#but unsure where to start tbh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halovians · 6 days ago

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࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞. — 𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒙𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒔. ˒ ⊹

syn. where professor anaxagoras teaches you how to touch yourself properly. (3.1k)

cw. fem reader / shameless porn w absolutely no plot 2 be found / teacher x student dynamic (but its only briefly referenced tbh) / vaginal fingering / oral sex (f!receiving) / overstimulation / pet names used; good girl, starlight, my dear

love, oak! HELLOOOOOO we are so freaking back omg. what started out as what was supposed to be a wee little drabble ended up a monstrosity a little over 3k words (which like isn't much tbh but it's alot for ME!!!). i fear i'm a little rusty so i apologize if the writing is rough around the edges, but i just had to get this out of my freaking head. i listened to death by glamour on loop while editing this. also crossposted to ao3 here!

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

“So you’re coming to me for help with such a thing?”

Anaxa’s sharp gaze meets yours, pinning you in place. Your shoulders hunch slightly on instinct. Even with only one good eye, his stare is incredibly intimidating.

“Well— yes?” Your voice wavers with uncertainty.

Anaxa clicks his tongue, unsatisfied with your answer.

“If you’re so unsure, then I’m not quite convinced you truly need my assistance with anything at all.”

Anaxa’s office is quiet. Private, which is good for a conversation of this nature. Various candles flicker amongst shelves of books and side tables cluttered with research papers. Outside the window, the incessant night sky glimmers, stars winking down upon the Grove.

Silence sinks between you as his words register.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you shake your head and cast your gaze towards the floor. Your voice escapes you in almost a desperate plea, “No, no— That isn’t it, I just-!”

“Look at me.”

Anaxa’s inflection is stern, but not cold, as he cuts you off. The command in his tone forces your eyes back up, clashing with the pale blue and magenta of his. The gold detailing on his eyepatch glints in the soft glow of the candlelight.

A pause. This time, when he speaks, it is gentle—uncharacteristically so for him. “What is it that you need?”

(You’ve always known the professor had a soft-spot for you, but it always takes you by surprise when it properly manifests. When it becomes something so glaringly obvious.

You suck in a breath. Your heart thumps traitorously beneath your ribs.)

Anaxa’s unusually soft tone causes your shoulders to slump, tension seeping out of your bones in a slow wave. There’s a beat of silence as you manage to steel your nerve. Repeating your request feels humiliating in a way, but at this point, you’re a little desperate.

“I need your help. With... with climaxing. I can’t on my own, and I’m so frustrated.”

The words fall past your lips before you can properly rethink it. Your face flushes with heat—with embarrassment—

Anaxa leans forward, arms folding on his desk. His soft chuckle stirs you from your whirling thoughts.

“And why, pray tell, are you seeking me of all people out for this?”

His question takes you by surprise. You glance away briefly, shame curling low in your stomach like smoke, but the sound of fabric rustling and a chair creaking draws your attention back to him. Anaxa stands slowly, a calculating look about him as he stares down upon you. He doesn’t say anything—he simply waits patiently for you to find the words you wish to speak. Your hands clasp together in your lap, and you find your resolve buried deep within you. The smoke dissipates.

“I trust you, professor,” you finally say. You mentally curse the way your voice warbles faintly. “You are the only one I’d ever think to go to with this sort of… issue.”

Anaxa makes a contemplative noise—something between a hum and a sigh. Slowly, he steps around his desk, fingertips dancing along the wooden edge.

“Just me?” A pause. “Not even Phainon? I know the two of you are.. particularly close.”

The mention of your best friend makes your spine stiffen. His head angles just slightly as the silence settles like dust. You carefully consider his question; then, you shake your head. Your voice comes out breathless, but unwavering: “No— just you.”

And there’s only truth there in your statement. With Phainon… you’re sure he’d be eager. He always is, when it comes to lending a helping hand. But this isn’t the sort of problem you plague best friends with. Maybe in another universe, another cycle— but not this one.

No. In this one, it is you and Anaxa. He is the one you crave the most.

A hint of a smile pulls at his lips—barely there, fleeting as a daydream. He beckons you with a finger. “Come. Sit on the desk.”

The night sky’s light filters through thin white curtains, bathing everything untouched by candle in a soft silvery glow. It casts Anaxa in a sort of ethereal halo, silver gleam and gold candlelight flickering against each other; it’s a sight you have a hard time tearing your gaze away from as you rise to your feet. But he waits, patiently, as you situate yourself on the cool wood of his work desk.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you have to shove a few papers and pens out of the way. Something clatters to the floor suddenly and you flinch, but Anaxa isn’t even bothered. His attention remains solely on you.

You swallow slowly, begging your nerves to settle down. Something like anticipation buzzes like static beneath your skin. Your eyes squeeze shut.

When you open them next, Anaxa is there in front of you.

Close. So, so very close.

You squeak despite yourself.

“Nervous, are we?” He observes.

“A little,” you reply.

Your candor draws an amused chuckle from Anaxa. Your heart flutters again— utterly traitorous.

“You have no need to be,” he says quietly. “It’s just you and me.”

He studies you for a beat, his eye drinking in your form. Slowly, so achingly slow, he reaches a hand out, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, across your cheek. He’s gotten so close now, his breath mingles with yours. His scent wraps around you, like parchment and sandalwood and something deeper— a hint of something citrusy, maybe. You feel lightheaded.

You shiver. Anaxa smiles.

“First,” He starts softly, as if trying not to startle a deer. “I’d like you to show me how you touch yourself.”

Your lips part slightly in surprise. Anaxa’s smile does not waver—in fact, it grows a little wider. Smug, almost.

His head tilts just slightly, pale green hair shifting with the movement. Your fingers twitch as you tamp down the urge to brush the stray strands out of his face.

“Right now—?” You stammer.

“When else, my dear? You’ve oh so bravely made your request—now it’s time to follow through.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly. He’s right—if you were brave enough to ask, then you are brave enough to listen.

So, you don’t verbally respond. Instead, with trembling fingers, you slowly brush the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing the skin to him under the soft candle glow.

Anaxa’s tongue darts out briefly to wet his lips. Your gaze meets his, but his gaze is on the slow reveal of your flesh. Without warning, he places a hand on each knee, urging you to spread your legs. His hand is cool against your heated skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he lets them drift further up your thigh.

He doesn’t go much higher, though— he’s very intent on seeing how you pleasure yourself first.

Then he’ll think about touching you. If only to satisfy his own selfish cravings.

Your breath hitches as the silken fabric of your panties is revealed—already damp, soaked with the proof of your desire. There’s a satisfied gleam in Anaxa’s eye as you peer up at him.

His thumb brushes across your inner thigh, gentle sweeps meant to ground you in his presence. But really, it just makes the ache between your legs worse. You squirm a little.

“Don’t be shy, starlight. Go on.” Anaxa murmurs. No— he rasps. The anticipation is killing him, and if your eyes were to drift lower, you would see the way his cock strains against his pants— aching, wanting. All for you.

Alas, your attention is on something else entirely:

Starlight. The pet name shoots straight through your beating heart, a cupids arrow tipped in a sweet poison. And the way he sighs it, stars above; it’s like the blasphemer has finally found his faith, and he finds the truth nestled in the space between your ribs.

Your lips part, a little dumbfounded. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Anaxa shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Yet here you are, thighs slick with want, face flushed with heat.

He’s going to be the death of you.

Confidence bolstered by the way Anaxa seems to drink you up like the sweetest of wines, your fingers dip into the waistband of your panties. You toy with the elastic, teasingly, before peeling the fabric away.

(And Anaxa so kindly helps—you can’t stop the way your heart leaps into your throat as his hands settle on the curve of your hips, lifting you just slightly to lessen the struggle of removing your underwear. You try not to think too hard about how smoothly he does so, or the warmth of his hands against your sensitive skin.)

Arousal makes you ache. Your pussy clenches around nothing as Anaxa guides your legs open once again, a steady anchor between your thighs. Even in the low lights, he is enamored by the sight of you. Glistening with desire. Pliant. Needy.

Your breath leaves you in a shudder as Anaxa’s hands makes themselves at home on your inner thighs. His head dips, lips brushing along the shell of your ear as he breathes, “Show me.”

He doesn’t have to say much more than that. Your hand brushes the hem of your dress out of the way as the other descends, slowly gliding against your wetness. You bite your lip to suppress the whimper that desperately wants to escape you.

Gathering slick along the pads of your fingers, you slowly circle your clit. Pleasure zips through your body, the pool of heat in your stomach slowly growing deeper with every movement.

“Good girl,” Anaxa breathes, attention raptly on you. “Keep going.”

You let out a strangled whimper, fingers clumsily rubbing faster. It’s good— it feels good, but it’s not quite enough, like there’s something missing…

Anaxa kneels, and the movement is so sudden it snaps you out of your pleasure-fueled haze. Your lips part as you stare down at him, watching as his hands brace on your thighs. His head tilts just slightly. You can’t find the words to say—how to ask him what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

Heat blooms across your cheeks. It feels far too intimate, far too much, the sight of Anaxa kneeling between your parted legs as your fingers twitch over your heat. You wonder if perhaps this was a mistake. But then he hums, pleasantly, and you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I didn’t say to stop,” he says, huskily. “Go on— resume.”

And obediently, you listen. Your fingers slip lower now, dipping into your wet heat, starting with one finger, and then two.

All while Anaxa watches.

He looks almost calculating—like he’s mentally taking notes as you tremble and whine in front of him. It shouldn’t turn you on this much. Really.

But it does. And you’re sure he’s taken note of that, too.

Your head tilts back, a low moan falling like honeyed sin from your lips as you finger yourself. And then: a foreign feeling. A brush of fingertips not belonging to you, ghosting over your clit.

“Ah—!?” You gasp, but Anaxa shushes you.

“You’re doing well, but I suppose I should do what you asked of me, hm?”

Typically, Anaxa is much more patient man—but with the sight of your wet heat in front of him for the first time, your little fingers thrusting sloppily, he feels his resolve cracking much quicker than he’d like. A hairline fissure in his foundation, fracturing further and further until he feels it crumbling away. And when it does, his hand wraps around yours, pulling your desire-slick fingers away from your cunt. He brings them to his mouth, and you watch with lust-blown pupils as his tongue darts out, tasting the wetness coating your digits.

“Anaxa—?”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects, but there’s no real ire behind it. Like he doesn’t actually mind your use of a nickname he believed to have hated.

(He finds that he does not mind it as much if it comes from you.

He tucks this revelation of his away to contemplate later. Right now, his attention is on the pretty pussy dripping for him. His tongue swipes over his lips, savoring the remnants of your taste.)

You’re still reeling from the sensation of his mouth on your hands, but he doesn’t let you sit long in your shock, as his hands move quickly to replace yours. He starts with one finger—sliding it into your wet heat, humming appreciatively at the way your walls clench around him. You let out a weak moan.

“You’re singing so pretty for me, my starlight,” Anaxa murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Don’t worry. I believe it best to learn this sort of thing through experience. So I’ll show you how to cum—again, and again, and again.”

His fingers are longer than yours. Thicker. They reach the spots you’ve never been able to quite reach, and when his fingers brush against a particularly sensitive spot, you keen for him.

Anaxa lights up, as if making a discovery worth screaming to the world. “There it is.”

And he presses against it. Over, and over, and over, like he had promised. One finger turns into two as he slips another inside, and the stretch has you whining as his fingers pump into you. Something foreign in your belly coils tight. Anaxa is deliberate with his every movement, making sure to hit that sweet spot inside you with a cruel precision.

The tension crests to a head when he leans forward to wrap his lips around your clit.

“A—naxa!” you cry, fingers curling into the soft locks of his hair. You give it a tug, but he only groans into your pussy, tongue flicking over your clit in tandem with every thrust of his fingers.

The coil snaps.

Your back arches as you cum, hard, a soft cry falling from your lips as Anaxa chuckles between your legs. It zips through you like lightning, sudden and sharp, leaving you feeling absolutely molten in its’ wake. His fingers pump lazily, drawing you through your high.

Orgasming.. is fucking fantastic, you think. You’d like to experience it again, perhaps.. though the thought of attempting to do so without Anaxa’s assistance is a little daunting.

You curse softly, bringing a hand up to clutch your face as you pant softly. Your other hand remains entangled in his hair—you give him a soft tug.

But he.. doesn’t stop. In fact, his fingers slowly pick back up. What was once shallow, aimless thrusts meant to coast you along return to that vicious preciseness from when he was working you towards your release.

“What are you—”

You’re cut off by a your own gasp when his mouth attaches to your clit again. Your eyes widen as the sensation rips through you, sharp pleasure just bordering on the side of too much.

“I-I can’t!” You cry. “Fuck— s’too much!”

“You can. You will.”

His voice is tinged with obsession, an absolute need to tip you over the peak again. If he could, Anaxa could perhaps spend forever between your legs, playing you like an instrument to draw out the sweetest of melodies your voice could produce.

Your thighs attempt to press together, your hand pushing at him as he continues to lap at your far too sensitive clit—but Anaxa is sturdy, unmoving, positively devoted to his endeavor of making you cum as many times as you can physically manage. He simply uses his free hand to hold you open while the other continues to pump into your aching cunt.

His fingers curl inside you just right and somehow, some way, it happens.

You cum. Again. It almost hurts how good it feels.

You gush around his fingers, and Anaxa laughs, bordering on maniacal. The mere sensation of his breath ghosting over your clit makes your hips jerk, and this time he lets you push his head away. He’s satisfied—for the moment, at least.

Anaxa withdraws his fingers, studying the way your essence coats his hand. He rises to his feet as you’re left to catch your breath. Tears line your lashes as you process the fact that Anaxa has brought you to orgasm not once, but twice, in quick succession. You didn’t even know your body was capable of doing that.

Dizzy, you look up at him, watching as he runs his tongue along his digits. When his eyes catch yours, all offers is, “I enjoy the way you taste.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you huff breathlessly, heat blooming across your cheeks.

Anaxa simply shrugs and turns to the side.

“Just observing.” He pauses. Then: “I’d like to study you more. Your body. The way you react. I find you fascinating.”

You blink at him—still feeling a little hazy from the brain-shattering orgasms he just inflicted upon you, it takes you a moment to realize that this is his way of asking if you’d let him do it again. If you’d let him continue to touch you in ways you’ve never let anyone else touch you before.

You slowly close your trembling legs, smoothing the hem of your dress back over them—where did your panties go?—and tilt your head as you process his statement.

You don’t think you’d mind baring yourself to the professor.

“Okay,” you say softly. At the sound of your voice, Anaxa turns back towards you. His face is carefully schooled into neutrality, but there in the depths of his eye, there’s a glimmer. Something warm. You fold your hands in your lap to prevent yourself from fidgeting. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Anaxa’s lips split into a smile, ecstatic at your agreeance. He approaches you again, the tops of his thighs brushing against your dangling legs as he looks down at you.

“Fantastic. Then— we shall continue to meet in here during the Parting Hour.”

You hum in agreement. Out of all things you had expected to occur this evening, establishing a routine of meeting with Anaxa for what was essentially nightly dick appointments was not one of them. You blink up at him curiously.

Suddenly feeling rather bold, you ask, “Will you kiss me?”

Anaxa blinks down at you— taken by surprise, you note none too smugly. There’s a pinkness that rises to his cheeks, faint, but against his pale skin it’s easy to notice. You smile.

“I suppose I can,” Anaxa finally murmurs, cupping your cheek with a hand. The way he caresses you is gentle. Perhaps a promise of things to come.

And with the stars as your only witness, Anaxa leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#☆ oakie writes #anaxa x reader #anaxa smut #anaxagoras x reader #anaxagoras smut #hsr x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #anaxa x you #hsr x you #banners by cafekitsune

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randombush3 · 5 months ago

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the winner takes it all

alexia putellas x reader

summary: an unexpected invitation throws your world off-kilter

words: 6276

content warnings: it's a bit unfaithful

notes: in this universe real madrid is a proper opponent and rival to barcelona, in the sense that funding and history is relatively equal (so it's basically more like the men's rivalry)

idk where this came from tbh

Amb gran alegria,

Alexia i Olga

T’invitem a celebrar la nostra unió matrimonial.

10 d’agost de 2025

Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno

You haven’t read Catalan in years. You squint at the details.

You wish you had forgotten it.

Only Alexia would do this to you, twisting the knife as though it’s a favour, a compliment. Make it seem psychotic for not wanting to go, make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

The invitation isn’t personalised. You are not special in her eyes. You have been allowed onto the guest list, you have no mark in her life. Surely Olga would have objected if she’d known, if she’d been told. Maybe Alexia doesn’t talk about it. Maybe she has heard your name on match reports and team sheets, announcements for captaincy, interviews with Las 16 who called you traidora then and call you traidora now.

As if she knew it was coming, your phone begins to light up with messages from Alba. Apologies, perhaps, in her own Alba way. Stuff like ‘are you coming’ and ‘you don’t have to’ and then more buzzing, vibrating the shitstorm into a phone call.

You don’t speak often. Why would you? But you answer it, listless, really, and unsure what the correct approach to this even is.

“Hola, traidorita,” she says with a nervous giggle, reclaiming your nickname in Barcelona but reminding you of how you are perceived nevertheless. “I don’t know why you are on the guest list.”

Alba is like this: straight to the point, unafraid of her sister and unafraid to tell you what she thinks. They are very different, which is why she is the only one who has your current number in her contacts.

“You told her where I live,” you respond. Your shock makes no room for manners. “Because no one there has my Madrid address, Albi.”

“No one here has it, yeah. But she asked around. Well, Olga did.” She laughs again. Her nervousness is high-pitched and easily detected. “Told Ale that she has to have her childhood best friend at her wedding.”

“Childhood best friend?”

“Estranged childhood best friend?” she tries, and you can hear the smile and the teasing fucking smugness in it. You wonder if anyone else knows you have been invited. Alba because your address was squeezed out of her, sure, but… “And my mother thought it was a good idea too, before you try to murder a woman you have never met.”

“I’ve met Olga before,” you say without thinking, because that’s far easier to focus on than the idea of Eli getting involved in this completely undesired reunion that is about two centuries too early. “When I was going out with, eh, I don’t remember her name. A model. You know what they’re like. Olga’s the one who works for… thingie.”

There’s a sigh from the other end. “So many models yet not one name has been retained. Do you even ask them?”

“We’re not usually doing much talking.”

“Zorra.”

“Coming from you…” You smirk at the thought of all the little secrets Alba’s had you keep, a tradition that started young and became increasingly frequent when you removed yourself from everyone else’s lives. It’s like a journal, only you judge her. “You’re doing a good job of distracting me until I agree to go.”

She hesitates, then. You’re not an idiot and you know why she called. Alba is supportive but she has her own agenda most of the time, and no one else knows the exact time you get back from training aside from your fellow teammates. Even then, most are too intimidated to contact you in general, let alone to ask about being invited to Alexia Putellas’ fucking wedding.

Alba is also very manipulative, a professional puppeteer. And she knows exactly what to say. “It’s been fifteen years. Are you going to let her win?” It’s an infuriating provocation but it hits its target with ease.

…

The first step of preparing for this wedding takes place in the form of the Euros: you’re going to win it and be happy enough to ignore the impending doom hanging over your off-season plans. Going into the competition with heavy medals round your necks makes cockiness the slippiest of slopes, and it is safe to say that most of your teammates are prepared to cruise through at least the group stages.

An unexpected injury rips Jenni’s opportunity to play from her grasp (an echo of her ex-girlfriend, you briefly think), and she is flying back to Mexico before the tournament begins. Montse is a captain down – of course only this kind of disaster could happen to her – and before Patri can even open her mouth to volunteer for the role, you are dragged into a leadership meeting.

You’ve worn the armband before, though it seared and burned and blistered until you threw it in Jorge’s face and demanded someone else absorb the hatred it brought. He went ballistic as you’d said it, you remember, his face going red in the soft glow of your hotel room the night before the World Cup final. He’d leaned forwards, fist clenched, knuckles white and wanting to choke the life out of you.

“You have no respect!” he’d roared, voice splitting like thunder against the thin walls of your hotel room. “Not for me, not for your country, not for anything!” His breath was coming out in sharp ragged gasps. He spat. You’d wiped it off your body. “I thought you had scraped all the Catalan out of you, but here it is!” he’d screamed, loud enough to be heard but so comfortable in his power that it did not seem to frighten him. “Selfish and arrogant. You should have made it Seventeen.”

He’d left in his rage, slamming his door.

You regretted smiling in pictures with him, shaking his hand, kissing his cheek. You regretted the press conferences and interviews, the shaky defence you had constructed, the words of faith and trust you had professed and tried to believe. It had changed you, just a little bit, that incident. Made you think about who you are, where you come from. Made you remember someone you’d tried to forget.

But Irene and Alexia, staring at you with both contempt and confusion as you take a seat at the conference table, don’t know any of this. Why would they? To them, this is the traidora.

“Y/n is going to take Jenni’s place as third captain,” says Montse firmly, if she even knows how to do that. Irene and Alexia share a glance. Their roles have been restored for this competition and they are not prepared for an intruder to take that from them, although Irene will later remind Alexia that it is not your fault Jenni got injured. “I trust you three will come up with a suitable management plan. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

None of you really do know where she lurks, but she is walking off before you can clarify.

“We already have a strategy.” And she says it in Catalan, looking falsely apologetic when she is kicked underneath the table.

“Good job, Alexia,” you tell her, so nauseatingly saccharine that you almost think of the nearest route to a toilet. She’s surprised you’ve granted her a reply though, which is satisfying enough. About to spit out another remark to divide yourselves further, you shift in your chair, stretching out your legs underneath the table.

It is then that her ring catches your eye.

It’s delicate, shiny. A neatly cut diamond set in platinum with slight details that tell you someone thought about Alexia when they had this made and got it all wrong. Or maybe this is what she likes now. It’s not what you’d have given her.

She sees your eyes fall to her fingers, watching carefully as your gaze heats the metal and makes it almost too hot for her to keep on. You don’t really want her to know that you’ve seen it but you’ve made it bleeding obvious and so the predicament spirals and Irene wants, desperately, to leave you two alone – she knows shouldn’t, she’s aware of the health and safety risk.

There is something about the way Alexia clenches her jaw, posture stiffening as she allows herself one flicker from your face to the ring, that tells you she is bracing herself for a bullet. She always did have an uncanny ability to read you, however unwanted it was.

You lean back in your chair, aware of how the bystander is holding her breath, and decide to swallow the words burning on your tongue. You’ve accepted her invitation, and bitter manners are still manners. “Congratulations,” you say, words clipped and brittle, each syllable more venomous than the last.

The chair makes a screeching sound as you stand. Irene flinches but Alexia does not move. She refuses to watch as you walk out of the room.

…

Three hours later, Alexia is off the phone with Olga and knocking on Irene’s door with an embarrassed suppression of urgency. Shoulders hunched and lips downturned, the sight is enough for her to be ushered inside with only the quiet flap of Irene’s arms to beckon her forwards. With this part of the training camp being not quite tunnel-vision yet, Irene’s room is littered with toys and toddler stuff. Usually Alexia would be looking at them in quiet excitement. Right now, she is not so sure.

“Second thoughts?” Irene asks, and Alexia half-jumps backwards in shock, about to furiously shake her head and profess her love for Olga– “I think the plan is good. I don’t think we need to worry about Y/n in the centre, seeing how she’s been playing there this season.”

It slowly dawns on Alexia that Irene has assumed this is pre-tournament nerves, and that she is being shown such a vulnerable side of her co-captain because, well, who else can be? No one wants to see their commander gulp at the sight of the battlefield.

“She still favours her left,” Alexia gets out. “She might drift, leaving a big gap for you to cover.”

“She’s got offers from PSG, Chelsea, and Washington Spirit. It’s in her interest not to drift.”

“She’s good at drifting.”

Irene doesn’t respond to that.

“Since when did you wear your ring to training?” is what she chooses to say instead, asking the question with a healthy fear of getting her head bitten off, taking a small step backwards to put her at a safer distance.

Alexia doesn’t reply immediately, her fingers grazing the ring as she thinks. The weight of it seems heavier now, almost suffocating in the sterile air of the hotel room, as though this is everything she’s been trying to avoid. Her heart thuds against her ribcage. It feels like everyone is starting to notice.

“I didn’t think it was an issue.” Her voice is tight, defensive, but with a subtle, betraying crack. She pulls her hand back from the air, letting it fall to her side. “We hardly did much more than pass the ball today so I kept it on.”

It’s a poor excuse. It comes off for the cameras, not the contact of the game. Irene knows that. But, to her credit, she doesn’t push. She just watches Alexia, eyes narrowed slightly in an unreadable expression. “I just thought you guys were keeping it a bit more… private.”

Alexia turns her gaze to the floor, staring at the scattered toys and items around the room. The simplicity of it all, the domestic innocence, makes her feel even more tangled. She feels an urge to lie, to say that Olga asked her to, worried that you’d misinterpret its absence, but Olga doesn’t even know she has reason to lose sleep. She hasn’t found the courage to explain. She hasn’t felt the need to.

And, really, the truth is right here, echoing between them. Irene would have pieced together the story, as many of Alexia’s teammates have, hearing drunken retellings on nights out from whoever has known the two of you the longest that time. Maybe Alba has spoken to her, revealing everything after a round of tequila shots, as she tends to do. There are a few suggestions the older woman could make to her teammate, wounds she could open and then nurse, but she doesn’t and so she waits.

Until, finally, Alexia admits, “it’s complicated. She has caught me off-guard.” It could mean many things, but it is either your captaincy or the acceptance of her wedding invitation that has done Alexia in. She wonders whether this feeling of dread and uncertainty is the game – or the life waiting for her after she comes back from Switzerland. “Look,” she says abruptly, “I’m not here for advice, Irene.”

“Then why are you in my room?” She doesn’t have an answer for that. Irene sweeps her outside, gently but firmly. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she treads lightly, “but when was the last time you had a conversation with her?”

…

The training pitch in Switzerland is unseasonably hot, the kind of heat that clings to the air and makes tempers run shorter than usual. It’s almost a cure to homesickness but then the team look at each other and are back to hating every minute of this. There’s an undeniable divide. Montse either does not care or has not caught on.

It’s about your twentieth rondo this session, the ball zipping across the wilting grass as it touches Barça foot to Barça foot, the girls obviously enjoying this. You’re only holding back because too much investment will lead to another injury, and you are getting somewhat tired of being called a traitor. The players surround you with a ruthless efficiency that is starting to fray your nerves, and you make a note to talk to your coach about training, knowing that it will be easy to manipulate her into following something akin to what the girls at Madrid are more accustomed to.

Alexia is one of your taunters. Of course she is.

“Just three more interceptions,” she calls out, false strain, false support, false encouragement.

You bite back a retort, instead standing still as Aitana rolls a ball right past you. You wipe the sweat from your brow, feigning exhaustion, but the pretense is only that in name. Everyone knows you are one of the best defenders, the Barça girls especially, with their insane pride for La Masia.

“Lazy,” Alexia mutters.

You don’t respond, focusing instead on the fire in your chest as you forcibly break the circle and march towards Montse. She looks up from her clipboard as you approach.

“We should split training.” She pauses and then nods. “Attack and defence, at least. And don’t let the press hear this, but, my god, Montse, I do not like how they’re all back.”

“We’re a stronger team,” she says, but she’s smiling and you are definitely her favourite. Another deep breath and she is calling a water break.

The girls retreat to the sidelines for ice and hydration, and you reunite with the people you like. Your club teammates prefer you at national camp, because there is something less reclusive about you. It’s as though you’re trying to prove that you get on.

Olga hands you a water bottle, the contents of which you guzzle down in one go. She begins to comment on the absurdity of Alexia’s mandated rondos (“why do they have to keep reminding themselves how to pass a ball?”) and while you agree, your attention is diverted. Alexia is standing a few meters away with Mariona Caldentey. She’s listening to something the forward is telling her, face focused, finger twisting her ring around in circles.

That fucking ring.

You look away before you are caught in such a compromising position, wiping your forehead with your damp training shirt.

“Oye,” Misa’s voice pulls you back, “are you paying attention?” You’re not even sure when she joined the conversation. Your relationship with the goalkeeper has always been overly complicated. You work very closely, what with you commanding the backline and her… also commanding the backline. But she’s friends with people who must have at least once wished you dead, so it’s hard to tell where you stand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, screwing the cap back onto the water bottle and placing it in Olga’s held-out palm.

“You’re never this spacey. You’ve been off since the meeting,” she presses, her voice gentle but insistent. “If this is about the captaincy–”

“It’s not,” you snap, harsher than what was meant. Her eyes widen slightly and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sorry. It’s not about that. I’m fine.”

Misa doesn’t look convinced but she nods, letting it drop. Gratitude relaxes your shoulders but the uneasy silence that follows is punishing enough for you to be eager for training to resume.

Now that the rondos have been left behind until tomorrow, you divide into teams for a scrimmage. The squad is split into four and you throw yourself into the exercise. Every touch, every pass, every run is perfect, and you are unrecognisable from your lackadaisical lull only ten minutes ago. You’re pushing your body and it flicks onto autopilot, driven by muscle memory and determination.

Your head’s not in it. You can’t outrun her shadow. You can’t think when your teams are against each other.

The ring must have come off now, and she is getting stuck in. She’s relentless and irritating, evading your teammates’ tackles and drawing you into her. It’s almost transportative: back you go to gardens after school or being barefoot on the beach, forced out of your relaxation and into an endless game of ‘tackle me like you mean it’. She has that same glint in her eye, that same goading gleam. You consider it, but crutches at a wedding is a low blow.

And so you lay off. Just on her, and only just enough so that she knows you are not trying. You do not care for petty squabbles. You are not willing to go back to those memories, to that time.

Or at least, that’s the message you hope she gets.

The games slowly wind down, prompted by Montse’s whistle to signal the end of the session. You stay on the pitch longer than anyone else, taking you time to collect the stray balls scattered across the grass. It’s partly an excuse to delay walking into the locker room, where the tension will be thick (you were not the right choice for third captain in the eyes of your teammates), and partly because you need a moment to breathe.

The others slowly disperse, peeling off to the showers or collapsing onto benches. Alexia lingers longer than most, wiping away her sweat with her shirt, abs exposed and tensed. She watches you as you move across the pitch, and though her gaze is subtle, you can feel it blazing hotter than the sun lashing down on you. But, despite her staring, she too is eventually coaxed away. You’re unsure whether she is thankful for the interruption.

When you finally make your way to the changing rooms, most of your teammates are in the showers, and the sound of running water mingled with laughter echoes. You take a seat at the locker you were assigned and let out a slow breath, peeling off sweat-soaked socks with mild disgust. You turn to fling them into your laundry bag, but their flight path is blocked by a blonde who has clearly delayed her own shower to talk to you.

She’s looking oddly pensive. You don’t like it.

“We need to talk.” It’s uncomfortable for Alexia to say and it’s worse for you to hear. You’re not sure you’re okay with her decision to become reasonable and mature. It’s quite the compliment to always be the cause for stoic, rational Alexia Putellas going absolutely batshit crazy.

Driving her up the wall is fun.

“I’ll send you an invitation. No need to tell me which room is yours.” You give her a smile. And, like you always do, you walk away.

…

There’s a charge to the air that is choking you by dinner time. The upgrade to captain allowed for your own room, and it is easy to blow off teammates who want to have plans with you with the simple excuse of needing to talk to your agent. You technically do, since you are going to leave Madrid during the transfer window, but you have no intention of dialling his number until he confirms the best and furthest team wants you.

You’ve spent the evening avoiding the majority of the players, which Montse took advantage of, encouraging you to spend dinner discussing tactics with her and her staff. You feel like the teacher’s pet. You know how angry it is making Alexia.

Collapsing on the bed when you back into your room, you let out a loud groan, sinking into the mattress. Your phone buzzes on the bedside table and for a moment, you think it might be Alba, allowing you no peace and quiet despite her distance. Instead, it’s a message on the team group chat from the strength and conditioning coach about tomorrow’s gym session. A wave of relief washes over you; anything but her.

Still, as you scroll, you catch yourself lingering on the names in the group chat, your thumb hovering near Alexia’s. Your stomach tightens and the memory of her tone, her expression, pulls at you like a tether.

She’s not going to drop this.

It’s no longer a matter of avoidance in the camp. You’ve said you will be present. She must want to ensure you will not make a scene.

A knock at the door, so quiet you are almost convinced it was imagined, breaks you out of your brooding. Your eyes watch the wood as though it will be splintered in a moment, but when you make no move to get up, a more insistent knock sounds. You sigh as you pull yourself off your bed, dragging your feet towards the door. Opening it, you find Alexia standing there, arms crossed and wearing an expression you can’t quite decipher. It lacks her usual burning hatred. She looks exhausted.

You struggle to feel any sympathy.

“What?” you snap. It’s a bit harsher than intended but you don’t let on that that’s the case.

“Can I come in?” You guess that she didn’t pick up the hint when you gave her no invitation. You do not want to talk. You don’t do that to people much anymore.

She expects the door to slam in her face – and you consider it – but it’s your hesitation that tells her she can, and so she slowly moves inside, shoulder brushing yours because you refuse to move out of the way. And then she raises a deliberate hand towards the door, pushing it shut. You ignore the ring.

You lean against the door once it’s shut, arms folded as she wanders further into your room. She looks out of place somewhere so personal to you, standing awkwardly in the centre and trying not to look at the explosion of clothes and books that has been detonated on the floor.

She reads the titles of a few – classics that look dense and boring. Something hungry inside her dulls a bit, because you have not changed in this respect.

“You’re quiet for someone who wants to talk,” you prompt, mostly because the silence is unbearable.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her arms drop to her sides, fingers twitching as if unsure what to do with themselves. She tries to meet your eyes, but falters when she sees the cold indifference staring back. You’re looking at her like she’s a stranger. It stings more than it should.

“I didn’t invite you to the wedding,” she says finally. “Olga doesn’t know about us.”

“There’s no ‘us’,” you snap, sharper this time.

Her jaw tightens and for a second, she looks as though she’s been struck. “Don’t lie.”

“There is no ‘us’,” you repeat, your tone icy now. “That disappeared the minute I–”

“Left,” comes her interruption, her voice trembling just enough for you to notice. She steps closer, her shadow crossing yours, and her eyes narrow. “Which was your decision, not mine.”

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping you. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a say in it.”

“I didn’t!” she fires back, her voice rising. There is something raw beneath it – something fractured. “You didn’t give me one. You walked out, and you shut me out like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

Her words hang in the air and for a moment, you don’t know whether to shoot or turn away. But her gaze pins you in place, fierce and unrelenting, as though daring you to deny it.

You hold her stare, your throat tightening. “And you didn’t try to stop me.”

The silence that follows feels deafening. Neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks. You’re both standing on landmines and have nowhere to go.

Her jaw clenches, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Her voice, though low, crackles with the heat of restrained anger.

“You didn’t give me a chance to stop you.” And she steps closer, ready to bite. The door presses against your back as you instinctively move away. “You made up your mind before I even knew what was happening.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see it coming.” You shake your head. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to leave, Alexia.”

Her expression darkens, something in her eyes flickering dangerously. “That’s not the point. You didn’t just leave the club. You didn’t just leave me. You left everything. Our family. Our life. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you walk away as if none of it mattered?”

Your chest tightens but you refuse to let her words land. “You don’t get to make me the villain here.”

“I don’t have to,” she snaps, her voice rising now, accent thickening with her anger. “You were part of my family, part of me. You were at every Christmas, every birthday. My mother adored you. Alba still loves you like you are her own sister! And you just disappeared like none of it meant anything. Like we didn’t mean anything.”

You flinch at the weight of her words but force yourself into steadiness. “I didn’t belong there. It wasn’t mine, it was yours.”

Her face twists in disbelief, voice trembling as it rises again. “That’s bullshit and you know it! You were my family. My first everything. My first kiss. My first…” She pauses, her voice cracking. You swallow hard – you don’t want the fucking itemised list. “My first time. You think I just gave that to anyone? You think that it was just fun and games?”

Your stomach churns as she stokes a fire you’ve tried to smother for years. “It wasn’t nothing,” you agree, although it sounds like you are contradicting her in a way that causes her to falter on her drive forwards. “It was everything. That’s why I left. Because I couldn’t be what was needed anymore. Because I knew if I stayed, I’d only–”

“Only what?”

You gulp.

She’s back in your face, voice laced with venom. “Hurt me? Ruin me? Let us all done? Guess what, you did that anyway. Leaving made it easier? Made it hurt less?”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” you shout, voice splitting.

“You stay!” It echoes and it bruises your skin. Her eyes are blazing now, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer force of will. “You stay, because that is what you do when you love someone. When you love a family. You don’t just walk away from them. You fight.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between guilt and pride. She sees it and it only seems to enrage her further.

Her voice drops, anger so torrid she has to purposely cool her tone. “You know, I thought that my world was ending then. I thought you’d done your worst. But I was wrong. Because your betrayal wasn’t just personal, it was… political. To not see someone you love except for when they are sitting at the feet of this. Corruption’s pet. Pandering to an organisation you hated, while the rest of us fought for scraps.”

Heat rises in your chest. How dare she– “I don’t pander to anyone.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she spits. She’s too close. She’s too inescapable. And her anger is no longer fiery but icy, piercing through your skin. “I’ve seen the way you act around them, bowing your head and playing the loyal soldier while they tear us apart. You think I didn’t notice how he favoured you? Or how Montse magically replaces an irreplaceable member of–”

“It’s not like that,” you counter, but the words feel hollow even to you.

“Then what is it?” she demands. “What is it that makes you stand there and let them walk all over us? Let them divide us? And don’t you dare say it is for the good of the team. The team hates you for it. We all do. You’ve earned every bit of it, traidora.”

The word hits you like a whip, lacerating and making you bleed. Your hands curl into fists so tightly your nails dig into your palms, the sting barely enough to contain the fury surging through you. “Don’t you dare call me that!” The sentence tears out of your throat, rough and jagged. You take a step forwards, the air between you crackling with tension, your voice breaking as you spit, “you don’t get to say that to me. Not you.”

“Why not?” she challenges. “It’s what you are. You left, you betrayed everything we stood for, and then you came back just to make things worse. You made your choices.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her, the anger and heartbreak in her eyes, eviscerating and leaving you hollow. But then, something shifts in the air between you, and you find your voice again, souring from before.

“Is that why you’re here, Alexia? To throw all of this in my face? To let out fifteen years of harboured emotion? Or is it something else?”

Her brow furrows in confusion. Surprise. And then her expression twists into anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You take a step forward now, and she is forced to retreat. “Do you not want to marry Olga, Alexia? Is that it? Is that why you’re here? Because you think you can come into my room, dredge all of this up, and make me the reason you’re unhappy?”

Her face pales as she takes a deep breath, hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t,” she warns, firmly enough to signal you need to push.

So you do.

“You came here because you’re scared.” She shakes her head but it’s rigid and forced. “Because you’re not sure you can go through with it and you want me to give you a reason to back out. Well, I’m not going to do that for you. This isn’t my mess. It’s yours.”

She says nothing and you feel sick. Her chest rises and falls with each gasping breath. She opens her mouth but again, you are left with silence, and the expression in her eyes flickers between defiance, confusion, and vulnerability. For a long moment, it feels like everything that could be said has been.

The air between you is charged, but neither of you know which way it will go.

You stare at her watching her waver. And it hits you: she doesn’t know what to do.

All of this, all the anger and the pain, all the accusations and betrayals, has led her here, to this moment. She thought she had an answer, she thought she would be able to end this, but now? Now, Alexia is lost. There is too much here, too much to lose. And for the first time in a long while, you are feeling the same thing. You are both no longer sure if you want to fight.

She takes a hesitant step closer and you freeze. But then, just as quickly, her hand moves – not to strike, not to harm, but to touch you. Her fingers brush lightly over the fabric of your sleeve, almost tenderly, before they fall away, and you don’t know if the motion was meant for comfort or something else.

Her breath is ragged, coming in slow, uneven gasps. Her eyes never leave yours. You don’t want them to.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” she murmurs, the rawness in her tone shattering any remaining wall between you. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

How do you respond to that? You want her to leave but the thought is unbearable. You want space but she is not close enough. Something inside you stirs, something you can’t fight; a need to understand her and make her understand you. To make her see how tangled this, how impossible it has always been.

Before you can form the word, before you can even think, she moves in closer, and there is no longer distance. She doesn’t ask for permission. She doesn’t hesitate. And then, without warning, her lips are on yours.

It’s soft, tentative at first, as though testing the waters of something neither of you is sure of anymore. But then it shifts. Her body leans into yours, and the kiss deepens, more urgent now, as if this is everything that has not been said and has been at the same time. Your heart races, a million conflicting emotions crashing through you. Anger, betrayal, love – it is all here, you can taste it on her lips. It’s fierce, desperate, and it feels like an endless cycle of need and regret, pulling you both back to something raw, something irretrievable.

Her hands find your waist, gripping tightly as though anchoring herself to something that could pull her under. You instinctively respond, pulling her closer, drawing in the heat of her touch, the scent of her skin, the pressure of her body against yours. For a fleeting second, everything else fades away. There’s no past, no future, only here and now.

And then the fog clears.

You pull back, breathless and worse off. You’ve fucked up again. Alexia is crying.

“I’m not the person you think I am anymore,” you say, but it’s hard to meet her gaze. “I can’t be that person for you.”

Her eyes search yours desperately for lies, for deceit. She wants it to be wrong. She doesn’t know why. And she replies, “I don’t care what you think you’ve become,” because she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to her.

You stare at her, heart pounding, and you want to feel like this will be worth it, but nothing comes except cold emptiness. You force yourself to stay upright. “I think the wedding will be good.” She swallows. “You’ll be happy with Olga. I’m sure of it.”

It’s a death sentence.

This time, it is Alexia who leaves.

…

The wedding is beautiful. Blissful sunlight makes the venue seem to glow and it is hard not to be impressed with how they have set this up.

The model at your side is also beautiful, but you remind yourself it is not a competition. You focus on the whispers of anticipation from the guests, the rustle of the dresses as people pass in merry groups, clinking their glasses and finishing their champagne as they take their seats. Everything looks perfect, plucked from magazines and tasteful brochures. This must be what Alexia wanted.

Your date is occupying herself in conversation with the man seated next to you, who might be hitting on her, though you don’t care. She slides a hand over your thigh anyway.

The ceremony begins, although you’re not really concentrating on it. You try to focus, listening as the officiant speaks, but the words have become a dull hum. It’s all so rehearsed, so expected, and it’s boring. You won’t be getting married anytime soon, that’s for sure.

You know the flow of these things: the vows, the promises, the kiss, and the crowd’s applause. It’s a performance, though it’s not quite a farce.

And then, it comes. The moment. The one that feels like a trap.

The officiant pauses, glancing out over the gathering. “Si algú s'hi oposa, que parli ara o calli per sempre.”

For a heartbeat, time slows. The air thickens. Every muscle in your body tenses and the world around you goes still. You catch yourself holding your breath, gaze instinctively shifting to the woman standing at the front of the altar.

Alexia.

Her eyes flicker briefly in your direction – just a flicker, but it’s there, unmistakable. It’s her moment of hesitation, well masked but clear as day to you. But before you can make sense of it, she’s looking away, eyes fixed back onto Olga. Her expression hardens, more composed now, and you know that you are not going to break this silence.

The officiant, oblivious to the storm passing between you both, waits for a beat longer before continuing, his voice echoing in the silence.

And she’s married.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s over now. You’ve let her win.

#woso x reader #woso #randombush3 #barca femeni #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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killerpancakeburger · 9 months ago

Text

Scary Dog Privilege w/ Ghost

PART 2

With the captain's away, you're left to deal with his intimidating lieutenant's temper.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, suggestive at the end, GuardDog!Ghost x Handler!Reader, smug!Ghost. Reader is careful of Ghost's boundaries. 1.3k words

Ghost's "outburst" (no idea how to call it tbh) is based on how @valiants drew them here and there. I just love this depiction so much, it's too relatable.

Part 1. Part 3.

Heaving a sigh, you glower at the shiny plaque adorning the mahogany desk you’re sitting at.

Cpt. John Price.

The aforenamed is away for a week, something about a higher-ups seminar. Left you in charge and, when you started to heft some heavy cardboards full of paperwork, he suggested you take his office too. It wasn’t conventional by any means, but what John Price wants, John Price gets.

You imagined that being the big boss would be fun.

You didn't expect his men to be… such a hassle.

Soap could not go one day without getting involved in a fight.

Gaz was sweet as pie to your face, only to use your own gratefulness against you later when he wanted something.

And Ghost. Oh, Ghost. From the very start, he had been playing with you like a cat plays with his food. Acting like your right-hand man. Always by your side, dutiful shadow. His relentless stare was like a torch against the nape of your neck, like the tangible weight of gloved hands on your shoulders. Following instructions but always with a snarky reply, and a smirk on his lips that you could guess behind the mask simply by the look in his eyes. Not mentioning the times you were alone together and he'd stop covering the bottom of his face. Made it easier to drink — tea but also bourbon —, to smoke, to tempt you with his scarred lips—

You shake your head in an attempt to refocus.

Your concentration doesn't last a mere minute that it's already shattered by the slam of a door.

A familiar slam and a familiar door, if that is even possible.

One of your men is acting out again.

You slip through the group massed in front of the room you need to access, ignoring their warnings and brushing off their attempts to make you turn back.

Knocking three times in rapid succession so he knows it's you, you glide in wordlessly, taking care to lock the door behind you so there won't be any interruption. You lean your back against it, taking a moment to assess the situation.

Your eyes linger on the knife lodged into the table before fixing upon the sizable being sitten nearby. Bending at the waist under an invisible force, his elbows rest on his knees while his fingers clutch the part of his mask that covers the back of his head. One word immediately comes to mind— overwhelmed.

His back is turned on you. You can almost distinguish the dark aura he exudes, an inky blackness that matches his t-shirt and his gloves.

You pull away from the door and join him, absently noticing that your steps are loud enough for him to locate you— force of habit.

“Ghost?”

A metaphorical outstretched hand.

Silence.

Stopping behind his back, you instinctively raise a tentative hand— to ensure his attention? To provide comfort?— before halting halfway, reconsidering. Pulling it back, you opt for a verbal approach instead.

“You really need to stop terrorizing the new recruits.”

You can’t help the fond, amused smile that stretches your lips as you say it.

Silence, still.

It doesn't deter you. After all, you’re no stranger to the need to drop verbal communication in favor of onomatopoeias or hand motions.

Nevermind that, you can fill the silence with retelling of your day.

As the quiet remains your only interlocutor for the third time in a row, you decide to cut your losses, at least for today. You’re unsure whether Ghost's in a mood where he'd rather stay alone, or one where he'd appreciate company but only the silent kind. Eyeing the knife again, you reckon it must be the former.

But as you turn around to leave, a pair of arms circle your waist, putting a swift end to your exit. The sudden embrace causes you to sway a bit, nonetheless you keep your cool.

“Changed your mind?”

A light gibe, essentially harmless, but provocating enough to prompt an answer.

He replies with a muffled groan, before pulling you closer and pressing his face into the small of your back. The contact, admittedly unexpected, but not unwelcome, sends shivers down your spine.

“That's certainly an… interesting position,” is all you find to say, picturing the expression someone would make if they were to stumble upon you two.

Twisting around a bit, you manage to see half of him, and use the view to reach back and pat his head. You quickly come to the conclusion that you’re stuck there for a while, same as if a pet cheetah nominated your lap for its nap.

A few moments later, a minute or an eternity, you end up chuckling to yourself. There's a grumble in your shirt, and it takes a second or two for you to comprehend that the grumble is actually words.

“What's so funny?”

You sigh pensively.

“Was thinking about the recruits you scared. They were shaking in their boots when I got here, you'd think they've seen worse than a ghost. But the most formidable thing here is a cuddle monster.”

The limbs around your torso release you unpromptedly, and as you pivot to face the lieutenant, he only has one step to take to corner you against a wall.

“S'that so?”

The sarcasm in his tone is familiar, yet you fail to see what he's getting at.

“... yeah?”

You don’t try to hide the interrogation in your voice; you want your confusion to be known.

He props one forearm on the wall, right by your head, and leans closer to murmur huskily:

“Do I scare you?”

You bite your lower lip not to laugh, his antics evoking some sort of dark, tortured protagonist. Yet, you'd be lying if you pretended this little display was leaving you indifferent.

Hell, you wish you were scared, because then you wouldn’t long to reduce the distance between your two bodies, already scandalously limited.

Wavering about your reply, you ultimately select the truth.

“Not anymore.”

You swear you can make out the corners of his mouth rise behind the mask.

“Good,” he appraises, laconic as ever.

Stricken by a timidity as sudden as it is intense, you start to ramble nervously, avoiding his intense stare.

“No but, for real, you'd laugh too if you'd seen their faces. They were so worried, imploring me not to go. It's like they were convinced you'd eat me alive.”

“Could be arranged.”

The suggestive line has the merit to make you stop dead in your tracks. His insufferable confidence fills you with irritation and arousal yet again.

You can’t let him win this one, you categorically refuse to let him have the last word. So you bring your face even closer to his and purrs:

“It's such a shame you’re wearing a mask, otherwise I would have already shoved my tongue down your—”

He rips off the bottom part of his mask with such haste that it would be comical if you weren't busy being squished between him and the wall the next second. He presses you against the stone the same way he presses his lips against yours— insistent, warm.

Once again, his hands settle on your hips like they belong here, and his thumbs slip under the cloth to stroke your hipbones.

His newfound urgency is the antipodes of the restraint he manifested until now, leaving you short of breath.

A call of your name pulls you apart, but barely, noses almost brushing. You shoot a look at the door just to see the handle lowers in vain. Letting out an amused and relieved scoff, you rest your forehead against Ghost's torso, thanking yourself for locking.

The voice persists, asking if everything's okay. You raise your head but, as you open your mouth to answer, Simon silently orders you to stay quiet with a forefinger across his lips. You frown and mouth silently— no, YOU shut up— before hollering to be heard.

“All good, thanks!”

Obviously, answering is a much better solution than a suspicious silence. Yet Ghost doesn't seem to share that opinion, as he stares at you unimpressed, but you kiss him before he can make any disagreeable comment.

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shdysders · 3 months ago

Text

lacy

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: in which you’re taras lacy.

word count: im sorry if this is too repetitive, tbh I haven’t checked it out completely.

Tara wished more than anything that she had never noticed you.

She didn't even know when it started, only that she wanted it to stop.

Maybe it began the day you arrived—new to town, unfamiliar yet impossible to ignore. You weren't loud or attention-seeking, but there was something about you that unsettled her.

The way people turned their heads when you walked by, drawn in as if you belonged here more than she ever had. The way you spoke, soft but certain, like every word mattered. Tara hadn't meant to pay attention, but it was like trying to ignore a song stuck in her head.

At first, she told herself it was curiosity. A natural awareness of someone new, nothing more.

But curiosity didn't make her stomach twist when someone said your name. It didn't make her feel like she was always a step behind you, lingering in your shadow, caught between admiration and something far uglier.

And it definitely didn't make her hate herself for caring.

The first time Tara saw you, it was in the crowded hallway between classes. She hadn't even realized you were new at first, just another face in the sea of students.

But then, she noticed the way people reacted to you—how eyes lingered, how heads turned, how conversations paused just slightly as you passed, as if your presence demanded attention without you even trying.

She expected you to be shy. New people always were. She had been, once. But when you walked into class and the teacher asked you to introduce yourself, you did it like it was nothing.

Your voice was steady, carrying across the room with a quiet kind of confidence. You told them your name, where you'd moved from, a few surface-level facts. Nothing extraordinary. And yet, Tara felt a strange, unwelcome pull, like she had to listen, had to commit every word to memory.

She figured that would be the extent of it—that you'd settle in like everyone else, fade into the background once the novelty of being new wore off.

But then she saw you again. And again. And again.

You seemed to be everywhere. In the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the casual mentions of her friends.

It wasn't like you were trying. That was the worst part.

You weren't loud or overly outgoing, but people naturally gravitated toward you anyway. Teachers liked you, students wanted to befriend you, and you made it look so damn easy.

And then, just when Tara had thought she could get away with pretending not to notice you, you had noticed her first.

She had been at her locker, switching out her books, when she had caught movement from the corner of her eye. Then your voice—light, friendly, like this was something you did all the time.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. You're Tara, right?"

Tara had glanced up, and there you had been. Close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge you.

You had smiled—not in a way that felt forced or overly eager. Just warm. Easy. Like it was second nature to introduce yourself to everyone you met. And Tara had hated how much that stuck with her—how natural you had made it seem, how different you were from her in all the ways she had wished she could ignore.

She had nodded, offering a small, awkward smile, unsure of how else to respond. "Yeah. That's me."

You had shifted your books in your arms, tilting your head slightly. "I think we have more than two classes together, so I figured I might as well introduce myself."

Tara hadn't known how to handle that—how effortlessly you had spoken, how you had said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. She had just nodded again, murmuring a quiet, "Oh. Cool."

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.

Because she had heard that same introduction in other classes—watched as you had walked up to different people with the same soft smile, the same easygoing tone. You hadn't hesitated when teachers had asked you to introduce yourself, hadn't stumbled over your words like she would have. You had spoken like you belonged here, like you weren't the least bit concerned about how people perceived you.

And maybe that was the worst part—because for you, it was easy. It wasn't something you had to think about, something that had sat heavy on your shoulders like it had for her. You hadn't hesitated, hadn't second-guessed yourself, hadn't fumbled over your words like she always seemed to.

Tara hadn't even remembered what she had said in response—something short, something dismissive. She had just wanted the conversation to end.

But it hadn't. Not really.

Because after that, she had started seeing you everywhere. And suddenly, you hadn't just been some new person anymore. You had been the person who had smiled at her like it was effortless. The person whose name had seemed to follow her, weaving itself into her life whether she had wanted it to or not.

It was like the universe was pushing you toward her, weaving you into the fabric of her life whether she wanted it or not. And maybe that was the worst part—because no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't ignore you.

Not when the whole world seemed to notice you, too.

Tara hadn't even noticed how you looked at first.

Not like anybody seemed to. Everyone was just caught up on the fact that you were new.

That wasn't what had made you stand out to her. It was everything else—the way people reacted to you, the way your name kept coming up in conversations, the way you just... existed so easily in places where she had always felt like she had to fight to be seen.

But once she noticed, she couldn't unnotice.

She didn't know when it started. Maybe it was the first time you passed her in the hallway, and she caught the faint trace of your perfume—something light and clean, barely there, but still lingering in the air after you were gone. Maybe it was the way people naturally leaned in when you spoke, like they wanted to hear more, like you had some unspoken gravitational pull that drew them closer.

It wasn't intentional. She hadn't meant to pay attention to any of it. But that was the thing about you—everything you did had a way of creeping in when she least expected it.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. Just a passing thought. Just something in the background, barely worth acknowledging.

But then she started noticing more.

How your skin always looked impossibly smooth, soft in a way that felt almost unnatural, like you had never known anything sharp or cruel. She wasn't looking—God, she wasn't looking—but sometimes the sun would hit just right, and she'd catch a glimpse of warmth on your cheekbones, a glow that made it impossible to ignore.

How you pressed your lips together when you were concentrating, as if you were holding back the urge to say something out loud. How you had a habit of breaking the tips of your pencils on purpose, just so your writing would look a certain way. How you always flipped your notebook to a fresh page even when there was still space left on the previous one, like the mess of unfinished thoughts bothered you more than wasted paper.

She wasn’t looking for these things. She wasn't sitting there, analyzing you like some kind of fascination. But they kept showing up anyway, slipping into her awareness before she could push them out.

And it annoyed her. More than it should have.

Because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how effortless you made everything seem, how your confidence didn't feel forced the way hers always did. It wasn't fair how teachers seemed to already like you, how students naturally gravitated toward you, how your name had worked its way into her head without her permission.

And it really, really wasn't fair how you weren't even trying.

It wasn't like you were trying to be liked, trying to stand out. You were just... existing. Living. Doing things without overthinking them, without worrying about how they might come across. And maybe that was the worst part—because for Tara, none of that had ever been easy.

And now, she couldn't stop noticing.

Because everyone loved you. That much was obvious.

Tara saw it in the way people reacted to you, how they laughed a little too easily at your jokes—even the ones that weren't that funny. She saw it in the way conversations seemed to shift when you joined them, like people wanted to impress you without even realizing it.

And she hated it.

Not just because you had that effortless charm, that unshakable ease that made everything seem so damn simple—but because it was real.

You weren't fake. You weren't putting on an act or twisting your words to make people like you. You were just nice. Genuinely, painfully, unreasonably nice.

And it made her stomach twist.

Because no one was that sweet for no reason.

Tara had met people like that before—people who smiled too easily, who said all the right things, who made kindness feel like a performance. She knew how to spot it, how to pick apart the cracks in the mask until the real person underneath showed through.

But with you, there were no cracks.

You weren't pretending. You weren't forcing it. You were just...like that.

And that only made it worse.

Because if there was something ugly underneath—some hidden flaw, some selfish motive—Tara could have handled that. She could have told herself that you weren't as perfect as everyone thought, that you were just playing the same game as everyone else.

But you weren't.

You were real. And that was the most infuriating part.

There was something about you that didn't belong in the same world as the rest of them—something too soft, too delicate, too untouched. Like you had never seen the worst in people, never been hurt enough to carry the weight of it.

Tara wanted to find a reason to hate you. She wanted to pick you apart, to find the thing that made you less than what everyone thought you were.

But every time she tried, she came up empty.

Your eyes were the worst part.

Wide, bright, completely open—like you had never needed to guard yourself, like the world had never given you a reason to. Tara couldn't stand it.

It wasn't just the way they looked, soft and untroubled, but the way they felt. The way they held a kind of quiet innocence, an unshaken belief in the goodness of things. Like you had never learned to expect the worst from people. Like you had never been hurt badly enough to make you wary.

She didn't know what to do with that.

Because when you smiled—really smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made your whole face light up—it made her feel off balance. And when she caught you staring out a window in class, lost in your own world, your expression so effortlessly peaceful, it made her angry.

It wasn't fair.

How could someone exist like that? How could you walk through life so untouched, so light, when she had spent years learning how to carry weight that never seemed to leave her shoulders?

Tara felt rough in comparison. Sharper edges, colder glances, a world of difference between the way she saw things and the way you did. And it made her hate looking at you for too long, because the longer she did, the more she felt like she wasn't supposed to be near you at all.

Like whatever you were made of—whatever softness, whatever lightness—it wasn't meant for her.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because the more she fixated on you, the more she realized it had nothing to do with you at all. It was her. The way she bristled at your kindness, the way she flinched at the warmth in your eyes, the way she resented how easy the world seemed for you. It wasn't because you were perfect—it was because she wasn't.

Because she had never been.

She had spent so long being haunted by things she couldn't change, by bloodstains she couldn't scrub away, by ghosts that never let her breathe. And then there you were, unburdened, living in a way she no longer knew how to.

You existed in a world that had never touched you the way it had touched her, never carved out pieces of you and left you scrambling to fill the gaps. And she hated that she could see it so clearly.

She didn't want to compare. She didn't want to feel like this. But she couldn't help it.

It made her stomach twist. Not because she hated you. But because she hated that she cared.

Because every time she looked at you, it wasn't just you she saw. It was herself. The jagged edges, the shadows under her eyes, the way she had learned to live with the weight of everything she had been through.

And the worst part? She wasn't sure if she envied you or resented you for it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe she just hated that, for the first time in a long time, she was forced to acknowledge just how much she wasn't doing well at all.

And it wasn't something she could ignore.

Not when it followed her everywhere—this awful, gnawing awareness of you. She'd already come to terms with the fact that it wasn't just you that got under her skin. It was what you represented, what you made her see in herself, all the things she tried not to think about. But knowing that didn't help. If anything, it made it worse.

Because even when you weren't there, you were.

Like the scent of your perfume that lingered long after you'd walked away, like the faint trace of your voice in the back of her mind, like the ghost of something she didn't ask to be haunted by.

She could be sitting in class, half-listening to a lecture, and suddenly, she'd remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved.

She could be walking home, exhausted, barely thinking at all, and she'd catch a whiff of someone else's shampoo—not even yours—and somehow, you'd still come to mind.

It made her stomach twist. It made her furious.

Why couldn't she shake you? Why did her brain insist on keeping you there, tucked away in places she couldn't reach to rip you out? She had more important things to think about—more RRAL things, things that actually mattered.

And yet, you lingered.

She wasn't watching you. She wasn't.

And yet, you lingered.

No matter how much she tried to push you from her mind, you were always there. In the corner of her vision, in the spaces between her thoughts, in the background of her day like a song stuck on a loop. It wasn't intentional. She wasn't looking for you. But somehow, she always knew where you were.

It was stupid. Unfair. Irritating.

She told herself it was just awareness. Just familiarity. You were everywhere—laughing with your friends, answering questions in class, moving through the world like you belonged to it in a way she never quite had. It made sense that she would notice you. Anyone would.

But not like this.

Not enough for her gaze to land on you before she even realized what she was doing. Not enough for her to recognize your laugh from across a crowded hallway or pick up on the little shifts in your expression when you thought no one was looking. Not enough for her to feel the weight of you in her mind, refusing to leave.

She wasn't stalking you. She wasn't obsessed.

She was just aware of you. Too aware.

It wasn't the same thing.

Because Tara tried to ignore it. She really did. Tried to ignore you.

Because it wasn't a big deal. She wasn't obsessed.

She wasn't even paying attention. She just happened to notice when your name came up, that was all.

It wasn't like she was waiting for it or anything. But the second Mindy made an offhand comment about running into you earlier—something stupid, something that shouldn't have mattered—Tara felt herself tense.

Tara had rolled her eyes—acted like it was weird that Mindy even remembered it.

She didn't even think before responding, throwing in something to cut you down, something small enough to pass as harmless but sharp enough to stick. Maybe you were only nice because you wanted something. Maybe you were trying too hard. Maybe you weren't actually that great, and people just didn't see it yet. It wasn't like she was lying. She was just balancing things out, making sure no one got too carried away.

But it wasn't just Mindy. It was Chad, too. It was Anika. It was Ethan. It was anyone who spoke about you in a way that made it seem like you were drawing them in. Like they were starting to see you the way everyone else did. Like they were falling for it. And Tara couldn't stand that.

Because how was she supposed to ignore you when no one else did? When every conversation, every passing comment, every stupid mention of your name pulled her attention right back to you? It was exhausting. You were everywhere, even when you weren't. She could try to pretend you didn't exist, but the world wouldn't let her. It was like the universe was making sure she never forgot about you.

They were her friends. She'd been through hell with them. She had nearly died with them. And yet, somehow, you were slipping into their world like you belonged there. Like you could just show up and be part of something that wasn't yours. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. And maybe it didn't make sense, but that didn't change the fact that every time she heard your name, she felt like she had to do something about it.

And maybe that was the worst part—because no matter how much she told herself it didn't matter, no matter how much she tried to act like she didn't care, she knew she was lying. It had already taken over her life.

Everywhere she went, you were there. Not in a way that was intentional—at least, she hoped it wasn't—but in a way that made it impossible to ignore. In the halls, in the cafeteria, in the classroom when she was supposed to be paying attention to something else. She could tell herself she wasn't looking for you, but somehow, she always knew exactly where you were.

And it was ridiculous. Tara felt ridiculous. Out of everything she had been through, THIS was what got to her?

She had survived Ghostface attacks, lost people she cared about, fought to keep herself together through things that actually mattered. And yet, here she was, completely unraveling over something as stupid as this.

Over you.

It wasn't even real torture. Not like the kind she knew. No one was chasing her with a knife. No one was trying to kill her. But in some ways, this was almost worse. At least with Ghostface, she knew what she was up against—knew how to fight back. But this? There was no strategy, no way to escape something that wasn't even real.

She had seen Ghostface before. In shadows, in reflections, in the dark corners of her mind where her worst memories lived.

But Ghostface wasn't everywhere. You were. She didn't see them in the cafeteria, in the halls, in the stupid little moments of her day that were supposed to be normal. Ghostface wasn't sitting at the next table, laughing with friends, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear without a second thought.

But you were. And somehow, that made it worse.

And maybe that was why she let it linger. Why she couldn't stop herself from noticing you, from letting you take up space in her mind. Because compared to everything else, this was the safest kind of suffering she had ever known.

And it wasn't fair.

Because she wanted to roll her eyes, to look away, to force herself not to care. But then you showed up, hair tied back, a ribbon perfectly in place, and there it was again—that stupid, twisting feeling in her stomach that made her feel sick.

You were everywhere—woven into conversations, slipping into places she wasn't expecting. If it wasn't someone mentioning something you said in class, it was a passing comment about how put-together you always seemed. Nothing dramatic, nothing over the top—just little things. Things that shouldn't have mattered.

But they did.

Tara ignored it for as long as she could, convincing herself it was nothing. That you were nothing.

And then, that one morning, when she saw you—hair pulled back, the ribbon keeping it in place, and suddenly, it was like something in her snapped.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't just that you looked nice. It was that it suited you. That it was effortless, like everything else you did. You didn't have to think about these things the way she did, didn't have to overanalyze every little detail about yourself. You just existed, and somehow, that was enough. Enough for people to notice, enough for them to admire you, enough for her to—

No.

Tara had clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away, but it didn't help. Because even when she wasn't looking, she still heard your voice. Still caught the way people spoke about you.

She had been through real things. Painful things. Things that should've left her numb to something as trivial as this. And yet, here she was—annoyed, unsettled, tangled up in thoughts about you like it was something that actually mattered.

It made her want to say something. To remind everyone that you weren't all that, that you weren't perfect, that you had to have some kind of flaw they weren't seeing.

But every time she tried, the words never came out right.

And she couldn't figure out why that bothered her so much.

She didn't want anything from you.

That was what she told herself, over and over, trying to make it true.

But it wasn't.

It was a cruel, twisted lie—one that sat in the pit of her stomach, coiling tight whenever she saw you, whenever she heard your name, whenever she caught herself paying too much attention.

Maybe it was the way people gravitated toward you. The way they leaned in when you spoke, the way their laughter felt lighter, easier, when you were around.

Maybe it was the effortless way you existed, never seeming to second-guess yourself, never needing to prove anything to anyone. Maybe it was the fact that, somehow, without even trying, you had become the person people noticed. The one they admired.

Or maybe—maybe it was worse than that.

Because deep down, she knew it wasn't just about what you had.

Maybe she wanted you.

The thought made her feel sick.

No. No, that wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

Tara clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms, forcing herself to breathe through the tightness in her chest. She wouldn't let that be true.

She refused to.

And she tried. She tried so hard. She swears she does. She lists every reason why you shouldn't get under her skin.

You're just a person.

Just some girl.

You're not special.

You're not different.

But it doesn't work.

Because every time she tells herself you're nothing, something proves her wrong.

She remembers once, in class, when her pen slipped from her fingers and rolled off her desk. Before she could even react, you passed by, stooping down to grab it without hesitation. You barely looked at her, barely acknowledged it, just handed it back like it was nothing.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for some reason, that stuck with her.

She had stared at the pen in her hand for too long afterward, gripping it too tightly, something unfamiliar twisting in her stomach. Because it was proof, wasn't it? Proof that you weren't some perfect, untouchable figure. You were just... nice. Not because people were watching, not because you wanted something in return, but because that's just who you were.

And that made her furious.

Because it meant she had no reason to hate you. No excuse to dismiss you. No justification for the way you consumed her thoughts.

So she convinced herself of something else instead.

You did it because you wanted people to like you. That was it. That had to be it. You wanted to be seen as the good one, the kind one, the one no one could ever say a bad word about. That was your game. That was your angle.

Tara had clenched her jaw, forcing the memory away, pushing down the irritation bubbling up in her chest.

She hated it. Hated how irrational it was, how impossible it was to shut off.

She was angry—at you, at herself, at the fact that no matter what she did, she kept coming back to you.

So she tried to blame you. To twist everything in her head until it wasn't her fault.

That was easier. That was safer.

Because if she could convince herself that you were calculated, that your kindness was just another way to make people adore you, then none of this was real. None of it meant anything.

But then there were moments she couldn't twist, moments she couldn't justify no matter how hard she tried.

She remembered it too clearly—the way you had walked up to her locker, casual as ever, barely a second thought in your step. You weren't hesitant. You weren't nervous. Like talking to her was the most natural thing in the world.

She heard your voice before she even turned around.

"Hey, Tara."

She almost ignored you, almost pretended she hadn't heard, but then you were already beside her, standing just close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge you.

You had smiled at her. Not a big, beaming one, not something fake or forced, just an easy, natural expression, like talking to her was as simple as breathing.

"I missed a few things in history today. Could I check your notes?"

Your tone was light, normal, like you had no idea what you were doing to her. Like this was just another conversation, nothing worth reading into.

And that should've been true.

But she didn't think before she spoke.

"Maybe you should've paid attention."

The words came out colder than she intended, sharp and clipped, designed to sting.

She saw it happen in real time—the way your lips parted slightly, like you weren't sure you heard her right, the way your brows furrowed just a little before you caught yourself.

For a second, you hesitated.

Then you nodded. "Oh. Right. I—yeah, never mind."

It wasn't dramatic. You didn't snap back, didn't get angry, didn't even try to argue. You just stepped back, confusion flickering across your face before you covered it up with something more neutral.

"Forget I asked."

And then you turned and walked away.

Tara watched you go, jaw tight, fingers curling around the strap of her bag like that would somehow ground her.

She should've felt victorious.

She should've felt relieved that, for once, you weren't perfect, that she had managed to knock you down just a little.

And for a split second, she almost did.

But later that night, when she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory kept replaying in her head. The way you had looked at her—not angry, not annoyed, just... confused.

Hurt.

She swallowed hard, shifting under her blankets, trying to force herself to sleep.

It shouldn't matter.

It didn't matter.

But then why did she feel so awful?

She tried to remind herself that you weren't even real—not in the way other people were.

People made mistakes.

They stumbled, they faltered, they showed cracks.

But you? You didn't. Not once.

And it was driving her insane.

She noticed it during the class presentations. It wasn't a big deal—not at first. Everyone messed up in some way. Even she did, tripping over a few words, losing her train of thought for half a second before catching herself. It was nothing. The teacher didn't care. No one in the class cared. She didn't even care when she sat back down.

But then you went up there.

And you were perfect.

No notecards, no nervous pauses, no hesitations. Just confidence, effortless and unshaken, like you hadn't even considered the possibility of messing up.

Tara sat in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching—waiting.

You had to mess up. You had to.

But you didn't.

You stood there, talking about the effects of climate change on marine life, explaining things so smoothly that even the people who hadn't been paying attention to the class all week were listening. You weren't just speaking—you were engaging. Like this was easy for you, like it wasn't something that needed to be practiced or worried over.

Like it came naturally.

Tara's fingers dug into her arm, her jaw clenching tighter with every second that passed.

She had spoken about the history of space exploration. She had done her research, put effort into making it good. And she had been fine—just fine. Not perfect, not effortless, not... whatever you were.

People weren't perfect. They slipped up, they stammered, they fumbled for words. They made mistakes.

So why didn't you?

Why did you always have to be so... untouchable?

She wanted to believe it was fake. That you just hid things better than others, that you practiced more than you let on. But there was nothing forced about the way you carried yourself, nothing fake about the way people listened to you without being asked to.

It wasn't fair.

Maybe she was waiting for you to fail. Maybe she needed you to slip up, to show that you weren't above everyone else, that you were just as flawed as the rest of them. Because if you weren't perfect, then maybe—just maybe—she could stop feeling like this.

But you didn't.

And that just made her hate you more.

But hate didn't feel like enough. Not when you had to be doing this on purpose.

You always seemed to show up at the worst times, right when she had finally convinced herself that she was over it. Right when she had let herself breathe. And then, like clockwork, you appeared—effortless, untouchable, ruining everything without even trying.

It was worse on days when she was already on edge, when she thought she had finally shaken this—whatever THIS was—only for you to walk in like you owned the world, like the universe had conspired against her just to put you in her path. It felt cruel, like a joke she wasn't in on, and it made her want to scream.

Tara told herself you knew exactly what you were doing. That you could see the way she bristled when you walked into a room, how her voice sharpened whenever she spoke to you. That you enjoyed it—the way she got worked up over you, the way you managed to worm your way into her head every single time.

You didn't even have to try, and yet you ruined everything.

It had to be intentional. Because if it wasn't, then what did that say about her?

If you weren't doing this on purpose, then it meant none of it mattered to you. Not her resentment, not her irritation, not the way she spent so much of her time thinking about you. It meant you weren't playing a game with her. You weren't even aware there was a game to play.

Tara tried to ignore the truth staring her in the face. She tried to hold onto the idea that you were calculating, that you knew exactly how perfect you were, how impossible you made things for her. But no matter how much she wanted to believe it, the lie never stuck.

Because you never hesitated when you spoke to her. You never held back a smirk, never threw a knowing glance, never showed any sign that you even noticed how she felt.

You weren't out to get her.

You weren't thinking about her at all.

And somehow, that was so much worse.

Nothing was simple anymore. Nothing was simple when it came to you. Not even the things that used to feel like hers.

She could be out with her friends, forcing herself to have fun, trying to lose herself in the conversation, in the noise—until someone says your name. Until someone mentions how nice you are, or asks if she thinks you're pretty. And just like that, the night is ruined.

Because it's always like this. No matter where she was, no matter what she's doing, you found a way to be there. She could be in class, staring blankly at the board, only to realize she's twirling her pen between her fingers—the way you do. She stops immediately, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turn white.

Or maybe she's shopping, minding her own business, when she would see a shirt on display and know you would wear it. It's your style exactly. The kind of thing you'd throw on without a second thought and somehow still manage to look perfect in. Her first instinct is to scoff—of course you would. You would love it.

But then, a split second later, an image flashes in her mind: you actually wearing it. And she hates how easily she can picture it, how good you'd probably look, how—no.

She shoves the thought away, as if she can physically push it out of her head, but it's too late. The damage is already done.

Even her own actions aren't safe from you. Sometimes she finds herself fixing her hair in the mirror, smoothing it down, tucking it behind her ear—before catching herself and realizing that you do that, too.

Or worse, she'll be doing something completely normal—pouring a drink, typing on her laptop, flipping through a book—and suddenly, she'll wonder how you would do it. Would you hold your cup the same way? Would you skim through pages faster? Would you—ugh.

It's infuriating. She feels like you've infected her, like your presence has seeped into every corner of her life, poisoning even the smallest, most meaningless moments

And she hates that.

She hates that you don't even have to try. That you exist, and that's enough to ruin everything.

She can't escape you.

And nothing is hers anymore.

She hated you.

Hated your voice, the way it carried through a room, light and effortless like you didn't even realize people hung onto every word you said. Hated your stupid little habits—how you always tapped your fingers against the edge of your desk when you were thinking, how you twisted the strap of your bag around your hand while you walked, how you laughed at things that weren’t even that funny but somehow made everyone else laugh, too.

She hated how people talked about you, like you hung the fucking stars, like you were this perfect, untouchable thing. And most of all, she hated that no one else saw it. No one else felt this like she did.

She avoided you. Walked the long way to class, skipped out on group projects, refused to meet your eyes when you talked. She kept her distance, convinced that if she didn't see you, didn't hear you, maybe—just maybe—this would stop.

It didn't.

Because the space you left behind wasn't empty. It was filled with you. With her own thoughts, her own frustration, her own pathetic, pitiful obsession.

And then it happened.

It was something small. Stupid. You bumped into her in the hallway—nothing dramatic, just the kind of passing accident that happened a hundred times a day. You barely reacted, just glanced up, gave a polite sorry, and kept walking.

But Tara burned with it.

The casualness of it. The audacity of it. Like you didn't even think about it. Like it was nothing to you.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she was scrubbing at the spot where your shoulder brushed against hers, like your presence was something she could wipe off.

It was irrational. She knew that. But she couldn’t stop.

Because this—this was proof.

She didn't just resent you. Didn't just dislike you.

She loathed you.

And she loathed herself even more.

Because the thing was.

Tara had always been like this.

Always wanted what she couldn't have.

She had jealousy in her bones.

She'd known it since she was a kid. She had been jealous of Sam, jealous of Mindy, jealous of Amber. She had envied people for things she couldn't name, couldn't help—the way they fit so easily into spaces that never seemed made for her, the way things always worked out for them, the way they had things she didn't, even if she wasn't sure what those things were.

Her parents used to comment on it, her jealousy. Not in a cruel way, just in that casual, offhanded way adults said things they didn't realize would stick.

You've always had jealous eyes, Tara.

She remembered her mom saying it once, maybe twice.

She remembered her dad laughing when she got upset over something small and saying, Tara, not everything is a competition.

She hadn't thought much of it back then. She had just assumed everyone was like this. That it was normal, natural, a part of being human.

But then there was you.

And now—now she understood.

Because this was different. This wasn't the kind of jealousy she had known before, the kind that burned quick and hot and then faded into something else. This wasn't petty, wasn't simple.

This stayed.

Her eyes always found you. It was like she had no say in the matter, no control over it. She could be sitting in class, staring at the board, not even thinking about you, and then—before she even realized it—her gaze would drift. It didn't matter how much she told herself not to look, didn't matter how much she swore she wouldn't.

She always did.

And every time, it pissed her off more than the last.

Because she was jealous. She knew that now. But of what?

The way people loved you? The way you moved through life so easily, like the universe had carved out a space just for you? Or maybe it was something deeper, something uglier—something that made her stomach twist and her throat burn.

Tara couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that she wasn't strong enough to fight it.

But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, her eyes still followed you.

They always would.

And it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Tara had spent so much time convincing herself that this was simple—that it was just hate, just bitterness, just something sharp and cruel that would fade if she ignored it long enough. She thought if she pushed hard enough, fought hard enough, she could make it go away.

But no amount of distance, no amount of denial, no amount of desperate, clawing frustration could change the truth.

She wasn't just angry.

She wasn't just jealous.

She worshipped you.

Not in a way that was soft, or sweet, or kind. Not in the way people were supposed to love things. No, it was cruel. It was agonizing. It felt like punishment, like some sick, twisted joke the universe was playing on her.

She hated you, and she needed you.

She needed to see you, to know where you were, to hear your voice even when it made her blood boil. She needed to compare herself to you, to pick apart everything you did, to watch you shine and tell herself that one day—one day—she would glow just as brightly.

But she wouldn't.

Because that was the truth, wasn't it? The part she could no longer ignore, no matter how hard she tried.

It wasn't just about you.

It was about her.

Tara Carpenter was the problem.

Her rotten, rotten mind was the problem. The way it twisted things, the way it poisoned everything, the way it clung to you like an obsession she could never shake.

Because you weren't just someone to hate.

You were everything she wanted to be.

#jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #vada cavell x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #mabel x reader #melissa barrera x reader #sam carpenter

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last-words-ofashootingstar · 16 days ago

Note

helourrrrrr, hehehee can i please have yunho with dialogue 121, and kinks 211 ans 216?

➯a/n: gaaasp omg you absolutely can😩 216 is so diverse, so many options for how to do it so i hope this way is okay aaaah yuyu with a pee kink you've infected my brain !!!!

Thirsty

❥Jeong Yunho x fem reader

part two here !

121: "one more for me, i know you can do it"

✈︎queued for: tue 20th

(>ᴗ•)genre: smut

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: nasty dom yunho, use of toys, 211 overstimulation, licking sweat, hickeys, 216 piss kink (in the form of hhhh drinking it-), pet names (sweetie, love, good girl), yunho in grey sweatpants is a warning of its own tbh, some aftercare whoop whoop

♡masterlist !♡

18+.MINORS GO AWAY.

✦ .

"Don't tap out on me yet, sweetie~" Yunho chuckles from above you, slowly rubbing a hand up your side.

It's hard not to. You've already came three times, and you're still in a very compromising position.

With Yunho's knees holding your legs to the bed, his hand holding a vibrator to your swollen and sensitive clit, and his eyes never leaving you — you're this close to tapping out when you look down and catch a glimpse of his undeniable bulge in his sweatpants. He looks like he's about to rip the seams, and it's making you dizzy to see how clearly he's enjoying making you tremble and sweat. He's leaking so much pre-cum that there's a wet spot on the grey fabric.

"Fuck, fuck—" You wail, back arching off the mattress. "I can't! I can't," your words come out in heavy pants.

Your body is on fire, it feels like. There's absolutely no way you can cum again without passing out. Your entire cunt is buzzing, leaking so much that you're sure the towel underneath you is all for nothing and you've soaked the bed.

All he does is smirk down at you — until he starts moving the vibrator in slow, agonizing circles. He bites back a laugh at the way you sob, his own breathing as heavy as yours as he watches you grab the blanket with a death grip to try and ground yourself.

He gets off on making you squirm; and squirm you do. Your body unsure of where to go, what to do with the overwhelming pleasure. Stuck somewhere between trying to get away and trying to get closer.

"One more for me," he hums as he leans over you, licking up the drop of sweat making its way down your neck. "I know you can do it." He starts sucking on your already marked up neck; making you whine and fidget even harder. "Come on, be my good girl and give me what I want~"

What he wants is to wreck you beyond belief, and he's getting closer with every second.

"I-" You squeeze your eyes shut, slapping the bed as the burning knot in your gut grows hotter with his lips on your throat; his tongue lapping up the droplets on your heated skin. "I'm gonna pee- ah!"

In a second flat, he's moved down to face your weeping cunt — his tongue immediately buried inside of you.

That must be what he was waiting for, because now he's not being gentle with the circles on your puffy clit. He's pressing the intense vibrations into you harshly and making quick movements.

Yunho has his fair share of kinks, and drinking your piss is on that list — as well as you drinking his.

You can't even yell you're so overwhelmed with sensations, you can only fist the blanket and tremble as a mind and body numbing pleasure washes over you and drowns you.

And he almost drowns in you, gulping up every drop of your release and your pee like you're the last source of hydration on the planet; tossing the toy aside to lap at you in your entirety. He almost cums in his pants whenever you slump down with a pathetic whimper of his name.

It's almost a sense of accomplishment when he sits up after giving you a final, slow lick and sees the state you're in. Completely ruined and on a whole new level of fucked out on his bed.

"What a good girl for me~"

His words make you twitch, feeling around blindly for him with your eyes still closed. He straddles you quickly, wrapping his arms around you with a somewhat cocky smile. "Are you alive in there, sweetie?"

"Mmh," you moan in response, still breathing like you've ran a marathon as he rubs your shoulder to bring you back to Earth. "I w-" Your words die out in your throat as you stutter, and he chuckles at your pout.

"Take it easy, love," he says with a kiss to your heated cheek, "just breathe with me."

It takes you a few minutes to come to your senses, and you blink a few times as you open your eyes to look at him.

He's still staring at you, though this time a bit softer as he strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. "You okay?"

"Mhm," you moan more coherently than before, leaning into his touch as you trace your hands down his sides; landing at the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging at it.

"Thirsty, sweetie?" He smirks as he quickly moves to rid himself of his pants.

He could propose to you then and there as you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, your eyes still blurry and filled with stars.

"You're so perfect."

✦ .

#stars ask and receive #request #ateez #ateez smut #smut fic #jeong yunho x reader #jeong yunho #yunho x reader #yunho smut #ateez fic

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captain-huggy-bear · 3 months ago

Text

I was watching the video where the Utah team were asked their Karaoke song, Clayton's being Wagon Wheel. Then I listened to it and then I realised that I think he'd call you mama when you're pregnant (tbh I think he'd sometimes call you it even if you're not pregnant or a mum) Also I'm less than 200 away from 1000, should I do a celebration? Maybe prompt lists or something idk? Let me know what you think baring in mind it'll probably take me 500 years to write everything anyway lol Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You feel like a very sick, very achy whale. That's really the only way to explain how being 7 months pregnant felt. You were dealing with feeling sick every day, baby deciding she wanted to twist and turn at all hours and kick you at every opportunity. She was heavy as well causing your back to ache, your ankles to swell and your entire body to hurt.

You're just trying to grab something to eat but have to stop halfway to the kitchen, hands pressing to your back, leaning in such away that your bump presses out further. You're starting to get fed up with this pregnancy stuff and Clay hates watching you feel so wrong in your skin every day...even as he thinks you look the most beautiful you ever have, carrying his baby.

Hands are sliding over your lower back, long sturdy fingers pressing into the tense muscle there as Clay presses his chin to your shoulder, having spotted your discomfort a mile off. He knows this pregnancy is being rough on you and he's trying his best to be attentive, supportive even when he's away on a roadie.

"How you doin', mama?" Even as you're annoyed at him for getting you pregnant and putting you in this position, you can't help but relax into him, shoulders pressing back against his chest as his hands move around to your belly, rubbing across the taut fabric of your t-shirt there. The moment you found out you were pregnant Clay had started calling you mama more than he called you baby, a shift that melted you ever single time. Even when you were irrationally and hormonally angry at him.

"Everything hurts and your baby is making me sick." You moan at him, huffing and annoyed even as your body relaxes into him, putting your weight back on him. He just huffs out a laugh at you, knowing you're not actually upset with him and that even if you were he has no right to be upset about that. Not when you're dealing with all the aches and pains of giving him a baby.

"My baby? Mama, you cannot blame me entirely for her actions." He says this even as she kicks you under his palms as if she knows exactly where his hands are and aims for them. You're almost certain she'd be a penalty box baby.

"You put me in this position."

"I know...I know." He hushes you, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder before nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He feels bad on some level for how uncomfortable you are, even as he's happy you're having his baby, "What's hurting the most right now?"

"My back, your baby is a fucking giant. Big ass head." It's ridiculous you think, that he's only 5ft 10 and yet his baby feels like a giant. You can't even begin to contemplate how large she'd be if he'd been someone like Michael...it makes you shudder in dread. God help his future partner if she decides to have a baby with him.

"C'mere, mama." He's pulling you back against him even as you start to resist his movements, trying to pull away from him unsure what he's about to do and overly suspicious of his motives. You don't want any of his hairbrained schemes right now, you're too uncomfortable for it.

"Clay..?"

"Come here. Trust me, baby." You stop resisting until he's pressed flat against your back, hands sliding over your bump and underneath with a softness, a gentleness that always surprises you. For a man who can shoot a puck at 90mph he can be astoundingly gentle.

It's almost a shock, the good kind, how Clay's large hands cup your belly from underneath and lift until he's taking the brunt of the 10lbs you're certain your baby is going to end up being.

"Oh..." You sigh back into him, relaxing so completely that you're almost jelly. Head leaning back onto his shoulder, eyes closing. It's instant relief from some of the back pain and the aches, all of that weight lifted from you by his hands so easily because to him the weight is nothing, but then he's not carrying it all day, every day.

"That feel better, mama?" He mumbles it against your temple, pressing intermittent kisses there as he watches the way you ease into him, the smile of relief on your face. You're his baby too, his first baby, and you're important, as important if not more than his baby baby. Taking some of the pressure off you, helping you feel good? That's more important than anything else.

"Mmmmm...yeah, much better." You're so soft against him, pliable, boneless. Clay feels a certain sort of pride at the fact he's able to help like this, that he can take some of that pain and pressure away even for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry she's being mean to you..." God, he can't wait to meet her, but he also hopes she's not as difficult once she's here. Terrified she's going to be a hellion that has him pulling his hair out from stress. All she's done is spend the pregnancy kicking you, keeping you awake at night and making you vomit while making you crave food you hate and be unable to stomach foods you love. If anyone should get an award for patience and resilience it's you.

"She's going to be a handful...but I love her anyway." You smile as he kisses your temple again, firm enough you can feel it, but not too rough that it'll jar you.

"You're going to be the best mama, baby."

"I hope so..." You mumble as he eases your belly back down. Pulling you to lay on the couch with your swollen ankles in his lap. Fingers massaging against the swollen skin as you lean back into the couch pillows.

"You worried?" He watches you, assessing you as he works his fingers into the arch of your heel, pressing at tense little spots. You're biting your lip worriedly as you watch him, gone into that spot in your head you go to sometimes, even as your hand strokes across your belly in an attempt to sooth the baby who's started kicking you again.

"Mmm, just get scared sometimes that she might hate me," There's this part of you that's terrified you won't bond with your baby, that no matter how hard you try she won't love you back...or worse that you'll mess up, do something that makes her hate you.

Clay's hand smooths up your calf to the back of your knee, his eyes impossibly soft as he looks at you. A gentle reassuring smile pulling at his lips.

"Not possible, mama. Promise she's going to love you as much as I do."

And you believe him. In that moment, it's hard to imagine that Clayton's wrong. He knows you better than anyone else, the only other person who knows your baby almost as well as you do. Knows what makes her kick, how best to get her to settle so you can sleep and what foods stop her making you vomit. In that moment you can't imagine that he could possible be wrong and it makes you want to cry because all you want is to be a good mum to your baby, to be a good partner to Clay, to have it all work out.

"...thank you."

"Anytime, mama."

#huggy bear writes #clayton keller x reader #clayton keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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inlovewithfionaapple · 1 month ago

Text

what if i say it out loud?

warnings: angst... sorry

wc: 608

part one

the roof seemed colder without y/n.

leah stayed up there until the sky turned from black to bruised purple, the stars hidden behind soft clouds. she hadn't moved much—just stared straight ahead as if if she sat still long enough, the night would rewind and y/n would still be sitting with her, knees touching, coke can sweating between her hands.

but the rooftop was empty. and leah felt more alone than ever.

she inched her way down, her body aching, but nothing in comparison to how her chest ached. her mobile vibrated within her pocket for the fourth time in one day—her mum, she bet. training was an hour. she didn't have it inside her to attend, but she would. she always did.

she pushed open the door into her house and found her mum in the kitchen, already halfway through a cup of tea.

“everything alright?” her mum asked, looking up.

leah hesitated. “yeah. just didn’t sleep much.”

her mum gave her a glance but let it go. leah was grateful for that. because how could she possibly explain to her that she'd spent the night reliving every moment she'd spent with y/n—jelly sweets and scraped knees and moonlit kisses and whispered i love yous—and trying to work out when exactly she'd started choosing fear over her?

she showered in silence, barely tasted her breakfast, and walked toward the training ground like a robot. arsenal's headquarters buzzed with the usual rhythm—teammates laughing, coaches shouting out times, boots on concrete. it was typically her sanctuary. it felt like a jail today.

she was sharp in drills. too sharp. frustration made her fast, and guilt made her reckless. when she clipped one of her teammates during a passing drill, jonas called her over.

“you alright, leah?”

“fine,” she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.

“you’re not playing like it.”

she didn’t respond. just looked past him to the empty sidelines, where y/n would’ve been standing if things were different.

that night, she was in bed, phone clutched in her hand, reading over their previous messages.

y/n: still can't get over that you fought year 9 that girl for saying i was "lanky y/n." hero moves, tbh.

leah: she had it coming. you're not lanky. you're perfect.

y/n: you're biased.

leah: of course. i'm in love with you.

she read it three times. her fingers rested on the screen, unsure of what she was even looking for. a means to make it right? a means of apology that would mean something?

she opened a new message, wrote, deleted, rewrote:

leah: i miss you. i'm sorry.

no response.

she threw the phone on the duvet and sat up, rubbing her face. she had built a fortress of fear, and now she was the only one left inside it.

she remembered y/n's voice breaking—i want to be your choice.

the truth was, she had chosen y/n. a thousand times, in every frozen instant. in stolen kisses, in held hands in the shadows of doorways, in the manner in which her heart would catch fire when y/n entered a room. but never had she chosen her where it mattered. where the world would witness.

for she was frightened.

of headlines. of backlash. of what everybody would say once they'd found out england's golden girl had a crush on a girl.

but now, with the wreckage of what they'd had behind her, leah finally let the question come to the forefront:

what if being in love with y/n out loud was as bad as she was scared it could be?

she didn't know yet. but for the first time, she wanted to find out.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso x reader #arsenal wfc #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal x reader #arsenal

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daughterwifed · 6 months ago

Text

LIMERENCE !

ft. jimmy x fem!reader

tags. implied/reference rape, failed rape recovery, talk of incest and underage but not in regards to reader, public humiliation, obsession on readers part, sort of stalking, one mention of suicide, slight boot kink, just humiliation tbh..

note. waow.. don’t know what this is.. unedited and kind of sucks.. rbs n feedback always appreciated. ignore any typos!

What do you do when your rapist is the most handsome man you’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking?

He wasn’t ugly or fat and he wasn’t the tallest, but everyone has their shortcomings.

You feel like a total fraud, picking at the lint on your sweater as you listen to a girl bawl her eyes out while recounting the time her father raped her in the back of his pick-up after school.

The woman before her was gang-raped by her delinquent boyfriend’s lackeys, the man to her left is the victim of his middle-school teacher, another lady pushed out two rape babies from her deadbeat husband before she managed to get away from him.

They’re all ghosts; beaten down, so broken, and you are you.

The same as before, if not a little bit better.

In fact, you’ve stopped getting those night terrors where all your teeth fall out.

You got raped and everything just felt right.

Like he knocked something into place, dug so deep into your cunt he rewired your brain.

Your therapist said this would be a chance at community, some place to bring you comfort, like-minded individuals who have gone through all the same things you have. Circle time for victims of brutal, life-ruining—life-changing rape, you should fit right in.

But you have never felt more out of place.

Pick-up girl can’t continue, she’s choking on her words, they come out her throat like the creak in an old floorboard. The box of Kleenex is significantly lighter.

“We can move on,” says a lady with kind eyes, shifting on her chair to face your way.

They all look at you with their haunted, dark eyes, gaping black chasms that lead right to fucking hell. God. You’re going straight to hell.

“Erm..” You squeeze your hands into fists. You unstick your thighs from the plastic chair. You count to ten and try not to think about how nice he looked on top of you.

“It’s okay, honey, take your time.” She places her hand on your knee. You think of him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing your tender flesh until it came right off the bone, the way it inched up your skirt.

You go stiff and she notices, gasping softly like she has done something wrong. And she has. She’s turned you the fuck on, the warmth of her encouragement going straight to your cunt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think about—“

“No, it’s okay,” you strain to get it out, avoiding her eyes like sympathy is a highly contagious disease of some kind.

They’re all feeling bad for you when you have finally started to feel good about yourself.

Man, you suck.

“He was my boyfriend.” Your voice cracks for dramatic effect, hold the applause. You wish he was your boyfriend. “He did it almost everyday.” You wish he did it everyday. “It would be after I came back from work…” It would be great stress relief after your Friday shift, it’s nearing Christmas and everybody is crushed into the stores like cattle in free stall barns.

You open and close your mouth, unsure of where to go from here, so you stand up and the chair screeches against the ground. “Sorry… I’m so sorry—I need to go.”

You leave and it looks real.

Like you are a real victim with a real story and very real feelings. The type you see on TV, dressed in white, trembling like lambs, abhorred by the notion of anything sexual. Squeaky clean like you should be.

For just a moment you feel normal. Your therapist is not eyeballing you like a mildly fascinating organism in her Petri dish. Your friends don’t give you a funny look when you say you’re fine—great actually. Your mom is not hanging her head in secondhand shame when you refuse to file a police report, disturbed when she unearths your bloodied underwear beside the prayer book you keep tucked beneath your pillow, rosary nowhere to be found.

They mutter quietly amongst themselves.

Poor thing she can’t even speak about it, it must’ve been awful, I can’t even imagine what she went through, so young.

You can’t speak about it, you really can’t, you might start reciting wedding vows if you think about him longer than a second.

Your loneliness is like the crack in a China cup, fine and glossy on the outside but delicate from years stowed away in show cabinets, passed from bidder to bidder. He pressed golden lacquer into the seams of your fracture, put you back together like you were something worth holding, something to be used.

Stored away in your bag, a sacred place your mother has not yet invaded, is his work ID. You say his ordinary name like you’re uttering a prayer, you drag the jagged tip of your nail over his tiny photograph. His hair and beard are longer than you remember, he’s handsome underneath the scruff, a strong nose and a broad chest. The collar of his company-issued jumpsuit is half popped, and he’s scowling at the camera like it’s an inconvenience.

There’s no phone number on it and part of you is glad you won’t have to call into the company, requesting Jimmy like The Pony Express is a sex hotline and he’s their newest, youngest, bustiest doll.

You wait outside the warehouse instead. It’s a big old thing, the last of its kind, muted in colour, blending into the silver skies. You look at the horse who sits on top like a weathervane on a cathedral, oversized features and the stomach of a pudgy toddler.

Every day from two to eight you circle the block a few times, take a window seat in the cafe opposite until the staff begin to stack tables and chairs, sit at the bus stop beside the same lot of people who wonder why you never get on.

The horse watches from above, wide eyes glowing in the dark beside the moon, unsettlingly reverent, sparkling with diamond-sharp logic, like it knows something you do not, a silent witness to your dog-like devotion.

One day, you leave work early and find a truck parked in front of the hulking, metal mass. Two men are unloading it, one is old and the other is blond, but they don’t matter to you. A third steps out of the cab, your breath gets caught in your throat, scared your exhale might blow him away.

You don’t look when you cross the street.

“Excuse me?” You call out, you’re sure he hears you, but he’s choosing to ignore it. “Are you Jimmy?” You ask once you're close enough to go unnoticed.

“Depends,” he says in that voice you have heard so many times in your dreams, rough like the serrated edge of a knife. “Who’s asking?” He hasn’t looked up once, disinterested and completely unaffected while you burn just being near him.

There is a woman near those other two men, leant down amidst some crates, a clipboard pressed to her chest. Her face is white and her nose is long like the snout on a hound dog, her charcoal eyes are sad and droopy.

You wonder if he has touched her like he has touched you. Either she just has one of those faces or she can take your slot at circle time. She would fit right in with the rest of them. Herbivores hiding in long grass.

“I’m asking.” You clear your throat, he looks up at you with his lidded eyes and you don’t look away, openly admiring the colour of them, how they look in the sunlight. There are a million things you want to ask him.

Was it just me? Was I your first and only? Have you been thinking about me? Do you want a summer wedding or a winter one? Vanilla or chocolate cake? We could do floral arrangements in your favourite colour.

He seems to grow slightly antsy when you continue to stare, Adam’s apple bulging out of his throat when he swallows. He looks like he’s started to feel sick, like he’s waiting outside the principal’s office after breaking a window.

It’s different, he’s different in the day. Long gone is his barbed tongue and wolf-like smile. “What do you want?”

You.

Your fingers toy with the rounded edges of his employee card, if you hand it to him now it’ll all be over.

“Listen,” Jimmy starts, lowering his voice, “if it’s something I did, I’m sorry.” Apprehension twists his mouth into a frown, and he doesn’t sound all that sorry. “But you can’t show up—“

“Here.” You fish his ID from your purse, reluctant to hand it over. His fingers don’t brush yours like you hoped and he seems all too eager to get rid of you.

“Thanks, cool,” he says with all the enthusiasm of a funeral celebrant, tucking it into his breast pocket for safekeeping, his disengagement is a knife in your chest. You’re a stain on a shirt he has no intention of cleaning.

“Yeah…” Does he not remember you? Is there nothing about you that is worth remembering? Were you not good? “Cool.” The longer you stand there the more likely it seems he’s going to grab a broom to chase you away. “Well, bye, Jimmy.” You blink at him sadly, expectantly, longingly. This is it.

You walk away and that was it. That was it. You’ll never see him again, you have no reason to be caught lurking outside the warehouse.

You start to think long and hard on your way home about the fuck is wrong with you.

Everyone is shaped by the sum of their exposures. A product of the people you meet, the enemies and friends you make, who you go home to. Every smile, every scowl, every bad habit is the reflection of another. But to be completely fucking honest, you think you’re just like this. The root of the problem is you, it stems from deep inside your very core, a fundamentally fucked up instinct that makes life a fucking inconvenience. It turns everything into a complication and that is why you’re like this.

God, you wonder what it would be like to wake up and think about normal things like normal people who do not have this constant flurry of wrongness whirling around inside of them. You want to go through life like you’re meant to be on earth, not like an alien species that crash-landed here and never managed to get out, unable to acclimatise to the human way, not like you’re a manufacturing defect.

You want to laugh at the right moment, you want to know what everyone else is thinking, you want to be raped so badly. Again and again and again. You can’t be normal if you can’t stop thinking about the most abnormal thing about you, that just defeats the fucking point.

Your friends think it is their fault for bringing you home that night, for letting you go home all on your own, for getting drunk and leaving you sober. They feel responsible for the best night of your life and you hate it. You hate that they don’t get it. You had a good time in your own right, they don’t need to feel guilty—Or maybe you need to start thinking how they do. Like normal people. They’re horrified when they’re supposed to be horrified. Their minds are tailored to the tastes of this world, yours is somewhere else, some rotten, tumultuous, toxic planet.

Therapy is supposed to be helping you learn how to be even slightly human, little by little, step by step. But you can’t take it in small doses, you need all of this wrongness gone at once like a decidual cast. It doesn’t make you lighter, it doesn’t put a pep in your step, it doesn’t do shit.

So you keep going to wait outside the Pony Express warehouse. You camp out in that cafe all day on days off from work. The staff know you by name, six holes punched in your reward card, special access to the staff bathrooms. You’re set for stalker life.

He never comes again, but you do everyday.

The nights are getting darker, stars bleed into the sky as the sun dims, the moon is larger than usual tonight and if you weren’t so taken by the brightness you would be quicker to notice the dark figure in your peripheral.

When you finally do, you think it’s the devil, cloaked in darkness like the devil probably should be. “Oh, it’s you.” You try to hide the smile in your voice as you watch him put a cigarette between his crooked lips.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He’s unbothered in tone, indifferent in manner. It would be flattering that he remembered you if he hadn’t said it like that.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, from last week.” Jimmy’s eyes glow radioactive in the dark like tiger eyes when he lights his cigarette, the flame flickers and casts him uneven light, softening the right side of his face with a golden haze and plunging the left into shifting darkness. “You stalking me?”

“No!” You say all too quickly. “No, no… I study at the cafe opposite you.”

“Okay.” He was joking you think, making fun of you maybe, you wouldn’t be able to tell either way. “Studying the menu or what?”

That was a joke, that has to be a joke. It’s your cue to laugh so you force one out, it crackles unnaturally. “I wish, but I meant before that, do you remember me from before that?”

You look different under the street lamps, they do nothing for your skin, light pools unfavourably in every pore, the jewel-toned dress you picked out today must look washed out.

Jimmy’s lazy eyes rake up your body, and then he shakes his head slowly. “No.” Even to someone like you, it’s clear he has no interest in taking this conversation anywhere.

“It was in November, the beginning, I was on my way home, and it was late...” You should’ve done this at circle time. “You grabbed me and I let you take me, and then after you told me to walk down the block and call a cab, and I did.”

“Hm,” Jimmy shrugs, though you notice his hand trembling as he raises his cigarette to his lip, “nope, don’t remember that.”

Frustrated, you clench your fists, wondering what could jog his memory—Did he do it often? Nab a girl off the street corner so regularly that he didn’t remember a single one, faces all blurring together, the same hole with a different set of tits.

“Remind me again.”

“How?”

“Take off your jacket.” Jimmy’s cigarette gets crushed beneath his boot, he’s looking at you now. Really looking at you, and this is where it all goes pear-shaped. Your whole life is pear-shaped of course, but this is just fucking sad. You beg yourself to think it over, to think of the dozens of security cameras on this street alone. None of it seems too important when he’s here.

And then, you shrug your coat off your shoulders.

“Okay.” You’ve always been obedient because you have no reason to say no, you don’t care if he’s going to mug you, at least he’s talking to you now. At least he is looking at you.

“Think I’m gonna need to see more to know who you are,” he says, detached like there are a million better things he could be doing with his time, but he’s spending it with you. “Take off your dress.”

“What…” You’re shaking slightly in the cold, wind stings your cheeks and the tip of your fingers have started to ache.

“Take off your dress, I might know you.” Fair enough. He’d seen your ass more than your tits and your tits more than your face. It was forced into a flat pillow for three quarters of the night, between his thighs for the last quarter.

You take off your dress, edging it off your ankles. He drapes it over his arm - he’s got enough humanity to not leave your pretty clothes on the pavement.

It’s cold. The type of cold that makes your brain freeze, the type of cold that only Siberian Huskies and yetis enjoy.

And yet here you are in nothing but your cotton panties, t-shirt bra and boutique winter booties looking like the most expensive kerb crawler in all the world.

“Turn around,” Jimmy hums, his hand is cold but not as cold as you, tracing along your spine when you listen like a good girl.

From here, the horse is watching you. Seeing it all, cartoonish eyes forced in your direction. It’s late so the cars that whiz past have no intention of stopping, some houses have their lights on.

Humiliation prickles your skin, it could be the cold, but you don’t think the cold gets inside of you like this. What are you doing? What are you doing? What is mom going to think? What is dad going to do? What are they going to tell your family when you’re sectioned for Christmas?

”That’s good,” his voice comes out in a whisper, “take ‘em off and get on the ground.” Lukewarm hands slide over your hips, checking you over like a piece of meat.

“Okay,” you whisper back to him, and you’ve gone so far there’s nothing to lose, stepping out of your underwear and doing just as he says.

There’s no praise from Jimmy’s end and you don’t expect any. His stern face, his flat tone, it’s all unforgiving like this cold, hard sidewalk is on your hands and knees.

“Jesus, there something wrong with you?” He sounds surprised and you don’t know what you’ve done wrong. (You do know. You do know.) Isn’t this what he wanted? “Sorry,” Jimmy says, not sounding sorry at all, “I shouldn’t say that, you’re not all there.”

Your head isn’t entirely intact, and there is this worm hole that eats away at your insides, but you’re here. You’re here and you’re on the ground, on your knees with your cunt bared to him. Does he not see you?

The horse sees you, perpetually wide-eyed and forever watching.

Something cold, like the nose of a dog, presses against your pussy. It takes you a moment to figure out that it’s the toe of his boot, the leathery texture is wet almost, smooth and still textured, grainy. The cold is making it too hard to focus on the feeling of it nudging your swollen clit. You close your eyes and focus on anything but your hands burning on the ground, how the wind is going straight to your bones.

You’re going to make this worth it. You will. You’ve been wet for months and you won’t let it dry up so quickly, not when the cause of the leak is here to plug it up.

Just as you’re about to push back into him, grind your clit into the leather, show off how much you want him—He kicks you down, your body skids forward, elbows scraping on the cement. It’s painful, but you’re so cold, so shocked, so confused.

Quietly, you hear him under his breath. “What the fuck… Fuckin’ freak.” You don’t know if it’s in awe or disgust. He drops your coat and dress over the flat of your back, you scramble to put them on. “Why did you do that?” Jimmy asks, and he is looking at you like you’re crazy, like he’s disgusted.

You can’t tell if it’s a trick question. “Because you told me to.” It’s a simple answer, the only answer. Your chest heaves, teeth chattering as you stand on aching legs. God. It feels like your bones are fragmenting.

“Are you a dog?”

“No.” You check your pockets to find some loose change is missing.

“Then you didn’t have to do that, it’s not fuckin’ normal.”

Rape is not normal. And neither is asking seemingly nice, well-meaning girls to undress in sub-zero temperatures. But you don’t want to talk back, you don’t like to talk back, you don’t want to scare him off.

“Okay… Then, I’m sorry.”

“What…” His tone lilts in what might be confused laughter, everything you say is a twist or turn in a tangled thread he can’t quite follow. “Don’t say sorry, no, I don’t—I don’t know, just go home.”

“You’re not going to take me?” You gaze at him sadly. Wanting, yearning. “I think I’m going to kill myself tonight,” you proclaim softly, not because you want to make him feel bad, but because you don’t know what to do with yourself and he is distant enough to confide in.

“Alright,” Jimmy shrugs, he lights another cigarette, the smoke billows out of his thin lips, lined with the slightest smile. “Tell me how that goes.” Well, now you feel stupid and wish to take it back. Then, before he goes, he asks a little too casually, “Your dad touched you or something?”

“No…” You answer slowly, wondering if you should’ve said yes, if that was what he wanted to hear, gauging his reaction like you’ll be able to read it at all.

“Right.” He laughs, and his shoulders are still shaking in disbelief as he wanders into the dark like something out of a nightmare.

You look over to the horse, it tells you he’ll be back.

Considering he works there and all you thought the same, so you’ll be back alive and well.

#dark fic #dead dove do not eat #mouthwashing jimmy x reader #mouthwashing jimmy smut #jimmy mouthwashing smut #jimmy smut #mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing x you

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 5 months ago

Note

girl i love your stories that i reread them A LOT. idk if your request is open but if it's not then you can do it whenever I WILL WAIT MY WHOLE LIFE FOR IT

some angst (but end with fluff) about y/n being bad at directions (me tbh) so she keeps clinging to minho and his friends (during idk maybe their tour in japan or other vacations)so when minho snaps at her she left the restaurant immediately and thought about going back to hotel but get lost and her phone died then when minho find out she's not back till late at night he starts going crazy looking for her around

i'll let you get creative from here! tq!!!!

I hope you enjoy!!!

The trip to Japan had been an exhilarating whirlwind of sights and sounds. But for you, it also became a constant struggle to keep up with the group. Your terrible sense of direction was something you’d always laughed off, but here, in the bustling chaos of unfamiliar streets, it felt like a glaring flaw. You clung to Minho more than you intended to, relying on him to guide you when you inevitably got turned around.

By the third day, his patience began to wear thin.

It started with small sighs, then curt remarks. But tonight, as you hesitated once again at an intersection, unsure which way to go, Minho snapped. His voice cut through the group’s chatter, sharp and biting.

“For God’s sake, Y/N, can you stop acting helpless for five minutes? It’s not that hard to figure out where we’re going.”

The words stung like a slap, and the embarrassment that followed was suffocating. The others fell silent, their eyes darting between the two of you. Chan stepped forward, his voice firm and reprimanding.

“Minho, that’s enough! You don’t ever talk to her like that. You hear me?”

Minho opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, guilt flashing across his face under Chan's firm glare. Still, the damage was done. You felt small and out of place, like an unwelcome burden. Chan gave you a shoulder squeeze before going to scold Minho a bit more. The group resumed walking, the atmosphere tense as all the boy looked over in your direction with awkward and pitiful glances. Felix and Jeongin tried to lighten your mood by talking casually with you, but the lump in your throat wouldn't shake.

When you reached the restaurant, you quietly excused yourself, claiming you needed some air. No one stopped you. Outside, the cool night air hit your face as tears blurred your vision. You decided to head back to the hotel, thinking it was better to remove yourself from the group altogether.

But as you wandered through the maze of streets, panic began to set in. Every turn seemed to lead to another unfamiliar alley, and your phone’s battery was dwindling fast. When it finally died, leaving you stranded without maps or a way to contact anyone, fear took hold.

Back at the restaurant, the group noticed your prolonged absence. Jisung was the first to speak up, glancing around nervously.

“Uh, has anyone seen Noona? She’s been gone for a while.”

Minho, who had been unusually quiet since his outburst, froze. Chan frowned, his protective instincts kicking in.

“I’ll check outside,” Jisung offered, already heading for the door. He returned a few minutes later, his expression grim.

“She’s not out there,” he said, his voice edged with worry. “I think she’s gone.”

Minho shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know!” Jisung replied, his voice rising. “I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not answering her phone either.”

The weight of the situation hit Minho like a freight train. His earlier anger dissolved into a nauseating mix of fear and guilt. Without another word, he bolted out of the restaurant, desperate to find you.

You’d been wandering for what felt like hours when a man approached you. He looked to be in his fifties, his kind eyes and warm smile a stark contrast to the bustling city around you.

“Are you lost?” he asked in Japanese. You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you tried to explain your situation.

“Come,” he said gently, switching to broken English. “My daughter recognized you. Said you are with boyfriend, Minho? Safe at our house. You charge phone.”

Too exhausted and desperate to refuse, you followed him to a modest house nearby. His daughter, a young woman about your age, greeted you with tea and a charger. The warmth of their home was comforting, but your heart ached with the weight of the evening’s events.

Minho was spiraling. He darted from street to street, asking anyone he came across if they’d seen you. When he entered a small cafe, the owner paused, recognizing your description.

“Yes,” she said. “She left with an older man. He seemed…kind. Not dangerous.”

Her words did little to calm Minho’s fraying nerves. The thought of you- vulnerable and alone- with a stranger nearly pushed him to the brink of a breakdown. His hands trembled as he tried to focus.

“Where? Which way did they go?” he demanded.

She pointed him in the right direction, and he took off without a second thought. When he finally reached the house and saw you through the window, sitting safely with the older man and his daughter, the relief was overwhelming. He knocked and burst through the door, his chest heaving.

“Y/N,” he choked out, rushing to your side. “Are you okay? I was…I was so scared.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Minho pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if to make sure you were really there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I…I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t mean it. I…I can’t lose you.”

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could respond, the daughter handed you a photo card she’d been holding. It was of Minho, from a recent album. She giggled nervously, gesturing to the collection spread out across the table.

“I'm a big fan,” she said in English, and you couldn’t help but smile. "So, I recognized her from your posts."

“Thank you for helping her,” Minho said to her and the father in Japanese, his voice hoarse. Then, in a move that stunned everyone, he sank to his knees. Lowering himself further until his forehead almost touched the ground, he bowed deeply, the ultimate gesture of gratitude and humility, as he cried out words you couldn't understand, but the small family did.

“Thank you,” he said again in English, his voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you.”

The father’s eyes widened in surprise before he helped Minho up, patting his shoulder reassuringly before he looked at you. “She…good girl. You take care of her, yes?”

Minho nodded fervently, his gaze flickering to you. “Always.”

As the family waved you off, Minho kept a protective arm around you the entire walk back to the hotel. Neither of you spoke much, but his grip on you never loosened, his actions speaking louder than words ever could.

By the time you reached the entrance you took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry-"

Minho pulled you into his chest before you could say anything else. "You scared me." He whispered. "I was so scared- people...they can be dangerous."

You didn't say anything, just sunk further into his embrace, your lips turning into a pout as Minho held you.

"You found her?" Chan's accent cut through the sound of Minho's rapid heartbeat as him and Han rushed over. "I'll call the rest of the guys and tell them to come back."

Another wave of guilt hit you and you tried to sputter out another apology but Han spoke.

"It's not your fault Y/N. It's Minho's for acting that way."

You looked up at Minho, whose eyes were blank. "I'm tired. Let's head to bed." He said quietly, pulling you along. He walked into your hotel room and kicked off his shoes, pulling you under the covers with him.

He pulled you flush against his chest and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He said again. "I'm a horrible boyfriend." You turned in the bed towards him, and your heart tugged at seeing his eyes. He had been silently crying, and when he felt he didn't want you to see him cry any longer he buried his face in your chest, hugging you closer.

"I forgive you. You don't have to say sorry."

"I do. I put you in a dangerous position because of my frustrations. That's ignorant of me. If anything had happened-" His voice was muffled but you heard the slight crack in it.

'Well, nothing happened so I'm okay. I'm safe. And the father and daughter were such a cute little family and kind. You were her bias as well so if anything I was probably the most safe there." You teased. Minho didn't say anything instead pulled the blanket tighter around you.

You sighed and closed your eyes, deciding to just let Minho wallow. When he thought you were asleep he moved the strands of hair stuck to your cheek and laid a gentle kiss there.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight for the rest of this trip." You stayed still as he placed another kiss on the corner of your lips, then forehead.

"I love you, jagiya." He murmured, before resting his forehead against yours, a drifting off into a dreamless sleep with you.

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