#at first I thought it was a mistake but no

[jane-asmo]

Why I think Caitlyn didn’t ask Vi for forgiveness

(Thank 'anons' for your messages. I’ll try to respond to you through this text: )

The importance of Caitlyn’s “I know”

A key moment in Caitlyn’s character narrative is her “I know”—both its content and delivery.

The content: When Caitlyn says, “I know,” it doesn’t just mean “You’re right.” It means, “I’ve taken the time to think about this.” And thinking is what Caitlyn does best. Her “I know” conveys that she has already had this conversation with herself, over and over in her head. She’s thought about it constantly, she’s already told herself these things, and she’s already blamed herself for them.

The delivery: She screams it with violence, and we can see this represented by the boat falling apart. It’s not just that she has thought about it; it’s tormenting her. Her “I know” is incredibly powerful because it’s filled with suffering.

To me, this is as valid as an apology because asking for forgiveness is outward-facing—focused on the other person. "Asking for forgiveness" says, “Whether I’ve forgiven myself or not, whether I feel guilty or not, it’s on you to decide to forgive me.”

But here, Caitlyn’s “I know” is inward-facing. It means, “I’m not asking you to forgive me because I can’t even forgive myself.”

She knows everything you’re saying, and it torments her.

This is followed by:

"I didn’t even have time to think before they hauled her off."

This line is so telling. Everything about Caitlyn is tied to thinking and reflection.

Being a sniper means aiming and shooting. Aiming is the equivalent of thinking, and shooting is the equivalent of speaking. Everything Caitlyn does is deliberate and thought through.

This is why some people dislike her: as I’ve said before, unlike other characters, Caitlyn’s actions can’t be forgiven easily because she doesn’t do anything by accident.

Then we get to:

"We can’t erase our mistakes. None of us."

Caitlyn speak in “we.”

In the prison scene with Jinx:

"No amount of good deeds can undo our crimes."

This scene mirrors the rage she felt when she threw the boat. In this moment, she’s speaking to Jinx, but also to herself.

Caitlyn and Jinx are paralleled so many times throughout the show. Caitlyn quickly realized that, in some ways, she had become like Jinx. And so, in order to forgive Jinx, she would first have to forgive herself.

At this point in the episode, the person Caitlyn hates the most is herself.

But she no longer has the "energy" to hate, neither Jinx nor herself.

Energy comes from fuel. What she perceives as a lack of strength to keep fighting is simply the fact that the fuel that powered her hatred has disappeared. And when you stop feeding a fire, it eventually dies out. She has no energy left; she has no fuel to sustain her hatred.

It's a particular way of saying, I don’t hate you anymore, and I don’t want to hate myself anymore either, because in the end, that hatred corrupts us/everything .

In her own unique way, Jinx also says, I didn’t know your mother was there, even if it wouldn’t have changed anything. And this too is a strange way of taking a step toward the other.

We have two brilliant and intelligent women who express their emotions in unconventional ways. ----------

There’s also a whole analysis that could be done about her concept of justice and rules, "but I don’t have the energy" to dive into that here. Still, it would only lead back to the fact that Caitlyn doesn’t see herself as the right person to free Jinx (and therefore to forgive her) because she believes she herself is beyond forgiveness.

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]

c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I don’t want to see you anymore. 

The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest. 

He puts down his pen.

The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club. 

His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.

He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in. 

He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can. 

Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him. 

Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you. 

And now it’s over. 

He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk. 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen. 

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” 

“What happened?” 

Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?” 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks again. 

Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage. 

The fifth time, you answer. 

He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks. 

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?” 

He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.” 

“I don’t want to be with you.” 

“Have I upset you?” 

“Would that make it easier?” 

“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?” 

“I don’t want to see you.” 

“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.” 

“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”

“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.” 

“No–”

“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.” 

“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.” 

“I’m on my way.” 

He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.

He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment. 

He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day? 

Now he’s thinking, What did I do? 

He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks. 

“Come in, Aaron.” 

He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom. 

You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share. 

“Hi.” 

“Can I sit down?” 

You gesture for him to do as he likes. 

Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.

“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly. 

“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.” 

You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone. 

“What’s making you feel that way?” 

“Does it matter?” 

Again, avoiding and evasive. 

He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?” 

“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree. 

“No?” he asks. 

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.” 

You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?” 

“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.” 

“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?” 

You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting. 

“What do you want me to say?” you ask. 

Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead. 

Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow. 

“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.” 

“Then what’s making you feel this way?” 

You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze. 

He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.” 

“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?” 

“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”

“What about what I think?” 

“What do you think?” 

You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.” 

Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.” 

“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly. 

“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.” 

“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.” 

“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.” 

“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago. 

“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.” 

“I don’t know who I am…” 

“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles. 

“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.” 

“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.” 

You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.” 

“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.” 

You share a look. 

“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble. 

“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.” 

“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath. 

“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly. 

Your breath warms his arm. “No.” 

“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.” 

“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath. 

“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.” 

“You like making girls cry.” 

“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…” 

Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.” 

“All my fault.” 

“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.” 

“Stop making me feel guilty.” 

His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.” 

“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.” 

“I know. Just step on me a bit.” 

“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…” 

“Just rough me up a little.” 

“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.” 

“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching. 

He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh. 

“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.” 

“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.” 

“Sorry. Just had to get it in.” 

He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.” 

“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.

You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.” 

“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden. 

You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you. 

“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.” 

“I’m not that young,” you say. 

“So you admit it?” 

You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar. 

—

…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…

Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off. 

The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate. 

You press a hand down your side. 

To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl. 

You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said. 

This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite. 

“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?” 

You laugh. “I bet you hope so.” 

“That’s accusatory in nature.” 

“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom. 

Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling. 

“Home only,” he says. 

“I knew you’d say that.” 

“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil. 

“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.” 

Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.” 

“I said too slutty.” 

“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…” 

“The man who loves me?”

“Exactly.” 

He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause. 

“Spin?” he asks. 

One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles. 

“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.” 

“I have a confession.” 

“Yeah?” 

“This one was for you.” 

He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.” 

“This is the last one.” 

“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion. 

You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you. 

You ease the pillow down his face. 

“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask. 

“Not purposefully.” 

“You look a little… hot.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face. 

“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest. 

He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard. 

They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady. 

“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply. 

You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron? 

“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you. 

“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.” 

His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest. 

You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about. 

“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful. 

He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.” 

You knew he’d like the white babydoll. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[syoddeye]

cut me down, level me | ghoap x reader | 3.2k cw: alcohol, jealous reader, nasty+mean ghost, harassment, nonconsensual touching/manhandling, masturbation a/n: title from i wish i was you by creux lies.

it’s johnny’s birthday.

you grouse the entire time you get ready. mood utterly unsalvageable even with the right playlist. the emergency bottle of prosecco in your refrigerator can’t rescue you either—it’s turned sour and vinegary, probably like the evening ahead.

johnny texts, his message asking for your eta littered with typos. he’s sent it not in your private chat, but the one with his worse half. 

he promised, repeatedly, that simon, the principal pain in your ass that—“he’ll be on his best behavior. hand on heart, i swear.”

you’ve heard that one before.

it doesn’t matter what you do. by the time the rideshare pulls up outside their flat, you half-consider staying in the car and heading straight back home. cozying up in bed with your laptop feels infinitely better than the prospect of enduring lousy company.

because for all johnny’s reassurances, you know simon. he’s the thorn in your side. the wedge between you and your best friend.

you were practically raised together after your family moved in next door. you spent as many holidays at the mactavish house as your own. even after johnny enlisted, nothing changed—you were still the first person he’d call with news, and he was still the one you trusted to share things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 

and then, two christmases ago, simon arrived. six-foot-something stupid, he muscled his way in, taking up more space than he had any right to, crowding into johnny’s life like he’d always been there. 

“simon? it’s good to finally meet you. johnny talks about you all the time.” you’d said, hand extended, trying to make a good impression. neck craned to the man filling the doorframe. simon smirked, something flat and condescending in his voice as he replied, hand already hinging possessively around johnny’s nape.

“i thought only i could call you ‘johnny’. not ‘ow you make a man feel special, is it.”

you remember how he shouldered around you without another word, greeting the rest of the mactavishes with bourbon and presents like some drab mancunian santa claus.

johnny found you seething later that evening and delivered the first of a thousand apologies. said he was embarrassed by simon’s cold shoulder, and you forgave him—not because you believed him, but because you felt sorry that his boyfriend was a territorial buffoon.

a mistake.

you know couples spend most of their time together. you’re not stupid or naive enough to think they’d be any different, but somehow it’s worse. you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve spent with johnny one-on-one since they got together. simon’s always there, lurking. there’s no sharing with him.

you’ve tried to bring it up with johnny quietly, mostly over text, since phone calls and video chats are never private, but it’s like he can’t see his velcro boyfriend at his side. he doesn’t question it, not really. he’ll admit simon’s a bit rough around the edges, that his jokes cross the line or that his comments make your skin crawl, but he brushes them off. there’s always an excuse, some reason to overlook it. you just hope it’s only a matter of time before johnny sees simon for what he really is and breaks it off.

a no-good interloper, pissing on everything–

when you knock, it’s simon who answers the door. music spills out around him, voices rising and falling in the glow of light behind his broad shoulders. he looks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes dragging from your shoes to your face, as if you’re a stranger. then he tilts his head in a silent well?

you’ve learned that it is you who must move around him, in all contexts. you are the invader. he doesn’t flinch when you cram under his thick arm braced against the door. he mutters a snide comment about the cut of your shirt—can see straight down that—breath fanning over your head. your face burns instantly, blistering hot. as you pass, the bottle of wine in your hand “accidentally” finds his ribs, and for a second, you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“oops!” 

you flee beeline for johnny.

he’s already tipsy, the lush, but he’s at least happy to see you. 

“there she is.” his face is flushed from drink, and he pulls you into a bear hug, pressing a few sloppy kisses against your cheek. “i was just tellin’ simon it’s no’ my birthday without ye.”

you lean into him, briefly nuzzling his chest, breathing in his grounding scent. asshole boyfriend or not, how could you consider abandoning your boy?

“shameless flirt.”

“dinnae i ken it.”

he pouts when you peel away and excuse yourself, promising to find him after making the rounds.

you count maybe two dozen people spread through the house, a mix of old classmates, distant acquaintances, and soldiers. more arrive in waves, and you’re glad for the buffer. enough bodies between you and simon to keep him at a comfortable distance.

time moves in fits and starts. you drink enough to feel a buzz and resolve, half-heartedly, to enjoy yourself and mingle. there’s no shortage of good-looking men in johnny’s circle, and you might as well flirt a little. it seems like the kind of thing you should be doing, though your heart isn’t really in it.

you meet another john, polite but pointed about the ring on his finger. then kyle, who seems interested until he asks your name and then suddenly isn’t. after a couple more dead ends, you give up entirely, feeling more lousy than when you arrived. but it’s johnny’s birthday, and it’s bad form to leave before midnight. so, instead, you decide to keep to yourself and wait it out.

problem is, you start bumping into simon.

wherever you go—the den, the kitchen, the front steps for air—simon appears. he doesn’t make a show of following you, but you feel it all the same. his gaze finds you like a searchlight, dissecting you piece by piece. just waiting to say shit. his expression doesn’t shift when you glance his way, no shame in being caught staring. it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but whatever it is, it doesn’t feel particularly benign. his presence settles like a weight on your back. 

he doesn’t let you find any refuge with johnny, either. of course not. birthday boy is blissfully unaware, wrapped up in his own celebration, probably thinking simon’s sudden surge of public affection and attention are gifts. from across the room, simon’s gaze is heavy on you, his arm draped possessively around johnny’s waist, hand settling unashamedly on his ass for a grope. you catch his eye once, and without missing a beat, he leans in, planting a kiss behind johnny’s ear, making him squirm mid-conversation. 

it pisses you off. curdles your bad mood into a rotten one.

with an hour left until midnight, you try to avoid simon as much as possible. it probably seems petty to slip away the moment he walks into a room or to retreat into silence when he lingers too close, but you don’t care. he’s stifling and unbearable—like he’s decided to babysit you to make sure you’re on your best behavior. and there’s no telling johnny. you won’t ruin the night for him by stirring up trouble.

at one point, you take too long at the makeshift bar in the kitchen, and he corners you mid-pour.

simon clicks his tongue, shifting his weight just enough to box you in with his chest and shoulders. “what’s that now, your fourth? fifth?” his voice is low, a rough-edged drawl, head dipping and chasing your ear when you try to duck away. “keep this up, sweet’eart, and you’ll be sleepin’ it off between us.” the grin that stretches his mouth feels too sharp, his eyes glinting as he leans in, the heat of him unnervingly close, his bulk a deliberate intrusion into your space.

the image his words conjure arrives unbidden, sending a disorienting jolt down your spine. you see yourself there, curled against johnny’s chest, while another, hulking body melding to your back, presence suffocating and unwanted. the thought lingers for a heartbeat before it vanishes in a rush of disgust, leaving you like a dog with its hackles raised, bristling with the instinct to flee.

you shove past, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim as you go, his rasping chuckle drifting after you.

another hour passes in a blur, but you salute yourself—only a quarter-hour to freedom. problem is, all that wine’s caught up, and the door to the downstairs toilet has been locked for a stretch. you cast a casual glance around, your eyes tracking the shape of your persistent shadow, and find him finally occupied with the other john, his back turned to you for the first time all evening. it’s a quick, maybe ill-advised decision to slip upstairs, but you really have no choice. you have to pee before you leave, and besides, it’s a teensy fuck you to the man who’s followed you all night.

the music from downstairs hums through the floor, covering your movements just enough that you don’t bother to tiptoe.

their bedroom is unfamiliar, but johnny’s presence clings to the space in bits and pieces. a framed photo of johnny in his first uniform, his mother leaning against his arm. an old rugby medal, propped against a stack of books, a few of which you gifted him. on the wall beside the bed, a collage of photos: summers at the mactavish cottage, christmas dinners with both your families, johnny mid-laugh with his arm slung casually around your shoulders in more than one.

you spot an old toy soldier from the same set johnny used to make elaborate battles with when you were kids. it sits next to a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon you don’t recognize, probably something simon probably picked out. the mixture of old and new, of johnny and simon, is dizzying. jealousy wells up in your chest. you were there for all those moments. you knew him when he played soldier in the garden, when he rolled his eyes through family holidays and snuck you out at dessert. you were the constant, long before simon’s shadow overtook everything.

you slink into the bathroom, eyes stinging and chest tightening. it’s the wine.

washing your hands, your eyes land on a half-empty bottle of cologne you don’t recognize. while the rideshare app spins uselessly, you take a whiff and hum. it’s johnny’s. you rub a fingertip over the atomizer, too paranoid to take even a quarter-spray. the residual will have to do. instead, you press a fingertip to the atomizer, then smear a trace behind your ear just as the app pings. finally.

you pull the door open, eyes trained on the app’s countdown and mind tangling with how to say goodbye to johnny. you don’t notice the figure outside until you step straight into it, a solid wall of muscle. you stagger, caught off guard, but before you can register what’s happening, he presses forward, steering you back inside the bathroom. your phone drops to the counter with a clatter. a hand smelling of smoke and salt clamps over your mouth.

“stop fussin’,” simon mutters, clipped with irritation. his fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your jaw tight as he leans back just far enough to shut the door. you batter his chest with your fists, which he swiftly captures when he swivels back. “i said stop. need to chat.” 

your phone buzzes against the counter, the soft vibration loud against the marble. simon glances down, his expression darkening as he spots the car on the screen. with a tap of his thumb, he cancels the ride, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “sneakin’ out already? night’s young.”

your words are lost under his palm, protests garbled into nothing. heat flushes your face, humiliation prickling your skin as you try to twist free. glaring, you tell him how creepy he’s being, how weird he is, voice rising even though it’s barely audible. for a moment, his expression doesn’t shift, then something flickers behind his eyes, like a shark finding chum in the water. he leans in, his hips pinning yours, and his nose drags over where you’d rubbed the scent.

“you little thief,” he murmurs, voice thick with disdain. his hand eases just enough to let you speak.

“i thought it was johnny’s.” you finally say, throat tight, pulse fluttering at its base.

“it’s ours,” he sneers. “we share. everything.”

you scoff, the sound bitter in the small space between you. “you? don’t make me laugh.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

for a second, you stare in disbelief, chest heaving in shallow breaths. he still has you held against the counter, and you realize you smell it on him, too. 

you can’t have just this one thing.

word vomit comes out in a rush, spliced with the fury and frustration that’s been building all night, no, for months, mixed with the tang of cheap pinot. “you fucking stole johnny from me. he was my best friend, my johnny, before you. i’ve called him that my whole life. and then you—you show up, sap up all of his attention, and now he never has time for me. it’s never just me and him, you’re always fucking there.” the confession hangs in the air. it is more honest than you meant, but there is no going back.

simon tilts his head, looking down at you like he’s trying to figure something out, his hand firm under your jaw. his fingers press in, not quite hard, just enough to keep you there, and then he leans in close, his forehead nearly touching yours. you try to look away, eyes darting to the side, but he won’t let you.

“’s that what you need? johnny’s attention?” his thumb drags over the curve of your cheek, pressing until it hooks inside your mouth. “my attention?”

“no-awh! no’ yoursth!” 

your tongue brushes the pad of his thumb, a shudder rolling through you before you remember your teeth. he remembers too, yanking his thumb away just as your bite snaps shut, catching your tongue instead. you yelp, the sting immediate and hot.

he coos, low and mocking, his hand sealing over your mouth again. his weight presses you against the counter, pinning you effortlessly in place. your hands, useless against the unyielding plane of his chest, clutch at his forearm instead, desperate to free your face. then his knee jabs forward, knocking a muffled cry from your throat. the impact drives you onto your toes, the cupboard beneath you taking the blow and holding his knee steady, leaving you no choice but to remain perched, precarious and trembling, to avoid putting your weight on him.

“this ‘as been my problem with you since day one. you’re a dishonest and jealous woman. can’t be ‘appy for johnny. can’t be polite to me–”

you hiss and spit at that, outrage starting and stalling. he’s done nothing—as if he’s—unbelievable—but you’re wasting your breath, not merely because his stupid, meaty paw’s lodged over your mouth, but because it’s simon. two years in, and you know better. arguing with him is like shouting into the void. useless, exhausting. your calves burn from holding yourself up, thighs trembling under the strain, but he doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease an inch.

“always whining, always makin’ our boy feel like shit with your desperate, depressing texts–” his knee slides and nudges between your legs, finding the seam of your jeans. “–always runnin’ away from us, not letting it happen, be easy...”

your face finally turns, but he only leans in further, his forehead skimming yours, settling heavily against your temple. chapped lips graze your cheek, words spilling straight into your skin, warm air puffing through his nostrils like a beast. “trying to sneak out, makin’ me keep an eye on you all night…” you squeeze your eyes shut, heat crawling up your neck and over your scalp. this is bad. very bad. it’s johnny’s birthday, and his boyfriend has you cornered in the bathroom. your thoughts snarl in panic and guilt. you hardly register simon’s voice anymore, his lecture breaking into shards your brain can’t piece together.

until he says something that pierces the fog. growls it into your ear, close enough his tongue needlessly flicks the shell.

“i’m not ‘aving it anymore. you understand? you ain’t leavin’ tonight.”

simon unhurriedly tilts your head back, then presses you down onto his knee. you swallow hard, a noise catching somewhere deep and undignified. if he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“i’m gonna let go, and you’re gonna keep quiet. you’re gonna be a good girl, come back downstairs, and not go makin’ a scene. or do i need to spell out what ‘appens if ya don’t, or are ya as sharp as ‘e’s always makin’ out?”

you don’t need him to say it. the threat is there, in between your legs, and if you looked down, you’d see it between his, too. it doesn’t matter what you want. 

it doesn’t matter what simon wants, either, you think. if it did, you’d probably still be in the bathroom with him. 

he’s been abundantly clear. the only thing that matters is what johnny wants.

from where he sat you on the end of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap, you glimpse movement through the cracked door. grunting. he told you to spit in his palm before he sent you out, and now you know why. his hand sounds slick and furious over his length. your stomach clenches, eyes watering from staring unblinkingly at the rug beneath your feet. you wonder if it’s not punishment but a prelude. or worse, his idea of a favor. a demonstration. as long as you’re good and quiet. as long as you stay.

when he comes, he’s nearly silent. a word or two gnashed between teeth in a whisper. a couple more pumps. then, the flush of the toilet and his zipper.

he doesn’t wash his hands. the animal.

simon lifts an eyebrow, and you scurry toward the door, though the snap of his tongue slows you. he stays a breath behind you as the warmth and noise of the party swallow you both whole, no one any wiser. instinctively, you angle left, toward the door, but his finger hooks through the back loop of your jeans, steering you elsewhere.

johnny’s in a merry state, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, caught somewhere between shock and delight at seeing both of you settle beside him. you’re wedged in the middle on the couch, their solid thighs pressing yours. across the coffee table, the men you met earlier nod in your direction, and you return a stiff smile, pretending nothing’s amiss. johnny’s hand lands on your knee with a familiar squeeze, his grin boyish and lopsided. behind you, a heavier arm stretches across the back of the couch, simon’s fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. the scent of the cologne mingles with simon’s musk, wrinkling your nose.

johnny leans in, his voice an exaggerated whisper slurred at the edges. his eyes, wide and glassy, flit between the two of you with an almost childlike excitement.

“nice to see ye gettin’ along. just for me?”

simon chuckles. “told ya i’d be good, didn’t i?” his fingers curl beneath your collar, resting there. an ultimatum. “it’s a joint gift. ain’t that right?”

your eyebrows lift in a wider, strained smile.

“yep. happy birthday, johnny.”

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Spooky Call.

Spencer Reid x Hotchner!reader

Summary: When your boyfriend gets a call from you, the last thing he expects to hear is that you're being held at a police station for decorating your house.

Words: 2,2k.

TW: fem!reader. mention of haley's death, jack, crime, murder, blood (fake). reader was arrested (obviously). implication that the reader is wearing jeans and shirt (not very descriptive). reader is hotch's sister. established relationship. spencer being the standard. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This was the last fic of my october special, but I had problems and never posted it, so I had to change the plot a bit and here it is.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

You’ve always hated asking for help. It wasn’t just a matter of pride—it was the belief that you could, and should, handle everything yourself. Life, however, had a cruel way of reminding you that it didn’t always work like that. Everyone needs help sometimes. At least, that’s what people—well-meaning friends, family, even your boyfriend—kept telling you. We live in a society; there are people who love you; they’d want to help, they’d say. Blah, blah, blah. The sentiment was kind, sure, but it never stuck with you. Not really.

Today, though, maybe you should’ve listened.

All you wanted was to throw your nephew a belated Halloween party. It wasn’t like you were planning anything crazy. Just a few decorations, some music, and a bit of creativity—how hard could it be? Nothing about it seemed complicated or dangerous, not at first. You’d seen your brother overwhelmed trying to keep things normal for Jack, and you figured this was something you could handle on your own. Something small but meaningful.

Somehow, things got out of your control, and now you were sitting in your boyfriend's car in the police station parking lot trying to organize your thoughts to explain to him how you had ended up arrested in the first place.

“This has a perfectly reasonable and not at all criminal explanation. I swear.” You began to speak as you noticed by the watch on his wrist that three minutes of complete silence had already passed.

It had only been a year since you started dating officially, and there were still some things you were afraid Spencer would see, especially the things that got you in trouble for doing stupid things. You'd liked him for a long time, even before he realized you could be more than just his friend and his boss's sister. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin everything and make him run away in terror, even though that didn't sound very much like him or his values.

“This better be a good explanation,” Reid finally said, his voice calm but tinged with confusion. He placed the car keys down in the cupholder and turned to look at you fully. “Because right now, I’m struggling to understand how decorating your house could get you arrested.”

You squirmed in your seat, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter. “It’s…complicated,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Please don't think I'm weird. Please don't think I'm weird. Please don't think I'm weird. That was the only thing that kept repeating in your mind.

“I’m sure it is,” he finally said, his tone dry but still patient, his gaze never wavering.

You exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face. “Okay. So, I started with simple decorations—some cobwebs, pumpkins, and all the usual stuff. But it just…it wasn’t enough. I wanted to do something big. Something really cool.”

He raised an eyebrow, silently urging you to continue.

“So, I got this idea,” you said, hesitating. You could already feel the heat rising in your face. “I took a garbage bag, stuffed it with paper to make it look like a body, and then—” You paused, your voice dropping slightly. “Then I added some fake blood. A lot of fake blood.”

His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” you admitted, wincing. “But it looked amazing! For like…five minutes.” You gestured vaguely toward the dashboard, trying to find the words to defend yourself. “I might have spilled some of the fake blood on the lawn. And…it might’ve looked a little too real.”

Too real, extra real.

“A little?” Spencer asked, incredulous. “You mean realistic enough to make the neighbors call the cops?”

You winced, expecting him to think you were ridiculous—or worse, stupid. But then, to your surprise, his lips quirked into a soft laugh.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me!” You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest when you saw the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Yeah, maybe you didn't want him to think you were weird, but you didn't like being laughed at either.

“I’m not laughing,” he said, though the hint of amusement in his voice betrayed him.

“You are absolutely laughing,” you huffed, your pout deepening. “It’s not funny, Spencer.”

He took a deep breath, finally managing to suppress his laughter—mostly. His hand reached out to tilt your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. The warmth in his hazel eyes softened the sting of your embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, though his lips still twitched with the ghost of a smile. “I really am, angel. But you have to admit, you went a little overboard with the ‘terrifying’ concept.”

And there it was, the kind of sweetness that had made you fall for him so hard. The kind you'd expect to receive without question after spending at least half an hour locked in a filthy cell.

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Okay, maybe. But in my head, it wasn’t that bad,” you said weakly. “It just…went a little wrong.”

“A little?” he repeated, his eyebrows raising again. “You got arrested. You scared half the neighborhood into thinking they’d stumbled onto a crime scene.”

“At least it wasn’t illegal!” You shot back, crossing your arms defensively. “I didn’t actually hurt anyone. I just made a mess. With fake blood.”

Spencer’s gaze dropped to your hands, where smears of red clung stubbornly to your skin. His eyes flicked to your clothes—your jeans, your shirt, both stained with dried streaks of crimson. A slow grin spread across his face.

“It wasn’t illegal, but now you look like you walked off the set of a slasher movie,” he said, his voice filled with teasing affection. “Here—and here.” He gestured to a streak of red on your shoulder, then another on your cheek.

You were about to protest when he suddenly leaned in. His face was so close now, his breath warm against your skin. Before you could say another word, his lips brushed softly against yours—a brief, gentle kiss that caught you off guard. You froze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat. Then, as if it had all been a slow, perfect dance, you melted into him. His lips were warm and tender, the kiss slow and sweet, like a quiet promise that everything, even in the chaos of your night, was going to be okay.

When he pulled back, your breath caught, your chest fluttering in that way only he could make you feel. His grin was wide, playful, but there was something else in his eyes—a depth, a tenderness that made your heart thud. You blinked up at him, still dazed from the warmth of his kiss.

“For the record,” he murmured, his voice soft, his lips still dangerously close to yours, “I never thought you were a criminal. Just a little…overly enthusiastic.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine, warm sound bubbling out of you. “Overly enthusiastic,” you echoed, shaking your head. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And messy,” he added, his eyes twinkling as they lingered on the fake blood smeared across your face.

“Don’t push your luck, Dr. Reid,” you warned, though the smile on your face betrayed you.

Spencer chuckled softly, the sound melting into the quiet of the car. He leaned in then, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle, lingering kiss that felt like a promise—quiet, tender, and full of unspoken reassurance. The warmth of his touch seeped into you, and you closed your eyes for a brief moment, savoring the comfort of his presence.

As he pulled back, he studied you with that signature look—the one that always made you feel like he could see straight into your soul. His brow furrowed slightly, and you recognized that expression well: the one he wore when he was about to ask something important, when he wanted to understand you better. It was a look that never failed to make your heart flutter, even if it made you feel vulnerable.

“Okay,” he said slowly, his tone gentler now. “I get wanting to make the decorations amazing, but why was it so important? Why go all out to the point of, well…” He gestured vaguely toward you, his lips twitching again. “Fake crime scene levels of effort?”

You hesitated, his question hitting you like a wave. You knew the answer, but speaking it aloud felt heavier than you had anticipated. It was as though the words themselves had a weight you hadn’t been prepared to carry. You lowered your gaze, absently picking at the hem of your shirt as you fought to find the right words, your mind tangled in emotions that were hard to articulate.

Reid didn’t push, though. His silence was patient, waiting for you to open up at your own pace. It was one of the things you adored about him—the way he didn’t rush, didn’t demand. He just let you be, trusting you would share when you were ready.

Finally, you exhaled a shaky breath and met his eyes, the vulnerability in your voice clear as you spoke. “It’s not just about the decorations,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about Jack.”

His expression shifted immediately, his eyes softening with understanding but remaining focused as you continued.

“I just…” You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I want to be the perfect aunt for him, you know? Someone who makes things better, even if just for a little while. He’s been through so much—losing Hayley, seeing my brother juggle everything just to make sure Jack’s okay…” Your voice wavered, and you clenched your hands to steady yourself. “He’s only a kid. He deserves to feel happy and safe and…loved.”

Maybe that last word was too personal, and maybe your boyfriend noticed.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a silent offer of comfort. You took his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you enough to keep going.

“I know I can’t replace his mom, and I’d never try to,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I thought maybe, just maybe, if I did this party right—if I made it something really special—it could be a distraction. Something fun. Something he could look back on and smile about instead of just…” You trailed off, biting your lip as the words lodged in your throat.

He squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “Instead of just remembering what he’s lost,” he finished for you, his voice soft and understanding.

You nodded, blinking back the sting of tears. “Yeah.”

The car was quiet for a moment, the weight of your confession settling between you. Then Spencer shifted closer, his free hand reaching up to brush a stray tear from your cheek. The tenderness in his touch made your chest ache in a way that was both painful and comforting.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said gently, his voice steady and sure. “You’re already doing more for him than you realize. Just by being there, by loving him the way you do…that’s what matters. Not decorations or parties or anything else.”

His words hit you squarely in the heart, and you let out a shaky laugh, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “I just wanted it to be perfect,” you admitted, leaning into his touch. “I didn’t want to mess it up and end up in a cell.”

Reid smiled softly, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw as he held your gaze. “You didn’t mess it up,” he said firmly. “Okay, maybe the decorations were a little unconventional,” he added with a playful glint in his eye. “But your heart was in the right place. And Jack knows that. He loves you and thinks you’re wonderful, just like I do.”

You felt your breath catch at his words, the warmth in his eyes making your cheeks flush despite everything. “You’ve really become good at this, you know,” you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “The whole comforting and making me blushing thing.”

He let out a soft chuckle, giving your cheek a gentle tap with his thumb before pulling back slightly. “I might have read eleven books to brush up on a few things and be better,” he said, his tone light but not dismissive.

You chuckled, the sound lifting the tension that had been pulling at your chest. “Eleven books? You really went all in on this, huh?”

His arm slipped around your shoulders, drawing you closer, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against you grounding and reassuring. “When it’s you,” he said softly, “I’d go even further than that.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. A quiet thought lingered in your mind, one you hadn’t been able to put into words until now. “But…sometimes, don’t you think I’m weird?” you asked, the vulnerability creeping in despite yourself.

Please say no.

“Weird? No,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I think you’re perfect.” He paused for a moment, then added with a soft laugh, “And every day, I’m grateful you don’t think I’m weird either.”

You smiled, the knot in your chest loosening, the weight of uncertainty fading as his words settled in. “Guess we both can be a little weird then,” you said, the truth of it comforting you more than you expected.

He chuckled, the sound easy and light, as he pulled you a little closer, holding you in a way that spoke of quiet promises. “It’s perfect for me.”

[wis-art]

Hai, I wrote this post with picture examples of me in replies being extremely transmisoginistic but the person blocked me, which, fair.

Anyways hi, I did not realize what role my post I made in 30 seconds would play in this all, and how my response to first contact with these posts of teans women's experiences was to make this post.

I saw posts of these women, being angry about being treated below Trans men, and expressing it in a very angry way and made a post expressing how that made me uncomfortable. Lately I have been finding that I am pretty slow, and that I really struggle to pick up on the true meaning of emotionally charged posts. Even if it is obvious.

I think it's important to talk about experience with transmisoginy, I think it's good Trans women are angry at being put below people, I think it makes people wake up to the idea that maybe our community isn't so perfect and that maybe we are experiencing oppression within it ourselves.

I won't deny that you got the reason why I made this post spot on, i think that wouldnt be very productive. This is a new and very important avenue of discussion and while I am slow and I didn't pick up on it and that this post isn't any less harmful to the discussion because I now know better, I want to let people know that I do know better, thanks to the discussions the women who expressed their anger and emotions held.

If not for the women talking about this, I wouldn't realize just how much internalized transmisoginy i carry around within me, I wouldn't realize just how little I value myself and how I have been conditioned to think I am below everybody. Something so obviously wrong, yet hard to see for me. So yeah. It sucks! And I can't really blame anybody for finding my takes, repulsive.

I'm sorry, I don't know how much weight these words really carry. I understand the issue at hand, I understand my role and how irresponsible with my platform I was. I understand why people are upset that this is the first thing I thought to myself is to tell these women to shut up, I think it's really telling. But posts like this, analyzing the mistakes and deconstructing misoginy however uncomfortable are very important, and make you realize how much the society and every interaction we ever experienced really imprints on us all.

If you don't fuck with trans men get the fuck off my blog, it's transfem and transmasc solidarity bitch 🖕🖕🖕🖕

[01zfan]

never thought | l. at & s. es

boyfriend!anton x reader | 5.3k words

completely normal after the tonseok gym pics :D this is also just like pure filth LMFAO i apologize in advance.

contains: anton and his girlfriend are exhibitionists by accident, eunseok is a voyeur by accident, semi-public sex, dom/sub dynamics

Eunseok didn’t know that Anton had it in him.

Eunseok knew that Anton had a crush on you and he knew that you reciprocated it. He knew that Anton asked you to hang out all those months ago, and you guys have been dating ever since. 

He also knew that Anton’s reserved nature was often brought up in their workout group. During the first post-workout locker room talk, Anton's gaze stayed locked on the tile floor of the bathroom. A towel draped over his wet shoulders and tightly wrapped around his waist while everyone else couldn't be bothered to cover up. The other boys walked around the area freely, more concerned with using their towels to dry their hair rather than remaining decent. No one noticed that Anton was trying so hard to conceal himself until Sungchan pointed out the red tips of his ears and his hands securely holding the wrap in his towel.

The group only took pity on Anton and moved on after the red spread across his entire body, but ever since then his shyness became a topic of discussion. Everyone found it endearing how Anton would shake his head and stay seated on the bench while everyone else roamed freely in the area. Eunseok paid close attention to how Anton would wait until no one else was around to change into his clothes, or how he would omit the showers all together. Eunseok noticed that if Anton left while everyone was showering that was his indirect way of saying the previous locker room talk went too far. If they brought you up, even in passing, Anton would without fail leave early the next gym session. Eunseok realized that the shrugging in his shoulders was Anton feigning indifference, and his head shake was a silent warning to not push the topic any further.

Eunseok made the mistake of assuming Anton's avoidance in talking about you was due to insecurity or shame. How could he talk about you in the locker room if there was nothing to say. What was Anton hiding, what was he lacking that made him so wary to bring you up?

Anton's non-confrontational attitude didn't help his case. If he didn't say what was bothering him they would not stop bringing it up. Eunseok and Anton’s shared friends would often tease him, chiding about his sweaty palms and the splotchy blushing mess his cheeks became at the drop of a hat. Anton’s tendency to trip over his words and his clumsiness when navigating small spaces made everyone think he was just one blunder after another. Anton did nothing to dispute this, he could get mad all he wanted but he could not deny fact. He would only sit on the bench in the locker room, eyes not focusing on anything as he shook his head and laughed to himself.

As time went on, and Anton started gaining muscle mass faster than everyone else in the group, he became extremely tightlipped when it came to you. He was still the same shy guy, batting off the teasing with a smile and a head shake, sometimes even a sly comment back that would illicit laughter. But if it was you, Anton became pointed looks and a side smile that showed annoyance. Everyone picked up on what Eunseok already knew and they credited it to jealousy too. Eunseok ended up considering a hint of possessiveness that rested underneath Anton’s compliant nature. Anton's refusal to talk about you made Eunseok believe that it was humiliating for Anton to bring up. He believed he was too afraid to admit he was the same submissive person with you like he was with his friends. 

Eunseok admittedly spent too much time thinking about the dynamics of your relationship with Anton. But in his defense, It's hard to not speculate when so much is left to the imagination. Anton's refusal to indulge his friends left so much up in the air. When Wonbin asked if you and Anton had done it and Anton's eyes got so wide they almost popped out of his head, everyone made their own assumptions. Sungchan believed you and Anton had done way more than the crew could even comprehend. Wonbin guessed that you two were waiting for marriage.

Eunseok knew it was wrong to think about it, to imagine what his friend was doing with his girlfriend in their moments alone. But he couldn’t help it. Everyone in their workout group made shots in the dark about the relationship, some were just doing it more than others. Eunseok would take the crown of being the most curious, but he just couldn’t see it, he couldn’t believe it. He had to run over the anatomy of your relationship anytime he saw you two together in an effort to make sense of it. He ended up making a shot in the dark just like his friends a long time ago. He convinced himself that you had to be the one who took the initiative, that you were the one that bossed Anton around. You were the one that coaxed him out of his shell, teaching him what you liked and didn’t like. 

His assumptions were backed with evidence. Even when you weren’t around, Anton spoke about you with devotion. Every word of yours was religion, you were name dropped in every conversation. Well she said was his favorite phrase. He bought you things he thought you’d like, stuffed in his cart before he ever thought of getting something for himself. His behavior was only worse when you were around. Anton hung to your every word. He was close to you like a shadow, holding your bags without a second thought. He slid his card into your wallet for safe keeping, took off his jacket to keep you warm before you even had the chance to be cold. He complimented you shyly each time like it was the first. You were his lockscreen and homescreen, you were his everything. Anton just always seemed so grateful, so desperate to please you. 

Eunseok believed it was natural for Anton to take such a submissive role for you in public because it was the same in the bedroom. Once he deluded himself into believing that was fact, Eunseok tried to figure out what made his friend that way and what made him avoid the topic of you two. What did you do to Anton that had him worshipping the ground you stepped on? What tricks did you do, what new world did you show him. He could only imagine what it was that had Anton so helplessly sprung. 

Laying alone in his bed at night was the only time Eunseok granted himself to think about it in depth. One hand underneath the covers while the other held his phone in landscape mode, ears straining to waiting for an insight on your relationship to leak through his headphones. 

When his vision on the video started becoming shaky and the sound through the wired headphones fell out, Eunseok started seeing it clearly. Instead of the videos found in the incognito, his mind would be replaced with visions of Anton and you. Your hands expertly on your clit while Anton silently watched the pattern. Your other hand feeling your chest, putting on a show for Anton watching your every move. Your two slender fingers being replaced with his thicker ones. Anton's unsteady and unsure movements while you swiveled your hips to make up for what he was lacking. Anton looking up to you with his big brown eyes, silently waiting for your approval. His untouched dick twitching and leaking in his pants when you’d give him a breathy just like that or a shaky affirming head nod. You guiding his hands to your body, showing him how to tease and pinch your skin just right. 

Eunseok imagined Anton going red all the way up to his ears each time he'd take his pants off. Every time without fail, as if it was your first time seeing him naked. He imagined Anton being a shaking mess when you guided his back to the bed, gently pressing on his wide shoulders. Eunseok could almost see Anton squeeze his eyes shut right before you would sink your body down on his.

He imagined Anton clenching his bedsheets desperately as you cooed at him and encouraging him to hold on. Assuring your boyfriend that you were almost there, you just needed a little more. Anton at the brink of tears telling you how badly he needed to cum. His words being cut off mid sentence as his orgasm took him completely by surprise. 

Eunseok always assumed Anton would be out of breath, out of energy after the first round. If Anton’s stamina in the gym was any indication of that he was sure his friend would want to tap out after one round. He could hear Anton's apologies, and then the tears finally spilling when you’d start grinding on him again. He'd cringe at the wet and lewd sound of him inside of you but strain to hear it all. Just one more you’d say in a demanding voice. Anton biting his lip red and swollen trying to hold back the pitiful sounds. Him apologizing more after the second wave a pleasure started kicking in and before he started speaking incoherently. Shaking his head trying to regain his composure before he’d repeat the same mistake again.

Eunseok could admit that his mind had the tendency to wander, but he had to fill in the gaps somehow. In his bedroom and his mind, where he made the rules, he had the complexities of your relationship figured out.

But as Eunseok pressed his head to the crack in the door he bared witness to the truth and everything else crumbled. 

There were instances of Eunseok seeing the dynamics you and Anton exhibited now. There was your birthday party, when Anton held your chin playfully in one hand while the other brought a frosting covered finger to your face. Eunseok remembers seeing your eyes flash and your lips parting obediently as if from muscle memory. He remembers seeing Anton’s eyes cut down to stare at your lips and him getting that same slick smile when he knew something others didn't. For a moment—before you two realized you were in the corner of the kitchen instead of the privacy of your bedroom—you looked so pliant, so willing. Eunseok saw both of you come back to the present in real time, his friends grip on your chin went back to being playful before he smeared the white frost across the apple of your cheek at the last second. 

There was that time Eunseok walked in on you two cramped together on the tiny loveseat in the common area. It was late at night then, a show neither of you were watching played on the television as you straddled Antons’ lap. Anton was consuming then, even in the dark living room Eunseok could make that out clearly. His hand on your waist pulled your frame against his, his hand clasped on the back of your neck guided you the exact way he wanted you to. You two didn’t notice Eunseok standing there then. The two of you were so caught up in eachother that you couldn’t spare anything else to look to the side. Eunseok ended up tiptoeing back to his room, closing his door shut softly just to open it up again loudly. When he reentered the living room you were suddenly on the other side of the couch, your chest heaving as Anton pretended to look at his phone relaxed and even. You were the only one that spoke to Eunseok, smiling at him sweetly like there wasn’t lipstick smudged across your lips. 

Even if Eunseok had seen Anton assert some sort of authority or dominance, it was always fleeting. Everything would happen so quick Eunseok would barely be able to catch it. Smaller moments like Anton gently pulling you the way he wanted to go, his hand resting on the back of your neck before he’d squeeze just to smile at you tensing up—things like this were gone in the blink of an eye. What Eunseok saw most of was his friend being hopelessly in love with you, smiling and blushing profusely when you called him Tonie in a sickly sweet voice.

Hearing the nickname fall from your lips was what brought Eunseok back to the present.

“Tonie” You repeated the nickname the same time Eunseok shifted closer to the crack in the door. “Too much.” You said weakly.

Eunseok was on his knees, shifting from side to side to get the view of you two through the small opening. One of his hands was planted on the ground, the same way your two feet were planted to the ground in front of the inclined workout bench. Eunseok’s other hand dared to push at the weighted door, opening it up.

“What? It's too big for you?” Anton teases.

Eunseok swears he’s not hearing things right. Anton’s tone is too condescending for this to be real. Anton was supposed to be whiny, unsure of himself, and he was supposed to be the one being asked embarrassing questions. Explicit words said with a light sneer shouldn't roll off his tongue so easily.

He shouldn't be the one that licks his lips when you whine in response before purposefully fucking you harder. You’re supposed to be the one with the cards in your hands. The only job Eunseok sees you have is the responsibility of taking all of Anton, over and over again as he pulls your body back on his.

“Too big.” You answer quickly.

You clench your hand around nothing the same time your words are cut off by a sharp thrust. Eunseok can’t believe it.

“Just a little more, baby.” Anton was seated against the incline of the bench, both hands holding your upper arms as he guided you backwards to meet his hips. He was preoccupied talking to you, instead looking at the lines of your back jerk from the movements. “Doing so good for me.” He sighed.

His voice is alot more relaxed than yours is. Each time he brings you back by the hold he has on your arms he grunts, but he is faring much better than you. You’re a mess, so different from the collected girl Anton gets shy even looking at. Eunseok can clearly see your teary eyes, your bitten lips, and how you don't care your body is spilling from your tight shirt. 

Eunseok didn’t know Anton had it in him. He didn’t know this side of you existed. He is overwhelmed by the sight, so confused by the body Anton spent so much time hiding and not talking about. Eunseok is ashamed to admit that the scene in front of him is enticing. He watches you two in your natural habitat, how you behave when no one is watching. In the small private gym it is just the two of you, falling into your separate roles to chase after the same feeling.

“Always so wet for me.” Anton says it like a fact. 

He looks away from where you too meet to look at the back of your head. Eunseok sees an almost evil smile on Anton’s face when you nod your head, trying so hard to form a coherent thought as he readjusts the hold he has on your arms.

“Feels so good.” You stammer.

Eunseok doesn’t know how long you two have been doing this. He’s never at the gym during Anton’s day of the week with you. He only swung by because he left something the day prior, he followed the sounds from his locker to here, sitting in the dark hallway of private exercise rooms watching you try to drive your hips backwards to meet Anton.

"What if I stopped?" Anton asks playfully.

“Please don’t stop.” Your tone is pathetically serious, almost pleading as you try and look back to see Anton's face.

As if you weren’t struggling enough, he takes his hands off of your arms. Without his strength your lack of energy is obvious. Eunseok can see your feet slide forward from your loss of stability, the way you helplessly whine from the loss as you try to find your footing on the wooden floor. Eunseok has to catch his breath with you, matching your deep inhales of air with quiet ones. 

Eunseok has never seen you so weak. He always imagined Anton would be the one whining as he tried to gather his energy, that it would be Anton to silently ask for help. Eunseok would’ve never thought it’d be you who ended up being a shaking mess after only bouncing your hips twice.

Eunseok thought it’d be you in Anton's place. Unaffected, hands behind your head as you admired the sight in front of you. But it’s Anton who is unabashedly dragging his eyes down your back and running his hands through his hair without a care in the world.

“Keep going.” Anton murmurs.

His tone is quiet but firm. Eunseok thinks it’s the first time he’s seen Anton boss anyone around, but you listen so quickly. You dig your nails into Anton’s hard thighs for extra leverage. Eunseok sees the muscles in your arm strain underneath your skin as you raise and lower yourself on his dick again.

“There you go.” Anton praises.

Anton leans forward to kiss your sweaty shoulder blade. His lips are right over the strap of your tank top, the one that does nothing to hide your body now. He has to readjust the front of your shirt to conceal your chest again, he has to pull down the bottom to cover your soft stomach, and pull up the other strap until it rests on your shoulder again. He pats your covered skin when you're decent again, only for it all to get ruined as you continue to ride him recklessly. In seconds your tight shirt rides up your stomach again and your chest spills from the top. He only laughs at the sight, and your bounces suddenly switch to another unstable attempt at a rhythm.

“You're struggling, baby?” Anton asks and the smile on his face only gets bigger.

Eunseok can’t stop his eyes from widening at how easily the teasing falls from Anton’s lips. His jaw drops to the floor when he sees you quickly shake your head in response.

"I got it." You lie.

Anton only hums in response, experimentally pressing his hand between your shoulder blades. Eunseok watches him apply the smallest bit of force, just to see your weak body yield to him. Anton hums again, his gaze going from the space his hand occupies to the back of your head.

“Feels good right?” He asks.

You nod your head even faster, dropping yourself on Anton’s dick so fast the sound of your ass slapping against his lap fills the room.

“So good.” You hum in response.

When Anton takes his hands away from you completely, that’s when Eunseok finally lets his hand go to his own body. As if Anton is bossing him around too, Eunseok moves the same way you do. When you tilt your head to the side so Anton can press his teeth into your neck Eunseok tips his too. When you lean back Eunseok does the same. He sits on his knees, resting back on his haunches as he palms himself over his gray sweatpants.

“Fuck.” Anton breathes to himself.

His hands are clasped behind his head watching you do all the work. The effort from before shows on his skin. Eunseok sees the sweat and the splotches of blush that paints Anton’s body and face. He can see the sweat forming on his brow and chest that makes his black compression shirt cling to him even more.

Even now, without touching you, Anton slightly flicks his hips upwards to meet you each time you come down. But he is lax, watching your body move from the force of your drops.

“Keep riding me, princess.” Anton says softly.

When your response is a little too loud, Eunseok bites his lip. His dick twitches against his palm when Anton leans forward to grip your chin in one hand. He doesn’t even have to pry his fingers between your jaw to get your lips to part. Just like on your birthday you do it mindlessly, a string of spit webbing between your drool covered lips. Just like you two seemingly wished to do on your birthday Anton brings his fingers to your mouth and presses them heavily on your tongue. Eunseok watches your lips close around him immediately, hallowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around. Anton fucks your mouth with his two fingers, pushing deep almost causing you to gag, before pulling back.

“So good at listening to me.” Anton says.

Eunseok thinks he’s about to explode. His hand pressing against his bulge isn’t enough. Looking at you two through a crack in the door and from the reflections of the room wide mirrors isn’t enough.

“You listen to me so well.” Anton comes closer and wraps his hand that isn’t in your mouth around your waist. “If only everyone knew.” He teases.

For the first time, Eunseok watches you be defiant. Even as you continue bouncing on his lap through the burning pain in your legs, even as spit dribbles down your chin due to an overworked gag reflex, even as you let yourself be consumed by Anton’s frame. You shake your head somehow speeding up the way you drop down onto him.

“It’s a secret.” You gargle behind his now three fingers.

Eunseok’s hand wraps around his dick inside of his sweats when he sees Anton lick his lips before fake pouting. 

“Oh I know.” Anton voice drips with fake sympathy. “Our little secret.” He promises.

Eunseok feels the hairs raise on the back of his neck when Anton runs his hands over the planes of your shoulder. Eunseok watches you pause on his lap and he gets even closer to the crack in the door. His dick is twitching in his hand, precum wets his tip and in between his fingers.

Anton is out of his view when he moves his body. Eunseok scoots closer to the opening, swaying his head from side to side trying to find the angle to give his eyes the widest view.

When he gets too close, just when he finds his spot, Eunseok sees that Anton is looking at him. Narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow peaking in the darkness of the hallway Eunseok is crouched in. 

Fear shoots up his spine. Eunseok’s hand completely stills its tugging movements. He pulls in a breath so quiet and so deep that his vision spots. Anton looks directly at him. Eunseok can see Anton looking right at him, but Anton doesn’t move. He only cranes his head and narrows his eyes further trying to find someone in the shadows. Eunseok freezes like a deer in the headlights.

“Tonie.” You whimper.

Your undistracted voice makes Eunseok’s hand continue to move, even while Anton stares directly through him. Anton is still looking for something, prying eyes trying to find a presence he can feel but can’t see. 

“Tonie.” When you drag out his name, Anton goes back to you. With one last side glance at the hallway he lets his fingers slide from your mouth. “I’m so close again.” You whine.

“We gotta be fast.” Anton orders gently. 

You nod, bringing one of your hands to quickly wipe across your face. You get the spit, smeared chapstick, and tears in one go, bringing in a sniffle before you plant your hands on his thighs again. 

But when you are prepared to continue bouncing on his lap until you make even more pitiful and even louder noises, Anton has other plans. Eunseok can see it in the way he wraps both hands around your waist, he sees it as someone looking in before you can even notice. 

At the drop of a hat Anton flips you around, where you’re the one with the side of your face pressed against the incline of the bench while he mounts you from behind. You’re in a haze, completely pliant to Anton’s impatient hand that guides one of your knees to rest on the edge of the bench to open you up wider so he can slot himself between your legs. 

The change in position and balance causes you to helplessly grip the head of the bench to find stability. Once again Eunseok can no longer see Anton’s face, but he imagines he’s looking down at where your hole clenches around nothing. He sees Anton rest one of his feet on the low cushioned bar for leg curls to get an optimum angle. Eunseok can see everything this way, the way your ass wiggles towards Anton’s dick and the glisten that goes down your thigh. Eunseok can see your cheek smushed against the incline of the bench, how it causes your lips to pout and pucker. 

Eunseok can see it all, except for Anton. When he watches Anton’s hand wrap around his dick he moves in the tiny space of the hallway again. 

But this time, when Eunseok can see everything, he sees Anton staring straight at him. He’s not staring into the darkness, he’s not looking at what he thinks is a person. The way Anton's eyes widen in shock and the red deepens on his neck tells Eunseok everything he needs to know. His hand stops in his pants, even when his dick continues to pulse in his grasp. Anton freezes too. 

Eunseok and Anton both refuse to look away until you lift your heavy head from the incline. Eunseok watches you turn, completely ignoring the Eunseok shaped shadow in the crack of the door to look at your boyfriend with pleading eyes.

“Tonie, please.” Your hand blindly reaches behind you in an effort to guide Anton’s dick the rest of the way. “Don’t tease me.” You beg.

Anton can barely pull himself away from Eunseok slowly continuing to tug at himself again to look at you. He leans forward, pressing his shirt clad chest to your back to kiss your cheek. He moves his hips out of the way, making your hand hover in space, looking for something Anton purposefully moved out of reach. When you whine again he smiles against the apple of your cheek.

“Not teasing you, babe.” He says.

“Yes you are.” You pout, and Eunseok can almost hear the beginning of a cry in your voice.

When you close your eyes to preen your head towards Anton’s lips, he casts another glance to Eunseok. His confused state turns to a jealous one when he realizes Eunseok hasn’t stopped his ministrations on himself. Anton purposefully obstructs Eunseok’s view, wedging his body between your ass and Eunseok’s line of sight. He perches his foot on the leg curl bar again, and casts one more look to Eunseok. The look Anton gives Eunseok shatters everything. The upturn in his lips, the amusement in knowing what Eunseok is doing on the other end of the door, the way he hides you from Eunseok’s view. 

It’s a quick look, one that disappears fast like all the other cracks Eunseok has seen in Anton’s resolve. Quickly he is sucked back into the moment and you, his head tilts back from the relief the same time he brings a hand down on the swell of your ass that Eunseok can’t see.

When Eunseok can no longer handle the view of Anton’s rippling muscles underneath his compression shirt he looks down to himself instead. He’s so close, on the same cusp of insanity that you’re on. Anton knows it, Eunseok knows he does. His hands wrap around your waist to bring your hips back quickly. He fucks you with a fervor that shakes the weight stand your other hand clings to.

“Squeezing me so tight.” Anton leans forward to clasp his hand over yours. Eunseok can’t see a single part of you as Anton uses his body to cover you completely. He speaks loud enough for Eunseok to hear, the lewd sounds you make leaks into the hallway after bouncing off the mirrored walls. “Doing that on purpose?” He asks.

You don’t even speak anymore. Only pitched moans are pulled from the back of your throat. You were always the talker between the two of you. Anton nodding along to every word you say. Now he is the one filling in the gaps of silence, pinching your cheek playfully when he realizes you have nothing to say.

“Must feel really good, huh?” He teases.

Eunseok doesn’t blame you for the pathetic yeah that escapes your lips almost instantly. His hand speeds up in his sweats, the fabric jumps as the metal equipment shakes around you two.

“Are you gonna cum?” Anton asks.

Eunseok paints his hand and the inside of his pants before you can answer. His orgasm takes him so suddenly his pitches forward, his hand presses into the wall as he looks down at the ground in front of him. He sees his thighs twitch as his whole body contracts. Eunseok’s sweaty hair cascades and blocks his vision as his hips start rutting into his hand. He fucks his hand like a hormonal teenager while Anton commands you to cum around him. His words drown out the tiny sound that slips past Eunseok’s bitten lips. 

When Eunseok looks up from the ground, he can see Anton give you one final thrust before he pulls out completely. Anton pumps his dick quickly as you come down from the same high Eunseok just experienced. He watches Anton reach down quickly into his bag before he finally releases. The amount of control and precision Anton makes Eunseok realize he is wearing the mess he made, that there is already an obvious stain forming right in the front. 

Anton is tidy, his mess is clean before you even catch your breath. You’re weak and spent, back against the incline of the bench as you look up to Anton looking down at you. Your weak hand pinches and prods at his thick thighs, the other grazes over his taut lower stomach. You can’t bring yourself to widen your sleepy eyes, you can barely stifle a yawn as you lean further into the bench.

One second Anton is solid underneath you, the next he is soft and giggling. You can only give him a weak smile as you continue touching him. As if a switch had been flipped you’re no longer feeling him up but tickling him. He playfully grabs your hands, both wrists contain in your hand as he wipes away the tears collected at your waterline. 

Eunseok is bewildered to see the bright smile on Anton’s lips. He’s no longer eating you alive but putting you back together, guiding your legs into an extra pair of sweats he had stuffed in his gym bag. Anton tends to you before he even thinks about tending to himself, kissing your cheeks sweetly in between each action.

You’re still collecting yourself when Anton is ready to go. He has to pull you up from the bench with both hands, he has to offer to carry you before you shake your head and lament you can walk. 

Eunseok sneaked off long before Anton opened the door for you the rest of the way and let you stagger through first. He was out of the parking lot before Anton buckled you into the passenger seat. He was home laying in bed by the time Anton started running a warm shower for you.

Eunseok absolutely didn’t know Anton had it in him.

[rothpie]

❝FIDELITY❞ |part9

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: mentioning miscarriage, blood, mentioning drug and alcohol use, daddy issues

Selly's note: First of all I'm sorry. I wrote this while my heart was broken. I learned my ex left the country. He was the first person I loved. LIKE COME BACK???? We HAVE TO marry!!!!! Sorry for oversharing💗, and if there is a mistake. I didn't re-read this. Love y'all.💗💗

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Your hands trembled. Your whole body felt numb, yet the shaking tethered you to reality. There was a heavy weight on your chest, as though even breathing had become an uphill battle. A knot in your throat tightened with every passing second, making even the simple act of swallowing painful. You didn’t know what to do. The chaos of the moment was tearing your mind into pieces, your thoughts tangling into a knot so thick you couldn’t unravel it. 

You hadn’t done anything unusual. The day had started like any other. You made yourself some herbal tea, watched TV, read a book about baby development. You cleaned the house a little, then opened the packages that had arrived—items for your daughter’s room. 

Alone. 

Since the moment you arrived in this town, you’d always felt alone, but this was different. This was like falling into a deep, endless chasm, where there was nothing to grasp, no hand to reach for. You could feel your hands flailing in the void, desperately searching, yet finding nothing. 

The warm, sticky sensation spreading down your legs sent a jolt of panic through you. Your eyes flicked downward involuntarily, but you didn’t want to look. Yet it felt as if everything around you was betraying you, even the streetlamp outside, which cast its harsh glow on the spreading pool on the floor. You didn’t want to see it. You feared that seeing it would confirm your worst fears. Your eyes filled with tears, but you couldn’t cry. You wouldn’t cry. Would tears ease the crushing weight of this fear? You doubted it. 

You reached for your phone, but even your fingers trembled. Touching the screen, dialing a number, selecting a name—it all felt like an impossible task. The chaos in your mind blurred your thoughts. Everything was moving too fast and too slow all at once. Seconds stretched into eternities, yet time pressed on, dragging you deeper into helplessness. 

You hadn’t wanted this. You had left the island just for this pregnancy, determined to build a life here. And now, was it all going to be taken from you? After all the effort to adjust, after everything? 

You glanced around. The silence of the room pressed down on you like a weight. It felt as if the entire world had pulled away, leaving you stranded. You knew there were people—so many people—but none of them were close, not really. Placing your hands on your belly, you clung to the small hope that the motion could somehow quiet the storm of fear inside you. But it didn’t work. 

The voices of fear echoed in your mind: What if I’m too late? What if it’s over? What if this loneliness never ends? Each scenario was scarier than the last. You closed your eyes, but even the darkness offered no solace. The images in your head only fanned the flames of your terror. 

When you finally held the phone in your hand, you knew you had to choose someone to call. Should it be your mom? Or your dad? Maybe… someone else? But what if they couldn’t come? That thought pushed you deeper into despair. It suddenly felt as if the entire world had turned its back on you, as if every person was out of reach. The weight of isolation was crushing. 

Your hands were cold and clammy. As your fingers hovered over the screen, trying to pick a name, you felt frozen. You couldn’t move them. It was as though your brain had redirected all its attention to the fluid trickling down your legs and the stabbing pain in your abdomen. Panic consumed you, leaving you paralyzed and unsure of what to do. 

A quiet voice in your mind whispered, Everything will be okay. But it was impossible to believe. That voice was so faint, so far away, drowned out by the louder, darker thoughts. Reality felt so distant that even hope seemed like a luxury you couldn’t afford. While your mind scrambled for answers, your body refused to move. 

You tightened your grip on your belly, as though holding on harder could anchor you to something, anything. Alone in that dark, silent room, you had never felt smaller. The outside world was shut off from you, leaving only your fears, your thoughts, and the suffocating weight of solitude. 

Since moving to this town, you’d thought a lot about loneliness. But now, you truly understood its meaning. Loneliness wasn’t just sitting in silence. It wasn’t merely being by yourself. Loneliness was not having anyone to reach when you needed them most. It was feeling as though your voice couldn’t reach anyone, as though you were invisible. 

The trembling didn’t stop. Your eyes darted around, trying to focus on something, anything, but everything was blurry—not because you couldn’t see, but because you couldn’t concentrate. Nothing made sense in that moment. 

You searched for a way out. But maybe the only thing you could do was wait. That thought terrified you even more. Waiting... it made you feel so helpless, so powerless. But what else could you do? 

Tears welled up again as you struggled to breathe. But each breath felt heavier, each inhale pulling the loneliness deeper into your chest. That loneliness, like a black hole, seemed ready to devour you. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the pool of liquid spreading on the floor. You couldn’t face it. If you didn’t look, maybe it would stay a bad dream. Maybe this was just paranoia playing tricks on your mind. 

Even though you could feel the warm liquid dripping down your legs, you clung to the hope that you’d wake up. That you’d open your eyes in bed and thank God it was just a nightmare. 

You wanted to wake up. You didn’t want to believe this was real. Not after everything you had done to adjust to this new life. Not after leaving the island to start fresh. 

You had left everything behind. Everyone. 

For a life with your baby. 

You had wanted this baby. Even with your initial doubts, you had wanted it. And for what? To have it taken from you? 

Your eyes shut tight as your hand clenched the phone and your other hand pressed harder against your belly. You wished the pain would stop, that the ache—so reminiscent of a menstrual cramp—would just go away. 

Only days ago, you’d noticed your belly start to show, a tiny swell that made you smile. You had cradled it with your hands, talked to it, even though you didn’t care if it could hear. You wanted it to know you were there. Just a few days ago, you’d been excited about buying clothes for it. 

For this? 

For it to be taken away? 

When you finally opened your eyes, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. You wanted to block it out. You wanted the sensation in your legs to disappear. For a moment, you convinced yourself it was all in your head. But the warm trickle that followed was a harsh slap of reality. 

Your trembling eyes drifted downward. The sight of the blood pooled on the floor knocked the breath out of you. Your heart skipped, as if an elephant had perched on your chest. Your legs gave way. Falling to the floor hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in your chest. 

You had never seen them. They’d only been with you for five months, but the thought of that bond breaking—of losing them—felt like your heart was being ripped out. 

When you love something so deeply, does it always have to be taken away? Is that just the way life works? Had everything led to this moment? 

Had you fought with your family, with Rafe, for this? Had you left your entire life behind, moved to this town, just to lose your baby? 

Even your family had started to share your joy. They were thrilled for you, as ecstatic as you were. And now, for what? For this? 

Were you supposed to mourn?

To learn a lesson, did you really have to fall this hard? You hated it. You didn’t want to learn any more lessons. Not if they hurt this much. If growth meant falling like this, you were ready to stay exactly the same—stagnant, unchanging, and safe. 

The moment you felt a fragment of clarity, just enough to push panic aside, you called 911. You couldn’t afford to lose more time. It felt like your mind had snapped back into place, even if only temporarily. 

But you had no idea what you were saying. Your words felt foreign, disjointed, even as you tried to describe what was happening. They assured you they’d come to your home. They told you not to hang up.

Then you realized—you needed to call your family. You needed them with you. Right now, you just wanted to be back in Outer Banks, in your own house, surrounded by the people who had always been there for you. 

If you were there, you wouldn’t feel this crushing loneliness. They would be by your side. 

You didn’t even know how many times you tried. Your fingers repeatedly dialed your mom’s number, then your dad’s, over and over again. Each time, you were met with the same recorded message: unreachable. 

Still, you kept calling, clinging to that faint hope that someone, anyone, would answer. But each attempt ended the same way, the monotone voice echoing the same result. 

And then, without thinking, your fingers moved on their own. They dialed his number. In that moment, you didn’t care about shame or pride. All that mattered was that you needed help. You needed Rafe. Even if the chance was slim, even if it was just a sliver of hope, you needed him to answer. 

As the phone rang, your heart pounded so violently it felt like it would burst out of your chest. Each ring amplified the fragile hope blooming inside you. Your lips moved as if uttering a prayer: “Please pick up.” You needed someone—anyone—to be there, to tell you that everything was going to be okay. Tears streamed down your face as the call rang on, unanswered.

He wouldn’t ignore you, you told yourself. He wouldn’t turn you away. He’d come. You knew he would. He had to. You prayed he wasn’t still angry, that he didn’t hate you for not terminating the pregnancy. 

When the call ended without an answer, you didn’t stop. Your trembling hands hit redial without hesitation. Shame and pride were irrelevant now. You needed him. If he wouldn’t come, you needed him to reach your family. You were utterly alone otherwise. 

Alone. The word echoed like a hollow drumbeat in your chest. 

For a moment, time seemed to stop. The racing of your heart, the chaotic swirl of your thoughts, even your tears—all stilled in the suffocating silence of your own helplessness. But you didn’t give up. You called again. And again. Your trembling fingers barely functioned, struggling to tap the screen. But you kept trying.

Fuck pride. You needed help. You needed someone by your side, someone to hold you, someone to tell you it wasn’t the end. Your lips quivered as you let out a stifled sob. “Please…” When the call went to voicemail yet again, your shoulders shook with the weight of another unanswered prayer. 

Wasn’t this his baby too? Didn’t it matter to him? You hadn’t made this baby alone. Surely he would care. You didn’t need him to grieve with you. You just needed him here. And he would come. Rafe was a lot of things, but when it came down to it, he wouldn’t leave you stranded. 

Not you. 

You had to believe that. You clung to that hope like a lifeline, begging for it to still be true. 

Another sob tore through you, reverberating through the empty room. This time, it came from somewhere so deep inside that it left your chest heavy, crushed under the weight of despair. You prayed he’d answer.

You weren’t strong enough to endure this. 

You didn’t want to do this alone. You fought to steady your trembling lips, desperate to string together the words you’d need to say if he picked up—when he picked up. But once again, the line went dead.

This time, it felt like a door slamming in your face. But it wasn’t just rejection—it was the crumbling of a trust you hadn’t even realized you still held onto. Deep down, you had truly believed he would answer. That he’d help you. That he wouldn’t leave you to face this on your own. 

As the silence deepened, your hands fell to the cold floor, sticky with blood. You didn’t even care. You felt like everything you wanted, everything you’d dreamed of, was slipping through your fingers. Did you not deserve happiness? Had you done something so wrong to deserve this? 

You wanted to scream. To set the house on fire, to rip apart the tiny baby clothes you’d just bought. 

You nearly buried your face in your hands, but the sight of blood on your fingers stopped you. Frantically, you wiped them on your nightgown, trying to erase it. You wanted it gone—needed it gone. You wanted to forget everything that had happened today. 

The phone was still in your hand, your fingers gripping it like it held a flicker of hope. Rafe hadn’t answered. Your family hadn’t answered. Their silence only pushed you deeper into yourself. Your tears began to dry, replaced by a hollow ache gnawing at your insides. 

After your final attempt, you let the screen go dark. The reflection of your tear-streaked face stared back at you from the blackened screen, ghostly and unfamiliar. Your lips still trembled with silent cries, your voice barely audible even to yourself. 

Then, the phone buzzed. The unexpected vibration made you flinch. The screen lit up, and your heart stuttered before racing into overdrive. A message. 

When you saw the name, a fraction of the emptiness lifted. JJ. His name sat there like it belonged, as if the chaos hadn’t touched it. You opened the message, holding your breath. 

How’s it going with your new street animal buddies? Found yourself a soulmate yet?

It was stupid. Ridiculous. But somehow, in all its absurdity, that sarcastic tone cracked something open inside you. A tiny window of light broke through the storm. 

And yet, the relief was fleeting. Looking at the message, then back at the blood pooling on the floor, your emotions surged in a tangle of anger, helplessness, and unrelenting fear. 

You needed him. Right now. Without thinking, your trembling fingers scrolled back to his name.

The name on the screen made your eyes well up. JJ. So ordinary, so simple. Yet, at that moment, it felt like your only tether to life. He’d come. He would, wouldn’t he? 

With trembling hands, you pressed the call button. As you held the phone to your ear, the silence was broken only by the erratic pounding of your heart. Each ring sent a jolt of panic through you—what if he didn’t answer? “Please…” you whispered, barely audible. “Please pick up…”

It felt like you were losing your mind. Was this real? Had he really sent that message? 

“Hey, Princess. I noticed we’ve upped the calls lately. Can’t manage without me, huh—”

The distant sound of sirens reached your ears, and your lips quivered. Even JJ’s voice, with its usual cocky tone, felt like an anchor. Just hearing him talk, hearing that familiar teasing edge—it was everything. It made you feel as if you’d already done all you could. 

“I need you here.” 

The words came out shakily, and there was a pause on the other end of the line. One hand rested in your lap, the other gripping the phone, both stained with blood. 

To be honest, you were terrified. Not just about what might happen but about losing the baby. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice had lost its playful tone, replaced with a sharp seriousness. He was waiting for an answer, but you felt too drained, too scared, to put your fears into words. Saying the possibility of a miscarriage out loud felt impossible. 

How did he always know? How could he tell when you needed him the most? Was he like this with everyone, or just you? 

When he said your name, you tried to take a deep breath, but it came out broken and shallow. The sirens were getting closer. “I’m bleeding.” The weight of the words nearly crushed you as they left your lips, leaving you lightheaded—not from pain, but from the sheer gravity of it. 

You were so used to him being there. The idea of him leaving, of him not being there, was unbearable. “I called everyone, but—”

“I’m on the way. Did you call 911? Listen, I’ll be there, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll get there as fast as I can. You’ll be fine. You’re going to be fine. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Okay? I need you to say something.” His words were quick, determined, unwavering. 

You nodded instinctively, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. Even if this was your fate, you didn’t want to accept it. 

“I’m scared.” A sob escaped your lips as the sirens grew louder. They were on your street. 

“I’m coming. Everything’s going to be okay.”

—

Last night was ordinary. A night that fell short of expectations—not that Rafe knew what he was expecting anymore. He had become a ghost of himself, far from anything resembling pride. 

Had he ever been proud of himself, really? 

He couldn’t focus on the future or the present; he was stuck in the past. 

His eyes had searched for you everywhere. There wasn’t a corner of the Outer Banks he hadn’t roamed. The beach, parties, the country club—he’d scoured them all, just to catch a glimpse of you. 

He even shopped at the grocery store near your house, the one far from his own. Almost every day, he’d find himself there, grabbing a drink, some crackers, whatever he could justify, just to linger for a chance to see you. 

He missed your presence. Your scent. 

He missed the moments in bed with you—not the sex, but the times he held you in his arms, kissed you, and just existed in your warmth. He missed looking into your eyes, the overwhelming urge to tell you he loved you. 

But Rafe was a coward. He couldn’t admit that to anyone, not even himself. And you? You already knew. You didn’t need to hear it from anyone. 

He hadn’t told his father. He hadn’t told anyone—Topper, Kelce, Sarah, even Wheezie. Not that anyone else could really understand. 

You were the only one who truly knew him. And he’d lost you. Because he was a coward. 

He missed the sound of your voice. If he could go back, he’d want you to talk more in those old videos. He’d spend hours talking to you if he had the chance again. 

He couldn’t adjust to your absence. 

When he threw himself into alcohol, he didn’t think much about it. When had he ever truly sat down and thought anything through? All he knew was how to make impulsive decisions that wrecked his life. 

He couldn’t stand Topper and Kelce’s phases of chasing random girls, calling them over, laughing at nothing. Rafe’s mind, body, and soul belonged to you. He couldn’t bring himself to touch or even look at anyone else. 

Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to sleep, the only image in his head was your face. 

He hadn’t touched another woman. Not that he tried. He knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the same. They wouldn’t be you. 

There was a time when he thrived on quick, meaningless flings. He hated attachments—blamed it on his childhood. He figured it was because he didn’t know what it meant to make love. He never let emotions into it. But with you, it was different. 

It was intoxicating—better than anything drugs had ever made him feel. It was addictive. 

He loved whispering “I love you” while he was with you. It made him feel like less of the mess he knew he was. But even then, he hadn’t said it enough—like the idiot he was. 

You had been gone from his life for almost four months, and the void was unbearable. Not even when he’d tried to quit drugs had he craved their presence the way he craved yours. 

It was like he was a teenager nursing his first heartbreak. And yet, somehow, this was the mildest punishment he thought he deserved for his cowardice. 

He’d worked so hard to get Ward’s approval, to finally be seen by his father. Ward was noticing him now, for the first time. He could see Rafe’s potential, and Rafe knew it. For once, it wasn’t Sarah he was looking at—it was him. 

For the first time, Ward saw Rafe accomplishing something for Cameron Development. For the first time, Rafe gave his father the impression that he was capable of more. After years of begging for attention, Rafe was finally getting it. 

But it had cost him you. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his father’s approval. He couldn’t face that rejection again. Ward had finally placed a hand on his shoulder, and Rafe didn’t want to feel that hand pulled away. 

He hadn’t wanted to lose you, either. That was never part of the plan. It just… happened. Too fast. And he’d been too scared. 

Scared of seeing that disappointment in his father’s eyes again. 

Everyone around him noticed his spiraling depression, even Topper and Kelce. Though he never opened up to them, they could tell something was wrong. If they noticed, then everyone else must’ve, too. Not that Rafe cared. Nobody dared bring it up to him anyway. 

Under Topper and Kelce’s relentless pressure, he found himself at a party. Not to have fun. Not to let loose. But to see you. He spent the night searching for you, glancing around like you might walk in at any second. 

He looked for your old friends, the ones he’d seen you with before. He hoped you’d be there, even though he knew it was unlikely. You were pregnant. You probably wouldn’t come. But the possibility, however slim, was enough to drag him there. 

That same possibility kept him shopping near your place, day after day. 

For the chance of you. 

The more he didn’t see you, the more he drank, as if alcohol could drown out the ache. Nothing could fill the emptiness you left behind, but he still clung to his glass, hoping—maybe if he drank enough, he’d hallucinate you. 

He didn’t know how much he drank. It didn’t even feel like a party. Topper and Kelce flirted and joked with girls, but Rafe didn’t bother looking their way. He just drank and searched. 

You were the one who used to go to parties with him. You were his girl. And Rafe? He was yours. It wasn’t an open relationship; he wouldn’t have shared you with anyone. 

You used to pull him onto the dance floor. He’d groan and complain at first, but you always got your way. And once he gave in, he didn’t hate it. Not when he was touching you. He loved every moment he could hold you. 

Even now, he could hear your voice in his head, persuading him to dance. Him pretending to resist. You insisting, until he finally caved. What an idiot he’d been. He should’ve just said yes every time. Done anything you asked. 

His regrets were endless. His self-loathing, boundless. For being such a coward. For being a failure, yet again. 

You had believed in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. Your faith in him had given him the courage to ask his father for opportunities, small as they were. And with you, he’d felt like he’d succeeded, just a little. 

Now he hated himself for choosing his father’s approval over you—and the baby. 

The thought of you moving on, raising a child without him, was unbearable. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you with your swollen belly, or playing with your child—his child. And the thought of not being there... 

He hated himself for fearing his father more than losing you. For crawling for scraps of his father’s affection like some pathetic creature. 

Which he was. 

And now, for the rest of his life, he would hate this moment—and himself—for choosing so poorly. 

Rafe thought he’d made it home thanks to Topper and Kelce. He vaguely remembered stumbling through the front door and collapsing into Wheezie’s arms. The idea that the tiny girl could hold him up was almost laughable. Somehow, he’d managed to make it to his room.

Wheezie had laid him down on his bed before leaving. You’d have to be an idiot not to notice something was wrong. She knew her brother too well. She hadn’t seen him this quiet, this withdrawn, in a long time.

You were always there with him.

When you were around, Wheezie could hear your laughter coming from Rafe’s room. Even when Rafe was being his usual insufferable self, you made him bearable. She never thought he had that side to him. Frankly, she wasn’t even sure it existed until you came along.

When Rafe opened his eyes the next morning, a sharp, pounding headache greeted him like a cruel companion. The remnants of last night’s party echoed in his skull. Sitting up in bed, hungover and disoriented, fragments of the night before started to drift back into focus—crowds, noise, laughter. The sunlight filtering through the curtains hit him square in the face, intensifying the pain. All he wanted was to throw up and stay in bed for the rest of the day.

He didn’t remember much, just that he went to the party and drank like it was his last night on Earth. Alcohol had been a more reliable friend than Topper or Kelce that night.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to shake off the fog. The smell—his own and the room’s—was rancid, like a stale cocktail of sweat and regret.

He kicked off the covers, intending to get up, when his eyes landed on a single pill and a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. Without thinking, he swallowed the pill and drained the glass.

Stumbling to the window, he threw it open, letting fresh air seep in. He took a quick shower, practically praying for relief from the headache that felt like it was splitting his skull in two. The cold water shocked his system, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to crawl into a dark room and hide there for a week.

Out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his neck and caught a glimpse of his reflection. Dark circles framed his eyes, his face bore the fatigue of a man who hadn’t truly rested in years. The weight pressing down on him wasn’t just from the alcohol; it was everything else. Everything he’d tried to suppress. “You really are a master at screwing things up,” he muttered bitterly at himself.

His gaze drifted around the room—clothes tossed haphazardly on the bed, an empty bottle lying on the floor, a lighter on the nightstand. Even the carpet under his feet made his skin crawl. He needed to pull himself together, maybe eat something, grab a coffee. But first, his phone.

It sat there on the edge of the table, an unspoken threat. Reaching for it, a wave of unease washed over him. He didn’t know who he’d talked to, what he’d said, or worse, what he’d texted. His fingers trembled as he picked it up and unlocked the screen.

Notifications flooded in—group chats, Instagram likes—and then, there they were. Three missed calls.

From you.

His breath hitched. He stared at the screen, the timestamp mocking him. Midnight. One after the other. His thumb hovered over the call log, uncertainty gripping him. Why had you called? 

And why at midnight?

It couldn’t be. Not you. Not after everything. You never made the first move, especially not in the middle of the night. 

For a moment, he considered calling you back. His thumb ghosted over your name. Should he? Maybe. Or maybe not. What if it led to the same arguments—about the baby, about why you didn’t want to stay, about why he let you go? He could still feel the weight of everything left unsaid between you, haunting him like a shadow.

He dropped the phone back onto the table, running his hands through his hair. Deep down, he knew these questions were rhetorical. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he hadn’t stopped thinking about you—or the life you might’ve had together.

Rising from the bed, he moved to his closet, grabbing the first shirt he saw. A hollow ache settled in his chest as he debated whether to call. The courage he’d relied on last night felt a thousand miles away.

Just then, the phone buzzed. Another notification. His heart skipped. Was it you? No. Someone else. But the fleeting hope that it might’ve been you twisted something inside him.

Setting the phone down again, he took a deep breath. *Calm down,* he told himself. But calming down was impossible. The unease coiled tighter, mixing guilt and longing into a cocktail of misery.

Without thinking too much, he hit your name and let the call go through. The ringing filled the room, amplifying his heartbeat. What if you were asleep? What if he woke you? He hated the idea of disturbing you.

The line clicked off before you answered. His worry deepened. What if something had happened to you? His fingers hovered, then dialed again, this time with more urgency.

The second call rang longer. Each tone ratcheted up his anxiety. And then, finally, the line connected. 

“Hey,” Your voice was quiet, cautious.

For a moment, Rafe’s words stuck in his throat. He tried to speak, but it felt like someone had stolen his voice. Finally, he managed, “Hey… uh, you called me?”

It sounded weak, tentative. But hearing your voice, even like this, sent a pang straight through him. He missed you more than he could put into words.

A pause. The silence stretched, making him wonder if you were about to hang up. Then you answered, “I was drunk.”

The words hit him like a slap. Drunk? That was it? Just a drunk dial? The thought made his stomach twist. Was it really that meaningless?

“Are you okay?” he asked, this time more firmly, though it took everything not to press harder.

“I’m fine.” But your tone was too quick, too dismissive. He knew you better than that. He could always tell when you were lying. But he didn’t push. Maybe he didn’t want to know the truth.

“Alright,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He wanted to keep you on the line, to hear more, to find some excuse to hold onto this moment.

“Okay,” you said, your voice faltering briefly before you caught yourself. “I have to go.”

And just like that, the call ended. The short beep that followed felt like a final blow, sealing the unbearable silence around him.

Rafe stared at the phone. Drunk. The word echoed in his head. It collided with another thought, one that sent a chill through him. Did she…?

Had you gone through with it? The decision he’d pushed you toward but never truly wanted? He’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do, but now the thought made his chest tighten unbearably.

He slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how to feel—relief, regret, or something else entirely. But one thing was clear: he hadn’t stopped loving you. And that realization hit him harder than anything else.

He glanced at the phone one last time. Your name was still there on the screen, a painful reminder of everything he’d lost. 

He thought about texting you but stopped. No words felt right. Maybe silence was all he deserved. After all, what was left to say when you’d already walked away for good?

[wonderjanga]

So there is that headcanon where Captian Marvel looks a lot like teth Aman (Black Adams kid) and him mistaking cap as his kid and trying to reconnect in a way making people think that Black Adam is Captain Marvels dad

*throws this idea at you and runs away*

*idea smacks me in the head*

Teth was furious. For good reason too. The Wizard literally sealed him away for nearly five thousand years. Then, the old man replaced him with some, from what he’d heard, bumbling idiot. So yes, he was furious, and he also wanted his job back. Something he could only get if the current champion was put down. Which he was on his way to this place called Fawcett to do.

When he got there, he could practically feel the magic emanating from the city. Were there magic ley lines here? Then it’s a no wonder the Champion chose to set up base here rather than one of the major cities. As of now, Adam was above the city surveying the terrain. Meanwhile, Billy in Marvel form is sitting on a roof, wondering who that weirdo hovering above the city.

Solomon: “Oh… Billy you have to kill that man.”

Marvel: “WHAT?” *gobsmacked and concerned because other than a couple times, Solomon has never been one to hop on the ‘kill that villain’ train*

Achilles: “Yeah, we’re sorry, but like, no joke, you actually gotta kill him.”

Marvel: “The other times were jokes?”

Mercury: “Kinda, but you absolutely have to kill this guy or he will kill you.”

Marvel: “Oh. Uhm… okay?” *sounds extremely nervous as he stands up* “So what do? Do I just…?”

Hercules: “Yeah, just like charge him, and beat him. To death.”

And that’s how Adam literally blinked and the next thing he knew, he was hurtling through the air and to the ground, far from the so called Fawcett. Damn it. The current Champion had found him first. When Adam crawled out of his crater, he was met with a face he didn’t think he’d ever see again. Aman.

Had that blasted Wizard brought his son back from the grave? Adam didn’t know whether he should be grateful, or enraged. On one hand, the Wizard brought his boy back. His boy whose life had ended too early. On the other hand, his boy had been thrust back into a life of danger as the Champion. Gods, how long had Aman been the current Champion? How long had the Wizard waited until he decided that doing this was acceptable?

As for Billy, he just stared down at the guy wearing black in confusion. Why did the Gods want him to kill this guy so bad? He isn’t attacking anyone. He’s kinda just there, staring up at up at Billy with the same confused expression Billy has. He also has the same lightning bolt? Billy had thought that was only reserved for people connected to the rock. The Wizard had never mentioned this guy before if that’s the case.

Black Adam: *mistakes Billy’s confusion as recognized* “…Aman?”

Marvel: *heard “a man” and just thought Adam just had some type of accent* “Yes…?” *now extremely confused*

Black Adam: “I can’t believe it.” *flies over to him and tries to reach out to him*

Marvel: *moves out of his reach because he does not know this rando*

Black Adam: *sounds slightly annoyed* “What did the Wizard tell you?”

Marvel: “Nothing? I just don’t know you.”

Black Adam: *looks absolutely disturbed* “He erased your memory?”

Marvel: *just about to answer when some monster starts attacking Fawcett* “Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk later.” *flies off to the monster*

Zeus: “How interesting.” *probably stroking his beard* “He didn’t immediately kill you.”

Solomon: “Be on watch Billy. He could still attack.”

Now, Adam obviously didn’t do that. He immediately went to Kahndaq, made himself pharaoh again and remodeled the palace as best as he could in such a short time. It wasn’t until about a week later that Adam came back to see his boy again.

Marvel: *finishes helping an old lady cross the road*

Black Adam: *lands beside him and clears his throat*

Marvel: “Oh, it’s you again!” *smiles*

Black Adam: “Yes. It is I.”

*silence*

Marvel: *desperate to fill the awkward silence* “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name the last time we met.”

Black Adam: “I am Teth Adam.” *is super hurt that his boy doesn’t remember him and is plotting on the Wizard*

Marvel: “Cool. I’m Captain Marvel. I’m fine with Cap, or Marvel, or whatever you can come up with.”

Black Adam: “So that’s what he has you going by…”

Marvel: “What?”

*another silence*

Black Adam: *clear throat again* “When… are you coming home?””

Marvel: “Home?”

Black Adam: “Home. Kahndaq. If you’re worried about becoming a slave again, after your…” *clears throat* “The point is, I worked to get rid of it.”

Billy honest to the Gods just assumed this guy was both lonely and another Champion.

Marvel: *confused at the mention of slavery* “Sure, I’ll come by. That’s in like Africa, right?”

Black Adam: *a little relieved that he’d visit, but also filled with a little dread because Marvel not knowing where Kahndaq is kind of supports the memory wipe theory* “I believe so.”

Marvel did visit. And sure, he might’ve had to work himself up for the awkward afternoon, but it wasn’t that bad. Teth seemed a little happier after the whole thing. Billy’s pretty sure at least. It’s a little hard to get a read the guy’s emotions.

Also, someone caught the end of their conversation, more specifically the coming home bit. Thus, the rumors of this new guy in black being Marvel’s father were born. These rumors were fueled by Adam trying to be fatherly, albeit awkwardly, and Billy just accepting it because he just thinks Adam is being nice.

Like the time Adam brought him a modernized version Aman’s favorite food because he thought he might still like it.

Achilles: “WAIT BILLY IT MIGHT BE POISONED-”

Marvel: *takes a big munch* “Wow, this is really good!”

Black Adam: *relieved* “It’s good you still like it.”

Yeah, Fawcitizens are like ninety percent sure Adam is their hero’s dad. And they’re here for it. They just want their big guy to be happy.

[brainfuzz]

That's....kind of an obnoxious take. Like I know nothing about art. But I can tell it takes skill to do what he's doing. I mean, the paint tray has to be loaded the right way, with the right amount of each color, hung at the right angle so the paint comes out steadily at the right rate so it gets enough on the canvas, but not too much that it runs out. He needs to push the tray at the right angle and speed so it remains over the canvas, yet goes consistently to the edges.

The first push gets a blob of colors on the canvas, yet the first swirl of the tray covers that up so there's a clear pattern. I have no idea what's going on that creates those holes in the ribbon, but I can only assume they were intentional (because if they weren't, they'd be considered mistakes and nobody posts their mistakes) even if the exact placement was not.

He's also got to move the canvas at the right speed - its not consistent through the paint tray swirling - so he gets the shape he wants instead of just seeing what happens if the canvas was in a consistent motion like on a conveyor belt. He also prepped that canvas and chose what color to make it. I think having the bright colors on a black canvas makes them stand out more than if they were on a white one. But again, I know less than nothing about art, so I could be wrong. Basically, it seems to me that instead of painting with a brush, he's actually painting with a canvas, moving it to get the colors where he wants.

But most importantly, you have no idea what his education is. He could have a Master of Fine Arts degree, he could have an Associate's degree in math, he could have no more (or not even) a high school diploma. But he thought of a different way to paint, figured out the hardware to make it happen, executed it probably more times than I want to think about in order to achieve the result he wanted, and then showed it to us. Hell, it could have taken him two years to master this technique, we don't know from this short video.

Is it the same as the paintings you make by painstakingly blending and painting each color? No. But then neither is digital art, and yet that also takes skill.

[xinganhao]

✏️ data science major!jeonghan x reader.

if there's one thing you've never been able to decode, it'd be your ex-boyfriend jeonghan ✶ part of my svt university milestone event

⤿ college exes, jeonghan is a menace™, suggestive coding pickup lines, [slight] angst, terrible pseudo-html for the hc (shoutout to w3schools). more content under the cut. ♡⸝⸝ prompt from @choco-scoups & anon!

<!doctype html> <html> <head> <title> decoding the breakup </title> <subtitle> yoon jeonghan (est. 2024) </subtitle> </head> </body> <script>

if (you still love them) {   // remind yourself of why you broke up in the first place   // date other people who don't even come close to them   // bury yourself in schoolwork or literally anything else that will make you forget } else {   // accept that you still have feelings }

if (you want them back) {   // be annoying enough that you're always on their mind   // reverse psychology them into thinking that they want you back   // reference your relationship so they might want it back, too   // hit them with the world's worst pickup lines so you can catch their attention } else {   // keep on trying until you succeed }

<p> confession time: running into you at what's supposed to be our spot was completely unintentional. that wasn't part of the bigger plan, of the grand scheme of things. that was just me trying to find some comfort in something familiar. in the quiet places where you once loved me. i'm a fool who likes to pretend, here and there, that our little corner of campus still remembers what it was like for us to be together. </p>

if (they still hate you) {   // accept it  // settle for what you're given } else {   // live for the hope of it all }

<p> confession time, part two: i still love you. of course i do. why the hell would i be doing all this if i didn't? <a href="https://www.svtuni.com/jun">jun</a> says love isn't a once-in-a-lifetime thing, but i beg to differ. at the risk of sounding like a bigger fool, i truly believe that i don't think i'll ever love anyone as much as i've loved you. </p>

<p> even <a href="https://www.svtuni.com/mingyu">mingyu</a> has gotten his sequel. and he's asked me, time and time again, if that's something i want with you. some second chance romance, one that won't end with me being 'Maybe: Jeonghan' in your phone. </p>

<p> <a href="https://www.svtuni.com/vernon">vernon</a> will be the first to tell us both that the body doesn't lie. some bullshit about the heart knowing what it wants, about it not being good for us to deny our most basic instincts of what it truly wants. our friends don't know how to keep their opinions to themselves, unfortunately. </p>

<p> <h1> anyway. what matters are my thoughts, right? </h1> </p>

<p> and my only thought is that i love you. i loved you when we were together, and i love you even now. i loved you, and i was bad at it, and i will live the rest of my life wondering what i could have done differently. as it is, i'm worried that i'm still not good enough for you. that i'll make the same mistakes that i did back then. </p>

<p> i'm happy to just love you, if you'll let me. i'm happy to be petty, to make up all these terrible pick up lines. to make you smile and scoff and roll your eyes. i want to love you and to want nothing in return. not until i deserve it. not until i can finally, finally say i'm worth your time. </p>

<p> <small> please. </small> </p>

</script> </body> </html>

[solxamber]

1800-Curse-Control || Lilia Vanrouge

You decide to open a hotline for curing curses with Lilia. It goes exactly how you imagined it would—maybe even a little better.

“Lilia,” you said, rubbing your temples as you leaned against the counter in Ramshackle’s disaster of a kitchen. “Grim’s eating me out of house and home, literally. If I can’t afford the repairs soon, the roof will cave in. But all he cares about is premium tuna! Do you know how much that stuff costs?”

Lilia, who was casually floating upside down for no apparent reason, looked entirely too entertained. “Ah, the plight of a homeowner,” he said, grinning. “Why not turn your misfortune into opportunity? I’ve been told I have exceptional customer service skills, and I’ve been dreadfully bored. Let’s open a hotline for removing curses!”

You blinked at him. “A hotline. For curing curses.”

“Yes, my dear beastie,” he said, flipping upright midair and landing gracefully. “Think about it! This school is crawling with fools who drink unlabeled potions, poke magical artifacts, and anger vengeful spirits just for sport. You’d be rich in a week!”

“…I hate how much sense that actually makes.”

“It’s a foolproof plan,” Lilia continued, already pulling a notepad from somewhere to scribble down ideas. “I’ll handle the exorcisms and the cackling, naturally. You, my dear entrepreneur, can be the charming face of the operation. We’ll call it—hmm—‘Curse-B-Gone.’”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, ‘Hex Hotline.’”

You considered it. On one hand, it sounded completely ridiculous. On the other hand, there was that third-year who accidentally swapped his voice with a frog’s last week and the freshmen who kept mysteriously sprouting feathers.

“…How much are we charging?”

“Ah-ha! I knew you’d come around!” Lilia said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see, we’ll need tiers. Minor hex removal? Hundred thaumarks. Major curses—hair-growing hexes, spontaneous transformation curses—those will start at Five Hundred.”

“And what about something, like, really bad? What if someone’s whole body turns into a pumpkin or something?”

“That’s a premium package. One thousand thaumarks.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, I’m in. But if this flops, you’re buying Grim’s tuna for the next month.”

Lilia smirked, his fangs glinting mischievously. “Deal.”

By the end of the day, you’d set up a magical hotline using some weird orb Lilia “borrowed” from the library, a vaguely threatening poster campaign across the campus (“Cursed? Hexed? A jackal-headed god show up at your dorm? Call us!”), and a suspiciously well-stocked supply of anti-curse materials Lilia claimed were “leftovers” from his youth.

You weren’t sure whether to feel excited or like you’d just signed up for the most bizarre mistake of your life. Either way, you couldn’t wait to see how this would go down.

The orb hotline rang for the first time, glowing ominously on the rickety desk in Ramshackle. You and Lilia exchanged glances.

“Answer it!” he whispered, like this was some spy mission and not a cursed customer service line.

With a deep breath, you picked it up. “Uh… Hello, this is the Cursed and Confused Hotline. How can we—”

“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” Ace’s voice screamed on the other end. “HE’S GOING TO KILL ME THIS TIME!”

You winced, holding the orb away from your ear. “Ace? What happened?”

“I DON’T KNOW! I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE TEA!”

“Okay, and?”

“And I might’ve…accidentally used that weird sugar in the Heartslabyul pantry, the one that glows in the dark? And now Riddle’s head is covered in, like…peonies. Big, pink peonies. They keep growing whenever he gets mad, which, uh, is always.”

You slapped your forehead. “You cursed your housewarden?!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Ace wailed. “I thought it was sugar, not cursed fertilizer! Look, can you just fix this before he declares ‘off with my head’ for real?”

“Ugh, fine. Where are you now?”

“Hiding in the rose bushes. He hasn’t found me yet, but I think I heard him sharpening a guillotine.”

“Classic Heartslabyul,” Lilia said cheerfully, already packing his so-called emergency kit.

When you and Lilia arrived at Heartslabyul, it was pure chaos. Riddle stood in the center of the garden, his face as red as his hair—and also half-obscured by an explosion of giant pink peonies blooming out of his head like some cursed bouquet.

“TREY!” Riddle bellowed. “GET THE GARDEN SHEARS!”

Ace was crouched in a rose bush nearby, whispering frantically. “Please tell me you brought an anti-cursed-flower spray or something!”

You ignored him and approached Riddle cautiously. “Uh, Riddle? You’ve got—”

“I KNOW WHAT I HAVE!” Riddle shrieked, a few more flowers blooming on his head. “I demand immediate remedy! Or else—”

“We’ll fix it,” Lilia cut in, grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in centuries. “Now, let’s see…” He pulled a vial of glowing liquid from his kit. “This should do the trick.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, eyeing the suspiciously fizzing vial.

“Of course not,” Lilia said, popping it open.

He dumped the liquid over Riddle’s head without warning. The flowers immediately shriveled up and disappeared.

Riddle blinked, touching his head in astonishment. “…It’s gone?”

“You’re welcome,” Lilia said with a dramatic bow.

Ace peeked out from the bushes. “So…he’s not mad anymore, right?”

Riddle’s death glare answered that question.

“RUN!” you yelled, dragging Ace out of the garden as Riddle shouted about punishment for “sugar crimes.”

Back at Ramshackle, you slumped against the desk. “We’re never doing house calls again.”

Lilia just laughed. “Oh, but the drama! I live for it!”

The hotline orb began glowing again, pulsing with a foreboding, bluish light.

You groaned. “If this is Ace again, I swear—”

Lilia waved his hand. “Come now, it’s probably another entertaining disaster! Answer it!”

You reluctantly picked up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What’s your—”

“FIX. THIS. NOW!” came Azul’s shrill, panicked voice.

You blinked. “Azul? What’s—”

“I CAN’T EVEN DESCRIBE WHAT HE’S DONE THIS TIME!”

“Oh, come on, Azul!” Floyd’s voice cut in, cackling in the background. “It’s a masterpiece!”

“Masterpiece?” Azul screeched. “You flooded the dining room and filled it with—WHY ARE THERE EELS IN THE SOUP POTS?”

“Because it’s hilarious!” Floyd howled, clearly having the time of his life.

Jade’s calm voice joined in, oozing politeness as always. “To be fair, Floyd has a point. The eels are thriving in there.”

Azul sputtered like a broken faucet. “THRIVING?! THEY’RE STEALING PEOPLE’S FOOD!”

“Sounds efficient to me,” Floyd said. You could practically hear him smirking. “Dinner and a show!”

Lilia perked up. “Eels in soup pots? How creative!”

“Don’t encourage him!” Azul barked. “Do you know how much it costs to repair the water damage he’s caused? The walls are dripping! The chandelier is dripping! I AM DRIPPING!”

“That’s not cursed,” you said, trying to hide your amusement. “That’s just Floyd being—well, Floyd.”

“Oh, no, it’s cursed,” Azul hissed. “Every time I try to remove the eels, the water level rises. They’re like aquatic squatters! Fix it or I swear I’ll—”

The sound of something massive splashing cut him off, followed by Floyd’s uncontrollable laughter.

“HAHAHA! He slipped into the soup pot! Jade, did you see that?”

“I did,” Jade replied, his voice as smooth as ever. “It was quite elegant.”

“AZUL’S AN EEL NOW!” Floyd cried. “Eel bros for life, baby!”

The orb started vibrating violently.

“Get. Over. Here. Now.” Azul’s voice was barely a whisper, the tone of someone seconds away from an aneurysm.

You sighed and grabbed your bag. “Let’s go before he implodes.”

When you arrived at Mostro Lounge, it was exactly what you expected—and somehow worse. The entire dining area was flooded, eels swam lazily in the soup pots, and Azul was perched on a chair, drenched from head to toe and glaring murderously at Floyd, who was happily paddling through the water like it was his personal playground.

“Finally!” Azul barked, waving his wet hand. “Do something! Anything!”

Floyd, half-submerged in a soup pot, waved at you. “Hey! You wanna join the eel party? First rule—no rules!”

Lilia clapped his hands. “This is magnificent chaos!”

Azul groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’ll double your pay if you fix this immediately.”

You glanced at Lilia, who was already pouring a suspiciously glowing liquid into the water.

“This should work,” he said cheerfully.

The water started to drain, the eels vanished in puffs of smoke, and the room returned to normal—except for Floyd, who now floated upside down in midair, spinning like a cursed top.

“Whoa, this is AWESOME!” Floyd laughed, twirling like a maniac. “I’m a flying eel!”

Azul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you said “I’m charging you extra for emotional damages.”

The hotline orb flared up again, casting a frantic purple glow. You groaned, mid-sip of tea.

“I don’t know if I can handle more insanity.”

Lilia, perched upside down on the couch, grinned. “Nonsense! Chaos keeps the heart young. Answer it!”

Reluctantly, you picked it up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What did you do, and how bad is it?”

“It’s me! It’s Epel!” came the desperate, whisper-shouted voice of the Pomefiore freshman. “I need your help—immediately! I’ve got the worst curse of all on me.”

“Worst curse?” you asked, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Vil,” Epel said, voice shaking. “And Rook.”

“...Epel, those are people, not curses.”

“They are when Vil finds out I repurposed his limited-edition face mask jars as apple cider mugs for the guys in Savanaclaw!”

Lilia burst into a delighted cackle. “Oh, that’s fantastic!”

“Not fantastic! Vil’s gonna flay me alive!” Epel hissed. “And Rook’s hunting me down like a rabbit in the woods. Please, ya gotta help!”

You tried not to laugh. “How exactly do you want me to help? I can’t exactly—”

A loud thud echoed through the call, followed by Epel screaming, “He found me! NO! PUT THAT BOW DOWN!”

“Bonjour, my friend~!” Rook’s voice came through, as smooth as velvet and disturbingly cheerful. “Ah, how beautiful the chase! Like a fox cornered by the hounds, our petit pomme has finally been found!”

“ROOK, NO! DON’T HAND ME OVER!”

“Oh, petit lapin,” Rook said, unbothered, “the punishment will only make you stronger. Think of it as a trial by fire!”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE STRONGER, I WANNA BE ALIVE!” Epel shrieked.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Rook, what exactly are you planning to do with him?”

“Ah, worry not,” Rook replied. “I am but a humble messenger delivering him to justice. Vil has been most patient.”

“HE CALLED ME A PEASANT AND THREW A HEEL AT ME, THAT’S PATIENT?” Epel howled.

Lilia leaned forward, thoroughly entertained. “Rook, at least let us have a word with Epel before he meets his doom.”

“But of course!”

“HELP ME!” Epel screamed the moment Rook handed him the phone. “Distract them, hex me, I dunno, CURSE ME INTO A TREE OR SOMETHING—”

“Epel,” you said firmly, trying not to laugh, “you’re going to have to face Vil eventually. What’s the worst he could do?”

“THE WORST? Oh, I dunno, exile me to a skincare bootcamp for the rest of my natural life?”

Rook’s voice floated in. “Imagine it, petit pomme: cleansing facials, detoxifying baths, and no more cider mugs. A new you!”

“YOU STAY OUTTA THIS!”

You sighed. “I can offer one thing.”

“Anything!”

“An apology. I suggest you start practicing now.”

“An apology?! I called Vil’s collection overhyped snake oil. I’m DOOMED!”

“Not if you run fast enough,” Rook chimed in cheerfully. “Shall we test your stamina?”

The call ended with Epel’s scream, followed by the distinct sound of someone bolting at full speed.

“Well,” Lilia said, smiling. “That was worth every second.”

Jamil’s voice crackled through the orb strained and absolutely done.

"Hi, yeah, it’s me again."

You rolled your eyes. "Let me guess. Kalim tried to throw a party?"

"And Cater," Jamil growled, the sound of something crashing in the background. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to manage one chaos gremlin? Now imagine two. They’ve cursed half the dorm—random objects are coming to life, and singing. And I don’t mean pleasant singing. I mean like if a banshee and a kazoo had a love child."

Lilia leaned in beside you, eyes glittering with delight. "Oho, this sounds entertaining! What did they do this time?"

Jamil sighed deeply, as if he’d just aged ten years in the past ten minutes. "Kalim thought it would be fun to 'spice up' a party by enchanting the decorations. Cater encouraged him, saying it would make a great Magicam post. The result? The curtains are now tap-dancing, the chandelier won’t stop singing old sea shanties, and the punch bowl tried to bite me."

Lilia clapped his hands. "This sounds like an excellent way to spend the afternoon! Let’s go!"

You groaned. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because you’re the only one who can keep Lilia from making things worse," Jamil deadpanned.

Arriving at Scarabia was like stepping into a fever dream. The furniture was waltzing around the room, the ceiling fan was chanting, "Spin me right round, baby, right round," and the aforementioned punch bowl snarled at you as you walked in.

Kalim, of course, was having the time of his life, clapping to the rhythm of the furniture parade. Cater was filming everything, laughing as he tried to get the chandelier to do a TikTok dance.

"Do you see what I have to deal with?" Jamil hissed, his hair practically frazzled.

"Let’s fix this before someone dies," you muttered, pulling out the anti-curse toolkit Lilia had handed you on the way.

"Or before someone posts this to Magicam and the entire world sees it," Jamil added grimly, glaring at Cater.

It started smoothly enough—well, as smoothly as any curse-breaking session with Lilia could go. The two of you worked to unravel the enchantments while dodging flying pillows and shrieking party streamers.

Then, of course, you made the mistake of touching an enchanted lamp.

It burst into song—loud, off-key, and somehow extremely personal. The lyrics were all about your lack of a love life and questionable fashion choices. Before you could fight back, it tangled itself around your arms and legs, dragging you upward toward the chandelier.

"Hey, uh, Lilia? Little help!"

Lilia, ever the dramatic savior, leaped into action. With a mischievous grin, he sliced through the magical binds with a well-aimed spell and caught you mid-fall.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. His crimson eyes glimmered with amusement, his fangs showing in a victorious smirk. He cradled you with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible given his stature.

"You alright there, my dear?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

"Yeah, I’m fine," you muttered, face heating up. "Just…you know…trying not to die."

But your brain wasn’t focusing on that. It was too busy processing the fact that Lilia was holding you like you weighed nothing, and you could feel your pulse quickening. Damn it, why is my heart beating so fast?

He tilted his head, studying you with an unreadable expression. "Are you sure? Your face is a bit flushed."

"Nope! Totally fine!" you squeaked, scrambling out of his arms as soon as your feet touched the ground.

Jamil, watching the whole thing from across the room, rolled his eyes. "Great. Now you’re cursed too."

"Shut up, Jamil."

It took another hour, but the dorm was finally back to normal—or as normal as Scarabia could be. Kalim apologized profusely, Cater promised to delete the footage (he didn’t), and Jamil looked like he might snap at any moment.

As you and Lilia walked out, you tried to calm your racing heart, but he leaned in with a knowing grin.

"Quite the adventure today, wasn’t it?"

"Sure," you replied quickly, hoping your face wasn’t still red.

He hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder what’s got your heart racing so much. You’re not catching feelings for your favorite partner-in-chaos, are you?"

"Not a chance," you lied, your heart betraying you with another treacherous thump.

Lilia just chuckled, and you couldn’t tell if he believed you—or if he was just letting you stew in your own embarrassment for fun.

The enchanted orb buzzed frantically, and you groaned as you reached for it. The second you accepted the call, you heard Deuce.

“HELP! WE MESSED UP BAD!”

“Deuce?” you asked, already dreading the answer. “What did you do this time?”

Jack’s voice came through, exasperated and growly. “It wasn’t just him. I was there too.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “So, what kind of mess am I cleaning up now?”

Deuce gulped. “We, uh… were practicing some spellwork for exams—”

“Right by the Spelldrive practice field,” Jack added grimly.

Your eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you—”

“Destroyed the field? Yeah,” Deuce admitted miserably. “But we didn’t mean to! The explosion was an accident!”

You heard a sharp, angry voice in the background: “AN ACCIDENT?! YOU DESTROYED HALF THE FIELD, YOU LITTLE—”

“Leona’s there?” you asked, already standing up.

Deuce nodded frantically. “He’s so mad. Please come before he kills us!”

“Stay put,” you said, grabbing your things. “And pray he doesn’t finish you off before we get there.”

The Spelldrive practice field was a warzone. One goalpost was completely obliterated, sand smoldered in random patches across the ground, and an entire section of the bleachers looked like it had been hit by a tornado.

Leona was standing in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Deuce and Jack, who were huddled behind a tipped-over bench like it could save them. His team stood a safe distance away, clearly too smart to get involved.

You arrived with Lilia in tow, who was already grinning like he’d just stumbled upon the most entertaining show of the year.

“Oh, this is delightful,” Lilia mused, surveying the carnage. “It’s like an abstract painting of destruction.”

“Not helping,” you muttered, jogging toward the scene.

Leona’s sharp green eyes locked onto you. “Finally. You gonna fix this mess, or do I get to turn these two into sandbags?”

“Leona,” you said, stepping between him and the disaster twins, “We’ll handle it. Just… don’t murder them. Yet.”

Leona snorted. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Lilia hummed a jaunty tune as he began waving his hands over the destroyed sections of the field. Slowly, the sand settled, the goalpost reformed, and the bleachers stopped looking like they’d gone through a blender.

Meanwhile, you kept Leona from pouncing on Deuce and Jack, who were watching Lilia work with wide eyes.

“You two better hope I don’t find out about another ‘accident,’” Leona growled, looming over you.

“Relax,” you said, holding up a hand. “They’re idiots, not criminals. Save your energy for your team.”

Leona rolled his eyes but stepped back, muttering something about “babysitters.”

When everything was finally back in order, Lilia dusted off his hands with a satisfied smile. “That was quite fun. We should let those two cause chaos more often.”

You shot him a look. “Please don’t encourage them.”

Leona, arms crossed and clearly annoyed, stepped closer. “You’re done? Good. I’ll send Ruggie with something to pay you later.” Then he smirked, eyes flicking between you and Lilia. “Now keep your lovesick asses away from my practice field.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha—?! Lovesick?”

Leona just walked off with a lazy wave, leaving you standing there, half-mortified.

Lilia leaned in, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Oh my. He really has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t you start,” you muttered, your face burning.

But when you turned to walk away, Lilia was by your side, chuckling softly. He caught your wrist gently, pulling you to a stop for just a moment. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter and more serious, “you were quite impressive back there, keeping Leona from turning them into mincemeat.”

Your heart did a flip. “Uh… thanks?”

He let go with a grin, stepping back and returning to his usual playful tone. “Now, let’s see if we can avoid the next disaster, hmm?”

You weren’t sure if your face would ever cool down.

Potions class with the first-year gang was never uneventful. Today was no exception. The room smelled faintly of burnt caramel as Grim waved his tiny paws at Ace, who was leaning smugly on the table.

“I told you not to put that in!” Grim yelped.

“I barely touched it!” Ace shot back.

“It doesn’t matter who did it!” Sebek barked, slamming his hands on the table. “What matters is that our potion is—”

“About to blow,” Jack growled, pointing to the cauldron bubbling ominously.

“Wait—WHAT?!” you yelped, but it was too late.

The cauldron erupted, spraying a shimmering pink mist over everyone. The class erupted into chaos as Sebek shouted about “inferior techniques,” Epel coughed dramatically like he was dying, and Deuce tried (and failed) to douse the sparks with his coat.

You, unfortunately, caught the brunt of the potion to the face.

You thought the effects were mild at first—just a faint warmth in your chest and the echo of the sugary-sweet scent in your nose. But when you sat down at lunch with Lilia and Malleus, the symptoms became impossible to ignore.

Lilia was chatting animatedly, laughing at his own jokes and waving his fork in the air, while Malleus nodded thoughtfully. But you weren’t hearing a word.

Your brain had decided that the only thing worth focusing on was how kissable Lilia’s lips looked.

Wait, what?

You shook your head, trying to clear it, but it only got worse. Now you were noticing how nice his voice was. And his smile. And the way his hand brushed yours when he passed the salt—

Oh, no.

“Child of man,” Malleus said, pulling you from your internal meltdown, “you seem… distracted.”

You blinked rapidly. “Uh. Yeah. Distracted. Totally fine. Definitely not—uh—totally infatuated with Lilia or anything.”

Lilia looked up, smirking. “Oh? How flattering.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “IT’S THE POTION!”

Malleus watched you pace back and forth in the hallway, his expression somewhere between amused and curious.

“You have to fix me,” you begged, grabbing his shoulders. “This has to be the potion talking. There’s no way I just—randomly—started thinking about Lilia like that!”

Malleus tilted his head, his eyes studying you intently. “You truly believe you are under an enchantment?”

“Yes! Of course!” You gestured wildly. “I mean, it’s Lilia! He’s my partner in crime! He’s—he’s—”

“Kissable?” Malleus offered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Your hands dropped to your sides. “You are so not helping.”

He stepped closer, his presence calm but commanding, and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Very well, child of man. Allow me to assess your condition.”

Malleus leaned forward, his magic swirling faintly around him as he studied you with eerie precision.

After a moment, he straightened, folding his arms. “The potion you were exposed to was a failure. Its intended effects are nonexistent.”

You froze. “What are you saying?”

Malleus raised an eyebrow. “I am saying that you are not under a spell. Your feelings are entirely your own.”

You stared at Malleus in horror.

“So… you’re telling me… I’m not cursed?”

“Precisely.”

“And this… this whole… wanting to kiss Lilia thing…” You paused, voice dropping to a mortified whisper. “That’s just me?”

Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed.”

You covered your face with your hands. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

Lilia’s voice drifted from the next room. “Are you done conspiring with Malleus, beastie? Lunch is getting cold!”

You peeked through your fingers at Malleus, who looked like he was thoroughly enjoying your suffering.

“Good luck, child of man,” he said, patting your shoulder.

You groaned. “I’m going to die.”

And yet, as you returned to the table and sat down next to Lilia, who greeted you with his usual teasing grin, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

You didn’t think it could get any worse than being late for class, but that was before Grim decided to experiment with potions unsupervised. Now, you and Lilia were sprinting through the halls of NRC, dodging a cursed army of flying spoons.

“I told Grim not to use the potions lab as a snack bar!” you gasped, barely ducking as a spoon zoomed past your head with terrifying precision.

Lilia, running beside you, was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had all week. “I must admit, this is an impressive level of chaos. Even I wouldn’t have thought to curse cutlery!”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” you panted, grabbing his arm as another wave of spoons turned the corner. “Hide!”

The two of you dove behind a nearby tapestry, pressing against the wall as the spoons zipped past, their metallic clinking fading into the distance.

For a moment, it was quiet—except for the pounding of your heart.

Your breathing slowly steadied, but your heart didn’t. Not when Lilia was so close, his eyes gleaming with excitement and his cheeks flushed from the chase.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lilia,” you blurted, voice trembling but determined, “I’m in love with you.”

Lilia blinked, his surprise evident for a split second before a soft smile curved his lips. “Ah, I see. Was it the spoons that gave me away, or my undeniable charm?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m serious!”

He chuckled, gently pulling your hands away to meet your eyes. “So am I. I’ve felt the same for quite some time.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

“Really,” he murmured, leaning closer. His lips brushed yours, soft and fleeting, but it sent your heart racing like you were being chased by a thousand cursed spoons.

He pulled back, his grin mischievous. “Now, let’s survive this first date, shall we?”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you from your hiding spot just as the spoons began circling back like a swarm of metallic bees.

“Run!”

You laughed despite yourself, sprinting hand-in-hand with Lilia as the chaos erupted around you once more.

And yet, as you glanced at him—his hair wild, his smile unshakable, his fingers warm around yours—you couldn’t help but think:

I want this forever.

Masterlist

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

Girl I need to know what happened at home in "Playing Dangerously" bring a second chapter home please

Part 1: Playing Dangerous

THE END OF THE GAME

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: a lot of tension, +18 content, p in v, unprotected sex, dom!Jude, dirty talk, possesive behaivor, and probably mistakes since english is not my first language.

summary: After a night of shameless teases that push Jude to his limits, you think you've won. However, the anger between you is still there, and you both prove it in a battle for control, releasing all the unspoken tension with touches instead of words. Every gesture becomes a declaration, every caress, a fight. In the end, all he wants is to hear you say it—to speak the truth: that you are his and he is yours.

Jude´s kiss wasn’t gentle—it was all fire and frustration, an explosion of the tension that had been simmering between you two all night. His lips claimed yours with a desperate sort of hunger, his hands framing your face as if to keep you from escaping this time. You gasped against him, startled by the intensity, but the sound only seemed to spur him on, his grip tightening, his lips demanding every ounce of your attention.

Your hands found their way to his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren’t sure. Anger still lingered within you, but desire burned even stronger. But as his lips moved against yours, all traces of anger were swallowed by the sheer heat of the moment. His kiss was a mix of punishment and possession, and you felt it in every brush of his lips, every sweep of his tongue, and every barely restrained sound rumbling from his chest.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands slid down to your waist, holding you firmly in place. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and searching, as if trying to read your every thought. He could do it if he set his mind to it.

“You done playing games yet?” Jude asked, his voice rough, laced with challenge and desire. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your hip, his touch warm and electric even through the thin fabric of your dress.

Behind you, the car’s cool metal frame pressed into your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. The glossy black paint gleamed under the soft light, creating an almost cinematic reflection of the two of you locked in this intimate, charged moment.

You bit your lip, struggling to catch your breath, but the defiance in your gaze hadn’t faded. “Not even close,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but still firm.

Jude let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver through you. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours again, teasing, as if he were testing your resolve.

“Maybe I just like seeing you like this,” you shot back, a sly smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “All worked up over me.”

Jude’s mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smirk, but the fire in his eyes never wavered. His fingers slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you—woodsy with a hint of spice, intoxicatingly familiar. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours, his breath brushing against your skin. “Oh, I’m worked up, all right,” he said, his voice low and filled with a dark promise. “But you’re not going to like where this leads if you keep pushing me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the warning in his tone sending a thrill through you. But you weren’t ready to back down—not yet. “I´m sure I will,” you challenged, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

His smirk returned, sharper this time. Without another word, he opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in, his grip on your waist lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You hesitated, searching his face for some hint of what was going through his mind, but his expression was unreadable, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.

As you slid into the car, he leaned in close, his hand bracing against the doorframe. “You’re in so much trouble,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear in a way that made your breath hitch. Before you could respond, he shut the door with a quiet finality, rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat with an air of calm that only made your nerves buzz louder. He took his time and you were hating his pace.

The drive home was silent, but the tension between you was almost unbearable. Every glance, every shift in his posture, every brush of his hand against the gear shift seemed deliberate, calculated, as if he were silently daring you to speak first.

When he finally pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, he turned to you, a flicker of something unreadable—mischievous, almost predatory—dancing in his dark, unrelenting eyes. "Inside," he said, the low, commanding tone of his voice making your pulse race. The corner of his mouth quirked, just slightly, as if he was savoring the way your breath hitched.

You hesitated for just a second, your defiance flickering, but the look in his eyes left no room for argument. Swallowing hard, you stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, aware of him following close behind. The heat of his presence was almost suffocating, and your heart raced as you fumbled with the keys, finally pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Jude’s hands were on you again, spinning you around and pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, this time even more intense, more urgent, as if he couldn’t stand the distance any longer. His hands roamed your body, sliding over your hips and up your sides, pulling you against him with a desperation that left you breathless.

“You think you can play with me like that?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, each word sending a shiver down your spine. “Flirting with him, touching him, laughing like that—like I wasn’t even there? Y/N, you made me watch every single one of your fucking movements.”

Your hands gripped his shirt, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his words and the heat of his touch. “I wasn’t—” you started, but he cut you off with another searing kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that made you gasp.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice a soft growl as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched your gaze. “You wanted to make me jealous. You wanted to get under my skin. Well, congratulations, love. You got exactly what you wanted.”

His words sent a rush of adrenaline through you, your heart skipping a beat as his lips trailed down to your neck, leaving a trail of heated and wet kisses that made your knees weak. “Jude…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he didn’t stop, his hands tightening on your waist as if to anchor you to him.

“Say it,” he murmured against your skin, his lips hovering just below your ear. “Say you’re mine.”

His words weren’t a request—they were a command. As much as you wanted to fire back with that undeniable truth, you clung tightly to your anger and defiance. “No,” you whispered, your voice quivering, caught somewhere between anticipation and need.

Jude leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes ablaze with frustration and something deeper, something that sent a sharp ache through your chest in the most intoxicating way. “If that’s how you want this to go...” he muttered, his voice low and heavy with emotion.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out, but surrendering to him—at least, not yet—wasn’t an option. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help blaming your hormones, your curiosity, and whatever god had blessed Jude Bellingham with the face of an angel and the body of a god of wanting to give up. But the night was still young. The leather of the nearest couch you two found, groaned as you shifted closer, your knees brushing against his. The moment you were within arm's reach, he hooked one arm around your back, effortlessly pulling you onto his lap.

Jude’s grip on your hips was firm, his lips pressing hard against yours as if he was trying to erase every thought from your mind. The intensity in his touch sent shivers down your spine, every brush of his hand leaving trails of heat in its wake. His fingers slid up, curling into the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. The kiss was relentless—no room for air, no chance to think. It was all Jude, all consuming, and you couldn’t help but respond, your own hands tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to hear the low groan that rumbled in his chest.

His mouth trailed down to your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before finding the spot at your neck that made your breath hitch. The sensation was electric, your body arching into his instinctively, your head tilting back to give him more access.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, your head spinning from the intensity of his touch and the heat of his breath against your skin. Part of you wanted to argue, to tease him further, but every inch of your body was on fire, his dominance leaving you no room to think. Still, you weren’t about to surrender so easily—not without one last shot.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Your lips curved into a playful smile, the mischief in your eyes igniting a flicker of challenge in his. “You’re awfully bossy, you know that?”

Jude’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, his hands tightening on your hips. The possessiveness in his grip was thrilling, his strength holding you in place as if daring you to keep pushing. “And you’re a brat,” he shot back, his voice low and laced with a mix of annoyance and adoration. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The tension crackled between you. Every inch of your skin was alive with anticipation as Jude’s presence seemed to take up every corner of the room. His voice, soft but commanding, lingered in the air. “This is what you wanted, isn´t it?”

Your breath hitched, and despite yourself, you nodded. It was a dangerous game you were playing. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to pull away, to put an end to it—but the pull between you were undeniable. His eyes never left yours, like a predator studying its prey, and you could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

He took a step forward, his every movement deliberate, measured. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a featherlight caress that sent a shiver through you. “Don’t play anymore,” he whispered, almost tenderly.

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to speak. Instead, you clenched your jaw, trying to hold your ground. His smirk deepened, amusement dancing in his eyes as he saw the battle within you.

His hand slid down the curve of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your pulse, sending a rush of warmth straight to your core.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell me, do you want this?”

His words wrapped around you like a chain, but still, you couldn’t find your voice. The space between you seemed impossibly small now. His hand traveled lower, skimming the edge of your clothing, and you sucked in a breath as the pressure between you mounted. His closeness was overwhelming, suffocating, yet you didn’t want him to pull away.

You closed your eyes, but the image of his smirk, that knowing, teasing grin, stayed with you. You wanted to break. You wanted to submit. But pride kept you on the edge, unsure whether to give in completely or to keep fighting.

Jude stopped then, just as you felt you might drown in the heat of the moment. His lips hovered inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours in the stillness. His eyes searched yours, waiting for you to make the first move.

You stayed silent, your lips barely parted, your body aching for more. He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his mouth, and his fingers brushed over your jawline, tracing the curve of your face like a forbidden promise. “You’ll break,” he murmured, the words a low, knowing promise.

The game was no longer about control—it was about surrender. And as much as you fought it, you felt yourself slipping, falling into his hands.

Jude’s teeth skimmed your bottom lip, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you before his tongue swept over the tender spot, soothing the sting. His fingers tangled in your hair, his grip firm yet achingly gentle as he pulled back, his lips hovering over yours. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with undeniable conviction. “Only mine.”

The words sent a wave of nervousness through you, raising goosebumps along your skin, igniting something deep and unshakable. You tried to stifle the teasing retort forming on your lips, but defiance slipped through unbidden. “Then deserve it,” you blurted, the challenge clear in your voice.

Jude's jaw tightened at your words, the challenge in your tone igniting a flicker of anger in his eyes. He stopped smirking, and bit the inside of his cheek. His lips hovered close to your ear, his voice low and rough as he murmured, “You never learn, do you?”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you towards the bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him with finality, the sound echoing through the room. He set you down with a harsh press against the matress, his hands still gripping you with an iron-like hold.

As Jude’s hands roamed your sides, his touch shifting from heated to deliberate, his gaze bore into yours, dark and unrelenting. He was holding back just enough to tease you, to make you feel the weight of his control. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down in one smooth, almost punishing motion. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet as his eyes raked over you, predatory and sharp.

But when he saw the bare skin beneath, his hands froze for just a moment. A sharp, almost feral grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “No underwear?” The amusement in his tone sent a shiver through you, and the heat of his gaze made it impossible to look away.

Your cheeks burned as you stammered, “I didn’t want lines showing through the dress...”

He leaned in, smirking, his lips a breath away from yours, his voice low and rough, each word like a match striking against your resolve. “You’re such a tease,” he said, the words dripping with a mix of annoyance and raw desire. “Did you want me to loose my mind?”

Your blush deepened, but the challenge in his tone reignited the fire in your chest. “Did you?”

Jude’s gaze darkened, the flicker of anger in his eyes giving way to something far more dangerous. “What am I going to do?” he repeated, his voice a low, predatory murmur. His fingers slid up your bare skin, his touch igniting every nerve as he leaned in, his lips grazing your neck before finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Oh, love,” he said, his voice a mix of threat and promise, “I’m going to ruin you.”

All feminism had apparently left your body, because the way he grunted that crude declarations made your thighs shudder with anticipation. Sexual repression was something you had lived with for the last couple of weeks since you two started fighting and his hands around your body felt better than ever.

Your legs opened wider for him as he left kisses along the valley of your breasts, his tongue sweeping down below your erected nipples. The room began to spin, all your senses completely tethered to him. His hands groped at your ass, using it as leverage to rock his covered length into your center. The delicious friction builds as butterflies swarmed your stomach. God, it has never felt this good.

Craving more, thirsty for more than foreplay, you dropped your hands to his lap. Your nimble fingers work on his button and zipper. You ghosted past the shadows in his pants, feeling him, knowing he wanted this just as bad as you did, but he was refusing to help you pull his jeans off, or at least down enough so he could be exposed.

“Jude, some help?” you groaned, hating how gutted you sounded, how needy.

“I’m not doing shit until you tell me what I want to hear.” His mouth continues to assault your neck and chest, the cool air making goosebumps race across your body as it hits the warm places on your throat where his wet tongue had been.

“You want me to tell you⁠—”

“Confess,” he butted in, grabbing a fistful of your hair. “I want you to confess me the truth. The undeniable thruth. That you´re mine, only mine.” That tone again, rubbing you in all the places you never knew you needed. It was obvious that he didn’t like the stunts you’d pulled during dinner.

Your breath shook as you looked up from his waist, diving into his hellfire eyes that spark and sizzle in the dim light. Such a unique version of brown. “Then tell me you are mine,” you whispered, pressing your mouth into his for a kiss that felt like falling. Your heart raced inside your rib cage, thudding over and over again. “Tell me you´re mine and not hers.”

His nostrils flare, and his hands grabbed you harder, as if holding onto control—or maybe letting it slip. The argument was still fresh in your mind, the reason why all of this had started, like a wound that refused to close. The campaign. The model. His silence was worse than all the yelling from weeks and hours ago, and you could feel your stomach sink.

The seconds stretch, his eyes still locked on yours, and when he finally spoke, his voice is a low, smoldering growl. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

He grunted, raising his hips to shove his tight jeans down his waist enough to release himself. You widened your eyes, looking down as his hard cock rested against his stomach.

You raised your hips, directing his cock to your entrance. Lowering yourself onto him gradually, you felt every single inch enter you at your own pace. You whimpered as you felt him stretch you open, forcing his way into your dripping walls. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the process. It’s almost an unbearable amount of pleasure that rides through you when you´re fully sitting on his lap.

The sound of him groaning turns your attention back to him. Beneath you, his head presses into the pillows, his toned arms gripping you as his fingers clutched at your hips, all the veins in his throat bulging as he flexes his jaw, grunting out, “Fuck.”

You were at a live wire of sensations in this moment that you couldn’t fathom happening with anyone else. Eager to please him and craving release, you started to lift your hips up and down. His length rubbed every inch of you on the inside, tickling that sensitive spot along with every other spot. It was touching everywhere all at once, so many places, it was overwhelming. Your limbs felt light and heavy at the same time as you rolled your hips against him.

A groan rumbled in his chest, letting you know what you were doing was working for him just as much as it was for you. “Look at you looking so good ridin’ my cock,” he mumbled, full of rasp, low eyes watching you. His hands were now occupied touching your breasts as you rode him.

You were soaked, thoroughly stretched and perfected for him. You had him exactly where you wanted—beneath you, pinned, with you in control. The rhythm you set was intoxicating, a slow burn, a tease that left both of you breathless. But then his hands lowered and tightened on your hips, a subtle warning that sent a shiver cascading down your spine, you knew that his restraint was slipping, his patience worn thin.

In a single fluid motion, he reversed the tide, his movements deliberate, commanding. The haziness of his earlier submission vanished, replaced by something raw, undeniable, and entirely him. He had let you play, but now it was his turn to have fun.

He encircled your waist, forcing you down his shaft. Your bodies scoot to the edge of the bed so that he could piston his hips into your hole. With hunger and traces of rage, he grabbed again your exposed tits. He did not give you a single moment to settle because soon, your nipple was between his teeth, his soft tongue spinning circles around it.

“Jude, oh my God,” you panted, sweat already sticking to your forehead.

You moved together in sync, rocking your bodies into one another. You felt every single thrust, letting your bodies slam together over and over again. Your head lolled back while your fingers buried themselves into his shoulder blades.

He growled, the sound reverberating through you like a primal command. His hands tightened their grip, driving him to thrust into you with an intensity that left you gasping. You let him guide you, manhandle you, surrendering completely to his control. “See? You’re my good girl.”

His pace was merciless now, a rhythm that left no room for thought, only sensation. Your legs trembled, teetering on the edge of collapse, but his firm hold kept you exactly where he wanted you. Tears welled in your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of pleasure coursing through you.

He had promised this—promised to unravel you, to leave you utterly undone—and now he was keeping that promise with devastating precision. He was ruining you, in the most exquisite way possible.

“I’m going to come. Make me come, Jude, please,” you cried wildly, suddenly not caring about anything else but the pleasure.

“Beg for it, baby, beg for it. Only I can make you feel like this.”

You nodded eagerly. “Please, please, Jude, please.” His hands went down to trace circles in your clit, and it was unberable.

You were aching all over. Fire, consumig you as you climbed higher towards your orgasm. You quivered, the air taken out of your lungs as ecstasy pumped in your veins. All that came from you are broken cries as he continued to plunge, flutters and spasms racking through you. Pleasure thrummed through your body, toes curling as you drift through the most intense orgasm of your life. Now, the heat that once consumed you was replaced by a deep blush spreading across your tear-streaked cheeks, the salt of your tears mixing with the lingering haze of pleasure. Each shaky breath drew attention to the raw vulnerability etched into your expression, a testament to how completely he had undone you.

“Beautiful,” he uttered huskily. You were not even sure that’s what you actually heard, too numb from bliss to truly comprehend.

Your limbs felt heavy and your eyes were shut tight as he raced after his own release, pumping with ruthless thrusts that made your core tighten with indescribable pleasure. Jude’s fingers delved between your thighs, finding your clit again and immediately applying pressure.

“Wait, wait, I can’t. S-so sensitive,” you whimpered, your hand shooting down to his wrist, gripping it to try and prevent him from making your entire body combust.

It’s so intense that you could feel your eyes starting to water. Again. His fingers didn’t stop, and neither did his hips, “One more. Be my good girl. One more.”

He moaned, his thumb speeding up to match his thrusts. That familiar build hit your core, a long whine falling from your lips. “Fuck, I can’t,” you mewled, but your body said otherwise, tightening around him once again.

“You can. You can because I said so.”

And you did. You came again, your body gripping him with a desperate intensity, drawing him deeper, tighter, until every inch of him was enveloped in your heat. Your cries turned into broken whimpers, the sound raw and helpless as your second climax tore through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Jude’s growl turned into a guttural moan, a sound that reverberated through his chest and into yours as he thrust one final time, burying himself fully. The moment he stilled, his lips claimed yours with fervor. The kiss was searing, full of hunger and release, his mouth devouring yours with no pretense of gentleness. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his tongue swept in, deepening the kiss as his hands tightened on your hips, holding you against him like he never wanted to let go.

You melted into him, your lips moving in perfect rhythm with his, matching the intensity of his passion. Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer as he tilted his head to kiss you deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with aching thoroughness.

As the storm of sensations began to settle, his lips softened against yours, the urgency ebbing into something slower, more tender. When the kiss finally broke, both of you were breathless, your foreheads pressing together as your shared gasps mingled in the stillness. His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching the lingering tears as his lips ghosted over yours once more.

His long eyelashes tickled the side of your face. You could barely feel his fingers when they started playing with your hair, twirling around your strands. The room was quiet now, the intensity of moments before replaced by a soothing calm. A warm glow from a bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the room, and the air felt thick with the intimacy of the moment.

He lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his other hand brushing delicate fingers over you. Your eyes fluttered closed as if you were savoring the way his touch made you feel utterly cherished.

“You're it for me,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. It was as if the words carried the weight of his entire soul. “There's no one else. There couldn't be. You're all I want, all I’ll ever need.”

Before you could respond, he leaned down, pressing the sweetest of kisses to your forehead. It lingered, firm and grounding, as though he wanted to etch the moment into your skin.

“You’re my world, you know?” His lips moved to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth, each touch more tender than the last. “I couldn’t love you more if I tried. I don’t even think it’s possible.” His words were laced with conviction, yet there was an almost boyish softness in the way he looked at you, as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

You let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed due to the sensations that you had felt but comforted. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, and brought it to your lips. “You don’t have to try,” you whispered. Your voice trembled, but your smile was radiant. “I love you so much, Jude...”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward but rich with meaning. You could see how his eyes softened, how his features eased into an expression of pure adoration.

“And you know what?” you added, your tone more playful now, but your words brimming with sincerity. “I’m yours. Every part of me. Always.”

He cupped your face, his lips pressed to yours, soft and lingering, a kiss that was less about passion and more about everything he couldn’t put into words. You snuggled closer to him, your bodies fitting together perfectly, and he tucked the blanket around you both, holding you as if to shield you from the world. His hand found yours, fingers entwining naturally, and as your breathing slowed, he pressed a final kiss to your hair.

"Goodnight, my love," he murmured, his voice warm and tender. "I’ve got you."

And in his arms, you felt it—safe, loved, and utterly complete.

a/n: omg.

[nyrasproblm]

The uncertainty of coexistence

Ambessa Medarda x fem!reader

Summary: Can a warrior become the object of her general's affection?

Warning: mentions of war, typical canon violence, big age difference (reader is in her 20s and Ambessa is in her 50s), power imbalance

Word Count: 1,5K

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

To be born in Noxus was to be certain that one way or another you would end up on the battlefield. Without knowing the reason or purpose, a Noxian would do what your generals told you to do. To honor your blood and ancestry. It was better to be a warrior than a slave or a prostitute. That's what you think, at least.

You had never been to war, though. It had been less than three years since you had become a warrior. Because you were inexperienced, the higher-ranking officers were more harsh on you and the younger ones.

The training sessions led by Rictus were tiring, but they were intended to prepare you for the imminent war that your general was preparing.

Your general, Ambessa Medarda. Lady of War. You had only seen her up close a few times, but it was enough for you to know that she was impressive.

You turned your attention back to what you were doing when you felt a strong blow to your ribs, making you gasp and fall to the ground. Shooting a irritated look at Carissa, your friend and training partner, you stood up, grabbing your stick.

"We're not at war yet and I'm not the enemy, you don't need to use so much force." you complained.

"I didn't use much force." she smiled smugly. "You're weak."

You almost raised your eyebrows at her teasing, then looked out of the small training cabin, seeing Rictus distracted with his runic tablets. Taking the opportunity, you ran and threw yourself at Carissa, making a dry noise on the floor, then tried to grab her hands, which proved difficult as she began to struggle, the smug look still present on her smiling face.

"Do you surrender?" you asked, letting out a low chuckle. She let out a louder chuckle when you managed to grab one of her hands.

Distracted by your play, you didn't notice the familiar sound of heavy boots behind you, at the entrance to the cabin.

"It gives me great pleasure to see the youth of Noxus rejoice in being a part of my army." the authoritative voice spoke, causing both of you to freeze momentarily.

Quickly standing up, you lowered your head, looking down at your bare feet on the wooden floor, you saw Carissa doing the same out of the corner of your eye.

"General." you both spoke at the same time, your voices sounding shaky.

Ambessa walked in, approaching and stopping near the two of you, her heavy presence silencing the entire room. She exuded a dark power without having to do anything.

"Don't stop, go back to playing, we have plenty of time." she spoke again, her voice vibrating closer. "Isn't it?"

You swallowed hard, your hands starting to sweat. Ambessa was known for her determination and violence, she had no patience for mistakes and distractions. A thought about that ran through your head and made you breathe heavily.

She walked a few steps, starting to circle around the two of you. She stopped next to Carissa and tilted her head down.

"Out," she ordered, her voice sounding colder.

Carissa swallowed and nodded, leaving without another word. Ambessa walked a few more steps, stopping in front of you, making you feel smaller than ever, in every way.

You felt your face being held and lifted by a large hand, Ambessa looked at you for a moment before letting go of your chin.

"You looked intimate the way you were riding her." she spoke again. "I suppose I don't need to advise you on the hazards of professional entanglements."

"I sincerely apologize, General. It won't happen again." you said, your voice sounding small.

Ambessa looked down from above, let out a satisfied sigh, and left.

You grunted as you delivered two consecutive blows with the blade to the inanimate doll's neck. Carissa was no longer your training partner. Now you trained individually in the training room that had the worn-out wooden dolls.

Sighing, you pulled out the large blade of the knife that had stuck in the wood. As you stepped away to stab the doll in the stomach, you heard the door open and heavy footsteps enter the training room, followed by the deep voice you had heard from very close by a few days before.

"Haven't they ever told you not to stand with your back to the door?" Ambessa asked and you turned in time to see her pick up one of the large knives that was laid out on a table in the corner.

She wore her training clothes, the sports bra that showed off her toned belly, her arms covered by cloth armbands.

You straightened your posture and tilted your head slightly, "General."

"Leave the doll alone, let's see if you can land your blows on me." she ordered, approaching you.

"Pardon?" you frowned, confused.

"I don't like repeating myself, child," she said, her voice heavier this time. "Fight me."

You swallowed hard, knowing you couldn't disregard her orders. Biting your lower lip in insecurity, you advanced on her, moving the blade in the strokes you were used to making.

All to be knocked to the ground in almost the same second, the blade being ripped from your hand.

"You’re sloppy and predictable. Everything the enemy expects.” Ambessa hovered above you, holding both blades in her hands. “You’ll die the second you step foot in the war.”

She threw the blades to the ground and pulled you up by your arm, before starting to randomly strike you with her hands, making you put your hands in front of your body to defend yourself.

She pulled one of your arms and raised her body, passing her legs over you, hitting your face with her right foot. You fell again, feeling your nose bleed.

Training with her continued for weeks. Weeks where you felt anxious whenever the time to see her approached. At one point, you longed to be near her, her body heavy on yours when she pinned you to the ground while teaching.

Learning from a war veteran proved to be rewarding, as you improved and improved a lot. But no reward compared to seeing her almost every day.

As unbelievable as it may seem, Ambessa was patient at one point, her voice softening as she taught you something you didn't already know.

This made your heart beat faster.

Your breathing was faster and you could feel your lungs burning, but you couldn't stop. Ambessa's blows didn't slow down, she advanced violently towards you. Using one of your legs to unbalance her, you used the tip of the spear to make a tiny cut on her cheekbone, making her freeze for a moment.

Realizing what you had done, you opened your mouth to speak and reached out your hand towards her, who stood up on her own and walked towards you, leaving almost no space.

"General, what-" your words were cut off as she brought her large hands to either side of your face and bent over you, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

You brought them to her shoulders, sliding them down to the sides of her face. She gave light bites to your jaw and chin as she pulled away from your lips.

"You have a lot of courage for someone your size," she said without pulling away. "You've proven yourself worthy."

"I want you to be proud of me." you blurted out without thinking properly.

She let out a deep laugh and pulled away, taking the heat of her body away from you.

"You left a scar on me, that is honorable," she said, pulling the gold piercing from her lower lip. "Someone honorable should wear a symbol, a symbol that shows they are on my side."

She approached you again and fitted the gold piece to your lower lip, running one of her thick fingers over it.

After that day, you no longer stood among the other warriors. Ambessa allowed you to walk beside her, as Rictus. You proudly wore the gold piercing on your lower lip.

At the moment, on her orders, the army was moving from the fixed base to Viktor's hideout, crossing the unguarded bridge that connected the Noxian installations to the rest of Piltover. Of course she wasn't going to blend in.

You turned your face and looked down, seeing how far the bridge was from the water. A fall wouldn't kill, but drowning was imminent.

You turned your attention forward when you felt Ambessa's large hand on your waist, making you look at her with a frown, to which she continued with the same stoic expression as always, looking forward.

Suddenly, you felt the thud on your legs and your body being thrown out of the limits of the bridge, the only thing that kept you from falling was the large hand that held only one of yours.

Eyes wide with surprise and despair you looked up, finding Ambessa's sharp eyes staring at you coldly. She didn't say anything for a moment, the sound of the water below was the only thing present, as the army had stopped marching.

"What-" you groaned, feeling your arm start to ache, your legs swinging slightly. "Please."

"I warned you of the hazards of professional entanglements." she said simply, her voice devoid of any emotion.

You froze, feeling your chest hurt. But of course. How could you have been so stupid?

A warrior does not grow like this in the eyes of their general.

With your delay in responding, Ambessa stared at you for a while longer before pulling you up, leaving you hanging on your own, struggling to climb up the bridge.

When you managed to get up, you were breathing quickly, your heart was beating fast and she had already started walking again, with her army following her.

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

#glad other christians are catching the odd statements about hell#idylls denies the eternity of hell as it is warned about and it inevitably bled into the post#keep in mind that Jesus spoke more about hell than He did about heaven as it has very real consequences#christianity#be mindful of what you read

@mav-milonn

Hi. Firsts things first my name is Kaleb, not Idylls which might be a stupid thing to be upset about but you would know my name if you knew me, which you do not. And as such you really should be more mindful about what you say.

I am well aware of all the people mentioning what they think are my views on hell and I have ignored all except 1. Idrc what a bunch of strangers think; I am following @/greater than the sword tho and tho I disagree with her on a lot I would prefer she think well of me.

You, however, are just rude. I am not a hell denier. Actually talk to me for five seconds about my thoughts on divine justice and you would know that. After reading my essay — if indeed you did read it — do you really think I am unaware that of the theology of hell? I have been a conservative Christian all my life and grew up in a conservative southern Baptist premillennialist young earth creationist church. I assure you, I know about hell 🙄.

That said I also know many other things. Like Gehenna — either 1) the Valley of [the Son of] Hinnom or 2) the Valley of Wailing — being a trash heap in southwest Jerusalem where kings would slaughter their children and so Yahweh declared he would slaughter them in the valley. I know that translating Gehenna as hell is pretty unhelpful. I know that the hope of the Christian faith is not life after death (heaven) but life after life after death (resurrection after heaven). I know that the hope of the Christian faith is the rebirth of the universe and the marriage of heaven and earth. I know that Christians do not die because they are united to Christ and Christ is forever alive and we are forever alive in him. I know that the ancient hebrews lacked belief in an immaterial soul. I know that God is not a sadistic tyrant who needs his pound of flesh. I know that God hates hell. I know they God is an eternal community of other centered life giving love from the Father to the Son (and extension to his body the church) communicated by the Spirit. I know that I do not sing forever the praises of thd God who didn’t kill me, but rather I am willing to die at the hands of evil in the name of the God who liberated me from slavery to sin and death by dying the death of a slave tho he knew no sin. I know that the Orthodox believe that heaven and hell are one play and that your experience depends on theosis. I know (some?) Roman Catholics believe that hell is not burning fire but deprivation from God who is source of all goodness and beauty. I know that annihilationalists believe that since God is Life, to reject God is to reject Life thus choosing death. I know that C.S Lewis believed hell is an autonomous choice and God’s respect to human dignity where the doors are locked on the inside.

I mentioned in the post that “some Christians idea of hell has developed past “God mad. Punish sinner.” And into a more temporary condition and even autonomous choice on the individual.” I meant to say “or” not “and”. That is 100% my mistake. Those are 2 completely separate views.

It is also a mistake I cleared up in the tags of a reblog so if you cared they deeply you could’ve found it.

The view that hell is basically a purgatory and all will eventually be saved is called purgatorial universalism.

I am not a purgatorial universalist and think that while valid it is still wrong. Universalism is just diet-Calvinism (which I disagree with) dunked in sugar and candy and icing. (Me and a friend haves talked about both at length in dms)

Even if I was a purgatorial universalist, it would not warrant your response because it is not a denial of hell, even if it denies the eternity of hell. It is a denial of your conception of hell, if your conception of hell is just burning torture for eternity. That said, many many many conservative Christians from Nondenominational Evangelical to Eastern Orthodox would disagree with that conception.

As for what my conception of hell actually is, it’s that you shouldn’t be rude by accusing people of being hell deniers. I am literally some random teenager on the internet like come on.

Goodness. Is this what Tim Mackie feels like when he’s called a hell denier? As for the people in the reblogs calling TBP hell deniers: just admit you don’t understand their conception of hell. Just say you disagree or don’t understand but for the love of Christ don’t say they (or I) are hell deniers. We’re not. Chill out.

Also hell is mentioned twice in this entire post. Like. Maybe focus on the actual topic which is the sovereignty of God over life and death, his abounding faithfulness and loyal love, and the justice he will bring on his own people if they do evil towards others.

insane for parents to read the story of isaac and abraham to their kids like ok so would you also kill me if god asked you to, dad?

[archangeldyke-all]

Loved your works so much omgggg

Would you do a butch/masc/stud amab reader?

Just think some smut with that would be pretty cool :)

Have a wonderful day either way!

sure!! couldn't tell if u wanted reader to be a top or bottom so i just did a bit of both teehee (pls lmk if u want a specific scenario, i'd be happy to do a longer scene with this prompt!)

also quick disclaimer! i'm cis, so if there are any mistakes or missteps please lmk and i'll fix them asap!!

men and minors dni

first let's talk about how much sevika loves a butch/stud/masc-- specifically you.

there's just something so effortlessly cool about you. she's obsessed with it. the way you carry yourself, the way your keys jangle where they're clipped around your belt loop, the way you spread your legs when you sit-- all of it drives her insane.

for a while, she's cautious to use traditionally masculine words with you, because the last thing she wants to do is trigger any of your dysphoria. but when you finally tell her that you'd love to hear her call you handsome or dapper.

so, from there, she lays it on thick, letting all her horny thoughts about your masc appearance out.

you've got a flannel or button up rolled up around your forearms? sevika's gawking and licking her lips slowly.

you're wearing a suit and tie to a formal dinner with her? she's tugging you in by the tie for kisses once every minute.

you're prancing around the house in some boxers and a wife pleaser? she might just pin you to the wall and take you right there.

if you like topping, don't think it means you'll be in charge all the time. sometimes, sevika will let you press her to the bed and set the pace, but sometimes, it's the opposite.

she'll straddle your hips and ride you for hours, daring you not to cum until she's finished with you (that only being when she's used you to cum at least five times herself.)

if you like bottoming, sevika will tease you for hours, using her tongue and fingers to open you up and get you shivering before finally sinking her strap inside you.

there's nothing more she loves than teasing you when she's got you underneath her (whether you're topping or not.)

"what happened to my big bad butch girlfriend, huh?" she asks. you groan into the pillows. "got you whining and moaning like a bitch in heat, baby, thought you were supposed to be all tough."

(if you ever do the same thing when you've got her on the brink of orgasm, teasing her about her girly whines and squeals, she'll cum on the spot.)

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @greenhazes

[verstappenf1lecccc]

heyooo could you write a long one shot where Fernando is readers mentor when he “retires” teaches her everything she needs to know.: however then he returns to F1 and can’t mentor her anymore is instead a rival but pushes her off the track accidentally he thought it was ocon.. and he retires the car .. because along the way he’s fallen in love with her… again lots of angst and fluff I’m down for it ahah

comments are always appreciated:)

Red Flags and Green Lights

When Fernando retired he himself thought that it was the end of his career especially towards Motorsport. His last season was gruesome and frankly disappointing. McLaren had let him down big time it was almost as if each race was a joke. Poor strategy Poor performance Poor car.

At the end of the season Fernando knew he couldn’t take it much longer and had decided to draw the curtains up towards his impressive career.

To get away from the cameras and the journalist Fernando had decided to seek refuge in a small Spanish town just off the cost. The salty Spanish air made the Spaniard thrive. He had no intention of ever going back to anything related to Motorsport.

Beginnings

The first time Fernando Alonso had seen you on track, he had raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t the usual dismissive look he gave young drivers—those hungry, wide-eyed rookies trying to make a name for themselves. No, you weren’t like them. You were different.

You had come from the junior ranks, a rising star in a new generation of drivers, but there was something about you that intrigued him. Your precision, your ability to adapt to a car almost too quickly. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you handled yourself off the track—there was a steeliness to you, a quiet confidence that made him think: This one, she’s got it.

Fernando had never been a particularly warm person, but he’d learned the hard way that talent alone wasn’t enough to succeed in Formula 1. Mentorship—that was the missing ingredient. He’d had great mentors, but his relationship with them had been less than ideal. He was determined to be better. To be the mentor that you didn’t know you needed.

And so, he took you under his wing. At first, it wasn’t obvious what he was doing. He wasn’t the type to sit down and give long speeches about racing. Instead, it was in the small moments, the subtle lessons.

“Don’t overdrive the car,” Fernando would say, tossing you a casual glance during a debrief. “The car doesn’t care about your ego. It’s about balance.”

At first, you’d bristled at his bluntness. But as you spent more time together, you realized he wasn’t being harsh—he was just pushing you in the only way he knew how. And you respected that. In a world of flashy trainers and corporate personas, Fernando was real. He demanded nothing less than your best.

But there were softer moments, too. When he’d see you frustrated, or exhausted after a long race weekend, he’d quietly hand you a bottle of water with a knowing smile. “You’re getting better,” he’d say. "But don’t burn yourself out. It’s a marathon, not a sprint."

Sometimes, after a race, when you’d sit on the pit wall, Fernando would join you. The two of you, silent, watching the crowd disperse, the paddock buzzing around you. He’d stare into the distance, and you could see the weight of his years in the sport, the regret, the battles won and lost.

“You’ll be in my shoes one day,” he’d say, almost absentmindedly. “Just... don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

You’d always chuckle. "I'll try not to." But deep down, you knew exactly what he meant.

You were learning not just the technical side of racing, but the psychology of it—the mental toughness that could make or break a driver. How to handle pressure. How to handle failure. Fernando was a master of that.

The Return

It had been a year since Fernando had “retired.” You were now racing for a mid-tier team, working your way up. You had started to gain attention, but it wasn’t easy. Racing was still a brutal sport, and no one cared how much potential you had if you didn’t win.

It was late in the season when the rumors first started. Fernando was coming back. You tried to ignore it, but it was everywhere. You told yourself it was just gossip. He’d never actually return.

Then, one afternoon, you were sitting in the debrief room, eyes glued to the telemetry, when your phone buzzed. It was a message from your PR manager: "Fernando's back. Announced this morning."

The room around you seemed to close in. It hit you harder than you thought it would. Fernando Alonso, your mentor, your friend, your rival. You had always admired his fiery passion for racing, but this—this felt different. He was coming back *to take your spot.*

The news hit you hard, but you swallowed it. You had worked too hard to let it defeat you. Yet, the sting of betrayal wasn’t easily ignored. He hadn’t told you. He hadn’t warned you. He was coming back to take the very thing you had worked so tirelessly for.

For days, you were a mess. Racing weekends became a blur of frustration. Every time you saw Fernando’s name on the timing sheets, every time you heard the roar of his engine in the distance, something inside of you twisted.

Rivals

The first time you went head-to-head with Fernando on track was at the Monaco Grand Prix. The streets of Monte Carlo, narrow and unforgiving, had always been a playground for him. You had grown up watching him win here, his aggressive style perfectly suited to the challenge. But now? Now, he was your competition.

The tension in the paddock was palpable. You hadn’t spoken much to Fernando since his return—an awkward, strained silence had settled between you both. He was now racing for Aston Martin, and you were still with your current team, fighting for every point.

Race day arrived, and as you suited up, your heart pounded in your chest. The press had been relentless, comparing you to Fernando—asking if you were nervous, asking if you felt the pressure. You couldn’t let them see you break.

As you lined up on the grid, your eyes drifted to Fernando’s car. He was in his familiar spot, just a few rows ahead of you. When his eyes met yours, you felt a twinge of something—regret, longing, but also something else. The rivalry. You had to put it all aside now. You weren’t his protégé anymore. You were his equal. And that meant you had to beat him.

The race was a blur of tight corners, full-throttle accelerations, and the constant threat of losing grip. Fernando had a knack for reading the race, for making late-breaking moves that left you on edge. Lap after lap, he pushed you, forcing you to respond with everything you had.

But it wasn’t just the pressure on the track that had you on edge. It was the way his presence haunted you. Every time you braked too late or took a corner too aggressively, you could almost feel him beside you, his voice in your ear.

Don’t overdrive the car. Control your emotions.

And then, it happened.

It was the final lap, and you were battling for position. You had the inside line heading into the chicane, the tires on your car worn and your concentration slipping. Fernando, pushing hard from behind, wasn’t giving an inch. You could feel his car getting closer, so close that his rearview mirror almost felt like it was inside your helmet.

You took the corner too sharply, trying to block his line. And that’s when it happened.

Fernando’s car clipped your rear tire. The next thing you knew, your car was spinning, the track blurring around you, the world upside down.

In an instant, you were off the track. The gravel crunched under your tires as you skidded to a halt. For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

"Shit! Are you okay?" Fernando’s voice crackled through your radio, panic in his voice.

You gripped the steering wheel, a lump in your throat. He didn’t mean to do that. It was an accident. But it didn’t change the fact that it was him the man who had once mentored you, the man who had taught you everything you knew, the man who had now put you in the gravel.

You sat there for a long moment, trying to regain your composure. The race was over for you. But it wasn’t over for Fernando.

You heard the engine roar as his car raced past. And then, as he crossed the line into the pits , he was the one who had retired without any reason to.

The Apology

The days after the incident were heavy. The press had made their usual spectacle of the crash. But you were quiet. You kept your distance, kept your head down. Fernando had won, of course. The car was still fast, even if he had been a little too aggressive.

He didn’t come to you right away. It wasn’t until the next race in Austria that you finally saw him, walking through the paddock, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. His eyes met yours, and for the first time since Monaco, you both stopped.

He cleared his throat, stepping closer to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I thought it was Ocon.”

You blinked, trying to hold back the flood of emotions rushing to your chest. The apology wasn’t much, but it was enough to make the walls you’d built around your heart begin to crack.

“Fernando,” you said softly, “I know. I know it wasn’t intentional. but” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve hurt me. You could’ve ruined everything we worked for.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, he wasn’t the driver who had taken your spot. He was just Fernando the man who had shown you how to drive, how to fight for everything you wanted.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like this,” he said quietly. “I’ve been a fool.”

You were silent, looking at the ground, feeling the weight of the last few years crash down on you.

And then, finally, you looked up at him. “You taught me how to race. But you also taught me how to let go. Maybe... maybe it’s time for it for us to let go.”

Confessions

Months had passed since the Monaco incident, and the tension between you and Fernando, once thick and palpable, had slowly faded into a quiet understanding. The rivalry had not diminished the bond you shared, but it had forged a new dynamic. There were moments when you'd catch him watching you, his gaze steady, his usual cocky demeanor softened by something deeper.

It was after the Italian Grand Prix, a race that had been as unpredictable as the season itself, that everything finally came to a head. You had managed to finish in the points, a small but significant victory for you and your team, while Fernando had taken a step back from the podium, frustrated with his own performance. As you made your way through the paddock, you saw him standing near the garage, his eyes distant. You walked over, unsure of what to expect, but the warmth in his gaze when he saw you took you by surprise.

“Not bad today,” he said, his usual teasing tone absent, replaced by something genuine.

“Could’ve been better,” you replied, glancing at his tired eyes. "But you, you’re still a threat on the track, Fernando. Always will be."

He chuckled softly, then fell quiet. The noise of the paddock, the usual chaos of post-race analysis, faded as the two of you stood in that small, private bubble. It was strange, how it had always been with him. Every time you were around, you felt seen—truly seen, in a way that no one else could.

“You’ve come so far,” he said, his voice unusually soft. “I don’t think you even realize how much you've changed, how much you've grown since I first saw you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk pulling at your lips. “It’s all thanks to you, isn’t it?”

He looked down at the ground, almost as if hesitating. The silence between you stretched, and then Fernando looked up, his eyes locking with yours. “Maybe... but it’s not just that. There’s something I need to say to you.” He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the edge of the pit wall.

You felt your heart skip a beat. "What is it?"

“I never meant for things to get so complicated between us,” Fernando started, his voice low but clear. “I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was just the rivalry, that it was all about racing. But the truth is I’ve been holding back for so long. Holding back from telling you what I really feel.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You knew what he was about to say, and yet, hearing it aloud made the words seem more real than ever.

“I care about you," he said, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. "Not just as a driver or a mentor, but... more than that. You mean more to me than I’ve let on."

For a moment, all you could do was stand there, staring at him, your heart racing. The past few months had been a whirlwind conflict, growth, understanding but now, in this quiet moment, everything felt clear.

“I care about you too, Fernando,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself, on being the driver you helped me become, that I never realized how much you meant to me until now.”

There was no dramatic confession, no grand gesture. Just two people, who had been through so much together, finally acknowledging the feelings that had been there all along.

Fernando smiled, a warmth in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. “So, we’re not just teammates anymore?”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “Definitely not.”

He stepped closer, his hand gently brushing against yours. It wasn’t a rush or a need to act on anything. It was just a simple, unspoken connection—one that had been building for so long, and now, at last, it was out in the open.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly, his voice filled with admiration. “I’ve always known that. But now I get to see it up close. I’m lucky to be here with you, to be a part of your journey.”

You smiled, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. The competition, the doubts, the uncertainty—it all melted away in that moment. You were no longer just a driver fighting for recognition. You were someone with a future. A future that, for the first time in a long time, didn’t feel quite so lonely.

“We’ll see what happens next,” you said, your heart lighter than it had been in years. “But I’m ready for it. Whatever it is.”

Fernando nodded, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a silent promise between the two of you.

The next race came and went, and although the rivalry remained on track, it had transformed into something deeper something that was no longer just about the competition. And when the season came to an end, it was not just your achievements that filled your thoughts, but the quiet moments shared with Fernando: the conversations after races, the supportive glances across the paddock, and the realization that you were no longer fighting alone.

In the end, it wasn’t the checkered flags or podiums that defined your journey. It was the person who stood beside you, someone who had seen you for who you were and who you could be. And for the first time, you weren’t just racing for yourself. You were racing for both of you.