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artdcnaldson · 6 months ago

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Tie Break || Art Donaldson x Reader ; Patrick Zweig x Reader

this can be read as a sequel to changeover or as a standalone :) enjoy <3

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v smut x2, f!recieving oral, handjob, creampie, cum eating), angst with a happy ending, infidelity, toxic relationships, everyone in this is kind of a horrible person, language obviously

Summary: It’s summer in Atlanta, 2011. For the second time in your life, you’re the clear second choice. When the opportunity arises, you find a temporary distraction in Art Donaldson.

A/N: FINALLY here it is! The 2011 Atlanta fic. They’re back, they’re older, they’re even more toxic. Let me know if you’re interested in a part 3!

It was hot, even though the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. It was a cloying, oppressive heat that made the stupid, business-casual top you wore stick to your skin.

The article you were working on was halfway written, something you could knock out in the next hour if you really tried. Your drink was watered down from the heat, weak when it hit your tongue. A frown turned your lips, but you really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway.

"Working late?”

The voice was so familiar that you could’ve recognized it anywhere, any time. Art Donaldson was one of the most recognizable men in the country, but to you, he seemed so different. The boyishness was still there, but it lay beneath a new level of confidence.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to appear nonchalant, like it hadn’t been four years since you last spoke. “I’m on deadline. I’m writing a feature on Anna Mueller heading into the US Open next month.”

Without asking, he sat down across from you at the small bistro table. He was so close you could smell the minty gum he had been chewing. It nearly made you smile. Old habits die hard.

“So you write about tennis?” He asked, meeting your gaze.

“I write about athletes,” you corrected. “I was going to be here anyway, and since Anna is heading for a Grand Slam, I thought it would be easy enough. Grab a couple of interviews, watch a few matches.”

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, trying his best to be causal in a situation that definitely wasn’t. You sipped again at your drink, peering at him over the edge of the glass.

“You have a match tomorrow,” you said, as though he needed reminding. “Shouldn’t you be listening to shitty pop punk to get yourself psyched right now?”

A smile spread across his lips, and he looked so much like the guy you knew from college that it made your chest tug uncomfortably. Same hair, the same smile, the same crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he was amused by something. You couldn’t help but smile along with him, like the past four years were nothing. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want another drink?”

You looked down at your glass, mostly water and thin ice cubes. “Rum and coke?” You asked, giving him a tiny smile. He nodded and disappeared towards the bar.

It felt strange, sitting there in the quiet, your article the furthest thing from your mind. Four years. It felt like yesterday and an eternity ago that you’d last spoken with him. He was a familiar stranger, nearly unknowable.

Your cursor blinked a few more times before you shut your laptop and slid it back inside your beat-up work bag.

“Running off?” He asked, catching you in the act of packing your things. You shook your head and accepted the fresh drink with a smile. “You said you were going to be in Atlanta anyway,” he said as he sat, spreading out, making himself comfortable in the shitty bar seating. “When you were talking about writing about Anna.”

You nodded. “Mhmm, I did,” you replied, chewing the inside of your lip nervously. His gaze was intense, falling just on the other side of casual. You felt tiny under that gaze, like you were guilty of a crime you didn’t know you’d committed.

“And you’re here for Patrick?” The words were nonchalant, but you could hear the accusation beneath them, the history of the two of them just in one sentence. It turned something in your stomach, the possessiveness in his voice. You could hear it, even four years out.

The new drink was strong, but it was the perfect way to hide the distaste in your expression. The burn of liquor into your chest grounded you back in reality instead of the easy allure of nostalgia. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I try my best to go to all of his matches.”

Art narrowed his eyes, just slightly. There was still an element of exaggerated friendliness, the casual smile on his lips, the open body language. All of it masking the lingering resentment and hurt that was buried beneath mountains of nostalgia. Deep enough that neither of you had realized it was still there until you found yourselves face to face. There was an unspoken question, one that he didn’t want to ask, one that you didn’t want to answer.

How long?

You took another drink.

“Where is Patrick?” He asked, glancing around like he might materialize out of thin air.

“He went out for a smoke, or to walk around and clear his head, or something,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Where’s Tashi?”

His jaw clenched and he looked away— a sore spot. A scab you wanted to pick at until it bled, dig your nails in. Maybe that was your eighteen-year-old self talking.

“You never used to let her get too far away from you,” you noted, mirth dripping from each syllable. “Bet you came down here looking for her. Your leash must’ve been just a little too loose this time and she slipped it.”

You took a long drink, nails tapping against the glass as you considered your words. Tashi wasn’t the type of woman who let a man hold her back. If you were trying to be more accurate, rather than just piss him off, you might’ve fixed the analogy. Art was the sad little puppy following her around. She tied his leash to a lamp post for a fucking break.

“Do you remember the day Tashi got injured?” He asked, changing the subject suddenly.

You blinked slowly, appraising him. But his expression gave nothing away. “I do.”

A wry smile spread across his lips, and he met your gaze with a coldness that you didn’t recognize. Mean in the way injured animals like to snap at the nearest hand. “It was Patrick in your room that night, wasn’t it?”

Your brows furrowed, face falling at his words. “What?”

He made a face, something akin to skepticism, but crueler. It made your stomach turn.

“You were fucking someone in your room,” he said plainly. “And I’ve always had a suspicion that it was Patrick. Was it?”

That didn’t do much to clear up your confusion. “You were there?”

He laughed, mirthless, and nodded. “I was, uh, sitting by the door like an asshole. I came to apologize, to beg for you back, but instead, I spent the night listening to my girlfriend getting fucked on the other side of the door.”

Annoyance flickered in your gaze. He knew of a wound of your own, and he relished in picking at it the way you’d relished in digging your fingers into his. “I wasn’t your girlfriend, Art.”

“Right, you weren’t. But you’re Patrick’s girlfriend now, is that it?”

Heat burned in your cheeks. Your relationship with Patrick was… tempestuous to say the least. Most of the time he was your boyfriend, but others he was just a friend that you could count on for a good fuck, sometimes not even a friend. At the moment, he was the former, but that could always change.

It wasn’t easy, being with someone whose emotions ran on an equally short fuse. You’d sound too much like his parents, or he’d devalue your work, or Patrick would forget to take out the trash in your apartment and you’d snap, or you’d mispronounce a word one too many times and it would drive him crazy. Insignificant things could feel big with him, because of him. For better or worse.

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment.” He echoed, laughing like he was in on some joke you were painfully unaware of.

”That’s amusing to you?” You asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged, picking at his jeans. “Your choice of words is interesting.” He lets that hang in the air before he meets your gaze again. “Do you think Patrick would’ve even noticed you if it hadn’t been for me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Does it matter?” You asked. “You realize that we’ve been together going on four years now, right? Broken up, dating, fucking, whatever. You realize that there may be more important things in our life than you?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you know that whatever you have, it’s built on the fact that you were a warm body when he needed it. Just like you were for me.”

That arrogant expression, like he actually fucking knew anything about you anymore was the last straw. You stood suddenly, grabbing your bag. You weren’t Art Donaldson’s little lapdog anymore— you didn’t have to sit there and take all the shit he doled out.

“Goodnight, Art. Thanks for the drink.”

It was funny, how your weaknesses were still so exposed. Art’s was Tashi, and it probably always would be. His desire to be seen, to impress, painted upon every lovely feature. And yours, raw and bleeding and obvious— the unbearable, visceral need to be wanted.

You made it to the elevator before you felt his presence behind you. Wordless, but so close it was suffocating. You jabbed the up button over and over in frustration, knowing it wouldn’t speed anything up.

Art stepped into the elevator with you, so close you could feel the body heat radiating off of him. He always burned hot, like a human furnace.

It was silent as the lift lurched upwards. You pressed against the back corner, watching the number of the floor increase one by one.

“Patrick is with Tashi,” Art said without looking at you, just as the elevator opened on the floor of your room. You froze, swallowing hard. “I saw them in the hotel bar, then they left together. What do you think they’re doing right now?”

You shook your head dumbly, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Go fuck yourself, Art,” you said weakly, because what else was there to say? You stepped into the hallway— lit with dim yellow light so you couldn’t see where the wallpaper peeled and the carpet was stained.

“If you need somewhere to wait them out, and you will, I’m in room 13 on the seventh floor.” The elevator doors closed, and you were alone.

The hallway was winding, and you felt a bad sort of anticipation of what you might find, like a sick feeling in your gut. You stood in front of the room, 306, and froze.

The door to your room was closed, no light shone from beneath the door, but you could hear them. Muffled, but clear enough. A pretty voice and breathy moans. Patrick’s laugh, the thud of something falling off the dresser.

Your room key was in your purse— you could’ve gotten it out and stopped it, but what good would that have done? You’d still spend the night humiliated, facing opposite walls as Patrick, lying in the same sheets he’d just fucked her in.

You dropped the bag by the door and took a slow, shaky breath to calm yourself down.

Tashi Duncan. She had lingered on the edges of your relationship with Patrick too. She was Patrick’s first choice, just as she’d been Art’s. You’d never blamed them for that, you knew where you stood, and you chose them anyway.

It was easy to choose them when you thought that the threat was nonexistent— when distance made you feel safe. You could hear her and him, but it felt like mere static in your brain.

You knew how Art felt, back at Stanford. Sulking outside the door, unable and unwilling to stop what was happening on the other side.

You were in the elevator before you realized you’d walked away. Shitty soft rock played over the speakers, and a poster on the wall advertised a continental breakfast. Your stomach turned uncomfortably.

You knocked on the door— room thirteen, an unlucky number. Maybe it didn’t bode well. As you waited for the door to open, your nails tapped a staccato rhythm against your thigh.

Art opened the door like he’d been expecting someone else. Maybe he had half-expected you to interrupt and send Tashi back upstairs, but no. He got you standing at his door with fiery eyes and an expectant expression.

Second choice, second choice, second choice.

Art kissed you for the first time in four years, and you let him. Not because you wanted to hurt Patrick or Tashi, but because you knew it would hurt you. His tongue pressed between the seam of your lips like he belonged there, licking into your mouth like he wanted to reclaim every part of you that Patrick had touched. You pushed him with a firm hand on his chest and he stumbled backward into the room. Despite everything, he smiled.

His hotel room was nearly identical to yours and Patrick’s. But you didn’t have time to really take in the details when he had his tongue in your mouth, kissing you hungrily.

That afternoon, you kissed Patrick after he lost his match. You wondered if Art could still taste him on your tongue then, if he wanted to drown out the taste of him.

It was different than you were used to. Four years with Patrick meant that you’d grown accustomed to certain ways that he did things— the intensity behind each kiss, each touch. His emotions— good, bad, in between— were never masked, never repressed.

When Patrick kissed you, when he touched you, when he fucked you— both of you were laid completely bare.

Art was different. When he kissed you it was through a certain level of performance, like he’d learned how from a searing romance film. In college, you’d believed that he kissed you like that because deep down, he did love you. Even at that moment, years out from your relationship with him, it muddled your brain.

Your sensible work heels had long since been kicked off by the door. Art’s fingers undid the button and zip of your jeans deftly, with a confidence that had only doubled since Freshman year. They wound up in a heap against the hotel dresser.

In his haste to remove your (also sensible, and very business casual) button-down, he popped about half of the buttons off completely.

“Sorry,” he said. The grin on his lips made you wonder if sorry was really how he felt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Stop talking.” You pulled off your bra and lost it somewhere across the room in your haste. Art was pulling off his clothes— his hoodie and the shirt beneath. His jeans and shoes toed off and left to be dealt with later.

He kissed you again, guiding you exactly where he needed. Your knees hit the back of the mattress and he eased you down without moving his lips from yours. When your head hit the sheets, you smelled perfume so sweet that it was nearly intoxicating. You turned your head, breathing deeply. Tashi. In this same bed, in this same spot. It made something stir inside you— right in your chest. A hint of wrongness, a hint of hurt.

Art pulled back, moving his lips along your jaw, down to the junction of your throat.

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down to your tits. “I don’t want you thinking about Patrick. Not when you’re with me.”

The words were mumbled against soft, supple skin. His eyes were intent as they looked up at you, the demand of momentary fidelity in his eyes. You wanted to slap that expression off of his face, or run your thumb along his cheek and hold his face in your hands.

How was it fair that he asked you that when he’d lingered like a ghost on the edges of whatever it was that you and Patrick had? How was it fair for him to look at you like that?

He took a nipple into his mouth and you gasped as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. Soft kisses before he suckled softly. “Okay,” you gasped, lying through your teeth. “I’m only thinking of you.”

His hair was still long, kept the same way he wore it in school. Your fingers tangled in his hair like muscle memory, scratching against his scalp as he kissed along your skin with wet lips, treating your other breast with the same, hungry attention.

“Still so fucking hot,” he mumbled against your skin. “Should’ve— fuck— should’ve kept you. What do you want, huh? Tell me.”

Your mind swam with possibilities, but you didn’t even know where to begin. Your mind was stuck on his previous words. Should’ve kept you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “I don’t know,” you replied, completely honest. “Whatever you want.”

He accepted that easily— it was so similar to how you’d been for him in college. You gasped as he kissed down your sternum, then your stomach. His lips found the waistband of your panties and he grinned, tugging at the lace with his teeth, letting it snap back against your hip.

He peeled your panties down slowly, letting his hands trail down the expanse of your legs. The possessiveness of the touch sent a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed along your skin, from your ankle, up your calf, then your knee. Your legs spread instinctively, welcoming him right back where he knew he belonged. His pretty lips trailed wet kisses up your thighs, stopping just where you wanted him.

You expected him to rush. He’d seen Patrick and Tashi leave, which meant they’d finish before you two, more likely than not. There was every reason in the world to make things quick— to fuck you and make you leave.

Instead, he took his time with you. Soft, teasing kisses peppered on the supple skin of your thighs before he nuzzled into your cunt. The first delve of his tongue was slow and exploratory, tasting the arousal that had pooled at your core.

”God, you still taste so fucking sweet.”

Another thing you’d nearly forgotten about Art— in all things, he was methodical.

He started with kitten licks at your clit— light brushes with his tongue that made you whimper needily for more. His tongue circled you there, and he relished in the way your fingers tugged on his hair at the sensation.

Then he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking with more pressure until a strangled moan squeezed past your lips. Your thighs tensed on either side of his head, holding him there as he alternated between slow, soothing licks and firm suction.

It was frustrating, how wet you were. Art had brought out the worst in you, turned you into something that left you feeling genuinely embarrassed. And still, you were slick, dripping down to the sheets. A mess of arousal and Art’s spit.

When he eased a finger into your cunt, it slid in like your body was made to fit whatever he could give you. At that point, you very well could have been. What were you, if not an object orbiting in the atmosphere of his life?

He looked up at you, seeming so fucking intent on making it feel good for you as he crooked his finger. It rubbed against the soft, spongy spot within you and you cried out, eyes rolling back.

“That’s it, huh?” He cooed as he pressed a second finger inside of you. Your arm was slung over your face. You couldn’t let yourself keep looking at him when he was looking at you the same way he had in college. The same fucking expression that got your head all mixed up in the first place.

He pressed a soft kiss to your clit and you whimpered. “I know it feels good, baby, just relax.”

His fingers thrust within you with a slow, deep pressure as he continued to make out with your clit. It was always so good with him— you’d nearly forgotten how easy it was for him to bring you to the edge.

When you came, it wasn’t like what you had grown used to with Patrick— sudden and overwhelming, like it had been ripped from some secret place within you. It was intense, but slow to build, seeming to last forever as Art’s fingers and tongue worked you through it. Your breath was shaky as he pulled back, pretty mouth wet with your arousal.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, looking up at you expectantly.

You should’ve stopped— rationally, you knew that it was best to turn back and quit before you fucked up the situation beyond repair.

But it was Art. He could’ve had anyone else, but he wanted you. Maybe not forever, or even longer than that night. But for then.

You shook your head softly. “No. Do you think we should stop?”

His fingers moved between your thighs, circling your clit. “We definitely should. You’re with Patrick.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering as he caressed you with featherlight touches. “Don’t fucking talk about him,” you said, but your words came out with no bite. How could they, when he was playing with your body like a favorite toy?

“No?” He asked. He was wearing a smug sort of expression. “You don’t want me to talk about your boyfriend, huh? Too personal?”

You moaned as he applied more pressure at the apex of your thighs, making your cunt clench and ache to be filled.

“Does Patrick know how much you’ve missed me?” He asked. Your breath caught in your throat, and he just smiled. “I bet he does. I think he knows that if he just drops my name in a conversation, your pussy gets wet.”

You moaned softly at his words, chest heaving with soft pants. You weren’t even sure if it was true, but it felt like it could’ve been then. He leaned down, his words spoken close to your ear.

“I can go slow. Make it last for you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver.

You nodded eagerly, turning your head to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was slow, like you had all the time in the world. His tongue against yours, the weight of his body on top of you, the feel of him hard, pressing against your thigh.

He sat back to strip off his boxers, and you relished in the sight of him laid bare before you. You’d nearly forgotten how pretty he was— big and flushed nearly red with need. It made your heart hammer with nerves; your excitement and shame and need rolled into one messy, electrifying tangle.

His hair flopped into his eyes as he held himself over you, just like you remembered. You reached up, brushing it out of his eyes with a tender hand. His lips brushed against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse thrummed in your veins.

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

Heat flooded your entire body, as you repeated the words. “I missed you, Art.” You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, and guiding it towards your entrance. He moaned and bucked instinctively into your hand.

”Tell me you want me to fuck you, no one else.” You could hear the implications in his words. Tell me you want me, not Patrick.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Art pressed himself inside of you, sinking into the welcoming warmth of your cunt. You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him closer, deeper, until his balls pressed firm against you and there was nothing else to give.

He thrust shallowly, rocking against a spot deep within you, one that made your eyes flutter with each brush against it.

“You’re so tight still,” he moaned, lips moving against your throat. “Pussy’s made just for me.”

He touched you like he hadn’t forgotten how you felt or what you needed. Spoke to you like you were one of his possessions.

You lost yourself in it— the sweet, filthy words spoken against your skin, and the rhythm of his body moving against yours. His lips captured yours with a hungry insistence, like he could convey four years' worth of unspoken words with a few brushes of his tongue against yours.

When he pulled back, lips spit slick and looking so pretty, you thought maybe there was a sort of understanding between the two of you.

His head fell back as he sped up his thrusts, chasing his release. There wasn’t time to stretch it out, to spend as much time as you could with each other’s bodies.

“Need you to cum,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub your still-sensitive clit. Your cunt was squeezing him tight, body aching for it, for him, brought to the edge simply because he’d asked for it. “C’mon— you get so tight when you cum, need to feel it again.”

It was like your body was hardwired to give him exactly what he wanted. You came with broken moans of his name and legs squeezing him closer, deeper. Your chest heaved with shaking breaths and punched out whimpers as he kept fucking into you.

He was practically crushing you with his weight, pinning you down, groaning into the junction of your shoulder.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” his words vibrated against skin tacky with a thin sheen of sweat.

”Want you to.” Your arms slung around his back, holding him close to you. “I’ve got an IUD, so you can— you can cum.”

His lips met yours as he came, with a pretty moan into your open mouth and slow, messy kisses that made you want to just melt into him and stay that way forever.

Spent, he rolled over and turned on a lamp at the bedside. The alarm clock announced the time in a dim red glow— five past one.

You lay there, damp between your thighs from the mixture of your releases, unsure of what to do. It was cold beneath the hotel AC. He was peering over at you, wearing an expression you were scared to dissect.

When his hand touched your arm, you nearly flinched. Your breath caught in your throat as he ran his thumb along your skin, so sweetly that you felt that same discomfort tug at your chest.

“C’mere,” he said, an offer. His arm was splayed over the pillows, giving you the perfect spot to lie down and press yourself against his side. To pretend like you belonged there.

But you didn’t belong there. You belonged four floors down with Patrick. That’s where you had belonged for four years. The reality of what you’d done had set in quickly, and you knew you needed to get out of Art’s room.

”Art,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I have to go.”

He nodded and sat up against the headboard. You watched him grab his boxers and pull them back on, a strange smile on his face. He must’ve sensed your confusion, even without you saying.

“It’s funny how things change,” he said. “Here I am, asking you to stay for once.”

You didn’t say anything as you picked up your clothes from around the room, redressing as you recovered each piece from its hiding spot around the room. Your shirt was unsalvageable, so you grabbed Art’s. He had plenty of brand sponsors that would jump to replace it, and Patrick wouldn’t recognize it.

“I loved you, I think,” he said suddenly. “Back in college.”

You froze, arms crossed over your chest as you looked at him. “Art—“

“No, I did. I loved you, I just did it all wrong.”

“Art, just stop,” you said firmly. Embarrassment hit you all at once— the guilt of what you’d done, and the shame over who you’d done it with. Your eyes stung as you looked at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

His lips twitched, dipping into a frown, then back into as close to a neutral expression as he could manage. “I just thought you should know. It’s only fair.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “Fair? Jesus Christ, you really haven’t changed, Art.”

His expression fell completely. It looked like it had back in the hotel bar— icy. “I haven’t changed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed as you looked at him. “It means that if this were Stanford, that would’ve made me crawl right back into bed, lay by your side, and daydream about what it could mean for us. If one day I might be Mrs. Art Donaldson. It means that you say these sweet things to me every time you can feel me slipping away, but they mean absolutely nothing. We’re not nineteen anymore, Art. I’m not leaving Patrick to be your plaything again.”

His jaw tensed, and he looked down at the bed briefly while he picked at loose threads on the sheets. “You think that’s what I want?”

You frowned. “I think you want what Patrick has.”

He scoffed. “Patrick doesn’t even want what he has,” he said, relishing in the wounded look on your face. “If he did, he wouldn’t be fucking my fiancée right now.”

Fiancée. You felt stupid for not knowing it, but you swallowed down your hurt and met his gaze. “I guess we’re both going to have to be content with being the second choice.” You slipped on your shoes and went for the door. “Good luck with your match tomorrow, Art. I sincerely hope that I never have to see you again.”

The hallway felt colder when you stepped outside of the room and shut the door firmly behind you. A very big part of you wanted to go back, to knock and apologize and grovel like you might have when you were a freshman.

Maybe you hadn’t grown up that much after all.

The elevator was playing Billy Joel. You leaned against the side of the elevator, relishing in the cold against your sticky skin. When the doors opened on your floor and you stepped out, you blinked in surprise.

Tashi stood in front of you for the first time since college, looking just as stunning as you remembered, probably more so. Her hair was pulled up, slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes flicked down to your shirt, Art’s shirt, you swallowed as an understanding passed between the two of you— wordless, because what was there to say at that point?

”You left your laptop in the hallway,” she said, skipping formalities. “I took it inside so it wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Okay,” you said, chewing on your lip. She stood there like she expected something more. You felt her surveying you, and froze as she reached forward and rubbed at your bottom lip.

“He could’ve at least cleaned you up a bit,” she said. Her fingers delicately fixed your hair, tucking it back into place. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of your mouth. Once there was nothing left to fix, she looked at you one last time and nodded. “You should be fine now.”

Before you could process that, she stepped into the elevator, and you were left alone in the hallway. When you made it to the room, the door was cracked open, so you let yourself in.

Patrick was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, a towel slung low around his waist. The bed was a fucking wreck, not that he seemed to mind.

When the door clicked shut, he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and joined you back in the room.

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, like he was ready if you were going to start a fight.

“I just want to go to bed, Patrick,” you said, annoyed by how wobbly and pathetic you sounded.

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead. “Okay. We’ll go to bed.”

You kicked off your clothes, but left on Art’s hoodie. Patrick didn’t ask where it came from, or what happened to what you were wearing earlier. You knew he already knew, that he could tell the moment you walked in. He dropped the towel onto a heap on the floor, climbed into the bed, and held out his arms for you.

A stronger person would’ve told him to fuck off, but you weren’t a stronger person. You nestled into his side and felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes.

He rubbed your back soothingly and kissed your forehead. The sheets smelled like Tashi, he smelled like hotel soap, and you smelled like Art’s cologne.

“Do you want room service in the morning?” He asked softly.

“Patrick—“

“I’m serious. We can have breakfast in bed, do some tourist-y shit, maybe we’ll go watch a couple of matches, then come back and—“

“Are we supposed to just forget what happened?” You interrupted.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He kissed your forehead, tender, sweet. “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you want.”

You met his gaze. “Do you… do you want to know? About Art?”

He went quiet as he played with the ends of your hair. “Did it make you feel any better?” He finally asked.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Then it didn’t.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “No?”

You shook your head, sighing softly as his kisses trailed down, over your nose, to the sides of your mouth. “No. It was a mistake.”

”Tell me about it,” he said, murmuring against your jaw. “Tell me how he touched you.”

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more access. Your nails scratched softly against his scalp as he sucked bruises onto your throat.

“He was desperate,” you said, heart hammering as you began recounting it to Patrick— your boyfriend. There was no world in which he should’ve wanted to hear about it… and yet. He moaned against your throat, encouraging you, wanting to know more. “Kissed me like he wanted to taste you in my mouth, like he wanted to overpower you.”

Patrick moved his lips to yours, kissing you with a sloppy brush of his tongue against yours. “Like that?”

You shook your head and leaned in, deepening the kiss with slow laps of your tongue into his mouth. He moaned softly, matching your pace in a way that was rare, but made butterflies dance around in your stomach. He pulled you on top of him— hands roaming from the backs of your thighs to squeeze your ass as he deepened the kiss. It was just as slow and sweet as before, but you could sense the need and hunger behind it.

You pulled back, just enough to remove your lips from his. Both of your breaths came in needy pants. You weren’t sure why you were enjoying this, but you were, so you kept going. “He took off my clothes, and laid me down on the bed.”

Patrick moaned, chasing your lips. You sat back and just looked at him— lying there with still-damp curls, his pupils blown with lust. His cock was hard, resting against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.

You pulled off Art’s hoodie and tossed it across the room, relishing in the way Patrick’s eyes raked over every bit of exposed skin like it was the first time he’d seen it. “He ate me out, made me cum on his fingers first, then again while he was inside of me,” Patrick’s breath caught, just for a moment. Desire, or jealousy, or both flickered across his gaze. “He fucked me like he wanted me to fall in love with him again.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving as you moved a hand between your bodies, grasping his cock in your hand, stroking slowly. “Is that how you fucked Tashi? Like you wanted her to pick you instead of her fiancé?” He moaned as your thumb ran over his slit, smearing the precum that had begun to dribble out.

“No,” He groaned. You nodded encouragingly, squeezing him tighter in your fist. “Fuck. I fucked her like I wanted her to know she made a mistake. Made her cum until she tapped out”

You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, tugging slightly. “With this pretty mouth, huh?” He nodded, wordlessly. “And with this?” You gave a slow stroke of his dick, making him buck up into your fist. Another nod.

“Show me.”

Patrick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Show you?”

You nodded and continued stroking him. “I told you about Art, so I want you to show me how you fucked Tashi.”

You recognized the fucking insanity of what you were asking, but you didn’t care. It was a strange form of closure— closing the circle, or whatever.

“Fuck, okay. Lay back,” he said, patting your thigh. You slid off his lap and settled atop the sheets, watching him expectantly.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, and he slid them down slowly. “Fuck.” Your cheeks flooded with heat as he held the sodden fabric up, wet and sticky with Art’s cum. He groaned and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. “That’s… god, that’s really fucking hot, baby.”

Oh. The mix of embarrassment and desire was something new— burning hot in the pit of your stomach as Patrick licked at your pussy, tasting the evidence of your arousal mingling with Art’s release. He moaned against you, holding you so tightly that his fingers dimpled your thighs.

His tongue lapped at your entrance, pushing into your cunt as deep as he could manage, then back to licking at your clit. It was messy— a combination of spit and cum and your juices.

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair as he sealed his lips around your clit. He moaned loudly against you, encouraging you to do it again, the fucking masochist.

He redoubled his efforts, pulling you closer, moaning against your cunt. It was like he wanted to devour you, to lick up every bit of Art that was left inside of you. You wanted him to try— you wanted him to replace every part of Art that was left in your body and soul.

“Patrick,” you gasped. He murmured an mhmm against your pussy. Eyes closed, right at home between your thighs, lost in the taste of you. “Need you inside.”

He planted one, two sloppy kisses to your clit before he pulled back, his lips shiny with your arousal. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, smirking down at you. “You need me, huh?”

You nodded, chest heaving with each panting breath. Patrick sat down at the headboard and patted his thigh. “Prove it.”

You sat up, crawling up the bed until you were straddling his lap. “You made her do all the work?”

He laughed, running his hands up your thighs to squeeze your ass, tug you closer. “I didn’t make her do anything.” Patrick had a hand wrapped around his cock, and you moaned softly as he guided it between your thighs to notch at your entrance.

You sank down slowly, forehead pressed against his as you took inch after inch. “Fuck,” you breathed. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his as you gave a slow roll of your hips. “Fuck. You’re so deep, Pat. Feels so good.”

His head fell back against the headboard as you began to ride him in earnest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, still wearing that fucking smirk, even balls deep inside of you. “That’s it, baby, take what you need.”

And you did. The way he was looking at him was proof enough, he was eating up every fucking second of you fucking yourself on him, using him like a toy.

Your noises were near-pornographic— Right there, fuck, you’re so big baby, so fucking deep.

The poor soul next door slammed on the wall, begging for you to just shut the fuck up. Patrick silenced you with a hungry kiss— a mess of tongues and spit. His fingers moved on your clit, pulling you towards the edge with desperate need.

“Close,” you gasped.

He nodded, moving his fingers faster. “I know you are. I’ve got you.”

You collapsed on top of him as you came— hips canting weakly as he worked you through it. He thrust up into your tight walls, groaning at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock.

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he groaned, burying his face into the junction of your throat. “Gonna cum— fuck—“

You moaned softly at the feeling of him spilling inside of you— the soft pulse of him, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt. You stayed on his lap, kissing his freckled nose, his eyelids, his mouth.

When you finally moved off of him, you whimpered at that loss of fullness, and of the slick mess seeping out between your thighs. If you were smart, you would’ve gone and cleaned up, but there was nothing more you wanted than to lay there in Patrick’s arms and fall asleep.

Whatever. You’d leave housekeeping a very generous tip. He sighed contentedly as you lay there— like you were made to fit against him perfectly. A warm hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, and you felt so at home, even in an Atlanta hotel.

“I love you, you know that?” He asked.

You looked up and nodded. “I know. I love you too.”

You found yourself staring up over at Patrick with a stupid, persistent smile on your face. He turned to watch you watching him, wearing a matching grin on his face. It was hard to tell who started laughing first— you or Patrick. At the absurdity of it all, at yourselves.

“God, we’re so messed up,” you said, with another laugh.

He nodded. “Really messed up, but whatever. Apparently your brain isn’t even fully developed until you’re 25.”

“Great, so we have one more year until we’re normal, rational adults.” He laughed, holding you against his chest.

He reached over and kissed your forehead. You were so sticky and gross that you really needed a shower, but, again— it was a tomorrow problem.

It fell quiet, and you could feel yourself slipping into comfortable drowsiness when Patrick finally spoke up. “Are we going to be okay?”

You blinked slowly. With your hand resting on his chest, you could feel his heart thudding just beneath your palm.

When you were twenty, you met Patrick’s parents. Crowded into his childhood bed with your head resting against his chest, his heart pounded as he apologized for the intense grilling you’d received that night at dinner. It was the first time you ever felt like his bravado had been shaken, like you were seeing through to the core of him.

You always knew you would be the one to say you loved him first— it was just the way things went. “I don’t care if they like me,” you had assured him. “I love you.” His heart beat harder, faster. He didn’t say it back until two days later, when he was fucking you in that very same bed— forehead to yours, skin sticky with sweat. “I love you,” breathed into your mouth like air.

When you were twenty-two, you moved into an apartment in Manhattan and Patrick followed like a housecat— no rent, no job, just company and a mouth to feed. The tour wasn’t going well, and you were working for a shitty, clickbait news site that hardly covered the cost of your place.

Things were good, mostly. Comfortable, domestic. Patrick tried to be a good boyfriend, you tried to be a good girlfriend. Both of you were trying to figure out what that meant for the other as best as you could. Patrick would bring you flowers from the corner store and take you out for drinks and dancing on weekends. You’d drive out on holidays to visit his family and wind up leaving early to go back to the comforts and peace of your apartment.

When you could, you’d follow him out to tournaments. If he won, he’d take you out with the prize money. If he lost, you’d take him back to the hotel to cheer him up.

On rough days, one of you would come home to the apartment and pick a fight over laundry, or a dish left in the sink, or even what he’d left on TV, and the other would give it back tenfold. Your neighbors would beat on their walls in annoyance as you yelled at each other, until one of you slammed a door and sulked in another room for a few hours, or you had make-up sex that gave the neighbors another reason to bang on their walls.

The breakups were infrequent but severe. You’d kick Patrick out, he’d live out of his car, or in a motel, or fuck off to some tennis tournament that you’d previously promised to go to. One of you always broke first, returning to the other with promises of love, and to do better.

You did love each other, really. And things usually got better. It was just easy to live with your feelings dialed up to a ten where Patrick was involved: bigger good moments, worse bad ones.

Your career had vastly improved. Patrick had moved up in the rankings, only slightly, but it was something. You could afford a bigger apartment in a nicer area, maybe get a dog. And you didn’t just want those things alone, you wanted them with him.

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest and nodded. “We’ll be fine,” you assured. It felt like the truth.

He nodded, looking down at you. His freckles were so much more pronounced after tournament after tournament in the blazing sun. “Yeah, probably.”

The next morning, you both got the continental breakfast you’d seen in the elevator while housekeeping dealt with the aftermath of the previous night. You did tourist-y shit— went to a museum, found a nice spot for lunch.

At the end of the day, you sat in the oppressive Atlanta heat with Patrick and watched Art Donaldson win his tennis match. You and Patrick left early, fucked in the backseat of his car, and decided to head home early.

As you started the drive back, you held his hand over the center console and listened to a shitty mix CD with songs he’d ripped off of LimeWire. You gave him shit when Kelly Clarkson followed Lil Wayne, but you both sang along to every fucking word.

You were right. You and Patrick would probably be fine.

#patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson fanfic #patrick zweig fanfic #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig #art donaldson #challengers 2024 #challengers fanfic #challengers x reader #changeover au #my writing

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ham1lton · 20 days ago

Note

oo for the lovesick!lando mini smau prompts what about him commenting wedding vows or something sexual on just about every post that contains yn even if its not something he posted , like hamlintomshaderoom posts yn crossing the street and hes practically proposing in comments

author’s note: hi!! so this is in the toxic!y/n and lovesick!lando universe so this is my warning that it isn’t a healthy relationship. this is an au and if toxic fictional relationships are not for you, please don’t read! this is a joke au <3

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liked by landonorris, land0.mov, lando.jpg and 1,928,091 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: musician yn yln seen in the streets of manhattan as she does some shopping in the city. she was surrounded by fans before being escorted away to safety by security. this is her first appearance since the release of her controversial self-titled hit album. thoughts?

view all 287,928 comments

user1: HERE BEFORE LANDO 😁

landonorris: LOVE IT

landonorris: GORGEOUS

landonorris: SHOW STOPPING

landonorris: SALIVATING !!! ONLY SHE CAN DO THAT

landonorris: SHE’S SOOOOOOO 😻😻😻😻😻

landonorris: WEDDING NOW!!!! 💍

-> ham1ltonshaderoom: stop camping out in our comments. we will block you.

user2: the way he literally is obsessed with yn

-> user3: like bro MOVE!!!! we’re obsessed with yn too 😭

-> user4: it’d be cute if it wasn’t cringe

user5: lando norris please can you not text her this

-> landonorris: she blocked me

-> landonorris: temporary setback

-> landonorris: still together!!!

-> user6: need to be as delusional as you. need to get on whatever you’re on rn 😭😭

user7: lando still being whipped after the release of P4THETIC! is insane!!!!!!

-> user8: like she wrote a number one song about how much of a loser you are and you’re still simping 😭 need her badly. i just know she’d change my life.

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Original Post:

r/AmItheAsshole

Posted by u/p4throwaway1234

AITA for not breaking up with my girlfriend after she wrote a song about how pathetic I am?

okay so, throwaway because this is kind of embarrassing. my (24M) girlfriend (23F) is a singer-songwriter, and recently she released a song. it’s super catchy and doing really well, but it’s… definitely about me. she doesn’t say my name, but the lyrics are about how she’s dating this “pathetic, lovesick fool” who “worships the ground she walks on” and “thinks he’s a prince when he’s really just a jester.”

here’s the thing: i honestly didn’t care 🤷. i know i’m kind of obsessed with her, and yeah, i get clingy sometimes. it’s a joke between us, and i thought that was her way of being playful. i even posted the song on my socials when it dropped because i was proud of her.

but my friends are all saying it’s humiliating and disrespectful, and i should break up with her. now she’s upset because she found out they’ve been telling me this, and she blocked me on everything. i just want to know if i’m the asshole for not immediately dumping her like my friends think i should.

Top Comments:

[deleted]:

“A lovesick fool who worships the ground she walks on”? Bro, she doesn’t respect you. YTA for staying with someone who thinks you’re pathetic.

u/relationshipguru420:

bro, read your own post. she wrote a whole song about YOU being PATHETIC. and you’re still simping? get a grip.

u/toomuchdrama69:

INFO: Is she still blocked? Because if she wrote a whole diss track about you and blocked you, I think the relationship is over.

u/throwawaydetective:

Wait… is this about who I think it is? If it is, there’s no way this guy doesn’t know.

u/relationshipwreckage:

Dude, she literally called you a jester. It’s giving clown.

u/sadboiforlife:

yta. if my gf wrote a song like that and then got mad when ppl told me to leave her, i’d be out. respect yourself, my guy.

u/wedoresearch:

sounds like she’s making money off your humiliation. yta for staying in a toxic relationship.

OP’s Update:

(two days later)

u/p4throwaway1234

UPDATE: we talked it out and we’re back together. 😊

so after all the drama, we talked and sorted things out. she said she didn’t mean to hurt me with the song—it’s just her way of expressing herself. and honestly? i get it. i love her creativity, even if it’s at my expense sometimes. i told her i’m not listening to my friends anymore, and we’re stronger than ever now. thanks for the advice, everyone! 😁

Comments on the Update:

u/relationshipwreckage:

WHAT?

u/toomuchdrama69:

bro.

u/wedoresearch:

this has to be satire.

u/sadboiforlife:

you have got to be kidding me.

OP’s Replies:

u/p4throwaway1234:

nah, we’re solid. it was all a misunderstanding. she didn’t mean it in a bad way, and we laughed about it.

u/sadboiforlife:

she BLOCKED you.

u/p4throwaway1234:

yeah, but it was just temporary. we’re good now. everyone fights sometimes!!

u/relationshipwreckage:

she made a song calling you pathetic and somehow that’s okay?

u/p4throwaway1234:

it’s art. she’s passionate. i’m her muse.

u/yikesmcgee:

😭 i can’t. you deserve better, king.

u/throwaway1234:

yes and she’s the best. ❤️

u/toomuchdrama69:

no, bro, you’re delusional.

u/p4throwaway1234:

nah, just in love. 💕

u/wedoresearch:

can’t wait for the next song called ST1LL P4THETIC.

u/p4throwaway1234:

and i’d stream it.

u/relationshipwreckage:

you can’t save him.

u/sadboiforlife:

fr. he’s too far gone.

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#jayde’s works ☆#toxic aus #lando norris x black reader #lando norris smau #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #f1 smau #formula one x black reader #formula one smau #f1 scenario #f1 driver x reader #ln4 smau #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x y/n #ln4 imagine

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stevieschrodinger · 4 months ago

Text

Part One Two Three four

Steve’s eating a bowl of cereal, squinting in the morning light. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but sleep shorts, and is considering going back to bed. He shouldn’t though; he has to be on time today.

Since the mall burned down, Scoops Ahoy is, annoyingly, no more. Robin thinks she has something though, some guy at Family Video who probably has the hots for her or something. Doesn’t matter though, Steve doesn’t really care what this Keith guys motivation is as long as it results in gainful employment for the both of them.

He really should shower.

Steve can see the pool from here, so he’s in a prime position to watch as Eddie pulls himself out of the water and makes his way to the back door.

This is the second time Eddie has come into the house, if you don’t count the emergency temporary over nighter in the bath tub. Well, it’s the second time Eddie has brought himself into the house, at least.

He waits patiently at the back door, like a cat waiting to be let in, and Steve opens the door for him, cereal bowl still balanced in the other hand.

He holds himself in that same way, flat of his tail curled up beneath him, giving him a little height, and he sits himself uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen floor, “hi Eddie.”

“Stee. Buddidy”

Steve gets him some celery from the bottom of the fridge and gives him the whole thing. They stand, and sit, together in comfortable silence, crunching their way through their respective breakfasts.

Steve watches as Eddie cautiously makes his way to the fridge once he’s done, looking to Steve with his his hand on the door, a question on his face, Steve nods, “yeah.”

Eddie opens the door, and Steve watches as he explores, carefully moving jars and condiments and stuff around, glass clinking quietly, before he opens the drawer at the bottom and pulls out a pear, carefully closing the drawer and door again after. He eats the whole thing, stalk, core, seeds, everything.

Steve washes up his dish, checking the time, “want to watch some TV?”

Eddie cocks his head, but follows Steve into the lounge. He sits, looking around, feeling the carpet under his hands, running his nails carefully through the pile until the TV catches his attention.

He moves closer. And then closer again, making Steve laugh when he taps a nail on the curved glass of the screen.

“I’m going to go shower, you shouldn't sit so close, it’s bad for your eyes.”

Robin does her make up in the car on the way over to Family Video, “how’s Eddie?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking, it really means a lot to me, how much you care about my well being.”

She sighs through her nose and rolls her eyes, and Steve tuts at her.

“He came in the house this morning, I left him watching TV.”

“Huh. I mean normally I would say it’ll rot his brain but, something for him to do would be good, right?”

“Yeah. And if I’m getting a job, we should try and teach him to use the walkie’s at least. In case there’s like an emergency or something.”

“A fruit and veg related emergency.”

“Yeah, kind of. We really need to figure out what to do with him, he can’t just sit in my pool forever.”

She hums in agreement.

It’s just starting to rain when Steve gets home, the first break in the nearly two weeks of sunny weather they’ve been having.

Probably won’t be sharing a beer with Eddie tonight then. Well, Steve hasn’t really been sharing, he’s been letting Eddie steal the last third of a bottle, which isn’t really the same thing.

Eddie’s actually sitting on on the couch when Steve gets in, which surprises him momentarily. There’s an empty container on the cushion next to him, Steve figures he found the grapes.

“Hey.”

Eddie turns to see him, smiling, clearly pleased to see him, which is a nice change of pace. Sure he knows Robin loves him, but she’s never actually openly really happy to see him unless she’s, like, drunk or high. And the kids. Steve knows they must at least kind of like him, but they’re all just little shits. Having someone to come home to who is genuinely pleased to see him is a really nice change of pace.

“It just started raining.”

“Raiiniing.”

“Yeah,” Steve points at the window, “uhm, wet. Uhm. Sky wet.”

“Et.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s eyes widen suddenly, scrabbling off the couch in clear panic, “Et! Et!”

“Yeah Buddy, what’s wrong-”

Eddie’s frantically slithering across the lounge carpet with what is a truly amazing turn of speed considering his anatomy, “et inied! Book! NO! NO!”

“Oh, shit! Your book,” Steve hops over Eddie’s tail, making it to the door and then sprinting across the grass, grabbing the book and bringing it back.

Eddie’s sitting in the door way, hands clasped together, watching anxiously, “it’s not so bad, just a little damp.” Steve holds the book out to show him where drops of rain have speckled the pages, “it’s not bad.”

“Not bad. Good,” but he’s still frowning, clearly concerned where the paper is discolored by the water.

“Wait,” Eddie does as he’s told as Steve runs upstairs for the hair dryer, plugging it in in the lounge and sitting on the floor, Eddie joining him with the book. “Here, feel,” he turns it on, pointing it Eddie’s way.

Eddie sticks his fingers towards it, and then pulls the back, startled. Then he does it again before watching Steve dry the pages of the book, “dry. Et inied.”

“That’s right buddy.”

“Stee Edidie budidy.”

“That’s right. Yeah.”

Eddie sits next to Steve watching nervously as Steve gets the final pages dried off, and Steve hands the book back.

Eddie grins, “thanks Birdidie,” and then darts forward to press his lips to Steve’s cheek. It's just a press, not a real kiss.

“Oh,” and then Steve chuckles when he realizes what’s happened, the behavior that Eddie's seen and is now mimicking, “no. Uhm. Thank you Steve.”

Eddie cocks his head.

“Wait, wait,” Steve takes the hair dryer with him, heading up the stairs again, and this time coming back with a handful of Polaroids, he shuffles them into a neat stack, sitting next to Eddie on the floor. “Right, this is Robin. Birdie.”

“Thanks Birdidie.”

“Yeah, that’s right, that’s Birdie, now,” Steve shuffles through, “Max,” he says pointing, “and El.”

“El. Max.”

It’s thirty minutes and two pears later, but Eddie seems to be able to identify everyone reliably from their photographs, “no, Dustin.”

“Dust bin,” Eddie replies, confidently.

“You know what, sure, dust bin. Let’s go with that. Kind of suits him, actually.”

Steve’s drinking his evening beer. The weather much better again today, but the evenings are drawing in, and the sun set has almost taken Steve by surprise with how early it’s painting the sky pink. Summer’s coming to a close. Which brings some urgency to the question; what are they going to do with Eddie? The pool isn’t heated, and it usually gets drained and covered for the winter months. It’ll definitely freeze over at some point if they leave it open like this, and there’s no way Eddie could survive that, could he?

Steve doesn’t know. There’s just too much they don’t know about Eddie.

Steve’s got his first shift at Family Video tomorrow, a closing shift with the manager, Keith. Apparently he wants to show Steve the ropes when it comes to shutting down the store; Steve figures just from that that he’s going to be stuck with more than his fair share of late shifts.

He wonders if Eddie’s going to miss his evening beer. He really should teach Eddie to use a walkie. Tomorrow, he decides, will be as good a time as any. Tomorrow morning, and then Steve can leave one with Eddie and take one to work with him.

At least he knows Eddie can get into the house if he really has to, if he gets hungry or whatever. He really could do with some sort of cover out here though. Some where to leave his book in case of the rain. Maybe put a couple of towels in there, some food in the cool box when Steve’s out, the walkie, that sort of stuff.

Eddie swims over, pushing his floating toy bucket along ahead of him in the water. There are things in it tonight, which is a first. Eddie puts his bucket on the side of the pool before pulling himself out to sit beside Steve.

He pulls something out of his bucket to show to Steve, “oh, it’s a pine cone. Hold on.” Steve puts his beer down to grab the encyclopedia, and Eddie duly swipes it. Steve flicks through the book wile Eddie sips the beer, “look, this is a tree.”

“Tee.”

“Tree.”

“Trrreeee.”

“Yeah, it’s a seed for a tree,” Steve shows Eddie the series of pictures, how the seed underground grows a little shoot that grows, eventually, into a tree.

Eddie fetches something else from his bucket, showing Steve, “trree?”

“Leaf,” Steve points at the leaf in Eddie’s hand, then, “tree,” as he points to the tree line at the bottom edge of the yard.

Eddie’s frowning at the page in the book, but he does nod, so Steve doesn’t push it any further.

“Steve do you know how early it is.”

“I know, but I don’t care, do you still have that tent you were playing around with last summer?”

“Camping, Steve, I went camping with-what do you want it for, anyway?”

“It’s for Eddie.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dustin’s tone changes to immediately helpful, “yeah, do you want to come and get it? I’m pretty sure I still have it-MAAAAA! MAAAAAAA DO YOU KNOW-”

Steve pulls the receiver away from his head while Dustin's hollering at his poor mother.

“Yeah, we know where it is, you coming now?”

Eddie’s holding a piece of plastic tubing, looking concerned, and watching Steve struggle with the worlds smallest two man tent, “it’s okay, I got this.”

Eddie tilts his head one way and then the other, like a curious bird, as Steve struggles. It takes a couple of failed attempts, not helped by the fact that Dustin couldn’t find the instructions, but it doesn’t take that long before the tent is ready. Steve sets it on the grass, the doorway edge butted up against the tiles that surround the pool edge. Steve fixes the guy ropes using metal tent pegs driven into the lawn. It’s not hugely spacious inside, just big enough to accommodate two medium sized dudes when lying down, just as long as those two medium sized dudes are super comfortable with each other, then it’s fine.

Steve goes backward and forward, lining the bottom with a couple of sleeping mats he also borrowed from Dustin, and then putting in a couple of towels, Eddie’s book, and rescuing the Rubik's cube and slinkie from where they've lain, ignored, on the side of the pool, “there, what do you think?”

Eddie moves closer, cautiously looking inside before looking back to Steve, “yeah, good. Go in, it's okay,” Steve nods and smiles and generally tries to be encouraging.

Eddie goes inside before turning to look out, sitting on his tail.

Steve sits in the doorway, “it’ll keep your book dry.”

Eddie ponders that a moment, touching his book, before looking up. He carefully touches the inside of the tent roof, “et inied?”

“Yeah buddy, that’s right. Good.”

Part six

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #ficlet #ao3 author #pre steddie #mermeddie #mermaid eddie #upside down creature eddie #Fish Guy Eddie

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demelzathemer · 2 months ago

Text

My Heart Is a Haunted House

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭��𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘗𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 + 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛

@dbdpromptober Day 2: Death (words: 735)

“Honestly, I’ve had enough of suitors,” Crystal said and snuffed her fag into the stone wall of the pub. “Though you’re cute, it's a no.”

“Aw, not giving any chances, are you?” Charles grinned. He didn’t smoke, but he’d trailed after the girl when she slipped out for a break.

“All the guys I’ve dated have turned into selfish pricks,” Crystal rolled her eyes. “I’d hate it to happen to you.”

She wore black corduroy overalls with a band t-shirt underneath her long lilac jacket. Charles watched the corners of her red lips curl into a self-deprecating fake smile. Even when she tried to make herself off-putting, Charles liked her sarcastic humor and mean jabs. His smile only widened.

“Does that mean you care for me? A bit, eh?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

For a second Crystal looked like she was going to smack him, but then her tough exterior cracked and her frown melted into a genuine smile.

“Fuck off, Charles.”

Crystal was like that, bitter but funny, flitting around town brooding and alone but kind and sweet when you got to know her. Charles had run into her in the weirdest of places multiple times now. He’d joked that it had to be Destiny’s plan for them, but Crystal’s face turned sour, just like every time Charles complimented her.

They became fast friends, spending a lot of time together. Friends that snogged sometimes, just because it was nice. Crystal made it clear she wasn’t interested in anything more serious.

Charles learnt after a few weeks that Crystal’s family was actually filthy rich. Had she told him her whole name, Surname-von Hovenkraft, it would’ve clicked immediately. A girl that rich and beautiful should’ve had tons of friends but no. There was only Charles.

Like Charles only had her. In this town the lads loitering outside pubs were the type to notice the color of the skin before the person, so Charles preferred to avoid them.

That night Crystal took him to the graveyard. She was a witchy type, so Charles thought nothing of it.

That was before he saw the temporary grave marker on top of a recently turned patch of soil. There were flowers, candles and rocks painted with pink hearts piled around the small plaque.

Niko Sasaki

1973-1991

Beloved Daughter and Friend

“Did you know her?” Charles asked, like a dunce. He cringed but Crystal wasn’t listening.

She stood in front of the grave, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, a stormy look casting over her features.

“I love her, and I didn’t even realize until she was taken from me,” Crystal muttered, then turned her flaming eyes to Charles. “I love her, and I didn’t even get the chance to date her while she was still alive!”

Charles blinked back his surprised expression. He glanced between the grave and Crystal.

“I’m sorry?” Charles tried. “I bet she was lovely.”

Crystal’s gaze focused in midair, trailing something behind Charles while her lips curled into a fond smile.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Anyway, this is what I wanted to show you. Meet Niko.”

Niko had been an international student at Crystal’s posh boarding school. Something happened that caused them both to drop out two years ago and move into a small flat in town. Crystal skimmed over a lot of detail, but Charles gathered that now she was back to living with her parents.

“So when did she..?” Charles tried to ask, struggling to get the full picture.

“It’s been three months now,” Crystal said. “God, it still makes me mad just thinking about it. I was right there. I should’ve protected her.”

The wind tugged at Crystal’s sleeve, distracting her. She sighed and rummaged her pockets, pulling out a small polaroid. In it, a girl with straight black hair smiled widely, her arm around Crystal. Her cheeks were dimpled and her eyes crinkled in an infectious glimmer of joy.

For the next half an hour, moisture seeped into their clothes from the grass where they sat while Crystal told Charles stories about Niko. In all of them, her character was so lively, so courageous and endlessly positive. Niko was brought to life through the words, more alive than most of the residents in this half-dead town.

When Crystal was walking away, Charles stared down at the weather-torn flowers around the name plaque. He felt like he’d lost a friend he’d never got to meet.

“Hi, Niko,” he whispered.

The wind blowing through the graveyard felt like a hand petting his arm.

First Next

#dead boy detectives #dbdpromptober2024 #palasaki #crystal palace #niko sasaki #charles rowland #save dead boy detectives #fic #to be continued #corpse bride au #day 2: death

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pedroshotwifey · 2 months ago

Note

Ok, random idea for drabble:

Overprotective girldad! Frankie

He and the guys get together to size up/intimidate the guy coming by to pick up his daughter for a date. 😅

Okay I'm really kind of loving this idea 🤣

Think I had way too much fun with it!

W/C: 660

Overprotective girldad!Frankie (G)

They could be doing anything right now. Bowling, flying, fishing, hiking, shooting pool, drinking—well, you get the idea. They could be doing anything on this cool Friday night, but the former Delta Team boys are sitting around the island in Frankie’s cramped kitchen, waiting for his daughter’s date to show up.

“Frankie,” Benny speaks up for the group. “You have got to give her some slack, dude.”

The glare Frankie sends the younger man’s way makes the rest of the guys glad Benny said it first. Benny—being Benny—doesn’t get the hint.

“I mean, c’mon, she’s nineteen.” He tosses another handful of peanuts into his mouth, continuing his risky and unwanted opinion with a mouth full of food. “And a grown adult.”

For the sake of his good friend, Frankie pretends not to hear and goes back to scoping out his front lawn through the living room window. He peers out the temporary crack he’s made in the blinds for another couple of minutes, and then suddenly jumps away.

“Little shit’s finally here,” Frankie grumbles as he walks past the group, glancing at his watch. “Minute and a half late.” He marches to the front door.

Knowing that’s their queue to follow, the men eye each other before sliding off the barstools and gathering around their paranoid friend. It would be comical to see Frankie so worked up over this kid if he weren’t so serious about it. He’s absolutely convinced that there is no boy out there good enough for his little girl, and there is not a breathing soul on this earth that could change his mind.

So they huddle up in their most intimidating stance, Santi to the left of Frankie, Benny to the right, and Will behind and between Frankie and Ben. If for no other reason than to make sure Frankie doesn’t give off “Little Man Syndrome” energy all by himself, they puff their chests, stand tall, and put on stern faces.

The poor kid doesn’t even get to knock before Frankie pulls the door open. One glance at the guys, and he looks about ready to piss his pants—which really only proves Frankie’s point.

“M-Mr. Morales?” The kid squeaks, doing his damndest to only focus on Frankie, and holds his hand out to shake. “I’m Tyler, here to pick your daughter up for—” he stutters when Frankie raises a brow— “for our date.”

Frankie stares for a second, and the kid—Tyler—just about breaks down.

“I-I mean, not our date, but y-your daughter’s. O-obviously. And mine—me and your daughter, our date.”

Santi glances at Will, who is already side-eyeing Santi. That look conveys exactly what they’re both thinking: someone should really put this guy out of his misery. Luckily, Charlotte appears at the top of the stairs at that exact moment.

“Oh my god, Dad!” She bursts out. “Stop making Tyler feel weird!”

And it’s like a switch is flipped in Frankie. He turns around, smile bright on his face for his daughter. None of the guys are phased—this is how these things usually go.

“Of course I’m not, sweetheart! Tyler and I actually just finished up a great conversation.” He turns back to the boy, still cheery. “Isn’t that right, sport?”

Tyler, who looks like he should probably drink some water, quickly nods. “Yes, absolutely,” he agrees.

Charlotte scoffs, not totally buying it, and quickly hurries the rest of the way downstairs. Before she reaches the torture circle at the front doorway, Frankie smiles one last time at Tyler.

“Hurt her, and see what happens,” he says, just loudly enough for the kid to hear, and in a tone that would sound joking to anybody else.

A hug for his daughter and a (possibly too aggressive) pat on the shoulder for Tyler later, the kids are headed down the driveway, one a tad more stiff than the other.

“Be back by nine,” Frankie calls after them.

Will glances at the clock and sighs. It’s 8:12pm.

#pedro pascal #fan fiction #ao3 #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #girl dad #fluff #triple frontier fic #triple frontier

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still-breathing-au-p3r · 3 months ago

Text

[continued from here] [first post for October 18th] It may be Shinji who has more of a way with words between the two of them, but Akihiko has always been the one who fills their silences. Shinji’s the kind of guy who would rather listen than talk, unless he’s really got something to say. So naturally, that means it falls on Akihiko to break the silence they’re mired in now, as well.

But he just can’t bring himself to do it.

It isn’t that he doesn’t know what to say– he can think of plenty of things that he should say right now. The issue is whether or not he can. He tries a few times to speak up and feels bile rise in his throat instead of his voice.

So he chokes it down and they’re left with…nothing. Nothing besides the scorched atmosphere Akihiko left in his wake.

Maybe it would be for the best if he leaves. Maybe getting away from here and taking some time to calm himself down is the better option, even though he’s loath to think about parting ways with Shinji on such an awful note. Even if it should only be temporary, how can he be certain it will be? How can he know for sure that their luck will hold, and Shinji will still be here when Akihiko gets his shit together?

He doesn’t know how he’d live with himself if the worst came to pass, and that was the last conversation he and Shinji ever had.

Akihiko’s inability to swallow his shame and talk past it turns out not to matter, ultimately. It’s Shinji who finally breaks the arid silence with a heavy sigh.

“Look, I’m…really no good at this sorta thing,” he starts. “You already know that. An’ I’m also kinda high on painkillers right now, ‘cause– turns out getting shot doesn’t feel great. So maybe nothin’ I say’ll make any sense.”

Despite himself, Akihiko wheezes out a small laugh, and Shinji’s mouth twitches up on one side. He wants to believe that maybe this is a step in the right direction. It’s not like he’s wrong either; Shinji’s talents with words have never extended to talking about his feelings, even before his Persona went berserk.

“But…you’re right,” Shinji continues. “I knew what the consequences could be, but I didn’t take ‘em seriously enough– not for Amada, or for you ‘n Kirijo– because I was too caught up in my own reasons.”

Shinji’s hands clench into fists around the bedsheets, his fingers trembling. “None of it– nothing mattered to me as much as the thought that maybe… Maybe I wouldn’t have to live with the fact that I’m a murderer anymore.”

“Shinji…” Each word out of Shinji’s mouth feels as heavy as a cinderblock, and Akihiko’s chest aches under the weight of them all.

Shinji closes his eyes and sags back against his pillow, exhaling a weighted breath through his nose. He looks utterly exhausted. “That’s all I’ve cared about these last two years. The only thing I wanted was to atone, no matter how. And my life for the one I ruined seemed like a fair trade, y’know?”

When Shinji opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on the open window. The Moonlight Bridge winks back at him, the morning sun glazed mirror-bright over its arches, forcing him to wince and look away. “But I guess that’s pretty screwed up, right? I was just pushin’ my selfishness onto a kid and takin’ the coward’s way out, like you said.”

Akihiko doesn’t quite trust himself to speak without a sob bubbling up instead, and in any case, the glare off the bridge is starting to get to him too, so he gets up to close the curtains. He grips the stiff, plasticky fabric tightly and bites his lip.

“And that’s…” He almost doesn’t turn back around to face Shinji, but decides at the last moment that he needs to. “That’s really how you feel?”

Shinji holds his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “Mhm.”

It’s the first time Akihiko has heard Shinji like this– so somber and serious– in a very long time. But if he’s being truthful (Akihiko hopes to god that he is), it only serves as a horrible reminder of just how much Akihiko has failed.

He must be making a face, because when Shinji looks at him again his mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Still mad, huh?”

“Of course I am.” Akihiko’s answer is immediate. “I just…am I really that unreliable?”

“...What?”

Akihiko almost returns to his seat but overshoots it and ends up pacing instead. “Shinji, you helped me so much when Miki died. You were there for me, you– you never left my side. You always made sure I was okay.”

Memories flood over him like a tsunami, churned together by time and grief until they all blend into an amorphous impression of those days, individual moments of shocking clarity floating within the tide like flotsam.

Shinji had let Akihiko cling to him for days after the fire with minimal breaks, while Akihiko had cried until he’d been sick. Shinji had held him tightly all through the funeral as he’d choked on dry sobs, all of the tears wrung out of him, his eyes throbbing and swollen almost shut. Afterwards he’d bullied Akihiko into lying down and draped washcloths soaked in cool water across the top half of his face.

Shinji, checking in with him between classes since they didn’t have the same homeroom that year. Shinji, walking the entire way home with him after school even after the adoption had been finalized and Akihiko had gone to live with his parents, their house in the exact opposite direction as the new building that served as the orphanage.

And that was just the aftermath of Miki’s death. Shinji’s been looking after him all his life and never expected anything in return. All those memories blend together until it’s impossible to keep track of them all.

Akihiko had certainly appreciated it at the time, but he’d still taken it for granted. It’s only now that he realizes just how much it all meant to him. His breath shakes, his voice trembles. “I don’t– I don’t think I could’ve gotten through it at all if I hadn’t had you. So– the fact that you thought I couldn’t be there for you–”

“That’s not it.” Shinji cuts him off. “You’ve got it all wrong, Aki. I knew you would’ve been.” He glares into his lap. “That was the whole problem– I didn’t want you to be. I didn’t want your help, or Kirijo’s, or anyone’s. It all goes back to me bein’ a selfish asshole.”

Oh.

That makes an unfortunate amount of sense.

“...Was it that you didn’t want it, or–” Akihiko swallows, the sound uncomfortably loud in his ears. “Did you think you didn’t deserve it?”

Shinji shrugs. “Same thing at the end of the day, ain’t it.”

“No.” Akihiko shakes his head. “It’s not the same at all. You did deserve it. You do deserve it, Shinji.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His expression is stony and contemplative as he mulls over Akihiko’s words.

“...If I’m honest, ‘m still not sure I can believe that,” Shinji says quietly. He looks at Akihiko again, meeting his gaze and holding it this time. “But I am sorry, Aki. Sorry for bein’ that selfish asshole.”

Despite what he’d demanded earlier, he hadn’t really been expecting any kind of apology. He wasn’t sure if he’d even really wanted one, or if all he’d really been after was the catharsis of throwing a punch. But hearing it now, with Shinji sounding so genuine, so sincere– emotion starts to swell in Akihiko’s chest again.

He pushes it down before it can strangle his voice. Shinji isn’t the only one who needs to apologize. It’s time he stops being so self-centered.

Akihiko makes his way back to his seat, pulling it even closer to Shinji’s bedside as he sits. His knees knock against the bed frame.

“I’m sorry too,” Akihiko murmurs. He ignores the look Shinji gives him. “I kept saying I wanted you to rely on me, but– I didn’t take your feelings into consideration at all and I forced you back into a fight you didn’t want to be a part of.

“And because of that…” He shakes his head, glowering down at his hands. He clenches and unclenches them into fists, watching the tendons in his wrists flex. “If I’d been paying more attention, if I’d just realized what was going on when Amada joined us–”

“Hey,” Shinji interrupts him using the same tone of voice he does when he’s about to tell off one of the juniors, or when he’d scold one of the younger kids at the orphanage. “Don’t you dare start blamin’ yourself for this, alright? None of this is your fault.”

It’s nice of him to say, but Akihiko knows it isn’t true.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’ve told me a thousand times how tunnel-visioned I am. How I always run off on my own without thinking because I focus on one thing and forget about everything else.” Suddenly it feels like every lecture that Shinji’s ever given him and he’d brushed off is weighing down on his shoulders, heavy and shameful.

“I told myself I needed to be stronger, but… In reality, I was just doing the exact same thing I accused you of. I was just running away too, from any problem that I couldn’t solve by knocking it down hard enough.”

What else has Shinji lectured him about that he just passed off as nothing when he should have listened? Why had it taken him until now to realize it? Why had it taken this?

“You were right all along. And in the end, it didn’t even do any good. It didn’t matter how strong I was. Look what happened!” He gestures at Shinji, at the bed he’s propped up in– at everything in the room. It speaks for itself.

“You almost died, Shinji! If one thing had been different– if just one thing hadn’t happened the way it did…you wouldn’t be here.” A sob clogs his throat. He drops his head into his hands, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes in a futile effort to keep the tears at bay.

“All that strength, and yet I still couldn’t do anything for you. Not a single goddamn thing. I couldn’t even donate blood when you needed it, did you know that?”

“Aki…” Shinji doesn’t say anything more for several long moments, and the silence between them grows so heavy. Eventually, though, Shinji reaches out and puts a hand on Akihiko’s knee.

“Listen,” he says. “We both fucked up. But there’s nothin’ we can do about it now. And…” He gives Akihiko’s knee a soft squeeze. “If it means anything, I don’t hold any of it against you.”

Attempting to hide how emotional he’s gotten was hopeless from the start, but he’d been holding the line so far, if only by the skin of his teeth. Now Akihiko crumbles. He’s thankful that it’s just Shinji here instead of the whole team. He’d never live it down. At least Shinji’s seen him cry a million times before, so the blow to his pride doesn’t sting that bad.

“I-it does. It means a lot to me, Shinji,” he replies, his voice quiet and hoarse, scrubbing the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

#akihiko sanada #shinjiro aragaki #akishinji #persona 3 #p3 #persona 3 reload #still breathing au #sbau main plot #sbau canon #sbau october #sbau october 18 #fic #(FINALLY these two idiots talk shit out)#(they needed it desperately)#(this part still makes me legit tear up even after reading it a million times by now)#(edited to correct the moon phase in the header)#akihiko pov

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beyondtheglowingstars · 9 months ago

Text

Eyes on me

Pairing: Four x GN reader Word count: 2.7k+ WARNING(S): NSFW MINORS DNI!!! | Mentions of alcohol consumption and drunk people (nothing really comes from it though) General info: He was the distraction you needed when life got too overwhelming, willing to keep you entertained. And you were not going to pass on the chance of getting to know better the hot guy that you might have a crush on.

Disclaimer: This fic was made under the assumption that the reader knows, or at least has more or less of an idea of what male stripping/lap dancing is like. If you do not know what that looks then I recommend you to watch a few videos then come back here. Of course you can still read without knowing what that's like, but it does help paint a better picture when you know what happens in those.

“Hey.”

Your train of thoughts was interrupted by a voice coming from your right. It was Link, a kind smile on his face. You had forgotten about him entirely since he left his seat a few minutes ago to use the restroom, until now that he spoke after returning.

“Hey.” You replied back with cheeks heating up minimally and the corners of your lips mirroring his.

You’ve been having a not-so-great night, but Link’s provided a temporary distraction if only for just a moment and lightened the mood a little. And you were grateful in earnest about it, grateful that Link was willing to talk to you and distract you from your rowdy, inebriated friends on the other sides of your shared table.

The blond finished what was left of his drink, placing the glass down and tracing circles on the table with his index finger. He then got comfortable, twisting his body so it faced you more directly and placing an elbow on the table for support.

“What’s on your mind? I was told you haven’t been having the greatest time these last few days.” He asked you with a soft expression.

He did not beat around the bush for that one. But you guessed that there really wasn’t any point in complicating the question; not that you really minded, though, you knew there weren’t any hidden intentions behind the question.

You didn’t know how he did it, or why happened, but you somehow always found yourself at ease around Link despite not having known each other for as long as you did your other friends. Besides finding him unfairly hot and charming, perhaps it was due to how genuine and open-minded he was, most definitely a rarity. You felt like you could confide in him.

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Too many things going on at once.” You replied with a tired voice.

Your hands picked up your own glass and take another gulp of the liquid, Link idly followed your movements with his eyes before settling them on your face again.

“That’s no good, you do look like you need a break.” There was a small pout on his lips.

“That’s why I was brought here, and it’s working great.” Your voice thick with sarcasm.

“I noticed. So, how about something else then?”

“What do you suggest?” You questioned, without any hope left for the night improving.

“I dunno, we can do… anything you want, really. You’re the only other adult left on this table.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Don’t wanna deal with kids yet,” He glanced at your group of friends “I’m single for a reason.”

You chuckled and he grinned.

“Am I glad you’re here.”

Link raised an eyebrow in interest.

“Aren’t you?” He winked with a smirk, making blood rush to your cheeks.

You felt like you almost forgot how to talk; words caught up in your throat and your head void of ideas. All you could muster was a pitiful ‘yes’ that he acknowledged with a smile, but he didn’t press on. You cleared your throat.

“So, anything?” You asked him, wanting to change the topic from yourself to something else.

Link ‘mhm’d in approval and nodded a few times, the movement making his hair bob. Oh, but the look he was giving you. It was innocent enough to make you second guess if he had really teased you just a few seconds ago.

“Anything you want to do.” He encouraged you again to speak of what you desired.

You took a moment to consider the offer, but soon found something you had always wanted to do. You figured that if he was being honest, he shouldn’t have too much of an issue granting your wish.

“I’d like to know more about you. You know more about me than I do about you.”

It looked as if though he had a moment of realization, eyelids widening slightly. His eyes met yours with a shy smile and a nervous laugh as he scratched the back of his neck.

“I guess I usually don’t really share about myself, do I? Fine, I’ll tell you more about me if that’s what you really want.”

You counted this as a victory, the feeling of triumph coming forth.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else? I’ll tell you more about myself if you come with me. That’s the only thing I ask for in return.”

Link stood up from his seat and looked at you expectantly, smiling warmly.

“C’mon, I can even treat you to something, if you’d like.”

There really wasn’t any reason for you to stay, so you took on his offer without as much as hesitation. Link beamed as you stood beside him, he dug into his pocket for his wallet and put down some change on the table, enough for a tip and all.

“That should be enough for us both. Don’t even worry about it.”

But he anticipated your protest and spoke right as you opened your mouth.

“It’s fine, sugar. It really is. Now, let’s go have some actual fun, shall we?” He finished off with a wink and a cheeky smile.

He undeniably knew what he was doing to you, just the unexpected nickname he used on you was enough proof of it.

The remainder of the night was spent in Link’s company; laughing, joking, learning way more about him than you expected to, and you couldn’t have asked for more, you had a great time. The minutes passed by like a blur, and next time you blinked you had made it to your apartment’s living room.

“You don’t have any roommates, do you?” The blond asked you with cautious eyes, his voice dropping in volume as if to avoid alerting a possible roommate of yours.

You raised an eyebrow in confusion not only at the odd question, but also from the sharp change in tone from it.

“No? Why do you ask?”

A mischievous smile slowly crept up to Link’s face.

“I was asking because…” His hands found their way to your waist, pushing you gently and making you sit on the couch behind you.

“I told you earlier that I had something for you, didn’t I? It’s only for you, so I was making sure. And didn’t you say you wanted to know more about me?”

You crossed your arms with newly piqued interest, excitement flowed through you and you felt your face warm up again for what had to be the hundredth time that night.

“What is that something you’re talking about?”

Link smirked, taking off his jacket and dropping it on the floor behind him without a care. The shirt he wore underneath was loose, but it allowed you to see his defined arms, your eyes trailing their shape almost on instinct.

He leaned close to you, close enough to whisper in your ear.

“Don’t worry, you’re about to find out.”

The feeling of his breath on your skin raised goosebumps all over, and a new kind of excitement surged through your veins.

He drew back with his face mere centimeters away from yours.

“Can I touch you?”

Link brought up a hesitant hand next to your cheek, stopping a short distance away from having contact with your skin. He waited for you to give him the green light, which was a nod of your head. He brushed his fingers against your cheek, later making his index digit trace your jaw bone with a feather-like touch. His finger remained under your chin.

“Let me know if you want me to stop at any point and I will, hm?”

His breathy voice and half-lidded eyes were doing more than one thing to you.

It was paralyzing, but you managed to nod.

Link separated from you, sensing your tension and wanting to ease some of it, he flashed you one of his smiles. He fished his phone from his pocket, fingers tapping on the screen and then music started playing, a slow beat. His hands quick to place the device on a corner of the couch.

“Just focus on me.” An intentional wink sent your way.

He moved his body in beat to the music, but not just in any way; no, he was moving in more of a suggestive way, making sure to draw your eyes right to his body. So effective in what he did that your eyes were fixated on him entirely even if nothing about his outfit was revealing; he was a good dancer, that much was clear to you from the way he moved, coordinated and captivating at the same time. But even if he didn’t have those flashy moves, you were sure the way he moved his hips would have drawn you in either way.

The blond was delighted to know that your eyes were running over him, he came closer to you with a smirk. His hips gyrating in the most hypnotizing way.

“Go on, you can look at me all you want now. All of this is for you.”

To him, you looked nothing short of entranced, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as he could. He took hold of the hem of his shirt on the left, lifting that section all the way to his chest and granting you an eyeful of what’s been hiding underneath.

It was all so much better than you could have imagined. You may have entertained the idea of what Link looked like underneath the layers of clothes a couple times in the past, but anything you could have thought about could not compare to what it really looked liked in person.

His chiseled abs will now permanently reside in your head, and just the thought of seeing more of what his body had to offer sent a jolt of energy wild and free through you.

The peek of his delectable torso was, unfortunately quick, but Link made sure to not let you dwell on it. His jeans were unbuttoned with evident practice while his lower body kept those mesmerizing motions, a hand sneaked past the elastic band of his underwear and inside, looking as if he were palming himself. The heat pooling between your legs and fuzziness all over your body felt sinfully divine, and Link only encouraged more of what you felt.

“Hey, sugar. Please do me a favor and don’t hold back in the way you look at me.”

Link came closer, his expression making it clear that he was planning something else. Both of his hands finding the ends of his shirt, pulling it up slowly, permitting you a view that only got better. The clothing article was discarded, thrown somewhere where you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

So much better it did get, so much better with the unobstructed view at what you thought was the perfect upper body. His chest defined and full, abs highlighted by the light in the most wonderful way with the teasing hint of a v-line, but his arms weren’t left behind, with thick forearms, hard shoulders and visible biceps. This was a scenario that you would only find in your dreams.

As if hearing your thoughts, Link confirmed to you that yes, it was all real and not a dream. His weight on your lap bringing you back to reality, the look he was giving you through long eyelashes somehow made him more attractive than he already was. The close proximity of the undeniable eye candy that was his body making your cheeks glow with red, your inexperienced hands to your sides.

The blond would not stand for that; he held both of your wrists, placing one of your hands firmly on his thigh while your other one was led to lay flat against one of his pecs.

“Just relax. It’s okay to have fun.” He spoke with that sultry voice that had your ears begging for more of it.

He gently pushed your hand down, guiding it so it ran over the ridges of his body all the way down to his lower abdomen, where he then let go. Link rolled his hips slowly, and with help from his previous encouragement you trailed your hand over his abs, to which he smiled and let out a hum of approval at. Oh, the tease that he was, he got off of you not long after, and it made you lament to yourself the lack of physical contact.

He made sure to keep your attention on his crotch, with the rolling and thrusting of his hips more energetic. He undid the fly of his pants at long last and lowered his jeans at a torturously slow pace, but only low enough to allow you a better look at his Adonis belt.

His hand slid under the waistband of his underwear, directly to his dick to grab at it while his lower back kept moving to match the beat of the song; you didn’t fully register your own reaction to what was in front of you, but it must have been one of great interest as Link nearly chuckled from it.

He trailed his hands up his body, flexing one of his arms and sending a wink your way to shift your focus as he kicked his shoes off. He hooked his thumbs on the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down further along his thighs and below his butt, low enough for you to see his contained bulge.

Link turned around, back facing you and legs some distance apart, bending his spine forward he pushed his pants down all the way to his knees and sold off the motion with a roll of his hips. He got on his knees, twisting his body around to face you as he gave a few massages to his bulge.

He placed his hands on both of your knees, where he pushed your legs spread apart. There was a short moment of confusion that left once Link emerged from between your legs, each hand placed next to your hips and on the cushion to support himself up with his arms.

He ground his clothed bulge against the front of your crotch repeatedly, with just the right amount of pressure to feel it through what you wore. He was softly biting his lip with a smirk, his expression enough to make warmth flow at the front of your pelvis, so let alone the much more intense sensations coursing through you when his face was paired with the delicious grinding of his still hidden dick. It was maddening.

Your contact was short-lived as he moved away from you, completely ridding himself off his trousers and leaving him in just his underwear. He ran his hands over his torso, hips moving in gentle circles just so he could grab the elastic of his underwear and lower it further. Pubic hair would be peeking from underneath by now if he didn’t shave.

The thoughts in your head were running at incredible speeds, and it did not help that Link pulled down the back portion of his trunks decisively to expose his ass, while groping his junk through the thin fabric.

Oh but he believed he hadn’t teased you enough yet, no. He positioned himself over your lap, knees on either side of your thighs to support himself, and very clearly sticking his ass out. The blond took hold of your hands, bringing them to his thighs and then letting out a relaxed sigh when he felt them roam over his body.

“So I take it you’re not stressed anymore.” He teased you as he leaned into some of your touches, the tone in his voice closer to what he usually sounded like.

You’d be lying if you didn’t say you were still not fully over what was happening right now, so it took you a moment to reply.

“Not anymore.” The smile on your face conveyed satisfaction.

“That’s what I like to hear,”

Link took one of your hands and slowly dragged it down, all the way to his lower abdomen.

“but I don’t think my job is done just yet.” His voice was back to that sultry tone that had you feeling so many things at once.

He brought your hand even lower, his clothed bulge pressed against the palm of your hand.

“I still have more for you, and I’d love to give you all of it, if you’d let me.” There was a slight buck of his hips to create friction against your hand.

That was an offer you simply could not refuse.

A/N: Everybody thank Butter for mindbreaking me with more than one delicious thought about Four while I was already in a mental state of questionable quality. Fic wouldn't have been created if it weren't for her.

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #linked universe four #lu four #lu four x reader #four x reader #minors dni #cosmic writing

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solaneceae · 1 year ago

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consume

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) tw: cannibalism, fuga impossivel references

“Hey, Slime. Can I eat your leg?”

The hybrid makes a huh of confusion, still adjusting his trusty gas mask over his face as he loots his own dead body, codified arm still glitching from fresh respawn. Cellbit can hear Jaiden and Étoiles conversing nearby, Bagi and Tina not too far from them, and the entire area reeks of blood and death.

Red Spawn had, strangely enough, become some kind of safe haven for now — people from all teams that were begging for a break, for a chat, for any modicum of normalcy had started to flock there as the end Day Four drew near: separated lovers falling into each other’s arms, Étoiles coaching everyone on PvP techniques regardless of affiliation (because the guy just thrived on being kind and helping people become the best version of themselves, it seemed. Cellbit appreciated that), his very presence a deterrent to anyone who would dare to come and break the temporary peace (BadBoyHalo).

And now that they didn’t have to look over their shoulder every second, the cat hybrid had started to think. A risky endeavour in a place such as Purgatory, but after exchanging a heated kiss with his husband and getting the sudden urge to bite his mouth off, he had started to wonder.

There were so many bodies around their spawn. He had seen many for the past few days, most of them belonging to his own team, but the urge to chow down on fresh meat had been nowhere as strong as right then with Roier, not even close. (First day had been the odd one out, as everyone in red team had lost their minds to the fog and joined in on that fucked up banquet.)

A hypothesis is blooming in his mind. He needs to test something. “Can I eat your leg?” he repeats to a befuddled Charlie, who looks at him, then at his body, then back at him. “I mean. Sure? Knock yourself out.”

Cellbit does — and it’s disappointing. It starts off nice, his heart hammering inside his ribcage as he severs muscle and bone and tendon to rip Slime’s leg off his still cooling body, saliva pooling in his mouth as his pupils dilate to eat up all the blue, and he can feel it, the thrill, the desire, the manic joy; but then he bites into it and the leg loses solidity, turning into green goop that tastes like grass and it’s so sour, like an unripe lemon. He spits it all out, grimacing — his palate and tongue almost feel burned. He forgot slimes were corrosive. “Tastes like shit,” he huffs, and Charlie lets out a disappointed aw.

Results: inconclusive. Cause: negative bias, because Charlie is a fucking slime and hence an outlier.

He asks Jaiden next, and she shrugs and tells him to go for it. (Maybe they should be worried about how flippant they’ve all become about cannibalism, but that’s a problem for post-Purgatory them to deal with.) And this time, it’s good. Her flesh is tender and moist, just the right balance of muscle and fat, and he gets a sick sense of satisfaction as she watches him tear into her thigh with morbid fascination. “How do I taste like?” she asks him. He tells her ‘delicious’ between two mouthfuls of prime cut, and she smiles. “Nice! I’m glad.”

Contrary to what some might believe, he hadn't eaten anything off the Federation workers he had killed. Hadn't reached that point at the time. But now there he is, seeking an enemy body among the dozens of Jaidens lying around. When he finally does, he stares down at it for a long moment, and finds that he has no desire to sink his teeth into it at all. Mmh. He looks up to find Roier, still silent to mind his recovering lungs and plopping down signs that make Étoiles crack up, and he’s so funny and cute and strong and Cellbit wants to crawl into his chest cavity and— “Ah,” he realises, something old and crooked at the back of his mind finally clicking into place.

He thinks of Pac. He thinks of Alcatraz, of that desire that had torn its way into his brain as soon as he had seen that youthful, terrified face for the first time. He thinks of those nights tossing and turning, tongue flicking out in a nervous tick as he obsessively rotated the new guy into his mind from every angle, trying to imagine what his screams would be like, how his flesh would taste, how it would feel going down his throat. He thinks of the pure, unadulterated pleasure of finally making that fantasy a reality, details blurring into red-mist bliss and the song of Pac screaming and crying. He finds that if he had to do it all again, right now, he would, but not like this. This time, dream-Pac would offer himself willingly, repeating I trust you, I trust you as dream-Cellbit reverently slices through his flesh.

He thinks of that thing humans have, when they experience the urge to squish or bite when they see something cute. He thinks of the result of his observations, that he only enjoys eating people if he cares for them.

(Maybe he had loved Pac once, in a fucked up version of a crush distorted by his mania and lifetime worth of trauma. Maybe that was why he had done what he’d done. Now the engineer was more akin to a brother to him, close and important, but that obsessive attraction wasn’t there anymore.)

Maybe it’s just in his nature, to consume the very things he loves. “Something on your mind?” Jaiden asks him later, sleepily, her head resting against his side as the rest of the family dozes off within the Nest in a tangle of limbs and soft blankets. Cellbit shakes his head. “Just. Processing stuff.”

Jaiden hums, and Phil drapes one of his large black wings over them both. The conure chirps, flock, home, and the crow replies with a quiet yesyes.

#qsmp #qsmp purgatory #team bolas #fanfic #cannibalism as a metaphor for love is kinda based actually #cellbit #q!cellbit #tw cannibalism

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klausluvr · 1 year ago

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Fuck Me To Death — A Klaus Mikaelson Smut (18+)

The plot of this is a little similar to my first smut ‘True Pleasure’, but this one is messierrrr. Nastierrrrr. Different OC, though, of course.

Summary: You and Klaus’ relationship has been tumultuous of late. So difficult to the point that you guys impulsively cut things off, and neither of you are willing to beg. Since then, you two have been at each other’s necks for any given reason you can think of. However, you might have gone a little too far with your latest trick. Klaus finds out some deadly information, and he is furious. Oh, tell him it’s not true. Even if it’s a lie.

TW: a little violence between Klaus and OC. This is dark. Proceed with caution.

She burst through the doors of Rousseau’s with mischief dancing in her eyes, her hips swaying, and her shoulder length tight curls bouncing in her step. She was dressed in a leather jacket and a tight black dress underneath that went to her knees, matched cleanly with some black kitten heels. Light pearls decorated her neck, and gold earrings hung from her ears. Her lips were crimson, in the shape of a soft pout.

Why was she here tonight? Simply, she was bored. Her current temporary lover was busy tonight; she wanted another, and she knew just how to get it.

While scouring the bar for a pretty face, she ordered a glass of white wine at the bar.

“I haven’t seen you here for a little while. How have you been?” asked the blonde bartender.

“Well,” she began. “Things have been hectic to say the least.” she said, laughing a little bit in between a word or two.

The bartender nodded, a knowing smile on your face. “I gather that Klaus has been giving you trouble. I get it — men love to pull their stunts, don’t they? It’s like they live for it.”

She laughed again. “I don’t know, mind,” she said as the bartender handed her the glass of white. “I’m a little bit of a bad girl myself. A man barks, and I always feel the need to bite.”

“All the best girls are bad, honey.” the bartender told her. “Just don’t get yourself caught.” She winked at her before diverting her attention to another customer.

She looked at the kind bartender for a moment, a little smile on her face before too, turning her attention elsewhere. She quickly noticed a brunette in the corner of a bar alone. As she slid her way over to the man, she felt a claw-like hand pull at her shoulder.

“Back. Now.” growled the voice behind the claw before slipping away.

She chuckled to herself as she followed the voice into the back of the bar. When she was there, she shut the door behind her. “What do you want from me, Klaus?”

His eyes were wide, his eyebrows furrowed. His jaw was clenched. “The birds have been chirping, sweet girl:” He wore a large trench coat, a black shirt and jeans underneath it.

She lent on a counter, crossing one leg over the other. “And what songs have they been singing?”

Klaus laughed to himself sardonically, resentment lathering the sound. He was hoping to god — if there were one — that she would tell him it wasn’t true. That she would laugh loudly, shake her head and grimace at the thought of the rumour holding any sort of weight. But he also knew that she was a woman of tricks when pissed off. And she has been little but pissed off with him these past weeks.

“They’re saying that, uh,” he began, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “They’re saying you’re fucking Lucien Castle.”

In response, she widened her eyes and took a sharp breath in through her nose. She lent her elbows on the counter behind her, placing the wine next to her, and pushed out her chest. “Do you believe it?” she asked him.

His breathing was almost ragged. “I don’t want to,” he spoke. “Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. His face was the image of the intertwining of desperation and rage; his brows were still furrowed, and his jaw was still clenched, but his eyes were full of tears threatening to break loose onto his cheeks, and his mouth pulled downwards to a little frown.

“Come on now.” she said before sighing. She could feel her joints tingle in anticipation of the storm that was about to wash over them both. Their fights had grown stale, clawing at each other’s neck for the same things over and over: Klaus’ selfishness, her selfishness, how he’s been ruining all of his relationships, her clinginess, and, well, Aurora de Martel. So, she took a step further. She crossed a line no one believed she would ever cross.

It was like he was frozen in time. His eyes, set on her, were entirely empty of any emotion, his brows creased. His hand was covering the lower half of his face. She looked at his chest to find that he wasn’t breathing. Tears burned his eyes. “Tell me it’s not true.”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t sleep with him?”

Before she knew it, his features had rotted into pure rage: his jaw was tense like it could shatter at any second, his hands shook, veins pulsated through his forehead, and his eyes were bloodshot and wide. In his eyes, she could see the homicides about to take place before he even moved a muscle. A long time ago, she would have been afraid; his reactions would have made her fear she was next. But Klaus couldn’t kill her, he wanted her too much. Whether love was in the question or not, there would always be lust. Lust made her safe.

Face to face with her, Klaus wrapped a hand around her neck. His features had calmed, but there was still murder in his eyes. His tone was merciless, yet calmer than ever. “Ah, well, yes, that is my mistake. What I do know is that you’ll do anything for a good fuck, won’t you? No matter what bridges you burn, no matter who you hurt, as long as there’s a hand wrapped around your neck and a cock inside you, you’re squealing with excitement.” As the cruel words left his mouth and entered her system, the hand around her neck tightened and tightened. A small, high pitched involuntary voice left her open mouth, but her eyes were as dark as his. As if an instinct, she held onto his arm as he strangled her.

The light in her eyes eventually began to fade as her breath left her lungs. She didn’t attempt to fight it off with the knowledge that he wouldn’t kill her, not that she could win against his hand. Watching this happen, Klaus weakened his grasp on her throat, making her gasp for air and shut her eyes tightly.

She said nothing for a short while, still holding onto his arms loosely as her body regulated itself from the assault. When she began to feel alive again, her mouth twisted into a devilish smile, her eyes still closed.

Klaus tensed his features again in confusion, and also in guilt. His ex-lover could sense these exact emotions as she opened her eyes again.

“You like the idea of me fucking Lucien, Klaus? How’s it make you feel?” she asked, a scowl twitching at her lip.

“How’s it make me feel?!” he repeated. “The sight of your bodies tangled together in his bed makes me want to rip the two of you apart.” His eyes travelled back and forth from her’s and the bruise on her neck fading away.

She laughed, a little breathlessly as she was still regaining her consciousness. She dropped his hand. “You’d never kill me, though, baby. Who would there be to need?”

Klaus scoffed. With his index finger of the same hand he used to strangle her, he raised her chin. “You’re a talent at stirring a man’s loins, sweetheart, and don’t we all know it.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself and spout lies to me. I don’t just fuck anyone, Klaus. I chose who I share my body with very carefully.”

“So it was diabolical.”

This made her scoff. She shook her head lightly. “Of course it was diabolical, malicious. You can wrap your hand around my neck so tight I lose my consciousness, but it will be you tearing around at night, sleepless because I made you so.”

Klaus took a sharp breath, looking between her eyes frantically. The urge to bite her until her lifeless body hit the floor and the urge to kiss her madly fought in his mind. He knew that the idea of him acting so brutal to her could only ever be a passing fantasy, nothing he could ever bring himself to do. His hand tingled, aching for violence.

“Open your mouth.” he demanded suddenly.

She fluttered her lashes before obeying. Then, he sunk his teeth into her bottom lip, drawing blood from the soft flesh. She tilted her head back further, emitting a small moan so quiet that if he were not so close he might have missed it.

He snaked his free hand around her waist and grabbed at her as he retracted from her lips. He brought her face closer, holding the side of her head as he growled into her ear, “god, I fucking hate you.”

She looked up at him from the side, curling up her brows a little bit and shook her head. “You’re a liar,” she said.

“And you’re a whore.”

She chuckled. “Only when it suits me.”

There was silence for a few moments. Klaus was facing her again, searching her dark stare for any sign of remorse, and if not that, then sympathy, goddamn it. But he couldn’t find any, just lust, anger, and satisfaction that she had successfully tore his heart into two.

He was alright with the teasing, with the back and forth fights and malicious acts that dug splinters in his heart — but this, this was too much. To share herself with a man, once a friend, who now positioned himself as his enemy; to pleasure him and to be pleasured by him god knows how many times… all to get him back for hurting her. Images of what the two had done behind his back threatened his mind over and over as they stood skin to skin at the back of Rousseau's.

She hadn’t cheated as they weren’t together anymore, but that didn’t matter. She had proven herself disloyal to him, so reckless that she would do anything to hurt him, even if it meant he could hate her forever. Klaus knew he wouldn’t, he still loved her, and she knew that, too. Still, his heart had been torn to shreds.

She was still looking up at him, her eyes big, while a little squinted, and so, so stunningly. Her curls framed her face beautifully, what she wore hugged her figure to the nines, and the husky tone of her voice still sent him into overdrive.

Her naked body pressed against Lucien’s in his bed, her legs wrapped around his hips, mewling for more. That face she made when she came, her big doe eyes looking up at him like she loved him, her mouth open, breathless moans leaving her lips and finding their way into Lucien’s mind to remain forever. Klaus couldn’t bear it, so he would replace these images, these tormenting thoughts, with something that enraptured him entirely, maybe even something that made him forget.

He would fuck her at the back of Rousseu’s, and he would do so with all the rage in his body.

Klaus chuckled darkly, leaning in close to her face again. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweet girl. I’m gonna have my way with you in whatever way I choose, and you’re going to obey my every command — clear?”

His words, his dominance, were already making the smug look fade from her eyes, pure lust overtaking it. “Yes, Klaus,” she said softly.

Then, he kissed her hard, grabbing all over her body from her ass to her breasts, coaxing moans from her mouth as it moved with Klaus’. She held onto his face with both hands, pulling him closer and pushing out her chest to meet his.

Klaus wiped all the glasses off the counter that were in his way, the glasses violently smashing onto the floor. He lifted her onto the counter, tearing off her clothes.

She squealed as he tore her dress, throwing it across the room with her jacket. She then unclasped her bra as he tore off her thong.

“Going to ruin you,” he growled, “for what you did.”

“I’ve been ruined forever, baby.” she said, trying to take off his shirt.

He threw her hands off of him. “Only you will be naked when I fuck you to death, darling.”

“Oh, fuck me to death, Klaus,” she begged as he undid his belt, throwing it on the ground. He pulled down his jeans.

He slid his cock in between her folds slowly, his upper lip twitching as pleasure stirred in his stomach.

Her breath hitched, and her lashes fluttered. The look in his eyes told her what to do.

“I need you to fuck me, Klaus. You know you’re my favourite, daddy.”

“Ha, yet you forget it and allow others into your body instead.”

She shook her head, his cock playing on her clit. “I never, I never forget. I’m not capable of moving past you.”

Klaus shut his eyes, pain meeting his pleasure. He held onto her hips, his nails digging into her skin to the point of pain, and thrusted into her.

She cried out as he fucked her with abandon. She held onto his shoulders for support, needy sounds spilling out of her mouth.

“You better hope nobody can hear you.” Klaus spat.

She closed her eyes and smiled. “I don’t care.”

Klaus wrapped a hand around her neck, safely this time, and pulled, making her open her eyes again. “Eyes on me.”

She obeyed, watching his face as he fucked her. She was entranced by his beauty, his green-y blue eyes moving on all of her features cyclically, his plump pink lips stained pinker with remnants of her lipstick, his stubble creating shadows on his jaw. He was not only her favourite because of how incredible he fucked, but because she still loved him. There wasn’t a sensation she desired more than to be in his arms, be it out of love or hatred. Why else would she so vigorously be in pursuit of breaking his heart if he didn’t break hers first? Love, pleasure and resentment all took hostage of her body, elevating her higher and higher as she neared her orgasm.

Klaus pulled out of her suddenly, pulling her off the counter and turning her around. She leaned on the counter again and arched her back, looking behind her to watch him not only because he commanded, but because she wanted to see him.

He growled, slapping her ass then thrusted back into her at an inhumanly fast pace. She pushed her ass back each thrust he made, coaxing a beautiful moan to leave his mouth. He wanted to tell her how good of a girl she was so badly, but ultimately resisted.

“You like it when I fuck you like the whore you are in pubic, huh? You like being naked like this and mewling for more?”

Her gaze was hypnotic, drawing him in as if he wasn’t close enough. “I love it,” she said. “Fuck me to death, baby.”

He groaned, grabbing her ass and hitting it again. “I love it when you hate me,” she spoke, all breathy and husky. “Love it when you fuck me like you want me dead.”

Klaus gasped, pulling her hair back and held her back onto his chest. “You fucking tear me apart. I would kill you if I could.”

She laughed. “Yeah? How would you do it, honey?”

“I’d have you raw and open like this,” he began, struggling to think from the pleasure. The sights, sounds and sensations of her all over him made his mind blurry. “And I’d strangle you until you couldn’t breathe. You’d die just before you came.”

Fear simmered in her for the first time in a long time, and even worse, she liked it. She moaned at his fantasy, imagining it in her blurry mind as he did. They played out the fantasy of her murder together, both of them nearing closer to their orgasms.

“Why don’t you do it then?“

Klaus untangled his hand that was in her hair and used it to cover her mouth. “You’ll shut up if you know what’s best for you.”

She hummed, then licked his hand. He took this as an invitation to slide two fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them, grabbing her breasts. Klaus groaned in her ear.

As they got closer to their releases, the pleasure only intensified. His fingers muffled her moans, whereas he kept his quiet. He wasn’t too fond of the idea of Rousseau's hearing him in this state.

The coil in her stomach was about to snap, and he knew this by the way she was breathing, by how she was clenching around him. It only brought him closer.

“Touch yourself.” he told her, and she did. She reached in between her thighs and circled her clit in time with his thrusts. She squeal-like moan told him she was about to cum.

“Hold it. Wait for me.”

She nodded, her eyes rolling back. With her other hand she reached back and held his face.

He pulled out again, turning her over and positioning her back on the counter. He spread her legs wide, holding her throat again with one hand and her hip with the other. That look in her eye brought him over the end. Just as his orgasm hit him, he allowed hers. “Now.”

They both gasped, entirely enraptured in each other’s gazes. She mewled his name louder than she intended as she came, her body shaking and writhing under his hold. Klaus groaned, not almost as loud, though.

She closed her eyes, recovering from her orgasm. He watched her, a myriad of emotions swimming through him.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes spoke. “You’re a riot, daddyo.” she said with a warm grin.

“It’s you who sets the storms, my girl.”

She laughed, this time sweetly. There was no hint of anger in her eyes, only… was that joy? “You’re my favourite for a reason.”

“And what reason is that?”

“A woman never tells.” she replied, holding a finger to her lips.

Klaus laughed in the same tone. “You can wear my coat.”

#klaus mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #klaus mikaelson fanfic #klaus mikaelson smut #smut

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kaminocasey · 2 years ago

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Tech Care

(Get it, like "Take Care" lmao)

Summary: Tech breaks his leg. You try to help.

WC: 600

A/N: I hope you ALL tag me in your taking care of Tech with a broken leg fics, please and thank you!! <3

When you’d heard from Omega and Echo that a crate had fallen on Tech and broke his femur, you were beyond worried. You, Hunter, and Wrecker were trying to get back to them as soon as you could, but it didn’t seem like that was fast enough. So much had gone so wrong, so quickly. When you get back to Cid’s, you’re giving her a piece of your mind. War chest, be damned. What if that had been Omega?

You notice Omega and Echo having a moment so you leave them be and go back to the bunks to check on Tech. You’d set the fracture and put his leg in a temporary splint until you could land again.

“You’re pacing again.” Tech looks up from his holopad, slightly annoyed.

He was doing better since you’d given him something for the pain, but now all you could do was hover.

“I’m sorry…” You sit on Hunter’s bunk across from Tech’s.

“There was nothing you could have done. It was an unfortunate accident.” Tech looks back at his holopad.

He’s trying to make you feel better in his own way but still, you can’t help but feel bad. You were supposed to stay with Echo, Omega, and Tech… but you’d followed Wrecker out of the war chest and-

“I can see my words are not helping… perhaps if you check my leg again… keep yourself busy?” He smiles ever so slightly.

You can’t help but smile back. “Thanks…”

You carefully sit on his bunk, checking out the splint, making sure that it’s tight enough, but not too tight, that it’s set correctly, being careful enough not to hurt him.

“I was supposed to stay with you guys…” You murmur, looking down at his leg.

Tech sighs, sitting his holopad down and placing a hand over yours. The action is very unlike Tech so you can’t help but look up at him, confused.

“Things… happen.” He nods.

“‘Things happen’?” You ask with raised eyebrows. “Who are you and what have you done with Tech?”

“That older gentleman… Romar… he sort of put things into perspective for me when we were taking shelter. He said they had existed before the war… that they weren’t Separatists, but Serennian.” Tech tells you, quietly. “I told him I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

This man must have really gotten to Tech, because he looks deep in thought. You don’t want to bother him anymore so you start to get up, but are kept in place with Tech’s hand.

“I am glad it was me and not you or Omega.” He nods.

You can’t help but smile at the kind thought of Tech caring about you, touched that he would even say such a thing, but still disagreeing. Placing your hand over Tech’s, he gives you a kind smile and you stay like that for a bit until Wrecker and Omega come barrelling through, goofing around a bit.

“Be careful. Don’t want to hurt Tech even more than he already is.” You warn them.

“Let them have their fun. I imagine Cid will have something to say to put a damper on their moods.” Tech shrugs.

He had a point. You still know that you’re going to have words with Cid before she can get her words in.

Echo calls you up to the cockpit and you give Tech one last light squeeze before he lets you go. He murmurs your name one last time and you turn around, smiling.

“What is it?”

“I’m grateful for your help… and-” He struggles to find his words.

“And?”

“That’s… it.” He nods.

“I’m grateful for you too, Tech. Get some rest.” You give him one last sympathetic smile before going back up to the cockpit to talk to Echo and Hunter.

TAGS: @twistedstitcher27 @rebel-finn @grievouus @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @misogirl828 @corona-one, @tecker @ladykatakuri @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @crosshairmylove587 @idlenesses @redheadgirl @dnxgma @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @greaser-wolf

#tbb s2 spoilers #tbb spoilers #tbb tech #tbb #bad batch spoilers #tbb tech x reader #tbb tech x you #tbb s2

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blouisparadise · 1 year ago

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Today we have the third part of our hurt/comfort rec list for you! You can find part one here and part two here. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word.

1) Wanna Feel the Edges Start to Burn | Explicit | 6,111 words

Harry gives him a gentle smile. “Feeling a little bit better?” Louis nods tentatively. “I think so yeah. Thank you so much for being so kind, but you really didn’t need to do this.” He lifts his unfortunately still shaky hand and runs it haphazardly through his hair. “It was just a spilled tea, I totally overreacted. I’m a bit embarrassed to be honest.” Harry scoffs. “Are you kidding me? Don’t be. I saw the whole thing, that guy was way out of line. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Louis gives him what he’s sure is a watery smile. “Erm thank you. I wouldn’t normally admit this to a stranger, but you’ve already seen me cry today so what the hell?” He forces himself to let out a weak laugh. “The thing is, my period is due any day now and sometimes the birth control pills make my emotions go a little haywire. I think that’s what happened.”

2) Quietly Our Hearts Beat | Explicit | 7,539 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be ready by AO3 users.

Louis and Harry in the universe of ‘A Quiet Place’.

3) Waiting | Explicit | 10,517 words

Louis Tomlinson was Harry’s omega, of this Harry had always been sure. Unfortunately for Harry, Louis seemed to think they were just best friends. The six weeks that Harry has to live with Louis were going to be rough.

4) All This Delusion In Our Heads | Explicit | 15,088 words

After Harry and Louis break up, they cope with it in very different ways. What will happen when Harry keeps calling his ex over when things go wrong in his life, but Louis just can't take it anymore?

5) Just My Style | Explicit | 15,443 words

Harry is sick, and the only thing that might help him is the pheromones from his mate--problem is, he hasn't got a mate. Louis' just been disowned, and taking part in a medical study where he has to cuddle with some strange alpha seems to be his only option for earning a bit of cash. The hippies and Omega Rights campaigners are busy changing the world--but all Harry wants is a chance to live.

6) How You Sleep At Night | Mature | 15,568 words

The one where Louis thinks he got left because he might be too much to handle, but then Harry appears in his life again.

7) Somebody's Got Your Trainers On (It's You) | Explicit | 28,000 words

Louis hasn't thought about Harry since half an hour after the shift started, when Krystle told him that she was binging Gogglebox last night and therefore didn't get enough sleep - a sure reminder of Harry’s temporary Gogglebox obsession. Five hours isn't much without thinking about someone, but that's as long as it gets. Louis came to terms with that two years ago. When Harry walked out the door with his stupid New Balance trainers and never looked back.

8) Let Me Carry Your Weight | Explicit | 28,633 words

Louis is fresh out of a bad relationship with someone who made him feel awful about how he looked. On his journey to better himself, he meets Harry - the ridiculously attractive and fit personal trainer.

9) Compass to my Soul | Teen & Up | 31,439 words

Note: This fic does not have smut, but it's omega Louis, so we included it.

Harry Styles, alpha, is 1/4 of the perfect pack, and 1/5 of world famous boy band One Direction. He spends his time touring the world with his best friends and family. Louis Tomlinson, omega, is 1/5 of world famous boy band One Direction. He spends his time hoping his bandmates don’t notice him.

10) Stuck On You | Explicit | 33,983 words

Louis’ life revolves around his stickers. Harry’s life revolves around his job. The universe has decided their worlds should revolve around each other.

11) A Common Place Affliction | Not Rated | 36,508 words

“You should go home,” Louis muses, and Harry can feel the omega crouch down to become eye level with Harry, poking his cheek with a dainty finger. Harry lifts his arm, taking a peek at Louis’ face. Louis looks tired, he notes, but not exhausted, and there’s an eyelash stuck to his cheek. Harry doesn’t hesitate to lazily reach out and thumb over his cheek. “Can’t,” Harry croaks, blindly twisting his hand around to grab at Louis’ offending finger and just holding it. “C’mere. Take a nap with me,” he asks after a beat, opening an eye to look at Louis. Louis raises an eyebrow. “M’not going to nap with you in the middle of the ER, H.” Sighing, Harry squeezes the young nurse’s finger. “Nobody cares.” He knows they do; they’ll annoy nurses and probably worry patients when they catch sight of a nurse and surgeon sleeping on the job. Let alone in the middle of the emergency ward hallway. Harry can hear the complaints now: ‘these are the people we’re supposed to trust with our lives?’

12) To Paint A Symphony | Explicit | 40,583 words

Despite being a wedding painter, Louis has never had quite an optimistic outlook on marriage life. Love, sure, he’s a hopeless romantic and he longs for a sweet partner, to feel adored and cherished, but a part of him will forever doubt that love can last forever, a spark never lasts long, after all, so he paints because strokes of paint can remain forever and unchanged if looked after properly, cared and cherished the way he wished he could be, safe from an unsure future. Harry, on the other hand, as a performer and lyricist, indulges in pleasure. He loves love, never wastes a moment, never hesitates, always so sure of what he wants. Songs come and go on the radio, sometimes forgotten, sometimes transcending generations, the way people leave, and others stay. He never thinks of a future because he only ever lives in the present and he never was egocentric enough to think he could make a real impact and his art could outlive him. At a wedding under summer skies and surrounded by endless sea, two seemingly polar opposite lovers meet, and perhaps one learns to let himself feel and fall, and the other lets himself hope and cling on.

13) Wild Hearts Run Free | Explicit | 42,979 words

Harry is an alpha who is harbouring a dark secret, one that has forced him into self-imposed isolation, far from civilization and far from temptation. Louis is an omega who has fought the predispositions of his secondary gender his whole life and suddenly finds himself cast aside by his beta partner, leaving him to question his place in the world. When fate and Mother Nature conspire to trap the two strangers together, will Harry’s worst fears be proven, or will Louis find a way to break down his walls and lead him into the light?

14) This Glass House | Mature | 43,012 words

While deployed, Alpha Harry gets injured by an IED explosion, leaving him to deal with severe injuries in its devastating aftermath. During his road to acceptance and recovery he learns with the help of Louis and their children just how important family can be for the mind, body, and soul.

15) Hold Me How the Deep Night Has | Explicit | 48,018 words

Louis Tomlinson needs a change. Stuck in a cycle of going to the job he hates, spending time with his friends, and avoiding the one man he hates most in this world, Louis' in desperate need of something new. So when he discovers an abandoned notebook on the way to work, the decision is easy to take it for himself and begin a journal amidst the empty pages. What can't be expected are the words that appear overnight directly beside his own, written on the same day 400 years in the past. What are the consequences of a magical connection between two men of different centuries? And who, among it all, is the mysterious E who only exists on the other side of Louis' journal?

16) Made For Lovin’ You | Explicit | 52,637 words

The one where a quick, horny decision ruins Louis’ summer plans, but may also lead to unexpected discoveries. Featuring the road trip of dreams, misunderstandings, and a bit of fate. The one where a quick, horny decision ruins Louis’ summer plans, but may also lead to unexpected discoveries. Featuring the road trip of dreams, misunderstandings, and a bit of fate.

17) Gallery Of Us | Explicit | 55,778 words

Harry knew what he was doing in life, everything laid out in black-and-white, each day pleasantly predictable. Cue lively art student, Louis, trying to find his place. An almost insufferably happy person who sometimes forgets to hide the way they feel meets the person who is diligent enough to notice and determined to make a difference.

18) Untamed Hearts Align | Explicit | 55,795 words

For as long as Louis has known her, Lady Margaret Tomlinson has had two aspirations for the remaining years of her life. The first was to out-dress the Duchess of Kent at every soirée and gathering. The second was to marry off her omega nephew to the most honorable – and highly ranked – alpha suitor she could find. He does not expect for her to arrange a marriage between him and the crown prince, and he certainly does not expect to fall for him. Everything changes when Harry disappears.

19) I’ve Got You | Explicit | 62,988 words

As a reward for saving the king's life, Harry is offered omega Prince Louis' hand in marriage. Neither of them has any interest in the union going forward, and so they concoct a plan to prove to the king that they are far from a perfect match.

20) You're Umami Baby | Mature | 87,429 words

Harry is a chef who never experienced umami until he meets his new dishwasher, Louis.

21) Echoes & Omens | Mature | 100,707 words

Echoes of the dead come in many forms. Their imprints forever tied to the ones who'd killed them. Louis Tomlinson is able to track the dead using their echoes, they call to him. He's used that gift to aid Scotland Yard in their investigations, with the hopes of studying Criminology at Cambridge University. He's lived a life of privilege and good fortune as a Marquess, son of the late Duke Tomlinson, with his life mapped out since day one. Until two terrible truths are revealed. One, he's adopted. Two, his biological parents are London's most notorious serial killers. Against his family's wishes, Louis travels to Chicago to uncover the truth of their incarceration. Much to his dismay, his biological mother's Lawyer, Harry Styles, wants to take his case. Together, they work to uncover what really happened all those years ago, but perhaps more is revealed than they could've ever anticipated. Trapped in a whirlwind of portents and omens, Louis and Harry find themselves pitted against an enemy they'd not foreseen.

22) You’ve Got A Higher Power, You’re Once In Any Lifetime | Explicit | 113,444 words

Giving up and letting them think they're right were never valid options in Louis Tomlinson's mind. In a society full of prejudices, finding a family and being accepted, also seemed like an unrealistic utopia. Louis sets out to do what no other of his kind ever has before and in doing so, he finds love, friendship and more about himself than he thought he would.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#bottom louis #top harry #larry #fic recs #blp fic recs #blp #hurt/comfort

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nburkhardt · 2 years ago

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A Valentine’s Day fic rambling anyone?

Eddie says “I love you” first on Valentine’s Day. He both loves and hates it because the holiday is dumb and pointless. Why keep all romantic stuff for this random day in February? But anyway, he said it and he doesn’t regret it at all.

The reason that finally broke the invisible barrier?

Steve tells him he’s breaking up with him and at first it crushes Eddie. Of all the days? The day that’s supposed to be about love and forever and all that bullshit? Then Steve rushes to grab his hands and pull him close to say it over but slowly.

“It’s temporary for just today, Sweets. We didn’t really have plans tonight because the holiday is dumb but! I just found out some asshole kid ruined little Holly’s valentines box at school and stole all of the cards she got,” he explains it and presses his lips to Eddie’s cheek before pulling away to smile, “So! I asked Mrs. Wheeler if I could treat her out for the day, because Mike’s too wrapped up in El and Nance has plans with Jonathan.”

And it just makes Eddie’s heart flip. It’s not even his own kid sister, it’s actually his ex-girlfriend’s little sister.

He feels a lot better after the explanation, he wraps his own arms around Steve and hides the blush that’s creeping up his face in his shoulder. His smile is hidden but it’s wide and if there could be there’s hearts in his eyes as he says, “I love you”

Steve freezes, it’s something they haven’t said out loud yet. Steve was afraid of the three words, he mentioned it once while they were high and Eddie understood, had told him that he wasn’t ready for them either. But they’re both romantic at heart and sometimes cheesy ones at that.

Eddie’s love language is words and the nicknames for Steve is very obvious and point blank; Sweetheart, Babylove, Beloved, and Tesoro (which came to be when Eddie found out Steve’s Italian roots). He sings all the love songs that usually makes him cringe, tells Steve the words without actually saying them.

Steve is mostly actions and some nicknames. He brings Eddie flowers all the time. Specific flowers at that, guy is a true romantic and looked up meanings. Daffodils, asters, red chrysanthemums, heliotropes, irises and yellow lilies are just a few. He cooks, bakes and buys random little things here and there for Eddie. (Steve goes between Sweets, Honey & Babe for Eddie)

It takes Steve a full five minutes to unfreeze, in that time Eddie has moved away to look at him and they’re both red in the face. Steve’s eyes are starting to water and Eddie was already there.

“You love me?”

Because of course Steve is still stuck on it, Eddie knew that going in. So, he nods and smiles wide going in for a kiss (more like the press of lips) before pulling and says it again, “yeah, I love you. So goddamn much, it’s kind of pathetic to admit it on today of all days and right after you tell me we’re breaking up”

It startles a laugh out of Steve, then they’re both giggling like mad and while Eddie’s catching his breath resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, Steve squeezes him close snd pressing a kiss to his temple before saying- “I love you too”

—

While staring at all the valentines decorations at my work, the idea of Eddie saying ‘I love you’ on Valentine’s Day was just something I needed. Obviously we had to figure out a silly way for it to happen too. Also I looked up meanings of flowers for this, I didn’t do much research but I’m hoping the site I used was correct with the meanings. Also had to throw in the hc of Steve being Italian. This got out of hand tbh 😅

#also want everyone to know they are THE cheesy couple #like they absolutely WILL run to each other like they haven’t seen each other in years #Dustin absolutely hates it #Robin fake gags so much that Steve throws out warnings now #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #steddie hc #steve harrington x eddie munson #nburkhardt writes

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be11atrixthestrange · 9 months ago

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The Loft 8

After a bad break-up, Hermione Granger moves into a messy and dysfunctional loft with four single men. What starts as a temporary home until she gets back on her feet becomes so much more, as she learns there's a lot of life - and love - that happens at rock-bottom.

Inspired by the TV Series ‘New Girl’

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Also on A03 | FFN

More Chapters

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In a crazy turn of events, I updated The Loft after 2 years... :)

Chapter 8

A watched egg never cooks. Is that the saying? Ron doesn’t know — he’s terrible at idioms and shit. If it’s not a saying, it’s definitely accurate.

He stands in front of the stove, waiting for his egg to fry. It’s taking forever, and he’s tempted to just leave it there, but maybe then he’d burn the whole loft down. That, or Vicky would eat it.

Vicky’s here this morning, just like he was here yesterday morning. And the morning before that. It almost feels like they have another roommate, one that doesn’t pay rent and that Ron didn’t choose. Well, he didn’t choose Hermione either, but that worked out. Sort of.

Ever since Hermione and Victor became ‘official’, they’ve spent almost every waking moment together. Ron comes home after work, Krum is here. He wakes up in the morning, Krum is still here. The only time Krum seems to spend outside of the apartment is between the hours of 9-5, and one hour at night, 8-9 pm, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Whenever Ron has asked where he goes, he gets all weird and quiet. Whenever he asks Hermione, she doesn’t seem to know or care.

“Honestly, Ron, it’s important for couples to spend time apart.”

“But Hermione, do you know where he goes?”

“No, because I respect his privacy.”

Why is Vicky the only one in this loft entitled to privacy? He often wonders when someone empties the laundry machine and leaves a trail of socks and underwear across the living room floor, or late at night when he can hear his roommates’ beds creaking, knowing they brought home a companion, a poor soul who has no idea how thin the walls are.

It begs the question, what kind of dark shit is Krum getting up to between the hours of 8 and 9pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays if he can’t even tell his girlfriend about it?

Maybe he has an embarrassing hobby. Or a gambling addiction. Or a second girlfriend.

Ron tries to ignore his heart’s fluttering in response to the last thought. What sort of friend would hope for that kind of thing?

“You might want to turn the stove on,” comes a gruff voice, interrupting Ron’s thoughts. “Or your egg will never cook.”

With a groan, Ron flicks on the burner.

“Are you okay?” asks Krum as he takes a seat at the kitchen counter. “You seem distracted.”

Ron glances back at his unwelcome roommate. His thick robe hangs loosely around his waist, forming a deep v neck that exposes Krum’s chiseled pecs and chest hair. Why can’t the dude just cover himself up a bit?

“M’fine.”

“Okay then. Look, I’m going to be out of town for the weekend—”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” interrupts Ron.

“Sorry?”

“You don’t even live here, so you don’t have to tell us when you’ll be out.”

Ron keeps his back to Krum as he lets the awkward pause wash over. Sure, maybe he should be nicer to the guy, but someone should gently tell him he’s overstaying his welcome. Hermione won’t.

“I was just going to ask if I could keep my car out front. Sometimes I get towed if I leave it out at my apartment—”

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Great,” says Krum as he rises to his feet and turns back toward Hermione’s room. “Thanks.”

“Where are you going this weekend?”

“Nowhere.” The sound of Hermione’s door closing punctuates Krum’s response.

Hmm. Very odd.

Moments later, Harry appears from his bedroom door, still disheveled in his pajamas. “What’s got you down?”

“Vicky.”

“What about Viktor?”

“I’m telling you, he’s giving me the creeps.”

Harry chuckles. “Since when?”

“The cabin trip we all went on.”

Harry lets a full laugh escape, as he responds. “You’re ridiculous. He never bothered you before.”

“I think he’s cheating on Hermione.”

Harry’s eyes narrow and glances toward Hermione’s bedroom. “She doesn’t deserve that, but how do you know?”

“Gut feeling.”

“Ron—”

“I think if I went to his place, I’d find proof.” Ron raises an eyebrow at his friend, who violently shakes his head.

“No.”

“Please come with me? I’ll give you free beer.”

“No. Plus you always give me free beer.”

Ron shrugs. “I’m going alone then. He’ll be out of town this weekend, and it’s the perfect opportunity to just check in.”

Harry groans. “You’re going to force my hand aren’t you?”

“Just come with me and make sure I don’t do anything unreasonable?”

“Going in the first place is unreasonable.”

“Still gonna do it.”

Ron knows that Harry can’t resist a little bit of mischief, so all he has to do is wait him out. Ninety percent of the unreasonable things Ron has done in his life have involved his best friend.

Like clockwork, Harry raises an eyebrow. “Okay. When are you going?”

“Tomorrow morning, after Krum leaves town.”

Harry groans. “You know this is a terrible idea?”

“Yes. But I don’t care.”

“We’re not going to do anything illegal, right?”

Ron imagines what exactly they’ll do tomorrow — show up at Krum’s apartment and just open the door? If Vicky’s dumb enough to leave his door unlocked while he’s out of town, then sure. But he’s definitely not dumb. If he was, Hermione would be staying far far away from him, and yet, here they are. It won’t be the first time Ron has snuck into a window. He was a horny teenager with a girlfriend and strict parents before, and crowbars are quite effective.

“No, of course we won’t do anything illegal.”

Harry nods. “Then fine,” he says, the reluctance in his voice rather light.

“Knew I could count on you.”

It doesn’t take long for Ron and Harry to locate Viktor’s address — the internet is a wonderful invention. They pull up to his street and emerge from the car. On Ron’s back is a bag equipped with a crowbar, a rope, and a clipboard. Ron’s found that holding a clipboard is the best way to look like you’re supposed to be there.

“None of this makes sense, mate.”

“Sure it does.”

As Ron shuffles along the pavement of an unfamiliar neighborhood, Harry trots behind him in an effort to keep up.

“You have no evidence that he’s cheating.”

“That’s why we’re doing this. To find some.”

“Ugh.”

Harry and Ron eventually stumble to the front porch of Viktor Krum’s duplex. It is larger than expected, but slightly run-down. The grass in the front lawn needs to be mowed, and on the front porch sit two pots that once housed plants, maybe. By the looks of it, no one has watered them in years. The paint is peeling off of the siding, and one of the stairs on the front stoop has rotted through. Even though their loft is still rather dumpy, Viktor’s makes it look like a castle.

“No wonder he’s always staying at our apartment.”

Ron peers around to the side of the house. A cracked window reveals an unmade bed inside. From his research, Ron knows that Krum lives in the first apartment on the left.

“We’re going in through the window.”

“Breaking and entering, cool,” grumbles Harry.

“Just entering. No need to break.”

Harry and Ron tiptoe across the overgrown grass and when they reach the window, it takes both of them to wedge it up high enough for them to fit through. Harry props Ron up and he slithers head-first into Viktor Krum’s bedroom. Harry follows, and both boys land in a thud on the carpet of the darkened room.

“You’d think he’d be able to afford a nicer place,” says Ron.

“Maybe he’s saving for an engagement ring or something,” sniggers Harry.

“Fuck mate, why would you say that?”

“To watch you squirm.”

Harry and Ron get to searching Krum’s apartment, flipping over couch cushions and rummaging through bookshelves looking for something — anything — that might belong to a girl who isn’t Hermione. Jewelry, clothing, makeup, perfume. One sniff and Ron would surely be able to tell if the perfume is hers.

“What’s this?” Harry’s voice travels from a smaller room attached to the living area. Ron peers inside to find a cluttered desk next to a bookshelf. Lining the shelf is a collection of Agatha Christie and Stephen King novels, and writing utensils galore. Harry is standing at the desk with a thick binder in his hands. “I think it’s a story.”

“Let me read it.” Ron yanks the binder from Harry’s hands and turns to a random page.

“She was dead. So very dead. The way her bushy brown hair splayed across the ground and nearly blended in with the fallen leaves made her look so natural in that state, like she was finally at peace. But her eyes were open, revealing the look of shock in her face. But there was something else there. Recognition. Betrayal.

Her hand still clutched the stab wound in her stomach, and Special Agent Reid knew that her stomach lining wasn’t the only thing that had recently been broken. So had her heart.

Clearly, she knew her killer. And most likely, if statistics proved to be true — and Spencer Reid always trusted statistics — it was her lover.”

“What the fuck is this?” splutters Ron.

Harry laughs. “I don’t know, but I’d be embarrassed if someone found that at my desk. I think he’s just writing. Special Agent Reid is a character on Criminal Minds.”

“Yeah, and the dead girl with bushy brown hair is clearly Hermione.”

“It appears to be fanfiction.”

Who the fuck writes fanfiction? “Oddly specific fanfiction.”

“I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about,” shrugs Harry. “It’s probably just a creative outlet.”

“She was killed by her lover, Harry.”

“We should probably go,” says Harry. “I’m nervous someone saw us sneaking in here, and we can’t find what we’re looking for.”

Can’t find what we’re looking for? What the fuck is he talking about? “Harry, we’ve found something much worse than what we’re looking for.”

“Fanfiction?”

“No, evidence that he thinks about killing Hermione.”

“He doesn’t think about that, Ron. He’s just writing.”

“Why aren’t you more concerned about this?”

“Honestly?” Harry shrugs. “Because he’s not a bad guy. He treats Hermione well. He’s kind. And we just discovered an embarrassing secret of his and should probably keep it to ourselves.”

“Don’t you think we should tell her and let her decide if it’s concerning?”

“Hermione’s a grown woman who can take care of herself.”

Ron sighs. He pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps a picture of the open page of Krum’s story. “Well I’m going to tell her.”

“How are you going to explain why we were in his apartment?”

“Dunno.”

“Want my opinion, Ron?”

No. Not really. Ron decides not to answer, but Harry continues anyway.

“Leave her alone. It really feels like you want him to be cheating on her. Or to, I dunno, be plotting to murder her.” He gestures to the binder when he emphasizes the word. “See how ridiculous it sounds when I say it?”

Ron has to admit that Harry has a point.

“I know you care about her, so stop sabotaging your friendship by meddling in her relationship.”

Ron grunts. “When did you become so good at relationships?”

Harry gets a strange look in his eye. “Well, if you must know—”

“No, I don’t need to know,” grumbles Ron, as the memory of Harry and Ginny holding hands flashes across his mind.

“Fair enough,” says Harry with a smile. “Let’s get out of here before we get caught?”

“Yeah,” agrees Ron . Probably a good idea.

Hours later, Ron is cleaning glasses at the Burrow while Harry sits across from him at the bar, picking at a pile of french fries in front of him. “I still can’t believe we snuck into his house.”

“I can,” says Ron with a shrug. Honestly, it felt a lot like storming Cormac for Hermione’s belongings when she first moved in. Some people make Ron want to throw logic out the window.

“You’re an awful influence, Ron.”

No, Hermione’s the awful influence. Ron turns to stack newly washed glasses on the shelf at the back of the bar. He is definitely being unreasonable. Hermione, in no way shape or form, caused him to break into Krum’s apartment. It was his concern for her that did. Because he cares. Plus, even if Harry doesn’t agree, if you ask Ron, they found what they were looking for.

“Hello, roommates.” Hermione’s voice echoes from the front door. It’s only three o’clock, and the bar doesn’t pick up until later, and the lack of people in the room makes Hermione’s presence seem all that much stronger.

“Oh, hi Hermione,” says Ron.

“Hey, Hermione. Good to see ya,” says Harry. “Also, I’m going to be late to meet Gin, so see you back at the loft later—”

“I didn’t know you were hanging out with Ginny today.”

Harry pushes his half-eaten french fries out of the way and rises to his feet. “Bye!”

Hermione takes his empty chair, and both of them watch Harry scuffle out the front door with an extra pep in his step.

“That was weird,” says Hermione with a shrug.

“Yeah.”

She pulls Harry’s plate of french fries closer to her, and plucks at one. “So what did you two do today?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Really? I just didn’t see either of you at the loft.”

Ron avoids her eye contact and shrugs. “Guy stuff.”

“Right,” she says, while she cocks her head to the side, studying him. “So are you working till close?”

“Yep.” Ron feels a pang of guilt at how terse his answers are. Ever since the cabin, he’s been quite short with her. He tells himself he’s just giving her space, but deep down, he knows it goes beyond that.

Hermione persists. “Mind if I hang out here for a while? Obviously Ginny’s busy with Harry and Viktor’s gone for the weekend.”

“Sure,” he says. Then, willing himself to keep the conversation flowing, he adds “You still don’t know where Viktor is this weekend?”

Hermione hesitates before answering. “Just on a trip.”

So she does know where he is? Or maybe she doesn’t and it worries her.

Overwhelmed with a desire to come clean, Ron turns back to her. “Can I tell you something, and you promise you won’t get mad at me?”

Hermione seems to brighten at the fact that his answer is longer than one word. “No, I can’t promise that, Ron. But please tell me.”

Ron groans. He shouldn’t say anything. But he does. “He gives me a weird vibe. Something’s off.”

“Of course he does,” says Hermione, rolling her eyes.

“What does that mean?” asks Ron, his defenses rising.

“Seriously, Ron?” she asks, her voice incredulous. “Tell me, Ron, see that guy in the booth?”

Ron follows her gesture to one of the only other patrons currently in the bar — a middle aged man reading a book and sipping an IPA. “Yes.” “Does he give you a weird vibe?”

“No, not really.”

“If I were to walk over to him and snog him, would he then give you a weird vibe?”

What kind of question is that? “Yes, but because he’s willing to snog a stranger in a bar—”

“You’re not willing to snog strangers at bars?” Ron’s mind darts back to Lavender. Sure, he was willing to snog strangers at bars, but they all know how that turned out.

“Okay, what are you saying?”

“I know we’re dancing around it Ron. It’s the elephant in the room.”

The hair on Ron’s arm tingles as it stands on edge. The last thing he expects is for Hermione to actually name the elephant in the room. Does this mean she’s about to shut him down once and for all? Tell him she’s happy with Krum? And that he should fuck off? Well, Fuck.

“Okay, but—”

“I love being your friend and your roommate, I’m in a stable relationship, and not willing to change that right now.”

Shit.

Hermione continues. “Will Viktor and I marry each other? Probably not. But at this point in my life, this is what I need.”

So, Hermione thinks Ron is pining uncontrollably for her? Is that how it is? “I didn’t break up with Lavender because of you, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

Does she know, though?

“And that is not why Krum gives me a vibe.”

She laughs. “Okay, why then?”

Ron groans. He really shouldn’t show her. Even if she thinks he found it at the loft, she’d probably just get angry at him for going through his things. But, for some reason, he can’t resist. “I found this today.”

Ron pulls his phone from his pocket and clicks through his photos. When the photo of Krum’s little story surfaces, he slides his phone to her across the bar.

Hermione picks it up and her eyebrows narrow to the text. “Where did you find this, Ron?”

What can he say? On his desk. In his apartment. The one I broke into earlier. “He left it out,” says Ron. It’s technically not a lie.

“That’s an invasion of his privacy,” says Hermione, coldly.

“Does it not concern you?”

Hermione shrugs. “Honestly, no, it doesn’t. He’s already shown me.”

“What?”

Hermione contemplates before giving up more details. “He’s taking a creative writing class, and this was one of his assignments,” she says, gesturing to Ron’s phone. “To write a fanfiction story from his favorite show. And he loves Criminal Minds.”

“Are you serious?” Harry was fucking right.

“Yes, it’s what he does every Tuesday and Thursday night. And that’s where he is now, actually, at a writing retreat.”

“So he’s like… serious about writing?”

Hermione shrugs.

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re the dead girl in that story?”

“Not really, no.”

“And that you were killed by your lover?”

Hermione laughs but shakes her head.

“It’s not very good.” He’s definitely grasping at straws now.

“I know that,” says Hermione. Ron’s pleasantly surprised that she agrees with him.

“Why does he do it?”

“He enjoys it. Isn’t that enough?” Finishing off Harry’s old fries, Hermione wipes her hand on a napkin. “Can I have a cream ale?”

“Sure,” says Ron as he reaches for a pint glass. “So you’re confident that he doesn’t want to kill you?”

Hermione laughs. “No, he doesn’t, thank god.”

“He’s not going to break your stomach lining and then your heart?”

“Okay,” groans Hermione. “Don’t be mean.”

Ron hands her the dripping cream ale. She smiles and takes it from him, her cheeks tinging pink with what Ron presumes is secondhand embarrassment. Honestly, it’s quite nice that she supports him, even though his hobby is a bit weird. It’s what Ron would call a green flag. Krum is a lucky bastard.

“My heart isn’t breakable right now, anyway,” she adds, before taking a sip of the foam layer at the top of her beer.

Ron cocks an eyebrow.

“Still have too many walls up, you know.”

“Oh I know, you’re a total ice queen.”

Hermione laughs, and Ron feels himself relax. It was a tough few days of not speaking freely with her.

“Thank you for talking to me. I missed having you as my friend,” she says.

The way she emphasizes friend sits strangely with Ron. As though she’s dictating the specific role she wants him to play right now. For some reason, it doesn’t feel quite like being friendzoned, and he can’t figure out why. There’s something temporary about the way she says friend.

Or is he reading way too much into that? He doesn’t want to be her friend. And yet, he loves being her friend. How does that even make sense?

“Right,” says Ron, cautiously. “So if I wanted to write bad fanfiction, would you support me? As a friend?”

“Of course!” says Hermione cheerfully. “I’d beta read for you.”

“Well then, maybe I’ll take up the habit. Show you I have other talents besides giving you free beer and being your attractive roommate.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, yet a smile graces her lips. “I bet you’d be a good writer,” she says as she gulps down the last of her beer.

“Maybe you’ll find out. Want another beer?”

“Sure!”

Ron pulls her glass away and refills it under the tap. This is definitely the weirdest friendship he has. But he’ll play along.

For now.

It is far too late when Ron finally makes it home from the bar, and as much as he wants to sleep, he’s too wired from his conversation before. He strips down to his boxers and collapses into the bed. Although he would love to continue talking with Hermione, there are no signs of life in any of the bedrooms, so it’s a safe bet that everyone in the loft is asleep.

Ron turns to his side and reaches his phone on his bedside table. Without a second thought, he starts typing away. Hopefully Hermione has her text notifications on silent. There is no reason she can’t have two story tellers in her life.

“She was about 5’6, had brown eyes, and wore a Hamilton t-shirt. She loved to watch romantic comedies and was a total coffee snob, even though she couldn’t tell the difference between a cappuccino and a latte. Her sultry gaze and bushy brown hair splayed wildly out at all angles, making her appear like a sexy medusa. In fact she could turn you rock hard in an instant. She had her whole life ahead of her. Or so she thought…”

Before he can overthink it, Ron presses send.

His heart rate quickens as he stares at his message. She’s asleep, so there is no way she’ll see it until tomorrow morning—

Then, three little dots appear at the bottom of his screen, and his palms begin to sweat. Oh shit.

“Oh my god, Ron, what is this?”

Well, he’s committed now.

“Little did she know, her life as she knew it was about to end. In walked a man, about 6’5, bright red hair, and a pale, yet chiseled adonis-like body. Nothing like her current boyfriend, but everything she wished her current boyfriend could be. He didn’t waste time writing fanfiction and playing sports, and instead crafted beautiful cocktails from the basement dive bar, was quite broke, and regularly forgot to do his laundry. Like a REAL MAN.”

Hermione is quicker to respond this time. “You’re ridiculous. But keep going please.”

Yes, ma’am. “And he wasn’t just a sex god. He was also a… dun dun dun… MURDERER.”

“LMAO. This is so mean. But I’m laughing so hard.”

Ron continues typing away. “She knew all of this. And yet, she still wanted him. She didn’t care if it was her last night on earth, because she knew it would be her best night on earth. And that was all she needed.”

“OMG now you’re getting carried away.”

She’s not wrong, yet something urges him to keep going. “She entered his apartment, so he could enter HER.”

Yeah, maybe he is getting carried away, but it’s fun, so what’s the harm? Plus, she promised to support his creative writing journey.

While waiting for Hermione’s response, Ron’s bedroom door bursts open, and Hermione stomps across the room. Her face is flushed and Ron can tell she is trying to hide a smile. “Phone, please?” she asks, her arm extended.

“No, I’m writing a story!”

Hermione stands her ground. “You’ve lost your phone privileges.”

“But I’m going to be the next Stephen King.”

Hermione lets out a laugh and dives onto the bed, wrestling his hand for his phone. She braces her knees on either side of him, pinning him between her legs. Ron makes a show of struggling, but as much as he wants to keep her there forever, he eventually lets her win.

“Fine,” he says, handing over his phone.

It only takes a moment for them to pause, limbs entangled, for Ron’s mind to run wild. How easy would it be for him to turn the moment serious? He could wrap an arm around her waist and pin her to him. He doubts she’d resist. She has a boyfriend, but she also seems surprisingly comfortable with her arms draped around Ron’s body. She knows he’s only wearing boxers under the covers, right?

They linger there for a moment that solidifies Ron’s inkling from before. She bites her lip, her eyes dart down toward the covers. The way she doesn’t immediately jump off of the bed when she notices that he’s in his underwear suggests that the friendzone is an arbitrary construct.

Ron steadies his voice in an effort to hide his rising heart beat. “Careful, Hermione. I’m a sex god with a habit for murder.”

Yeah, took one second for him to fuck that up.

“I fucking hate you,” she says, as she wrangles herself back up, his phone in her hand. “You are most definitely not a killer.”

Yeah, it took one second for him to fuck that up. However, Ron’s stomach flutters at the sound of her swearing. She hardly ever cusses, only when she’s with him. “Right, but am I a sex god?”

Hermione laughs. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”

Ron raises an eyebrow. “Care to find out?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have had that whiskey shot at the end of his shift. He’s acting a bit too bold.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Her answer echoes in Ron’s mind. He doesn’t miss the way Hermione averts her gaze, and her cheeks flush red.

“I know. We’ve established that.” Then, with a inhale to gain courage, he adds, “But if you didn’t?”

Maybe Ron imagines it, but a look flashes across her eyes, and the corners of her lips turn up in a smile. She shakes her head as if to halt the beginning of a fantasy before it runs wild. “I really should sleep. Goodnight, Ron.”

“Night, Hermione.”

Ron grins as she turns and leaves the room, fully aware that she never answered his question.

#be11a loft #romione #ron and hermione #ron x hermione #hermione granger #hpromione #ron weasley #angst #ronweasley #romione fanfic #hp fanfic #muggle au #slow build #slow burn

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kervl-klear · 8 months ago

Note

🌹 for Angae

🌹 - They're lonely/missing home. What do they do?

…………………………………………………

There’s nothing out of ordinary at Rosemary station, Angae continues to do his work as usual. However, despite not having an episode, Angae is visibly more detached than usual.

This is the last day of the month. Since Rosemary is a top-secret facility, they have to manage all the finance and administration work themselves or they will risk having information about their spending and organizational structure leaked out when submitting info to the defense finance accounting service.

North capital is considering putting Angae out of commission and have other general replace him, which would end in his neutralization considering his position in national threat. Seoltang is a literal doormat at this point, so his authority won't mean much at North capital and Noeu is still being suspected of multiple cases of corruption, so Angae had to find a way to survive on his own. Everything had to be extra perfect, after all losing his job mean losing his life which also means that Angae won't be going home tonight.

Last night Angae dreamed that he’s back home at Tulip Island which dug up a thought he tried to ignore. It’s fascinating that he still misses his home intensely even after 20 years had passed and when this kind of thing happens, he would simply live his day normally until the thought fade.

Gripping his pen tightly, he tells himself to stay focused. If he has an episode now, he won’t be able to finish his work.

Suddenly the light in his entire room flash in Morse code.

[Want some help with your asset report Secretary?]

In an annoyance, Angae leave his office. He walks straight to the west part of his office where the hallway light-no, the light of the entire base flickered in other set of morse code.

[I'm here to help if you just say the word]

Angae arrived at the jail area where they temporary keep threats that they capture in Area 21 until the law enforcement come pick these people up.

The rosemary guard salute at Angae as he appoarch one of the jail cells.

Angae: "Excuse me Hongcha, can you stop playing with the light?"

There is no reply, Hongcha is too focused on messing with the wire he manages to dig out from the electric door that he doesn’t notice Angae. Through the gap between each cell bar, Angae reach to tap Hongcha on his shoulder.

Hongcha jolted in disgust but still try to play it cool.

Hongcha: “Hey secretary, you should thank me for helping you cleanse this base from many fatal security deficiencies”

He put the wire down, studying Angae's body language.

Hongcha: "The biggest intelligence facility in the country using simple AC for electrical route is pretty embarrassing you know?"

Angae: "This base was built before other option was invented. Regardless, can you stop breaking into my base? I have to announce a drop in security every time some of my men pause their patrol to deal with you"

This morning Hongcha attempted sneaking into B2 for an intel on some cases where citizens attempted to report that some of generals and executives SA them.

Hongcha: “Let me remind you that I am not on your side. Baegcha is the only one who agreed to join you guys, I’m not interested in your super villain alliance”

Angae: “To correct you, it’s a neutral mercenary corporation”

Hongcha sarcastically make a laughing sound…either that or he really did laugh but his stone-cold expression make thing confusing as usual.

Hongcha: “Yeah, whatever. But you do realize that keeping me here for too long might draw in some catastrophe, right? We all know he has no problem buried a couple thousand of your men with me in this basement”

Angae pout a little.

Angae: "The underground part of this base is strong enough to withstand air raid and if the entrance and exit are buried, we can always use communication to call for outside help. Beside he will not find you here because of the counterintelligence measure especially SIGNINT unless you call him here before you sneak in just in case you got caught, your plan is to escape while Orenji keep everyone busy and Orenji's air raid will destroy any trail leading to you"

Right at the end of Angae sentence an air raid siren alarm came to life. Angae facepalm.

Hongcha: "Awww, so you do remember my behavior pattern. Unlike a certain surgeon who claim to be helping me yet all he wants is for me to stop existing"

Angae: "You all are too predictable, if there's something you want you just go for it, no precaution or consideration"

Angae decide to drag Hongcha with him outside the station and order all soldiers on the ground floor to turn off the light.

Hongcha: "Hahaha, are you seriously using me as a hostage against myself right now?"

Angae: "If you don't want to die, you better corporate. The visibility is low today because of the fog so we should still be at advantage"

Hongcha: "I didn't poke much but I can tell you are about to have an episode; your eyes are darting like crazy, your shoulder is tense, and your lip is shaking, clearly you are reaching your limit, you can't use your camera because your men will see it and you are out of Risperidone because you didn't have enough time to visit Docs lately. Oh, wait maybe you are already having one..?"

Angae got chill down his spine starting to doubt if the fog in front of him is real and if he just makes a fool out of himself.

Hongcha: "Just messing with you, the fog is totally real"

Somewhere outside Area 21, Orenji is out conducting air traffic.

Orenji: "04 to D44A, stop fire. Enter FL010, head 67 at minute 15. CB10 request approved. 04 to D46A, descend to 50 feet, make 90 degrees turn then open fired at minute 24"

One of the invading fighter jets descend then make a sharp turn to the starboard and open fired in straight line, stopping the Rosemary soldier from leaving the station entrance.

Rosemary's anti-aircraft weapons fired some missile in retaliation.

Orenji: "04 to CB10, drop bomb at minute 50"

A bomber flies by above the missile. A bomb was released accurately right on top of the missiles that had target locked on the closest fighter jet to the facility and because of that, the fighter jet is now able to spot the location of anti-aircraft system.

Orenji: "04 to D46A, approved"

The fighter jet open fire at the anti-aircraft weapon, this prompted the air defense unit of Rosemary base to release their own aircraft for ariel defense.

Angae: "Negative! All pilots remained stationed, suspend all flight activity-"

Two aircrafts lifted off unannounced and went straight crashing right to the anti-aircraft station, a couple of strawberry scatters around as the aircraft explode. The confused Rosemary control tower report that the ground that their frequency was jammed and none of them are able to contact the pilots, it is as Angae fear.

Orenji had jammed the signal that the tower use, then pose himself to the pilot as the ATC from the tower they are in contact with then lead them to their demise. Position them at the angle where hearing anti-collision warning is equivalent to seeing 4 red PAPI during touch down. It's seemed that he too is at advantage with this level of visibility.

Hongcha: "Oh nice! These pilots appear to be on my stoplist, what a coincident!"

Hongcha is crossing names on his stoplist while whistling in which Angae look at him with disgusted expression and yes, 30% of the forest around the base are now currently on fire, clearly this had become a miniature active war site.

Angae vision started to flicker between hell on earth and rainbow flower field, he can feel that he also had to close his eyes longer each time to retain himself. He got to find a way to end this fast.

Angae told one of his men to go get him a Barret M82. At the moment an extraordinary powerful rifle could be a better approach compared to SAM that are not just a bigger target for fighter jet to strike back and easier to spot but also a more explosive one.

The soldier handed him what he asked, but they also have to report him that Angae had took the scope back home with him for a maintenance a couple of day ago and the scope of the other guns here won't fit the barrel. So much so for not making a fool out of himself-

And so, Angae asked his soldier to bring him myopia glasses and magnifying glass.

Decommissioning the aircraft with sniper gun is impossible as bullet can only travel at 2,600 km per hour and these jets fly at least 1,900 km per hour. But he knows how he can decommission its firearms. Also, he personally doesn't want any aircraft to crash here as it will become his base's responsibility to clean it. So he decided that he should go straight to confront Orenji head on.

Before getting close to Orenji though, Angae want to decommission a couple of his communication equipment but where could Orenji be hiding?

Suddenly a Hydrangea with two comedically huge petals spoke in Hongcha's voice.

Hongcha: “Oh man, if only there’s someone who had 5 years of experience in dealing with first generation Northland combat controller standing right next to you”

It appears that his vision had already switch and he is 100% in psychosis episode now as temporary closing his eyes don't make the vision inaccuracy go away, he won't have much time before the rifle in his hand turn into something else.

Hongcha probaly notice the puzzled look on his face hence asking for involment.

Angae: "I'm not returning your electronic equipments so you can hack into the North capital system and release a conventional war scale missile designed to sink a battleship"

Hongcha: "Come'on. Unlike Baegcha, I won't try to kill Orenji"

Angae sighed, Hongcha is indeed one people with the most information about Orenji and having him completely station here is indeed a waste of resources.

Angae: "Can you pinpoint Orenji's hiding spot?"

Hongcha: "Thought you'd never ask"

Suddenly the comedically large petals on Hydrangea start spinning at turbine speed, then it shoots a gigantic neon blue sausage into the sky. This led to Angae also notice that the fighter jets had turn into a wooden bird.

Alighting the magnifying glass at the right distance, Angae asked Hongcha to hold it still for him. Angae is very curious as to what his brain will interpretated a Hydrangea holding stuff but apparently, the magnify glass simply float in place.

Orenji statled as his radar goes out of commission followed by two of his duplex radios then the RF modulator, limiting his communication route.

Orenji: "D44A, D46A, CB10 return to base"

Orenji inspect his broken equipment, he hopes to fix it as soon as possible and may be ground jack one of the airliners just in case. But then he heard a subtle ruffle sound which prompt him to take his own pistol out.

The intruder fired at Orenji first in which he shoots back in retaliation, he would have D45A take care of the intruder for him however he had no idea where exactly this intruder is. More shot was fired and Orenji continued to shoot back.

While reloading his gun, Orenji hear a quiet thud sound on his left, he looks up from his gun in which he found Angae.

Angae's eyes are not exactly alight with where Orenji is, clearly mean that Angae can't see where Orenji is and is only listening to his radio. This greatly impress Orenji as this means that Angae recognized the type of his gun purely from the sound, he then precedes to count each shot and took the opportunity when Orenji is reloading his gun.

Angae look at the massive orange tree in front of him, each orange hanging on his branch talk over each other, reporting every single little thing they see. Angae is a bit nervous knowing what he's currently facing. Orenji doesn't sees a single thing on field, everything he know are from his radar and pilot reports.

Angae stare at the orange tree intensely, he didn't intend for Orenji to notice him. He doesn't even know if he's really holding guns right now, he just knows that it sounds correct when he squeezes it.

Both are at stalemate. Either the wooden bird shoot or Angae shoot.

Hongcha: "Orenji...."

Both were taken aback by the approaching Hydrangea that had now grow a pair of chicken feet. The Hydrangea and the Orange tree stay still in front of each other for a couple of second in awe, it's been 3 months since Orenji last saw Baegcha/Hongcha and it's been 6 months since Hongcha last saw Orenji.

Orenji: "Baegcha"

Unlike the rest of C2ISTAR, Orenji called both Baegcha and Hongcha "Baegcha", this is because Orenji want to call his significant other by their preferred name.

Angae can't quite tell what's going on but both plants seem to be giving some sign to each other, wrinkling and shuffling their leaves.

Orenji: "All is worth for ending your suffering Beagcha, I look forward to it. 04 to CV04, drop ladder at 13.68N 100.99E"

A wooden bird fly by then hover above them. One of Orange tree's branch reach out to the chain hanging from the wooden bird. It's seemed that Orenji had escaped with his aircraft.

Angae still doubt the situation. Beagcha/Hongcha was in front of him, but Orenji choose to escape instead of pressing on to putting his significant other out of misery as intended. It was an abnormal sight.

Both Hongcha and Baegcha stay to help Angae out with the bills and incident reports while Angae reorganizing the intelligence in the base. A couple of days later another box of money was drop in front of Angae's house. With a photo of the funeral held for the two Rosemary pilots, seem that Orenji paid for their funeral.

Hongcha: "Here's the conclusion report, are there anything else?"

Angae: "No, that is everything, I'll pardon your jail time as promised"

Finally, being in a less chaotic mindset. Angae now notice that he made mistake in his deduction and what happened is somewhat less obvious than he thought. Apparently Orenji, Beagcha and Hongcha can carry some discreet operation as well.

Angae: "Orenji was the one who paid you to break in here didn't he?"

Hongcha reply with silence.

Angae: "You two are trying to scare the other generals away from this base and you want North capital to think that they need me to fend you two off"

Angae look up from his computer only to find that the secret service was already gone. Angae make a small idiot smile, he definitely has the worse group of friends in this world. But this probably will be the closest things to the homesick pill he will ever get.

…………………………………………………

Thank you for your patience in the TFC circuit and thank you for tuning into my frequency. CVL2, RWY CLR. 🛫✨

#c2istar #my oc #my art #orenji #angae #hongcha #cw: sa #cw: death

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