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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 1 year

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An Ego Thing - Max Verstappen

Another night out with the girls meant another long one. And it always meant another argument brewing. You walked through the apartment door, tossing your jacket aside and setting your purse down on the counter.

Checking your phone, you saw the five missed calls and numerous texts from Max, all asking where you were. He knew you were always out with your friends, so you didn't see any reason to answer him. You were as quiet as you could be, the only sound being your heels clicking on the cold marble of the floor.

"Where have you been?" you heard from the chairs beside you, and you turned to see Max sat there, and you could tell by the look on his face that he was angry. "It's not that important," you said, dropping down onto the chair opposite him. "I think it is, you've been out all night without a word," he huffed, sitting up in his chair.

"It's none of your concern," you reiterated, not wanting to tell him that you'd been clubbing. He hated it when you went, since he knew that guys would be making passes at you and your friends, as well as sending countless drinks your way. "I think you'll find that it is, my girlfriend has been out all night and won't tell me where she was,"

You just sighed, not feeling like fighting with him tonight. "I was out with my friends, we went to a couple of bars, a couple of clubs," you shrugged, watching something flash in eyes. Something you knew all too well. Something you wished you didn't.

"How many times have I told you that I don't like it when you go to those places?" he said, his knuckles turning white due to how hard he was clenching his fists. "How many times have I told you that it really isn't a big deal?" you reasoned, trying to diffuse the situation.

"It is a big deal when my girlfriend doesn't listen to how I feel and disobeys my requests," he said, tilting his head. You could see his leg bouncing up and down, trying to keep himself calm. "I just don't get why I'm not allowed to go clubbing with my friends," you said, since he had never actually given you a straight answer as to why.

"I don't like the people there, OK?" he asked, hoping you'd accept his answer.

"Who, my friends?"

"No, your friends are fine," he shook his head, looking down at his feet, "I don't like the other people there, they only want to take advantage of you," he said, as if he hadn't met you in a club. "No, they don't, Max," you told him, finding his reasonings to be skewed.

"They send you wandering stares from across the room, don't they? They send you drink after drink until they get you vulnerable, don't they?" he asked, sitting up straighter than he was before, his breathing becoming more ragged.

"Sure, some people send drinks over to us, but that's where it stops," you told him, thinking he was being completely unreasonable. "Oh, you sure about that?" Max scoffed, adopting a nearly mocking tone to his voice. "For fucks sake, Max. I should have known this was what you were getting at," you tutted, standing from your seat to leave.

"Yeah? What do you think I'm 'getting at'?" he asked, also standing and following you into your bedroom. "You don't like me going to clubs with my friends because you don't trust me," you told him, turning to face him and crossing your arms.

"It's not that I don't trust you, I don't trust the people around you," he rolled his eyes, as if that were a fact that were completely obvious. "Then how come, every time I go somewhere, whether it be a cafe or a club like tonight, you say the same thing. You don't trust the people around me, when I have proven time after time that I am fine," you spat through gritted teeth, containing the anger you felt bubbling in your chest.

"I just don't like it when you go without me, because then I never know what you get up to," he said, as if what he were saying was completely logical and reasonable. You could take care of yourself, and you sure as hell didn't need Max to watch over you. "But whenever I invite you, you never want to go with me!" You said, your voice raising slightly out of pure disbelief.

"You think I want to go out with you and see all the men who look at you like they want to fuck you?" He countered, aggressively running his hand through his hair, not caring as they occasionally snagged on the tangled blonde strands. "Back to this again? They might look at me like that, but I wouldn't act on it. I knew you didn't trust me but this is ridiculous!" You scoffed, stepping away from him.

"Why wouldn't I trust you?" He asked with wide eyes, his brain clearly not able to process how his words told you he didn't trust you. If he was being honest, he'd say he didn't trust you, but Max was never one for being honest. "I could ask you the same question, but you clearly don't," you said, just on the verge of blowing a gasket at him.

"What gives you that impression, though, I don't understand?" he asked, his volume growing and growing with every word he spoke. Sometimes he baffled you at the lack of social cues or emotional intelligence he had. "It's the way you always ask where I am, the way you interrogate me, the way you always ask how many guys send me drinks or if I thought any of them were attractive," you said, recounting a small amount of the ridiculous questions he had asked you in the past few months.

"It's just a precaution, you'd do the same if I was out all the time," he said, trying to flip it back onto you. He always did that, he always tried to make it seem like you'd do the same things that he would, so what he was doing was fine. If he was 'out all the time', you wouldn't have taken precautions because you thought you trusted him. No, you did trust him, but he was giving you plenty of reason not to.

"God I hate you when you're like this, you know that?" You snapped, pointing a finger in his face. You were just so annoyed at him, since he was ruining your night. "I hate you when you're like this," he countered, raising his voice to a shout, "You come stumbling in, then you pick fights with me over nothing!" He yelled, trying to make it sound like you weren't thinking straight.

"Over nothing? You call not trusting me nothing? Because I'm pretty sure that's the most important quality to have in a relationship," you shouted back. You despised the way he was trying to spin the situation by implying you were drunk and that was the reason you were arguing. How he made you sound like the crazy, unreasonable one. How he made it sound like this was all your fault. Not his.

"Well I can't trust you not to go out and get drunk with men every weekend, so what do you expected me to do?" He yelled, flailing his arms around. "I'm not drunk, Max, I'm just sick of your shit," you said, "You just love to put the blame on me every time we argue, as if you're completely faultless and perfect!" you cried, wanting to shake him and rattle some sense into him.

"I'm not the one who is always going out and reluctant to say where I am. You say trust is vital, well so is honesty, and you lack that," he shouted, putting his arms up defensively. You felt like he was a five year old. Whatever he did lacked, you lacked more. Whatever he did wrong, you did worse.

"You know what Max? Fuck you. I am sick of you trying to make me out as the villain, when we both know you're worse," you spat, pushing past him with a knock on the shoulder. You could feel his glare on the back of your head, and you could hear the cogs in his brain grinding together. You could just tell he was gearing up to say something nasty, just so he could feel he ended the argument. He was petty like that.

"God I hate you so fucking much right now," he shouted at you, and you nearly stopped in your tracks. You were waiting for it, but not that. "Well I'm glad you're being fucking honest for once!" You screamed, losing all control over yourself. As soon as you slammed the door, his words rattled around your head. I hate you so fucking much.

You hated the way he made you feel, you hated the way he spoke to you, the way he acted like a petulant child when he didn't get his way. Relationships were supposed to be fun, happy things, not something that made your nights end in misery. It was like you were both angry all the time.

I hate you so fucking much.

It wasn't only that you despised the fact he outright said he hated you, it was the fact that his words had hurt you. It was like he had skewered your heart on a stake, and he was just watching the blood drain from it. You hated how it hurt. You didn't want to react. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. You didn't want to let him think he'd won.

I hate you.

But the fact that that was what he said to elicit a reaction was downright despicable. Boyfriends weren't supposed to make their girlfriends feel sad and hopeless. They were meant to make you feel loved, and elated whenever you were around them. They were supposed to love you, not hate you.

You took yourself off to bed, wanting to sleep off the overflowing, boiling pot of anger that was flooding through you. Closing your eyes, all you could see was Max, brandishing his finger in your face, anger fast over all of his features. I hate you so fucking much.

—

Over the next few days, you refused to apologise to Max. It wasn't your fault, and you certainly weren't going to cave just to make it all go away. Those kind of words didn't just go away. Maybe it was an ego thing, but you wouldn't apologise.

Max had tried to talk to you, but it was never to say he was sorry. He was just trying to brush it under the rug, forget about it. But, it was becoming more apparent and clear that you weren't wanting to forget about it. And rightly so. It still didn't feel like he knew it was his fault, and that he'd taken it too far.

You could tell he was getting more and more frustrated as the days went by, and it finally felt like you were getting your own back. You wouldn't tell him where you were going, when you were going, or when you were coming back. You wouldn't talk to him, you wouldn't let him touch you.

Slowly, you answer him with single word sentences, mainly comprising of 'Yes' or 'No'. One night, you were planning on going out with the girls again, just to take the edge off for a night. "Where are you going?" Max asked, appearing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Out," you said, walking out of the door and closing it behind you. He didn't have the right to know.

When you got home, you composed yourself, making it look like you weren't slightly tipsy. "Where were you?" Max asked, sitting in the same chair he had sat in on the night if the argument. I hate you so fucking much.

"I was at my parent's," you lied. It was easier to lie to him, since he was more likely to believe you if you told him what he wanted to hear. The truth would just make him angry, and you didn't want to find out what he could say if he got that pissed off again.

"OK," he softly said, approaching you and wrapping his arms around you. This was a stark contrast to the man you were screaming at the other night. But you didn't want to fight anymore, it was tiring. "I love you, you know that," he said, as if he were telling you you knew, not asking if you knew.

"I love you too," you said, convincing yourself it was true. He was just looking out for you in the end, right? You decided you wouldn't be honest anymore, since he didn't like the truth. Ignorant bliss seemed much better right about now.

A/N - OK, this is a series that I'll be doing when I'm not writing requests and the like, so keep an eye out of the masterlist for it, which is linked down below! Keep any suggestions/request coming, I love them all!

|masterlist|five seconds flat|

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oneshotnewbie · 9 months

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I hope your feeling well. I would like to request an Amelia shepherd x reader where the reader is in recovery of self harm and one day Amelia comes home and finds her harming herself. First angst and then fluff if you are comfortable <3

⚠️Trigger Warning⚠️ This one-shot includes the topic of self-harm, blood and the brief mention of suicide. These plots are presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

ᕚ---ᕘ

In a dimly lit room, you sat at a shabby old desk belonging to your predecessor. The room seemed cramped and suffocating, as if the bare walls were getting closer and closer the longer you stayed there in your chair. You stared at the screen of an overloaded old computer, your eyes wide open and your forehead furrowed thoughtfull, the table littered with all the papers from a new case, scattered in a chaotic arrangement while the coffee in the cup next to it has long since become cold, ignored and forgotten.

Your hands clinging to the mouse, sweaty and shaking, the cursor on the screen frantically darting over various tabs and icons as you desperately tried to get anything done amid the pressure, stress and sleepless nights of the last few weeks. Your breathing was heavy and shallow, but your chest was still falling quickly and in an irregular rhythm. The air around you thick and the pressure within it palpable, as if invisible hands were constricting your throat.

"Hey, y/n. Are you okay?" A bright, feminine voice asked, her fitting figure standing in front of your desk. Your eyelids flickered as you lifted your head, the thoughts in your head swirling wildly as you tried to keep control of them and yourself. But the only thing you wanted at that moment was to go back to the blade and relieve yourself, even though you had already been clean for three months and had promised yourself never to fall back into this addiction.

"Y-yeah, everything is fine," you lied in a broken and raspy voice, the desk lamp next to you flickering dimly as the room filled with a muffled, monotone sound that seemed to penetrate through your ears and lodge in your head. "Are you sure? You look pale and you are sweating. Do you have a fever?"

The pressure inside you grew with your colleague's questioning, heavy like an unbearable weight that rested on your shoulders and pulled you further and further to the ground. Every second that the blonde's eyes were on you seemed like an eternity, and the pressure inside, mixed with a deep panic, felt like a bubbling volcano, ready to erupt and consume everything around you. "You know what? I feel sick. I am going to go home and rest."

ᕚ---ᕘ

As soon as you got home, you quickly ran to the bathroom and looked for a brand new disposable razor, which you had disassembled in seconds. The world around you blurred into a diffuse mist of colors and shadows as you sat down on the bed and violently tore your jacket down. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and your gaze was blank, fixated on the cold silver between your fingers. Your hands shook as you placed the blade spasmodically against your thin skin, fighting the inner storm to hurt yourself and destroy the promise you gave Amelia.

There was an ominous silence around you, broken only by the dull thumping of your own pulse. Your body was heavy, bound by an invisible chain, your legs rooted to the ground. Your face marked by fear and desperation, but also relief as you pulled the blade through and a thin line of blood appeared on the cut. It helped you release the pressure you were holding inside, pouring out the stress of the days.

It was a moment of liberation that no one understood. Another cut brought you repeated relief and at the feeling of burning and escaping emotions, you closed your eyes as you tilted your head back and took a deep breath. In your trance, you didn't even hear how the front door closed and your girlfriend checked on you in every room. "Y/n? My love, where are you?" Amelia called but you did not hear her, the environment around you seemed unreal and vague.

Amelia had come home after your colleague called her and told her about the incident that had happened at work. She was worried that you really were not feeling well, leaving you go home alone in case something happened to you, so to be on the safe side she had called the emergency contact number listed in your file to make sure you were not alone and someone could look after you when you got home. "Elizabeth called me and said that you-" she stopped perplexed in her tracks, her jaw hanging low as she spotted you, bloody razor just inches away from your wrist.

Close to it, there were cuts, angry red blood dripping down onto your thigh. "Hey, what are you doing there? Put that down, please" she demanded softly, mostly out of fright and shock. You looked down at the ground, refusing to meet her gaze as she dropped her bag on the floor and immediately made her way to the bathroom to grab some bandages. Amelia returned with a small, wet rag, which she gently placed over your wrist and pressed firmly onto it. There was not much bleeding, she did not have to worry about serious injuries, however tears threatened to fall. The brunette was scared- terrified for you.

"Why?" she asked sniffling, not showing the slightest bit of anger in her voice. You looked up nervously, your shiny and relieved eyes meeting her sad hazel brown ones. She ran her fingers delicately through your strands of hair before her hand came to rest on your cheek, her thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. "You were clean. Why did you do that, darling?"

„I just needed to escape the harsh and bleak reality. Life recently got so rough and I felt like I may burst,“ you began to speak and she pulled you into her chest by the back of your head. Amelia kissed your hair, ran her hand through it and gently rocked you from left to right. Her chin rested on your skull, her eyes closed to calm her racing heart. She was not mad at you, never could be. She herself knew what it was like to fight an addiction; it took her several attempts to be sober for a good three years. "I am sorry, Am."

"It is okay. Please only answer one question," you nodded your head, still hidden in her chest and held by her. "If you could kill yourself right now, would you?" You quickly jumped and tore yourself away from her, your eyes wide at the shocking question. Placing your hands on her thighs, you gently rubbed her knees and looked deep into her eyes. "No, because suicide means that you have given up on yourself. And I am not going to do that. I just had to let the pressure go because I did not see any other option."

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valwrites-stuff · 2 months

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An unexpected turn

After an argument with James, Lars incessantly complains until you tell him to shut up and you end up having sex with your best friend.

Lars Ulrich x Reader ☆ Smut, friends to lovers

Unpleasant energy fills the walls of the studio. With four pairs of eyes on him, Lars stands there, staring in disbelief as James' words echo in the room. "I did what?!" he repeats, incredulous.

James, towering over him, crosses his arms and stares down at Lars. "You heard me, you ruined half of the show with how much you drank!"

Lars clenches his fists, feeling the anger bubbling inside him. "I was playing just fine and now I'm the fucking idiot to blame? What about you then? Can't remember a second of you being sober last night, especially during the show, so who is the drunkard here?!"

James lets out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "Well, I wasn't the one constantly missing notes and messing up the beat, was I?"

The tension in the room is thick, the air heavy with their unresolved issues. As they continued to bicker, their voices filled with animosity, you can see the bond that held them together unraveling.

Before the argument can escalate, James has enough. With a loud bang, he storms out of the studio, slamming the door behind him. Lars stands there, staring at the closed door, the silence ringing in his ears and anger flashing his eyes.

Biting your lip, you watch the scene unravel before you, as Lars stands there, his face red with anger. The room falls quiet as everyone waits for what will happen next. Lars stares at the now closed door before turning around to his bandmates, who avoid eye contact and quietly put away their bass and guitar.

You can feel the unease as Lars takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Kirk and Jason excuse themselves, leaving you alone with Lars in the now empty rehearsal room. You can see the frustration in his eyes.

Taking a step closer to him, you reach out and gently place a hand on his arm. "Hey, you okay?" you ask softly, trying to be the one friend who's there for him when no one else is.

Lars looks down at your hand, his eyes softening as he gazes at you. "I'm sorry, I just...I can't believe this shit...," he says, his voice quiet.

You smile reassuringly at him, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "It's okay, we all have our moments." you suggest, leading him to sit down on the nearby couch.

Lars and you sit together in the quiet room. As you offer him a cigarette, he takes it without a word, lighting it up with shaky hands. He takes a drag and exhales sharply, the smoke curling around his face.

"James is a fucking asshole," Lars begins, his voice tinged with anger. "I was doing fine and he just comes to me the next day after the show and calls me an idiot in front of the whole band. Do you think I did bad last night? I wasn't even that drunk!"

You listen patiently, knowing that Lars needs to let out his frustration. You've known him for years, and you know that he can be hot-headed when he feels wronged. You nod as he rants, letting him get it all out before you try to offer any advice but not wanting to interfere since James is your friend too and you know it always takes two to tango.

"No, it wasn't that bad but..." you start, but Lars cuts you off before you can finish.

"But nothing!" he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger. "I'm sick of James thinking he's better than me. I work just as hard as he does, if not harder. And yet he treats me like I'm some kind of incompetent fool."

As Lars continues to rant, his frustration starts to seep into the air around you. You can feel the tension building, and you know that you need to do something to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand.

"Lars... Lars..." you try to get his attention, but he seems to not even hear you as he keeps on with his outburst.

"LARS! Shut the fuck up!" you finally snap, the words coming out harsher than you intended. Lars stops mid-sentence, his eyes wide with surprise.

"All you do is whine and bicker without ever realizing that you are at fault! It's not always the others that do wrong, you are also in the wrong sometimes. And talking shit about your best friends is not helping either nor does it solve the problem " you continue, feeling a surge of frustration yourself as you get into his face and point your finger at his chest.

Lars stares at you, his expression a mix of shock and defiance. But as he takes in your words, you see something shift in his eyes.

Before you can react, Lars wraps his fingers around your wrist forcefully, staring into your eyes with a mix of anger and lust for his best friend.

"Did you just tell me to shut up?" Your heart is pounding in your chest as you realize the effect your outburst has on Lars. You can see the conflict playing out in his expressive green eyes. "I did." Slowly, his gaze drops from your eyes to your lips, and a mischievous smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Without warning, he closes the distance between you, pressing his lips roughly against yours. The kiss is demanding, passionate, and fueled by the built-up tension between the both of you. You feel a jolt of desire course through your body as you respond instinctively, parting your lips and tangling your hands in his long brown hair.

Your tongues dance together, tasting and exploring, hungry for more. Lars' hands roam wildly over your body, squeezing your slender waist and cupping your ass, pulling you tightly against him. You can feel the forming bulge in his pants pressing insistently against you and it sends a rush of wetness to your pussy.

Breaking the kiss abruptly, Lars trails kisses along your jawline and down your neck, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive skin. "Fuck you," he whispers hoarsely, breath hot against your ear. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

You shiver at his words and the realization that this fantasy had been building up inside him for who knows how long. "Not as long as I've wanted this," you murmur back, "I used to dream about what it would be like to fuck my best friend."

A low growl escapes Lars' throat, and he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you on his lap. Kissing you hungrily you moan into his mouth as you feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your core through your clothes.

With eager hands, you begin tearing at each other's clothing, unable to get enough skin-to-skin contact. Your lean, shapely body was soon bare before him, your small, perky breasts touch starved. Lars takes one hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing it with his tongue while his hand squeezes and massages the other.

"Fuck Lars..." You arch your back, offering yourself to him, moaning as waves of pleasure washes over you. Your hands fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, desperate to set free what you had fantasized about for so long. Finally, with a sharp tug, you release it from its confines.

Lars' cock stands tall with the head already gleaming with pre-cum. Taking it in your hand, you stroke it gently, marveling at the weight and warmth in your palm as Lars eyes follow your actions, the argument and anger long forgotten.

“Oh shit. So good.” Lars moans as you continue to stroke him.

You can feel the wetness between your legs increase as you watch Lars’ reaction. You move and drop to your knees, looking up at him with sultry eyes. “Can I?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lars nods, his eyes dark with desire. You lean in and take him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. “Fuck. You’re so good at that.” Lars groans as you take him deeper into your mouth.

Sucking off your best friend until you can feel his cock twitch in your mouth, you know that he’s close. “I’m gonna cum.” Lars warns you, but you don’t stop. You want to taste him, to feel him cum in your mouth.

With a loud moan, Lars comes, filling your mouth with his warm, salty cum. You swallow it down, savoring the taste of him.

“Fuck, that was amazing.” Lars says, pulling you up to stand in front of him.

You can feel his cock twitch against your belly as he pulls you down onto him and leans in to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only makes you want him more.

“I want you inside of me, Lars.” You whisper in his ear, your voice filled with desire.

Lars doesn’t need any more encouragement. He grabs you and pushes you down onto the sofa before quickly standing to remove his clothes and hover over you.

He wastes no time and positions himself between your legs and looks down at you, his eyes filled with lust. “Are you ready for me, baby?” He asks, his voice husky with desire. You nod, your eyes never leaving his.

Lars enters you slowly and you can feel every inch of him inside you, and it feels amazing. Giving you a moment to adjust, he starts to move, his thrusts becoming hard and fast quickly. You can feel yourself getting closer to orgasm with every thrust.

“Yes Lars, just like that.” You moan as he hits your spot and Lars leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth again, sucking it gently.

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper inside you. He growls, the sound primal and raw. It sends shivers down your spine and straight to your pussy.

Lars starts to fuck you harder, his hips snapping against yours. You can feel yourself getting close, the pressure in your lower belly growing with every thrust.

“Lars, I’m gonna come...” You gasp, your breath coming in short, sharp pants.

He doesn’t say anything, but he fucks you even harder, his thrusts so deep you can feel him in your belly. "Then fucking cum for me, baby!"

It takes one short moment and you come hard, your pussy clenching around Lars’ dick. He growls again, moving rapidly before he comes too, his hot seed filling you up.

You lie there, panting and sweating, your bodies still joined together. Lars leans down and kisses you sloppily.

“That was amazing.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse from his own orgasm.

You smile, feeling sated and happy. “Yeah, it was.”

Lars pulls out of you, making you wince as he leaves your warm, wet pussy. He lies down on top of you, cradling you into his arms.

You look up at his face, feeling safe and loved. Lars strokes your hair, his touch soothing and comforting. "Guess we're not just friends anymore," His voice was soft, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken emotions that had been building between you both for seemingly too long.

"Guess not, plus I feel like it helped you distress...like a lot," you reply, a playful glint in your eye as you trace his features with affection. The weight of your friends' disagreements seem to dissipate with each passing moment spent in each other's company.

Watching Lars shake his head in disbelief, a chuckle escaping his lips, you can't help but smile at the simple joy of being in his presence. As he leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck, a contented sigh escaping his lips, you feel a surge of gratitude for this unexpected turn of events.

#lars ulrich x reader #lars ulrich smut #lars ulrich imagine #lars ulrich fanfiction #metallica fanfiction #metallica imagines #metallica smut #metallica x reader #metallica

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luvrodite · 1 year

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THINGS WE LEFT UNSAID JASON TODD

↳ patching him up and all that passes, unsaid

This is an old song and dance, you know it well.

The creak of your living room window draws you from your dreams, sleep bursting like a bubble with the first rattle of the windowpane. You are asleep, and then you are not, so swiftly carried between realms you can barely register it. You lie in bed, staring through bleary eyes at the ceiling as the sounds of your monthly late night visitor filters through the walls.

A muffled thud of boots knocking against the window sill. There’ll be dirt there in the morning, a size 13 boot print that’ll return a month after you wipe it away. Glass rattles, and you know he’s hit his shoulder–clumsy, tonight, but there’s no shatter. It’s bad, but you’ve borne worse.

A grumble of your name is your cue, and you slip from the sheets. Summer air filters in through the open window when you enter, a thick, stifling heat that clouds around your skin, smoke and rain and chemical scented.

You reach for the first aid kit, kept on a side table in the hallway, and move to close the window first. The lump on your couch breathes through his mouth in shallow pants, almost drowned out by the sound of traffic below–even after midnight, this part of the city is loathe to rest, high pitched laughter and squeals of amusement raising up above the fog.

“Did I wake you?”

You shrug, taking a seat on the coffee table. Jason’s knee brushes against yours, and you ignore it in favour of setting the kit by your side.

“It’s fine. Shirt off, please.”

On good nights, he meets you with a poorly delivered “Buy me dinner, first.” Tonight, he’s silent, and you can feel your chest tighten when he grimaces trying to lift his arm. There’s a dark liquid seeping through the fabric and you can smell the gunmetal on him.

You’ve borne worse.

He’s been in worse shape.

But still your eyes grow hot when you lean to assist him and the smell of copper settles on your tongue. There is so much red, smeared along the curve of his bicep, and your hands shake when you reach for the cloth tucked in the kit, standing to wet it in the sink. Your legs feel weak beneath you, a constant threat to give under you with every step between the couch and the sink.

The towel is no longer as it had been when you’d first bought it, alabaster replaced by an off white from the frequent washes. A speck of brown from where you could never quite get the blood to wash off remains on its care tag, staining the black lettering.

The wound has mostly stopped bleeding, you figure out once you look past all the blood, but you hold it there anyway, taking your seat on the edge of the table once more. Your eyes follow the slow way it stains, red seeping into the fabric in a slow diffusion.

“You hurt anywhere else?” your voice is raspy, and you don’t meet his eyes when you ask.

“Just a few scrapes,” he rumbles. His fingers twitch in your peripheral vision, tapping against his thigh anxiously. “Pretty much healed already.”

You nod, biting your tongue as you lift the cloth.

“This should be fine, soon,” you manage to string together, adding an unsure, “I think. Could be worse.”

He breathes out a tired sigh. “Lucky I’ve got you to stitch me up.”

You don’t know what it is, only that one moment you’re dabbing away the blood and the next you’re snapping at him. Maybe it’s something in his tone, weary and yet still teasing–does he not understand the gravity of the situation? Your fingers are stained with his blood.

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just stop being so reckless,” you snap, and he stills under you when you meet his eyes, angry heat flooding your face as everything you’ve kept under a lid comes rushing to the surface.

“Would it kill you to take a second to think before you act?” you ream him out as you reach for the ointment. “This isn’t a joke you know?”

You know it’s over when your breath stutters, a hitch in the quiet of your apartment that sounds too loud to your ears for your liking, too much like a sob. Jason stays silent, and you find yourself loathing the look in his eyes, teal softened around the edges, bearing the brunt of your anger.

The both of you are aware this isn’t a result of carelessness. Jason hasn’t been reckless in years–his anger is a cold, calculated thing, burning low and steady but never uncontrolled. You wish you were so measured.

You can’t stop yourself from bleeding out alongside him, words like knives thrown from your lips as you grow more and more worked up. Your eyes burn, your hands shake, the bandage trembling between your fingers as you wrap it around his arm.

He doesn’t say a word through it all, only watching you with eyes too knowing, fingertips a whisper away from your bare knees but never touching. You don’t know what you’d do if he did.

When the last of it is done and all that’s left is the bloody cloth on your coffee table, you swallow down the words you’ve left unsaid and nod at him.

“Couch is yours, if you want it,” you offer hoarsely, standing. You don’t look at him as you return the kit to its rightful place, shame-faced and retreating. You’ve no bravery tonight, having shown too much of your hand.

“Yeah,” he sighs out.

The click of your bedroom door feels like the turn of a key, something of a mountainous wall erected between you and your living room.

In the morning all there’s left of him is the blood in your rug, two drops by the leg of your coffee table. You know they’ll be there when he returns again, just another mark he’s left behind that you won’t be able to remove.

i don't know. this popped into my head and i was just thinking about how hard it would be to have this relationship with him knowing the both of you can't ever be together but neither of you are willing to save yourselves the pain that comes with being in contact. just. all the things that you can never say

#jay my heart #jasonsmirrorball #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #x reader

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haziqhefram · 11 months

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mistmarigold · 2 months

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What if Sunjae didn’t die that night? Part 5 (lovely runner au)

[Read Part 1, 2, 3 and 4 here.]

Sometimes Sunjae wished that he could just log off from life. He barely used his phone or social media so it wasn’t as if his digital footprint was driving him into madness. Yet, he was just constantly tired - from everything.

Except maybe one: his tiny notebook with the sunflower cover which had become his go-to for any and all thoughts that came to mind.

Alas, the world didn’t stop rotating just because Ryu Sunjae was feeling it. It also didn’t let him forget his commitments and that’s how he found himself sitting at a production office for a meeting that was long overdue. Maybe they decided to hurry up after the whole retirement thing came out, he almost smiled at that.

“We’ll be waiting to hear back from you soon! If there’s anything else you might need from us, please let us know,” the Assistant Producer was saying while seeing him off.

“We’ll get in touch!” His manager responded.

“Thank you,” Sunjae said lowly, doing a tiny respectful bow before walking down the stairs.

As always, with his mind preoccupied, Sunjae didn’t notice much around him - a side effect of years of coddling by guards in public. However, it was yellow and the funny thing about that colour is that it always forces him to hold and register, even if it’s for a moment.

This time around, he didn’t just register but rather walked to the source of yellow absentmindedly, already knowing who it was before she even needed to turn.

The employee talking to Sol looked up at him and greeted hurriedly, making Sol turn around.

“Oh hi, Sunjae! What’re you doing here?”

She had come a long way from staring happily at him and staying silent, now she was talking to him as if they knew each other their entire lives (they did but only Sunjae knew that).

“Are you here for a new film?” She beamed at him.

The employee shook his head behind her as a signal to Sunjae but he nodded at her, a small smile on his face.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, looking between the employee and Sol.

She turned a bit so she didn’t have her back to anyone, “oh, I came here for an interview. But their office is upstairs and they don’t have accessibility so I won’t be able to work here. I was just about to leave.”

Sol bows before attempting to leave.

Sunjae looks at the employee, then stairs and feels such bubbling rage within him, it surprises himself. At least the employee had the decency to feel apologetic regardless.

“I’m really sorry about this, we loved your work and were looking forward to meet you,” he says.

Sol shakes her head, “oh, it’s okay! Thank you for considering me, I understand.”

But Sunjae didn’t understand. He was about to intervene before his manager put a hand on his shoulder, addressing Sol, “can we drop you off?”

Sol chuckles, “oh no, it’s alright! Please go on with your work,” she makes her way out of their little group, “bye, Sunjae! Good luck for your movie.”

Sometimes Sunjae wished she would act more like his fan - the clingy kind who wants to spend a lot of time with him.

He goes to her, stepping in front of her so she can’t continue her way out, “let us drop you. Are you going back home?”

She nods and shakes her head at the same time.

“You aren’t going home?”

“No, I mean I’m going home but you don’t need to drop me. I’ll be fine, you should continue with your work, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“I insist, please.”

Sol was about to protest again but visibly gave up and nodded.

“I’ll get the car!” Sunjae’s manager says before going out.

While they waited, Sunjae wanted to talk and diffuse the awkward tension they suddenly had out of nowhere. But at the same time, a part of him was worried about the mechanics of Sol managing her way in the car. A long time back, he had looked it up: how wheelchair users get in the car and what it means for their mobility especially with public transport. He didn’t remember much anymore apart from the fact that there wasn’t a collective way they managed because everyone had different kinds of mobility. He wasn’t sure about Sol’s - how it had shifted over the years. He saw her get in her friend’s car that very first night, it was quick and fairly easy with optimal height. Her friend had helped her in but Sol managed her way fine.

Just then his manager called, “just saw a few photographers around the building. Come to the back entrance, I’ll pick you up there.”

Sunjae looked at Sol who was looking at him inquisitively before looking at the employee standing a bit further away, “can you show us the back entrance?”

The employee nodded and lead them there, Sol and Sunjae following behind side by side.

However, their office had some serious issues in regard to accessibility because there were couple of stairs leading towards the door.

Sunjae looked at the stairs and then back at Sol, who was also looking at the stairs. Before he could say anything, she turned to him and smiled, “Sunjae, you should go. I’m assuming there is paparazzi outside? I think you should go on your own and I’ll be fine.”

Sunjae felt conflicted. But for the moment, he silenced all of his thoughts and bent down in front of Sol.

“Please, I insist. If your mother finds out, she’ll be upset with me that I let you go like this,” he says gently.

Sol was about to say something but Sunjae continues before he loses courage.

“Can I…. please carry you down the stairs?”

A part of him wanted to go hide away in his room, in the dark, but he was choosing that as his moment of 10 seconds of courage, hoping that it wasn’t cringe, praying that she wouldn’t take offence.

Sol’s eyes widened a fraction, “I-“

Sunjae’s phone buzzes for a second, followed by his manager-driver bursting in from the door, “Come on, Sunjae, they’ll see us soon. I don’t know what’s up today.”

Sol looked between the two, Sunjae not hurrying her but keeps looking at her before she does a tiny nod - that’s all the confirmation he needs before he stands up and scoops Sol up in his arms. A hand behind her knees while the other encircles her waist, Sol looking anywhere but at him while he keeps looking at her to ensure she isn’t uncomfortable. They go down the stairs comfortably, as if Sunjae wasn’t holding an entire human, while Sol held on to his neck for dear life, shyly hiding her face in the curve of his neck, a tiny breath away from his skin.

Sunjae’s manager quickly ran up the stairs and picked up Sol’s wheelchair before running down and out the door, not realising that he only had to do it until the bottom of the stairs.

“Dongseok!” But he was gone already, opening the car trunk. He finally notices Sunjae standing at the open door, while holding an awkward Sol but instead of realising his mistake, he gestures for him to hurry up.

“Sorry about this,” Sunjae mutters lowly before hurrying out to the open car door. He bends a bit before leaning in and settling Sol down on the seat, their eyes meeting for a moment as he pulls away.

“Thank you,” Sol says softly, a small nod and smile on her face before she straps herself in.

Sunjae goes to the other side and gets in.

“I’m sorry about earlier. For hurrying you and for Dongseok putting your wheelchair in the car,” Sunjae says at last, diffusing the awkward silence.

“Oh no, it’s fine. Thank you for doing what you did earlier and for dropping me home. You didn’t have to go to such trouble,” Sol twiddles her fingers in her lap.

Sunjae nods but he could feel the tension in his bones and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want her to feel like he was invalidating her or overpowering her or taking advantage of her disability. He never wanted anyone to feel that, let alone Sol. Especially because he was in a position of power in so many ways. But considering the possibility that Sol might feel that way about him, he felt sheer agony.

He tries to pull down the collar of his sweater a bit, to give himself the physical space to breathe.

“Are those my flowers?” Sol leans forward to pick up the small notebook from the seat.

Sunjae looks over and nods, watching Sol gently caress the cover.

“This looks prettier in person. Thank you, Sunjae-ya for not letting my flowers die,” she beams up at him, her eyes watering.

“I couldn’t let them die,” he replies, “thank you for giving them to me.”

Sol’s smile brightens up even more - he didn’t know that was possible.

As they were about to round up to the buildings near Sol’s place, he asks, “what role were they considering you for?”

“Huh? Oh, it was for a Video Editor role. I’ve been doing that for a while now on my own so I wanted to see if I could find something in Films,” she says, a dismissive tone in her voice.

“Is that something you’re interested in?” Sunjae inquires further, staring at her while she keeps caressing the tiny notebook in her lap.

She doesn’t answer for a minute, making Sunjae think if she heard him at all. But then she looks at him, a sad smile on her face.

“I’ve always wanted to work in TV/Films, as a Director than any other role. But even with Editing, it does involve creative processes and vision so it was the next best bet because I could easily do it from home without worrying about accessibility issues like today for instance.”

Sunjae nods just as the car stops and the doors open. Dongseok opens the trunk to get Sol’s wheelchair and setting it up based on her directions.

Sunjae gets out and goes to her side of the door, intently focusing on Sol. Again, he wasn’t sure how she manoeuvres around cars and especially one with the height - it was higher than her friend’s. But she was confident and relaxed, not worried or awkward about her mode of mobility.

Once Dongseok was done and had stepped away, Sunjae asks, “how can I help?”

This time around, Sol was a bit more comfortable, “could you please ….carry me down?”

Without hesitation, Sunjae moves forward, puts one hand behind her waist and the other under her knees, and easily lifts her down onto her wheelchair, lingering for a moment before pulling away, their eyes refusing to pull away from each other.

Once she was all settled in and comfortable, she gives him a wide smile, “thank you so much for dropping me home! Take care of yourself and good luck for your movie.”

She bows and waves to both Sunjae and Dongseok, before turning around to leave.

“Sol!”

Sunjae stopped mid-step. Saying her name out loud felt both like a blasphemy and relief. As if it was forbidden, yet it felt like coming home at last. He didn’t even know where home was, really, but it felt right. Instinctual. Bound to happen.

When Sol turned around to look at him, confused, he wasn’t sure what he was about to say either. Lost in his own contradictory feelings when it came to her, while she was blissfully unaware about everything.

He walks up to her and says, “thank you for letting me drop you home. I wanted to apologise if I made you feel uncomfortable at any point and to thank you for trusting me.”

He didn’t wait for her reply but did a tiny bow before going back to his car, turning around once to smile at her before getting inside and leaving.

[Part 6 here.]

#no thoughts it’s 1 am and I’m sleepy af #one day i’ll edit this for consistency #but that day isn’t today apologies #thank you for reading and all the love #i appreciate it so much #lovely runner fic #my fics #soljae #lovely runner au #lovely runner fanfiction

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googleitlol · 6 months

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This is leading up to some of my favourite stuff, we're getting closer to when dove and wukong can stop antagonizing each other so much but first they gotta go through a little more, uh… 'growing pains'.

Anyway have fun with this bit!

Dove Masterlist:

A Friend

“What did you do?” You frown at the three disciples looking to one another as though they didn’t have the answer themselves. “We’ve barely been here half a day!”

Bajie scratches the back of his head sheepishly while a worried smile stretches over his features. “Heh, I may have overheard our two hosts discussing how Master rejected their ginseng fruit. I was only curious, and Monkey was the one who took them.”

“You what?!” You look back at the trio in shock. You’ve heard of ginseng, a powerful fruit that can extend your life hundreds of years by smelling its aroma alone. Eating it can enable a person to live until their forty-seven thousandth year! The fruit itself can often appear to have limbs, it's what Tripitaka must have mistaken for a baby. You’ve heard how it takes nearly ten thousand years for a ginseng tree to bear its fruit, and these fools stole them?!

Wukong slaps Bajie on the arm. “Why would you tell her?!”

“We’re all at fault,” Sandy steps in, “we all ate the fruit.”

“Yeah, but Monkey had an extra one.” Pigsy tattles, his brother in question giving him a look of offence. Wukong raises his hands in defence, stepping closer to the pig. “I told you, the first one dropped!”

“And it doesn’t excuse the fact that we all ate one.” Wujing rests a hand on each of their shoulders, a subtle attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Stop it, all of you!” You shout over their bickering. Once they finally manage to quiet down, you continue. “What’s done is done, now you have to fix it before Tripitaka pays for it.”

The trio responds with groans and rebuttals, but eventually you manage to drag them back to the main hall where their master waits, accompanied by your two hosts. You can hear the two shouting at the monk before they even enter your line of sight, Monkey King bristling with bubbling annoyance as you all draw closer. Their faces are pulled down by frowns, their anger present in the twitch of one’s brow.

The Tang Monk himself appears tired, an understandable feeling given the situation. “These two have informed me that some of their ginseng have gone missing.”

“It isn’t missing!” One shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Tripitaka. “It was stolen, we know it! I’ve never seen a monk with such a lack of control over his disciples.”

“Master Zhenyuan tried to tell us how rowdy and disruptive your demonic disciples really are. I should have taken those warnings more seriously.” The other chimes in with a huff.

The bout of passion makes Monkey laugh. “Am I to believe you assume we did it?” The question makes you frown inwardly, the growing irritation staying buried for the sake of appearances. Is he really about to try and play this off like they’re innocent?

“Master Zhenyuan took with him everyone but us to his conference. You are the only ones present to steal it, so it must be you!” The second disciple replies, his frown deepening despite Wukong’s laughter.

The Monkey King shakes his head with a chuckle. “And why would we do that? How would we even know of this ‘ginseng’? You never told us of its existence.”

The first disciple huffs. “We offered it to your master, but he declined it.” “Ah, so you gave it to us.” “No, we ate it.”

“So you ate the ginseng, problem solved!”

“We didn’t eat the stolen fruit, we had what your master was offered!”

“Then the fruit wasn’t stolen?”

“No– I mean, yes! It was stolen! You’re mixing my words.” “I would never think to trick you in such a way.” Wukong grins, and you do your best not to roll your eyes.

Finally, the first disciple sighs. “Fine, then. We will go and count the fruit again. If there are less than twenty-eight, we will know that you stole it.” With a nod to his brother daoist, they exit towards the gardens. Back to the tree to recount the same number of fruits. What on earth does this ape think he’s doing?

A small gust of wind blows past, and you turn to see the source: another Wukong with his arms crossed, his smile so smug, you might think he managed to somehow bring the ginseng back on his own. There is, of course, one way you can think to restore the fruit, though it’s a last resort you don’t want to use unless absolutely necessary. But those thoughts hardly matter when you and the monks are faced with a second Sun Wukong.

The group looks in befuddlement back at the newcomer Monkey King as he lets out a breath. “To think they would shout at you like that, Master. You really should be grateful that I’m here for you.”

“What?” Tripitaka frowns, looking between the two monkeys while your own face pales. Realisation hits as the monk questions his disciple. “What is going on? Why are there two of you?”

“I thought to let a clone take care of our disrespectful hosts while I took care of a few things.” He shrugs half-hazardly, the copy returning to its original state as he did, a small tuft of hair.

“You just convinced them to go back and recount the fruit.” The monkey stiffens as you speak, which only serves to make the growing knot in your stomach tighten. “Sun Wukong… where were you just now?” He makes eye contact with you, and for the first time on this journey you see the impossible sight of slight regret in his golden irises. Whatever he has done, it’s best to assume that now is the time to leave. You quickly turn back to Pigsy. “Go grab our luggage, I’ll help you. Wujing, retrieve Ao Lie and bring him to the front gates. Tripitaka, wait at the gates with Wukong and get ready to ride.”

Tripitaka calls out for you as you turn to leave with Bajie. “Wait, you want us to run? Do you not think that is a bit of an over-reaction–” As he finishes his inquiry, one of the two disciples lets out a scream so loud their voice is able to carry throughout the entire temple.

“I think this is a perfectly reasonable response.” You answer, catching Wukong’s gaze for a moment and glaring before running off with Pigsy to retrieve everyone’s luggage. With how little you all carry, it took little time to gather everyone’s things and meet the others outside.

Sandy already has Tripitaka on the horse, the group exiting the gates and racing down the mountain once you and Bajie arrive. Wujing takes what you’re carrying and you transform to keep up with the other demons and horse’s fast pace. Tripitaka looks back on occasion, watching carefully for any signs that your group was being pursued.

Even without any signs of chase, you and the pilgrims continue in your pace well-into the night. Only when you distance yourself from the mountain does the group of pilgrims slow to a stop. Ao Lie diverts from the path that leads away from the mountain, guiding the pilgrims to take cover along the edges of a forest. With the cover of the surrounding foliage and night, you transform back as everyone takes a moment to breathe. Of course, just when you get a break from the demons and dilemma-inducing rivers, something has to come along to keep everyone on their toes. To make matters worse, you ran from Zhenyuan’s temple! Perhaps he might’ve forgiven the disciples for eating his ginseng, but the look on Monkey’s face before you left was enough to dissuade that notion from your mind. You just hope his disciples that had been hosting you would be alright.

Despite the worries racing through your mind, they’re put to a halt when you hear Wukong’s laughter. “That was a close one, wasn’t it?”

Pigsy, while crouching with his hands on his knees to regain his breath, looks to the disciple in confusion. “Brother, what happened?” At the question, the demon lets out a nervous chuckle.

“I may have gotten a little angry. I mean, you saw how they were shouting at Master!” He scratches his head nervously.

Tripitaka dismounts from the horse, stepping closer to his disciple. “Pilgrim, what did you do?”

The monkey demon looks between his master and his brothers, then to you before turning back to Tripitaka. His weight shifts from one leg to the other. “I, uh, may have gone back to the ginseng tree. Andknockeditover.” He adds on the last part quickly, averting his gaze to the ground.

His swiftly-spoken words are caught easily, the Tang Monk’s eyes widening considerably while you digest the information. “You what?!”

“At least we’re out of there, didn’t you hear what those idiots were saying to you?” He defends himself, though it barely registers to you. How could he have been so stupid? Can he never learn from his mistakes?! “I couldn’t just stand there and listen to how they were treating us. Nobody disrespects Old Monkey and gets away with–”

The demon is cut off as the palm of your hand meets his face.

The echo of the slap is met with silence and wide eyes, shock engraved in the faces of your companions that you don’t digest. All you can hone in on is the source of your anger, emotion you feel boiling to the surface. You clench your fist in an effort to contain it. “Do you ever think about anyone besides yourself?! All you had to do was apologise! Is your ego too inflated for even that?”

“How dare you–” He steps into your space, eyes narrowing but you stop him again.

“That fruit didn’t belong to those disciples, it belongs to their master! What might happen to them if he returns with nobody else to blame for your actions?” You push your finger into his chest, though it doesn’t push him back much. “One might think spending five hundred years under a mountain would change a person, but you’re still as selfish and narcissistic as you ever were!”

You can feel your hand shaking with anger, and quickly turn away with a scoff. “I shouldn’t even be wasting my breath on you.” Before he can have the chance to argue, you transform and fly off, rushing into the cool night air to give yourself a moment to breathe. You’re getting too worked up, and shouting won’t change anything. Sometimes it was just difficult to remember that with him around.

You don’t go too far, finding a nearby stream pretty quickly to rest beside. You turn back and begin to pace, finding that moving often helps calm you down. It's a struggle, your anger still bubbling beneath your skin. Words can only do so much to describe how you feel. After spending all this time with him, you’d think the Monkey King might have eventually become easier to be around. Maybe you’d be able to get along with him better after all this time, but no. You’ve had moments of sympathy, moments of understanding, but every time a step is made towards the two of you coexisting peacefully, he makes you take three steps back.

After some time, you kneel by the stream, dipping your hand into the cool water and letting it weave around your fingers. Stealing the fruit was one thing, but knocking down the tree? The ginseng itself takes thousands of years to grow, it’s why you never had the option to eat it yourself during your stay in the heavens. How long did it take for that tree to grow old enough to bear such fruit? Only for it to be knocked down by an impulsive ape.

Your thoughts are put on hold by footsteps and steady trots slowly approaching, and you turn to see Tripitaka steadily making his way to you with Ao Lie. You quickly rise to your feet to meet them, their appearance reminding you of how you very publicly slapped someone in front of your group. Yes… that may have also been a bit impulsive yourself.

“Are you alright?” Tripitaka gives you a perturbed look, and you can only imagine Ao Lie would share it if not for his current form.

You quickly nod. “Yes. I apologise for causing a scene, Tang Monk. I should not have snapped the way I did, especially in front of all of you.” As you speak, he steps closer, meeting you at the water’s edge.

“For how often the two of you bicker, I was surprised it took this long for something like this to happen.” You almost see a trace of an amused smile, though it is quickly exchanged with worry. “Though, it was surprising that out of everything I’ve witnessed from my disciple, this is what has upset you the most.”

Moving past you, the monk takes a seat by the stream, gesturing for you to join him. “They all ate the fruit, you know.” He hums, his eyes watching the water.

You look down as you take your seat next to him, your hands fidgeting in discomfort as you try to distil your lingering anger. “He’s the one who stole it. He brought down their tree.”

You feel Tripitaka’s glance but are unable to meet his eyes. “Your anger, if you don’t mind my saying so, feels more personal than that.” At that, you look back at him in surprise. “Perhaps talking about it could help alleviate some of that feeling?”

You can’t help but feel a little taken aback by the offer. “I couldn’t ask that of you, but I appreciate the offer.” You give an awkward laugh, shaking your head.

“Nonsense.” He rests a hand on your shoulder. “How many times is it now that you’ve given me peace of mind? The very least I could do is lend an ear to a friend that needs it.”

Friend? The title takes you by surprise. You look at the man for a minute, who simply offers a smile. After a few moments, you return the look with a soft smile of your own. It’s been months since you’ve started this journey with Tripitaka, you suppose there isn’t much harm in sharing your thoughts with him like this.

With a sigh, you look back to the steam. “He’s never thought about anyone other than himself, it’s infuriating. Even before we began this journey, the ‘great Monkey King’ has never shown any regard for others.” You start, closing your fists as you speak.

“I remember you mentioning you’ve met before. Is it right for me to assume his actions when you first met were just as callous?” Tripitaka inquires, his assumption almost making you smile with its accuracy.

“Even before we met.” You shake your head, a frown quickly finding its way onto your face. You begin to recall the Peach Festival, how your master had planned to give you a peach of immortality for the journey, and how Sun Wukong took all the stone fruit for himself.

Tripitaka nods along as you explain the reason behind your time in the heavens. “So Sun Wukong took your chance to become immortal?”

“It was more than that.” You continue as your reflection frowns up at you. “A few months after I moved to the palace, I was retrieved by Moksa to visit a village close to our master’s home.” You look back to the man as you elaborate. “After being rescued from my own village, I spent my years growing there. When I was young and had just learned my transformation, the other children would go into the woods with me. They made a game out of trying to find me in the trees.” A soft melancholy smile begins to form on your face, the memories faint but still present.

It only lasts for a few moments. “Lin… He was a good friend of mine. Before the Peach Festival, I promised to tell him what it was like there. He had just become a man before my departure and when I came back… he was elderly. Surrounded by a family I couldn’t recognise. He died as I fulfilled my promise to tell him what I had seen before I was taken back.” You feel your eyes begin to water but continue nonetheless. “Five days later, Moksa brought me down once more to say goodbye to his wife, a woman I thought of as a sister. A week after that, our friend, Guiying. By the end of that month, I had lost nearly everyone I knew.” Your voice starts to crack so you pause to clear your throat and turn your gaze back to the stream, though you can feel Tripitaka's eyes on you.

“Whether or not I could have had that peach, I knew I would have to say goodbye eventually. But without it, I missed their entire lives. Their weddings, their first child, I couldn’t comfort them when they lost their parents. They all lived their lives… and I never got the chance to be there for it.” You notice a tear in your reflection before your expression hardens. “All because of that selfish demon.”

For a few seconds, it’s silent, but it doesn’t take long for Tripitaka to speak. “I’m sorry, I can hardly imagine how hard it must have been. I can barely hold myself together when a demon jumps onto our path.” He laughs a bit when reflecting on his own struggles, and it makes you crack a smile. “Does Wukong know what he’s done to you?” The question makes you scoff. “He wouldn’t be able to hear past the noise of his own ego even if I tried to explain. All he ever does is belittle others or talk about himself. Even how he defended himself for uprooting the ginseng tree, it wasn’t because they were disrespecting you, it was because they were yelling at his master. If it were Pigsy or Sandy, he would have laughed!”

Your reply makes him hum, the man stroking his chin in thought as you continue. “His main source of entertainment is watching people suffer. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he ruined my past life.” He doesn’t have a response for that, instead letting the two of you sit as the sound of the stream running past fills the silence.

“…How mad was he that I slapped him?”

Tripitaka gives an amused huff to the question. “Pigsy and Sandy had to hold him back. He stopped fighting them when I stepped in.” You look back from where the monk came from, the horse still watching over the two of you. You partly wonder what the other disciples are doing now. “I think he was less angry about you hitting him, it was more so that he wanted to have the final word.”

That sounds like Sun Wukong. “I won’t apologise for it.”

“Even if I wanted you to, I’m not your master. But Bajie and Wujing should be held accountable as well. I’ll have to think of something for them once we get far enough away from here.” Tripitaka gives a weary sigh, clearly exhausted by his disciple’s antics.

Taking in one last deep breath, you stand up and offer the man a hand. “Thank you, Tripitaka. You were right, it feels nice to have someone to share this with.”

Tripitaka smiles before taking your hand and hoisting himself up. “I am always here to listen. Like I said, you are my friend.”

“Yes, a friend.” The word makes you smile, your anger feels lighter now, making room for something sweeter. It’s been some time since you’ve had a friend.

#sweet moment with trip 🥹#ao lie chilling in the stables then watching all the drama unfold is me #dragon horse just enjoying the tea #little dove #jttw tripitaka #jttw sun wukong #sun wukong x reader

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delhifilterpress · 6 months

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#pp filter press manufacturer #coarse bubble diffuser manufacturer #fine bubble diffuser manufacturer

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randombush3 · 2 years

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Kicking and Screaming

florence pugh x footballer!reader

summary: your relationship is taking a hit from the release of Don’t Worry Darling

words: 4948

warnings: smut

notes: i tried to keep the football terms to a minimum so don’t be daunted by this. this was requested as well — no way i could have come up with this.

It’s all fucking bullshit.

No one seems to believe in your relationship. Or, rather, they’d like to believe in a different one.

She’s convinced you they’re not true. They aren’t true, because you were with her while she filmed, and on FaceTime when bubbles did not permit physical contact. Like, what the actual fuck? It’s insulting to even think about trying to pretend she slept with him.

Everyone can tell that you’re on edge the moment you walk onto the bus. Maybe you’re frustrated because you’ve avoided your girlfriend for a solid week, save for the occasional small talk that occurs when you catch each other in the same room of your house, maybe it’s because you had to fight your way past the paparazzi at your front door.

Attempting to diffuse their teammate, you are met with a series of ‘hi’s that fizzle out the moment you shove your stuff in the hold above an empty row and sit down on your own. This is a player who does not want to be spoken to. You hear a mumble “relationship problems” and scowl, closing your eyes and choosing to block out the entire world for three and a half hours.

When Leah begins to play her pregame hype music (awful, awful music that you’d hate even in the best of moods), they beg you to join in with the singing, making a game of who can possibly get a smile out of you. You groan loudly, covering your face with your hands, but when Jonas looks at you sternly, you give in and face them all. “You get one song,” you announce, “and if it’s shit, I’m not singing.” There’s a scramble for the phone connected to the speaker, and then some absurd song you chose for karaoke once plays.

They manage to get you to sing three, before the coaches coach and the bus stops. You step off and are quickly taken aside by Aaron. The assistant coach looks at you with concern pulling at his smile. The chatter of the team fades into the distance and he begins to talk.

He starts with a simple question: “how are you?”

“I’m fine.” He isn’t convinced. “No, really. I need to just play. I’ve got to play it out.”

“You could have played it out at training.”

“I need an audience.” You need to show everyone – remind them all – how great you are, with or without your girlfriend. No matter what they say about your personal life, you will make sure they cannot attack your playing. “I’m a professional.”

“It’s going to be a tough match, Y/n. They’re a good side, we’re matched almost evenly. No one needs a loose canon on the pitch.”

“I’m notoriously calm–”

“When your girlfriend isn’t in the centre of Hollywood’s latest scandal.” His remark is cutting. You may well have flinched. Aaron then softens, as if suddenly deciding he’s being too harsh. “I will tell Jonas that you will be focused throughout, but if I feel that it’s not working or you’re not playing well, I’m taking you off. We all go through relationship issues. It’s okay to need a moment.”

You’re about to protest, guns firing up and getting ready to blaze your way through a full ninety minute match, but Beattie grabs your arm and makes fun of you for being slow. “How can we start match prep without Saint Y/n?” she whines dramatically.

Aaron nods in dismissal. You follow her unnecessary tugging.

“She’s here!” Beth shouts over the noise. You glare at them, halfway between it being sincere and joking.

Surprisingly, you manage to chat and jostle and tease, partaking in the standard changing room banter. Every so often, your phone buzzes, its screen lighting up with texts and missed calls from Florence, annoyingly reminding you of the lock screen background (Flo and Billie, teeth bared). Some of your teammates notice the amount of notifications you are getting, but none are intrusive enough to assume anything other than social media or an overactive group chat.

Flo’s latest text reads:

Pick up the fucking phone.

How pleasant.

She did start quite civilly, attempting to make up after a particularly venomous row. You’d stormed out, and then she’d slept on the sofa until you came back. The arguing had resumed when she told you she had been unbelievably worried while you were cooling off, so you had slammed your bedroom door shut and drowned her out by pouring over old match footage to analyse your play. You both could be work-oriented if you wanted to. If that was how it was going to be.

Speaking of work oriented — the cheers in the stadium as both teams walk out of the tunnel are enough to pull your focus in onto the here and now, not some stupid and too-common argument.

Once you’ve warmed up and have been reminded of Aaron’s personal terms and conditions for tonight’s game, it’s Jonas’ team talk (stay calm, play your game, press hard defensively) and then kick off.

The whistle sounds and you are back in a situation you can control. It feels good, this feels good. Florence is but a niggle at the back of your mind as you push and shove and dribble and… Okay, yeah, you foul quite a bit.

You have a lot of pent up everything, and instead of taking it out on the ball itself, it does lead to quite a few incidents where you push the player too hard and they end up on the floor, but so what? The first goal is scored fifteen minutes in thanks to your turn over and cross. You’re playing great. Aggressively, sure, but great.

You think you have a great chance of winning the ball in the next tackle you go for. (In hindsight, you are completely lying to yourself.) Your legs go round and under, and she goes down awkwardly, crying out in a mix of shock and pain. You find that you’re pulled down too, small crescents pressed into your forearm when the player lets go of you.

“What the fuck was that?” hisses one of the Man United players, kneeling down to her teammate. You can feel your own team debating whether to crowd the scene or watch from afar.

You blank out the next five minutes, in which the player is helped off by a medic, the ref waves a yellow card in your face, and Jonas goes absolutely nuts from the sideline.

Katie is a dirty player. Not you.

“You okay?” a player from the other team asks, her face determined but eyes gentle. She extends her hand out to you, pulling you up.

Her words remind you that you are very much in the public eye. (And that you are also very much not okay.)

Aaron is emphatic about how disciplined you usually are at half time. In fact, half the team are scared to talk to you considering the uncharacteristic aggression shown on the pitch. When Mead approaches to ask if you’re alright, you turn around and pretend to be extremely interested in the wall.

Aaron tells you that you need to leave this shit off the pitch now. “Taking it out on everyone else doesn’t seem to be working,” he says, “because they’ve scored an equaliser and one of our best players looks like she’s about to beat the shit out of her own team. Take up fucking boxing at this rate!”

“I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth, setting your jaw as you prepare to go back on for the last ten minutes of the game. “Jonas thinks I’m fine.”

“He thinks you’re playing fine.”

“Are you my coach or my dad?” you snap, fully aware of the camera pointed at the pair of you. “I will deal with my shit in whichever way I choose. Currently, it might be beating the shit out of my assistant coach.”

He pauses, perplexed. You are a composed person. You are neutral, positive at times, yet he finds not an ounce of regret for your tone nor your language. All he can see as he looks in your eyes is pure, unbridled rage.

Aaron is not stupid. He knows how to win games, he knows how to make sure whatever a player brings onto the pitch is milked for every last drop of usefulness in order to garner a victory.

“I want a goal,” he says with a shrug. He points to your chest, “this fire in your heart… put it on the ball and kick hard.” You nod curtly. He smiles, proud of himself: you needed a target to focus your determination. “Okay, now go,” dismisses Aaron.

Jonas gives technical advice, asking you to score a goal more for the team than your own personal well-being, but that's the difference between coach and assistant coach.

When you step back out there, you feel a new hunger for one thing. You play selfishly, ruthlessly, and incredibly well. No one can seem to get the ball off you, so Man United’s focus shifts to keeping it two metres from you in every direction. Overtime will give them a moment to regroup and re-strategise, so that’s what they aim for.

A bad pass in their defence in the last minute of injury time costs them the ball. You pounce on it, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Your own team presses down into the box to crowd the defence, leaving them overwhelmed and panicking, on their toes in preparation for your cross.

But your cross never comes.

The goalie is distracted, you realise. The commotion has stressed her out, cracked the icy hold her eyes had on the ball. She can’t see you position yourself towards her net. You think back to Aaron pointing at your heart, and gauge the distance between you and the goal.

You’re outside the box, but you have a chance.

You put your fire on the ball and kick hard.

It flies through the air swiftly, and the goalie can do nothing but dive too low down for it to not go in.

The whistle blows again, and you’re tackled by your team, whooping and cheering in your ear like there’s no tomorrow. You sink into that feeling of warmth and pride.

Everything feels fine again.

“Hey, L/n, they don’t want to talk to me anymore!” Beth calls you over from where she’s greeting fans. She went straight over to them once she shook hands with the other team. You haul yourself off the floor, patting the women you rolled off your body on the back with a mutter of ‘time to be famous’.

Half the pr stuff you’ve learnt is from Flo.

Little girls grin at you, looking up with admiration and stars in their eyes. They hold their dreams out to you, and you smile right back at them, signing everything that they ask you to, taking every picture possible.

“I think you’re my favourite,” declares a boy who’s shoved his way past everyone to get to the front. “You’re definitely my favourite.” He beams.

“Yeah?” You send him a wink, and then he jumps up to get a better look at you — he can’t really see over the barrier. You’re about to pick him up and bring him over the barrier to take a picture with him for his mum, when you notice a woman who hasn’t yet rushed out of the stands to beat the traffic.

She has short blonde hair and is tanned from summer.

The Cartier watch that you bought for her sits spitefully on her wrist.

Your mood sours.

Beth, who is standing beside you, seems to realise you’re no longer loving the attention, and watching you squirm under piercing green eyes isn’t her most favourite thing to do. She nudges you with her shoulder; approval that it’s okay to go back to the changing room.

“Bye!” you say to the crowd, waving at them all before turning around and focusing entirely on not crying or killing somebody.

An interviewer corners you somewhat, forcing you to answer a few questions. “This was a new side of you that we got to see today,” she begins, “is this a new style of play or a one-off?”

You make sure to have the blank, neutral expression before answering. “We’ll see.” She flashes you a smile and gives you a thumbs up. You’re free to continue marching back to the changing room.

They’ll likely be empty seeing as everyone is still on the pitch.

The door slams behind you as you groan in frustration. It echoes through the room, eerily barren of post-win cheer.

Why the fuck was she here? Couldn’t she let you have your space? In fact, couldn’t she just fuck off forever so that you never have to talk about anything?

You’re so caught up in sulking that you don’t notice the door open and shut and another person slip in.

“A yellow card, huh?” Your eyes fixate on the blonde, glaring. “It was a good game.”

“Why are you here?” you fire back, not wanting to hear her praise you because you might give in and buckle your knees and go crawling back to her with tears in your eyes.

“To watch you play,” she answers calmly.

You clench your fists, squeezing pleasantry out of yourself. “So now you care? Now you pay attention to me?” After all of this, she thinks she can show up once and make everything fine again. Bullshit.

“Don’t act like I’m the one running out of every room you walk into!”

Unbelievable.

“I do not run,” you scoff. “Wouldn’t you rather be on the phone to your boyfriend?”

“Wow, so mature.”

“At least I’m not a cheating liar!” you shout, taking the both of you by surprise. She rolls her shoulders back: okay, if this is how it’s going to be. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else, am I? All I’m doing is avoiding you.”

“So you admit you’re avoiding me!”

“Yeah, and you fucking show up at my game, acting as if you have every right to corner me and tell me to forgive you,” you spit, and she recoils at the thought. “Well I’m not going to forgive you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive me for,” she huffs, throwing her arms up in the air in frustration. “It’s not my fault that the media can’t keep out of my business.”

“I know they’re invasive.” It’s not her fault that they hound her. “But I had to find out from a fucking article, not from my girlfriend.”

“There was nothing to fucking find out!” she snaps, stepping closer to you. You feel the heat of her breath cloud your space, your body fighting with everything it has to not be drawn into her. She’s so close that you can see every detail of her tired face.

You tilt your chin up nonchalantly. “Tell that to the tabloids,” you mutter, but she can hear you easily from her position. “Oh, wait… You’re not going to fucking say anything.”

What comes next is a low blow, but people aren’t their best selves in heated arguments. “I thought you were braver than that, Flo.”

She shakes with anger, taking another step closer. “How have you convinced yourself that you’re supportive?” Her voice stays steady even if her body is not. “You tell me I’m a lying, cheating coward but—”

The door, once again, thuds shut.

“I told you we shouldn’t go in!”

Flo jumps backwards, creating distance for you to both stand awkwardly in front of Beth Mead and Vivianne Miedema.

Beth nudges her girlfriend, who quickly wipes the vindictive smile off her face.

“Everything okay?” Beth looks at you with the same concerned expression she’s been using the whole day. “Hi, Flo. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I,” you grumble.

“It was a last minute decision.” Her reason is left unsaid, thankfully, but it’s safe to say three out of four people in the room know why — Miedema can be a little slow when being updated with whose side she and Beth are on in this ongoing fight.

“Sounded like a great argument,” says Vivianne, earning herself a harder nudge. “Can we shower and change before you carry on? The rest of the team will be coming through soon.”

You want to laugh but Flo’s glare stops you. Even if everything is falling to pieces, you seem to have a connection. She nods twice and you understand. When you get back, she will be waiting and you will be continuing this conversation in private.

She leaves, walking out in a way that makes you shudder ever so slightly (you chalk it down to the breeze the door creates, not the sight of her).

“So… did you call her a lying, cheating coward?” Beth asks as she sits on the bench you’re standing by, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl.

“Are you going to pretend you didn’t hear everything?”

She pauses for a moment, and then concedes. “Okay, yeah, we were outside for a good portion of it, but you guys were really loud. And Viv wanted to listen!”

Your other teammate shakes her head in protest. “Big, fat lie. I was going to have a chat with Katie while you guys shouted at each other.”

“No, if we hadn’t interrupted they so would have fucked,” Beth thinks aloud.

You snort. “Ha! As if—”

Vivianne turns to her girlfriend as if she actually has a point. “I’m surprised they were fully clothed when we walked in.”

- - -

She’s waiting for you in the kitchen when you get back.

You were held back by Jonas for five minutes when he wanted to congratulate you on your playing and tell you he likes the more aggressive side of you, but other than that, you’re true to your ETA. That text was the first you’d sent her in at least a week.

There are two plates on the counter, and quickly they are full of pasta bolognese. The meat is good protein.

“I thought we could eat and talk.”

You say nothing, but grab a fork for the both of you. You don’t sit down for fear of habitually sitting opposite her at the table. If you look at her too long, you’ll forgive her straight away.

After a few mouthfuls of the admittedly delicious food, you gesture with your fork. “Go on. Talk.” Maybe you should really hear her out.

She sighs. “When we first started dating, we talked about my sex scenes. I told you that they’re awkward to film and not at all romantic, and that I’ve never been attracted to any man I’ve had to pretend to be attracted to. It’s off-putting, really, and I thought you understood that.” She waits for your defensive interjection but you stay quiet. “Olivia is marketing this movie in a very horrible way — a way I had no say in. Reducing everything down to sex is harmful in itself, but I will not let it be any more harmful to this relationship than the publicity has already been.

“What you said about me not being brave, it’s true. I didn’t want to prolong a bad situation, but it’s hurting us and I hate that.”

She moves to take your plate to the sink, but your legs bring you with her. When she turns back around, plate no longer in hand, your arms are on either side of her body, pinning her underneath you against the counter.

“So you’re doing an interview,” you finish for her, speaking in a low voice. You don’t break eye contact. “Are you going to tell them that no one fucks you as well as I do?”

Flo blushes, crossing her legs. Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed.

You lean down slowly, your lips hovering over her ear. “Who’s better, Florence? Me or him?”

Her shoulders tense, skin flushing beneath the worn material of an old concert t-shirt from a decade ago. She wears nothing else, apart from underwear.

Your eyes hold her gaze, daring her to look away. She shifts uncomfortably under your stare, unable to ignore the aching between her legs that comes with how close you are to her. She is not about to kiss you.

No, she’s angry that you would ever believe a stupid article over her. Or was it that you…

Does it matter? What were you even arguing about?

She can’t seem to remember anymore.

“Me… or him?” you repeat. The movement of your lips draws her eyes to them, something that you catch immediately.

“You’re jealous,” she replies, letters tumbling out onto one another as she forgets how to speak. You’ve dropped your hands to her waist. Your grip tightens as she smiles proudly at her clunky declaration. “You’re jealous of him.” Her eyes shut for a moment when you step closer, pressing her between you and the counter.

“You’re turned on.” Your smirk is enough to make her want to kiss you. Solely for the purpose of wiping it off your face, of course.

“I’m so turned on.”

You chuckle quietly at her admission. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Her chest presses against you and you almost forgo holding out on her. “Maybe I’ll have to make a call,” she whispers.

You smooth your palms down her curves, cupping her arse and pushing into her until your knuckles hit the counter. “Really?” Your lips hover just above hers, but she can’t lift up to reach them because you’re holding her down. “Not gonna kiss me?”

She shrugs. “Make me.”

You barely have to move for her lips to touch yours, but once they do it feels like you can’t get close enough. Her hands bunch the fabric of your hoodie, pulling it up and down as if she’s trying to get you out of it but can’t think of how to do so. You lift her up, swiping away the dishes from the counter without hesitation, lips never leaving her body. She moans loudly, unrestrained, as you reach your hand up her shirt, kneading at her breasts.

It doesn’t take long for her clothes to come off.

Blinded by pleasure, she leans back, almost slumping against the wall before knocking against a dirty glass and spilling water. She jumps at the noise, but you’re locked in with the focus you usually reserve for games. You pull her into you, arms wrapped around her thighs, and walk her back to the table. It’s lower, meaning you tower over her. She gasps at the coldness of the wood against her bare skin.

With a wild look in your eyes, you sink to your knees, hands running up her legs before reaching the tops of her thighs. She pants as she watches you intently, opening her legs as you guide her to.

You stop for a moment, taking a second to glance up at her. Florence is almost sprawled out on the table, sitting partially upright in order to see what’s taking you so fucking long. She opens her mouth to gripe or make some snide comment to rile you up, but your tongue flicks her clit and suddenly her sole focus is pushing your head further between her legs.

Her fingers tangle their way through your hair, any hair bobble long gone, giving her enough sturdiness to buck her hips into your mouth. Legs locking around your neck, she throws her head back and gasps loudly. “Fuck, baby, that’s so good,” she says. Her voice slices its way through your focus. Your moan into her. “So good,” she repeats, and then chants over and over as your tongue dives inside her.

Your grip on her thighs tightens, nails pressing into the soft skin. She moans and grinds her hips down, telling you she needs it harder, faster. You nod, and the movement causes her to yank your head back up.

You make the most obscene noise she has ever heard.

“You like that?”

“Not now,” is your short reply. She frowns, but forgets all previous emotions when your tongue is back inside her and your thumb is rubbing her clit.

She doesn’t have to tell you she is going to come.

Her legs tighten and her thighs suffocate you, your hair becoming the only visible part of your head. The hand that isn’t pulling at your hair is clawing at the edge of the table, seeking something to hold onto before she floats away. You use your whole face; nose, mouth, any part that can touch her.

“Don’t…” But the sentence isn’t finished. She cries out, the sound piercing the silence and echoing through the house. “Oh, fuck.”

You feel a pressure building inside of you, the throbbing at your clit becoming incessant. You drop your free hand to your joggers, but your eyes squeeze shut before you even have to touch yourself. You moan into her, the vibrations shooting through her body and splitting her in half. She comes loudly, and you find that you come too.

When you stand, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, examining the mess made. What once was a plate now lies in broken shards on the floor.

“We need to clean this,” you mutter, more to yourself than her.

She seems to pounce on you. “Later. No one fucks me like you do.”

- - -

Both of you fall asleep very quickly after five more rounds of very jealousy-fueled sex. She eggs you on the whole time, meaning you are relentless in your assault on her entire body; a price she will pay in the morning.

You wake to your phone buzzing its way off the bedside table.

Flo’s asleep with a leg between yours, chest pressed against you, face buried into your neck. You don’t move, feeling for your phone with an extended arm as to not wake her up.

Leah’s calling.

You groan.

“Hi, Leah,” you greet, faux chirpiness failing to cover the evident exhaustion in your voice. You did nearly lose it last night.

“Hi. Where the fuck are you?” You glance around at your bedroom, tentatively answering with the truth. She does not sound happy. “It’s half past two. You were supposed to be at training an hour ago.”

“Oh.”

You were asleep.

“Yes, ‘oh’! Jonas is on everyone’s case, get you arse here.” She pauses, you can imagine her lifting her finger off the hang up button. “…Are you alright? You sound dead.”

“I just… used my voice lots last night.” She’ll assume you had a—

“Screaming match?”

“Yeah, you could call it that.”

You bite your lip, waiting for her response. “Oh, okay. Well hurry up. I’ll tell Jonas you had a late night.”

“Thank you,” you say calmly, pretending to care a lot more than you do. It’s hard to care about other things when there’s a naked woman on top of you. “Bye, Leah.”

“Bye.”

The covers rustle slightly. “Our neighbours must hate us,” Flo mumbles, voice muffled by your neck. You run your hand down her back, settling just above her bum.

“Sorry?”

She lifts her head up, hair stuck the side of her cheeks, sex-teased and knotted. “The neighbours. They must hate us.”

You shrug, “fuck the neighbours.”

“Ah, I bet they say ‘the neighbours fuck’ over there.” You laugh at her stupid joke, enjoying her lazy grin. “I think you’re going to make me lose my voice one of these days.”

You both sound pretty hoarse.

“I shouldn’t have avoided you.” She frowns. You press a kiss to the top of her head. “I was angry at everyone; angry about the things people were saying, angry about the way you wouldn’t say anything. It was so frustrating to be cast aside so quickly, seemingly not being an option or a factor in anything to do with your love life. I felt so insulted, and I felt like you weren’t standing up for me.”

She lets you talk.

“I’m sorry for not hearing you out sooner,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to hers. “I love you, but I was so hurt and loving you was making it worse.”

“I get it,” she replies carefully. “The media flips so quickly, always picking sides and making up sources. I’m sorry for not standing up for you.”

You realise it’s not her fault. She doesn’t really get to choose the management of things like this.

You smile. She nudges you. “A screaming match?”

Shit. Training.

“We did!”

“I’m pretty sure screaming matches involving orgasms are just… sex.”

“They’re not going to suspect a thing,” you say slyly. She rolls her eyes and moves off you, allowing you to get dressed.

You leave in the next ten minutes, calling her to say goodbye.

- - -

In the changing rooms at the end of a session you barely made it to, the girls change and shower like they normally do.

Beside you, however, is one very stunned Katie Mccabe. Her mouth agape, she begins to attract a curious few.

“What’s wrong with Katie?” Leah questions suspiciously, eyes following the direction everyone is pointing in.

You stand with a guilty expression. Your sports bra only covers some of the many, many hickeys littering your body. Beth smirks and tells you to turn around.

They gasp at the state of your back.

“That’s gotta be painful,” mutters Raffa, shaking her head. She smiles soon, though. It’s hard to not be proud of you.

“Some screaming match you had,” Leah huffs bitterly. “Can’t believe I explained your relationship issues to Jonas. Twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridleypugh @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @xsophiesx @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz @wandasbb @karsonromanoff

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jpitha · 5 months

Text

Between the Black and Grey 33

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Gord... floats.

He lays on his back in the pool, staring up at the window. Beyond is the deep blue-black of space, with the interior lights of the room blocking all except the brightest stars.

Suddenly, he flips into the water, pushes off the wall and swims laps. Three, then Five, then Ten. Back and forth, back and forth. When he can swim no more, he rolls back onto his back and floats.

He does this two or three more times, and a woman enters the pool room. She's very tall, over two meters, with long silver-white hair and an imperious expression. Her lips purse and she crosses her arms. "Gord you are going to rust if you don't get out."

Gord's eyes flick to her, and he turns his head. "Don't be racist, Chloe."

Chloe harrumphs. "You've been swimming for more than an hour Gord. It's time to come back to the world of the living."

Gord stands. The shallow side pool is only a meter and a half deep, he's in the water up to his head. "Chloe, you can't have come all the way down here to just to bother me into getting back to work. What's wrong?"

Chloe snaps her ankles together and dives into the deep end of the pool. Her form is tight, controlled. When she enters the water there is barely a splash and she dolphin kicks up to him. She surfaces behind him and puts her arms around his chest tightly. Her head rests on his shoulder. "Please Gord. Come out."

Gord turns around and returns the hug. Chloe doesn't seem bothered by her wet clothes. "Fine."

They both climb out of the pool and Gord throws Chloe a towel. She peels off her sopping wet dress and dries off. She wraps up in the towel and grabs another for her long hair.

In the locker room, they get dressed. Chloe's locker has a change of clothes in it already. When Gord sees this, he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Gord makes his way up to his office. As he passes people in the hall, he greets them and makes conversation. The more people he talks to, the more agitated Chloe seems. There aren't too many of them yet, but more than Gord has seen in centuries. It's important to him to say hello and ask after them.

Finally, they enter Gord's office. Chloe rolls her eyes. His office is an anachronism, just like him. In the center is a large desk, made of real wood. She has always wondered where he got it. Soon after they arrived and he started up his operation it appeared one day. The rest of the office is done up in muted tans and browns. A carpet quiets their footsteps, the walls are colored in an innocuous tan color, like a pale beach sand. The lighting overhead is muted and diffused, and there is a lamp on his desk. In the corner is a coffee machine.

Gord walks over and makes a cup of coffee. As it hisses and bubbles Chloe grows more impatient. He takes his time. Once it has finished, he pours it into an old battered mug and carries it to his desk.

As he sits at his desk a small grunt escapes his mouth. He takes a sip of the steaming brew and nodding to himself, puts it down on a coaster. He takes the pad and glances at it, while Chloe sits at one of the comfortable seats on the other side. She waits while he looks at his pad. He continues to look while Chloe tries to find something to do with her hands. She puts them together on her lap, then takes them off and grips the arm rests. She shakes the damp hair off her shoulder. Her leg twitches. There's an antique mechanical clock on the wall in the office. Every time Chloe sees it she shakes her head. It's always running but never at the correct time. As she sits and waits for Gord, the ticking grows louder, and louder, and louder. It feels like it's ticking on her skull.

A small smile escapes Gord's lips.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you, Gord." Chloe says testily.

"You were always so easy to wind up Chloe. Good to see time hasn't changed that." He looks up from his pad. "I'm also waiting for Spyglass to arrive. She pinged me while we were walking up to my office."

Just then, there's a knock - a real, knuckles upon the door knock - and the door slides open. A woman enters, shorter than Gord, much shorter than Chloe. Her dark hair is tightly curled naturally on her head, and she's wearing the inner suit from a spacesuit, form fitting and leaving nothing to the imagination. Chloe's stare could melt tungsten, but the woman doesn't seem to care. "Hey Gord, hey Chloe. Sorry if I kept you waiting!" She takes the seat next to Chloe without waiting to be invited to sit.

"Gord puts the pad down. "Hey there Spyglass. How's the body?"

She smiles and shakes her shoulders and it jiggles - just a little bit. Chloe rolls her eyes again. "It works great Gord. I'm just distracting enough that people don't look too hard, but not so distracting that I'm attracting too much of the wrong attention. That's actually why I came back, I have news from Sol."

"Oh? Something too important to send in a beacon?"

Spy shrugs. "That and I got sick of all the BIs. I need some time off."

Gord smiles and leans back in his chair. It squeaks slightly. "Well then, give us a debrief and you can have a few days off."

Spy nods and unfolds her own Pad. "So rumor on the Floating Cities is that the Empress doesn't have her powers anymore."

Gord's relaxed posture falls away. He leans forward. "Her powers are what?"

"Gone" Spy's eyes flick up to meet his. "No official word of course, and everything coming out of the Floating Cities is that everything is fine, but there is talk."

Chloe nods to herself. "Sounds like it's time to attack. We should prepare immediately."

Spy looks at Chloe, and then at Gord. He makes a face at Chloe, but doesn't reply. Spy continues. "Anyway. Word has been swirling around for a little less than a month before I left. If it's true, it's just happened. They're trying to keep it as quiet as they can, but she has attendants, and they talk." Spyglass winks. "Especially when properly motivated."

Chloe makes a horrified face.

"Pillow talk has been a source of intel for millennia Chloe, you know that. You think you're above the humans and all of their biological impulses, but it's still a valid source, and has provided us some of our most valuable insights." Spyglass shrugs. "Plus, it's fun."

Gord leans back in his seat. "We need people of all kinds, Chloe. Spyglass's up front infiltration as well as your behind the scenes management. We're more than three people now. We have to cover all our bases. That said-" Gord flips through his pad. "-We are still fewer than five hundred Chloe. We're in no shape to retaliate. We have to be more subtle. Spy, do we know why the Empress lost her powers? I know the Nanites are fickle."

"No insight into that yet Gord. I've put feelers out, but the galaxy is a big place. Speaking of that, turn to the other report I sent." Gord, Chloe and Spy all look at their pads. "The pirate Hemmi Navarren has started operating again. Looks like the coup against him was overturned. The Heap has moved twice in the last month, and we're getting reports from Imperial vessels that they're being targeted."

"So?" Chloe scoffs. "What do we care about one K'laxi pirate?"

Spyglass turns to Chloe. "What is with this attitude Chloe? We're all on the same team and we're all moving in concert towards the same goal. I don't need you scoffing and rolling your eyes - yes I can see that - at everything I say. We care because Hemmi seems to be attacking Imperial ships nearly exclusively and because of his daughter."

Chloe opens her mouth to reply and then stops. Her expression softens and she tries again. "I apologize Spyglass. I was in a mood from something earlier and I let that color our interaction. I will do better in the future. Why is Hemmi's daughter important? I thought the K'laxi didn't think of their progeny that way?"

"Thank you Chloe, I accept your apology. We all have bad days. As for his kids, Hemmi is different, apparently. He doesn't mind who the mother is, but he has paternity tests done on all the kits and gives special attention to 'his.' Zherun Navarren is his oldest and current most likely person to take over his organization."

Gord puts the pad down. "That's all good intel Spy, but I think I have to agree with Chloe here. Why do we care about one mid-tier K'laxi pirate and his daughter?"

"Because of who Zherun is currently with. She's been seen as the one of the commanders of a new mercenary group." She grins wickedly. "A group that's headed by Fenchurch Whitehorse."

"Hah!" Gord slaps the top of his desk. The sharp noise causes Chloe to jump in her chair. "Fen! I knew she'd turn out all right. She's got her own ship?"

Spy nods. "Yes, a former Imperial frigate. It's legally registered in her name, and we can't seem to figure out how she got it. It passes all cursory and even most in-depth checks of ownership."

Gord whistles low. "Nice work Fen. I'll have to ask her how she got it one day. Any other news about Fen?"

"She's running with a small group. Her, Zherun, an AI an a few other K'laxi. They're sticking to small jobs, trying to build networks."

Chloe's head snaps to Spy. "Who is the AI?"

"It's Northern Lights." Spy looks up at Gord.

Gord isn't looking at them. He was staring off into nothing. "Northern Lights is still alive. Holy Shit. It's been..." He blinks and looks at them both. "Sorry, I haven't heard from Northern since before the purge and I was sure she was gone. To find out she's not only alive, but active in this day and age? Shit. We have to find them. I want to say hi to Fen, but I really want to talk to Northern. Where are they?"

"As of a week ago they were on their way to Picaresque. They're probably still there."

Gord stands. "Come on Spy, Chloe. Let's go visit a friend."

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