the feeling of you against him is overwhelming- it’s all he can think about. The moment with you is perfect and he’s so worried about saying anything wrong that ruins it. You’re just so pretty, and it makes it hard for him to think straight.

“Would you wanna go out sometime?” He asks suddenly, surprising himself but his sudden outburst.

“Like- like a date?” You ask, surprised. He gulps.

“Yeah, like a date.”

“I’d like that,” you say with a smile, and all of his nervousness melts away. “Can I, can I try something?” You ask, looking up at him. He nods. He doesn’t care what it is. He’d say yes to whatever you asked for.

You lean up and press your lips to his, hesitantly at first. All you feel is sparks, but you’re worried you overstepped when he doesn’t kiss you back at first. Embarrassed, you move to pull away but he pulls you closer, kissing you back finally.

Suddenly every book you’ve read, or movie you’ve seen with an amazing first kiss makes sense. Both of you are left breathless, smiling like fools and you hide your face in his chest when you hear the obnoxious cheering of your teammates.

[miaoua3]

RIDING SEUNCHEOL'S FACE LIKE FULL-BLOWN SITTING AND GRINDING ON IT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH

YUUUUUUUP PREACH IT GURLLL YOU COULDNT TELL ME CHEOL ISNT A CERTIFIED MUNCH OHMYLORD THE NASTINESS THAT IM ABOUT TO WRITE OOOF-

Sit On It

Pairing: bf! scoups x f!reader

Genre: the nastiest smut i will probably ever write (MDNI), face sitting, praise, power play (slight), cunnulingus

Description: you make cheol’s terrible day so so much better by finally fulfilling his biggest fantasy-you sitting on his face.

Note: hyperventilating just by thinking about sitting on his beautiful face, eyebrows furrowed, big arms wrapped around my thighs- UNHOLY THOUGHTS BEGONE XJAJAKANNSOQJAIA (also, not proofread, as per usual💔)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

here’s the thing-a lot of things that you and cheol did in the bedroom was relatively new to you, considering that your previous lovers (if you can even call them that by the lack of effort they put) were selfish and conceded. so when you two started dating, and eventually sleeping together, it was surprising to experience being with someone who was so…giving, almost catering to all of your needs.

that man, if he could, he would spend every waking moment of his between your legs, either lapping and licking and sucking on your sweet pussy, or pounding into it with the force that makes the whole bed move, never mind your body.

still, there was one thing you two still have yet to try. something he has expressed he would love to do-or, well, for you to do to him.

or rather to his face.

naturally, he respected your wishes and you saying ‘no’ to his proposal. but you could see how pouty he turns every time he tries to ask if maybe you have changed your mind yet, only for you to vigorously shake your head.

it’s not that you don’t want to, it’s just…

it’s one thing to have him lay between your legs, lapping on your juices and make you soak both his face and his sheets.

it’s an entirely different thing to have that control over him-over the situation- and just grind on his face, to make yourself cum all over it, when usually he’s the one to usually make you cream all over his face.

and you thought your answer wouldn’t change. not for a while at least.

…well. about that.

you just felt so bad. he came back from work visibly under stress, his thick eyebrows set in a frown so deep they were almost touching.

he barely said anything to you, a clear sign that one wrong word could set him off, hence why he’s avoiding any conversation that could leas up to that.

he immediately locked himself up in the shower for a while, before he came went directly to your room, laying flatly on his back. his naked chest rose up and down in shallow and stressed sighs, face hidden in the elbow of his arm that he threw over his gorgeous face.

he just looked so…tense, you felt like you had to do something.

and so, before you knew it, you let your shorts and panties hit the floor, your (actually, cheol’s) shirt following next.

he was just laying there, deep in thought, that he didn’t ever hear you walk across the room, didn’t even pay too much attention to the mattress dipping under your weight as you crawled towards him.

it was only when you forcefully removed his arm from his face that he was ready to say something, mean things to snap at you just on the tip of his tongue immediately dying the moment he registered your nakedness.

at first, he was ready to decline your offer, ready to say that he wouldn’t be too gentle on you right now if you two decided to have sex, that he would use you rather than love you. and that is something he wouldn’t allow himself to happen, not with you.

but then.

instead of straddling his hips, you went ahead and put your other leg.

on the other side of his shoulder.

cheol just stares up at you, at your gorgeous body, an angle making him both salivate and his lips completely dry, your sweet pussy that he loved more than almost anything in this world hovering over his chin, so close yet so far away.

cheol followed the trail that is your body-your wetness right in front of his eyes, followed by your soft tummy, the curves of your waist connecting right into your chest where your soft and bouncy tits stood proudly, and lastly your visibly shy and nervous face.

he could feel himself panting already, ready to actually suffocate under your weight if you would so kindly let him. but despite his urges and needs, he waited. waited for you to make the first move.

waited for you to take control.

gulping one last time, in low and raspy voice you asked him one final question.

“still want me to sit on it, baby?”

and so here you were, head thrown back as the moans flew freely out of your mouth. almost like an instinct, like an animal, you were unconsciously grinding all over his face, your juices smeared all over his mouth, cheeks, and even nose. and yet, cheol just continued to lap on your pussy like a good boy that he was.

he was so so loud as well, you can’t honestly remember if you have ever heard him be so vocal, maybe even more vocal than him. his groans were bordering on animalistic ones, vibrations coming from his mouth traveling through your pussy, through your quivering tummy and shaky chest, all the way to your ears.

his big and strong arms were strongly wrapped around your thighs, locking them in place, so even if you wanted to move, cheol wouldn’t allow you to.

your hands were so indecisive, going from strongly holding onto the headboard, to leaning back on one, hand pressed into his chest that was tight from the lack of the air, while the other was holding onto his hair, pulling on it as you were grinding all over his beautiful face.

you peaked over your tits to look at his face, only to see his eyes closed in pleasure, eyebrows now furrowed in pure ecstasy instead of anger. you notice his eyes trying to open for a second, only for them to roll back into his head the moment you circle your hips again.

and the noises-god, it was so loud and nasty, it was all the more turn on.

you were just moving your hips, sometimes back and forth, properly grinding on his hungry lips, sometimes just making circular motions, smearing your precum all over his face.

which he seems to like so much, as every time you did it, you could feel his hips buckle upwards into the air and his moans travel through your pussy.

his tongue was splitting your lips apart before dipping inside your hole, collecting your sweetness on his tongue before swallowing it, the tip of his tongue then lapping at your clit for a second before doing it all over again. you swore, it almost looked like he was passionately making out, except it was with your pussy and not with you.

you were worried that you might be too heavy, that you were suffocating him, but that seems to be exactly what he wanted, as any time you tried to raise your hips a bit and let him breathe, he would just harshly pull you back down, a sound somewhere between disapproval and warning leaving him before he goes back to being a moaning mess.

it actually came so naturally to you- being in control. you weren’t even aware just how much control you had over him right at this moment. you were the one that set the pace, the one that used your hold on his hair to move his face in the direction that you wanted him to, the one who was a babbling mess, words like “such a good boy for me” and “fuck, just like that, baby, you do it so good” involuntarily leaving your mouth.

and cheol, just like a good boy you claimed he was, took whatever you gave him.

he was so lost in the pleasure, that he didn’t even notice just how close he was to cumming untouched until your hips started buckling out of control as well, moans getting breathier the closer you were getting to creaming all over his face.

before you knew it, you harshly pulled on his hair to push his face further into your pussy as you threw your head back, a loud scream escaping you as you reached your orgasm and came all over his face, your cum smearing all over his lips and chin as he tried to clean it all up, to swallow it, to lose himself in the pleasure for just a bit longer.

after you became sensitive, you recoiled away from his touch, finally being able to lift your hips away from his face and let him breathe again.

upon you lifting yourself up, cheol uses his newfound to take one deep breath, shakily filling his lungs with fresh air. he wasn’t even aware of just how oxygen deprived he was until he tried looking up at you only for everything to become very very blurry for him.

you two just stayed like that for a minute or so, both looking at each other as your chests were heaving.

and as you were looking at each other, a clear agreement was concluded between you two as you two were trying to come back to your sanities.

fuck, we are going back from this.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

max of 🔼 pls

Hell yeah! 500 for throuple:

——

He keeps looking to Eddie like they’re in an overflowing boat and Eddie has the only bailer. He doesn’t. He has no idea what’s going on. Surely Shannon knows how sperm donation works, right? At least in theory!

“So, uh, you know it’s like… Into a cup,” Buck says helplessly.

“Obviously!” Shannon snaps. “I’m not an idiot.”

Eddie is glad to hear she has a clear understanding of the concept.

“Wait, you don’t want him to do it?” Eddie asks.

“No!” Shannon confirms. “Do you?”

“No,” Eddie replies. “Because I think they just want a genetically manufactured hot baby.”

Shannon wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”

“But I’m not mad either way,” Eddie says. “You seem mad.”

“I’m not mad!” Shannon argues, in a tone that loudly disproves her assertion.

Buck winces.

“Okay, I’m a little mad!” She backtracks. “But it’s stupid and illogical and not fair to you, so do whatever you want! Donate sperm! Father a thousand children across the western seaboard for all I care!”

Eddie thinks she may be catastrophizing just a bit.

“Shannon, I didn’t even agree to it,” Buck says. “And if it’s such a big deal, I won’t, okay? I just… I mean… Why?”

“Because if you’re going to make a baby, it should be ours!”

Eddie starts to cough like he’s choking on something. What the hell did she just say? She’s kidding. She’s joking. There’s no way she actually wants a third child. No.

Buck’s jaw drops. His eyes widen with surprise. He looks gobsmacked. Good. Good. He sees reason.

“Well, uh…” Buck sputters. “Uh, I mean… It’s not like it’s a finite resource…”

What? No, no, no. What?

“I know that,” Shannon says sternly.

“If that’s the only problem, I-I could do both,” Buck suggests. Completely sincerely. Like he’s offering to make a second stop on the way home from the grocery store. No big deal. No trouble. Not a whole ass baby.

“Hold on a second,” Eddie feels compelled under threat to his life to interrupt. “Have you guys lost your minds?”

Buck looks at him like a puppy that isn’t sure whether you asked it to sit or come. Shannon glares at him. Uh oh. How did this turn around on him? He knew he should have stayed out of it. Except, if he did, maybe they’d go even crazier and make a fucking baby or something.

“We have two kids!” Eddie reminds them. “We have a two year old! We have a kid that will be going to college in less than a decade!”

[lostintransist]

I can't decide who I want to see laid out and whimpering more, graves or Simon.

Read your entire au like it's the morning paper.

Anon, thank you for you patience. I finished a big background project and suddenly could finish this. MDNI 18+ CW: Anal, DP, overstim, hickies, free use, reader is mean about sex, using sex to teach a lesson. [I don't know what came over me.] 2.8K of smut.

Phil hadn’t expected anything to come from seeing you at his sex club after sharing, by accident, some of Texas’ best BBQ.

He was, however infrequently, happy to be wrong.

As you lay naked and panting, all your attention had been pulled to Phil at the crinkling sound. He opened a side cupboard, cleverly tucked into the wall. Inside sat a bag of wet wipes, extra condoms, various types of lubes, a pair of medical scissors, band-aids, and antiseptic cream. If anything more were needed poking one’s head into the hall would oftentimes find a staff member ready to assist.

Hissing at the chill of the wipes, you watched him.

God above, as much as he loved sex this had to be one of his favorite parts of the whole shebang. When his partner for the night lay, scrounging up any iota of strength he hadn’t wrung from them, watching him? He felt more powerful than god. More benevolent too.

One wipe used up, Phil grabbed another one, moving to your armpits. He knew the power of a quick swipe there in helping recovery.

“You’re different than I expected.”

Your voice is rough, still raspy from the screams that had stopped at the ball gag.

Phil lifts the used wipe from your skin.

“Not as much of an asshole?” He joked.

“Worse of an asshole actually. That isn’t what I meant.”

He lifted a hand to your face, thump sweeping across the wing of your eyeliner, still intact.

“Your makeup didn’t move a bit, did it? You did a good job with it.”

You grab his hand, keeping it close to your face.

“That’s what I mean. How can you be such an asshole and still notice something like that? Or know the compliment would land?” Your eyes are searching for something they won’t find.

“Don’t know what you want from me darlin’, I’m no more than a bad man who is good at sex.” Phil shrugged as if to shed your kind words and fit better in his skin.

“What I want from you is to know,” you looked at him so expectantly, “if you’re free two days from now to do this again and hopefully more.”

The savage grin comes straight from his core. His dick struggled against all the times he came at the thought of you under, over, around, inside him again.

“That sounds like a plan.” Phil pulled you into a sitting position from your still joined hands.

Could sharing shade and then some mind-blowing sex be considered a meet-cute or a meet-ugly? Either way, it fits exactly the relationship the two of you had. Bites were handed out in pleasure and in pain.

Talking about what bothered you only happened after Phil fucked the anger out of your system. If Phil was angry, he got to snap at you two times without consequence. Third time though? He knew it would be time to get his ass filled with a vibrating plug. The remote would be nestled into your hand as you stared up at him with your arms crossed. Damn, the way the stance perked up your breasts and showed your hips to the best advantage had him filling the space behind his fly in a breath.

It took him a year to convince you to move and live on-site with him and his shadows.

“I need someone who can keep them in line and isn’t afraid to snarl at my men. Most of them would be more than happy to play toy for you when I am gone on jobs,” Phil lay balls deep in prone position. He traced the corner of his nail down your neck just to watch the gooseflesh rise.

“Phil,” you drag his name out. Heavens above he shouldn’t love his name humming through your mouth this goddamn much.

He rolls his hips forward, cooing at you about all the advantages of moving; you would have more regular time in his bed and free use with most of his men. He knew how you loved making men cower and cry, that rush of being powerful from making men quake. He had so many men who needed someone dominating them, they would love to be fucked by you.

The part he kept to himself is that he loved being fucked by you. God how he loved it. Whether you tied his hands to the frame and rode him like you could see the ascension coming and wanted to orgasm before it took you, or you edged him to hell and back Phillip Graves wanted more of you, all the time.

“Come on darlin’ let me pay you boatloads to yell at men, fuck who you please, and visit my bed more often.” He starts to kiss your neck, focused on keeping an infuriatingly slow pace.

“Okay,” the word escapes like a moan.

Phil is over-prepared on more reasons you should move for him and launches into more reasons.

“I have a sex dungeon. My whole collection of toys are on display and yours for the using. Tyler Thomas is my partner most times when on base. Ever been fucked by two men at once? I can make that happen for you,” Phil could hear the desperation creeping into his voice but damn if he wouldn’t do anything shy of losing a testicle to get you under him more often.

Your hand snakes back and takes a firm grip on his hair. With the speed of a viper, you sink your teeth into his cheek. He nuts immediately. Shuddering and sputtering Phil works on pulling himself back together as you run your tongue over the marks you left.

“If you listened as much as you spoke, Phillip, you would have heard me agree.” You press a kiss to his face, dead center in the teeth ringing his flesh. “Now because you came before I did I’m going to ride your face until I squirt down your throat.”

His shadows loved you nearly as much as he did. Not that Phil is surprised. He would be annoyed with how much they love you but all of his men agreed that if he found them in your service, tongue buried in your cunt or balls deep because your cramps were overwhelming, he could join with no questions asked. Sometimes that looked like Phil fucking a man in the ass, forcing him deeper in your cunt as you both cried out, or it looked like adding his tongue to the apex of your thighs as he and his man traded kisses and touches to you and each other. You also had permission to join any encounter you found in progress.

Phil knew that sometimes you would pull two shadows into your bed who hadn’t admitted their chemistry. His teams fought harder, and better with you at the helm. Phil knew he slept better for having you on hand.

“Phillip Cornelius Graves!”

The crack of your voice across the room, and the full naming of the head of Shadow company, sent his shadows scrambling.

Tyler, his faithful right-hand man, stood to flee.

Phil grabbed his wrist, fear making his grip tighter than it should have been.

“Where are you going?” He hissed.

“I grew up in Tornado Alley, I know a deadly storm when I see one. Good luck,” Tyler wrenched his hand from his sometimes lover’s grip and escaped like everyone else.

Standing, because it is better to die on one’s feet, Phil held both hands up in a gesture of surrender.

You do not snarl or spit when you reach him. The lack of vitriol tells him that whatever he did he fucked up big time. Holding eye contact you undo his belt, button, and zipper. Once the top of his groin is visible, because boxers are only for jobs, you slide your palm down his stomach settling fingers in his hair.

Maybe you just want angry sex?

The fist you make, capturing his short and curlies, and then walk away tell him that is absolutely not the answer. Phil stumbles to keep up even as blood rushes south. God, he loved it when you hate fucked him.

Stepping into the dungeon you push him back to a wall and rip his pants down.

“Now darling, if you wante—” his drawl is cut off.

“Shut the fuck up, Phil.”

The lava-boiling rage in your face tells him that however this ends it won’t be good for him.

“Can I know what this is about, doll?”

You leave a scrape on his ribs as you rip his button-up shirt off him. Dammit. He shouldn’t find that so hot.

“You have been making choices that are going to get you shot, and if you’re going to die for being an idiot I want to be on your mind as the bullet enters your brain.” You point to the wall where padded wrist and ankle cuffs have been positioned to hold a person open. “To the wall.”

He does as commanded, locking his legs in before one arm, and watching you as you click the last one in place with a hard look. Without breaking eye contact you press down on his erection with one manicured nail. It bobs back into place before you turn to the wall of toys. Heading straight to the anal plugs you grab a newer one and the bottle of lube. The distance is such that Phil can’t tell it’s a large one that vibrates him like a base drum until it’s covered in lubrication and you are reaching around him to insert it.

“Darling, you know what that one does to me,” he tries to bargain, getting nowhere.

“Gets you so hard and keeps you there until you can’t come?”

It is notching against his hole now, the constant pressure encouraging him to relax because you’ll get it in with or without his cooperation. Relaxing a touch it settles in with a pop. The big papa of an anal vibrator pressed on his prostate already. Phil’s breaths shuttered.

“I do know which one this is,” you press the power button starting the cycle they had programmed into the device.

His breaths heh, heh, heh out of him instantly.

“What now?” He questions like a fool.

“Now? I have a few shadows who are going to come in and give you a few hickies here,” you touch his upper inner thigh, right behind where his balls hang, “here,” you touch the other leg just below the back of his knee. “Here,” you scrape your nail along the edge of his shoulder blade, “And here.” You touch his nipples, both of them.

Leaning forward, careful to not touch any part of him now, you speak again. “Then when they are done I am going to strap you down to a bed, set the vibrator too high, and ride you into overstimulation while Tyler fucks me in the ass.”

Tyler, Phil’s sometimes lover, undid the cuffs on Phillip’s hands as you undid his feet. The hickies were already darkening. Perfect. He wouldn’t be breathing without thinking of you for at least the next few days.

While Tyler hadn’t objected to the plan you presented him with he had been shocked at the levels you were stooping to. Still, he lifted Phil, settling a leg on either side of his hip as he headed toward an empty bed. Couldn’t have the man reaching to pull his vibrator yet, and the damn thing was so large it would make walking awkward.

“Leave his ankles free this time,” you mention as you step up to the head of the bed, strap ready for Phil. “I want him to help.”

Both men stared at you like you were a masochist. Maybe you were. Stripping of everything but your bra, because you did not need your breasts bouncing in this mess, you lube up the still-hard Phil who is stuck on the bed. He whimpered as your hand cupped him, even going so far as to dip below his balls and lift them. There was the hicky you had asked for. Good.

The sound of clothes dropping to the floor behind you let you know that Tyler was ready for lubrication too. Coating him tip to root you handed him the bottle and climbed onto the bed. Straddling Phil on your hands and knees you presented Tyler your ass for your lube. You let Phillip watch your eyes dilate as the cool gel dripped between your cheeks and let your sighing whimpers fall to his lips when Tyler slid first one and then a second finger into your asshole.

He finger fucked you until you panted and lube fell onto Phil.

Reaching down you settled your finger on the power button of the vibrator.

“When your stupid choices end you, know that had you been smart you could have come back to more of this.” You click the button, sending the small but powerful motor onto high.

Phil keened, back arching under you.

“Tyler, I am going to put him in my cunt now. I want you to push into my ass when I am about halfway down Phil. He needs to feel this too.”

He removed his fingers as you backed up. The bed creaked under the weight of another adult. Taking Phil’s painfully hard cock in your hand, it vibrated slightly in your grip, you lined it with your first hole. Sinking down a titch you let Phil scream, the pitch spoke of sweet agony.

Another inch of him inside and you bent forward. Tyler pulled your cheeks apart and dribbled more lube on both of you before he pressed in with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to fuck ass.

Both you and Tyler ignored Phil’s cries and pleas as you situated both men to the hilt. Tightening your pelvic floor caused both men to groan. Reaching behind you settle one hand around the back of Tyler’s neck. Your other hand rests on Phil’s stomach.

“Tyler, hand on my clit,” he does as commanded.

“Now, Phil.” It takes a moment for his eyes to stop rolling in the back of his head to focus on you. “You are going to fuck up into me until I come three times. When the third has been ripped from my bones Tyler will turn off your vibrator. Get ready to thrust.”

You don’t care what it took from him but the man did know how to take orders.

The first orgasm came easy, the overfull feeling and Phil and Tyler’s dicks rubbing out of sync on the thin walls between them. The second came a little harder. Harder in finding the peak and harder in the way the orgasm shook you. Both men panted as you came down from your high.

“One more Phillip and you’re free.”

Instead of playing with you himself this time, Tyler pulled open your labia and let Phil’s thrusts scrape his pubic hair on the sensitive nerves. His other hand snaked up and into your bra, pinching your nipples instead. That third orgasm rocked you into space.

Tyler did as he had been told and turned the anal vibrator off once your asshole tightened down on him. Phil came with a cry, tears streaming down his face. Aftercare involved a shit ton of wet wipes, a dip in the hot tub for everyone, and a stomach nap for Phil with an ice pack tucked between his cheeks.

Phil kissed you sweetly when he woke. Something had shifted in him, but you couldn’t decide if it would be enough to save him from his own stupid decisions. Thinking over the experience you decided that he would be okay, you were sure of it. Setting down the case file for his next mission you go in search of Phil.

The label of the file reads “Las Almas.”

Masterlist

SoapGaz | John Price | Simon | Phillip Graves | Ghost | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | AO3

[mistycreativelilacs]

The Sins We Carry

The reader gets her world view upended by visiting someone from her past.

Chapter 1: Like Father, Like Son Kitchen Off Limits (The fic that started it all) Life Knocked You Down? Get Back Up. (Part two in my ongoing Bruce x Reader series) Ao3 Series (Read all parts in one convenient place and be the first to read new chapters when I post them.) Check out my other works on Ao3

Chapter 2: Sins of The Mother

“Why didn’t you tell me about my father?” Your mother sits in her living room, blatantly ignoring your entrance to her home. “Mother?” She turns the page of her book before gently placing it on the table beside her.

“I did start to wonder if you were finally going to visit your poor mother when the news of your patronage was revealed.” She picks up her teacup and gestures towards the chair across from her.

“This isn’t a social visit.” You grumble out while reluctantly taking a seat.

“Obviously.” She responds dryly. “We’ve barely spoken a word to one another since I told you not to marry that awful Wayne boy.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“Why don’t you? After every terrible thing that’s happened to you since becoming acquainted with that man, how can you possibly stand to be around him?” She raises a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Regardless of whatever simpering, pathetic answer you have for that, I don’t hate him. I simply know you could do better.” There's an ever-present air of pretentiousness wafting off her as she sips her tea.  “How many times have I told you not to slouch like that. It’s very unbecoming, not to mention awfully un-ladylike.”

“In case you’ve forgotten I’m an adult, and I’ll sit however I damn well please.” You slouch further into the couch in an act of admittedly childish defiance.

“This is exactly the type of regressive behaviour I feared that Wayne boy would encourage in you. You’ve completely forgotten how to act in polite company.”

“You’re not ‘polite company’, you’re my Mother.” Coming here was a mistake; the same mistake you’ve made every few years over the nearly two decades since you’d fled this stuffy intellectualist hellhole. “And thank you for reminding me why I shouldn’t even bother trying with you anymore.”

“Oh, do come off that incredibly high horse of yours, dear.”  She stands, smoothing out her skirt. “We both know these visits aren’t about some ‘misguided attempt to make amends.’ They’re about your ego. Things aren’t going the way you want them to in your personal life, so you come here to try and blame me for everything that’s ever gone wrong.” She moves to the bay window on the far side of the sitting room. “I was never as terrible a mother as you constantly try to make me out to be.” She opens the cabinet under the window bench and removes what appears to be a scrapbook. “I may have been strict, but you and I both know I was never cruel, never raised a hand towards you in anger.”

“But you never raised them in love either.” Your voice is shaky and small, so eerily reminiscent of the mons-… man you’d left in that hovel of an apartment mere hours ago. “I can’t remember a single time you hugged me as a child, nor an encouraging word. It was always a criticism, a scolding look, a disappointed glance across the table. I needed a mother and all I got was a governess.”

“Yes, well, you and I are very different, aren’t we?” She places the album in your lap before returning to her seat. “You wanted those boys, with every fibre of your being, and I’m sure you want children of your own with that awful Wayne boy.”

“They are my children, whether or not Bruce and I have a baby, those boys will always be my children.”

“Yes, because you have a nurturing spirit. It was always my biggest regret about you. Nurtures like you don’t last long in this city, especially not in the circles you’ve landed yourself in.” She almost sounded concerned for you. “Poor Martha was a nurturer, and look how that ended for her.” Your mother shakes her head. “When I found out about my pregnancy, I was prepared to do the right thing. Your father was an engaged man of prominence, and I was in the midst of getting my first PhD it made sense to terminate.”  Your world starts to tilt. You’d always assumed your mother never wanted children, but to hear straight from her mouth that she tried to terminate you… There’s a pain in your chest, and you can’t help but think of the boy’s face when you said those hurtful things to him earlier this evening. “Of course, I went to him first. I figured I could squeeze enough money out of him to cover the appointment, even more if I threatened to go to the press. But instead of wanting to get rid of you, he paid me to keep you. I never truly understood why, especially when you turned out to be a girl, but he continued to pay for your well-being, so I raised you as instructed.”

“You should have taken the money and aborted me anyway. Would have saved both of us a whole hell of a lot of trouble and heartache.”

“Open it.” She gestures at the album she’d placed in your lap. “My words will never be good enough for you; you never did respond well to logic. Such an emotional little thing. Perhaps those will finally show you what my words can’t.”

You crack open the album and are greeted with picture after picture of yourself. Each photo is accompanied by a description depicting when, where and why it was taken. The meticulous handwriting of your mother is scrawled across each page, with the descriptions getting less factual and more... emotional.

“My father paid you to keep a detailed photo album of me, so what? Is this supposed to make me feel better about having a mother who doesn’t love me?” Your mother rises from her chair once more.

“That trust fund your father left you in his will, that I'm sure he attributed to himself, or your grandfather; That was the money he paid me to keep you.” She moves towards the stairs. “I did send him a few photos over the years, but that album… that was mine, and mine alone.” She ascends the stairs, seemingly aloof to how she’s upended everything you knew about your life.

If you could be so... wrong about your own mother, what else could you be wrong about?

[imsogonesposts]

Ocean Boy

|| ao3 || an: this is part of a series, but each fic can be read on its own || Not What I Thought Series Masterlist || Finnick Odair Masterlist ||

summary: class with finnick (wc: 1,004)

It had been a week since your last class, since you first met Finnick. He had told you last week to save a seat for him for the following class, but as the clock ticked closer and closer to noon, you were beginning to have your doubts of the boy ever returning to sit next to you. 

That is until a voice, Finnick’s voice, calls out your name followed by a “good morning,” as he slumps into the available seat next to you. 11:57. He was dressed in sweatpants again, this time wearing a blue shirt that complimented his eyes instead of the hoodie you saw him in last. “You saved me a seat!” He exclaimed as he turned to face you. You could only let out a small smile.

“You told me to,” you simply replied. “Though, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up,” you tell him. 

Finnick only smiles at that, wiggling his eyebrows. You’ve quickly noticed that he likes to do that whenever he’s about to tease you. “You were waiting up on me?” He asked in a teasing tone. 

You only rolled your eyes, biting back the smile that wanted to creep onto your face. “Something like that,” you reply as Finnick slides a sealed granola bar across the table, to you. 

“Well, I got this for you from the vending machine, so consider it a ‘thank you,’ for waiting up,” Finnick replies with a softer, almost kinder smile before taking out his notebook and pen and focusing his attention on Professor Beetee as the class slowly started to begin.

***

“So, how are your other classes going?” Finnick asked as you both began to pack up your belongings. 

Professor Beetee had decided to end class half an hour early simply because he could and wanted to, meaning you would likely spend your free time until your next class in either your shared dorm room with your two friends Katniss and Johanna to take a nap or in the library to catch up on some homework.

“Pretty good,” you reply with a smile. “I got swamped with assignments for one of my classes though, so I gotta work on that.”

Finnick nods in understanding. “Yeah, my science teacher gives out assignments like crazy, and then she takes forever to grade them,” he says with a laugh, “she seems sweet though,” he lets out a small shrug before handing you your pencil pouch as you put your belongings away. 

“I can’t wait to take a nap,” Finnick tells you, getting up to stretch, “first thing I’m doing once I leave this class. I went out swimming at the beach a few blocks away from the school, and lost track of the time. I ended up getting back to my place around 1 am, and then after I showered, I was done for. Knocked out.”

You smile, “I didn’t know there was a beach nearby,” you tell him, getting up as well as you and Finnick begin walking to the hallway.

Finnick nods with a happy, joyous smile on his face. “Yeah, it’s gorgeous out there, you should go some time when you’re free. Very peaceful too, you could get lost there for hours.”

“I can tell,” you reply with a smile, beginning to notice the sight red tinge on his skin, likely from a sunburn. He didn’t look like he minded too much though. “You really like the ocean, huh?” You questioned with a smile. 

Marine biology major and spending hours upon hours on the beach? It was practically obvious.

Finnick’s smile somehow grew at your question, though. “Oh, I love the ocean,” he replied, the smallest crinkle meeting his eyes as he smiled. “I’ve loved it since I was a kid, we used to live near the beach, and for as long as I can remember I’d run out there and spend as long as I could out until one of my parent’s went looking for me. One of the biggest reasons I picked this school is because it’s so close to a beach.”

He was leaning against a wall now, scrolling through his phone before showing you a picture of what you can only guess to be a baby, probably around three or four years old, Finnick smiling a wide smile to the camera as he stood in front of a glass wall with fish behind it. 

“Loved aquariums for as long as I can remember too,” he tells you.

You couldn’t help but smile at his love for the water. It was almost endearing to see him talk so passionately about it. “Were you a mermaid in another life?” You asked him with a laugh. 

Finnick only shrugged with a smile before pocketing his phone away. “Funnily enough, my mom used to make that exact same joke to me all the time,” he tells you with a smile before glancing to the side. 

“I’d hate to cut our time short,” Finnick mutters with what almost looks like a frown, “but I think I gotta start heading out,” he says, nodding to his friends who were waiting for him on the other side of the hallway. A tall boy with brown hair and grey eyes, and a blonde boy with hazel eyes, who you think you remember Finnick referring to as Peeta last class. 

You nod with a smile as you both make your goodbyes, before making your way to the library. And on your way, you passed the school’s bookstore, noticing they had a collection of fish stickers put on display at the very front. And before you had time to second guess your actions, you were walking into the store, picking up a pack, and paying for them as you continued your way to the library. Finnick had bought you a granola bar from the vending machine, it was only fair to buy him a gift as well, right? Especially with his love for the ocean and the water. It only made sense. 

[escapingmytrauma]

Bluelock Medic 1.0

Isagi’s Route

WC: 1.5K

CW/TW: None.

A/N: I had to make reader seem kind of cool without making it cringy, ya know? If it’s cringy don’t read LMAO. Also don’t forget, there is a poll at the end of the story.

PROLOGUE: HERE

A body sits in front of you as you’re eating your dinner and you see Isagi. He smiles, “Nice to meet you, I hope you fit in well around here, we will definitely need you,” he explains. You smile softly and nod your head.

What a nice guy.

“Thank you, I’m sure I’ll fit in just fine, but tell me how has it been up to this point?” You ask. He lets out a small sigh and starts telling you all about his journey.

“Wow, so Kunigami was actually eliminated at some point?” You ask. He nods his head as he continues to explain how he had gotten eliminated.

At this point, at least two hours had passed since you and Isagi started talking with one another. A small yawn leaves your mouth and Isagi smiles. “Why don’t I walk you back to your room?” He offers and stands up.

You stand up and stretch a bit as y’all two start walking back to your room. The walk is a comfortable silence and you start smiling to yourself glad that you had made an acquiantance here. As you both pull up to your room Isagi suddenly hugs you from behind.

What the -

“Thanks for the talk, I like the talks with the guys, but it was nice speaking with someone who doesn’t have the pressure of being the best striker,” he says softly. He lets you go and you slowly turn around; you smile up at him.

“I’m rooting for you,” you say giving him encouragement.

His smiles widen as he steps back, “Good! I hope you can watch me all the way until I do become the best striker.” With that Isagi walks away.

You chuckle to yourself and walk back into your room.

This is going to be an adventure for sure.

() () () () () ()

The next morning you’re already at the field and the players are having an intense endurance training session. You watch everyone as intently as possible so you could be aware of any signs of injuries or even heat exhaustion. It feels like Ego had purposely turned up the heat within the field. You were in a tank top and shorts, but you were sweating yourself.

You glanced at the players and could even see their shirts starting to stick to them because of the amount of sweat they were exerting. Not too far behind Nagi you could see a figure almost sluggishly pulling himself. You couldn’t quite tell who it was but with the way they were barely pulling themselves it was like they were feeling faint. You quickly stood up.

Heat exhaustion for sure.

If you don’t do something soon he will definitely faint. Unfortunately, they were also kicking and shooting goals, so it was going to be hard for you to even get across. Yelling wouldn’t help either.

Think. THINK!

You took in a deep breath grabbing cold water and a cold damp cloth you already had prepared.

Just like dodgeball… right?

You start moving your legs sliding across a few balls coming right above your head. You take in a sharp breath and are able to dodge a few more, you see one ball coming too fast and you quickly let your legs go all the way down, you’re now down in a full split; but you can’t stop now, you get back up and slide again to dodge more balls.

“Hey! Get out of the way!” Someone calls out, you couldn’t quite make out the voice, but it didn’t matter, you needed to get to the player. You lifted yourself back onto your feet with leg you slid on. You could feel it, a ball coming your way. You lift your arm and the ball bounces off your arm and you continue to move. You finally come up to the familiar figure.

It’s Isagi.

“Isagi, you don’t look well…” You mumble and quickly place your body under his right arm to let him lean on you.

God, he is much heavier than he looks.

Finally, a few of the guys stopped and looked over to the both of you realizing why you had cut through the field. “I’m fine… I can… I can keep…. going…” He whispers out in between pants of exhaustion.

“Stop lying, you need to cool down for a bit before you think you can continue,” you retaliate. Your hand grabs a hold of his wrist and your other hand goes around his torso to give him more support. You start walking towards the sidelines and as soon the both of you get past the line Isagi starts falling. You fall back onto your ass and Isagi’s head is slowly falling into your lap.

“Hey Isagi, you need to drink some water,” you state not even caring that the back of his head is muzzlign into your chest. You sigh softly and decide to take matters into your own hands. You put the damp cloth behind his neck allowing it to come around to cool the whole area. You open the water bottle and slowly pour some over the top of his head. You slowly let the water fall onto his head the droplets falling onto your tanktop making the fabric cling against your body.

Isagi raises his hand to grab the water, but even his fingertips are trembling. Isagi still manages to grab the water, but it evidently slipping out of his hand. You react quickly and grab the water before it can fall. “You can’t hold it,” you mumble.

“Here, try to sit up,” you suggest. Isagi wearily brings himself to sit up, his hands firmly flat on the ground to hold himself steady. You stand up, you lean over Isagi as you place your hand on the back of his head, “Lean your head back,” you instruct. Isagi listens and you bring the bottle to his lips and slowly pour the water in his mouth. Isagi quickly swallow the fluid and you start to pour more. Slowly but surely Isagi finished the water; he finally is able to sit up on his own and takes some deep breaths.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He looks up at you but then his whole face turns red and he quickly looks away.

What just happened?

You slowly look down and see your white tank top completely see through from all the water that spilled through. You shrug and take off your tank top.

Not like they haven’t seen anyone in bikinis before, besides it’s a sports bra and some shorts.

“Sorry, but come on Isagi, you need to rest or else you won’t be good for tomorrow,” you explain and help him get up.

“Thanks, but I need to finish training,” he responds and runs back onto the field without another word. You sigh and pick up the cloth, bottle, and your tank top. You stand on the sidelines for the remainder of training. You were relieved that no one else got heat exhaustion, but majority of the players looked like they were on the brink of it.

Lunch comes around and you walk around the cafeteria checking up on the players. They all seem to be doing okay. You go over and grab yourself some water and notice you had not seen Isagi. You leave the cafeteria going through the rooms to see if you find Isagi. You come upon the weight room and see him training some more.

“Isagi, you cannot overexert yourself right after heat exhaustion, you need to give yourself at least two hours before you can do anything that includes physical intensity.” Isagi turns to you, he drops the weight and stands up but wobbles a bit. You quickly walk over to steady him.

“I need to get stronger,” he responds as he sits down and looks up at you.

“Yes, but you cannot get stronger if you run out of energy within 15 minutes because you didn’t rest properly after heat exhaustion,” you explain.

“That’s so weak of me, to not be able to keep up with endurance training…” he slowly starts off, “I should had been good the whole time.” Isagi grabs a cloth and pats his face down cleaning off the sweat.

“Yeah, well sometimes our body has no other way of telling us we need to take a break."

“Here in bluelock… there is no such thing as breaks,” Isagi mumbles out. A silence falls between the of y’all and you start to think what else could help him this moment.

“Have you eaten?” You ask. Isagi slowly shakes his head no.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You are, you just can’t tell because when you’re so exhausted you can’t tell what your body needs.” You leave the room and grab some food from the cafeteria. You start walking back to the weight room.

You walk into the weight room and see Isagi just sitting there, but you can slightly see his fingers trembling.

He’s still fatigued for sure.

You place the food in front of him and sit beside him. He looks down at the food and you can see his trembling fingers slowly reach for the bowl.

[talshiargirlfriend]

Day Twenty-Six of the 30 Writing Challenge

I thought I’d try a season ~2 dynamic. I think I’m too tired to do it justice though. Here it is anyway 😴

Under streetlights and shooting stars

Another day, another planet.

Unfortunately, they discovered the ore-rich valley they were visiting on this particular planet was prone to flash flooding.

Fortunately for Commander Tucker, SucCommander T’Pol was there to pull him out of the rising water before he got swept away. With her slight frame, it was easy to forget just how strong their Vulcan science offer was — until you found yourself manhandled onto dry land by her.

Trip leaned heavily against her and coughed.

Once she got him settled onto a grass covered ridge, he was surprised to find her holding his hand and looking into his eyes. He tilted his head in confusion and gave her a dopey little smile before realising she was checking him for shock.

“I’m all right,” he assured her before answering her questions and allowing her to complete her assessment while the rest of the team set up camp.

Trip’s luck didn’t extend too much further because he soon found himself sitting in front of the fire in damp underwear waiting for his coverall to dry.

T’Pol’s top dried in a few minutes, which was completely unfair.

He kept a curious eye on her throughout the evening. Obviously, she didn’t join in the singing Cutler started, but she didn’t sit there radiating disapproval either. Trip could’ve sworn he saw her looking amused at one of Travis’s jokes. Must’ve been the firelight.

Eventually, it was only the two of them left sitting beside the fire. He thanked her for saving his ass.

“There is no need to thank me, Commander. I simply did what was necessary.”

“T’Pol,” he said in mild annoyance, “let me be nice to you, huh? I know we didn’t get off on the best foot, you and me, but it’s good having you out here with us. Not just today.”

She considered him for a moment before nodding silently in acceptance.

“There’s a lot more camping involved in space exploration than I expected,” Trip said a few minutes later, just to make conversation.

T’Pol looked at him curiously, “Would you prefer to be amongst the conveniences of a starship?”

He took note of the fact she said conveniences rather than comforts. With so many people crowded on board, starship life wasn’t always comfortable.

“Nah, I like roughin’ it just fine. What about you? Do you prefer streetlights to moonlight?”

“No, I also like it rough,” she responded.

Trip choked and by monumental force of will managed not to laugh aloud. It was easy to forget she wasn’t a native English speaker.

“The expression is ‘roughing it.’ Liking it rough is a very different conversation.” He tried to keep his tone straightforward to avoid embarrassing her, although supposedly she didn’t experience embarrassment. Yeah, right.

T’Pol canted her head slightly in acceptance of the correction.

They kept a fairly comfortable silence. Trip was just about ready to turn in for the night when he spotted a shooting star.

“T’Pol, look,” he said in a hushed voice. “This is the third planet I’ve seen a meteor shower on. It’s beautiful,” he smiled.

“I have observed such phenomena from over thirty planets,” T’Pol remarked.

“So I guess it’s not worth noticing for you at this point.” He sounded disappointed to his own ears.

“On the contrary, Commander. Aside from the scientific data to be gained, it really is quite beautiful,” T'Pol said as she watched the sky. “The fact that it is a common occurrence doesn’t detract from that.”

Trip found himself reassessing her in the firelight once more. “That’s a good point.”

They watched a few more meteorites streak across the sky.

“You ever make a wish on a shooting star?” he asked curiously.

“Meteorite activity is common on Vulcan. Superstition is not,” she deflected.

He chuckled, “Of course not. Shoulda known better.”

T’Pol gave him a raised brow that suggested she agreed he should have. She looked faintly amused if he was reading her right. He was picking up on her knack for not actually answering his questions, too.

The warm glow of the embers, the light breeze, the stars overhead… The whole thing would be very romantic in the right company. He made a comment to that effect and she gave him a look of disdain.

“Oh, come on, T’Pol. Don’t Vulcans ever camp out… find a nice secluded spot and make love under the stars?”

“Vulcans do not ‘make love,’” she said icily. Still as prickly as ever. He grinned. And another non-answer. He was catching into her.

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Trip muttered slyly, watching the bronze rise in her complexion. “Goodnight, SubCommander.”

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 28: So Long, London

Sara had wiped down the bar twice even though it didn’t need it, then rearranged the coasters, then decided to un-rearrange them because that’s how far gone her nerves were.

The moment Helaena had told her what had gone through the heads of those two thick-skulled brothers of hers, she had seen the opportunity for exactly what it was.  

The third act of the movie she’d been playing in her head—and Helaena was the magical character who had just handed her the solution to save Vic.  

The deus ex fucking machina.  

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic—and she was trying not to get her hopes up—but that had never been her strong suit.

Helaena was sitting across from her in one of the booth seats by the window, sipping her tea, while Aemond—immaculate as always in a black turtleneck like a Bond villain who reads The New Yorker—was skimming something on his phone. Probably a spreadsheet. Or an existential crisis disguised as one.

“So,” Sara said. “This label thing. It’s real?”

Aemond nodded, solemn, like he was deciding on the launch formation for an airstrike against Scotland.

Sara leaned forward. “And what, like—a small independent label? Just music, no bullshit?”

“That’s the idea,” said Aemond. “Artist-centered. Selective roster. Total creative freedom.”

Holy shit, Sara thought, nearly dizzy with how fast her brain was moving.  

No more Vic being tugged in ten directions by men who thought management meant manipulation. This was the exit door. The one she didn’t even think existed.

“And you’d take Vic?” Sara asked, getting more excited by the second. The whole vibe of plotting and conspiracy made her feel like Lindsay Lohan in Get a Clue.

Aemond rolled his eyes and shot her a look that Sara found profoundly arrogant. For a second she thought about saying something, but Helaena nudged her brother with a grin, and Sara was suddenly, inexplicably, distracted.

“You mean what I’ve been trying to do for a year? On top of ripping her out of my father’s grasp? Count me the fuck in,” he answered, dramatically tapping his fingers on the table.

“So does that mean Aegon’s in?” she asked, trying to stay cool. “Is he… open to… working with Vic again?”

A beat.

Aemond didn’t look up from his phone.  

Helaena shifted, eyes dropping to her mug.

Oh, great. Here we go.

“I mean,” Helaena began carefully, “he hasn’t said no.”

“He hasn’t said yes either,” Aemond shot back.

“He hasn’t said much of anything, to be honest,” she admitted. “He’s barely talked about Vic since the party.”

Sara felt her shoulders tighten. Right. The party.  

The huge dramatic fight that Vic still called ‘the moment we broke up’.  

Sara wasn’t buying it for a second. Not when it came to those two.

“She said some pretty awful shit,” Sara muttered. “But she didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Helaena said softly.

But does he?

“Something else happened,” Helaena added, glancing at Aemond.

Aemond finally looked up, jaw tight.  

And Sara—who had been around just enough men with God complexes to recognize the signs—narrowed her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked slowly.

There was a pause, and then:

“I tried to kiss her.”

Silence.

Sara blinked.  

Stared at him.  

Then slapped a hand over her face with a groan loud enough to startle the table behind them.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Aemond.”

“It wasn’t like—” he started, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, don’t. I don’t wanna hear the context. I already know it’s stupid. I just don’t know what brand of stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, spare me,” Sara snapped. “What is it with you Targaryen men? Is it in your DNA? ‘Must ruin emotional stability of every girl in a five-mile radius’?”

“I didn’t ruin anything,” Aemond said stiffly.

“No wonder Aegon’s made zero effort to talk to her.”

Helaena, mercifully, stepped in. “Aemond was a little out of it. It wasn’t… malicious.”

Sara huffed, leaning back in the booth and crossing her arms.  

She wanted to be mad. She really did.  

But she was too fucking tired. And frankly, this wasn’t even the real problem.

The real problem was that Vic was breaking under the weight of it all—and Aegon, for all his flaws, was the only man Sara could trust right now.  

No, Aemond didn’t count.

And maybe this label thing could pull them both back in.

“I want to talk to him,” she said finally. “Now, even if he’s not coming to the concert. Just—see where his head’s at.”

Helaena gave her a sympathetic look. “He’s at the clinic.”

Sara blinked. “Wait, what?”

“He had a check-in this morning. Routine, for the rehab program.”

Right, of course.  

Sometimes Sara forgot he was still technically in recovery. That the line between fragile and resilient wasn’t always so clear.

She felt that familiar stab of anxiety again. Like the whole plan was being held together with scotch tape and hope.

“Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

She glanced over at Helaena then, who was stirring her tea in slow, absent circles, and something about the way the sunlight hit her hair made Sara’s breath catch.  

That was the worst part, really.  

How fast it was all shifting.  

Vic falling apart. Aegon disappearing.  

And here she was—somehow falling in love with a girl who smiled like spring and talked like poetry and didn’t even know she was capable of breaking hearts.

God help her.

Sara looked away, biting the inside of her cheek, and tried not to think about how badly she wanted Helaena to reach across the table and touch her hand.  

Or how terrifying it would be if she actually did.

“So,” she said, voice a little hoarse, “We’ve got this label project. If you say we’ve got some vague kind of hope, now we just need to get Vic out of her contract.”

Aemond didn’t look at her. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s never that simple,” Sara muttered. “Still doesn’t mean we give up.”

Helaena frowned, twisting a silver ring around her finger. “How bad can that contract be?”

Aemond glanced at her. “Awful, Hel, we’re talking about dad.”

“Yeah, well who cares, fuck him,” Sara said, mostly joking. Mostly.

“No. We go bankrupt,” Aemond replied flatly. “You know how much the penalty clause is?”

“Try me.”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

Sara let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Cool. I’ll just sell a kidney.”

“Two kidneys,” Helaena added dryly, which made Sara grin despite the growing nausea in her gut.

“There has to be something,” Sara said, pacing again. “A loophole. A clause. A fucking typo. Anything.”

Aemond leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying to summon a miracle. “If there is, I haven’t found it.”

“You’ve dealt with this kind of thing before, right?” Helaena asked him gently. “Has anyone ever gotten out of a contract like hers?”

Aemond’s mouth tightened. “Not without paying.”

Sara exhaled slowly, then ran a hand through her hair, mind racing.  

There had to be a way. A key they hadn’t thought of. Someone who’d already lived this kind of hell.

And then—

“Charlie,” she said aloud, almost startled by her own voice.

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “The ex?”

“Yeah. He hated the contract. Spent years trying to get out of it.”

“Charlie the conspiracy theory guy?” Helaena asked.

Sara laughed. She was also funny. “Precisely him. And if anyone knows that contract by heart, it’s him.”

She didn’t love the idea of involving Charlie.

Honestly, she wasn’t even sure he had more than one functioning brain cell left—and he’d barely cared about Vic when they were together. Now that he was living in his little tin-foil-hat utopia in whatever forgotten corner of the country, it was hard to imagine him giving a shit.

Still, they were running out of moves.

Sara stubbed out her cigarette and turned toward the others. “We call Charlie.”

Aemond exhaled, long and tight. “You think he’d even pick up?”

“You’re the only name he might still associate with the industry,” she said. “This way he’ll know it’s serious.”

Helaena, sitting cross-legged like some serene little prophet, gave a small nod. “Then that’s our next step.”

Aemond muttered something under his breath, but pulled out his phone anyway, thumb hovering over Charlie’s name. 

“Just hit call,” Sara said.

He did.

Charlie picked up on the third ring—but the moment he saw Aemond’s face on the screen, his own expression darkened instantly.

“Oh. Aemond Targaryen.”

There was a beat of static. Aemond’s jaw clenched.

“Hi, Charlie. How’s it going?”

Charlie frowned on the other end. “What, we’re doing small talk now?”

Aemond sighed. “Look, we’ve got a couple of questions for you about your contract with the label.”

Charlie let out a barely restrained, sarcastic laugh. Asshole.

“Right. Like I’m about to discuss the contract that ruined my life with you,” Charlie said, and then—click—the screen went dark.

Aemond just blinked, then silently offered the phone to Sara like, be my guest.

Sara sighed and redialed.

When Charlie picked up again, his voice was already annoyed. “I said I’m not talking to—”

“Hi, Charlie,” Sara cut in smoothly, stepping away from the others. “It’s me. Can you not be a complete lunatic for five minutes? We need your help.”

“Sara?” There was a long pause. “What kind of help are we talking about?”

“The kind where you help Vic get out of the contract that would ruin her life too.”

A rustle. A shift in tone. “You’re trying to get her out?”

“Yes. Turns out you were right with your… theories.”

Charlie let out a low whistle. “Oh, now you’re actually listening to me?”

Sara smirked. “Yeah, well, there’s nobody more surprised than me. Can you help or not?”

“Look, I hated that contract as much as anyone. But I don’t have the details anymore, and honestly, I’m not really looking to start a war with Viserys Targaryen. Not these days. I’ve got a job I actually like now, and—”

“—a girlfriend you love,” Sara finished for him, half-amused, half-irritated.

“Exactly. She’s a lawyer, actually. Funny enough, she was the one who found the issue with my contract.”

Aemond leaned in, instantly alert. “Issue?”

Charlie didn’t pick up on the change in atmosphere. “Yeah, something stupid. That fucking idiot you have for a dad never sent me the signed version. Just mine. So technically, it wasn’t enforceable.”

Sara blinked. “Wait—what?”

Aemond sat up straight like someone had plugged him into a live wire.

“That idiot,” he muttered.

Charlie was still talking, but Sara could barely hear him over the way Aemond’s brain seemed to go into overdrive.

“He never sent the signed version,” Charlie said again. “But it doesn’t matter now, I’m doing great and music was just a hobby anyway…”

But Aemond wasn’t listening anymore. His face had gone still—too still—and Sara recognized the kind of internal panic that came not from fear but from sudden, electrifying hope.

“He used to forget to countersign shit all the time,” Aemond said, almost to himself. “The Vice editor’s niece, Charlie… I remember reminding him to sign Vic’s contract—fuck, I remember exactly where we were—but I don’t remember seeing the signed copy.”

Sara’s pulse spiked. “Wait. Wait, are you saying—”

“There’s a chance,” Aemond said, standing up so abruptly the chair scraped backwards. “If he never signed it—if we don’t have a signed copy in the system then—”

“Then it’s not valid.” Helaena added, breathless. “That could be the out.”

Charlie, still on speaker, sounded confused. “Okay, what just happened?”

“Charlie,” Sara said sweetly, “you might’ve just turned out to be a decent person. Congrats. Wanker.”

And she ended the call.

Aemond was already halfway to the door, grabbing his stuff like a man possessed. “Let’s go, what the fuck are you waiting for?”

And as Sara motioned to Rhys to keep his mouth shut, she just hoped they’d make it in time to Hyde Park.  ******

“So let me get this straight,” Dalton began, eyebrows raised like Aegon had just dumped a bucket of chaos in his lap—and yeah, maybe he had. “The label party concert went great, you were supposed to play a gig at Hyde Park today, but then your dad sidelined you to focus on your co-writer-slash-band mate, offered her the same gig and your whole team, so you and your brother got pissed off, told him to go fuck himself, and now you wanna start your own label.”

Aegon winced. “Language.”

Not because he gave a shit about cursing—he didn’t—but because hearing it out loud like that made the whole mess sound even more deranged. Which, fine, maybe it was. Also, he was fairly certain psychologists weren’t supposed to talk like they were ex-roadies in a Guy Ritchie movie. But Dalton had clearly decided that “relating” to him meant speaking like a washed-up twenty-year-old from East London who still wore Adidas tracksuits and said “innit.”

The slang was painful. The attempt at connection? Slightly less so.

“More or less,” Aegon said, nodding.

He didn’t mention Vic. Not once. But that wasn’t news—he hadn’t let himself think about Vic in the past forty-eight hours either. Not properly. Not with anything resembling clarity. There was a part of his brain she still owned and he’d locked it behind a door for now. Threw away the key like a coward.

Dalton, predictably, beamed like this was all a glowing sign of personal growth. “Well, that sounds like a very positive reaction! Constructive, even!”

Aegon shrugged, slouching further into the chair. There was something incredibly pathetic about the fact that the only thing making him vaguely happy these days was finding common ground with the brother who used to fantasize about pushing him down a flight of stairs.

“I think he just needed to hear that I was sorry for what I put him through that night,” Aegon muttered, mostly to the floor.

Dalton nodded solemnly, adjusting his glasses in a way that made Aegon want to throw something at him. “The important thing is you talked about it. And your father? How did he react to the news about the new label?”

“He doesn’t know yet,” Aegon replied, picking at the corner of the laminated calendar on Dalton’s desk. “But let the man enjoy his last few hours of peace before we give him a goddamn aneurysm.”

He snorted, but it wasn’t really a laugh. More like a sigh with sharp edges.

“I mean the concert,” he added after a beat. “They’re all going. Even Aemond.”

He didn’t say her name.

He didn’t have to.

Dalton, to his credit, didn’t press. Not immediately. Just studied him for a moment with that annoying shrink look that said you’re holding back and I know it. Aegon hated that look.

“And you’re not going,” Dalton said slowly, “because…?”

Aegon looked out the window.

The grass was stupidly green. Too green. The light filtered through the branches of the big tree outside—the one he’d sat under too many mornings feeling like his skin didn’t quite fit. Thinking about how much he hated himself. How badly he wanted to drown all that hate in a line of coke. How good it would feel to be untouchable again, even if just for a few hours.

Same tree. Same light. But this time, for the first time, he noticed it was a rowan tree.

White blossoms clustered like ghosts on the branches. Had they always been there?

He’d spent hours beneath that tree and never seen them. Not once.

Funny how that worked.

“Because I don’t want to see her,” Aegon said, almost absentminded, eyes still locked on the white petals outside the window, swaying like they had something to say he didn’t want to hear.

“Who’s her?” Dalton pressed.

“That fucking Vic Dawson,” Aegon muttered, finally tearing his gaze away from the tree and fixing it on Dalton, who looked confused—probably not the name he expected. Aegon could feel it, that pressure in his throat, the backlog of everything he hadn’t said, and once the flood started, it didn’t stop. “She drives me insane.”

And there it was.

“She’s got everything. Everything, doc. She’s got this talent that—Jesus—it makes me so fucking jealous I could rip my own face off. She understands music like no one I’ve ever met. Like it’s wired into her fucking DNA. She’s smart, and quick, and she’s made me rethink stuff I swore I’d never compromise on. Including her, actually.”

Dalton was watching him carefully now, like someone trying not to startle a deer with a broken leg. Aegon didn’t care. The dam was gone.

“We wrote together for months, and half the time we didn’t even have to speak. And it wasn’t just writing. That night I almost relapsed…”

Dalton’s brow twitched up, alarm already flickering behind his glasses.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Relax, doc. Almost. I didn’t. I was at this party, I had it in front of me, but honestly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. It was just there.”

Dalton didn’t look reassured. Aegon didn’t give him the satisfaction of pretending to care.

“She didn’t look at me like you’re looking at me now,” he said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “She knew exactly what was going through my head. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. She gets it, in that way that makes you feel seen and called out at the same fucking time.”

His voice had softened now, almost involuntarily.

“And she’s beautiful, Dalton,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s beautiful when she plays. When she talks. She’s beautiful when she thinks. Fuck...”

‘She’s beautiful even when she’s not thinking and just is mean.’

He didn’t say that last part out loud. Couldn’t.

He dropped his eyes to the floor instead, his body sinking into the chair like he wanted to disappear into it.

Dalton was still watching him—curious, yes, but also surprised. Probably because this was the first time Aegon had ever said everything he actually felt in therapy, without dressing it up in jokes or cheap detours.

He didn’t bother with the usual shrink or too cool for the 90s voice. No soft transitions, no “let’s explore that.” He just asked it straight: “So why don’t you want to see her?”

Aegon didn’t answer right away.

He thought about the look on her face when she told him he was the problem. Thought about the way that sentence had landed on him like a knife he didn’t see coming.

A branch outside shifted, sunlight flashing in a clean beam right across Dalton’s face, making him look like some waxy caricature of empathy and authority. Aegon turned back to the tree.

Cold washed through him. That sudden kind of cold, like you’ve laid down on asphalt in the middle of winter and it seeps straight into your bones.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally. “Her palliatives scare me. The not-knowing if she’ll get out of them—or if she even wants to. That terrifies me.”

He swallowed.

“Like, every time I see her drink, it’s like watching someone hold a gun to their own head. And when she’s not okay, it scares the shit out of me.”

Dalton didn’t say anything right away. Just let out one of those annoying, thoughtful hums.

“Mmh.”

Aegon hated how much it actually helped.

‘I can see right through you, Vic Dawson.’

Yeah, he had. From the first fucking night.

The way her sadness wore a dress and a smirk and the way she drank lager like it was a shield with Aemond's friends. The way she played songs like she was bleeding between the lines. How she asked him about rehab like she’d already tried to imagine herself there a thousand times, and hated what she saw.

He got it. And that’s exactly what made it so hard.

Dalton just tilted his head the way he always did when he was about to let Aegon talk himself into a corner.

So Aegon kept going—because silence made his skin itch.

“It’s… complicated,” he said again, like it meant something. “And I can’t watch it. So I’m not going.”

He waited for the nod. The fake understanding. But Dalton just kept watching him with that maddening calm.

“Sounds like someone I know.” Dalton raised an eyebrow. That was it. Just the eyebrow.

Aegon scowled. “I mean… yeah, okay, maybe I used to be like that too.”

Still no reaction. Not even a fucking pen click.

“I’m not now. I’m trying,” Aegon added quickly, like it proved something.

Then it hit him—sharp and sudden. That word. Trying.

Wasn’t that the first thing he’d ever really known about Vic?

With that first song that first night.

She was trying too.

Dalton finally leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. “Trying’s good.”

It wasn’t sarcastic. That almost made it worse.

Outside, the petals spun in a shift of wind. Aegon watched one catch on a branch, hang there for a second, and fall anyway.

“I guess I just…” he exhaled. “I don’t want to be afraid all the time.”

Dalton gave him a long look. Not heavy. Just precise.

“Afraid of what?” he asked, like he already knew.

Aegon shrugged. Looked back at the window. “Her.”

A pause. Then, more quietly, almost to himself: “Me.”

Dalton didn’t smile, but there was something softer in his voice. “Maybe being afraid isn’t the problem.”

Aegon frowned. “Then what is?”

“Maybe it’s thinking fear means stop. Like it means something’s broken and it’s up to you to fix it.” He tilted his head again. “But sometimes it just means something matters.”

Aegon stared at him. Then back out the window. The rowan tree moved, just barely, in the breeze.

Something matters.

He didn’t like how much that stuck.

Didn’t like how fast his brain latched onto her.

Didn’t like that he wanted to get in the car and drive to that fucking stage just to be there in case she looked over and expected him to be.

He looked back at Dalton.

“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? You going to see this girl play or not?” Dalton asked, throwing his arms up in exaggerated annoyance.

“Doc, I mean it, you swearing doesn’t make you sound any younger,” Aegon shot back, suddenly overtaken by a kind of panic made of white petals and songs and beer and the Hyde Park crowd. All of them with Vic’s eyes.

“As if I’d take advice from Aegon Targaryen, the guy who’s so scared of how in love he is he’s convinced himself the woman he loves is just another palliative,” Dalton said, with a smug little grin.

Aegon raised one eyebrow.

Smug bastard. And he was paying him for this.

“Fuck off, Dalton,” Aegon said, laughing as he grabbed his jacket and rushed for the door.

[tidecallr]

She did not resist as his claiming hand traveled higher, commanding her to tip her head back and expose her throat. Her eyes closed as a dark promise fell from his lips. Reveling in the sensation of soft scraping of his teeth, the heat of his breath against her skin, followed by his arm snaking around her waist. She didn’t fight the pull of him, or the press of his body, or the weight of his claim. She let him take her. 

Because there was little mercy in her blood either.

The moment his voice slipped against her skin—low, coarse, cut from the same cloth as sin itself—she knew: she wasn’t walking out of this untouched. Not in body, not in soul. Whatever this was, it had already carved its mark too deep.

Her breath hitched. Not from fear. From recognition, right before he claimed her mouth again in a punishing kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. 

Carrow was right. Theia had never been a prize. Never a sweet little thing meant to sit on velvet and be kissed with reverence. She was forged in ruin. Raised in shipwrecks and rough sands and the cold bite of saltwater against an open wound.

And if he thought he could break her, burn her, claim her— He’d best be ready to bleed for it.

Effortlessly, his arm curled around her waist and hauled her up into his arms—light as a feather, lifeless as a doll. But she wasn’t limp for long. Her lithe body responded on instinct, wrapping around him, legs cinching around his waist for balance—not that it seemed like he needed it. He carried her across the den like she was a storm he’d trapped in his net as her voice came low, ice-laced and unflinching. “No prayers left in me, Carrow,” she rasped, lips brushing his jaw, just enough to feel the twitch of his seemingly ever-present grin—foreboding, dark and dangerous. “Only curses and ghosts. You want my voice? You’ll have to earn it.”

The room blurred around them—smoke and candlelight and hungry eyes—but none of it mattered. The air changed when they passed. Darker. Tighter. Every breath was heat now. Every step, closer to a surrender laced with teeth. Her hand dragged down his chest, nails grazing just hard enough to make him feel her. To remind him she wasn’t some frightened little dove as he carried her . “I hope you’ve brought chains, devil,” she whispered against his ear, her smile a slow, wicked thing. “Because if you want to keep me, you’ll need more than promises.” It was miraculous, that this claiming, somehow also felt like a taste of freedom.  It was freedom. Because if Rhett Carrow was the fire, then she would be the pyre. And together, they’d turn burn this place to cinders. 

“Let’s see how pretty I burn, then,” Theia said, voice low and laced with a dare. “But you better be ready to burn with me, love.”

rhett  didn’t  laugh.  didn’t  smirk.  didn’t  even  blink.  he  just  watched  her.  watched  her  lean  in  like  she  was  starving  for  the  destruction  she’d  asked  for.  watched  her  drag  those  clever,  dangerous  fingers  over  his  rings  like  she  meant  to  steal  them—and  him  along  with  them.

watched  the  wild  flash  of  her  eyes  when  she  dared  him  to  make  her  beg.  slow  as  a  pulling  tide,  he  brought  the  hand  on  her  throat  higher—sliding  his  thumb  along  the  curve  of  her  jaw,  rough,  commanding, until  his  fingers  caught  the  hinge  of  her  chin.

he  tipped  her  head  back  with  just  that,  forcing  her  to  bare  her  throat  to  him  fully  now.  no  more  teasing.  no  more  pretending.  and  when  he  spoke,  it  wasn’t  a  whisper.  it  wasn’t  a  threat.

it  was  a  promise:

“first  act,  pretty  thing,”  rhett  rasped,  voice  molten  and brutal,  “ain’t  mercy.”

he  dipped  lower,  his  mouth  grazing  the  skin  just  below her  jaw—a  feather’s  kiss  that  made  the  absence  of  touch  burn  worse  than  any  brand.  then  lower  still,  dragging  his  teeth  lightly  down  the  slope  of  her  throat, the  pulse  hammering  there  under  his  mouth.  he  felt  her  shiver.  felt  the  way  she  leaned  into  it  without  even  meaning  to.

good.

good.

he  let  his  lips  barely  graze  her  ear  as  he  spoke  again—low,  dark,  a  chain  slipping  around  her  neck  one  link  at  a  time.  “no  beggin’  yet,”  rhett  muttered,  letting  his  breath  sear  hot  over  her  skin.“you’ll  earn  that.”

his  hand  dropped  from  her  jaw  just  long  enough  to  slide  around  her  waist,  anchoring  her  to  him,  dragging  her  body  flush  against  his—hard  lines  against  soft  heat—like  there  was  never  meant  to  be  distance  between  them  at  all.

he  kissed  her  again—rougher  this  time,  claiming  her  mouth  with  a  bruising,  punishing  heat  that  stole  the  air  from  her  lungs.  this  wasn’t  a  kiss  for  softness.  this  was  a  kiss  for  breaking.

he  let  the  kiss  drag  out  until  her  hands  tightened  on  him,  until  he  could  feel  the  war  raging  under  her  skin—fight  or  surrender.  then  he  pulled  back,  just  barely,  breathing  rough  against  her  lips,  still  caging  her  in  so  tightly  she  couldn’t  have  run  if  she  tried.

“this  ain’t  a  show,”  rhett  growled,  low  and  dangerous,  “and  you  ain’t  just  a  prize.”  he  dipped  his  head  lower,  mouth  brushing  her  ear  again,  the  words  a  hot  brand:  “you’re  the  fuckin’  offering.  and  i’m  the  one  takin’.”

he  pressed  her  back  into  the  chair  a  little  harder,  keeping  her  pinned  just  by  the  weight  of  his  body,  just by  the  slow,  steady  burn  of  control  dripping  from  him  like  molasses.  “you  wanted  to  step  into  the  devil’s  den,  stormborn?”  he  murmured,  almost  gentle  now,  almost  cruel,  “then  you  better  learn  to  pray  real  sweet while  you  still  got  a  voice  left  to  do  it.”

for  a  moment,  he  let  her  feel  it—

the  burn,  the  inevitability.

the  way  her  body  was  already  answering  before  her  mind  could  catch  up.  then  rhett’s  hand  slid  lower,  rough  along  her  waist,  anchoring  her  even  tighter  to  him.  without  warning—without  a  second  for  her  to  change  her  mind—

he  hauled  her  up  out  of  the  chair,  not  rough,  but  final. like  she  weighed  nothing,  like  she  already  belonged  wherever  he  was  about  to  take  her.

“you  wanna  burn  for  me,  pretty  thing?”  he  rasped  against  her  ear  as  he  dragged  her  tight  against  his  side,  leading  her  through  the  smoke  and  dark  of  the  den  without  sparing  a  single  look  for  anyone  else,  “then  you’re  gonna  do  it  somewhere  only  i  get  to  see.”

and  gods  help  her—because  rhett  carrow  didn’t  make  empty  promises.

[wawataka]

eating the worlds worst conchas i’ve ever had

[imaginedisish]

Lover, You Should've Come Over (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Get ready to cry. This is based on a request I received yesterday where the reader gets jealous of Jean. I tried to take this in a different direction just because I feel like this is a popular trope that has been done by many fantastic writers. It's also inspired by "Lover, You Should've Come Over," by Jeff Buckley. Hope you guys enjoy.

Summary: You've been pining after Logan since you joined the X-Men, and you're convinced he'll never love you back. He’s obsessed with Jean—always has been. Or...maybe he's not.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Oral (f!receiving), fingering, PIV (unprotected...pls WRAP IT UP THIS IS FICTION!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, f!reader/afab!reader, telepathic!reader, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan (kinda? yeah.), non-canon compliant (you'll see what I mean...no spoilers), cursing, angst, feelings, implied mutant trauma (kinda a given in X-Men), probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,197 sorry

Wanting someone you can’t have—it’s that crying in the shower, pulling your legs into your chest, screaming into your pillow kind of heartache. You’ve come to know the feeling intimately. It’s an awful, horrid, stomach-churning kind of pain.

But you want him. Despite all the pain, you want him. Logan Howlett. You can’t seem to keep him off your mind. For the few months you’ve been one of the X-Men, Logan has been a constant. He’s always there—whether it’s to train or just to talk. But you know he’ll never want you. You see the way he looks at Jean. You wish you didn’t. You wish you were oblivious to that sort of thing. But you don’t need to use your telepathy to reach inside his mind for proof—you just know. 

You keep holding on, savoring every moment, every interaction you have with Logan. You sit on the lawn of the mansion with him, watching the sunset. You’ll come down to the living room late at night to find him sitting in front of the T.V. and join him. Sometimes he’ll drape an arm around your shoulder. He’ll draw circles into your side as you drift off. You’ll wake up the next morning back in your bed, Logan having carried you there long after you’ve fallen asleep. 

You’ve decided you’ll take all he’ll give you, even if it means nothing to him—even if it's platonic. 

But tonight, you wish something would come up through the floor and swallow you whole. A void, a black hole maybe. That would do the trick. Disappearing would make everything so much easier. The second-best thing to disappearing is sitting in the kitchen of the mansion, alone, with a pint of ice cream. You decide to practice your powers, moving the silver spoon with your mind, concentrating as you dig the spoon into the top of the pint and into your mouth. 

You hear a warm, familiar chuckle from the doorway as the spoon lands on your tongue. You look up, and there’s Logan, arms tucked across his chest. “Wish I could do that.”

You can’t help but smile around the spoon as he strides over to you, taking a seat on the stool next to yours. You slide the spoon out of your mouth and rest it on the napkin next to the ice cream. “Hey,” you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

His shoulder brushes against yours. He’s so close it hurts. You try to shove the pain down and enjoy the moment. 

“Was hoping I’d run into you down here. Thought maybe you’d be in bed already,” Logan says, his eyes locked on yours. 

You shake your head, doing your best to keep that fake smile plastered on your face. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

You can see the sudden concern appear on his face. “Everything okay?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. Fuck, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s catching on. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the ice cream. “Just still having a hard time adjusting.” It wasn’t a lie. You had always struggled with your powers, longing to hide, to shove them down. Your whole life, you were either a freak or something to be used—whatever was most convenient in the moment. The struggle between visibility and forcing yourself to be “normal” was an impossible battle. You were no stranger to being taken advantage of or being experimented on.

Logan was the first person who understood that—understood you. He made you feel seen in a way that no one ever had. It’s part of the reason you’ve fallen so hard for him. 

His hand is suddenly on your back, yanking you from your thoughts and back to reality. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, anything.” 

Anything. You wish he really meant it. 

“Thanks, Lo.” You smile up at him, letting your eyes linger on his lips for just a second before looking back down at the ice cream. “Want some?” You ask, nodding at the pint. 

“Only if you feed it to me the way you did when I walked in.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he taps the spoon. You side-eye him incredulously. “I mean it. Wanna see you do it again.” There’s a husk in his voice, a shift in his timber that sends a chill down your spine. You try not to think about it too much as you pick up the spoon with your mind. 

You guide the spoon inside the pint, scraping the top, and lifting it up towards Logan’s mouth. He opens wide as you lead the spoon inside, his tongue hitting the bottom as his lips close around it. The implications of the moment don’t dawn on you until he’s grabbing the spoon with his hands and sucking on the metal. There’s something undeniably suggestive about this. 

Heat rises to your chest as you replay the image of him taking the spoon into his mouth in your mind. It’s so intimate, so domestic. And, certainly, something else—something that makes you tick, that makes that familiar fire grow deep within your belly. 

But—like always—the moment doesn’t last long. You wince, feeling someone itching against your thoughts, prodding at your mental shields, begging to be let in. Suddenly, there’s another voice in your mind. 

I gotta try that myself. You flinch at the sound, taking the spoon from Logan’s hand and shooting it across the room to where you sense the person’s presence. You turn around, and there’s Jean, resisting the spoon’s trajectory with her mind. 

It's almost pressing into her skull, shaking in mid-air, ready to break her skin. You gasp and drop the spoon, embarrassed to have registered her as a threat. “I’m so sorry,” you say, watching as Jean crouches down and picks up the spoon. “I didn’t know that was you in there, I swear.”

You expect Logan to stand from the chair and rush over to Jean, but he stays next to you, glued to your side, the palm of his hand resting gently on your back. “Jean.” His voice is firm, almost cold and harsh. “What was that?” You’re surprised at how curt he’s being with her, surprised he remembered that you’re sensitive to people probing around your mind, even if it’s friendly. 

Jean mutters a curse. “I was just communicating with her. I didn’t think she’d—” 

Logan stands, his hand still steady at your back. “Don’t do that again. Ever.” His voice is louder now, heavier. 

She whispers an apology, setting the spoon on the counter and walking towards the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says. “I should’ve remembered given your…” she pauses, searching for the word, “past…that it wouldn’t be a good idea.” She takes another tentative step. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, and she slips out. 

Logan settles back into the stool next to you. You’re shocked that he’s still here, that he hasn’t run away yet. You can hear him breathe—in and out—gentle, long breaths. You close your eyes and listen, the sound calming you down. You’re still expecting him to leave, to walk away, but he doesn’t. 

“You okay?” He asks, your eyes fluttering open, his voice hanging in the air. His head is tilted to the side, worry painted across his face. 

“Y-yeah. I’m fine,” you stutter, your voice cracking. “You don’t have to stay with me. You can go check on her if you want.” You nod towards the doorway—to wherever Jean wandered off to. 

“And why would I do that?” Is all he says in return, furrowing his brows. 

You put on that fake smile again. “I almost jammed a spoon into her forehead because she spoke to me telepathically.” You shake your head. “Don’t really think my reaction was particularly friendly—or something that good people do.” You break eye contact with Logan and look to the other side of the kitchen. “Plus, you two are…close.”

“Hey.” His voice is firm again, but gentle this time, reassuring. His hand slips across your back and rests on your waist. You’re so shocked by the contact that you almost miss what he says. “First of all, she knows better. Charles warned her about what you’ve been through. And second…” He trails off, smirking at you. “I’d rather be with you.”

Oh? Oh. He’d rather be with you. 

“I just thought, you know, you and Jean were…” You’re too embarrassed to finish the sentence and too nervous to hear him say the words you’ve been dreading most. 

He shakes his head, that smirk still spread across his lips. “No, it’s not Jean I want. Never has been.” 

Your breathing becomes shaky—your heart beating rapidly in your chest. “If it’s not Jean, then—” 

Logan cuts you off as he suddenly moves. His arm lifts from your waist as he stands, turning your stool around so your back is against the cold countertop. He’s gripping the arms of the stool now, caging you in. Your mind is hazy—you can’t concentrate with him this close. 

“You think I do the shit I do with you with Jean too, hm?” He’s towering over you, his head cocking to the side, his voice self-assured and confident. “Think I’m watching movies and sunsets with her? Carrying her to bed, too?” 

You’re overwhelmed, dizzied by his words, his size, him. “Just thought that—”

“Just thought what?” He cuts you off again. “That I didn’t want you, darlin’?” He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, one hand moving from the counter to your hip. “Wanted you this whole time,” he huffs, goosebumps rising on your arms. “Only you.” He presses a kiss to your ear, and then just underneath your jaw. 

“Logan,” you whisper. “W-want you too,” you choke out, your hands coming up and around his back. “B-but someone’s gonna walk in on us.” 

He’s ignoring you, biting your pulse point lightly and licking the pain away. “Let them,” he husks, refusing to stop. You instinctively bring your hands up to the nape of his neck, your nails digging in slightly. He groans at the contact, his chest heaving against yours. 

“One of the kids is catch us in here, or somebody else,” you mutter, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. “W-we should—”

“Go to my room.” He finishes your thought. 

“Please.” 

And then he’s picking you up from the chair, his hands under your thighs, grabbing your ass. You wrap your legs around his waist as he prowls out of the kitchen. He looks both ways as he crosses the hallway and makes his way to the stairs. There’s no one in sight. He carries you up the steps and down the hall to his room, practically breaking down the door as he swings it open and slams it shut. 

And then he’s laying you down on his bed, crawling over you, pressing his forehead against yours. “Wanted you in here sooner,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from yours. “Hoped you’d come over one night. You should’ve.”

His lips crash down onto yours before you can find the words to say. He’s starving for you, swallowing your moans as his hands slip under your shirt, his nails digging lightly into your sides. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps against your lips. Everything is desperate and rushed, hands pawing at bare skin in the dim light of his room. 

Logan tugs on the hem of your shirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the side as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He curses under his breath, looking you up and down. 

“Logan,” you whine, arching your back. You need his hands on you again, his lips. Something. Anything. 

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes, his fingers hooking inside the waistband of your shorts. “Gonna take care of you.” He yanks them down your legs, leaving you in just your bra and panties. 

He pulls off his own shirt, tossing it carelessly, letting it get lost on the floor. He settles back down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand finds your waist. He slides up to the bottom of your bra, teasingly pulling on the fabric before slipping his hand behind your back—skillfully unclasping the bra with one easy motion. You arch your back again, the bra straps sliding down your arms as Logan tosses the bra to the floor, too. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his hand tracing the curves of your breasts, massaging gently. “Perfect.” He captures your lips in another kiss as his thumb ghosts over your nipples, just barely giving you the relief you need before pinching softly. The pressure feels so good, so right, but it’s not enough. 

He draws circles around your nipples with his thumb, the sensation feeding the aching fire between your legs. Your hips involuntarily lift off the mattress, meeting his. “Need me that bad, huh?” He is always so incredibly cocky, even now—especially now. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and what to do next. 

Logan grinds his erection into your core. You can feel how big he is, the weight of him heavy against your cunt even in his jeans. You clench around nothing, whining his name as his strained cock teases your panty-clad pussy. “You want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, biting your lips as his hand leaves your tits and sweeps down your stomach, stopping just above your clit. He slides his fingers down just a bit more, feeling where your arousal seeps through your panties. 

“Already soaking for me, sweetheart.” The bassy timber of his voice stokes that flame deep within your belly. Without warning, he’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your legs. “Can’t wait anymore, pretty girl,” he whispers. “Wanna taste this pussy.” He kisses your belly button, leaving a trail down the rest of your stomach as his mouth travels to where you need him most. 

There’s something depraved about the way he’s crawling down your body, taking in every inch of you. He spreads your legs apart with the palms of his hands—his thumbs brushing against your bare skin, licking teasingly at your inner thighs as he settles in between them. 

He pauses, looking at you under hooded eyes. You can see the want—no, the need—in the way his muscles flex and how he works his jaw. But he’s hesitating, his breath hot against your core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your eyes searching his for his next move. 

He finally presses a kiss to your clit. “You don’t understand how you make me feel,” he mumbles against your heat, licking a long stripe through your folds and back to your clit. “No idea how long I’ve fucking wanted you.” You throw your head back, whimpering his name as he laps again and again. He’s starving, and you’re the only thing that can satiate his hunger. His tongue swirls around your clit, flicking it, taking it in between his lips and sucking hard. 

Your hips lift off the mattress and Logan quickly moves to hold them down. “You’re not going anywhere, darlin’,” he grunts against you, the vibration of his voice going straight to your core. 

His free hand slips up the inside of your thighs, teasingly climbing higher and higher, his nails skimming your flesh. He’s toying with you, leading you on, taking his time. His fingers finally ghost over your folds, exploring you, stroking up and down as his tongue laps at your cunt. 

Logan prods your entrance with two fingers, slipping in just a bit, testing the waters. “Please,” you beg, pushing your hips down in an attempt to sink his fingers deeper into you. He stops you, his hand still firmly holding your hips down, refusing to give you the release you’re dying for. 

“So fucking impatient, aren’t you?” He tuts. And then he’s shoving two fingers all the way inside you, down to his knuckles. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“F-fuck!” You cry out, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets a relentless pace. He’s drinking you in, sucking roughly, his long fingers pumping in and out with a vengeance. 

“’This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks condescendingly in between laps. You’re too fucked out to form a sentence, your legs trembling underneath him. You know he’s loving this—loving that you’re a wet, needy, whimpering mess. 

Your walls squeeze around his fingers, your swollen clit throbbing as he laps at you. You’re so close already. “Lo,” you call out, fisting the sheets of his bed. Everything in here smells like him: pine and mint and musk and tobacco and that thing that’s uniquely Logan. It’s all so overwhelming and overstimulating. You’re ready to fall apart, to melt into nothingness. “S-so close.”

He squeezes your hip. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, his pace unwavering as his fingers fuck into you, scissoring inside you, drawing you closer to your climax with that come-hither motion he does so well. Your walls flutter again. “That’s it,” he coos. “Wanna feel you come—wanna know what it tastes like.” He licks harder, faster. “Let go for me, darlin’.” 

He pushes you over the edge, pleasure warming your belly as you let go. It washes over you in waves, his fingers still pumping in and out, his tongue still hanging on to the taste of you. You ride it out, his thumb brushing your hip, coaxing you through it. His fingers slip out of your cunt, but his head is still buried between your legs. You shudder as he licks long, slow stripes through your folds. 

“So fucking sweet,” he growls, still starving for more. “Not done with you yet.”

Fuck. 

But you need more—need his cock deep inside you, pounding into you. You need him in front of you, his lips on yours. 

“Logan,” you whine, your voice shaky and trembling just like the rest of your body. He finally lifts his head, his hair a disheveled mess, your juices glistening on his lips and his chin. The sight of him makes your breath hitch in your throat. There’s a feral, needy look in his eyes. He’s starving for more of you, and you’re not quite sure he’ll ever get enough. 

But he can see your chest heaving and the desire in your own eyes. He knows what you need—he always does. He sits up on his knees, staring at you while he slowly unbuckles his belt. The tension is palpable, the clinking of his belt against the hardwood floors cutting through it like a hot knife—the only sounds the melding of your quick breaths and the shuffling of bed sheets as Logan finally comes up to meet you. 

He's balancing on his forearm as he unbuttons his jeans, undoing the zipper and shoving the denim and his boxers down his legs. You swallow at the sight of his cock springing against his stomach. You had felt his erection before, but he is far bigger than you ever anticipated. 

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself in between your thighs. You instinctually spread your legs for him, inviting him in. He nudges against your entrance, taking his time. 

His forehead meets yours, your chests flush against each other’s, panting in sync. You’re both waiting with bated breath, his tip slipping inside, but stopping short before going any farther. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Thought I’d never have you,” he confesses, pushing his tip a bit further in. “Would’ve given up anything for this. Would’ve waited forever.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur.  “I’m right here. I’m yours.” 

“Mine?”

“All yours.”

And then he’s pushing deep inside you, down to the hilt, bottoming out. He swallows your moans with a kiss, biting your lip, drawing blood, and licking it away. “All fucking mine.” He stays buried inside you, unmoving. “Wanna stay inside you forever, sweetheart,” he growls, your heart bursting at the thought.

He pulls himself all the way out and all the way back in, stretching you out, working you open. You look down in between your bodies and watch as his cock disappears inside of you. “Feels s-so fucking good,” you stammer, already drunk off him. 

“Like watching me fuck into you?” Logan husks, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper. His muscles flex as he ruts into you. He takes the hand that was on his cock and brings it in between your bodies, his fingertips quickly finding your clit and giving it a soft pinch. Your back arches off the mattress at the sensation. 

Logan hums at your reaction. “So sensitive,” he groans. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.” You can feel him losing control as he rams into you, his thrusts growing harder with each pump of his cock. He’s drawing firm, fast circles into your core. 

It’s all too much, him, his cock, his fingers. Your skin is on fire, your nipples pushing against his chest—the friction absolutely delicious. You’re already so close, just a few steps away from the ledge, and you’re ready to fall. 

“Know you’re close, darlin’,” Logan moans in between kisses. “Can feel you squeezing me.” 

You hum in response, but Logan refuses to let up. His pace is beyond brutal, pounding into you over and over again, his fingers working your clit in tandem. Your muscles contract around him, gripping tightly. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking tight, so fucking warm.” His praises are more than you can handle. “You gonna come on my cock, just like this?” 

“Yes, fuck, Logan!” You’re a babbling mess, his name the only thing on your mind, on your lips, hanging in the air like it’s a sacred prayer. Everything is him, and it always has been. In this moment and in every other, he is your end and your beginning. 

 “Let go for me, sweetheart. Know you can do it for me.” His deep voice is all you need to walk you through it. You’re breaking down, coming on his cock, the pleasure coursing through your veins, spreading like an untamable fire. 

He’s stroking your clit long after you’ve come, still snapping his hips into yours, still working up towards his own orgasm. His pace is getting sloppier, but he shows no signs of stopping. You can feel yourself growing overstimulated, his cock rubbing against your walls, his fingers circling your clit. “S’too much,” you whine, your nails digging into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

Logan presses himself closer to you, as close as he possibly can be. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart,” he coaxes, not letting up. “Know you can take it.”

You’re breathless, clinging onto him helplessly. You’re clamping down on him again, taking him deeper than you did before. He’s hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. “Lo,” you whimper. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, darlin’,” he grunts. You can feel him throbbing inside you. “Let it happen, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

The tension is snapping again, breaking in half as he pulls another orgasm from you. You shudder as you come for a third time, overstimulated and beyond fucked out. You know he’s close behind, his hips slowing down, his forehead pressed against yours. He slips his hand away from your clit and around your back, pulling you closer to his chest. It’s so intimate, so perfect. 

“F-fuck,” he mumbles. “Where do you want me to—”

You hold him closer. “Stay,” you whisper. “Want you inside. Wanna feel you come.”

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, plunging deep inside you, his muscles tensing as he fills you up, your name on his lips. His thrusts slow, pumping in and out every now and then before finally stopping. 

You stay like this for a few minutes, his arm keeping you tight against his chest, his cock still buried inside you and your foreheads still pressed together. 

He brings a hand up to your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering open and closed. 

He shakes his head. “I always wanted you,” he says, his voice low and raspy. “The whole time. It was only ever you.” 

His words could make you cry. It’s everything you’ve ever hoped to hear. You smile, his hand finding its way to the crook of your neck, his fingers lightly stroking your sensitive skin. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it,” you breathe, your voice laden with sleepiness. “I never knew. Thought you’d never want me.”

“I’ll always want you.” His cock finally slips out of you, leaving you feeling empty. His legs tangle with yours, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “Would’ve waited forever for you, darlin’.”

“Forever?”

“Longer.”