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shiinata-library · 4 months ago

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Imagine: First kiss with them

Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Bilbo's first kiss with you

[ 📚 Main Imagines Masterlist 📚 ]

Thorin

Thorin often thought about kissing you. A lot, in fact. Alright, too many times. Maybe because you’re often very close to him. Physically. Maybe because he likes how you are with him. Or maybe because he is in love with you. But he is a dwarf, a dwarf prince actually, so he shouldn’t do it on an impulse, without courting you first. It wouldn’t be proper, right? Yet, it would be easier, if you wouldn’t be so attractive. It’s your fault! Why do you smile like that every time you look at him ?

Everytime you’re alone with Thorin, in the evening next to the fire or in the morning when everyone packs their things while you’re already done (it’s fast when you have nothing), you wonder how you could be more than friend with him. Do dwarves have any rules about dating? One evening, you ask for advice from Fíli and Kíli. Worst decision ever. As soon as you see their smiles, you regret asking them. Between their “why?”, “which?”, or “tell us everything!”, you will never have your answer, and you don’t dare ask anyone else. Maybe Balin could help you, but he already has a lot to do.

When things start to be serious with Goblin-town, orcs and Eagles, you decide to focus on the quest, trying to survive. Thorin notices something has changed when he talks to you, as if an invisible wall has been built. You’re not distant, but he doesn’t catch your eyes as often as usual, or you go to sleep as soon as you eat, no longer spending time chatting together. Things like this made his days better during this long, dangerous quest.

“Are you alright?” he has the courage to ask you a night as he closes the front door of Beorn’s house while you’re sitting on a bench. “Yes, I just need a little fresh air. It’s so peaceful here, so I try to enjoy it the most I can,” you say, barely looking at him as he sits next to you. “Dwarves can be loud outside, but it’s worse inside, right?” he says in his usual serious tone. “Yeah, wait! I didn’t mean…” you hurry to say, looking suddenly at him as you raise your both hands in panic. Despite his serious tone, his eyes are smiling like his nephew used to after a joke. Once you chuckle, Thorin gets back to his usual behaviour with you. Then, you both talk like you used to when you can’t fall asleep some night during the journey, before the goblins, orcs and eagles, before even Rivendell. A long time ago…

It’s quiet and dark as you open your eyes slowly, feeling a weird sensation of falling. Thorin is just above you, his face close enough for you to smell the pipe-weed and leather. You slowly blink. His tempting lips just a few centimetres from yours. It could only be a dream, right?

Someone will tell you later that you fell asleep on Thorin’s shoulder and he carried you to your makeshift bed. He was about to put you in your bed when you opened your eyes. Thorin’s hands are still holding you, one on your back and the other on your hip. But you don’t know that. So you do as you used to in your dreams : with your hand on his cheek, you move your lips forward to kiss him, as slowly as a half-awake person could.

Thorin didn’t see it coming. Not at all. His hands drop you suddenly and you fall on your bed, forced to wake up now. The surprise quiets you as you understand it wasn’t a dream. What could you say? What could you do? Raising your head doesn’t help since you can’t read his eyes with the darkness of the room. Yet, his eyes don’t leave you, and he hasn’t left either.

“I-I’m sorry!” you eventually stammer. Oh it’s hard to speak! “I thought… I thought I was dreaming.” Remaining at the same place, Thorin clears his throat. “Of kissing me?” he says in the deepest voice you ever heard. “Well, hm, yes… But I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about Dwarves' customs about dating stuff. Please just forget it.” You stare at him, waiting nervously for his answers. He doesn’t move, but he eventually asks, “Was it better than your dreams?”

You don’t know how much time passed before you speak again, but it seems Thorin wasn’t joking, so you quietly answer him, “It was so much better…” The silence resumes again, yet you eventually notice his hand in your hair. Since when does he stroke your hair? It’s dark, but you see him smiling. Genuinely smiling. “I don’t know about Men’s culture either. Can I kiss you now?” he asks, hesitating. “Only if you want to…” you reply, hoping you have chosen the good words.

“Mahal, if you know what I want to…” he sighs before leaning a little to feel your lips again. As he could have barely tasted them before, he takes his time now to devour them. ‘His time’ until Dwalin bursts in, telling Thorin about the latest mistake his nephews had just made.

Kíli

Who knew that escaping a goblins’ horde would be scarier than facing them? As soon as they got out of Gobelins’ town, Kíli was free but it missed something. Or someone. You. He looked for you but didn’t see you anywhere. Only you and Bibo were missing. His brother and the others tried to reassure him but it was no use since they didn’t find you.

When you finally join them, totally breathless, Bilbo is finishing his speech. Kíli runs to you and hugs you as soon as he joins you. “I thought I’d lost you…” he sighs. “You won't get rid of me that easily,” you laugh. You always wanted to say that. In other circumstances, Kíli might have laughed, but not now. When he pulls back just enough to see you, you notice how scared he was. There's something different about his eyes. His hands on your arms tense but you stay quiet. The only thing you’re focused on is his lips approaching you slowly…

Too slowly! You both jump when Thorin is yelling for everyone to run away. Then, everything happens fast. Orcs, Bolg, wargs, eagles!

Are The Carrock safe? You really hope so because you’re so tired that you remain sitting on the ground, trying to tell your heart to calm down. Then, Thorin wakes up and hugs Bilbo under the eyes of everyone. You look at Erebor from where you are, enjoying the calm of the morning sunrise.

When you’re feeling better, you stand up, tapping your clothes to remove dust and twigs trapped inside. Erk you never have been so dirty! As you remove the last leaves in your hair, you’re thinking about joining the company until you hear someone approaching you.

“Amrâlimê?” Kíli says, just in front of you, close enough to see the fatigue on his face despite his bright smile. First, you think you've heard wrong. Obviously. He continues to walk toward you, then he hugs you as if it was the last you see each other. You close your arms around him. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he murmurs, his head still hidden in your neck. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver, but his smell comforts you. When he moves back a little, you notice how his hair is messy. You smile as you remove some leaves from it. Kíli looks at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he has ever seen despite the layer of dust still covering your face. But you don’t see it. You stop when he puts his forehead on yours. “As I said, you won't get rid of me that easily,” you say, this time making him laugh. “I hope so, Amrâlimê,” he murmurs as he moves back just enough to see your eyes. You try to say his Khuzdul word, and his smile confirms he understands you.

Then, the very next moment, his both hands slide over your cheeks to guide your face towards his. He waits a short time before kissing you, a long, tender kiss. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” he says before kissing you again. “I’m glad too,” you say before pulling him to a new deeper kiss, not noticing everyone is already leaving without you.

Fíli

Fíli and Kíli never left your side during the quest. They were always with you, protecting you or teasing you. From the Shire to… Rivendell.

In Rivendell, you feel safe enough to explore outside or inside alone. Everything is unbelievable. There is so much to see that it's a pleasure to explore both day and night. After some days here, you usually take a short walk after dinner, then you sit at a table in Elrond’s library. Not that you don't like the company, but it’s nice to spend a quiet evening reading an interesting book with the light of a candle.

“So you like books…” you hear as Fíli sits down on the chair next to you. After blocking the page you were reading, you turn back to him. With your finger over your mouth, you shush him, pointing at the elves reading at other tables. Thanks to a quill and a bottle of ink already on the table, you write on a piece of paper, “Once I finish this book, I'll join you outside.” After showing him the paper, he takes the quill and writes back, “I wait here”.

You frown first, but knowing he's one of the dwarves who can behave, you resume your lecture. Well, he usually behaves, but tonight, you don’t know why, he had decided otherwise. While you try to read the book, he does everything to distract you : making a hat with the paper, tickling you with the quill, blowing on your ear, … You resist until he touches your hair, making braiding a lock of your hair.

You’re sure everyone can hear your heart beating loudly. Wait, where’s everyone? Are they all left? Are you alone in this library with Fíli braiding your hair? When did it get so hot here?

As you still don’t pay attention to him, Fíli leans toward you. You know he is smirking. You know he is enjoying it. “What can I do to make you stop reading?” he whispers in a chuckling tone. Teasing you is one of his favourite things during the journey. Especially when you’re alone. But here, now, you don’t know how to react. It’s not teasing, for you it’s flirting. And he never flirted like that.

You pretend you’re reading the book but all your senses are on Fíli. So, when he suddenly kisses your cheek, your body reacts alone, turning your head toward him. In no time, his lips are on yours. Even though you’re surprised at first, you’re totally melting then. The book falls off your hand and you feel Fíli laughing. Yet, since you grab his jacket and kiss him back, he deepens the kiss, leaving both of you breathless when he pulls back. “If I'd known…” he starts before you kiss him again, not letting him speak with his teasing tone.

Bilbo

Danger was everywhere during your journey, but when you arrived at Beorn’s, you could finally relax. It has been a long time since you felt safe, so you truly enjoy it.

An evening after dinner with everyone, you’re both sitting outside on the grass, in the allowed area that Beorn told you. Thanks to the usual sounds of the night, it’s quiet and relaxing. Bilbo had joined you with tea and Beorn’s cakes, and now you’re chatting. For once, you look at the sky without worrying of the weather…

“It couldn’t be better,” you say while a light breeze blows on your hair as you drink tea. “I don’t remember the last time we were in a safe place. Safe with tea and cake! And that diner! Perfect! What more could we ask? Wine maybe.” Bilbo laughs with you. You both talk until it’s totally dark except the light coming from the house’s windows. Bilbo and you are used to chatting in the evenings. Just with him or with some other dwarves. Silence eventually takes over when you run out of things to talk about. It’s a peaceful landscape on the horizon if you don’t think of the orcs in the east or the spiders in the west.

Lost in your mind, you grab another piece of Beorn’s cake. With all the honey on it, you can't help but lick your fingers. A sound coming from Bilbo makes you turn towards him instinctively. He stares at you, while you –not elegantly– struggle to chew the large piece of cake in your mouth. Trying to understand him, you analyse him, your eyes remaining maybe too long on his lips, but anyway! Why is he staring at you? Did you eat the last cakes? Oh, he wouldn't be happy… He breathes silently before asking you, “Can I kiss you?”.

He almost looks as surprised as you by his own courage. “Wh-what?” you could only say with your mouth full of cake. After swallowing everything quickly and with difficulty, you resume, “Kiss? Who? Me? Now? But I’m eating.” Bilbo is not moving a bit, waiting for your answer. Does he even breathe? Do you breathe? Then, he tries a smile, “Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

With your sleeves, you hurry to wipe your mouth, then you reply to him, “Yes! Absolutely yes!”. In no time, he slides his hands on your cheeks to pull you to his lips. He starts with a shy kiss. Progressively, Bilbo deepens it, making you fall backwards on the grass. He follows you, staying above, not stopping the kiss for a moment.

While a hand keeps him from falling on you, his other grips your waist firmly. You didn’t know he could be so eager to kiss you. Maybe you should stop him… “Beorn’s cake tastes better on your tongue,” he pants just before resuming the kiss. Alright, who would stop him, right? Forgetting everything except him, you slide your arms around his head and continue to taste his delicious lips, until you hear something far away. An orc’s cry. An orc dying. Then, nothing, not even a night animal. You both stopped when you heard it. “We should go inside,” you whisper. “Yes, indeed…” Bilbo says, looking where the cry was coming from. “I’m sure we can make some tea,” you try as you put everything Bilbo brought on a plate. He stands up, takes the plate, and kisses you quickly. “You’re right. Let’s go inside,” he says, walking to the house with a cute, cocky smile.

#the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit imagines #imagine #thorin x reader #kili x reader #fili x reader #bilbo x reader #bilbo baggins x reader #first kiss #the hobbit x reader

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incogrio · 8 months ago

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박종성 - park jongseong who…

jay bf hcs ~ gn! reader ~ genre: fluff

jungwon, heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon, sunoo, riki

. jay who, whenever he wants to shut you up, simply grabs you by the back of your neck and softly presses your head to his chest

. jay who squishes your cheeks together whenever you’re looking at him for a while

. jay who cooks you meals and packs your lunch

. jay who is constantly worried of being too cold to you

. jay who always fails to kiss you without smiling

. jay who gets annoyed whenever heeseung steals you to play video games

. jay who, if you’re american, would love to teach you korean and use you to bicker w jake over pronunciations and certain words

. jay who bought one of those digital vintage cameras and is always taking candid pics of you

. jay who has a picture of you on his bedside table at hotels

. jay who is old fashioned, who wants to set you up for a jobless happy life

. jay who only shows his full smile around you and his members

. jay who dressed up as an eagle for halloween just to make you laugh

. jay who refuses to grow out his hair just because you told him you prefer short hair

comment, dm, do a jig and i’ll add to the taglist

don’t forget your daily click!

requests are open :3

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schemmentigfs · 4 days ago

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Inhale, Exhale, Repeat.

Summary: Melissa Schemmenti has always been good at hiding her worst habits, but when her smoking starts to get worse, it becomes harder to keep it from you.

WC: 7.75k.

Warnings: smoking addiction, talks about death and alcoholism, mentions of mommy issues.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

There’s no denying it. The smoke is part of her.

It clings to the fibers of her faded Philadelphia Eagles pajama top, the thick wool absorbing every exhale, holding onto it like a secret. It lives in the creases of her knuckles, in the grooves of her fingerprints, in the spaces between her perfectly white teeth, where the taste of tobacco lingers long after she speaks. It settles in her hair, red curls trapping the scent until it’s impossible to tell where Melissa Schemmenti ends and the smoke begins.

She exhales into the dark Tuesday night, standing on the back porch, the tip of her cigarette glowing like an ember in the dark. The air is cold, sharp enough to bite, but her lungs are warmer. Burning, aching, swelling with every drag she takes. It’s routine, almost second nature, the slow pull between her lips, the moment of silent stillness before she lets the smoke unfurl from her mouth like a sigh.

But tonight, something feels different.

The second-grade teacher flicks the ashes off the tip, watching them scatter like tiny embers in the wind. The inhale that follows is deeper than usual, too deep. A tightness grips her chest, an invisible hand squeezing, twisting. The sting climbs up her throat, a cough rising from the depths of her ribs, dry and relentless. She doubles over, the cigarette slipping from her fingers, falling onto the wooden boards below. The glow fades, smothered beneath the sole of her slippers.

Melissa braces herself against the railing, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to catch her breath. It shouldn’t be this bad. She’s always smoked. Her first encounter with cigarettes had been when she was too young to even understand them, when she stole one from Uncle Tony’s glove compartment, hiding behind the schoolyard to try it, to let the heat settle in her lungs and make her feel older than she really was—only to be caught by her mother’s boyfriend before she even got the chance to try. It didn’t stop her. If anything, the urge only grew.

The real deal began when she was seventeen, since she found her first crumpled pack in the pocket of a boy she never loved. Nicotine kissed her harder than he ever could, settling deep in her lungs, making a home there. It stayed through heartbreaks, through fights with her mother, through lost friendships, through the discovery of her bisexuality, through long nights at the bar in center city Philadelphia where she drank whiskey and vodka she didn’t even like—just to have something to do with her hands. It stayed through the years, through every stress-tightened jaw, through the ache in her bones when the world felt too heavy.

It lingered through her troubled marriage with Joe, in the years she tried to convince herself that love and habit were the same thing. Through arguments muffled by the thin walls of their home, when he sighed impatiently as she tripped over her words, her tongue twisting over syllables that never came as easily to her as they did to others. Through nights when she held an open book in front of her eyes, the letters dancing on the page, tangling together like a code she could never quite decipher.

When Joe grew frustrated with her struggles, impatient with the bills she miscalculated, with the messages she took too long to read. “Are you fucking stupid? It’s not that hard,” he would say, rubbing his temples, and she would taste the bitterness of humiliation before even bringing the cigarette to her lips. It stayed when she realized they spoke different languages. Not because they came from different worlds, but because he never tried to understand hers. When he told her she just needed to try harder, that it was all a matter of focus, of discipline. As if she hadn’t spent her entire life trying to fit into a world where letters betrayed her.

It remained when love became routine, when the silences stretched too long, and conversations were reduced to reminders about bills and grocery lists. When he went to bed early, and she stayed up on the porch, taking slow drags, watching the city fade into darkness, feeling the weight of every mistake settle on her shoulders. The cigarette never judged her, never made her feel small. It was the one constant.

Then, after the paniful divorce, came you.

Not as a miracle, not as a cure, but as a breath. A pause in the middle of a road that had been too long. You appeared without promises, without demands, simply existing with a patience no one had ever had for her. You never complained when she took too long to reply to messages, when she read words slowly, spelling them out under her breath without realizing it. You never sighed in frustration when she forgot how to spell something simple or mixed up letters without noticing. Instead, you just laughed softly and waited.

For the first time in her life, Melissa Schemmenti felt like she could make mistakes without fear.

Your marriage was the best thing that ever happened to her. Not because it was perfect, but because it was real. Because you fought and made up, because you cupped her face when she got too tense, because you knew exactly when to talk and when to just be there with her. Because, after so many years of feeling like she had to fight to be understood, she finally found someone who understood her without her having to say a word.

And then came Amelia. Small, freckled, wide-eyed, with a stubbornness that made Melissa laugh in exhaustion. The little girl who called her Ma or Mama with a certainty that melted away any hardness left in her. Who stuffed her tiny fingers into your wife’s pockets looking for candy, who made up songs about absolutely everything, who tugged on the hem of her shirt and asked to be carried even when she was already too big for it. Amelia, who made the redhead realize that life could be so much more than just surviving.

But the cigarette never left.

Not when you softly asked her to try quitting, not when your daughter wrinkled her nose and said the smell was bad. Never when Melissa was alone late at night, sitting on the porch like she had for years, looking at the city and feeling the weight of the day on her shoulders. It was an old friend, a habit rooted deep, something that had always been there, as if it was a part of her.

Your love was the best thing in her life. Amelia was the best thing in her life.

And yet, somehow, the cigarette always stayed.

Even though smoking only made her feel completely exhausted.

But still, no matter where she is, no matter what’s happening or who’s watching—those green eyes always find a way to smoke.

A day after work at Abbott Elementary? When the fluorescent lights burned into her skull, and the endless chatter of teachers and kids drained her patience? She’s outside, on the corner where no one can see, a cigarette between her fingers before she even realizes it.

At a family gathering? At some Schemmenti cousin’s wedding, where everyone is laughing too loud, drinking too much? She’s slipping away to the parking lot, lighting a cigarette next to an aunt who’s been doing the same thing since the ‘80s.

A night at home with you and your daughter? When dinner is done, the dishes are washed, and the house is quiet except for the quiet hum of the television or the fridge? She’s stepping out the back door, telling herself it’s just one, just a quick break.

It doesn’t matter if it’s raining. If it’s freezing. If she’s sick. It doesn’t matter that she once promised to quit at the start of your marriage.

Melissa smokes.

Her chest burns, not with the familiar warmth of nicotine, but with something rougher, something she doesn’t want to name. She spits onto the ground, wipes the back of her hand across her lips, and breathes through the tightness, waiting for it to pass. It does, eventually. It always does. But as the redheaded woman pulls another cigarette from the pack with trembling fingers, as she cups her hands around the lighter to shield the flame from the wind, she wonders. Just for a moment—if the smoke is taking more than it’s giving. If, one day, it won’t let her breathe at all.

Glancing at the watch on her wrist, your wife sighs.

She should head inside.

She knows that.

The night is getting colder, the sharp wind cutting through her frame, the scent of rain clinging to the concrete of the porch. Inside, you and Amelia are warm, probably curled up under a blanket, watching some cartoon the little girl insists on rewatching over and over. She knows that if she opens the door right now, she’ll see Amelia yawning, her heavy head resting on your shoulder, red curls falling over sleepy eyes.

She should be in there with you both.

But instead, she’s out here, hunched against the wind, her fingers cold around the cigarette burning slowly between them. The bitter smell blends with the damp night air, soaking into her senses in a way that should be comforting. It should help quiet the restlessness under her skin, that weight in her chest she can’t name.

The cigarette is almost gone, the ember crackling at the tip, and Melissa should stub it out against the step and go inside. But her fingers hesitate.

There’s a thought poking at the edges of her mind, something she’s been trying to ignore for years. The same voice that whispers every time she wakes up coughing in the middle of the night. That appears when you give her that disappointed look without saying anything, when Amelia covers her nose frowning and says. “Ew, Ma, bad smell!” before running off.

For the first time in a long time, she wonders if this is really giving more than it’s taking.

Melissa lifts the cigarette to her lips but doesn’t inhale. Just holds it there, feeling the ember die slowly, the smoke curling upward without her drawing it in. Then, finally, with a sigh, she drops it to the ground and crushes it under her foot, taking a little longer than necessary.

The warmth of the house wraps around her the moment she steps inside—but it doesn’t sink in. The cold has settled too deep, buried in her bones like an old secret, a weight she carries without noticing. She closes the back door carefully, her fingers still unsteady, her ears straining for any sound from you or Amelia.

The residence breathes in the dim light.

It’s not completely silent—the buzz of the enormous rectangular television fills the air, a cartoon casting flickering colors against the walls.

The scene is familiar, almost comforting.

You must have fallen asleep on the plastic covered couch, Amelia likely curled up somewhere nearby, her small body rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

Good.

She walks through the kitchen with light steps, moving with the precision of someone who has done this before, many, many times.

Her hands find their way on their own to the cabinet above the fridge, where she hides her little refuge. Behind the box of old pasta, next to the half-empty bottle of whiskey she promised not to touch again. Her fingers slide along the edge of the cardboard, pulling it down.

It’s almost empty.

She swallows hard. Opens the box, counts. Three missing.

It’s not enough.

Not when her chest still feels like it’s caught in an invisible vise, not when the bitter taste of nicotine and alcohol still lingers on her tongue, leaving her restless, anxious. Just one more. Just one more to ease the weight on her shoulders, to calm the subtle tremor in her hands.

The sound of a floorboard creaking cuts through the air.

Melissa freezes.

“Mama?”

The voice is small, delicate, still laced with sleep, but sharp enough to split her in two.

She closes her eyes for a brief moment before turning around.

Amelia stands in the doorway, a fragile silhouette against the dim light. Her cotton pajamas bunch at her feet, reddish-brown curls falling in messy waves around her round face. The green eyes—the same ones your wife sees every morning in the mirror—lock onto her, first on her face, then on the counter, where the box rests.

Melissa swallows, wets her lips before speaking.

“What are you doing up, sweetheart?” Her tone comes out low, calm, as if the artificial tranquility could mask the weight pressing on her chest.

Her daughter rubs one eye with her small fist, taking a hesitant step forward. “I heard you coughing.”

The older woman forces a smile, quick and rehearsed. “Oh, that?” She shakes her head, feigning indifference. “It was nothing, just something caught in my throat.” With careful movements, she slides the box away, shoving the pack into her pocket as if nothing had happened. “You should be in bed. It’s late.”

The furrowed brow tells her Amelia isn’t buying it. “Why are you hiding?”

The knot in her stomach tightens.

Lying to you is one thing. You complain, roll your eyes, swat at the pack of cigarettes until it falls from her fingers, muttering about how she smells like some rundown bar. But Amelia… Amelia watches. Amelia learns. Sees right through her, straight to the parts Melissa Schemmenti isn’t proud of.

“I’m not hiding,” the green-eyed woman says, her voice softer now. She crouches down, leveling herself with her daughter’s gaze. “I just didn’t want to wake you.” She reaches out, brushing a curl from Amelia’s cheek. “Did I wake you?”

The little girl hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “I woke up because you weren’t there.”

The blow is small, almost innocent. But it lands deep, like a knife sinking in slowly. Before she can respond, another voice cuts through the moment.

“Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti.”

Her name, spoken in the way only you say it.

She lifts her gaze and finds you there, just a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest. Your eyes drift from the forgotten box on the counter to hers, and Melissa feels guilt spread through her stomach like hot tar.

You don’t have to say anything.

She sighs, long and heavy, then pulls the pack from her pocket, placing it on the cold surface of the countertop. A small surrender. A silent apology.

Amelia watches the exchange in silence before you crouch down and extend a hand toward her. “Come on, baby,” you murmur softly. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

The six-year-old hesitates for a moment, green eyes flickering to Melissa. Something in her gaze—so full of an understanding far too big for her small body—makes the redhead hold her breath.

She looks at her other mother one last time before nodding and letting you take her away for a night rest.

Your wife waits until you disappear down the hallway before turning her attention back to the pack of cigarettes.

She wants to reach for them. Desperately.

But her fingers don’t move.

The soft click of Amelia’s wooden door closing barely echoes down the hall before you reappear in the kitchen seconds later.

Your silence is a sentence.

Arms crossed over your chest, you don’t need to say a word. Looking at Melissa, it’s as if you already know exactly what’s about to happen, as if this conversation has already played out countless times before.

And maybe it has.

The redhead sighs deeply, tilting her head back. Her fingertips press against her faint headache. “Hon. Look, before you start—”

“Oh, I’m going to start!” you cut in, stepping forward. “You promised, Lis. You promised you’d cut back.”

She rolls her eyes, letting out a humorless laugh. “I have cut back.”

“Not enough.” Your gaze flickers to the nearly empty pack on the counter. “You were outside, coughing like your lungs were about to give out, and your first thought was what? Lighting another one?”

“That’s not how it happened,” she mutters, looking away.

“It is how it happened,” you counter, your voice tinged with exasperated exhaustion. “You’re fooling yourself if you think it wasn’t.”

Melissa’s jaw tightens, teeth clenching. “I said I’d quit.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“This time, I mean it.”

Your shoulders drop slightly, your breath unsteady as you release it. For a moment, the fury burning beneath your skin gives way to something much more fragile.

“Mel…” your voice comes out small, almost pleading. “I don’t want Amelia to wake up one day and realize her mother isn’t okay. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

Melissa looks at you—really looks at you this time. Your face is an open book she doesn’t want to read. Beneath the exhaustion, beneath the quiet disappointment, there’s something else.

Fear.

And that’s what disarms her.

She exhales slowly, running a hand over her face before stepping forward, resting her warm hands on your waist. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll stop.”

Your eyes search hers, looking for any trace of hesitation. “Do you mean it?”

She nods. “Yes. I do.”

Your body relaxes instantly. The tension in your shoulders melts away, your breathing evens out, and Melissa hates how easy it is to make you believe her.

Because it’s a lie.

You pull her close, burying your face in her shoulder, releasing a relieved sigh against her skin. “Thank you,” you whisper.

She wraps her arms around you, her hands gliding up and down your back. Behind you, her fingers subtly shift.

Fingers crossed.

A childhood trick, a silent pact that the words spoken hold no weight. A habit she’s never been able to shake since she first started lying to her mother for the sake of her own sanity.

You can’t see it. And that makes it easier.

Melissa closes her eyes, inhaling your sweet scent, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair.

She’ll stop.

You pull back slightly, fingers clutching the soft fabric of her shirt. The anger is still there, pulsing beneath the surface, but something more delicate has taken its place. A flicker of hope.

Melissa sees it in your eyes, and for a second, she feels guilty.

But then you sigh, tilt your face up, and press your lips to hers—slowly, as if reaffirming your belief in every touch. She gives in. She always gives in. Your mouth is warm and familiar, the taste of mint from your toothpaste still lingering.

Melissa loses herself in the kiss, her hands gliding down your back, holding you with the naïve hope that this might somehow make the moment last forever.

She wishes it could.

You pull back gently, your thumbs stroking her jaw with tenderness. “Let’s rest. Come to bed, you have to wake up early for work tomorrow,” you whisper.

“Alright.” She nods.

The older woman lets you take her hand, lets you lead her through the sleeping house, past the hallway where Amelia sleeps peacefully behind a closed door.

The bedroom is warm, the sheets still messy from the last time you left them. She watches as you nestle under the blankets, leaving space beside you.

She joins you, allowing your bodies to mold together in their usual perfect fit. Your breathing slows quickly, sleep pulling you away.

Melissa stays awake.

Your arm is still draped over her, but her fingers tremble against the fabric of the sheets. Olive eyes locked on the ceiling like a hawk’s, her mind spirals with tangled thoughts.

She should feel worse. She should feel like a terrible person for lying to you, for crossing her fingers like some foolish child.

But all she feels is the craving.

It pulses through her blood, insistent, uncontrollable.

She inhales slowly, her eyes drifting to the dresser, to the spot where she used to hide them before you found out.

She’ll have to find a new place.

Maybe the garage. Maybe the glove compartment in the car. Maybe the toolbox drawer, tucked behind the old screwdrivers she never uses.

Melissa closes her eyes and tilts her head, pressing one last kiss to your hair.

“I’ll quit,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t believe it.

Not yet.

Hours pass. The house is silent, save for the soft hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of your breathing against her chest.

Melissa stays still, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the curve of your back beneath the blanket. She doesn’t know if you’re fully asleep, but she doesn’t dare move—not out of fear of waking you, but because she likes this.

The weight of your body on hers.

The warmth.

The illusion of peace.

She knows what you want. You want her to get better. To be honest. To be the kind of person who can stop just because she said she would.

And maybe she wants that too.

But the craving is still there. It always is.

Green eyes flicker to the bedroom door, her mind already mapping out the next hiding place.

She could slip out early, before you wake up. Light a cigarette in the cold, let the smoke curl around her like an old friend, fill her lungs before stepping back inside and pretending she never left.

She sighs, resting her head against the pillow.

Maybe one day she’ll stop.

Maybe.

But for now, she just crosses her fingers again beneath the sheets and allows herself a weak, small, secret smile.

Just a little lie.

One you’ll never see.

The days pass in a quiet, careful rhythm. Melissa plays her role well.

She wakes up beside you, presses lazy kisses to your temple, whispers; “Good morning, honey,” as if nothing is gnawing at her mind. She makes Amelia’s breakfast, ruffles her red curls, helps tie her shoes when her little fingers fail at the bow. She goes to work, comes home, lets you kiss her at the door like she’s been good.

She smiles when you look at her. Makes sure her hands don’t smell like smoke.

She lies.

And she’s good at it. Too good.

At first, she smokes just one—just one—before driving home, the window cracked open to let the cold air carry away the evidence. She tells herself it will be the last, but then there’s another, and another, and before she knows it, she’s back at the beginning.

Hiding. Avoiding. Pretending.

She stashes a pack in the garage, behind an old toolbox, and another in the glove compartment. Starts carrying gum, washes her hands twice, rolls the windows down while driving.

And you don’t notice.

Or maybe you don’t want to notice. Maybe you want to believe her just as much as she wants you to.

Melissa should feel worse. Should feel guilty when you curl up against her shoulder at night, when you whisper. “Thank you for keeping your promise. I’m so proud of you, my love.”

She only kisses your forehead and pulls you closer, pressing her lips together to keep the truth from slipping out.

Then, on a night like any other, Amelia runs into the kitchen, holding something in her small hands.

“Mommy, look!” she sings.

Melissa gulps.

You turn away from the stove, drying your hands on a dish towel with a soft smile. “What is it?”

Amelia grins, holding up a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Melissa’s stomach plummets. And your own smile falters instantly.

“I found it in the car,” your daughter says excitedly, as if it were some kind of treasure. “It smells funny, just like Ma.”

And suddenly, your eyes meet your wife’s.

The moment stretches—long and heavy.

Amelia, oblivious, shakes the pack, laughing at the sound it makes.

Melissa Schemmenti swallows hard, but her throat is dry.

This time, she doesn’t have a lie ready.

Silence fills the space like a dense fog.

You don’t say anything but your eyes remain locked on Melissa’s, and she feels the weight of your gaze. The silence, the tension, the unspoken accusation—all of it presses against her chest like a slow, crushing force.

She opens her mouth to speak, to find something—anything—to say, but then it happens.

A sudden tightness, sharp and relentless.

Melissa coughs.

Once. Twice. It scrapes against her throat like sandpaper, vibrating in her lungs.

The burning sensation spreads quickly, hot and suffocating, clawing at her ribs. She grips the counter, her knuckles turning white as she struggles to steady herself, but her chest won’t expand properly.

Too tight. Too small.

Her vision blurs at the edges.

She tries to inhale, but the air won’t come.

“Baby?!” Your scream cuts through the haze, sharp with panic. “You’re scaring me!”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is another harsh cough—deep, hollow, tearing through her chest on its way out.

Her knees buckle.

She barely registers the sound of Amelia’s laughter fading away, the way her tiny voice turns wobbly and scared. “Ma?”

Melissa staggers, her hand slipping from the counter.

The room tilts.

And then—

Darkness.

She doesn’t hear anything. She doesn’t hear the way Amelia’s breath hitches, how she lets the pack of cigarettes slip from her fingers, landing on the floor with a soft crumpled noise. She doesn’t see the little girl’s hands start to tremble as she reaches for her, tugging at her sleeve with growing urgency.

“Ma? Ma, wake up!” The voice rises, cracking into a desperate sob.

Melissa doesn’t hear.

She doesn’t hear anything anymore.

Panic floods the kitchen, a whirlwind of cries and tiny, frantic hiccups. Amelia screams, clutching at her sleeve with trembling hands, pulling harder and harder with each passing second. Her wide eyes shine with fear.

You move before you can even think, knees hitting the floor as you kneel beside Melissa’s unconscious body. “Lissa!” Your voice shakes, your breath coming fast and uneven. Your hands grasp her face, fingers pressing against her pale cheeks. “Baby, listen to me!”

But Melissa doesn’t respond. Not at all.

Her heart is still beating—you can feel it beneath your palm, pounding irregularly, desperate. But her breathing is erratic, weak, her chest rising and falling in broken patterns.

You know what’s happening.

Guilt mixes with fear as your fingers tremble, pressing against the side of her neck, feeling her frantic pulse.

“Melia, baby, listen to me.” You turn your head. Your daughter is sobbing, her tiny hands still clinging to Melissa’s sleeve. “I need you to go get my phone, okay? It’s in the living room. Hurry, we need to help Ma!”

Amelia doesn’t move. Her lip quivers, tears streaking down her round cheeks as she shakes her head. “No! I don’t wanna leave Ma.”

Your own tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay calm. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” you whisper, cupping her tiny face in your bigger hands. “But we have to help her. Please, baby, go get my phone so I can call the paramedics. Hurry.”

She hesitates, her eyes darting between you and Melissa lying on the floor. But then she nods quickly, taking off in a run, her small feet pounding against the wooden floor.

You turn back to the redheaded woman, your mind boiling with memories of past moments. Of how she always covered it up. Of how you wanted to believe. Of all the little lies and broken promises.

“Please, sweet girl,” you beg, your eyes burning. “Stay with me. With us.”

Melissa stirs weakly, a low, scratchy sound escaping her lips. Her lashes flutter, and for a moment, you hold your breath. She’s trying to come back to you.

Your heart climbs up to your throat, a suffocating knot that nearly chokes the air out of you.

“Honey?”

She blinks slowly, her eyes heavy and clouded with pain and exhaustion. Her brows knit together in faint confusion before her parted lips release a weak, hoarse whisper, barely a breath.

“Amore? You’re crying…”

The dam breaks. A violent sob wracks your chest, and your hand tightens around hers, pressing it against your heart as if that alone could keep her here, tethered to the world, tethered to you.

“Of course I’m crying, you idiot. You just—” You choke, strangled by a desperation you can barely contain. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push back the bitter taste of fear. “I thought I lost you.”

Melissa’s trembling fingers move—frail, almost imperceptible—against your palm.

“M fine…” The words come out brittle, lacking conviction.

“You are not fine!” the anger in your soul spills over, but it’s only a reflection of the raw terror clawing at your insides. “You lied to me. You kept lying. And now? You could’ve died.”

Her eyelids flutter, heavy, as if fighting off unconsciousness is too much of an effort. But you don’t let go of her hand. Not now.

The hurried sound of Amelia’s footsteps echoes through the hallway before she bursts into the kitchen, her wide eyes filled with terror, her cheeks wet with tears, and the phone clutched tightly in her small fingers.

“Mommy, I got it!” she cries, dropping to her knees beside you, her little body trembling.

You snatch the phone with shaking hands, the numbers on the screen blurring through your tear-filled vision as you dial.

Melissa is still watching you, her pupils blown, her breath shallow. Her lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile—so small, so worn, like she has no strength left to fight.

Your grip on her hand tightens.

She won’t fight.

Not now. Not after this.

The Liberty Hill Medical Center smells like antiseptic and something too sterile to be comforting. The cold glow of the fluorescent lights casts harsh shadows over everything, making Melissa Schemmenti look even paler under the white sheets—a cruel contrast against the oxygen mask covering her face.

You sit beside her, Amelia nestled in your lap. The little girl’s tiny fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt tightly, as if afraid that you, too, might disappear. Your hand moves absently through her red curls, instinctive, but your gaze never wavers from the woman who you love so bad.

The kind doctor’s words still echo in your mind, each one carving deeper into your chest, sharp as invisible blades.

“One of her lungs is compromised.”

“Years of smoking have taken their toll.”

“She needs to stop, or next time, she might not be so lucky.”

Next time.

Your fingers tighten around her limp hand as if sheer pressure alone could anchor her here, keep her tethered to life, to the silent promise that she won’t be taken from you.

She stirs slightly, her lashes fluttering before green eyes slowly open, unfocused, sweeping over the sterile room, the machines, the oxygen tube rising and falling with each fragile breath. Then she finds you—and sees Amelia clinging to your chest, half-hidden.

And something shifts in her gaze.

Guilt.

Regret.

Fear.

The redheaded woman tries to speak, but the mask muffles the sound, and a grimace of pain crosses her face as her fingers instinctively drift toward her ribs, searching for the ache as if she needs to feel it to believe it’s real.

You stop the movement, your hand pressing firmly over hers.

“No,” you whisper. “Please. Just rest.”

Olive eyes hold yours, clouded with exhaustion but present, trying to say something her lips cannot. Maybe an apology. Maybe a promise.

But you don’t want promises.

Not anymore.

Amelia shifts in your lap, her little head lifting hesitantly. “Ma?” She sounds so small, trembling, carrying an innocence that shouldn’t know fear. “You’re not gonna die?”

Melissa takes a deep breath—or tries to. The weight of those words hits her harder than her own failing body.

Her fingers, frail and hesitant, stretch toward your daughter, barely able to graze the little girl’s arm.

“No, my love,” she murmurs under the oxygen mask, weakened. “I won’t.”

You want to believe it.

You need to believe it.

But deep down, some part of you knows—Melissa Schemmenti has always been stubborn.

And addiction is a monster that doesn’t tame so easily.

So you just hold her hand. Hold your daughter. Hold on to whatever is left of hope.

And your wife, exhausted but alive, offers you a small, worn-out, barely-there smile—a smile you’re not sure is meant to comfort you or if, deep down, she’s still lying to herself.

But here, between these stark white walls, there is something that resists the emptiness: your hands intertwined. You haven’t let go of Melissa’s hand since she woke up. And, more importantly, she hasn’t tried to pull away either. That has to mean something.

Her green eyes are tired but softer than they’ve been in a long time. There’s no irony now, no half-smirk, no sharp comment to downplay the seriousness of the situation. It’s just Melissa. Raw, vulnerable, real. Her fingers are weak, but they grip yours like they’re holding onto an anchor.

“Babe. I want help.”

Her voice comes out hoarse, as if every word is a confession pulled from someplace deep and dark. She swallows hard, her gaze flickering away from yours, as if she can’t bear to face the hope she might find there.

“I can’t.” Melissa pushes the oxygen mask aside just enough to continue. “I don’t want to put you through this. I don’t want Amelia to go through this anymore.”

Your heart clenches, and for a moment, you feel the air leave your own lungs.

Melissa Schemmenti admitting she needs help.

You never thought you’d hear those words come out of her mouth.

Tears sting your eyes, but you force them down, leaning in closer, squeezing her hand tighter, as if you could anchor her here—to the world, to you.

“We’re going to get you help,” you promise, your voice steady despite the emotion threatening to spill over. “Whatever it takes.”

She nods slowly, but there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache even more—like deep down, she still doesn’t believe she deserves this.

You’re about to say something when the door to the room suddenly swings open, slamming against the wall.

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti, what have you done to yourself?!”

Barbara Howard’s voice cuts through the air like thunder. She storms into the room like a force of nature, her face a combination of fury and heartbreak. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her chest, as if holding back a prayer waiting to escape—or maybe a scream barely contained.

The redhead’s eyes widen, the shock tearing through the haze that still lingers over her.

“Barb.”

“Don’t you Barb me!” her friend’s voice is sharp, cutting, but it wavers slightly, betraying the emotion fighting to break through. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? Gerald told me what happened, and I.” She stops, shaking her head, blinking rapidly, as if trying to push back the tears before they can fall.

Melissa presses her lips together, like a child caught in the act. Her hand moves, hesitant, before instinctively reaching for her confident and closest friend. “I’m sorry.”

The brunette woman exhales a long, weary breath, and something in her face breaks—the weight of a friend who almost lost something precious.

“Dear,” she whispers, her voice faltering for the first time. “I could have lost you.”

And then, right before your eyes, Melissa crumbles. Her face twists, her lips tremble, and the tears spill down her cheeks before she can stop them. And suddenly, she is just a young woman again, sitting on the church pews beside Barbara, searching for guidance, searching for home, searching for something to keep her steady in a world that always threatened to fall apart.

“I know.”

The kindergarten teacher doesn’t hesitate. She encloses your wife’s hand in both of hers, gripping tightly before bowing her head in a quiet prayer.

“Lord, this woman is far too stubborn,” she sighs, exasperation and affection woven together, before pulling her into a strong, trembling embrace.

Melissa clings to her. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you think that maybe, just maybe. She truly wants to change this time.

Barbara holds her friend tightly, whispering something you can’t quite hear—something meant just for the two of them. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a scolding wrapped in love. Either way, she lets herself be held, her fingers gripping the eldest’s cardigan.

You don’t interrupt. You just watch, your own heart aching at the sight of the woman you love finally letting someone else take care of her for once.

A small rustling sound makes you turn your head.

Amelia stirs in the chair beside the hospital bed, her red curls wild, her little face scrunched up with sleep. She blinks blearily at the sight before her, confusion flickering across her face.

“Mama?”

Melissa and Barbara pull apart. The mother turns toward her six year old, her green eyes still glassy from tears, but the moment she sees her daughter, something shifts. She reaches out a shaky hand.

“Hey, baby,” she rasps. “I’m here.”

The tiny Schemmenti rubs her eyes, then slowly slides off the chair, padding over to the bed. She hesitates, staring at her like she’s trying to decide if it’s safe to touch her. “Are you still sick?”

Melissa trembles, glancing at you briefly before looking back at her. “I’m gettin’ better, piccola.”

“You scared me.”

She flinches. You see the guilt flicker across her face, the way her throat works as she swallows hard. “I know, baby. I—I’m so sorry. I don’t wanna scare you or Mommy ever again.”

For a second, Amelia just stares at her.

Then, without a word, she digs into the pocket of her little hoodie and pulls out something small—her tiny fingers carefully unfolding a piece of crumpled construction paper.

She presses it into Melissa’s hand.

The second grade teacher frowns, smoothing it out. It’s a drawing—crayon marks in bright colors, a little house with three stick figures holding hands.

Melissa.

You.

And Amelia, standing right in the middle.

Above them, in wobbly six-year-old handwriting, are the words:

“I LOVE YOU MOMMY. NO MORE BAD CIGARETTES OKAY?”

Melissa stares at it.

Her fingers tremble. Her breath hitches.

And then she pulls Amelia into her arms, holding her so tight you almost worry she’ll never let go.

“No more bad cigarettes,” she whispers, pressing her lips to the girl’s temple. “I swear, baby. No more.”

Just love.

Just hope.

The days that follow are slow, careful, and filled with something unfamiliar patience.

Melissa stays in the hospital for observation, her body weak but mending. You’re by her side every day, and so is Amelia, who insists on bringing her little drawings and stickers for her hospital gown. Barbara visits too, sometimes with Gerald, sometimes alone, always watching her with that mix of stern affection and barely hidden worry.

But the biggest shift?

Your wife doesn’t ask for a cigarette.

Not once.

She chews gum instead, keeps her hands busy with a stress ball that Amelia proudly picked out for her—one shaped like a tiny tomato. (“It’s like your garden, Ma,” Amelia had said, placing it in her hands with an earnestness that nearly made Melissa cry right there.)

The cravings come, though. You see it in the way her fingers twitch, in the restless way she sits up in bed, in the way she closes her eyes and breathes deep like she’s trying to steady herself against a storm.

One night, when Amelia is asleep on your lap, she looks at you, her voice quiet.

“It’s harder than I thought.”

You reach for her hand. “I know.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “I—I wanna do it. I need to. But sometimes, I feel like my body’s screamin’ for it.” Her voice wavers, just a little. “Like it’s never gonna stop.”

You squeeze her fingers. “It will. One day at a time.”

She stares at you for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Amelia, nestled against your chest. A soft, tired smile touches her lips. “She’s watchin’ me, isn’t she?”

“Always.”

Melissa nods. Something settles in her, a quiet determination.

By the time she’s discharged, she’s different. Still stubborn, still her, but lighter somehow—like she’s finally letting herself try instead of hiding behind an easy excuse.

At home, the house smells fresh, the air no longer laced with the stale scent of cigarette smoke. Barb helped you clean out every last hidden pack before Melissa came back—every drawer, every shelf, every secret place she thought you wouldn’t check.

The redheaded woman doesn’t complain.

She just exhales, steps inside, and mutters, “New start, huh?”

Amelia nods enthusiastically. “New start!”

Melissa chuckles, ruffling her curls. Then she turns to you, something unreadable in her expression.

“You really think I can do this?”

You step closer, cupping her cheek, letting her feel the warmth of your hand, the steadiness of your love.

“I know you can.”

More weeks pass, and for the first time in years, Melissa Schemmenti looks healthy.

Her skin has more color, her cough is gone, and there’s a lightness to her that wasn’t there before. She moves easier, breathes deeper, and—most importantly—she smiles more.

Not the faint, tired smirks she used to give when she was hiding something. Not the forced grins she used to distract from her struggles. But real, warm ones. The kind that reach her eyes. The kind that make you remember why you fell in love with her in the first place.

It’s a Sunday morning when you truly notice the difference.

Melissa is sitting on the couch with Amelia curled up in her lap, the two of them tangled together under a blanket. She is chattering about something—one of her silly little stories that only make sense to a six-year-old—and your wife is actually listening, nodding along, reacting, laughing.

Not distracted. Not fidgeting. Not sneaking glances at the door like she’s itching for an excuse to step outside.

Just present.

You lean against the doorway, watching them, feeling your chest swell with something warm and deep.

Melissa notices you after a moment, her green eyes finding yours.

She smiles—big and bright—and stretches out an arm. “C’mere, you.”

You don’t hesitate. You cross the room and let yourself be pulled into her embrace, fitting perfectly against her side as her arm wraps around you.

She kisses your temple, then rests her forehead against yours. “I love you,” she murmurs.

You close your eyes, breathing her in—not smoke, not nicotine, just Melissa. Just home.

“I love you too.”

Amelia shifts, squeezing in between the two of you, giggling as she wiggles her way into the hug.

Melissa chuckles, pressing a kiss to her curls. “And you, little lady? I love you the most.”

The little girl beams, hugging both of you tight. “I love you, Ma.”

Then, something happens on a warm Saturday evening.

Barbara and the rest of the Abbott gang insisted on throwing a little celebration for Melissa—nothing extravagant, just a gathering at your home, filled with the people who love her. There’s food (because, of course, the redhead wouldn’t allow a party without a proper spread), music playing softly from the old radio in the kitchen, and laughter echoing through the house.

The Sicilian looks radiant. Healthy, glowing, alive in a way that makes your heart ache with gratitude. She’s laughing with Ava and Jacob, rolling her eyes at something Janine and Gregory said, and Amelia is clinging to her side, practically beaming with pride every time someone tells Melissa how good she looks.

It’s perfect.

And you know it’s the perfect moment.

You clear your throat, standing up in the middle of the living room, and the conversation slowly dies down as all eyes turn to you.

Your sweet wife, sitting on the couch with your daughter on her lap, raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on, babe?”

You take a deep breath, pressing a hand to your stomach before looking straight at her.

“I wanted to say how proud I am of you, Mel,” you begin. “For everything. For fighting through the hard days, for staying, for choosing us over the easy way out.” You pause, meeting her gaze. “You’re the strongest person I know, and I love you more than I can put into words.”

Melissa swallows, her eyes glistening. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You smile, glancing around at your friends before returning your gaze to her. “And, well… I figured there’s no better time to share some news.”

Eyebrows frowns slightly. “News?”

You nod. Then, with a deep breath, you place your hand over your stomach again and say the words that will change everything.

“I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, Amelia gasps dramatically. “Another baby?!”

The room erupts into cheers and excited voices—Ava whooping loudly, Barbara covering her mouth in shock, Jacob looking like he’s about to cry. But you don’t take your eyes off Melissa.

She’s frozen, staring at you, her lips slightly parted.

Then, all at once, her face crumbles.

She lets out a choked breath, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as tears spill down her cheeks. “Oh my god,” she whispers.

You kneel in front of her, reaching for her hands. “Lis?”

And then she’s pulling you into her arms, hugging you so fiercely it knocks the breath from your lungs. She’s crying into your shoulder, her hands clutching at you like she never wants to let go.

“You’re havin’ another baby,” she breathes against your skin.

You giggle, your own tears falling as you hold onto her. “Yeah, honey. We are.”

Melissa pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own keep falling.

“I never thought I’d deserve this. I never thought I’d get to have this, to live long enough to see it.”

You press a kiss to her forehead, your heart bursting with love. “You do, sweet girl. You do.”

Amelia, impatient as ever, squeezes between you both and throws her little arms around you. “I’m gonna be a big sister!”

The older woman laughs through her tears, pulling her into the hug. “Yeah, baby, you are.”

The three of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, surrounded by love, by family, by the life Melissa Schemmenti fought so hard to keep.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x y/n #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction

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mediocre-shark-tales · 3 months ago

Text

US Texas GP part 2

Masterlist

The morning air was thick with anticipation as I arrived at the Circuit of the Americas, my home paddock bustling with energy. Today was sprint day, and while the buzz of excitement usually filled me with adrenaline, an unsettling tension clung to me this morning.

Walking through the paddock, I waved at a few familiar faces—Lando, Franco, even Liam, who offered me a thumbs-up from across the way. But as I approached Aston Martin’s garage, something caught me off guard.

One of the newer engineers, a man I hadn’t interacted with much yet, stepped into my path with a broad smile. He was tall, with a polished demeanor that bordered on smug.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone overly familiar as his eyes scanned me in a way that made my skin crawl. “Looking ready to impress today.”

I forced a polite smile, nodding. “Morning. Just focused on the sprint.”

He chuckled, stepping a little closer, his presence making me instinctively take a step back. “Focused, huh? Well, I’d say you’ve already got everyone’s attention. Though... some of us are paying more attention than others.”

There was something in his tone—a low insinuation—that made my stomach twist. My pulse quickened, and I gripped the strap of my bag tightly.

“I should get going,” I said, my voice firm but neutral as I tried to sidestep him.

But he moved slightly, just enough to block my path for a split second longer. “No need to rush. Plenty of time before the sprint, isn’t there?”

Before I could respond—or react—another voice cut through the tension.

“There you are!” one of the team’s PR staff called, walking briskly toward us. “We need you for a pre-sprint briefing, now. Sorry to interrupt.”

The engineer stepped aside, his smile unfaltering but his eyes cold. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

I didn’t wait for further pleasantries, quickly walking toward the PR staffer. My chest felt tight, a swirl of unease and confusion brewing within me.

“You okay?” the staffer asked quietly as we made our way toward the media center.

“Yeah,” I said automatically, though I wasn’t sure if it was true. “Just... ready to focus on the race.”

The rest of the morning blurred by in a whirlwind of interviews, photo ops, and last-minute strategy discussions. I pushed the strange encounter to the back of my mind, burying it under layers of professionalism and focus. But every so often, the engineer’s words and lingering gaze replayed in my head, a shadow I couldn’t quite shake.

As I slipped into my race suit and helmet, I took a deep breath, forcing myself to center my thoughts. This was my moment, my chance to shine in front of a home crowd. Whatever had happened earlier could wait—I had a job to do.

The paddock buzzed with anticipation as the sprint race approached. Reporters and fans were clamoring to catch a glimpse of the helmet designs I’d teased earlier in the week. As I walked to the car, the crowd erupted in cheers, and I felt the weight of their support.

Sliding on the sprint helmet for the first time, I couldn’t help but admire the design in the reflection of the car’s side mirror. The eagle looked fierce, and the colors of the sunset practically glowed under the bright Texas sun.

“Ready to show them what America can do?” Franco teased while walking past to get in his car.

“Always,” I replied, grinning.

The sprint race itself was a battle. The tight midfield pack made overtaking a challenge, but I managed to hold my P4. It wasn't an improvement, but it was the best placement I would be finishing this race. No one would be taking that from me.

As the laps dwindled, the intensity on the track escalated. Every corner, every straight was a test of skill and nerve. The Circuit of the Americas was unforgiving, demanding precision and mental fortitude. My heart pounded in my chest, the adrenaline coursing through me like electricity. The roar of the engines, the cheers of the crowd, and the sheer speed of the cars around me created a symphony of chaos and excitement.

Carlos Sainz, piloting his Ferrari, was just ahead in P3. He was pushing his car to the limit, his focus unyielding. For most of the race, he had been a formidable opponent, keeping a steady pace and maintaining his position with calculated aggression. But as we approached the penultimate laps, something shifted.

Lap 42. The grandstands were a blur of color and sound, the energy palpable. The midfield was a tangled mess of cars vying for every inch, but there was a brief moment of calm as we settled into a rhythm, each driver aware of the other’s presence.

Lap 43. Sainz began to push harder, his car responding to his aggressive inputs. I mirrored his moves, maintaining my position but feeling the strain on my tires and engine. The team’s earlier adjustments were paying off, giving me the grip and stability I needed. Every corner was a strategic decision, a balance between speed and control.

Lap 44. We were neck and neck as we entered Turn 7, the tight left-hander that often proved pivotal. Sainz took the inside line, attempting to gain an advantage, but his tire temperatures were beginning to rise under the relentless pressure. My car felt responsive, every movement precise, yet the tension was building with each passing second.

Lap 45. The final lap loomed ahead, the countdown to the podium inches away. As we approached Turn 14, Sainz’s pace faltered. I could almost see the slight hesitation in him, the subtle shift in his driving pattern. It was a small mistake, barely noticeable, but in F1, even the slightest error could be costly.

Lap 46. Turning into Turn 12, I seized the opportunity. With a deft maneuver, I edged closer, the gap narrowing. Sainz tried to compensate, but his car didn’t respond as sharply as mine. I felt a surge of determination, knowing that this was my moment. The crowd’s roar intensified, their voices blending into a singular wave of support that fueled my drive.

Lap 47. Approaching the final straight, I was within inches of Sainz’s rear wing. The speedometer was flashing, the RPMs climbing to their limits. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, every fiber of my being focused on this one decisive move. The finish line was within sight, and I could almost taste the triumph.

Lap 48. The final lap began, and the track seemed to stretch endlessly before me. I maintained my position, the car humming with power beneath me. Sainz made one last desperate push, attempting to reclaim his position. But the balance of my car was perfect, the setup flawless. As we surged down the back straight, his Ferrari began to wobble, the rear tires losing traction on the slick asphalt.

Lap 49. The inevitable happened. Sainz’s car fishtailed slightly as he tried to correct, the momentum carrying him past the braking zone for Turn 1. His momentum was his downfall, and as he struggled to regain control, I saw the opening. Without hesitation, I took the inside line, smoothly overtaking him in a split second of pure racing instinct.

Lap 50. Now in P3, the race surged toward its conclusion with renewed vigor. The final corners were a blur of speed and strategy, each driver pushing their limits in a desperate bid for position. I felt the car respond to every command, the tires gripping the tarmac as I navigated the final bends with precision.

As I approached the last corner, the checkered flag was in sight. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the track and bathing everything in a warm, golden hue. My heart swelled with pride and excitement—P3 was within reach, my first ever podium finish in Formula 1. The culmination of months of hard work, perseverance, and the unwavering support of my team and friends.

The final straight was a test of endurance and focus. I held my line, the car maintaining its speed and balance as I crossed the finish line, a triumphant smile breaking across my face. Landon confirmed it—P3. The realization hit me like a tidal wave, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The cheers of the crowd, the shouts of my team, and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment washed over me.

As I brought the car to a stop and climbed out, the garage erupted in celebration. Franco and Lando rushed over, their faces lit up with pride and joy. “P3, Hermosa! That was incredible!” Franco exclaimed, throwing an arm around my shoulders. Lando hugged me tightly, his eyes shining. “You are on the podium with me! You did it! We knew you could!”

Amidst the celebration, I saw Liam Lawson and Hannah approaching, their smiles genuine and filled with happiness. Liam handed me a celebratory drink, while Hannah offered a warm congratulatory hug. “You were amazing out there,” Hannah said softly. “I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, guys,” I replied, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. “I couldn’t have done it without all of you.”

As I looked around the garage, the realization that I had achieved something monumental settled in. P3 wasn’t just a personal victory—it was a milestone for Aston Martin, marking one of their best placements this season. The team’s hard work and dedication had paid off, and now, we stood on the brink of something greater.

The pride I felt was intertwined with a profound sense of belonging. This was my home race, and to podium here was the ultimate affirmation of my journey. The vibrant colors of the American flag on my sprint helmet still danced in my memory, symbolizing not just my roots but the spirit and resilience that had carried me this far.

As the podium celebrations began, I took a moment to soak it all in. The confetti flew, the fans cheered louder than ever, and the lights of the Circuit of the Americas sparkled in the twilight. Stepping into the makeshift sprint podium area, I felt a surge of emotion—joy, relief, and an unshakable sense of accomplishment. This was a dream realized, a moment that would define my career.

Franco, Liam and Hannah stood nearby, their support unwavering. As I lifted the third-place trophy, I couldn’t help but feel that this was just the beginning. The road ahead was still long and filled with challenges, but tonight, I was on top of the world, celebrated not just for my racing prowess but for who I truly was.

As the cheers of the crowd echoed around me, I felt a deep sense of fulfillment—this was where I belonged. Max, Lando, and I stood together for the customary podium pictures, our trophies gleaming in the Texas sun. The crowd roared with excitement, the energy electrifying. We posed with smiles, holding up our trophies, basking in the shared accomplishment of standing on this stage.

Once the photos wrapped up, we were given the signal to step away and begin preparations for the upcoming qualifying session later in the day. Before I could head toward the Aston Martin garage, Max stopped me with a light tap on the shoulder.

Turning to him, I saw a knowing smile on his face—calm and assured, with a glint of encouragement in his eyes. “You’re getting better with every race, kiddo,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “Keep this up, and it won’t be long before you and I are battling for the top step of the podium.”

His words carried weight, coming from someone who had mastered the art of dominating Formula 1. “Thanks, Max,” I replied, a genuine smile tugging at my lips. “That means a lot coming from you. I’ll give you a run for your money soon enough.”

Lando sauntered over, his cheeky grin plastered across his face. “Ah, Max, don’t go inflating her ego too much. She already thinks she’s the queen of the paddock.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Lando. Just admit you’re terrified of me overtaking you one day.”

“Oh, absolutely petrified,” Lando teased, clutching his chest dramatically. “I mean, look at you—P3 in your home sprint race. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t impressive.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “You two are impossible.”

Lando’s tone softened slightly as he added, “In all seriousness, congrats. P3 isn’t easy, and you earned it. But don’t get too comfortable—I’m still gunning for you.”

“You can try, but good luck catching me,” I shot back with a wink, feeling the lighthearted camaraderie between us.

Max smirked, crossing his arms. “Alright, enough bickering, you two. Save it for the track. Qualifying is just a few hours away, and I expect both of you to bring your A-game.”

“You’re on,” I replied, a competitive spark igniting in my chest.

Lando nodded, already shifting into a more focused demeanor. “Let’s see who ends up where on the grid. Game on.”

With that, the three of us shared a quick nod of mutual respect before heading off toward our respective garages. As I walked back to the Aston Martin side of the paddock, I couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. These were the moments I had dreamed of—friendly rivalries, mutual respect, and the chance to prove myself on one of the greatest stages in the world.

It was time to focus on qualifying and take another step closer to solidifying my place in Formula 1. The hours flew past and I was once again back on track for Qualifying.

The roar of the crowd and the high-pitched hum of engines were a constant in my ears as I navigated the tight curves of the Circuit of the Americas once again. I had just made it through Q1 and Q2, securing a place in the points for tomorrow's race. But right now, my mind isn't on my current position. It was locked on the next turn, the next gear shift, and the perfect balance of throttle and brakes.

The radio crackled to life as I powered through another corner. “You’re looking good out there,” Landon, my engineer, said. “Keep this pace up for your final push lap. Everyone else is finishing up.”

I barely registered his words, my focus laser-sharp as I prepared for the next sector. One more lap. One final chance to push the limits and see where I stood on the grid.

As the minutes ticked down, the track began to empty. Drivers were returning to the pit lane, their qualifying sessions over. I was the last one still out there, using every remaining second to squeeze out the fastest lap I could manage. My heart pounded in rhythm with the car, the adrenaline surging as I pushed the limits of my Aston Martin.

Through the high-speed turns and long straights, I felt the car responding perfectly to my inputs. The tires gripped the track with just the right amount of slip, the engine growling as I shifted gears at the optimal points. I couldn’t hear the crowd, couldn’t think about anything but the lap unfolding before me.

"Final sector," Landon called out. "You’re up on your last time—keep pushing."

I clenched my jaw and went all in. The car danced through the final corners, the chassis holding steady as I hit the apexes and powered onto the final straight. The speedometer climbed higher as the finish line approached.

The checkered flag waved above me as I crossed the line, the roar of the engine fading into a dull hum. I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest.

“P3!” Landon’s voice erupted through the radio, his excitement infectious. “You did it, P3! That’s your best qualifying yet—amazing job!”

“P3?” I echoed, the reality of it sinking in. “No way!”

“Yes way! Right behind Lando and Max. Fantastic work—you nailed it.”

A rush of emotion hit me, equal parts disbelief and exhilaration. I’d just qualified P3. My best starting position yet, and at my home race no less.

As I pulled back into the pit lane, I could see my team cheering in the garage, their applause and wide smiles a testament to how far we’d come together. The mechanics clapped as I climbed out of the car, and my team principal gave me a firm handshake, beaming with pride.

Before I could head to the media zone, Lando sauntered over, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. “Look who’s creeping up the grid,” he teased, leaning against my car. “You trying to give me a heart attack or what?”

“Just keeping you on your toes,” I shot back, unable to hide my grin.

Max joined us, his expression as cool and composed as ever, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “P3 at your home race. Not bad, rookie.”

“Not bad? I’d say it’s pretty damn good,” Lando chimed in, giving me a playful nudge. “But don’t get too comfortable. You’re still behind me.”

“For now,” I retorted, narrowing my eyes at him.

Max chuckled. “Alright, save the banter for the race. You both still have to deal with me.”

The three of us shared a laugh before heading off to our respective debriefs. As I walked back toward the Aston Martin garage, I felt a sense of accomplishment wash over me. Today had been a milestone, a moment that proved I belonged here.

Tomorrow will be the real test, but for now, I let myself revel in the achievement. My team had given me a competitive car, and I’d delivered. I was starting P3 at my first home Grand Prix, and I couldn’t wait to see what the race would bring.

Race day arrived, and with it, the chance to unveil the special helmet. The paddock was bustling as usual, but the moment I stepped out of the garage, there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere.

The replica of Logan Sargeant’s helmet sat snugly on my head, the bright blue, red, and white design standing out against my dark racing suit. As I walked to the car, heads turned. Journalists leaned into one another, whispering and snapping photos.

By the time I strapped in, the buzz had reached social media.

“Looks like someone’s paying homage to Sargeant this weekend,” Landon said over the radio, a hint of pride in his voice.

The roar of engines reverberated through the paddock as I sat strapped into the cockpit, staring down the long straight of the Circuit of the Americas. My grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles white through my gloves. The special helmet felt snug and reassuring, a symbolic reminder of what I was fighting for today—not just a good result, but to make a mark in front of my home crowd.

"Focus up. Lights will go out in thirty," Landon’s voice crackled through my radio, steady and calm.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. When they opened again, the grid lights were counting down.

Three… two… one...

The lights went out, and the race was on.

The initial getaway was clean, but the battle for position started almost immediately. Max held P1, Lando clung to P2, and I was defending P3 from a hungry Carlos Sainz, whose Ferrari loomed large in my mirrors. My tires gripped the asphalt as I pushed through the first corner, the apex perfectly clipped as I held my ground.

“Good start. Keep it steady,” Landon encouraged as I powered down the hill, weaving slightly to break the slipstream from Carlos.

The early laps were chaotic, the midfield pack threatening to swallow me whole as they jostled for position. I kept my head down, focusing on my braking zones and throttle control. Every corner was a chess move, every straight a test of nerve.

By Lap 10, the field had begun to settle, with Max, Lando, and me forming a leading pack. My Aston Martin wasn’t quite as quick in the straights, but in the corners, it was a different story. I chipped away at the gap, forcing Lando to defend harder and harder.

Lap 20 brought new challenges as Lando, battling his own struggles with tire wear, began dropping back into our clutches. Ahead of him, Max was having uncharacteristic issues with his car's balance. The two of them were locked in a duel, their aggressive defense slowing them down.

“This is your moment,” Landon urged. “Stay patient. Opportunities are coming.”

I dug deep, closing the gap lap by lap. By Lap 25, I was right on their tails. Lando went wide through Turn 12, allowing me to sneak through into P4. Now it was Max ahead of me, his car visibly struggling through the high-speed corners. On Lap 27, I dove down the inside of Turn 1, making the move stick to claim P3.

But there was no time to celebrate—Carlos and Charles were storming forward, their Ferraris surging as they switched to fresher tires. Carlos got past Max and Lando, slotting into P2, with Charles right ahead in P1 before me.

Lap 30. Three laps to go. The pressure was immense as I started closing the gap. Carlos was fighting tooth and nail to defend, but my DRS advantage was relentless. Through Turn 8, he made his move, and I was stuck in P3.

But I wasn’t done yet.

On the penultimate lap, I used the slipstream down the back straight to overtake him, braking late into Turn 12 to hold the position. Now it was just me and Charles ahead, the gap between us shrinking as we entered the final lap.

“Last lap. You’re in striking distance. Push now!” Landon’s voice was urgent but steady.

I pushed harder than I ever had before. Through Turns 2 and 3, I inched closer, my Aston Martin gripping the track with precision. Charles was defending with everything he had, but through Turn 11, he locked up slightly, giving me the opening I needed.

I floored it down the straight, activating DRS and pulling alongside him. The two of us went wheel-to-wheel into Turn 12, neither willing to back down. I braked as late as I dared, sliding through the inside and emerging ahead.

The crowd erupted as I rounded the final corners, my heart pounding in time with the engine.

“Come on, come on…” I whispered to myself as I approached the finish line.

The checkered flag waved, and I crossed the line in P1.

“P1! YOU WON!” Landon’s shout over the radio was drowned out by my own scream of triumph. Tears pricked my eyes as I slowed the car, the enormity of the moment hitting me all at once.

I’d done it. At my home race. My first podium and race win were here now.

As I parked in Parc fermé and climbed on top of the halo, the crowd’s deafening cheers washed over me and I held my arms out in a triumphant pose. My engineer was able to run over and hand me my home flag before I moved any more. I quickly removed my helmet, balaclava, and haans device.

I then fixed my hair a bit before unfolding the flag to hold behind me as I screamed in excitement of my first win into the lens of a camera who came closer to fully get my celebrations. I picked up and held the Logan Sargeant helmet high, a tribute not just to him but to every American driver who had dreamed of this moment.

Walking back toward the podium staging area, I could hardly believe what had just happened. My crew’s cheers still rang in my ears, and the weight of the victory felt almost surreal. Every step felt like I was floating. But the dream-like atmosphere didn’t last long as drivers approached me one by one.

The first to congratulate me was Lando, a huge grin plastered on his face as he pulled me into a quick hug. "P1 in Texas! You absolute legend! I'm going to remind you for weeks that you beat Max and me, just so you know."

I laughed, playfully shoving him. "Go ahead, I’ll let you. I’ll still have the trophy."

Max was next, offering a rare smile of approval. "Congratulations, kiddo. You didn’t just win—you fought for it. That’s how you do it." He gave me a pat on the back, adding, "Don’t get used to it, though. I’ll be back."

As I continued walking, drivers from other teams began offering their congratulations. Logan Sargeant gave me a thumbs-up and a proud smile as I passed. Oh yeah, I had invited him as a secret guest to see his special helmet from me. We had been friends before his F1 debut. I hoped that now he was free from the stress that we could rebuild our friendship. "That helmet looked great out there," he said. "Thanks for repping us Americans." I gave him a smile before I was pulled away again.

When I turned a corner, I nearly bumped into Lewis. "Hell of a race," he said with a broad smile. "That’s what we love to see—a proper fight. Enjoy the moment; you’ve earned it." His words held the weight of someone who’d been there before, and I nodded, feeling truly seen.

But the encounter I didn’t expect came next. Standing just off to the side, arms crossed, was Fernando Alonso. The firebrand Spaniard who had never missed an opportunity to critique me in the past. My smile faltered as I approached him, unsure of what to expect.

“Alonso,” I said cautiously.

He held up a hand, cutting me off before I could say anything else. "Let me talk," he said, his tone calm but firm. "You think I hate you, don't you?" He smirked faintly, shaking his head. "I don’t. I never did."

I blinked, stunned.

"You’ve got talent," he continued. "But talent alone isn’t enough. This sport doesn’t hand out respect; you have to take it. I pushed you because I wanted you to show everyone—yourself included—that you belong here." His smirk softened into something almost like a smile. "And you just did. You proved it. To me. To them. To everyone."

My throat tightened, but I managed a small, “Thank you.”

Before I could say more, he stepped forward and pulled me into a quick, firm hug. “Congratulations,” he said simply, before stepping back and gesturing toward the podium area. “Now go enjoy your moment. You earned it.”

As I turned and walked away, his words echoed in my mind, the weight of his unexpected approval settling in my chest like a warm ember.

The podium staging area was electric. I joined Carlos and Charles, both of them already teasing me.

"Finally beating us, huh?" Carlos said with a grin. "I guess we need to step up now."

Charles chimed in, "You know, you’re making us look bad getting beat by a midfield car." He winked, nudging me.

“Guess you should’ve gone faster,” I shot back, the banter easing the last of my nerves.

When it was time to step onto the podium, the moment hit me in full force. The sea of fans was roaring, flags waving, and my name being chanted. The champagne bottles were handed out, but I couldn’t resist taking a moment with the trophy. Holding it high above my head, I laughed as I pretended to "kiss" it and do a quick victory dance that had Carlos and Charles cracking up.

Of course, the silliness didn’t last long.

“Alright, time for champagne!” Carlos declared, shaking his bottle like a madman.

Before I could even prepare myself, Charles joined him, and the two absolutely drenched me in champagne. I shrieked, laughing as I tried in vain to shield myself, the bubbly liquid soaking my race suit and hair.

“Oh, it’s on now!” I yelled, uncorking my bottle and spraying them both in retaliation. Charles slipped slightly on the wet platform, and Carlos tried to duck behind him, but neither escaped my aim.

The three of us were laughing uncontrollably as the crowd cheered, the sticky-sweet scent of champagne filling the air. For those few moments, it wasn’t about teams, rivalries, or championships. It was about pure, unfiltered joy.

As I looked out over the sea of fans and felt the champagne dripping down my face, one thought crystallized in my mind: I was exactly where I was meant to be.

But also…

Fuck everyone who thought I couldn’t do or prove much with my limited time left in the car.

#x reader #driver!reader #f1 #f1 angst #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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teddy06writes · 4 months ago

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Whumptober Day 17 - Kili

Kili x gn!reader

Trigger Warnings: Nondescript depictions of injury, implied character death

Prompt: Bleeding through bandages

Summary: After being injured escaping the orcs, Oin does his best to heal you, but miles down the road, it doesn't seem to be enough.

The wound in your side ached something awful, but you kept plodding along, gritting your teeth against the pain. You wanted nothing more than to call the others to rest, even if just for a little while.

Beside you, Kili watched you wearily. He'd hardly taken his eye off you since the company had left the eagles eyrie, the last of Oin's bandages wrapped around your middle. He had wordlessly taken your pack when you broken camp this morning.

"Are you alright, love?" He asked when you stumbled over something unseen in the path.

You nodded, grabbing at his arm to regain your balance and pressing your hand against your side, "I'll be fine."

"Shall I ask Thorin to stop a while?"

"You know we can't do that," You sighed, turning your head to give him a semi forced smile, "I'm okay, promise."

Kili sighed, bumping his shoulder against yours, "Just trying to help."

"I know." You let your hand drop from your side, frowning at the oddly wet feeling of your side.

When you glanced down at your side, you found your bandages soaked a deep, dark red. Suddenly, you understood why'd you'd been so light headed along the road this morning.

"Oh sweet Valar." You mumbled, stopping in your tracks.

Kili froze, turning to you, "(y/n)-"

Even as he raced to catch you, nothing could stop you from hitting the ground.

~~~~

Enjoy this fic? Support me on kofi :)

#teddy06 writes #teddy06 #teddy 06 #teddy06writes #teddy06 attempts a writing event #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit x gn!reader #kili x reader #kili x gn!reader

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writeforfandoms · 1 year ago

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Fear Not This Night

Find my CoD masterlist

Being part of the 141 pack meant you watched out for your boys, always. As their medic, it meant you sometimes flew into danger for them. When someone uses that knowledge against you to separate you from your pack, you pay the price.

Warnings: Blood, treating wounds, medical inaccuracies, shifter biology, shifter dynamics, psychological torture, physical torture, being blinded (hood over head), brief self-harm (pulling feathers). This one is a bit dark so if you would like more in depth warnings, come ask me.

Word count: 7.6k

Harpy eagle f!reader x 141 poly

You soared over the trees, sharp eyes watching for your team. You’d gotten the call that they needed you a few hours prior, so you knew they’d likely moved some from their last coordinates. But you doubted they’d gone far. You weren’t even tired yet, broad wings carrying you and your pack.

Finally, you spotted Soap, in a convenient space between trees. Good man, making your life easier. You didn’t cry out in recognition, because that was dangerous. But you did dive, tucking your wings close and waiting until the last possible moment to pull up, flapping down to land on your pack. It was specially designed to be sturdy enough for you to land on, fortunately.

“There ye are,” Soap murmured, grinning at you and reaching out one hand to stroke the top of your head. You blinked at him, chirping. “C’mon. Someone got a lucky hit on Ghost.”

You hopped off your medic pack, hopping a few steps away before you shifted. “How bad?” you asked, opening up your pack and throwing on clothes. For the chill more than for modesty.

You had no modesty around your boys anymore.

“Price wants ye to check, because Ghost is bein’ an ass.”

“I heard that,” came the grumpy growl from Ghost.

You rolled your eyes and picked up your pack, which looked more like a picnic basket when you carried it this way. “If you’re alive enough to growl, you’re alive enough to behave,” you pointed out. He still had his mask on, but he wasn’t arguing lying down, either. Hmm. Must be feeling worse than you thought.

You settled on your knees next to Ghost, giving him a quick once-over. Bandages had been packed down against his thigh, though you ignored them for the moment. Nothing else looked out of place.

“Anywhere hurting besides the thigh?”

“Took a round to the vest,” he admitted, a little reluctant and a lot grumpy. Probably mostly grumpy that he got hit.

“Just bruised,” Gaz said as he crouched a little to the side of you and behind you, out of the way but ready to assist. “Didn’t even crack a rib.”

“Lucky bastard,” you agreed, shifting your attention down to his thigh. “And this?”

“A graze,” Gaz said. “But it bled a lot, more than normal.”

You hummed acknowledgement, leaning closer. Ghost shifted, and you cooed softly, almost reflexively. He huffed but settled.

The wound wasn’t bad under the bandages, but it was in a tricky spot, just above his knee. You couldn’t see any real reason why it would have bled more than normal except use, which was kind of inevitable. But even so, just to be on the safe side, you smeared it with ointment and rewrapped it.

“How far do you have to go?” You packed up the rest of your supplies after forcing Ghost to drink more water.

“Little ways yet.” Price shrugged, planting his hands on his hips.

“I’m fine to keep going,” Ghost said, because of course he did.

“You finish your water,” you said, poking his hip. “Then we’ll see.”

He huffed, eyes narrowing at you. But he subsided. Mostly because you both knew Price would side with you.

“If you left now?” You raised one eyebrow at Price.

“We’d make it by dawn.”

You puffed out a breath. That was not too bad. Ghost was tough, you knew he could last that long, especially since he’d already been forced to rest (and probably to eat something, knowing the rest of the pack). “I’ll scout ahead,” you said, pushing up to your feet. “Circle back and follow behind, make sure you’re fine.”

“I’ve got your pack,” Gaz offered before you could say anything more. You rolled your eyes at him but didn’t protest. You knew better.

You also knew better than to shift again without eating something, so you ripped open a protein bar and ate it as fast as possible under Price’s approving eye. Tossing your clothes back at Gaz and grinning at his playful huff, you shifted back and took off again.

The route forward to their exfil point was clear and quiet, even to your keen gaze. Turning to circle back, you made sure to check back in on your guys as you flew above them.

No enemies behind, either. They’d done a good job of either killing everyone who’d tried to follow, or losing them. You expected nothing less from them.

Pleased, you made a few big circles just to be sure. Still nothing. No sign of enemies. You took your time following your pack to the exfil point.

True to Price’s prediction, just as the sun broke the horizon the pack made it to exfil. You dove down to join them, landing next to Ghost. Gaz tossed your clothes to you as soon as you shifted, and Ghost shoved water at you.

“You all are mother hens, y’know that?” you grumbled without any heat, grinning, even as you double-checked Gaz’s straps.

“Says the biggest hen of us,” Soap pointed out with a wicked grin.

“Now now, just because my tits are the best–” you started playfully.

“Enough,” Price interrupted, sitting on Gaz’s other side, between him and the opening. Smart man.

You and Soap subsided, though you did both roll your eyes. “Everybody good?” You looked around at them, meeting each gaze squarely for a moment, to make sure none of them were lying. They all tolerated it, well used to you by now. Satisfied that none of your guys were about to keel over, you settled back for the trip back.

Flying in a heli had never been your favorite thing to do. You much preferred to fly on your own. But you had to admit that the heli was faster - you’d tried once to keep up, and couldn’t. Which wasn’t actually surprising, just disappointing.

This flight was not bad. Not too long. Which was good, because you were getting antsy. Ghost had caught a nap on the heli, but you still wanted to make sure he was fine in better conditions than you’d had before.

As soon as the heli landed, you were out, watching Ghost carefully. He wouldn’t accept help, not in front of others, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t check in.

“‘M fine,” he grumbled at you very quietly as you fell into step next to him.

“I’m sure you are,” you agreed. “And I’ll be more sure after I get to look you over.”

Soap leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows. But he didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t. Not here. Not where people could overhear and get the wrong idea.

Simon was fine, as it turned out when you finally got him to medical. Heightened metabolisms were good for some things, after all, and that included faster healing.

But you still bullied all your guys into the nest to take a nap.

“Stop fussing,” Price grumbled, lifting his head to pin you with a look. “And get in here.”

“It is literally my job to fuss,” you grumbled right back, although you did stop messing with the pillows and observed the nest. There was a good spot next to Simon. You carefully stepped over Gaz and Price before you settled down with a soft chirp, nestled between Simon and Price. There. That was better.

Price’s soft huff made you grin to yourself. At least until Simon tucked you under his arm and started scratching your scalp. Then you relaxed into him.

Okay. Maybe you could take a nap too.

One good thing about having pack-only spaces was that you could be with your guys without fear.

Simon had been ordered to stay and rest and finish healing while the other three went on what was supposed to be a quick mission. A day or two all told, is how Price had phrased it. You didn't know the details, didn't need to know the details, but you did know that Simon hated this.

"Relax," you murmured to him soothingly, scratching your fingers against his scalp. "They'll be back soon."

He grumbled wordlessly, one hand curling against your thigh where he was also using it as a pillow.

"Easy, Simon," you murmured, low and soothing. The little bit of grooming helped both of you, you knew. And it was almost all you could do for the moment.

Until you got called to help with exfil.

You hated leaving Simon, knew he'd be all but climbing the walls in his anxiety, but… needs must. He understood.

This time you went without your med pack - supplies would be available after exfil.

You weren't even sure Price had called for you. But the order came from higher up, so off you went to go help.

From high in the air, the battlefield looked bad. You could see bodies still laying where they'd fallen, a visual indication of the path of retreat. It took a little time to find your guys, the three of them huddled together behind a half-burned building. There were no immediate threats, but you could see where enemies had set up to hinder them.

It was not an easy situation, nor an easy fix. You flapped your wings a few times, changing your trajectory.

You needed to give them a distraction, a chance to get out. Most people didn't look up - you could use that, get a good sneak attack or two in. Cause a little chaos in the line.

It would do for now, until you came up with a better plan.

You flew a little higher, using the angle of the sun to help disguise your descent. And then you dove, aiming for one soldier a little apart from the others. He never saw you coming.

But he screamed as your talons ripped through the vulnerable skin of his scalp and neck.

You flapped hard, leaving him to bleed out even as shouts started up around you. You managed to vanish into the sun, flying up high again. You'd be harder to hit that way.

Of course, now they were on alert. Damn. That hadn't quite been enough of a distraction for your guys to get away.

You needed something bigger.

Scanning the ground, you looked for something out of the way to pick up and drop on the enemy line.

It was a good plan, and it even worked.

Until you were flying away. Someone must have been watching, because there was a sharp pain in your wing, enough to make you screech. Your wing faltered and you fell, just able to slow yourself enough that you didn't injure yourself further.

You hit the ground in a flurry of blood and feathers and screeching. Your wing hurt, leaving you unable to fly.

Behind enemy lines.

The first man to lunge at you got your beak to his throat, blood hot as it splashed across your face and chest. Maybe you'd have time to get to safety, maybe you could shift and–

Something heavy fell over your head, completely blocking your vision. You screeched, loud and angry, but more heavy things landed on top of you. Something held your wings firmly down against your sides, the pain sharp enough to make you try to jerk away. But you couldn't, too many hands grabbing you and securing you.

Blind and trapped, you could only feel as you were picked up and moved.

But you weren't dead yet, which was terrifying.

People handed you off between them, and you tried to flap your wings or flex your claws or anything. But movement of any kind resulted in you being squeezed to the point of pain.

With no way to see where you were or how many of them there were, you gave up. Conserved your strength, so you'd have a better chance of escape once you could see again.

An engine rumbled to life, and you got squished in against a body.

"Try anything funny and I will break your wing," a man hissed to you in heavily-accented English. You didn't doubt that he, or someone, would.

So you behaved, because you wouldn't be able to escape if you had a broken wing. You listened to the occasional chatter in Arabic. You tried very hard not to panic.

Sooner than you expected, the car stopped and you were once again handed off. The thing never came off your head, never let you see anything.

But you could hear more people, orders shouted in Arabic, more movement.

Oh this was bad.

Someone carried you somewhere cooler. More movement around you, and for a brief moment you could see as the heavy thing over your head was yanked off - you could see two men in front of you, one of them grinning to show off two empty spaces where teeth should be.

Then darkness again as a hood was secured over your head. You'd never been put in a falconry hood, but you knew immediately that's what it was, just from the feel of the leather and ties around your head. You screeched, trying to flap your wings.

"Enough of that," a sharp voice scolded. You nearly startled to realize it sounded like a woman. There was another flurry of Arabic, orders it sounded like, and then hands grasped your right wing, the one with the bullet hole. Big hands held you in place, wing extended, other wing pinned to your side.

You had no idea what they were doing until you heard the snip, snip, snip. You screeched, enraged and despairing and agonized. But they didn't stop, and there was nothing you could do.

"There." The woman sounded far too smug, too pleased. "Now you can be my bird." She laughed, low and throaty and sadistic.

You shivered, tucking your wings in as tight as you could, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Bells jingled as you moved and you froze in horror.

Hood and jesses. They were treating you like a falconry bird.

If you could, you might have thrown up. As it was, you made a tiny distressed noise.

A door shut somewhere nearby, leaving you with the terrible feeling that you were alone.

You tried to pace off the room, but the fucking bells kept breaking your concentration. You could stretch your wings, at least, though the right one hurt. And the way the air moved around your wing was… wrong.

That was all the confirmation you needed, even as you pulled your wings in tight again and huddled in place, shivering. They’d clipped your primaries.

Even if the hood was gone, you wouldn’t be able to fly.

You had no idea how long you stood there, alone in the forced darkness. Time was meaningless as you mentally went in circles. Simon knew you’d gone. There was a chance the other three had seen you or heard the commotion. People knew you were gone.

Someone would come for you.

Or you’d be killed first.

But you didn’t want to die, your pack needed you, you couldn’t leave them, they’d never forgive themselves if you died here–

The door opened hard enough that it slammed into the wall, and you jumped, wings flaring in agitation.

“There’s my pretty bird,” the woman from before cooed, over-sweet and mocking. “Hungry yet?” Her steps were deliberately loud as she approached you. You stiffened, holding yourself tense, but didn’t move. “Now, are you going to cooperate? Be a good bird?”

You didn’t reply, but you figured that lack of fighting would be a response. Because you had no idea where you were, and you held almost no power here. You knew that if you got too uppity, they’d make your life worse. Probably not kill you - they’d had plenty of opportunity to do that, and hadn’t yet.

But you could think of plenty of things they could do to make things worse for you.

The hood was pulled off your head, and you blinked rapidly as you adjusted to the light. The room had no windows and only one door. The artificial light washed everything yellow.

And, most importantly, left you no way to know how long it had been, how long you’d been gone.

The woman in front of you wore khaki and brown, simple clothes that were more functional than fashionable. Brown eyes held yours, a smirk slowly stretching her lips when you refused to look away first. But she didn’t seem to care about a dominance game. She just stepped further into the room, setting down two bowls for you.

Like you were a pet.

Your stomach turned and you stayed very still, head tipped, watching her closely.

“Well? Go on. Eat while you can.” Her grin had stretched into a cruel thing, showing too many teeth.

You shuffle-hopped forward, the bells on the jesses setting off every nerve you had. You hated this. Hated her. But this wouldn’t be forever, you knew it wouldn’t. You needed to eat, needed the fuel to heal and save up for your escape (as soon as you had a decent plan).

So, much as it grated on you, you ate from the bowl, keeping your gaze on her as much as you could. It felt demeaning, dehumanizing.

You felt like some exotic pet. The feeling made your blood boil, made you seethe. But you were careful to do so very quietly, only to yourself.

“Good bird,” she cooed mockingly. “We shall see how long it takes to train you.”

Before you could do more than flare your wings in protest, the hood was shoved back on your head, plunging you into darkness once more. You flapped your wings twice, momentarily off-balance.

The door shut. A lock clicked.

And you were alone again, in darkness and silence.

It was impossible to track how much time had passed. You could hear only occasional muffled sounds beyond your room, had no way to mark the passage of time.

The only breaks from the darkness were for food, always far enough apart that you were hungry, always the woman and one underling. Always demeaning. Always difficult.

You suffered through five meals. Five meals. Each one worse than the last, with more taunting, more mocking. It was harder every time to not just leap at her and rip into her.

But you remained patient, somehow.

The muffled sound of gunfire drew your attention, and you moved back and forth restlessly. It was hard not to get your hopes up, after however many days of being stuck here.

When the gunfire got louder and you heard the muffled shouts outside your door, satisfaction surged. That was probably your pack, coming for you.

And if it wasn’t, well… There was more than one way out of here.

You waited for a lull in the fighting, in the shouting and gunshots and chaos. And then you screeched, as loud as you could.

There. If that was your pack, they’d know it was you. If it was anybody else… You’d deal with that when you could.

The fighting and gunfire got closer, and you backed up slowly, carefully. The jingling of the fucking jesses still grated, but it was easier to ignore with the fighting outside.

There were two shots outside, two thuds. Your heart beat faster and you half-spread your wings, talons clicking against the floor.

“Found her,” came Soap’s voice from the door, and the breath whooshed out of you all at once. “Fuck,” he ground out, as angry as you’d ever heard him. “Okay, ‘s just me, sweets. Ah’m gonna take this off, yeah?” Hands fumbled with the hood for a moment before it was gone, leaving you blinking and near-blinded by the sudden brightness.

And there was Soap, clothes a little bloodied, expression torn between rage and sympathy. He spared a moment to smooth a hand over your head.

“Can ye shift?”

You clicked your beak and awkwardly held out one leg, jingling the jess still attached.

His expression immediately darkened. “Ah’ll burn the whole place,” he swore, rapidly removing one jess, then the other.

Relieved, you immediately shifted back. Your arm ached where the bullet hole had mostly healed, and you knew you probably looked a wreck. You felt a wreck, a little shaky and unsteady. But you were also determined to get the hell out.

“Give me a gun,” you rasped, throat dry.

“Ah donnae have supplies for ye,” Soap murmured apologetically, even as he unclipped his handgun and handed it to you. “Keep close.”

You nodded silently, pushing down everything else. You’d deal with everything else later.

Warm wetness on your feet made you look down as you followed Soap out of the room that had been your prison for however long. Two guards, both dead. Clean shots. Blood had pooled in the hallway. Your upper lip curled and you stepped carefully through the hall, not wanting to slip on anything.

Soap motioned you to wait as you came up to a corner, and he peeked around first. A gunshot had him jerking back.

“Counted eight,” he murmured to you. “Wait here.”

“But–” Your shoulders raised, and if you’d had feathers they would have been floofing out.

“Ye have no vest, no protection,” Soap pointed out, soft but firm. “Jus’ got ye back, sweets. Donnae ask me this.”

And you deflated again. As much as you wanted to kill every bastard in the building yourself, he had a good point. “Okay,” you agreed quietly, grip tightening briefly on your gun. “I’ll wait.”

Soap pressed a quick, hard kiss to your temple before he was gone, picking off one before he even rounded the corner. You could do nothing but listen to the chaos and wait for the all clear to move up.

A scuff behind you had you whirling, gun up. The woman stood no more than ten paces away, teeth bared, a gun in her hand.

“Well well, is this what pretty birdie looks like when she’s not a birdie?” She laughed, the sound unhinged, divorced from reality. “What a waste.”

“Don’t move.” Your voice didn’t shake. Your hands didn’t shake. But your mind… your mind quailed.

“What’s the matter, birdie? Missing your hood?” Her teeth were bloody, eyes fixed on you as she took a step closer.

You swallowed hard, breath coming faster. If you never saw a hood again it would be too soon.

“We can fix that.” She took another step forward, lifting the gun slowly, as if it was much heavier than it actually was.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t blink. You shot her, center mass.

She fell.

“Sweets?” Soap sounded only a little panicky.

“Clear!” You swallowed. Then again. You were a medic, yes, but this was far from the first time you’d killed. You’d hoped this would bring a little peace.

Instead you were simply numb.

“Move up!” Soap called after another minute. You obeyed wordlessly, turning your back on the corpse without another thought.

“How far?” you asked softly, stopping behind him, letting him be your shield again.

“Not much farther.” He glanced back at you, worried. “Ye alright?”

“Fine.” Your answer was short, clipped. Because you couldn’t think about being anything other than fine. “Let’s go.”

Soap hesitated a moment longer, gaze searching your face, before he nodded once, slowly. Then he moved, keeping you behind him. You kept close to him, moving as quietly as possible, ignoring the tackiness of blood drying on your skin.

He had you wait as he cleared one more room, and then the two of you met up with Gaz. Gaz breathed in sharply when he saw you but was quick to tug you to him in a hard hug, the edges of his vest and gear blunt and uncomfortable against your skin. You didn��t care, returning the hug with an edge of desperation.

“Here,” Gaz murmured, pulling spare clothes from one of his pouches. “Couldn’t bring extra gear for you, but this’ll do for now.”

You nodded, pulling the clothes on silently. They didn’t actually help you feel any better, but being with two of your pack did.

“Price and Ghost are almost done,” Gaz told Soap, tucking you between the two so you were protected. “Ready to meet up?”

“Ready.” Soap grinned, brief and vicious. “Ye’ll like this,” he promised you, taking the lead. You followed him, Gaz on your six. The building was quiet now, tension thrumming under your skin. But you kept up, swallowing back your nerves as best you could.

“All set up?” Soap asked as he stepped into a room. You followed, a little more cautious.

“All set,” Price agreed, eyes immediately finding you. A bit of tension leaked from his shoulders and he smiled, just a little. “Ready to get out of here?”

You nodded silently, but didn’t say anything. Which didn’t matter, because Ghost was in front of you in a few long strides, one hand gently cupping your cheek to tip your head.

“Injuries?” he asked softly, gaze sweeping over you.

“Just my arm.” And your feathers, but you couldn’t think about that for longer than a moment or you’d start screaming.

Ghost nodded, pulling you into his side.

“Let’s go,” Price ordered, taking point. The others kept you in the middle between them all the way out.

At a safe distance, the group of you turned. Soap waggled his eyebrows at you, grinning, before he pushed down on a detonator.

The entire building collapsed, shaking apart as explosions ripped through it. It was incredibly cathartic to see. Or, well. It probably was. You were… kind of numb.

“Here.”

You blinked slowly to find Price holding out a water to you. Your hands trembled as you took it, drinking slowly under the watchful gaze of your pack.

“It’s not far to exfil,” Gaz murmured, one hand resting on your shoulder. You leaned into the touch, breath momentarily hitching.

“Okay.” You swallowed hard and took the protein bar Price handed over, eating mechanically. You could barely taste it.

You knew this was bad, but. Not much to be done about it yet.

“You alright to walk the rest of the way?” Price asked, glancing down at your feet.

You blinked. You… couldn’t actually feel any discomfort from your feet, though you knew you should. You were standing barefoot on the ground, and it wasn’t even flat ground. “I’m fine.”

Price eyed you for a moment before he nodded. “Let’s get out of here, then,” he murmured. Contrary to his own words, he leaned in until he could press his forehead to yours, taking a moment to just breathe. Then he pulled back, once again taking point.

You followed, a little slow but moving under your own power. At least you weren’t in pain.

Yet.

The heli was waiting for you when you arrived. You shivered briefly against the wind and hurried in, buckling in with shaking hands. Soap dropped down on one side of you, Gaz on your other side. They both double checked your harness.

The flight back didn’t seem to take any time. You sat upright, tired and numb and cold, but unable to show any of that. You would eventually, you knew. You should probably warn your guys, you knew.

But you couldn’t.

The heli set down with a bump and you jolted. Two pairs of hands steadied you, Gaz and Soap both looking at you with concern.

But nobody said anything as they escorted you to medical.

You answered anything directly asked of you, quiet and stiff. The bullet hole in your arm was deemed mostly healed (it should have been more healed, really, but you hadn’t eaten enough), and otherwise you were dehydrated and bruised, but mostly unharmed.

The problem arose when one of the medics asked you to shift.

“No.” The word was only a whisper but you leaned away, hands curling into fists, muscles pulling taut.

The medic paused, eyeing you carefully. You were known to be more easy-going and cooperative, so this? Was unusual. “If you need privacy–”

“No.” It came out a little stronger this time, even as your gaze darted to the door, heart racing. No. Absolutely not.

The medic slowly leaned back, away from you. But their voice was calm as they called, “Captain?”

Price was in front of you a moment later, taking in your posture in a quick glance. He put one heavy hand on your shoulder, ducking his head to look you in the eyes for a moment. “Easy,” he murmured, frowning a little. “You done here?” He glanced back over his shoulder at the medic.

“She hasn’t shifted yet, so we’re not technically done,” the medic explained.

Price glanced down at you, and you shook your head, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. “Another time,” Price grunted, gently tugging you off the exam table.

The medic sighed, exasperated but unwilling to fight. “Fine. Make sure she sleeps,” they ordered, moving out of the way. “And eats.”

Price nodded, letting his hand fall from your shoulder. You tried not to focus on that, tried to focus on following him instead. But it was hard. The touch had been grounding, helpful. Helping to pull you back into yourself.

“You should get cleaned up,” Price murmured, heading back towards your quarters. “It’ll help.”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t manage more than that, couldn’t force more out. The numbness was slowly fading, leaving you aching. And tired. So very tired.

Price paused outside your door, studying you. “Do you want someone here?”

You swallowed and forced yourself to nod. You didn’t want to be alone. But you didn’t want anyone looking at you just yet, either.

Price nodded slowly, brow furrowing a little. “I’ll stay,” he rumbled, pushing your door open and ushering you through first. “Get cleaned up, dress down for the evening.”

You nodded wordlessly, slipping past him and grabbing comfortable clothes. You had a bathroom to yourself, something you were extremely grateful for, and you shut the door between yourself and your alpha. And then immediately opened it a crack, because you felt too trapped otherwise.

Hot water felt heavenly, after everything. Getting to scrub your head felt heavenly. Everything else… Well. You definitely overdid it washing yourself, scratching your skin nearly raw in places. You did make yourself bleed again, accidentally breaking open the wound in your arm.

But you finally felt clean enough for the moment and emerged, drying off and wrapping your head in a towel. That would do.

Price was still sitting on your bed when you emerged, phone in hand, though he turned his gaze to you as soon as the door opened. His gaze lingered on your skin, and you knew he was making note of everything. But he didn’t comment.

“Figured we’d go to the pack room,” he said, carefully phrasing it as an option, rather than an order. “Got Gaz and Soap bringing food.”

You nodded. “Food sounds good,” you admitted, walking over to him. You didn’t ask, just plastered yourself to his front, cheek pressed to his chest, inhaling the comforting scent of your alpha. Price hummed softly, one hand cupping the back of your head, his other settling on your back.

“Take as long as you need,” he murmured, low and soothing. “We’ll walk together, hm?”

“Yeah.” You closed your eyes, relaxing into his warmth. Just a minute. You just needed a minute. Price only held you tighter.

You finally pulled back with one last deep breath. “Okay,” you croaked. “Let’s go.”

Price didn’t object, but he did keep you close as the two of you walked to the pack room. Almost nobody was around, which worked out well, because you were starting to use your captain for help staying upright.

No sooner had you stepped into the pack room than you got swarmed. Somehow, you weren’t exactly sure how, they settled you on the couch pressed up against Simon, with Gaz and Soap chattering as they made up plates of food, and Price hovering behind you and Simon.

“Don’t ask,” you murmured to Simon, fairly sure Price could hear too. “Not yet.”

Simon hummed softly, carefully bundling you even closer to his side. “Not yet,” he agreed, about as soft as he ever got.

Gaz and Soap carried the conversation through dinner, both of them settling around you as well until you were entirely enclosed by pack. It should have made you feel better.

It didn’t.

All you could think of were the past eight days. Eight, you discovered when Soap let it slip. Eight days you’d been stuck in that hood and silence but for the jesses, treated like an animal.

It was almost enough to make you sick.

You swallowed down what you could, but ended up leaving food. It was odd - you would have thought you’d be ravenous, after the last days. But you weren’t. You were barely hungry, only ate to try to stave off their concern.

Which didn’t entirely work, from the quick looks and little touches you endured through the evening.

And then you just… settled. Let one of them take your plate when it was obvious you weren’t going to eat more, and relaxed. Simon stayed on one side of you, refusing to move. You leaned more and more into him as your eyes tried to shut, until he simply pulled you in to use his chest as a pillow. You murmured something, half complaint half thanks, and closed your eyes, the soothing sounds of your pack settling around you.

You woke to total darkness.

For a moment you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. If you moved you’d hear those damn bells, and there was no point because you couldn’t get anywhere, you were trapped, and your wings– your wings–

“Hey, hey, s’alright love,” Simon murmured urgently, hands patting at you. Which was when you realized you were keening, breath hitching in your chest. You still couldn’t see but you could feel your pack moving around you.

“Get the lights,” Price ordered. “Simon?”

“Not sure.” Simon put one hand over your chest. “You need to breathe.” It wasn’t until he put your hand against his chest, letting you feel the exaggerated inflation of his lungs that you realized he was talking to you.

The lights flipped on, bright and sudden, and you went limp. You were fine. You were in the pack room. You didn’t have a hood on.

“Love?” Simon leaned closer to you, eyes dark and worried.

“‘M okay,” you gasped, blinking a few times, finally settling back into reality. “Just. A minute.”

Simon didn’t move, just breathing in again. You did your best to follow along, nerves still strung taut from waking the way you did. Soap pressed up close to your side, his head resting near your hip. Your fingers curled gently in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp to help calm yourself. Based on his pleased hum, that’s what he’d wanted in the first place.

“Better?” Price moved carefully closer, doing a quick visual check.

“Yeah.” You licked your lips, very aware of your dry throat now. “Just.” You clenched your jaw. Admitting weakness was never easy, and this was no different. “Couldn’t see.”

Soap lifted his head to look at you. “Sweets,” he started, carefully, like he was feeling for land mines. “Did they keep the hood on ye?”

You swallowed hard. “Except for when they brought me food.”

“Hood?” Gaz asked, handing over a bottle of water to you, expression mostly blank.

“And jesses,” you confirmed before taking a deep drink of water.

“We’ll make sure there’s a light on for you,” Price said, before anyone else could say anything. Which was honestly for the best - you didn’t think you could talk any more about what had happened just yet.

“You should go back to sleep,” you murmured, setting the water bottle down and scratching Soap’s scalp again. “Too early to be up.”

“Hm.” Price tipped his head, looking at you. Then he huffed softly. “Stubborn.”

You only had time to blink before he was settling back in with the rest of you, getting comfortable. The nest was big enough for all of you, because you’d made sure of that, but still.

You didn’t think anyone would manage to get back to sleep, especially with the light on. But they surprised you - Gaz snored gently against Price’s ribs, while Soap used your hip as a pillow. (He always made the oddest choices.) Price didn’t sleep, but he did close his eyes and relax.

Simon just kept you close, his steady breathing helping your own.

Your pack didn’t quite hover the next few days. They did, however, take rotating shifts making sure someone stayed with you. Simon nudged you into the pack room every night. Gaz had pulled up a nightlight from somewhere, the soft yellow light always left on now. They didn’t let you feel ashamed of it, either, though shame still tried to wiggle into your brain.

Things weren’t okay. Wouldn’t be okay for a while. But they were getting better.

Except for your wings.

You managed not to think about it most of the time, focused on staying human and getting through the worst of the aftereffects. Sure, it wasn’t conventional torture, but it was almost worse.

Things finally came to a head when the rest of the pack shifted, Gaz and Soap racing outside immediately, growling playfully at each other. Ghost followed, more placid, looking at you once over his shoulder.

Price stopped in front of you, the bear easily able to meet your gaze. You knew that if he stood up straight on his hind legs, he’d be much taller than you.

“No.” Your smile was small and tight, pained. “You go. I’m not shifting.”

His head tipped, fuzzy little ears flickering back towards the open door and back to you. He grunted softly and nosed your ribs gently.

“Okay,” you agreed. “I’ll come out for a bit.”

Satisfied, he huffed and went first, lumbering out the door. You followed him, briefly squinting against the light before you adjusted.

Gaz and Soap raced across the open space, occasionally trying to trip each other or jump over each other. Soap even got bold enough to bite Ghost’s tail and run for it, angry cat hot on his tail and gaining fast. Price found a nice sunny spot to watch and make sure they didn’t actually go overboard.

Pretty normal. Except for you. You stood stiff and still, watching them and making no effort to join. It was… too much. It wasn’t their fault, or yours. The only people responsible were dead.

None of them looked when you slipped back inside, as quietly as you could. You had one more thing you needed to do, and you needed some privacy to do it.

Your room was far enough from them that you didn’t worry about being found immediately. You carefully took off your clothes, folding them on your bed. One deep breath. Two.

You could do this. Hell, you’d been doing this since you were a child. Nothing would stop you now.

You shifted between breaths, braced for… something. But nothing happened. You didn’t immediately panic.

Okay. So far so good.

You spread your wings carefully, flapping them a few times. You could just see your reflection in the mirror. Your beak was just as sharp, your crest still upright. Bits of downy feathers stuck up from a lack of preening, but you ignored the vague feeling of wrongness. You had something more important to fix.

Your primaries had all been cut on your right wing. Not just some of them. All of them. It would take months for them to molt on their own. Months of being grounded, being flightless, being useless.

The soft, mournful sound ripped free from your throat, and you flapped again. You could hop, maybe get a bit of air. But you couldn’t fly, not like this.

Unless…

No. No, that was a terrible idea.

Except that it wasn’t, really, a terrible idea. The longer you stood there, head tipped, staring at your clipped feathers in the mirror, the more sense it made.

One last deep breath in and you dipped your head, tipping your wing to make it easier. It took a little shuffling and a little preening to get the right feather in your beak.

The first one came out cleanly, a few drips of blood accompanying it. You dropped the shaft to the floor, not giving yourself time to really feel the pain. You just did it again. And again. And again.

Until the floor was littered with blood and snipped feathers, the red stark on the black and white banded feathers. Your wing burned and ached, throbbing in time with your heart, and your chest heaved with your panting, beak open. You felt almost dizzy with it, mind gone blank.

“Sweets?” The panicked yell made you blink and cheep softly, though you didn’t move yet. Your door was unlocked. “Sweets, I smell blood.” Gaz hit the door a moment later, nearly tumbling inside when the door opened easily. He froze when he spotted you, anguish twisting his features. “Oh, Sweets, what did you do?”

You chirped at him, turning carefully, keeping your right wing flared.

Gaz knelt in front of you, ducking down to examine where you’d pulled out your feathers. “Doesn’t look like you’re still bleeding,” he murmured, almost absently preening your feathers. “But why–?”

You chirped at him and picked up one of the feathers by the shaft, showing him the cut end.

“Cut?” He frowned, gaze darting between you and the small pile of feathers, before realization hit. He swallowed hard, rage like a dark thundercloud. “But why pull them?”

You chirped softly, dropping the feather and hopping closer to him. You were not designed for flat floors, dammit, you were designed for trees!

“Do you wanna shift?” Gaz asked, frowning a little at you.

You shook yourself. Now that you’d shifted, you actually felt a little better. Still kind of awful, because you couldn’t fly, but you didn’t feel quite as raw.

He huffed. “Course not,” he agreed with a wry smile. “Can I help you preen?”

You chirped softly again, ducking your head under his hand. He took it as permission, which it was, and began combing through your feathers gently.

“Gonna have to talk to one of us eventually,” he murmured, hands gentle over your injured wing. “Can’t put it off forever.”

You clicked your beak at him and stretched, gently preening his hair. He huffed but allowed it, muttering something about you being a menace.

Gaz ended up letting you perch on his arm as he walked back to the pack room. Price huffed at your wing, gently pulling it to get a better look.

“Did you do this or did they?” His voice was calm, but you knew your alpha. He was not calm.

You chirped softly, looking to Gaz to answer for you.

“She pulled ‘em, but they were clipped.”

“Ah.” Price blew out a breath, fingers gentle as he checked your secondaries. “Force ‘em to come in sooner?”

You chirped a soft affirmative.

“Gonna need to eat more, then.” The look he gave you told you this was not an argument you would win. So you didn’t fight.

You let them take care of you and fuss (not too much), and you just worked on being better.

It took time, but the worst of the nightmares faded. Pitch black still bothered you but it was manageable, rather than panic attack inducing every time.

Things got better.

Your feathers still hadn’t come in yet, but you could be patient a little while longer. You could feel the itch where they were forming and growing. Good enough.

Your first op was supposed to be an easy one. Well. As easy as anything the 141 took on.

You, Price, and Gaz were clearing one building while Soap and Ghost cleared another. It was… not easy, but routine.

Until you stumbled over one man Gaz missed.

The man was in the back of the room, laying low. You probably wouldn’t have spotted him except a bit of light fell right on a very familiar feather. The black and white banding could, hypothetically, have been from any number of birds.

But you knew.

An angry snarl twisted your lips, and you stepped intentionally into the room, barely remembering to call to Price over your shoulder, gaze locked on your target. Your gun was steady on him.

He watched you right back, one hand reaching for a weapon from a fallen comrade in a way he probably thought was stealthy.

The bullet you planted between him and the weapon disabused him of that notion.

“Where did you get that feather?” you asked, voice low and growly. If you weren’t so focused, it would have startled you to hear how furious you sounded.

He looked up at you and grinned, front two teeth missing. You jerked back, body recalling more vividly than your mind the sudden darkness that had followed that grin.

“Easy,” Price murmured from behind you, just to the side. Close enough to support you and take the shot if you needed, but giving you space to do it yourself.

You breathed in deep. And shot him. For many reasons, including not leaving an enemy alive at your back.

But bending down to pull your feather from his shirt was just for you.

“You broken?” Price watched you, giving you space still. Letting you decide.

You tucked the feather in your vest and smiled. “Not today.” You nudged him, tipping your head to rest against his shoulder for just a moment, before you started walking again. “If we finish up before Soap, he promised he’d buy cookies.”

Price’s chuckle followed you out of the room. Gaz called over comms that the building was clear, and Soap started swearing. He and Gaz went back and forth on the matter of the cookies, easy bickering in the middle of everything else.

You just laughed, knowing your pack had you. Always.

#shifter au #f!reader #reader x 141 #john price x reader #simon “ghost” riley x reader #kyle “gaz” garrick x reader #johnny “soap” mactavish x reader

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365emotionlessfaces · 26 days ago

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@schemmentits i hope you like it!

The Aspiring Teachers Program

Part 6 WC:~1.2k

The buses were packed on the way to the Franklin Institute, so you sat with one of your students. Janine sat in the seat right behind you, accompanied by a student of her own.

“Did you bring him?” She asked you at one point during the ride. The kids that were seated with you, looked at you inquisitively.

“Ronny,” you explained to the kids. “He’s one of my stuffed animals,” you told the students, “and of course, I brought him.” You rolled your eyes at your fellow teacher. She had been obsessed with Ronny, your stuffed eagle, ever since you told her the story of how you got him. She thought it was the cutest love story, like a modern day Romeo and Juliet. Except you were both women… and neither of you died. The amount of times she had told you that it was destiny for you to find Em had been so many that you lost count. She had been the only person you told about your time in the Program, and she made you confident you were right not to tell anyone else.

“Ah, sweet! The kids are gonna love him, especially since he plays for the Eagles, right?” She tried pumping her own enthusiasm into the kids seated beside you. They really didn’t care, instead choosing to pay attention to an older student playing some games on his phone.

“Janine, I only brought them in case some of the students have a difficult time sleeping away from home. I didn’t bring them just so the kids could play with them,” you sighed. The fact that you even brought Ronny along was surprising, even for you. Ronny had stayed with you in your dorm at college, helping you through some tough times, but never once had he been willingly handed to another person, with the exception of Janine. He was your prized possession, and only the woman seated behind you knew why.

The rest of the trip was mostly peaceful. You ended up having to switch seats with a student to break up an argument, but other than that, the ride went smoothly.

The Institute was amazing. You learned a lot about the history of Philadelphia, mostly by Melissa correcting the volunteer guide at every turn. You loved how passionate she was about her hometown, and how that passion spilled over into her teaching. You spent the day sharing your newfound information with the kids, reveling in the fact that the little kids were finding things they were excited to learn about, and then running up to you to tell you what they learned. You were the only one who didn’t notice how Melissa’s eyes followed you everywhere you went, or how they softened every time she saw you excitedly engaging with a student.

Disaster didn’t strike until everyone was laying down in the galaxy room for the night. You had set up your sleeping space, and your kiddos had set their spots up surrounding you. There were a couple students who attempted to lay down right next to you, causing other students to be jealous and start whining about how they wanted to be right next to you.

“Jokes on youse guys. I get that spot,” Melissa laughed and tossed her sleeping bag on the floor next to your blankets. You could feel the heat rising to your face, but had to quickly hide the blush you felt creeping in order to console a miffed child.

Once everyone had settled down, you and Melissa laid next to each other. You noted that she didn’t leave very much room between your sleeping spaces. You and Melissa talked quietly about the day you each had had. You smiled as she talked about that phony guide ‘who isn’t even from Philly.’ You shared the most interesting things you had learned from the day, and she listened intently, with a huge smile of her own.

All was going well, until the word “Alien!” was shouted, causing pandemonium. Kids were screaming and running every which way. You and Melissa jumped up and each went to try to corral screaming students. It took twenty minutes for the adults of Abbott- with the exception of Ava who needed her smooth eleven hours- to regain control. After the alien had been found, Barbara in a CPAP machine, kids were found and settled back into their makeshift beds for the night. You thought you could finally lay back down, when Gregory comes up to you.

“I can’t find Jamir. He’s the only one left,” this was the most panicked you had ever seen the man, so you immediately jumped into action. Melissa and Barb started searching the lower floor, Jacob and Gregory headed upstairs to look, and you and Janine took the current level of the building.

After ten more minutes of searching, you found Jamir tucked in a corner of a conference type room, sobbing.

“Hey, Jamir. It’s Miss Schneider. Are you okay?” You asked softly, slowly approaching the boy.

“I want my mommy!” He cried hysterically. Once you got close enough, he practically leapt into your arms. “I’m scared!”

“Oh, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” you stood, boy still in your arms, and carried him back to the main hall. When you got there, Gregory and Jacob were back, and Janine was there pacing nervously. Ava was leaning against a wall with her arms crossed. The relief hit each of them at the same time, as they saw you approaching with the boy. You sat the boy on one of the benches in the hall, and asked your friends to watch him for just a moment.

You slipped into the galaxy room, carefully stepping around sleeping children, and made your way to your duffel bag. Grabbing Ronny, you made your way back to Jamir as quickly as you could without trampling any of the small humans. You crossed the hall and took a seat beside Jamir, offering Ronny to him, though you hoped no one noticed your slight hesitation.

“This is Ronny,” you told him, as he sniffled. “You see his jersey?” The boy nodded in response. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Barb and Melissa returning from their fruitless search. As you turned to completely face Jamir, you missed the way the two women grabbed each other’s arms in shock at the sight of the stuffed eagle. Ava didn’t miss the fact that Melissa looked like she had seen a ghost, though.

“He’s a quarterback for the Eagles, that’s why he’s got the jersey. Quarterbacks are big, strong football players. Do you think they’re scared of anything?” The boy had stopped crying, and now the sniffles were the only evidence that there had even been a breakdown. He shook his head. “Exactly, so why don’t you let Ronny protect you for the night? He slept all day while I was teaching, so he’s got enough energy to stay awake all night to keep you safe, okay?” The boy gave you a small smile, and headed into the galaxy room for the night, Ronny tucked tightly under his arm.

Part Seven

#lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti x reader

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squoxle · 9 months ago

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Sweet Like Candy ~ S.JY

pairing: bf!jake x gf!reader | wc: 500 | plot: you and Jake finally go on a date to the movies. but don't be late, because he wants to see the previews. | cw: pure fluff and a few kisses hehe

“Babe! Come on, we’re gonna be late,” Jake yelled as he grabbed the keys in his hands.

“No we’re not,” you shouted back. “The most we’ll miss are the previews.”

“Okay? I wanna see the previews too,” he pouted as he walked into the room to see you putting on your jewelry.

“Hmm, okay fine. I’m almost done. Just go wait in the car for me," you said as you saw a bright smile grow across his face.

You rubbed your lips together as you applied your candy-flavored lipgloss before tucking it in your purse.

You slipped into a pair of white tennis shoes before joining your boyfriend in the car.

"You got everything you need?" he asked as you buckled your seatbelt.

"Yup," you smiled as he pulled off. He was taking you out on a date to the movies. It had been a while since you guys did something alone together as a couple so he was really excited about this. To be honest, he was more excited than you.

He drove into the parking lot of the venue before hopping out of the car and coming around to open your door.

"Come on, let's gaurrr," he said, playfully pulling you out of the car as he grabbed your hands and took off running straight for the entrance.

"Hey d'you wanna go pick out the snacks while I get our tickets?" he asked giving you that confused puppy look he always had whenever he was feeling a bit indecisive. "Or I could go get the snacks while you get the tickets. Or umm..."

"I'll go get the snacks," you chuckled. "You just worry about the tickets, okay."

"Okay, thanks babe," he smiled before kissing you on the lips. His eyes widened as your lips parted. You watched as he licked his lips with one eyebrow raised.

"What?" you asked as you covered your mouth slightly with your hand.

"Your lips are sweet," he chuckled. "Sweet like candy."

"Oh," you sighed in relief. "I just tried out this new lipgloss I bought at the mall the other day."

"Well, I like it," he bit his lips softly before leaning in to kiss you again.

"The next viewing will start in 15 minutes," an announcer's voice said over the speakers.

"Oh, shoot!" he spat, raising his wrist to look at his watch. "I haven't even bought the tickets yet. You go get the snacks and I'll meet you back over here as soon as I finish, okay."

"Hehe, okay," you smiled as he ran off.

You grabbed a large popcorn, two sodas, and a couple packs of candy before meeting up with Jake under the stained glass dome in the middle of the cinema.

"Did you get extra butter?" he asked as he saw the large tub wrapped in one of your arms.

"Yup."

"Cheese?"

"Yes," you chuckled.

"Gummies?"

"Oh my god, yes babe," you laughed, handing him the bucket of extra buttery popcorn.

[a.n.] This short fic was inspired by a post on my girl's page @addictedtohobi (link to post)

❀ Thank you all so much for reading! Make sure to check out other works on my masterlist!

❀ 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @chlorinecake @mimikittysblog @nikisvanillaccola @wonbinisbabygurl @mrswolfhard3 @laylasbunbunny @sussyjake @furious-eagle @cherrriesss @abbyizzy @weyukinluv @addictedtohobi @thatonenoona @wavykook @givemeyourtmihyun @jaeljn @hoonmywk @valennshit @19-yunalyn @hoonbby @frostedblankets @hoonsyo @no-mannerism @perfectxserendipity @chubbibish @ihrtlix @bunniesforsoobin @thereadersparadise @thatbooknerdfr @aiden2001 @belongstoheeseung @jakeybabe @donut-crazs @rizzhee @nikimeows @woonieees @uarmyxtae @rebecca-johnson-28 @they2luv1naia @isa-2007 @silcry @riverscafe @pearlwhitesoul @nikohiroshi @thatbooknerdfr @wonniewonwon @sughoonieeee @babyy-bambii @adrika04 @sehunsharpasseyebrows @wtfyangjungwon @fr-3-akn-4-stymf @rikiloversworld @shawyle @sunoosrightbuttcheek @uarmyxtae @lovesickxmina @urfavberry @urauntiefaye @breadlover01 @taehyunsfavmoa

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loverofallthingssarah · 4 months ago

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no more runnin’

part 2

melissa schemmenti x reader

summary: you’re hiding, you’re running. melissa finds you and your daughter and helps bring you both back to life.

warning: angst

word count: 1.9k

part 1 part 3

a/n: this is my first time writing in probably over a year so i hope it’s decent! also i'm sorry if there are any spelling errors or grammatical errors.

“hi…” your voice is barely there. Melissa pulls her hand back and clears her throat.

“Well, pick up is at 3:30. Please try to be on time,” she grabs a paper from her room, “this is a list of supplies she’ll need for the school year. Principal Coleman probably forgot to give it to you. It’s okay to not have them today, but please try to have them by Friday.”

You nod your head along in agreeance, your hand by your side waving your fingers back and forth reeling from her touch. Knowing yourself retreating from feeling anything for anyone. Melissa on the other hand is looking at you feeling a push to want to talk to you more but knowing she can’t let herself overstep being a teacher and you a parent. Then you realize suddenly, “Oh, shi-crap! I’m going to be late for work. I will get all those supplies for you by Friday, promise!” you peek your head in, “Bye baby, I’ll see you later today.”

Melissa is watching you take off down the hallway, shaking her head at you thinking, ‘she’s gonna be a pain, a smoking hot pain but she’s got spunk.’ She chuckles as she closes her class room, words spilling out from the crack of the door, “Good morning, my little eagles…”

A couple of uninterrupted months fly by, and everything is going according to your plan. Your parents haven’t alerted you of any problems brewing from your past, and you finally feel at home. It felt nice having settled into your home and Acey was coming along nicely trying her best to feel at peace here. There was one person that was now taking up space in your mind day and night, a fiery redheaded teacher haunted your dreams. As much as you tried to shake the thought, you found yourself attracted to her. You would pick up Acey every day and sneak peaks at Melissa, but not allowing yourself to indulge in your crush. Melissa on the other hand loved to indulge just enough to make it hard for you to stay away.

“Go out with me.” the redhead asked as she watched you packing up your daughter's backpack. “No.” “Is it because of our age difference?” she asked curiously. “No.” “Is it because ya not inta women?” delving deeper. “Oh, I’m as gay as they come.” you turned around finally meeting her eye to eye. It was getting harder and harder for you to push past her advances. “No strings attached? I just want to get to know you Y/N.” You sigh, wanting nothing more than just that but also knowing that just isn’t in the cards for you. You had to protect your family. Shrugging your shoulders, “It’s not that simple.” Acey is standing in the corner watching this all unfold wondering why her mother never let anyone in. You always encouraged her to make new friends but you never allowed yourself to do the same. “Then what is it? I swear I don’t get ya. I see the way you look at me,” you blush, “what gives?” A question you wish you knew how to answer, “Now’s just not a good time, Ms. Schemmenti.” “Call me Melissa.”

On the other side of town, Melissa is sitting on the couch talking to her best friend and work wife Barbara Howard about how smitten she is with you.

“Barb, I know nothing about her yet I can’t shake her from my mind. I try to talk with her but she keeps me at arms length,” she grumbles sipping from her glass of Chardonnay.

Barbara having noticed all of your interaction with her friend from afar mentions, “Y/N seems to be extremely guarded. She never asked for help. Never accepts parent volunteer offers. She must have a lot going on. Just give her space, and if there is something between you both it will happen naturally. Don’t go making a fool of yourself for a woman you don’t even know!”

Thinking back, Melissa already knows she’s made a fool of herself trying to gain your attention. Countlessly asking you out to dinner trying to get to know you more.

Standing right beside the front desk waiting for Principal Coleman to take your field trip money, “Principal Coleman, I don’t have all day I have to be at work in an hour.” “Hold on, tasty. I wanna show you my new line of iPhone cases. They all have bikini pics of me on them and I know you wanna see them,” she wiggles her eyebrows at you as you roll your eyes at her ridiculousness. “Plus, Melissa has been begging me to get you to be a chaperone for the zoo field trip. She’s really starting to get on my nerves, so will you say yes already?” “Ava, I told you I don’t have the time to take off work,” yeah that seemed like a good enough excuse. You didn’t notice Janine and Melissa sneaking up behind you. They really did need more chaperones for the second grade field trip, but Melissa definitely had ulterior motives. Janine speaks up first, “Please, we could really use your help. Plus being a nurse we know we could trust you with our kids, because between you and me some of these parents kind of scare me.” she whispers the last part. “Come on kid, just take one day off. You can even sit next to me on the bus,” Melissa smirks at you. And as tempting as that sounds and as much as you would like to spend time with the older woman…

Acey having watched this scene unfold spoke up, "Mom, It would be so fun if you came! We can see all the animals and I can show you what Ms. Schemmenti hold me about EAGLES! PLEASEEEEEEE!" she all but screams. You want nothing more than to be there for her and her - not to mention Melissa as well,- but alsas you reply. “No baby, I can’t.”

‘Don’t go making a fool of yourself’ Melissa scoffs knowing that she can’t do that while simultaneously thinking, ‘why is she so guarded? what is she hiding?’

On your side of town, “Mom, I really wish you could visit. Acey is doing so well and she’s made so many friends,” you gush to your mom over how proud you are of your daughter.

“I know, sweetie. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten to hug you both, but we have to remember you’d still be in Florida if we hadn’t slipped up and

visited last time,” Nina whispers on the other end of the phone. “Tom, is going to plan on figuring out a way to keep a visit under the radar, but until then we can video chat every night.” Thankful for your dad trying to make sure that even though your life has been completely and totally uprooted, and you don’t know how you would be able to do any of this without their help and support.

Days later you’re caught up in the emergency room, patient after patient. You check your wristwatch and see it’s 3:18 p.m., there is no way you’re going to be able to get your daughter. Frantically, you call the school hoping someone other than Principal Coleman will pick up.

“Hello! This is Abbot Elementary and you're on with Ashley,” the young woman giggled in the phone as you rolled your eyes forgetting how Ms. Schemmenti’s aide meddled into becoming Ava’s secretary.

“Ashley, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I’m stuck at work and I don’t have anyone who can pick up Acey for me. Once I finish up my last patient, I will rush right over. Please tell me if someone can keep an eye on her until I do.” inside you're hoping it won’t be Ashley. “Yes, I’m sure Miss Teague would do it. Okay, bye!!”

‘It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay’ you think to yourself as you finish up your patient. As soon as you're done, you clock out and rush over to the school.

Panicking you pull up to an almost empty parking, but you notice one car in particular. You make your way inside the school and make a bee line for your daughter’s classroom. There is a soft glowing light creeping through a certain second grade classroom door and you make your way over to peek inside.

The sight unfolding in front of you is the most precious you’ve probably ever seen. Your daughter is a strong willed little girl who owns a room with her presence, and she definitely is the center of attention with her sassy little attitude. You see her sitting on the carpet learning against her gorgeous teacher - you blush every time you look or think about Melissa- while listening to her teacher reciting a story of a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe.

“Once a king or a queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia…”

You clear your throat, “mmmm, hey baby girl! Did you have a good day today?”

Acey looks up with a bright smile and screams, “Momma! Ms. Schemmenti was reading me the COOLEST story!” Melissa stands up behind Acey and smirks at you with her signature look. A look that makes you want to melt into a puddle right in front of her.

“I know it’s a little advanced for her, but you have one smart girl on your hands Y/N,” Melissa grins at you both. Glowing, almost.

“I am so sorry, Ms. Schemmenti. I promise to try and make sure this never happens again. I’m not usually…” you ramble before she cuts you off. “Hon, it’s okay. And as I've told you before Y/N, please call me Melissa,” she winks at you, “I had a wonderful time here with Miss Acey and if you ever need any help don’t be afraid to ask.”

But you couldn’t let yourself let that happen, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary Ms. Sch- Melissa.”

Acey is looking between you both, “but mom!”

You shake your head, “Acey go grab your things we need to go pick up dinner.”

Melissa, whom has been trying to break you out of your shell since first meeting you, asks abruptly, “Will you have dinner with me Saturday?” She shocks herself a bit with her question already knowing what the answer will be. Knowing she’s asked you many times before. She omits the fact she asked to stay late with Acey to have a moment more of your time.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you reply trying to hurry your daughter along to avoid furthering this conversation.

“Why not?” she counters.

“Melissa, I… I-I just can’t. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, Y/N. Just one dinner, please,” she uncharacteristically begs.

In the doorway ushering your daughter out into the hall, you take a deep breath before whispering, “That’s the problem, it will mean everything… I can’t.”

Melissa swears she sees your eyes glistening before you make your exit from her classroom. She really tried to let her feelings go for the ghost of a person you were, but she couldn’t. She needed to know more of you, she had the pull telling her she needed to know you. Needed to help you. She kicked her desk and ran out towards the parking lot.

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x y/n #abbott elementary #wlw imagine #wlw fanfic #wlw #lisa ann walter

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themareverine · 4 days ago

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WIP updates ──

For those who care I guess.

Got some things in the hopper when it comes to writing, but irl has been so intense. (●´⌓`●)

I commute into the metro an hour and twenty minutes five days a week, which makes for little downtown over my week, and weekends are usually packed with taking care of my aging grandparents. It's a lot, fam.

♡ ♡¸.• But for the interested, here's an update as to where I am with what, currently –

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

Currently have three asks left! I haven't forgotten these! I'm working on them in my new style, just gotta get time in my busy life!

☆ ── The Sea Wolf series

Yes, it's technically my turn to produce and @bpmiranda is waiting on me, but trust me with this! It's on my radar! I have an idea of where to go with my next installement, just have to arrive.

☆ ── in the cards

I'm writing it I'm writing it I'm writing it! it's just not entirely where I want it to be? I may rewrite it and try my hand at a different approach because while I love what I have, I'm not thrilled about writing something I have to beat my head against to be comfortable with. So, this is in limbo, but I NEED to finish it, pronto.

☆ ── untitled Correlli (1995) oneshot ☆ ── untitled Eddie the Eagle oneshot ☆ ── untitled Kate & Leopold request ☆ ── Op Ed Real Steel drabble ☆ ── Until We Fall chapter 2

edit to add ──

☆ ── Toy FRICKIN'! Soldiers!

How could I forget this gem of a thing I created!? I love them too much and NEED this story. I wish someone else was writing it, bahaha.

I am writing I swear to goodness! I haven't left, I'm still here writing all the Logan shenanigans I can. Stick around, get on my taglist! There's lots and lots going on, babes.

Ya'll are the best sticking with me. ≧◡≦

#mare writes #this has been a PSA #hugh jackman #wolverine #logan howlett #thoughts mare rambles #mare’s moots 💛#psa #writing update

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the-californicationist · 8 months ago

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Scenario for the gif game 😊

okay, this was a challenge! it took me a while to think of a scenario, but here's what i came up with. i hope it's okay! thanks so much for the ask, my friend!! <3

TW: ghoap written by someone who doesnt write ghoap (sorry, im trying to get better!), references to anal sex, masturbation, smoking

Menthols

Simon had been out on a mission for nearly two weeks, and Johnny was stuck in their apartment, losing his mind. He’d binged three Netflix series, all absolute shite, and finished the novel he’d been putting off for months. The house was spotlessly clean, and his hands had angry calluses from how often he had used the gym to blow off some steam.

Nights were the worst. Johnny would lay, spread-eagle, legs wide with his ass in the air, and his mind would wander. He could almost smell Simon’s body as his scent lingered on his pillow, and he crushed it to his nose, trying his damnedest to get to his scent.

Johnny’s cock twitched, thinking about all of the nights he’d laid here like this, prone, keening like a whore underneath Simon’s heavy thrusts. Shameless and desperate, he allowed his hips to rock into the mattress, his prick humping lewdly across their sheets, feeling the way his foreskin threatened to slip over his swelling cockhead with each vicious, teasing movement. He squeezed his thighs tight, hips popping forward, showing himself little mercy, the pillow still crammed into his face, muffling his broken whimpers.

Each rushing thrust was like crackling, sparking torture. He was so close, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

He could use his hand, or…

Johnny paused his efforts, digging around in Simon’s nightstand, finding his stache. The little white box of menthol cigarettes seemed to taunt him, laughing at his pitiful need. Then, like some sort of fiend, Johnny held the half-used pack to his nose and let his hips grind into the bed once more.

With his nose buried in the pack of menthols, the minty smell of stale tobacco filled his mind with memories. Like Pavlov’s faithful dog, he was flung backwards in time to all of the nights, after Simon had made a mess of his holes, stretching him cruelly, making his muscles ache with his girth, he would light a cigarette and come down from their high together, letting the smoke billow and curl through the open window. Meanwhile, he’d play inside of his sated sergeant, flexing his thick fingers into Johnny’s well-used hole, smearing his own come along his walls, making wet little circles with his fingertip.

As Johnny inhaled again, he began to come. His hands hadn’t even made it to his shaft, and he was spilling his seed like a teenager, rattling through a fierce orgasm just at the memory of Simon’s affection. The mint and the harsh nicotine spurred him on like a bull as he bucked into the wet sheets, and he could feel his own spend swiping across his belly, dampening his hair and ruining the middle of the bed.

He rolled over, panting, and suddenly brightly aware of what he’d done, more than a bit embarrassed. Johnny felt like he was his own voyeur, judging himself for being so thirsty for his partner that he’d sniffed a pack of old cigarettes like a damn bloodhound.

“Fuck me…” He lamented, stripping the sheets and avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

After he remade the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress and looked into the pack of smokes once more, studying them as they stood up in the pack, all in a jumbled group. Just as he was about to toss them back in the drawer, he heard the keys jangle in the old lock of their front door, getting stuck in the strike like they always did.

He jumped up, thankful that he’d at least thrown on a pair of joggers after he’d cleaned his mess, and rushed to meet Simon coming through the door.

“Si! You’re back,” Johnny smiled, going in for a hug.

Still in his mask, the helmet of his motorcycle in his fist, Simon stopped him.

“What’re those?”

The enormous Brit’s brown eyes peered down at Johnny’s hand. He was still clutching the menthols.

“What? Och, your smokes. I was just —”

“Are you pickin’ up my habit, love?” Simon’s voice was dark, and it made Johnny’s hair stand on end. He’d heard that voice in the field, but never in their peaceful home.

“Well, no. But I –”

Before Johnny could answer him, Simon’s gaze twisted into a fearsome rage, snatching the pack from his hands and launching it through the den. It fell with a soft slap against the wood floor, lost somewhere behind the couch.

“Don’t you dare start,” Simon crossed the space between them, clutching his lover by the nape of his neck, towering over him, pulling up the bottom half of his mask, “Don’t… I don’t want to lose the way you taste.”

Johnny was stunned by his aggression, and he tumbled into a sort of pliant submission as Simon claimed his mouth, pressing his warm, pink tongue through his lips and down his throat, forcing his jaw to open to take more and more of his kiss.

It was everything Johnny needed. The minty flavor mixed with Simon’s own unique, human musk went straight to his core. Johnny’s cock seemed to have forgotten its recent release, and it was preparing for round two, eager to be plunged into whatever part of Simon he’d be given, hungry for that sacred gift.

Simon pulled away, ripping his mask all the way off, throwing it down on the floor with his other gear, staring at Johnny in disbelief,

“You didn’t smoke?”

“No, you mad bastard,” Johnny smiled, shaking his head, “I just… I needed you, and… uh…”

Simon’s lips curled into a sultry grin, pressing his body against him, tugging playfully at the handful of mohawk he was still grabbing,

“Johnny… were you havin’ a wank with those?”

Johnny felt the flush rise into his cheeks, staining them red. Worse still, his cock jerked in his pants, too obvious to hide, eager at the thought of living out his fantasy in real life. He didn’t answer him. He couldn’t think of the words. His mind and his body were slipping out of his control.

Simon chuckled in a deep, warm rumble, his hands digging into Johnny’s elastic waistband, sliding over his dripping rod. He pumped him once, twice, watching as his sergeant’s eyes fluttered closed from the pleasure, so sensitive from his recent release.

“You needy little slag. Come show me how much you missed me.”

#the gift of gifs #ask game #cali answers asks #slowly but she does answer them #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #cod #call of duty #simon riley x john mactavish #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap fic #ghoap au #ghoap smut

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your-divine-ribs · 8 months ago

Text

Heat

Words: 3.4k

Summer holiday balcony sex // it’s really dirty ☀️❤️☀️

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

It's hot. That cloying kind of heat that clings to you like a stifling blanket, the air thick with a choking mugginess that makes it hard to settle and impossible to sleep.

You elongate your limbs in a feline stretch as you roll over in bed, causing your boyfriend's hand which had been draped over your hip to fall away. You'd normally be pressed up tightly against him as you slept but you'd naturally pulled apart tonight, so hot and sticky that you couldn't bear the additional warmth of each other's body heat.

You're both naked, having shed every layer to try and find respite from the unrelenting heatwave but it's inescapable. You toss and you turn, the thin linen sheets sticking to your clammy skin, cursing the fact that the air conditioning unit in your holiday apartment had decided to pack up working tonight of all nights. Just when the punishing temperatures had risen to a unprecedented peak, transforming the balmy nights into something wholly unbearable.

A breeze whispers into the room through the open balcony doors, it's still warm but it's a tiny reprieve and you instinctively rise up from the bed, turning towards the source. Van stirs on the bed at your movement but he doesn't wake, he just lets out a soft snore through his slightly parted lips, his long limbs spread-eagled out on the crumpled sheets. You take a moment to admire him, the way the silvery glow of the moonlight catches his striking features, the light sheen of sweat glistening on his naked skin. You consider climbing back on to the bed to rouse him from the depths of sleep with a few strategically placed kisses, but again you feel the tantalising Mediterranean breeze caressing your skin and the temptation for relief from the humid atmosphere in the apartment bedroom is just too strong.

The night is quiet save for the distant muted sounds of late-night revellers spilling out of bars on the main strip. You'd purposely booked this apartment complex a few streets away from the hustle and bustle, favouring a quieter spot tucked away, an idyllic slice of Iberian paradise where the two of you could kick back and reconnect after your busy lifestyles had taken their toll.

You step forward but hesitate on the threshold when you realise that you've not picked up your silk robe to wrap around your naked frame, but then in an uncharacteristic rush of boldness you shuffle forwards anyway. A thrill sparks in you as you quickly glance around, surveying the quiet neighbouring apartments shrouded in darkness. It doesn't look like there's any signs of life, but that's not to say that another guest won't see you out here, completely naked, standing on your apartment balcony, bold as brass. You giggle quietly to yourself. You're certainly not a prude but it's not at all like you to be so daring. There's just something about the idea that someone might catch sight of you like this that's kind of turning you on. Not to mention that it feels totally liberating.

Emboldened by your braveness you step even further out, placing your hands on the railing and looking out into the night. It's a beautiful view in the daytime but somehow it's even more breathtaking now, almost magical the way that the luminescence from the moon's glow coats everything in a silvery lustre. Crickets chirrup in the grasses below you, palms sway gently in the breeze and the pool water below shifts lazily like cascading sequins.

"Bloody 'ell! What you doing out 'ere starkers?"

Van's shocked voice suddenly cuts through the peaceful quiet, making you jump. You hadn't even realised that he'd woken up. You whirl around quickly, instinctively covering yourself with your hands even though you're not usually shy around him.

"I was just getting a bit of air... it's too hot to sleep. I... forgot my robe..."

You can see his lips quirk up into a smile as his eyes trail down over your nakedness. "I'm not complaining love... just wasn't expecting it, that's all. I didn't have you pegged as an exhibitionist!"

He folds his hands across his chest, leaning back against the door frame, still appraising you.

"I'm not!" You protest, giggling, letting your hands fall to your sides to allow Van's eyes to roam over all of you. Predictably they do.

"Really? So you're not out here flashing the neighbours then? You'll give that old guy we saw round the pool earlier a heart attack if ya not careful!"

You allow him a mischievous grin, pushing your shoulders back as you rest an elbow on the railing to lean against it. It's a casual pose even though you feel anything but, worrying that Van's loud voice might draw attention to you both up here. He's naked too, although he'd be partially hidden from prying eyes by his proximity to the apartment doorway. You, however, would be on full display.

"Keep your voice down!" You whisper, still giggling. "No one's out here to see anyway. And I'm definitely not an exhibitionist... not like you!"

His eyes widen as he presses a hand against his chest. "Me? Never!"

"Yes you," you smirk back at him. "What was that in the pool earlier? 'Oh whoops, my trunks seem to have just slipped off!' Yeah, right!"

You indicate the water below you, replaying the humorous scene in your mind from earlier when Van was bragging about his diving skills and had pleaded with you to watch him. How he'd plunged into the pool skilfully only to surface moments later holding aloft his swimming trunks that had somehow become completely separated from his body. The gasps of surprise from two middle-aged ladies who undoubtedly got an eyeful as Van had whirled his trunks around his head proudly whilst you'd captured the whole hilarious incident on camera.

"I told you those trunks were too big when ya bought 'em for me," he sniggers.

You shake your head, trying to stifle more laughter. "Bloody liar... they fit perfectly. You just love getting your kit off in public. Reckon you get a kick out of it."

Van pushes his body off from the doorframe, taking a step towards you. "Says the girl standing out here with not a stitch of clothing on for all the world to see..."

You straighten up to lean with your lower back against the railings as he approaches, looking up at him with a glimmer of a challenge in your eye. "Well... you're not exactly fully dressed, are you?"

He comes to a stop just inches away, looking down on you. "Maybe we're both as bad as each other then." His hands move forward simultaneously to grip the railings on either side of your hips, caging you in. Your breath catches as he presses his body forward and your hips meet. "Maybe we're both turned on by the risk... the thought that someone could catch us at it... the thought that someone could be watching us right now..."

His whispered words take that low and sultry tone he uses when he's trying to seduce you, and boy does it work. You stay quiet, looking up at him through your lashes, purposefully coyly as he moves a hand to catch your jaw, wrapping his fingers only gently around your throat. Your pulse quickens.

"I think maybe you'd quite like that... am I right?"

"It does kinda turn me on," you admit, pressing your pelvis forward to lightly grind against him, the unmistakable feeling of his stiffening cock setting off a glow of heat at the apex of your thighs. "But we can't do anything out here... there's no way. Anyone could see..."

Even as the words leave your mouth you're aware that they carry no conviction. You're already flicking through scenarios of what might happen, imagining his hot breath panted against your skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he spread them wide and took you right here and now for the whole world to see if they cared to look.

"We can do whatever we like babe," he breathes, lips hovering just inches above yours as he leans over you, pressing your body back against the railings so it arches up towards him. "I could turn you around right now and have you over this balcony if you wanted me to. Fuck into you nice and slow and deep, make you moan out loud for me so everyone knows just how good it feels. Would you like that, huh?"

"Oh my god," you gasp, arousal pooling between your thighs as he pushes his hips against you even harder, his now hard cock trapped between your two bodies. The stickiness of the heat just makes everything seem more charged, the slickness from your combined sweat creating a delicious slippery friction between you.

"Come on love," he urges, his fingers flexing around your throat, squeezing firmly enough to give that pressure you crave, tempting you further. "Wanna fuck you so bad... right here, right now."

It's shameless, the effect he has on you. The way your body reacts almost autonomously to his attentions. You're insatiable for him and he's only too eager in his mission to try and sate you, the perfect partners in crime. With no further encouragement you're already twisting your body, letting him spin you around so your hips are now pushed firmly against the hard metal, prone against it as he slides a foot against one of yours, nudging your legs wide apart. There's a small ledge that you've stepped up to balance on, bringing you up to the perfect height to be aligned with him.

His hands skate over your hips, curling around them, tightening their grip as he pulls you back to grind against him. Your skin's so hot, on fire, burning with the same feverish desire that's simmering between your thighs.

"Van..." you whimper, pushing your ass back against him, feeling the sharp jut of his hips. "Need you..."

His lips go to your neck, sucking hot, wet kisses, his teeth nipping at your skin with a pressure that makes you gasp. "I'm here baby... I got you."

One of his hands snakes forward from your thighs, the roughness of his calloused fingers brushing against your folds, making you shudder. He's in no mood to tease tonight, two of his skilful fingers easing straight into you knuckle deep, twisting and scissoring inside you, working you open for him.

"You're so wet for me already," he mutters into the skin of your neck. "Is this what it does to you eh? The thought that someone could be out there, watching us?"

"Yeah," you whimper needily, your hands tightening their grip on the metal railings as he pushes his fingers even deeper inside, seeking that heavenly spot that makes you mewl for him.

"You dirty girl," he chuckles throatily, thrusting his fingers in and out, again and again, sliding so easily against your slick heat, your knees knocking against the balcony wall. "We'll give 'em something to watch then shall we?"

God, how you love the feel of his fingers inside of you. They're so long and slender, and he knows how to use them so well. How to angle them just right to make you clench around him, when to add another digit, the precise curve to curl them at to make your legs shake. You're already moaning softly for him when all of a sudden he withdraws them, making you whine from the loss of fullness for a second until they're replaced by the head of his cock, velvety smooth and hard as rock, begging for entrance.

He mutters your name as his thick shaft nudges into you. He feels so big in this position it almost feels like he could split you in two. You bite down hard on your lip to stifle a choked cry, tasting something metallic. He pushes into you with purpose, filling you up until you're sure you can feel him in your stomach.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck," you hiss, loving the burn of the stretch, knowing that after this you'll be able to feel him for days. He stills inside you, letting you become accustomed as your walls clench and flex around him, his body curved tightly over yours, enveloping you.

"Feels so good... so perfect... you're so fucking tight babe," he utters, his mouth hot on the skin of your shoulder, his teeth sinking lightly into your flesh as he pulls his hips back and sinks into you again.

His thrusts are slow and languid, unhurried and precise, a throaty groan emanating from him each time he bottoms out. It feels blissful but you crave something darker and more urgent, desire dulling your usual hesitance, the notion of being taken roughly in this most compromising of positions chasing away your inhibitions.

"Fuck me hard... please," you beg, elongating your neck to tip your head back to rest on his shoulder, bracing your body for what's to come.

"Oh babe," he growls into your neck, fingers digging harder into your hips as he draws back to thrust into you again. "I'll fuck you so hard everyone in this apartment block's gonna know my name by morning."

His hips suddenly piston against you with force, a choked whine bursting from you from the impact, your own hips knocking harshly against the railings. It feels so good, so raw, so fierce. One of his hands darts up to curl around your throat, pinning you up tightly against his body, the other slips down to rub messy circles around your clit.

The muggy heat of the night is oppressive and thick, your bodies drenched with sweat. You're trapped between his rutting hips and the unrelenting metal railings, gripping on to them for dear life as he takes control of your body, on display for anyone who might care to look up on this most beautiful clear and cloudless night. The sky's deep ink with an array of softly twinkling stars, like diamonds have been scattered across black velvet.

Your body jolts each time he pounds into you, the stillness of the night punctuated by his gravelly grunts of exertion and the slap of his sweat soaked hips colliding with yours. His strokes get deeper, harder when you beg him keenly for more.

"Oh god yeah... just like that," you whimper, unable to stem your sounds of pleasure, your tits bouncing as he slams into you, your mind fracturing as his cock butts up against your g spot with blissful precision over and over.

He knows you're close already, he can feel the tell-tale tremors in your body, the way your cunt clenches tightly around his cock, milking his own oncoming high. You're both lost in each other, minds fogged over with how good it feels, unmindful of where you are, and how public it is, and how fucking loud you're both being.

"Ah fuck... ‘m gonna come... can't hold on," he groans, his fingers flicking quick, slippery strokes over your sweet spot, your hips grinding back into his pelvis each time he slams into you. You're chasing your orgasm, desperate and needy as you feel a spark of white hot pleasure ignite deep down in your core.

And then it's too much all at once, his tightened grip on your throat, the feel of him hot and hard and pulsing inside you, his impassioned groans in your ear as he lets himself go. You feel something stretch taut and snap in an explosion of shuddering bliss, your knees going weak as he secures you tightly against his body, fucking up into you with a few final thrusts as you feel his release spurting deep inside.

He slumps heavily against you, heart thundering against your spine as your head hangs between your shoulders, panting whilst you catch your breath.

"Jeez, it's so fucking hot," he breathes out heavily, pressing a kiss to the damp, sticky skin of your shoulder. "Feel like I'm gonna pass out after that."

"Tell me about it, I feel so faint... and I think my legs are gonna give way in a minute!"

You laugh shakily, feeling him start to soften inside as he pulls out, the warm trickle of his seed immediately coating the inside of your thighs.

"Ughh I need a shower so bad," you add, turning around in his arms to reach up and plant a small kiss on his jaw, then his cheek, then his full lips which are pulled into the widest, cheekiest grin. "You certainly look happy with yourself," you observe, smiling back, draping your hands over his shoulders to support yourself on your shaky legs.

"Of course I'm happy, I'm on holiday with my gorgeous girlfriend, I'm having the best time, life's pretty much perfect right now..." he pauses, his smile getting even wider and more mischievous, his eyebrows dancing upwards in amusement. "And... even better... I've just discovered another one of your kinks."

"What the hell you talking about?" You giggle, trying to inch Van back into the privacy of your apartment after your wanton display out here on the balcony, your shyness trickling back as the heat of passion subsides.

"Fucking in public places," he announces proudly and loudly, yelping as you slap your hand hard against his bare chest, urging him to "shhhh be quiet, will you?"

"I knew it," he continues, undeterred as you both stumble back into the airless apartment. He catches hold of your hand and starts tugging you towards the bathroom. "I knew you had a thing for it! When you dragged me off to the toilets at that party at Benji's the other night you were like a bloody wild animal!"

You roll your eyes playfully. "Oh I hardly had to drag you... you were well up for it."

"I'm sure everyone knew what we were up to," he chuckles as you both make for the shower, bare feet slapping on the tiled floor. He reaches in and twists the tap, sighing at the relief of the cool water which quickly cascades down on you both as you quickly step in. "And I'm always up for it with you... and I gotta admit, it is a proper rush doing it in risky places. Like the thrill of someone catching you at it just makes it a million times hotter."

"That's exactly it!" You agree, then you bite back a shy giggle, your cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "And I know it sounds really weird, but it kinda turns me on thinking that someone could be watching us... like secretively... oh god now I've said it, it sounds well bad!"

You raise your hands up quickly to hide your scarlet cheeks which are glowing furiously but Van quickly pulls them away, his eyes widening in delighted surprise. "You're a proper kinky bitch you are Y/N! It's all coming out now!"

"Oh my god, I can't believe I just admitted that!" You drop your head down, laughing, embarrassed, but Van won't let you hide away, his hands cupping your cheeks, tipping your face upwards.

"No... no... don't be shy, I love it!" He grins, shaking his head, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. "You know, we still have six days left of this holiday... and who knows what mischief we could get up to." His hands curl around your hips as he manoeuvres you in the small shower cubicle until your back's pressed up against the tiles, an exaggerated thoughtfulness on his features as you can see the cogs turning in his mind. "There's the swimming pool, and those little beach huts... and the actual beach of course... I've always wanted to shag on the beach. There's those sand dunes along that stretch behind the apartments..."

You laugh, scrunching up your face as your thoughts go to an awkward fumble with an ex on a beach in Devon years ago. "You don't want to shag on the beach... trust me... the sand... it gets everywhere!"

Then you're both laughing out loud, blurting out ridiculous places, each one more daring and impractical than the last, trying to outdo each other as you wash away the heat of the night.

Did anyone catch the reference to this moment? 😂

#heat #catb imagines #van mccann #van mccann x reader #van mccann fanfic #fanfic #vanfic #smut

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