#i think someone in the crowd behind me was crying

[smutmind]

Retroactive Pt. 2 ft. Wonyoung

Read PT. 1 HERE

The library buzzed with soft clicks, page turns, and the tension of too much caffeine and too little time.

You usually avoided crowds, even quiet ones. But today, the spider inside your blood purred. It liked attention. You let it.

She sat across from you, Wonyoung. Long legs tucked into wide denim, her puffer jacket the color of candy and cropped just enough to tease a sliver of midriff. Underneath, a tight ribbed top hugged her chest like it had been painted on. Her look was clean, cute—almost innocent—but her eyes told you she noticed the way you watched her.

You’d watched her for weeks. Never said a word.

Today, you did.

“You stuck on the equations?”

She looked up, blinking like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “Yeah. It’s brutal. Thermodynamics is kicking my ass.”

You smirked. “Come over tonight. I’ll show you how I study.”

Her lips parted. “You serious?”

You held her gaze. “Deadly.”

That night, she knocked soft. Still in her jeans and crop top, jacket gone. Her hair down. Lips glossed. She smelled like clean shampoo and something sugary.

You let her in.

Inside, the room buzzed with quiet heat. She perched on the couch like it might bite.

“Is this where we study?”

“It’s where I test things.”

She tilted her head, mock-serious. “What kind of things?”

“Your limits.”

Her laugh was nervous, but her cheeks flushed pink. You stepped closer. Her breath hitched.

“You want me to be bad?” she asked.

“Only if you want to be good at it.”

You kissed her. She melted fast, fingers clutching your hoodie, mouth hungry and sweet. The couch groaned as you straddled her thighs.

She broke the kiss to whisper, “I’ve never done this with someone watching.”

Your brow furrowed. “Watching?”

She fished something from her tote—a silk sleep mask.

“I brought this. It helps me concentrate when I study,” she said with a grin, cheeks pink. “Put it on me?”

You took it. Slipped it over her eyes.

Her breathing deepened.

“I like not seeing. It makes everything feel... sharper.”

You slid her top off, slow. Her breasts were full, bare, nipples already stiff. She squirmed beneath your touch, the blindfold making her react to every graze like it was fire.

“God, your skin’s soft,” you murmured.

You kissed down her chest, tongue tracing each rise, each peak, until she moaned softly.

Her jeans took work, but she lifted her hips, letting you peel them down. Her panties were cotton, simple white, damp at the center.

You pressed your mouth to her thigh.

“You feel this more without seeing, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Everything’s louder in my head.”

You dragged your tongue up her slit, slow and deep. She gasped.

“Oh my god.”

You circled her clit, tongue flicking light then firm. Her thighs clenched. She whimpered.

“Fuck—your mouth feels so good. I can’t even think.”

“Good. Don’t think. Just feel.”

You pushed two fingers inside her. She arched.

“Fuck! Yes—yes—”

She came fast, shivering, crying out. The blindfold stayed on

You slid up, kissed her neck, whispered, “I’m not done.”

You stripped fast. Her fingers reached, eager and clumsy, guided only by touch. She ran her hand along your cock, tracing it slowly like she needed to memorize it.

“God,” she whispered, “You’re so hard… so thick. I want it now.”

You leaned in, breath hot against her cheek. “Then beg.”

She hesitated, then exhaled. “Please. Put that fat dick in me. I want to feel everything.”

You turned her gently, bent her over the couch, her ass arched perfectly, trembling slightly. You grabbed her wrists and brought them behind her back, tying them loosely with her own top.

You lined yourself up, dragged your cock through her soaked folds. She whimpered.

“Still okay, my little cumslut?”

She nodded frantically. “Yes. Please. I need it.”

You pushed into her slow and deep. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.

“Fuck—you feel huge,” she gasped.

You groaned, hips rolling forward. Her tight heat clung to you, pulling you deeper with every inch.

“God, you’re tight. So wet. You were made for this.”

She moaned loud, back arching as you bottomed out.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Fill me—fuck me like you mean it.”

You gripped her hips and started thrusting. Deep, firm strokes that made her cry out. Her ass bounced into every thrust, her body jolting under you.

“You like being fucked like this?” you growled.

“Yes! Oh my god, yes—harder!”

You slammed into her, pace quickening, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy. She gasped every time you bottomed out.

“Please—pull my hair. Use me—just use me!”

You grabbed her ponytail, pulled. Her moan turned feral. She came suddenly, hard, her legs shaking as she screamed your name, convulsing around your cock.

You didn’t stop. You fucked her through it, each thrust drawing another helpless whimper.

“Fuck—I’m gonna cum,” you hissed.

“Cum inside me,” she panted. “Fill me. I want it.”

With a final thrust, you came hard, buried to the hilt, groaning into her neck as your release surged through you.

She went limp beneath you, wrists still tied, breath ragged.

You untied her gently. She turned, eyes still covered, smiling.

“That was... distracting.”

You kissed her shoulder. “Still passed.” to be continued

[revelboo]

It’s never any fun when you’re sick more often than not! But it does lend itself towards having a very rich inner world—and I probably used up all my luck in life finding your writing, because it’s literally my fuel some days, lol. :)

Sooooo… about that sandbox fic where we can ask for some dream matchups… please please please make a shared sitch with Soundwave and Tarn — one where they aren’t fussed by sharing their human with each other (even at the same time, hell yes please!), but it’s a ‘closed loop’ where they won’t share with anyone else — as that’s *their* little human mate.

They’re probably my most fav sharing-pair-sandwich, although Soundwave & Perceptor, Sunstreaker & Deadlock, and Prowl & Barricade (as re-united twins) all definitely tweak my “two, eh?” curiosity. :D

Yes, please! DP mention, so implied fem bits. 🔞 mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Interludes Pt 2

Soundwave x Reader, Tarn x Reader

• “You ever think about trying it?” Tarn growls and Soundwave glances at him. The other mech’s expression as hidden behind his visor and battle mask as his own his. Unable to let go and move on. To adapt to this new reality. To have no purpose. Turning to survey the crowded dance floor, he spots three mechs with a little human trapped between them. The fitful strobes making it hard to tell who they are, their factions. Gets little flashes, though. Hands sliding on skin, that lower covering on the human shoved up and the pulse of a spike’s biolights. Fragging right on the floor apparently. It’s disgraceful and sordid. And he can’t look away. “For the good of Cybertron,” he adds, voice bitter. Because that’s the new rallying cry. Save their race. Bond with these weak aliens and repopulate.

• Venting as his optics slide away from Tarn’s masked face to find what has his attention, Soundwave rumbles. Knows they’re both coming here because it’s what’s expected. That they do their part. But he’s almost too sure that he’s not capable of adapting. Neither of them are. Both loyal to Megatron and his cause and this peace however uneasy feels like a betrayal. Watching one mech begin to move urgently against the human trapped in the middle of their little group, he stretches out a thought feeling like a voyuer as the chaos of the human’s need and pleasure almost swamps him. The little organics noisy. “For the good of Cybertron,” he says, pushing up from the table. Because he knows they both keep coming back here out of curiosity. “They don’t seem to mind being shared,” he adds and Tarn slowly shoves up, gesturing for him to take the lead. To at least give it a try.

• Sipping at your candy, sweet drink as you accidentally bump into a group and get an eyeful of one of the mass displaced Cybertronians holding up a human as another rails them and their third turns to give you a lazy once over, smiling in invitation. Face flushed, you stride deeper into the club. Because while you’d give anything to be sandwiched between two of them, you’re not okay with forming a line to jump on someone’s slick spike right after they slip free of their last partner. Snickering as you nurse your drink, someone steps into your path and you look up at a massive, intimidating mech wearing a mask. And his equally big buddy moves closer, visor brightening. Body heating, you decide that someone upstairs must really love you to gift you these two. “Looking to party?”

• Lips twitching behind his mask as you look up at them, so innocent and probably not having a clue who they are. What they’ve done. Are they just a conquest to you? An experience? Reaching out a hand, you lay yours in his palm with no hesitation. So eager to play. “If you don’t mind entertaining me and my companion?” He asks and you smile, before your little teeth sink into your bottom lip. ‘I’m game.’ Which is why Soundwave picked you. Leading you to the bar to get a room token, his servos wrap around not only your entire hand but your wrist. So fragile.

• Letting Tarn lead the way as Soundwave mines your emotions, catching flickers of quick images, your organic mind so chaotic. Fascinating. Apparently fantasizing about taking both of them at the same time. You’re going to be such a delight. Heading into the room, he slides his palm down your arm and you turn his way. Hands fisting in your top as you start stripping for them. “Tarn first,” he growls, giving you a nudge and you reach up to loop your arms around Tarn’s neck, fingers reaching for his mask and Soundwave catches your wrist. “That stays on.”

• Tarn. Still don’t know the other one’s name, but maybe he’ll let it slip. Tarn’s big hands palm your hips, lifting you and he’s freeing his spike against your belly. “Hi, Tarn,” you whisper, those red optics watching you as the other one moves up behind you, hands supporting your butt, and you feel his spike slide against the small of your back. Hear Tarn chuckle as he reaches up to cup your cheek, a servo sliding against your bottom lip and you latch on. See his optics flare when you curl your tongue around it and suck.

• Growling as his servo pops free of your soft mouth, he’s half tempted to see what else that mouth can do. “Soundwave is going to feel neglected,” he growls in your ear and your head turns as he lowers you to your feet and you turn, kneeling without hesitation. Reaching up to grip Soundwave’s spike, that soft mouth sliding against him. And Soundwave lowers himself to sit, servos tunneling into your hair with a groan as your mouth moves on him. Amused, Tarn kneels behind you and rocks himself against you, his optics shuttering at how slick you already are. Feeling you arch, breathily whimpering his name around Soundwave’s spike when he stretches you and sheaths himself in a slow drive. Understanding the fascination with humans now, because you’re so soft, slick and tight gripping his spike.

• Shuddering as you moan, head bobbing, you swallow his spike and it’s agony to not thrust into that wet mouth of yours, to not force you to take more of him. And Tarn’s gripping your hips, moving against you in hard drives. Servos brushing your hair from your face, those pretty eyes flick up to his face. Feels your tongue slide against the underside of his spike as you swallow a bit more of him.

• Whimpering when Tarn’s hips start pumping urgently against you, you’re drooling a bit trying to swallow Soundwave’s spike as he plays with your hair. And Tarn shifts his angle, rutting against you and you’re moaning around the spike in your mouth as Tarn drives you ruthlessly to that peak. Hips snapping against you as he snarls, servos digging into you when he overloads to fill you and Soundwave shudders. His own overload almost choking you bent you pull away and he slicks your front. “Fuck,” you whisper, trembling with your climax. Because they’re going to run you for other humans.

• You whimper when he slips free of you, intending to let Soundwave have a turn filling you. But to Tarn’s surprise, the other mech points at the bed and bends to hook an arm around your unresisting form. Easing down to sit on the bed with his legs hanging over the edge, he reaches to take you when Soundwave hands you to him and you’re straddling him. Doesn’t hesitate to pull you back down onto his spike with a growl. “You want both of us now?” Soundwave growls in your ear and you tighten on his spike, eyes slightly dazed when you look over your shoulder at Soundwave. ‘Yes, please,’ you whisper to make Tarn smile. Because you’re already exceeding his expectations. ‘Go slow, okay?’

• Mask retracting to brush his mouth against the back of your shoulder, he reaches around you to slide his servos through his excess on your skin, before pressing against you to encourage Tarn to lay back with you on top of him. And Soundwave slides his slick servos against you, finding you and pressing a servo inside you. Hears your breath catch and You’re going to be so tight. “Don’t break our new friend,” Tarn rumbles, servos kneading your hips. Pumping his servo inside you, before slipping it free, he grips his spike and guides himself to you. Your warm little mouth got him slick enough, but he still takes his time pressing against you, stretching you. “Relax for him,” Tarn admonishes and finally, the head of his spike pushes inside you and you moan.

• You’re no stranger to two at once, but they’re both bigger than anything you’ve ever taken and their restraint is a blessing. You’re so close already you might come before they even start moving just from the feel of being stretched so full. Tarn lazily tracing shapes on your hips as Soundwave rocks himself against you. Finding a rhythm and working his length inside you. Gasping, you squirm between them, feeling Tarn lazily rolling his own hips. Because if they just let loose and took you hard and fast, they’d probably hurt you. They’re letting you adjust to them even though they don’t have to. “We’re keeping you,” Soundwave snarls in your ear and you warm. Wanting to keep them, too. You’d come here for an experience and you’re going to enjoy it fully.

Previous

Next

[skzjiiiii]

In every way

Outline: Felix saved you in ways you never thought someone could.

Author's note: I came across a TikTok with an audio "but now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson, and that he saved me. In every way that a person can be saved" so I decided to write something along the lines of that but with Felix instead. Because he did save me.

Theme: Angst! but like the nice type haha

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You don’t remember when the world started becoming grey. Like every emotion you felt was muffled.

Maybe it was after the hundredth heartbreak, maybe it was after the people you trusted slowly faded away like shadows under sunlight. Maybe it was after you stopped expecting people to stay.

But what you do remember — clearly, vividly — is the night you met Felix.

The sky had been bruised purple, the kind of dusk that bleeds into night without ceremony. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, hoodie drawn over your face, headphones on, pretending to be invisible. Everything had felt too loud. The city, your thoughts, your own heartbeat.

Then someone sat down beside you, wordlessly. No questions. No demands.

Just quiet.

You remember glancing over — eyes swollen from crying — and seeing him. Blond hair backlit by the store sign, freckles soft across his nose, as if he’d been sketched in pencil and the artist couldn’t bear to ink him too sharply.

“I like this song,” he said eventually, motioning to your headphones.

It wasn’t a pickup line. It wasn’t anything except... human.

You didn’t speak, but you passed him one earbud. That night, you watched strangers pass and traffic lights change, breathing in the same silence.

And you didn’t feel alone.

Felix never asked for your trauma. He didn’t dig or demand or dissect. He just... stayed.

He became the person who texted you every morning — not “Good morning :)” but “Did you eat yet?” or “Sunset looks nice today. Go see it.”

He didn’t flinch when you broke down mid-sentence. He didn't walk away when you got too quiet to be interesting. Felix understood silence. And he filled it with warmth, not noise.

You remember one night in particular — after a horrible day where the weight of existing felt unbearable — when you sat on the floor of your apartment, knees pulled to your chest, and whispered:

“I think I’m broken.”

Felix knelt in front of you, brows drawn tight. His voice was soft, but his gaze was unwavering.

“No,” he said, fingers brushing your knuckles. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

“But I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, gently pressing your hand to his chest. “You just have to let someone sit with you while it heals.”

And somehow, he made you believe that was enough.

Time passed.

And slowly, the world stopped feeling like a battlefield. You started to laugh more. Sleep better. Trust again. Not because your scars disappeared. But because Felix never made you feel like you had to hide them. He celebrated every win — even the small ones. “You answered a text today? Queen behavior.” “You opened the window? That’s self-care supremacy.”

One night, you asked him why.

“Why do you care so much?”

He shrugged, lips twitching upward. “Because someone once told me they were broken. But all I saw was someone brave enough to keep going.”

You looked at him for a long time, heart thudding.

"You're not saving me, Felix," you whispered, not entirely believing it.

He tilted his head. "Maybe not. But maybe I’m helping you save yourself."

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t movie moments.

It was a million soft things.

Felix holding your hand in crowded rooms. Felix waiting outside your building with two cups of coffee and a grin that said “I missed you” even if you’d just seen him yesterday. Felix dancing like an idiot to your favorite song just to make you smile.

Felix reminding you that being loved didn’t have to feel like a fight.

And one day, months later, as you stood on the rooftop watching the sun slide behind the city skyline, he turned to you and said:

“I don’t need anything back. Not love, not promises. But if you ever feel like you’re okay... I’d really like to be part of that version of your life too.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and it hit you like a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding:

You already were.

Years later, when someone asked you how you got better, how you made it out of the fog that once clouded your life, you only smiled.

You didn’t talk about the therapy or the journals or the nights you cried into your pillow.

You just said:

“There was a man named Lee Felix. And he saved me, in every way that a person can be saved.”

[chiimeramanticore]

what was ur favorite part of the con

- person who did not get to go

so glad you asked this because I have an answer raring to go. it was this

[seiwas]

omg im scared my tags are gonna get cut out

were he not born to be a hero he must surely be born for this. <- I LOOOOVE THISS my GODD are u KIDDDDINGME i looooove that so much monty :(( how it ties back in to the start!!

and the way!! he uses what he learned on izuku. and izuku really DID burst into a million tears 🥺 poor guy probs needs it THE MOST WAAAH i loooove this lil interaction i am MUSH

and when he realises its different from touching you??? OHHHH. BOYYYYYY.

i love this monty thank u for writing this

STEADY BEGINNINGS ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

tags: GN reader, developing relationship (eventual friends to lovers), touch starved shouto, physical affection (hand holding + long hugs), good god the yearning, obliviousness, jealousy, fluff + angst, pro hero shouto, reader works at hero agency

wc: 3.8K

series masterlist: 2/5

Shouto was born to be a hero.

It is a sentiment shared by reporters and fans alike. Todoroki Shouto, the pride of Endeavor, the saving grace of his family name. True, his development had been entirely up to chance—no matter the intent or cruel desperation behind his father’s actions, he had to rely on the probability that the next offspring would win the genetic lottery—but low and behold, he did, and to many people that alone was a sign of destiny at work.

Ultimately, he chose to continue the path of being a hero himself, but no higher being put him there. His father did. At the time of his birth Shouto had not been a son, not even a baby. He was a project. A small, shapeless, squirmy thing. Malleable, like any young mind. It’s a miracle he retained any will and individuality.

Sometimes when alone with his thoughts, Shouto would hypothesise on the whys and the hows. The conclusion he always comes to is this: any sort of reality in which Shouto succumbs to his father’s ideals and manipulation would have to be a world in which his mother does not exist.

While his existence was planned, and wanted, he was to be a hero and as such, wasn’t cut from love—that came after. He loved his mother. So much so that when she hurt, he hurt. When she cried, he cried. She taught him what it meant to be gentle, to have hope, to aspire to be his own person. Years spent amongst the country's finest heroes and Shouto still regarded his mother as the bravest woman he knew, strong because she refused to be hardened by her circumstances; soft so that she can’t be broken again.

You are like his mother in that regard. Those same echoes of reassurance that softness isn’t weakness, and it isn’t earned. You’ve been touching him more as of late, as if determined to prove it. Static between brushed fingertips, words expressed by simply pressing your knees together, the weight of your hand on his bicep to garner his attention. The build up is subtle and cumulative and yet each instance strikes him with the magnitude of a thermodynamic explosion.

Nobody bats an eyelid to this shift in physicality, which makes it all the more difficult to determine whether he is reading into things or not. It could be that he’s noticing those small instances only because it’s you, and you are all he can think about lately.

You’ve given him permission to reciprocate. He merely has to ask for more if he wants it. What Shouto hadn’t accounted for is the unbearability of being vulnerable enough to ask. An innocent “can you hug me?” becomes so much more daunting to voice with all that longing crowded up behind it. He can’t help worrying you’ll see right through to the bottom of his desires.

A hand comes into view. Bakugo’s ash-smudged finger and thumb pinch and snap together in front of his face. “Come back to Earth, dumbass. Your thousand yard stare is scarin’ my new assistant”.

Shouto blinks out of his stupor and the blurred vignette surrounding his vision recedes. He glances at the skittish man sitting outside Bakugo’s office currently sending worried glances over his shoulder. “I think he’s more scared that you’re back,” Shouto intones dryly. “Isn’t he the fourth one this year?”

“Not my fault they’re all wimps,” Bakugo huffs. A slap reverberates around the office as he throws down a manila folder onto his desk and drops heavily into his chair. He regards Shouto with suspicion overtop his computer monitor. “Whatever you were just thinkin’ about—stop”.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking about”.

“I know you always manage to make Olympic level leaps in logic,” Bakugo rolls his eyes and tears open the folder. He slides out what Shouto assumes is a debrief and flips it between his fingers. Shouto keeps quiet. He reclines into the couch cushions and returns to reading the incident report on his lap, counting down from ten in the privacy of his mind. Anytime now.

Three, two, one.

“So what is it?” Bakugo asks, trying too hard to sound flippant but landing squarely on irritation. “Spit it out before you give yourself an aneurysm”.

Shouto opens his mouth and closes it again. A wave of hot embarrassment washes over him. He knows Bakugo will do him the kindness of being blunt and honest but it doesn’t make it any less humiliating to admit.

In their younger years Shouto saw something of a kindred spirit in Bakugo. He too did not like touch and aggressively voiced his distaste for it whenever he got the chance—which was often, because divine intervention sought fit to give him the most tactile, handsy friend group possible.

As they got older though, Shouto began to realise that the protests and threats were hollow. Despite being vehemently against affection, Bakugo would allow it anyway, and sometimes even seek it out. The aggression was bravado. Bakugo liked having his friends draped around his shoulders. He liked when Mina kissed his cheek, or Kaminari played with his hair, or Kirishima gathered him into a too-tight hug, or Sero tangled their ankles together on the couch.

Only, for him to comfortably accept it, Bakugo needed to act as though he were doing them a favour by allowing them into his space. And Bakugo’s friends played along without complaint.

From what he’s observed you are also an affectionate person. You are liberal with your warmth and adapt seamlessly to the boundaries of those around you. But you were also visibly uncomfortable whenever people took that affinity for intimacy as an open invitation, and recoiled if they encroached on your own.

Shouto has imagined reaching out only for your body to flinch away from him more times than he can count. It’s a battle staged in his head, ingrown fears. The possibility alone was enough to keep him from reciprocating, set in a state of fawn-like inertia.

“There’s somebody I want to get closer to. A friend,” he begins. Bakugo makes an inquisitive noise, props his cheek against his fist and narrows his eyes as he listens. Shouto retells the story in part, deciding to omit your name, and by the tail-end of it Bakugo’s forehead is deeply creased in dissatisfaction.

“You make all your own problems, Halfie. Y’know that?” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and sinking back into his chair. “Fine, you don’t want to make this person uncomfortable, or whatever. If you need a hug so damn badly, why not ask Deku? Not like he’d say no”.

Knowing Bakugo would make his dilemma sound ridiculous is one thing, actually hearing it is another. “How do you know it isn’t about Midoriya,” Shouto returns petulantly.

“It ain’t Izuku or anyone else from your nerd squad,” Bakugo says, dropping his hand to drum on the desk. “I would’ve heard about it”.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t touch people. And that’s fuckin’ fine, yeah? But if you had, I know for a fact any one of them would’ve burst into tears and told everyone in a five mile radius”.

“Oh,” it leaves him a little off-kilter to hear. Shouto leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, setting the report on the dark wood coffee table. The corner of the page is curled, and the spine is creased, and the ink annotation has smudged under his thumb. He details these things as he deliberates, the excuses cloying in his throat and thick like he might cry too.

Bakugo was right—if he craved close contact so badly, why couldn’t he go to Midoriya? He knows he would likely be met with enthusiasm.

“You don't have to tell me who. I don’t care. But you’re overthinking it,” Bakugo grunts at his lack of response, in a way that very much suggests that he cares. “Go ask. If they say ‘no’ it’s tough shit, but the world isn’t gonna end. From what you’ve told me they wouldn’t say ‘no’ anyway. Dumbass”.

Shouto nods and gives up the pretense of reading the paperwork. He feels coltish as he stands and brushes down his front, straightening the creases.

“You’re right”.

“I know”.

“Thank you, Bakugo,” he says. A small smile unfurls across his anxiety-bitten mouth. “You’re a good friend”.

“Shut up,” Bakugo grumbles. It’s a testament to his concern that he hadn’t cursed Shouto there and then. “Now get out of my office. What are you doing here in the first place? You got your own!”

“Yours gets all the sunlight. And it’s always quiet because nobody comes in here,” Shouto ignores the baleful slit of an eye Bakugo turns on him. “I’m going to take my lunch now”.

“Do what you want,” Bakugo dismisses haughtily, and Shouto smiles while thinking, not for the first time, that he’s very lucky to have friends like these.

The fidgety assistant bows as he exits and turns into the sun-drenched hallway. Warmth drapes around Shouto’s shoulders, lingering at his nape while he descends the dark stairwell where the light doesn’t reach. His boots thud against the linoleum, and he counts each footfall to keep his face neutral as his legs carry him toward your department.

Somewhere between one and one hundred and thirteen, a fraction of Shouto’s courage starts to dwindle. He grits his teeth. A hundred steps can’t be enough to dissuade him after decades of denying himself any kind of indulgence.

The further he goes into the support wing the more elaborate the layout becomes. You’re in research and development, assigned a workshop close to the quirk analysts. Heads turn as Shouto rolls through. Heroes didn’t often make personal visits to this area. If he thinks hard enough he could count a grand number of two past visits and neither of them were for you.

His stride falters when he catches sight of your nameplate. It is fixed to the wall outside your door, polished and gleaming proudly. Shouto traces the characters of your name engraved into steel before raising his hand to knock.

Your voice rings out from inside, “Come in!”

A pitched beeping sound comes from overhead. The workshop doors begin to open in a theatrical fashion, receding like curtains to reveal your space. The floor is mapped out with tape. Clear boundaries drawn between the work benches, the fume cupboards, the vault and your personal office, in an attempt at organised chaos. He might have been more interested in poking around for the first time if he had not felt on the edge of intrusion.

You’re tucked behind your curved desk surrounded by numerous monitors that dwarf your frame. Shouto furtively takes in your cute, rumpled appearance. The upper half of your coveralls have been undone to reveal an undervest, sleeves tied tight around and accentuating your waist.

“Take a seat, I’ll be with you in…” the dull tapping of practiced keystrokes comes to a stop as you notice him in the doorway. The professional veneer disappears. “Shouto?” you say, mostly to yourself. Your gaze slides beyond his shoulder, looking for whoever might be accompanying him. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a worried twist in your mouth that he wants to smudge away. A look in your eyes—a combination of warmth and weight that tugged at his being. Shouto rolls his shoulders, shaking off the tension, and moving deeper into your office. The doors close automatically behind him. “I’m okay,” he assures, taking the seat across from you.

Your expression gentles, and he likes how your gaze follows him. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he continues. “But if you’re working I can head back”.

“Lunch?” you repeated. Your eyes darted to the corner of the monitor closest to you and promptly widened. “Oh, shit. When did that happen?”

An upswing of fondness catches him like a blow to the chest. His mouth quirks into a smirk. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long. I got lumped with a new project a few days ago and it’s almost done,” the monitors shut off one by one as you sheepishly press each button. Then you gave him a soft, apologetic look, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Must’ve missed me if you came all the way down here”.

Dread shriked through him. The low whirring from the equipment scattered around your workspace is suddenly inordinately loud. Was he that obvious?

You, however, fail to notice Shouto’s anxiety and grab him around the wrist as you pivot the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go before the good stuff is gone,” you tell him.

Shouto had absolutely no clue what the ‘good stuff’ entailed—maybe he should’ve bothered to ask. Atleast it would take his mind off your hand. It’s wrapped around his sleeve, right where the fabric ends, loose enough for him to unshackle from if he wants. When he doesn’t protest the contact you stroke your thumb in an arc over the heel of his hand and squeeze.

Shouto falls into step, too caught up to realise you’ve taken him to the cafeteria. He expects you’ll drop his wrist in the presence of your colleagues, yet you adjust your grip and glance back at him with an encouraging tilt of your head.

“I’m starving. I think I’ll get a rice bowl. Smells pretty good today, don’t you think?”

Shouto hummed his agreement. He felt out of his depth, and he didn’t trust his voice. The spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to his throat. The line is mercifully short and before long he has a warm bowl of food held against his front.

“Did you want to sit in here? I can take us to one of the senior staff lounges instead if you want,” you cast a nervous look across the sparse crowd. “I mean, support engineers aren’t really gossiping types but…”

A petty part of him hoped the whispers would escalate. To have your name linked with his, to be known as a person that you cared about—he found that deeply satisfying, for reasons he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

Then again, being alone with you far eclipsed the appeal of flaunting your friendship. “The senior staff lounge sounds best,” he answers after a minute of feigned consideration. You nod, regretfully having dropped his hand, and motion for him to follow once more.

The lounge is a modest room with a kitchenette, a breakfast nook and a few bean bag chairs. It smells faintly like peeled oranges. There are post it notes and blueprints haphazardly stuck to the pinboard, covering an out of date calendar filled out in illegible scrawl. This is no shop awning. There is no rainfall to lend to the ambiance. But you are together in an enclosed space, and that is enough to make his heart beat in anticipation.

You scoot into the breakfast nook. He sits on the same side of the table and tries to subtly spread his knees enough to nudge your thigh. You side-glance in surprise but choose not to mention it. Instead you smile through your first mouthful and ask, “How've things been since I last saw you?”

Achy, like he’s used an atrophied muscle. Lonely, and frustrating beyond words. But he doesn’t say any of that. He digs crescents into his thigh through his pant leg and says, “Boring”.

“Figured that might be the case. I saw the livestream of you fighting Haywire,” you bump your shoulder against his. “The Commission probably dumped a whole load of paperwork on you, huh?”

Shouto wrinkles his nose. He hoped you hadn’t caught that fight. The pursuit of Haywire—an eco terrorist with an electrical quirk—managed to cause an unprecedented amount of damage to the city infrastructure.

“You handled it as best you could. The power grid can be fixed. What’s important is people are alive because of you,” a warm weight covers the fingers restlessly whittling at his pant leg. You pet his hand, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt”.

Guided solely by his impulses, the instant you start to draw back he envelops the top of your hand and sandwiches it between his own. He goes hot and cold all over in quick succession. Boundaries, he reminds himself. But you’re not pulling away. You’re studying him with a knowing gleam in your eye.

Shouto clears his throat. Heat pricks across his skin, concentrated in his cheekbones. “Sorry,” he says. You can ask, a memory echoes. “Is this okay?”

“You don’t have to apologise. I told you it’s fine,” you reply firmly. “I’m happy to remind you if you need to hear it”.

“No, I…” his brow furrows. “I’ve been thinking”.

“That’s not good”.

Shouto snorts and shakes his head, his amusement petering out into a shallow breath. “I want to ask. I’ve wanted to ask like you said I could,” he explains vaguely. “I’m not very good at it, I think”.

You make a soft, understanding sound that immediately sets him at ease. “I guess, after denying yourself something for so long it can be scary to let yourself have it again,” you murmur, a faraway look in your eyes. After a pensive moment the sheen fades and your laughter lines deepen, “I’ll do what I did before, then. If you look like you need a hug I’ll ask you instead”.

“In what way do I ‘look like’ I need a hug?”

“You get this—I don’t know how to explain it,” you gesture vaguely at him. “This blankness about you, but not your normal resting face, I mean you don’t seem all there. I don’t like it. I like it best when you’re happy”.

“Ah,” comes his eloquent response. Shouto drops his gaze to where your hands knot together. Every quark in his body is urging him to get closer, and remain close. “Bakugo thinks I should try to hug Midoriya, too,” he adds, oddly flustered.

“Huh. You talked to Bakugo about—? That’s a surprise. A nice surprise, I mean! Well, Midoriya does give great hugs. It would be good for you to…”

Shouto’s thoughts grow louder and he frowns down at his rice. You’re saying something about physical touch and wellness and friends. Dopamine and serotonin. It barely registers. Two truths are pinging around his skull.

You have hugged Midoriya. Of course you have. You’re friends.

You think he’s great at it.

Why is that so unsettling? Teenagers think like this. Single minded and overly emotional.

He feels the shifting of your knuckles under his palm. “Hey. You’ll need one of these back if you’re going to eat,” you say.

“Right,” he lifts his left hand and picks up his chopsticks to take a pinch of rice from his bowl. He chews until the clamouring in his mind has settled, and you patiently accept his stoic silence without explanation. Shouto hasn’t been this awkward since highschool, and even then he was too wrapped up in his familial problems to be aware of it.

“What’s the project you’ve been working on?” he eventually asks.

You take the change of topic in your stride, leaning closer and lowering your voice to an excited whisper, “I’m not supposed to tell you but—it’s for Deku’s new costume”.

“Midoriya is getting a new costume?” Shouto replies. You playfully shush him and he pouts a little.

“Don’t sulk. He doesn’t know yet either,” you poke a chopstick at the corner of his jutted mouth. “It’s my job to prepare a design portfolio and talk through everything next week. You’ll get a new one too, when you break the top five”.

“If,” he amends.

“You don’t think you’ll move up?”

“Reaching the top was never really a priority for me,” Shouto’s attention splinters, half of his focus on the conversation and the other on the sensation of your skin. He considers overturning his hand to entwine your fingers. “I just want to be the best hero I can be”.

You hum, and as if plucking the desire right from his mind, absentmindedly slip into the gaps between his fingers. Shouto steadies his breathing and takes another mouthful.

The rest of the hour passes, syrupy and slow like molasses. By the final minute Shouto’s palm is sticky and reluctant to part from yours. You usher him out from the breakfast nook first, stacking the empty bowls before directing him back toward the emptied cafeteria.

You slide the bowls along the counter for the kitchen staff to take. Then you wipe your hands down your front as you pivot to face him, thrusting out both arms as he stands frozen.

“Can I hug you?”

Shouto touches his face and you laugh.

“This is because I want one,” you clarify with a warm grin, beckoning him closer.

Shouto inhales steps into the embrace, his arms instinctively wrapping around your back. There are less layers this time—the heat of your body is overwhelming, alongside the gentle rise of goosebumps across your bare shoulders. Your breath fell gently on his collarbone, his head lowering to curl into you. He thinks, were he not born to be a hero, he must surely be born for this.

“Thank you,” you mumble, squeezing his waste a final time as you retreat. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Shouto nods. Your presence moves away like the sun being blocked out and he watches you go, departing words caught in his teeth, an incessant buzz in his fingertips. The walk back to his office is a gauzy yellow haze. Every physiological response in his body told him that he was in a free fall, despite his feet being firmly on the ground.

“Shouto!”

Shouto halts mid-step at the familiar voice. He turns to look at Izuku, at the tentative beginnings of his smile. “Izuku,” he says.

“We missed you at lunch—are you feeling alright?” Izuku asks, slightly bemused. “You look kinda… floaty,” his eyes are dark, softened in the afternoon light as they sweep over Shouto’s figure and his face.

"Izuku," Shouto said before he could convince himself otherwise, “Do you want a hug?”

The innocent question appeared to crash into Izuku with the levity of a bullet train in motion. Tears sprang to his eyes, brighter now. Shouto tenses as he is swept into a solid hug. Izuku smells like fresh air, sweat and sweet-salty broth. He holds Shouto as though trying to keep his seams from bursting; thick arms are secure around his shoulders, and a rough palm rubs broad strokes down his back, smoothing the tension until Shouto is relaxed.

You were right. Izuku does give great hugs. Shouto came away doughy, and fuller, and with the stark realisation that while touching Izuku soothed the ache, it still felt completely different to touching you.

Later, as he leaned his head against the desk surface, he sluggishly contemplated the implications of that.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 1: Convalescence

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725

A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.

Healed Masterlist Masterlist

—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.

You are doing this on instinct. You must be.

"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”

You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood. 

The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected. 

"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."

You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.

You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.

You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.

Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.

"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."

—-

He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.

Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.

“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.

One, two, three, four…

A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.

One, two, three, four…

He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.

He’s alive, but barely.

He needs surgery. Now.

"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"

Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.

—-

There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.

You're out of practice and out of your league.

There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life. 

A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.

"I’ll try," you respond.

The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.

Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.

The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.

But he lasts.

Joel Miller survives.

You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.

You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.

"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.

He hugs you.

"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I'm not sure—"

"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

—-

And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours. 

It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.

The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.

The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.

He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall. 

There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.

But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.

Bruises, cuts, scabs.

Contusions, lacerations.

Stiff and swollen.

You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.

He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.

It’s lonely.

Sometimes there’s company, but not enough. 

Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”

Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables. 

“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”

You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.

—-

A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.

She asks if he’s okay.

You nod.

She asks if he can hear her.

You nod.

She asks you to leave the room.

You leave.

—-

His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.

His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."

His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.

It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.

His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.

He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"

Nothing.

It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.

—-

You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.

“Joel.”

You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.

He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.

He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.

You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to. 

If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.

You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?” 

You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed, 

“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”

You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.

When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.

You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time. 

Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.

You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.

You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.

—-

The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.

He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.

He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.

He hates the dark.

Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.

He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.

A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms. 

He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.

He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.

You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.

Always there.

"You need to wake up," you tell him. 

And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.

Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.

Another day passes.

Another.

And another.

He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.

But you don't leave him.

His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.

And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.

"Ellie?" It's the most important question.

"She's safe," you tell him.

“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.

“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.

“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”

"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.

"A while… but you survived.”

“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.

“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."

“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”

“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.

—-

Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.

It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning. 

Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.

“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.

“Repeat it,” he requests. 

You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.

—-

The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.

He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows. 

This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.

He really sees it.

You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.

He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been. 

He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.

You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.

“Joel…”

He croaks an affirmative.

You drop your knitting needles and gasp.

"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.

You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.

“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you. 

—-

Next Chapter

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[cameronsbabydoll]

drew starkey and younger!ditzy!reader going to coachella part two!

wc: 1,047 — a/n: part one is here!

you find it by accident.

you’re lying belly-down on the hotel bed post-coachella, legs kicking lazily in the air, your hair still braided and a tiny smudge of glitter stuck to your temple. drew’s in the shower. you’re just scrolling—mindlessly tapping through stories—when you see it.

deuxmoi: SPOTTED—drew starkey’s “barely legal” girlfriend causes a scene at coachella. sources say drew was “visibly annoyed” with her the entire time. still cute though?

and then:

“she looks like she needs a babysitter, not a boyfriend.” “imagine being drew starkey and ending up with THAT.” “she probably thinks coachella is a drink.”

your stomach sinks. it feels like you’re watching your reflection crack. like your glitter’s turned into something ugly. your chest gets tight and your eyes sting before you even realize why.

the thing is, they’re not saying anything new. you know what people think. that you're young, ditzy, clingy. that you're not smart enough. that you just float around in your own little world, and drew.. drew is too calm, too serious, too grown for you.

and now you think—maybe they’re right.

you slip off the bed quietly, wipe your eyes, and grab your bag.

you’re halfway out the door when he calls out, towel around his waist, wet hair dripping onto his chest. “where are you going?”

you freeze.

“back to home,” you mumble, not turning around.

he’s behind you in two seconds. “what? why?”

“i’m just… i’m tired,” you lie, fingers curling tight around the strap of your purse. “and i don’t wanna keep embarrassing you.”

“embarrassing me?” his voice drops. “where the hell is this coming from?”

you turn slowly, eyes red and puffy. “i saw the tweet.”

his jaw flexes.

“they’re right,” you whisper. “you’re always fixing my top, or babysitting me, or explaining things, or covering for me, and i—i’m just... too dumb for you.”

he exhales sharply, stepping closer. “don’t you ever say that.”

“i don’t want you to feel stuck with someone who’s always messing things up,” you say, swallowing a sob. “and i don’t want you to hate me one day because i’m not good enough.”

his hands are on your cheeks before you can run, before you can hide. “you think i’m stuck with you?” his voice is low, but you know. “you think i cover you because i’m ashamed?”

you sniff. “aren’t you?”

he kisses you. hard.

you’re breathless when he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours.

“i cover you because i want to protect you,” he says, voice rough. “because i know how soft you are. and i’d rather the whole world see me as annoyed than ever see you cry.”

you hiccup softly. “but you were annoyed…”

he chuckles—gently this time. “yeah, because you were about to flash a crowd full of dudes with their phones out. not because you’re dumb. you’re not dumb. you’re just... you. you’re soft, and sparkly, and ask me what time zone we’re in at least twice a day—"

“i-i get confused!” you whimper.

“—and i love that about you,” he cuts in, brushing a tear off your cheek. “you’re not too much. you’re mine.”

you crumple into him, burying your face in his chest. “i thought you didn’t love me.”

“i’ve been in love with you since you asked if hummus was dairy.”

“…it’s not?”

“baby…”

you’re curled into his lap like a kitten, legs draped over his thighs, your cheek pressed against his chest. one of his hoodies is swallowing you whole, sleeves dangling past your fingers. you haven’t said much since you cried—just little sniffles, pouty silence, and an occasional “mmh” when he kissed the top of your head.

he knows you’re still hurting. so he pulls out his phone and opens his camera roll.

“wanna see something?” he murmurs.

you peek up at him, lips still trembling. “what?”

he swipes once, then flips the screen so you can see.

it’s a video of you from earlier that day—standing in the middle of the grass at coachella, sun blaring, flower crown crooked, and you’re bouncing on your toes with a popsicle in one hand and your tongue bright red. you’re yelling over the music, trying to get his attention:

“drewwww! babe! look at me, i match the popsicle! i am the popsicle!”

he snorts, and so do you, just a little.

you let out a small, wobbly giggle, cheeks heating up. “i sound so dumb.”

he presses a kiss to your temple. “you sound adorable.”

then he swipes again—another photo. this time it’s the two of you backstage, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you because your sandals “felt like knives.” your lips are pressed to his cheek, and you look like you don’t have a care in the world.

he shows you more—candid shots of you twirling in your sparkly skirt, one where your sunglasses are way too big for your face, another where you’re mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. and then a video from the hotel that morning, you dancing while brushing your teeth, hair all crazy.

“you took that?” you whisper.

“yup,” he says, scrolling. “you don’t even know how much i take.”

you peek up at him, bottom lip still a little pouty. “because you’re trying to collect evidence of how annoying i am?”

he gives you a look. “no, baby. because i don’t ever wanna forget how happy you make me.”

you blink. your lip trembles again—but this time it’s not from sadness. “you’re so mean to me,” you whisper dramatically, flopping against his chest.

he grins. “mean?”

“you make me cry, and then show me cute pictures of myself and kiss me on the forehead, and now i feel dumb for being sad.”

he shifts, laying back with you still curled into his arms. “you’re not dumb for being sad. but i’m gonna remind you every time that i don’t care what deuxmoi or whatever the hell it’s called or twitter or some troll behind a screen says.”

you nuzzle into him. “even if i say things like... are cucumbers baby pickles?”

he sighs playfully, tightening his arms around you. “especially then.”

you grin into his chest. “and you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

“i still wanna marry you.”

you freeze.

“w-what?”

“nothing,” he says quickly, kissing your forehead. “eat your gummy bears, baby.”

“drew?!”

[shuafiles]

roses [j.jh]

MDNI, 18+

SUMMARY | think i should text my ex (fwb)? what happens when jaehyun sees his ex-fwb with another guy?

PAIRING | ex fwb!jaehyun x afab!reader (with reader x jungwoo)

CONTENT | ex fwb to ?, college!au, unprotected sex (on pills), oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, creampie. (probably more that i missed but its just smut)

WORDS | 4.3k

A/N | im so bad at giving summaries but it’s basically roses by jaehyun :D not proofread

you knew how to get under jaehyun’s skin. well, not on purpose, but he sure as hell was sending daggers in your direction as he saw you all cozied up with a tall blond-haired guy at his frat party. jaehyun scoffed as he took a sip out of the red cup in his hand. how dare you bring a boy into his house in the first place.

jaehyun’s gaze never left you as you laughed at something the french fry guy said. “bet it’s not even funny.” he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes as you placed your hand on the guy’s arm.

“dude, what is the matter with you?” mark pulled him out of his trance, hitting him lightly on the arm. his best friend followed his gaze and smirked when he figured out what he was so worked up about. “isn’t that y/n? didn’t you use to date her?”

“we did not date.” jaehyun moved his sight to glare at the younger boy instead. “i could care less about her.”

“couldn’t.” mark corrected him with a cheeky smile, “but you already knew that, so i’m guessing you do care a tiny bit.”

you and jaehyun met at university when you were freshmen. you accidentally walked into the wrong room at your first college party when a certain someone was changing out his clothes and flashed you with his penis on your first week. you screamed and ran as fast as you could. moments later, mystery penis guy found you amidst the crowd and apologized profoundly, which left you confused because you were so sure you should be the one apologizing. nonetheless, you both decided to put it behind you and start fresh.

“jaehyun.” mystery penis guy introduced himself to you while handing you a red cup that was most likely filled with booze.

“y/n.” you accepted his cup, inspecting it. “you’re not trying to drug me because i saw your dick, right?”

jaehyun laughed, and you smiled as he shook his head. that was the beginning of a new friendship.

until during your sophomore year, you were drunk crying over your ex, and you had jaehyun over because you needed a friend. he was awkwardly trying to pat your back while trying to keep a distance between the two of you. don’t get him wrong, he found you attractive as fuck, and he would fuck you the moment you let him. but he was somehow scared to ruin the year-long friendship between the two of you, so he never acted on what his dick and heart told him to.

this night was different, though; you were vulnerable and needed to feel better about yourself. “he said i couldn’t suck dick properly!” you whined, which made jaehyun freeze. “who breaks up with someone over that!”

jaehyun had to fight every bone in his body not to jump on you and kiss the living hell out of you. he felt apologetic that you were crying over a dumbass, but he couldn’t help but find you cute. your cheeks flushed, makeup messy with tears. you looked perfect. “i think that’s what they call an ick.” he tried lightening up the mood, but this just made you glare at him.

“i’ll bite your dick off.” you punched his arm, which did little to no damage.

“ouch, is that what you did while you were sucking his?” he rubbed his arm, but had the biggest smile on his face.

“you’re not helping!” you covered your face with your hands.

jaehyun didn’t know what possessed him then; he spoke without thinking about his words. “i could teach you a thing or two about giving…” he immediately regretted what he was offering. he coughed before ending his sentence, looking everywhere around the room but at you. he let his dick do the talking as if you were stupid enough to agree–

“teach me.”

needless to say, you knew how to suck dick (even a few pointers on how to kiss and fuck) that night.

jaehyun tried to pull his eyes away from you as you whispered something in the guy’s ear before disappearing into the crowd and heading upstairs. now he was frustrated. you ended your year-long arrangement just merely two weeks ago, and you have already found someone new? you just moved on and had enough. god, he sounded so pathetic; he got it bad.

- 

you lay in bed that night, chewing on your lip as you scrolled through your phone. you just left the party an hour ago after sleeping with another man. you felt weird. like what you did was wrong, but you couldn’t exactly point out why.

as if the universe decided to play tricks on you, your phone vibrated in your hand. the contact “PLS DONT ANSWER” on full display. you glanced at the time to see it was 2 am. you ran your fingers through your hair and sighed. closing your eyes, your finger swiped to answer the call.

“you answered?” his voice echoing through the phone, surprised you picked up the phone.

“don’t make me regret it.”

“i saw you today.”

“… okay?” you knew he saw you. in fact, you made sure he saw you with jungwoo, aka the guy you fucked an hour ago.

“with another guy.” mission success. you were being petty, but you were doing it for a reason (so you convinced yourself).

the very reason you broke off your arrangement with jaehyun was because you saw him with another girl’s tongue down his throat in a not-very-discrete section in the library two weeks ago. you could tell he enjoyed it by the way his hands were firmly gripping her ass. the sight made you sick to your stomach.

your agreement was strictly for physical reasons — you fucked, nothing more and nothing less. you were good friends who were having fantastic sex.

you don't know why the thought of him sleeping with other girls upset you. you both agreed to keep it physical. no strings attached, especially since you're both juniors and have to focus on finishing your degrees. yet why did it bother you he was out kissing girls?

“congrats, you can see.” you cringed at your attempt to seem like a cool girl.

“cut the bullshit, y/n.” jaehyun rolled his eyes even though you couldn’t see him. “you broke up with me, then you slept with somebody else just two weeks after?”

“i wasn’t aware we had a relationship that even allowed us to break up.” you opened your eyes. realizing how long you last talked to jaehyun, you hated to admit that you missed the sound of his voice.

“called it off, ghosted—whatever you call it! you know what i mean.”

“i did not ghost you.” practically mumbling against the phone.

“a text saying “let's stop this” is not an explanation, y/n. plus, that's besides that point!”

“i really don't want to talk about this right now, jaehyun.”

“fine. meet me tomorrow at the café you like at 2 pm.” and with that, he hung up on you.

- 

jaehyun sat in an easy-to-spot area at the café you loved. how did he know? because you used to have little study dates in this very coffee shop (if you could even call it a date). his heart was beating out of his chest. he didn’t know why his heart was beating so fast while he anticipated your presence. maybe he drank too much caffeine? he shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. he wanted to believe that was the reason why he could not sit still.

the tiny bell at the front door rang, indicating a new customer. the sound made jaehyun whip his head up. there you were. a brown coat hugging your body, your hair in one of those clamps that held it up neatly. you were in the most basic clothes, yet you looked so beautiful. jaehyun smiled at the sight of you until he saw a dozen roses you had in your hands, the smile was replaced with a slight frown.

“hi, jae.” you breathed out, taking a seat on the empty spot in front of him. placing your belongings on the table, which included the bouquet that jaehyun was glaring at.

“aww, y/n, you didn’t have to.” jaehyun took the bouquet from the table to inspect it, trying to catch a glimpse of a card with the sender's name on it.

“shut up.” you mumbled, snatching it from him. cheeks heating up, you avoided his gaze.

“i’m assuming it's from lover boy last night?” jaehyun huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. he looked absolutely silly right now.

“it’s none of your business.” you fought back. leaning against your seat, “why’d you want to see me anyway?” 

“i didn’t.” he lied through his teeth, but you didn’t know that. “i just think i deserve some kind of explanation as to why our,” he paused to think how he would label your relationship, “friendship ended.”

“you’re so annoying.” glaring at him, you contemplated why you even showed up in the first place.

“you love me.” he grinned at you, flashing his damned dimples, to which you let out a snort. “was he better than me?”

“very much.” you smiled as he lost his grin. “bigger too.”

“we’re telling lies now?” jaehyun raised his eyebrow. “you said your shit ex had a big dick, too, so i don't really trust your judgment.” you chewed your lip in annoyance, wanting to slap his irritatingly beautiful face.

“asshole.”

- 

it had been a week since your last interaction with jaehyun.  your little café meet-up didn’t lead to anything as you still refused to tell him why you no longer wanted to see him. you would be lying if you said you had not thought of him at all. you missed him.

in the midst of doing your university work, your phone buzzed, a text message popping up on the screen.

PLS DONT ANSWER: are u awake

you stared at the message, with no intention of replying.

PLS DONT ANSWER: busy fucking french fry boy?

PLS DONT ANSWER: what position he got u in

you rolled your eyes at his last message. truth be told, jungwoo gave you the flowers as an apology. he apologized for sleeping with you that day, telling you how he was drunk and not over his ex, and he hoped that you would not take it the wrong way. you felt incredibly stupid and annoyed at how even in your attempt to forget jaehyun, you still failed.

the phone rang a few seconds later, but this time, you didn’t pick up. not knowing what to say to him. missing the call, he didn’t send anything after, making your heart sink.

you knew what you signed up for when you agreed to keep things physical between the two of you. although there were moments when it would seem like you two were a couple, you knew he would never like you like that. he was jeong fucking jaehyun for fucks sake. he could have any girl he looked at if he wanted to. you hear how women talk about him in the bathrooms, most of them very lewd. everyone wanted a taste of him. you couldn't blame them, even after having a taste of him, you still craved and came back for more.

a knock on your apartment door pulled you out of your trance. curious, you stood up to open it. there at your door was one very soaked jaehyun with a flower–that looked like it was picked out of a bush–in hand. his white shirt sticking to his chest, giving you a very slight peek of his toned body which gave you flashbacks to the nights you would spend together.

“jaehyun,” raising a brow, “why are you soaking wet?” you were sure there was not any weather forecast about rain tonight.

“it was raining and–” jaehyun let out, catching his breath, “wanted to see you.” pushing what looked like a rose in your direction. “here.”

eyeing the rose, you carefully scanned his face as you took it from his hand. you stepped aside to let him in your apartment. he stepped inside, careful of spreading rainwater all over your place. “stay here, i’ll get you something dry.” turning away from him, you walked towards your bedroom with your thoughts all over the place. why was he here? what was this rose about? and why did he look so fucking hot?

with a clean sweatshirt (that you were pretty sure was his) in hand, you walked back into the living room where you were greeted by jaehyun’s bare back faced to you as he looked at the pictures you had hung around. you bit your lip at the sight. feeling sparks shoot throughout your body.

you cleared your throat, which made jaehyun spin around to face you, shooting you a smile. you extended your arm to hand him the sweater, but he grabbed your arm instead and pulled your body against his. he was hugging you. you froze in place as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale against your skin.

“missed you.” feeling him mumble against your skin, “it was killing me knowing there’s someone out there buying you roses.”

“jaehyun, are you drunk?” placing your hands against his bare chest to push him away and look him in the eyes.

he shook his head, “i’m not. i’m serious, y/n.” he took a step closer to you, “why do you not want me anymore?” his breath fanning on you, lips dangerously close to yours, making you feel hazy.

“you know that’s not true.” your voice was so tiny he barely heard what you said. his hands landed on your waist, rubbing on it softly.

“tell me what i did wrong, please.” his voice soft.

“jaehyun..” you warned, feeling him close the gap between the two of you, to which you shut your eyes as you waited for the soft feeling of his lips. but it never came, so you opened your eyes to see him staring at you with a teasing smile on his lips. you glared at him, scoffing. you pushed him away, chucking the sweater at him before retreating and heading to your bedroom.

you heard him call out for you. feeling your cheeks burn from embarrassment. you were about to slam the door behind you, but his strength prevented you from doing so.

“go home, jaehyun.” you sternly said, wanting to bury yourself under the covers. you walked towards the bed, sitting on the edge.

“if you wanted a kiss that bad, you could have just asked.” jaehyun welcomed himself into your room. standing a few feet away from you, this time with the sweater you gave him on your body. he has been in your room plenty of times, so he has grown very familiar with where you keep everything.

“maybe i’ll ask jungwoo instead.” lie. but he doesn’t know that. crossing your arms against your chest. not missing the way his eyes fell on your exposed chest. you were wearing a tiny tank top and lounge shorts since you were just planning on studying all night.

“not fucking funny.” he walked over to you, stopping in between your legs before cupping your face with his hand. “maybe i should remind you who you belong to.” his words making you dizzy.

“i don’t belong to anyone.” you reminded him which made his eyes turn dark; he licked his lips, scanning your face. a sadistic grin forming on his face. he could tell you were trying to convince yourself of what you said, too.

“i thought you were supposed to be smart, princess.” he said, leaning down and planting his lips on yours. the kiss was hungry with the intention of reminding you of what you have been missing. you reciprocated his passion, arms flying to wrap around his neck. his tongue glided over your bottom lip before pushing it into your mouth, exploring your mouth, making you moan lightly. his other hand sneaked down to your clothed core and cupped it, which made you gasp and pull away from the kiss. “look at you, already so wet, and i haven’t even done anything.”

“yeah, and if you don’t do anything about it soon, you know who i’ll call.” teasing him, but he wasn’t having any of it. he grabbed you by your thighs, which you instinctively wrapped around his waist. he laid you down on the bed, your head against your pillows. in a swift motion, your shirt and shorts were pulled away from your body and discarded somewhere in the room.

“I can’t believe you let that asshole touch what’s mine.” jaehyun groaned once he took in the mouthwatering sight in front of him. his intense gaze made you lose all your tough facade, wanting nothing more than to be engulfed by him. he climbed in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you once again, but this time, it was more passion than hunger, savoring your taste.

“i’m not yours.” you whispered against his lips, and you could tell he had enough of your teasing.

“i’ll make you want to be mine.” kissing your jaw, leading down to your neck (making sure to suck on the spot he knew you loved), your chest before engulfing your nipple with his mouth. you whimpered as he sucked on the sensitive bud, his other hand circling the other nub with his thumb and index finger. his tongue exploring every inch of your tits, making you squirm under his touch. your hand flew up to his hair, lightly tugging on it, feeling the slickness from the rain. he pulled away from your chest after flicking his tongue against your nipple one last time. he sat up, grabbing the hem of his sweater and pulling it off him.

you bit your lip at the sight of his toned chest that you absolutely loved. you loved that he took care of himself in every way, especially his body. catching your gaze, he smirked. he, too, loved his own body.

jaehyun pressed a quick kiss on your lips before he went down on your body. your pussy in his face, he wrapped his arms around your thighs, pressing soft wet kisses against your skin. “god, you smell fucking amazing.”

“jaehyun.” you cried out as he licked your wet folds. your hips thrusting, trying to get more, but his arms held you down. pressing a tiny kiss on your clit, his tongue darted out, licking your entrance, lapping around the area. moans spilling from your lips as he fucked you with his tongue. his hand sneaking around to rub your clit, which made you curse his name. “oh my god!” arching your back at the sudden sensation.

“mine.” jaehyun grunted against your pussy, retracting his arm from your thigh, circling around to glide his fingers up and down your folds. “my pussy.” he said before inserting two fingers into your hole, making you gasp. his fingers easily slide in and out of you due to your wetness. the entire room fills up with the sounds of your pussy squelching as he continued to finger you, curling his fingers ever so often, which drove you insane. he attached his lips to your clit, sucking on the sensitive nerve as he continued the motions with his fingers.

“fuck, jaehyun, i can’t–” you barely got the words out as he inserted a third finger, making you gasp, and grip the sheets beneath you. your legs attempted to close but his grip on it prevented you from doing so. you felt the familiar coil gather in your stomach.

“say it, say you’re mine, then i’ll let you cum.” his breath fanning against you, fastening his pace as he fucks you with his fingers.

“mhm, fuck! i’m yours, jae.” your hips bucked upwards as you felt your orgasm coming. “please, let me cum.”

“see, was that so hard?” jaehyun rubbed your clit with his thumb, pushing you over the edge. you screamed out his name, body trembling as you came hard on his fingers. the sight of you arching your back went directly to his dick, hardening against his pants. he pulled his fingers out easily, covered in your cum. he sat up, bringing his fingers to his mouth. “so sweet, so pretty.” licking his creamy fingers clean.

chest heaving as you tried to recover from your high. you met jaehyun’s gaze, seeing him already staring at you. your eyes darted down, seeing his cock begging to be free from his jeans. arm extending, you palmed him through his jeans, hips bucking to meet your touch. “take it off.”

“eager to finally get good dick?” jaehyun smirked, undoing the buttons of his pants.

“get out.”

“taking my pants off right now.” he slid out of his jeans and boxers, cock springing out and bouncing off his stomach. your mouth watering at the sight. your hand reached out to grab his shaft, pumping it before gliding your fingers over the slit, spreading the precum that was leaking out. “fuck, baby.” he moaned, rutting his hips to meet your hand. “you look so good holding my cock.”

“i’d look even better when you finally fuck me with it.” frustration crept up your voice which made him chuckle. he grabbed hold of your hand, holding your wrists above your head while his other hand guided his cock towards your entrance.

“no one will fuck you as good as i do.” ramming his cock into you without warning. the sudden contact made you yelp, wanting to grab hold of him, but his grip on your wrist prevented your movement. “what a dirty little slut. remember, this fucking pussy is mine.” his thrusts were intense, his words laced with venom as he relentlessly fucked your cunt. you could barely let out your words as your breath kept getting knocked out of you.

“o-oh god, jae.” jaehyun was absolutely losing it at the sight of you crumbling beneath him. the pretty noises that were coming out of your mouth were like music to him. sweat trickled down your body as he increased his pace. he let go of your wrists, and your hands flew to grip his shoulders. he grabbed your thighs, pushing them close to your chest. his cock perfectly hitting your sweet spot with every thrust.

“you feel so fucking good.” his hands reached out to pinch your nipples, making you curse out his name.  “you take my cock so fucking well.” you rolled your hips out to meet his pace, leggings shaking from him as he hit all the right spots. your reactions were fueling him even more; he pulled his cock out entirely before slamming it back into your pussy. he gripped your waist as your back arched from the intense sensation, moans getting louder. “you like that, huh? remember who owns you, pretty girl. not that fucking jungwoo, me.”

tears sprang to your eyes from the immense pleasure. not being able to speak coherently, you nodded at his words. nails digging into his shoulder blades as you felt your second orgasm forming in your abdomen. he leaned down, burying his head in your neck, placing kisses on your skin as he continued to rock his hips into you. “i’m so close.” you managed to moan out, legs wrapping around his waist, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

“shit,” jaehyun pulled away from your neck, watching as your tits bounce from his trust, his hand snaked up your clit, rubbing it which built up the pressure in your stomach even more. “cum for me, baby.” his thrusts getting sloppy as he felt his own orgasm creep up.

“oh my god!” you cried out as your insides exploded from pleasure, your walls clenching around his cock as you came.

the feeling of your pussy tightening around his cock brought his orgasm out. his warm cum leaking inside you. “so fucking beautiful.” he groaned, pulling his cock out. your mixed cum spilling out of you. he collapsed beside you.

breaths heavy, you closed your eyelids, wanting to doze off for the night, feeling jaehyun’s arms wrap around you. peeking at him, but his eyes were already trained on you.

“hi.” you whispered.

“be mine.” he mumbled, pulling your body close to him.

“what?” looking at him in disbelief.

“be mine, y/n, be my girlfriend.” he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck. you knew jaehyun was not one to do relationships. this was one of the reasons why you agreed to keep it physical in the first place. hearing the word girlfriend from his mouth was indeed a new experience, especially since he was saying it to you.

“is my pussy that good?” you giggled.

“yes.” he placed a kiss on your forehead, “and i want to be yours. only yours, and i want you to only be mine.”

“will you stop making out with other girls in the library if i say yes?”

“in the libra–? is that why you left!” he looked at you in shock, “i’m so sorry, i didn’t know you saw that. i promise you she meant nothing to me. i don’t even know her name.”

“wow, that makes me feel so better.” sarcasm rolling off your tongue.

“what about you and that blond bitch! who does he think he is giving you flowers. i fucking hate him.” he sulked, making you snort and laugh. “not funny. i cried, true story.”

so you explained to him what the reason behind the flowers was. his cocky ass got even more cocky when you admitted that it was your attempt to forget him. but you had the last laugh when you found out that even his friends could see that he was miserable without you. you eventually did give him an answer to his previous question, you indeed wanted to be his.

[unsuperingyournatural]

no takebacks

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

dividers @saradika-graphics

@po3tbbygirl not sure this is what you were thinking but a little something along the lines of what you were mentioning in your post

"And the Oscar goes to..."

You hear your name and everything slows down. Like the world is just… pausing for you.

Then Pedro is standing.

A deafening roar of applause erupts around you, thunderous and wild, and Pedro’s already pulling you up, arms wrapping around you tight, pressing a firm kiss to your cheek—then another, right near your temple. You hear him say it, warm and close:

“You did it. You did it, baby.”

You barely remember the walk to the stage. Just the blinding lights, the sound of applause, and the surreal weight of the Oscar now in your hand.

You step up to the mic, still a little stunned.

“Well... this is awkward,” you begin, earning your first wave of laughter. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, and now my entire left eyelash is threatening to mutiny.”

More laughter. You smile.

“Thank you to the Academy. Thank you to the cast and crew. You made this performance possible through hours of night shoots, uncomfortable contact lenses, and—shoutout to our stunt team—multiple fake injuries, and one real one that reminded everyone I’m not invincible.”

Laughter again. You breathe a little easier.

“To my team—thank you for fighting for me. And yes, Dan, I am finally thanking you on a stage. Let it go.”

A laugh from off-stage. You spot him—your lawyer—smug as ever.

You take a breath, and your gaze finds Pedro, seated in the front row, grinning up at you like he already knows what’s coming.

“I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight…” You pause, then smirk. “…except I absolutely was.”

You turn your gaze toward the front row. “Pedro,” you say lightly, “you told me—back when I got nominated for a Golden Globe—that if I won one, we could finally talk about the whole kids thing.”

The crowd chuckles, and Pedro immediately drops his head into his hand.

“You said—and I remember this clearly—‘If you win, I’ll think about it.’”

You pause for effect, smile widening. “Well. I won.”

More laughter and cheers. You glance down at him. “So we talked. And you said maybe. Then you said—and I quote—‘If you win a SAG Award, then we’ll definitely talk.’”

Pedro’s already blushing. The crowd is loving this.

“Well,” you continue brightly, “I won that too. So we had the big talk. And you said yes. No timelines, no pressure—just, yes. Open to the idea.”

You pause again, letting the room settle.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this,” you say, grinning as you shift the statue to your other hand. “And I realized... you kind of kept moving the goalpost on me.”

The crowd perks up again. You glance down at him with faux suspicion, eyebrows raised. He’s already shaking his head, bracing for impact.

“First it was, ‘If you win a Golden Globe, we’ll talk about kids.’ Then it was, ‘Well if you win the SAG Award, we’ll definitely talk.’ And then—then—you say, ‘If you ever win an Oscar, that’s it. One kid. Definitely no takebacks.’”

You hold up the statue like a mic drop. “And I just feel like... maybe you didn’t think I’d actually get this far?”

The laughter explodes. Pedro groans into his hands.

“Like, were you just setting the bar so high that I’d give up and stop asking?” you tease. “Because if so... tough luck, honey. We’re in it now.”

Pedro mouths something that looks a lot like “I panicked!” and you can’t help but laugh.

As the laughter rolls through the theater, the actor sitting directly behind Pedro—someone very A-list and enjoying this way too much—leans forward and claps him on the shoulder with a huge grin. Pedro just slumps slightly, still laughing, nodding like, Yeah, okay, I earned that.

You tilt your head, lifting the Oscar just a touch. “Look, I don’t know what kind of strategic reverse-psychology delay tactic that was, but it backfired spectacularly. I won. This is happening.”

You pause dramatically. “So unless you’ve got another awards show in mind... better start warming up those lullabies, Pascal.”

The room loses it. Pedro throws up his hands and calls out with a groan and a laugh:

“Alright—but you’re telling my sister.”

"Deal!"

The crowd howls. Someone near him claps him on the back again. He just shakes his head like a man who’s been thoroughly outplayed.

The laughter swells again, and you take one last look around the room—at Pedro, at the sea of faces, at the moment you never quite let yourself believe would happen.

You lift the Oscar just slightly, smile slow and certain.

“Thank you,” you say one more time, voice warm.

Then you step back from the mic.

You're barely behind the curtain before someone hands you a bottle of water and starts congratulating you. There’s glitter in the air. Your heart’s still pounding. You can’t feel your feet. The statue’s heavier than you expected and warm from your hands.

And then—he’s there.

Pedro slips through the crowd like it parts for him, his eyes locked on you with that soft, breathless kind of smile that makes your stomach drop every time.

Before you can say anything, he pulls you into him.

“Jesus,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “You really did it.”

You laugh into his chest. “You sound surprised.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his hands still warm on your waist, his face completely undone with pride. “I mean, yeah. I always knew you were amazing. I just didn’t think you’d actually call me out that hard on live television.”

“You deserved it.” You smirk, still slightly breathless. “You started the whole ‘if you win’ saga.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually pull off the triple crown.”

“Well,” you say, holding up the Oscar between you like evidence, “I did. So...”

Pedro lets out a quiet groan and presses his forehead to yours. “I can’t believe you did that to me in front of everyone. My phone’s going to explode. My family’s phones are going to explode.”

“I warned you.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“Okay, maybe I implied it. With my eyes.”

He laughs again—real, deep, glowing with pride—and then brushes his fingers down your arm.

“You were perfect,” he says softly. “Up there. You made the whole damn room fall in love with you.”

You lean in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “Too late. I already picked you.”

He exhales like that broke something in him. Then he tugs you back into another hug—one of those hold-on-for-dear-life ones—and kisses your cheek, then your neck, like he can’t quite stop.

“Hey,” you whisper near his ear. “Just a heads up…”

Pedro stiffens a little, playful. “If you say ‘no takebacks,’ I swear—”

…“I was gonna say,” you cut in with a grin, “your sister’s probably texting you in all caps.”

He groans again, but he’s smiling.

You feel it—how proud he is. How completely stunned.

Like in this moment, there’s no one else in the world. Just the two of you, tucked into the softest kind of silence.

And as he holds you, smiling into your shoulder while the chaos hums around you, you let your eyes flutter shut for a breath.

This— this feels like the start of something even better.

[duskidolsmut]

Blonde College Slut Fucked in Anal Gangbang

Shin Yuna is a college student living on the edge, a stunning blonde who uses her beauty and provocative attitude to dominate the campus. Known for manipulating others in exchange for favors, she plays a dangerous game of seduction and power, always coming out on top—or so she thinks. When a dorm party becomes the stage for a plot hatched by someone close to her, Yuna finds herself thrust into an abyss of pleasure and chaos that tests her limits. Between betrayals, forbidden desires, and brutal consequences, she finds that the control she once cherished may slip from her grasp. Now, with secrets lurking and hungry eyes following her, the campus will never be the same—and neither will Yuna.

Tags: Hardcore, Anal, Deepthroat, Creampie, Facial, Spanking, Slut, College Girl, Cheating, Cuckold, Big Dicks, Threesome+, Party, Dorm Room, Drunk, Stoned, Revenge Fuck, Public Humiliation, Screaming, Crying, Begging, Slutty, Broken, Cumslut, Virgin Anal, Forced, Aggressive, Dirty Talk, Cum Everywhere, Sweaty

W:

The sun was beating down on the college courtyard, but no one there seemed to care about the heat. Not when Yuna strutted past as if the world were her own private stage. At 1.70 m tall, her long legs cut through the air like knives, highlighted by a short black skirt that barely covered the bare essentials. The cropped top showed off her tiny waist, and the generous cleavage gave a teaser of what she knew everyone wanted to see. Her blonde hair, now straight and shiny, swayed with each step, and her large, slanted eyes seemed to be hunting prey in the crowd of college students. Her fair skin glowed as if she had stepped out of an Instagram filter, and her full lips, painted a shocking pink, curved in a little smile. 

Yuna wasn't just pretty — she was an admitted slut, the kind who knows the power she has and uses it without mercy. It wasn't about love or passion; for her, everything was a game of trade. A quick blowjob behind the library building? Sure, but only if the guy bought her a snack afterwards. A little help in the hallway bathroom? Great, as long as it was a little favor like "give me the answers to the test." She didn't give anything away for free, and the guys at college had already learned that — or at least they tried to learn, because Yuna was too good at stringing people along.

Today, she was in hunting mode. She stopped near a group of freshmen who were smoking e-cigarettes, leaning against a bench. The strawberry smell of the vape mixed with the sweat of the hot day, and the guys stopped talking the moment she arrived, their eyes glued to her like flies on honey.

"So, boys, how's your day going?" Yuna tossed her hair to the side, leaning her body just enough to let her cleavage speak for itself. Her voice was sweet, but with a tone of someone who was always in charge.

One of the guys, a skinny guy with a backwards cap named Riku, choked on his vape and coughed before answering:

— O-okay, Yuna. What about yours?

She laughed, a short, mocking sound, and took a step closer, almost touching him.

—It’s boring, you know? I need someone to cheer me up. — Her feline eyes roamed the group, stopping at each one as if assessing their potential. — Who here has something to offer me?

Another guy, Kenta, braver and with a piercing in his eyebrow, gave a crooked smile and lifted his chin.

—I have an energy drink in my backpack. I’ll give it to you if you… I don’t know, let me film you dancing a little.

Yuna arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms in a way that only highlighted her bust.

— An energy drink? Do you think I’m cheap, Kenta? — She giggled, but approached him, lightly brushing her shoulder against his chest. — Give me the energy drink and another twenty dollars and I'll dance for your camera. But just for a minute, okay, I'm not a free stripper.

Kenta hesitated, but her look — that mischievous glint that promised more than she was going to deliver — made him give in.

— Okay, okay, I'll pay! — He was already reaching for his wallet, his fingers shaking with anxiety.

— Good choice, kitty — Yuna winked, taking the energy drink from his hand and opening it with a snap. She took a slow sip, letting a drop run down the corner of her mouth just to tease, and wiped it with her finger while staring at the group. — So, where's my stage?

Riku, still a little dumbfounded, pointed to the bench.

— This is fine, right? Just... do it, Yuna.

She climbed up onto the bench with the agility of someone who had done it a thousand times, her skirt riding up dangerously as she moved her hips to a rhythm that didn't need music. The guys were drooling, Kenta already had his cell phone in his hand filming, and she laughed inside at how easy it was to dominate them. A minute later, she jumped down, reached for the money and pocketed the twenty dollars without even saying thank you.

— Thanks, guys. It was good, but I have other things to do. — She turned her back, already aiming at the next target in the courtyard, but not before throwing one last comment over her shoulder: — If you want something more… special, just bring something worth it, okay?

Later, in the hallway of the humanities building, she pressed a senior named Hiro against his locker. The guy was tall, with messy hair and an air of someone who thought he could take anyone to bed. Yuna knew he had a reputation as a player, but she also knew he had a new motorcycle — and she was dying to go for a ride.

“Hey, Hiro,” she purred, playing with the string on his sweatshirt. “I hear you’ve got a brand new Kawasaki. Take me for a ride?”

Hiro gave a smug smile, clearly thinking he was in control.

“It depends, Yuna. What can I get in return?”

She got closer, her chest almost touching his, and whispered in his ear:

— I'll make you cum so fast you'll think you're dreaming. But only after the ride, and you have to let me lead the way.

He laughed, but the sparkle in his eyes gave away that he was already hooked.

— Deal, you bitch. But you're not going to string me along, okay?

— Me? String me along? — Yuna patted his face, laughing. — Only if you don't do your part, handsome.

As she walked off down the hallway, Yuna was already thinking about her next move. She wasn't one to get attached, or to give anything away for free. Every touch, every promise, was a coin in her pocket or a favor up her sleeve. The campus was her playground, and the guys? Just pieces on the board.

Yuna was at the height of her reign on campus, but not everything was just a parade and exchanging favors with silly freshmen. There was a side of her that no one saw—a dirty little secret that she kept with a mischievous smile on her pink lips. This secret had a name: Hector. He was Lia's boyfriend, one of the few friends Yuna kept out of convenience. Lia was all proper, glasses, the kind of girl who thought the world revolved around fidelity and good grades. Little did she know that her boyfriend, a 6'1" guy with messy black hair and a burning gaze, was completely crazy about the blonde slut she called her friend.

Heitor and Yuna had started this thing a few weeks ago. He was different from the other guys she manipulated — he wasn't some dumb jerk who fell for it easily. No, Heitor had a fire in his eyes, a raw energy that made her heart race. He didn't ask for favors; he took what he wanted. And Yuna? She loved it. She loved the way he grabbed her, his big hands squeezing her thin waist or pulling her blond hair hard. He was aggressive, almost wild, and she, who was always in control, found herself moaning too loudly at those moments.

The two of them had a place: the bathrooms of an abandoned college block, a forgotten corner where the smell of mold and peeling paint mixed with the heat they exuded in the air. It was perfect — no one went there, and the risk of getting caught only made it all the more enjoyable. Today, Yuna was leaning against the wall of the main hallway, pretending to use her cell phone while she sent him a message:

— "Old bathroom, 3pm. Don't keep me waiting, you dog."

Heitor replied in two seconds:

— "I'm coming, you bitch. Better get ready."

She laughed to herself, putting her cell phone in the pocket of her short skirt. She passed Lia on the way, giving a quick wave and a "Hi, beautiful, see you in class!" while the poor girl smiled back, without suspecting anything. Yuna almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

When she arrived at the abandoned bathroom, the place was silent, only the sound of a dripping pipe echoing off the cracked walls. She barely had time to lean against the filthy sink before she heard his heavy footsteps. Heitor walked in, his black t-shirt stuck to his sweaty body — he had probably run to get there —, and his brown eyes were already fixed on her as if she were a piece of meat. — You came fast, huh — Yuna teased, crossing her arms to lift her bust in her tight top. — Do you miss me that much?

He didn't answer with words. In two steps, he was in front of her, one hand grabbing her wrist and the other already going up under her skirt, squeezing her thigh hard enough to leave a mark.

— Shut up, Yuna — he growled, his breath hot on her neck. — You've been teasing me all day, now take it.

She laughed, but the sound turned into a moan when he turned her back against the sink, pulling her blond hair with a jerk.

— That's it, Hector, show me what you've got — she said, her voice shaking with excitement. — But don't crush me too much, huh? I still have to show up in one piece later.

— In one piece? — He slapped her ass, the sound echoing in the empty bathroom. — You're going to leave here limping, you whore.

Yuna bit her lip, her feline eyes shining in the reflection of the broken mirror in front of her. She loved this brutality, the way he dominated her without asking for permission. It was the opposite of the guys she had been fooling around with — Hector didn't negotiate, didn't offer anything in return. He just took, and she let him, because, fuck, he was too good.

He pushed her against the sink, the cold metal hitting her waist as he ripped her panties with a single pull.

"That's what you want, right?" he murmured, already undoing his belt with one hand while the other held her neck. "To text me while I'm with Lia, driving me crazy…

"Of course, you idiot," Yuna retorted, arching her back towards him. "She doesn't give you that, does she? The good Lia doesn't even know where to put her hand." Hector laughed, a low, dangerous sound, and entered her hard, eliciting a scream from her that she tried to muffle with her hand.

“Tell me more about her,” he said, his movements aggressive, almost punishing. “It makes me even angrier.”

“She… oh, fuck… she thinks you’re a saint,” Yuna managed to say between moans, her nails scratching the sink. “While you’re here fucking me like an animal.”

He pulled her hair again, forcing her to look at the mirror.

“Look at your face, Yuna. That’s what you really are. A worthless slut.”

She smiled at her reflection, her lips trembling and her eyes glazed over.

“And you love it, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t come running every time I call.”

His pace got faster, his hands marking her fair skin with red. It was dirty, fast, and unromantic—just the way she liked it. When they were done, Yuna was panting, her blonde hair stuck to her sweaty face, her skirt wrinkled, and her panties on the floor. Heitor straightened up, glancing at her as he fastened his belt.

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" he said, but his tone was more of a warning than a request.

Yuna laughed, picking up her torn panties and throwing them into her backpack.

— Relax, dog. I won't ruin my favorite toy. — She winked at him, already composing herself. — But next time, bring me an energy drink. This isn't free.

He shook his head, leaving without saying anything else. Yuna stood there for a second, fixing her hair in the broken mirror and smiling to herself. Hector was the kind of risk that was worth it — and she knew she would call him again, just to feel that adrenaline rush again.

What started as a few casual encounters in the abandoned bathrooms became an almost daily routine. He was addicted to her, and Yuna knew it — the way he grabbed her with those big hands, pulling her blond hair tightly and thrusting like it was the last day of his life, was all she needed to feel alive. They met every afternoon, sometimes even twice in the same day, in the same moldy bathroom, with the sound of her moans echoing off the cracked walls.

— Damn, Heitor, you're getting good at this — she said, panting, as he pressed her against the sink.

— Shut up and moan, you bitch — he replied, squeezing her neck the way she liked.

It was dirty, it was rough, and she loved every second of it. But what Yuna didn't know was that the secret was starting to leak. Lia, Heitor's good girlfriend, wasn't as dumb as she seemed. She had noticed the messages he deleted too quickly, the way he got nervous when Yuna showed up around. One day, she followed him to the abandoned block and heard everything — the moans, the slaps, the provocations. Lia kept quiet, but inside she was boiling. That blonde bitch was going to pay dearly.

The key moment came one sunny afternoon in the cafeteria. Yuna was sitting with Lia, pretending to be the perfect friend, while chewing on a snack with those full lips that everyone wanted to kiss. She tossed her blonde hair to the side and gave a sweet smile, the kind that didn't match the slut she was inside.

"Oh, Lia, you're so cute, you know?" Yuna said, tilting her head like a doll. "Heitor is lucky to have such a nice girlfriend. I could never be like that, I'm too... free, you know?" Lia smiled back, but her eyes were cold, almost cutting. She already knew everything — she had seen the two of them leaving the bathroom last week, Yuna adjusting her wrinkled skirt and Heitor with his belt still half open. But she wasn't going to give Yuna the pleasure of confronting her in front of everyone. Not yet.

"Yeah, Yuna, you're really... free," Lia replied, her voice too calm. "But sometimes freedom comes at a price, right?" Yuna laughed, thinking it was just a friendly chat.

— Sure, but I always find a way to hold others accountable, not myself. — She winked, getting up from the table with a sway that made half the cafeteria turn their heads. — See you later, beautiful!

Little did she know that Lia was already plotting. The good girl had a vengeful side that no one knew about. That same night, she called some guys from the gym class — some brutes who already had a reputation for not taking any nonsense lying down. The leader was Gael, a six-foot-tall closet with shaved hair and a lip piercing that gave him a mean look. Lia was direct with him:

— Yuna needs to be taught a lesson. She thinks she can walk all over everyone, but I want you guys to show her that she's not so untouchable.

Gael gave a crooked smile, scratching his chin.

— The blonde bitch, huh? I've seen her shaking her hips. What do you want us to do?

"Make her feel what I felt," Lia said, her eyes shining with anger. "But don't tell me the details. Just... put an end to her posing."

"Deal," Gael replied, already imagining what was going to happen. He called three more guys from the group, all as big as him, and started planning. Yuna was going to get a surprise, and it wasn't going to be the kind she could negotiate with a smile or a little favor.

In the meantime, Yuna went on with her life, whispering provocations in the ear of some random freshman in the hallway.

— If you give me some money, I'll let you look up my skirt for five seconds — she said, laughing as the boy blushed.

But she had no idea what was coming. Lia had turned the tables, and Gael's thugs were already watching her, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

The last few days on campus were full of buzz. A party at the dorm was on the way, and everyone knew it was going to be the event of the semester. The seniors were already stocking up on cheap beer and vodka, the amateur DJs were testing the speakers, and the drug dealers were on duty making sure there would be weed for everyone who wanted to get high. It was the kind of night that promised chaos, and Lia saw this as the perfect opportunity to put her plan into action. She was tired of pretending she didn't know about Heitor's escapades with Yuna, and that party was going to be the stage where the blonde slut would fall from her pedestal.

The day arrived, and the dorm turned into a hell of flashing lights and loud music. The electronic music was blasting the eardrums, the air was thick with weed smoke and the sour smell of spilled booze. College students danced like there was no tomorrow, some already making out in the dark corners, others sprawled on the couches with red eyes and a silly smile. It was the perfect environment for Lia's plan.

Yuna entered the party as if she were the queen of the whole damn thing. Her black dress was an attack: it clung to her slim, curvy body, very short, with a neckline that went down almost to her belly button and slits on the sides that showed off her slim waist and white thighs. Her blonde hair was straight, shining like liquid gold under the colored lights, and her red lips, painted with a scandalous lipstick, seemed to scream "catch me if you can". She started dancing in the middle of the crowd, her heels clicking on the floor, her hips shaking to a rhythm that made the guys drool and the girls roll their eyes.

“So, you idiots, who’s going to give me a drink today?” she shouted, throwing her hair back and doing a spin that lifted her dress enough to drive everyone crazy.

A guy with green hair, already half drunk, raised a glass of beer.

“I’ll give it to you, Yuna, but dance with me first!” She laughed, taking the glass and downing half of it at once, the liquid running down her chin on purpose.

“Dance with you?” She came closer, rubbing her body against him for a second before moving away. “Only if you learn how to move that skeleton, pretty boy.”

Lia was in the corner, watching everything with a glass of soda in her hand to hide it. She waited for the right moment and approached, a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Yuna, my favorite!” — she called, holding a bottle of vodka and a lit joint. — Let's party together today, have a sip with me!

Yuna turned to her, still shaking her hips, and took the bottle with a crooked smile.

“Lia, you at a party? You're turning into a person, huh!”

She took a long sip, the vodka burning her throat, and laughed. — Do you want to be a slut like me? Just ask for a lesson.

Lia laughed along, but her eyes were calculating every move. She passed the joint to Yuna.

“Who knows? Smoke it, relax with me.”

Yuna took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke slowly while her brown eyes sparkled.

“This is life, Lia. You should give up that saintly vibe more often.”

She took another sip of vodka, her head already starting to spin.

Lia didn't stop. She stayed there, filling Yuna with booze and weed as if it were a mission. After about thirty minutes, Yuna was laughing out loud, tripping on her heels and speaking more slurredly.

“Let’s play something different,” Lia said, holding her arm. “There’s a game in the back room. Are you up for it?”

Yuna, high and confident, tossed her hair back.

— Game? I'm the game, Lia. Take me there, I'll finish off these idiots.

Lia led her through the crowded hallway to a door in the back. Yuna still thought she was in charge, her dress riding up as she walked, the smile of someone who always came out on top. The room was cramped, with an old couch, empty cans on the table, and a strong smell of smoke. Gael and the thugs were already there, waiting, but Yuna didn't even notice the danger. Lia closed the door, and the click of the lock was lost in the loud music.

“Ready for the game, Yuna?” Lia asked, her tone colder.

Yuna fell onto the couch, crossing her legs and laughing.

“Sure, you idiot. What is it? Truth or dare? I win anything with my eyes closed.”

Lia took a step back.

“Let's see. These guys will show you what it's like.”

Yuna looked at the thugs and laughed again, still thinking she could fool everyone.

— You guys? Are you going to try to catch me? Come on, I can handle anything.

Lia left without saying anything else, leaving Yuna there, drunk, stoned and full of herself, while Gael and the others approached.

The private room was pitch black, with only the weak light from an old lamp casting shadows on the moldy walls. Yuna was sprawled on the couch, her torn black dress hanging from her body like a rag, her straight blonde hair falling over her sweaty face. She was still dizzy from the vodka and weed that Lia had slipped into her, but the crooked smile on her red lips showed that she still thought she was in charge. The four brutes — Gael, Ian, Luan and Andrew — were surrounding her, their eyes shining with a mixture of anger and lust that she had underestimated at first.

“So, you big guys, is this what you call a lesson?” Yuna said, her voice slurred but full of provocation. She crossed her legs, her dress riding up higher, and laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that to impress me.” 

Gael, the six-foot tall man with the lip piercing, stepped forward and smiled a smile that made her stomach do a little knot—but she wasn’t going to let him see that. 

“You talk too much, blondie,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the air. “Let’s see if that mouth can handle the rest.” 

She laughed again, tossing her hair back in an exaggerated gesture. 

“Go ahead, big guy. I’ve dealt with guys bigger than you.” 

That’s when things changed. Gael unbuckled his belt with a snap, and when his pants fell off, Yuna blinked twice, her smile faltering for a second. His cock was huge—thick, hard, and with a throbbing vein that seemed more like a threat than an invitation. She swallowed hard, but tried to hide it by lifting her chin. 

— Okay, it's... reasonable — she muttered, but her voice was less firm.

Ian, the dark-haired man with the shaved head, chuckled softly and opened his pants too, revealing another monster that made her feline eyes widen a little. Luan, the tattooed blond, and Andrew, the skinny man with the wild look, followed suit, and suddenly Yuna was staring at four giant cocks, each one bigger than the last, all hard and ready for her. Her confidence began to crack like thin glass.

“Fuck, what's this?” she said, trying to laugh, but the sound came out nervous. “You're kidding, right?”

“Kidding?” Luan retorted, grabbing her hair tightly and pulling her head back. “You'll see who's kidding here.”

Before she could answer, Gael grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand, while the other tore the rest of her dress, leaving her in only her panties. Ian slapped her thigh, hard enough to leave a red mark, and she cried out, more in shock than pain.

“Hey, calm down, you sons of bitches!” she tried to pull away, her heart racing. “This isn’t fair!”

— Fair? — Andrew laughed, approaching with that crazy look. — You fucked Lia, now we fuck you. Simple.

Yuna struggled, but their strength was too much. Gael turned her face down on the couch, her face sinking into the stinky fabric as he ripped off her panties with a yank. She felt his cock brush against her ass, and the size of it made her tremble for the first time.

— Go slow, damn it! — she screamed, but her voice came out more like a request than an order.

— Slow? — Gael growled, thrusting in all at once with a force that drew a hoarse scream from her. He was too big, too aggressive, and she felt her entire body protest as he pumped without mercy.

Ian held her arms, keeping her in place, while Luan knelt in front of her, forcing his cock into her mouth.

— Suck it, bitch — he said, giving her a light slap to reinforce it. She tried to resist, but his size filled her mouth, and she gagged, her eyes watering.

Andrew and the other guy were on either side, their hands grabbing her breasts, squeezing them tightly as they laughed at the muffled moans she let out. It was an attack from all sides — Gael thrusting from behind, Luan from the front, and the other two marking her fair skin with scratches and slaps. Yuna lost her breath, her head spinning, her body struggling to get used to the invasion.

But then the alcohol and marijuana really started to take effect. The initial pain, the shock, everything started to mix together in a warm haze. Gael's cock, which before seemed to tear her in half, was now hitting a spot that made her legs tremble in a way she couldn't ignore. She moaned loudly, the sound muffled by Luan's cock, and the guys noticed the change.

— Look, the bitch is enjoying it — Ian said, laughing as he slapped her ass again.

Yuna tried to deny it, but her body didn't lie. Her moans were getting longer, hoarser, and she started moving her hips against Gael, almost without wanting to. The pleasure was coming in waves, mixed with the adrenaline and the confusion of the drink.

“You... bastards…” she managed to mumble, but her tone was weaker, almost surrendered.

Luan pulled her hair, forcing her to look at him as he thrust into her mouth.

“That's it, moan for us. Show us what you're really like.”

Gael sped up, each thrust making the couch creak, and Yuna felt a heat rising through her body, the alcohol transforming their aggression into an ecstasy she hadn't expected. Andrew switched places with Luan, thrusting his cock into her mouth while Luan moved back, and Ian took Gael's place. It was a brutal rotation, but she was starting to lose herself in it, her eyes glazed over, her lips trembling, her body surrendering to the rhythm.

“Fuck, you guys… you’re animals…” she moaned between one gasp and another, but now there was a sparkle in her feline eyes, a twisted pleasure that she could no longer hide.

When Gael came back to fuck her again, she was already arching her back, her moans echoing in the room as the four of them used her nonstop. The alcohol had turned everything upside down—what started as a lesson for her turned into a chaos of pleasure that she no longer knew how to stop.

Yuna was in the middle of the hurricane, her body sweaty and trembling, her blond hair stuck to her face as the four brutes—Gael, Ian, Luan, and Andrew—continued their attack. She was already dizzy, the alcohol and marijuana transforming the whole thing into a crazy mix of pain and excitement. The couch creaked with each thrust, and her moans were coming out hoarse, almost uncontrollable. But the guys weren't satisfied yet — they wanted more, and the next step would break her in a way she never imagined.

Gael, the big guy with the lip piercing, pulled her by the hips, turning her face down again. His cock, still hard and wet, brushed against her ass, and Yuna laughed, thinking it was just another round.

— You want to do it again, big guy? — she said, her voice shaking but trying to keep her composure. — Go for it, I can handle it.

He gave a crooked smile, holding her buttocks with his big hands and spreading her open without ceremony.

— You think you've seen it all, huh, bitch? — he growled, spitting on his hand and rubbing it on his cock. — Let's see how you deal with that virgin ass of yours.

Yuna froze, her feline eyes widening in fear for the first real time.

— Wait, what?! — she screamed, trying to turn around, but Ian grabbed her wrists and pinned them against the couch. — No, no, I've never done that, you sickos! Get out of here!

Luan, the tattooed blond, laughed out loud and slapped her ass hard, the sound echoing in the room.

— Relax, blondie. Everyone has a first time. And yours will be with us.

She struggled, her heart racing, fear running up her spine as Gael positioned his cock at the entrance of her asshole. It was too big, too thick, and she knew it was going to hurt like hell.

“Please, no, not that!” she begged, her voice coming out higher, almost tearful. “I’ll do anything else, but not that!”

“Anything?” Andrew, the skinny guy with the wild look, came closer, rubbing his cock in her face. “Then suck here while he fucks you, you whore.”

Gael didn’t wait for an answer. He forced his way in, the head of his cock pushing against her tight asshole, and Yuna screamed loudly, her entire body tensing with the pain. It was like a hot iron was ripping her in half, the pressure unbearable as he tried to force his way in.

“Fuck, it’s so fucking tight!” Gael grunted, gripping her hips tighter. “Relax your ass, bitch, or it’ll be worse.” — It hurts, you sons of bitches! — Yuna screamed, her nails scratching the couch, tears streaming down her eyes as she tried to pull away. — Stop, I can't take it!

Ian laughed, keeping her arms pinned.

— Can't take it? Didn't you rule everyone? Now cry, go on.

He pushed in further, and the entrance was hell — her virgin ass resisted, but his cock was relentless. After a few seconds of struggling, the head passed, and Yuna gave a hoarse scream, her body shaking as he forced the rest of it inside. The pain was raw, throbbing, and she felt every inch of that monster stretching her like never before.

— It's fucking tearing me apart! — she moaned, her voice broken, her face buried in the couch as tears wet the fabric. — Take it off, please!

— Take it off? — Gael laughed, starting to move slowly, each movement eliciting a moan of pain from her. — You're going to ask for more, just wait.

Luan grabbed her hair, pulling her head back and shoving his cock in her mouth again.

— Cry with this in your mouth, bitch. Swallow while he fucks your ass.

She choked, Luan's cock filling her throat as Gael thrust into her ass, the pain mixing with the heat of the alcohol that was still running through her veins. It was too much—her body was in shock, but little by little, something started to change. The pain, which at first was unbearable, was mixed with a strange sensation, a tingling that went up her legs and made her tremble in a different way.

— Fuck, she's starting to like it—Ian said, laughing as he let go of her wrists to grab her breasts, squeezing her nipples hard.— Look how her ass is blinking now.

Yuna moaned loudly, the sound muffled by Luan's cock, and her body, almost unintentionally, began to relax. The alcohol was softening her resistance, and Gael's cock, which had previously felt like a punishment, now hit a spot inside her that sent shocks of pleasure through her body.

"You... bastards..." she murmured, but her voice was weaker, her hips moving a little against him.

"That's it, bitch, grind on that cock," Gael said, slapping her ass that made her scream again, but this time with a different tone. He sped up, thrusting deeper, her asshole slowly giving in as she moaned louder.

Andrew switched places with Luan, shoving his cock in her mouth while Luan moved back, waiting for his turn.

"My cock wants a piece of that blonde too," Luan said, rubbing his cock against her ass as Gael pulled out.

When Luan entered, there was another wave of pain — his cock was thicker than Gael's, and her already sensitive asshole protested again.

"Fuck, it won't fit!" Yuna screamed, but the scream turned into a long moan when he forced it all inside, stretching her even more.

"Yes, it will fit, you whore," Luan growled, thrusting hard while holding her hair like a rein. "You're going to swallow every inch."

The pain was there, raw and throbbing, but the pleasure was growing with it, the alcohol turning everything into a hot mess. Yuna felt her asshole burning, but also throbbing, her body getting used to the invasion while the guys laughed and cursed her. Ian was next, thrusting with a brutality that made her see stars, and Andrew finished the round, his cock thinner but faster, pounding deep while she moaned nonstop.

"It feels good now, right, bitch?" — Andrew said, slapping her face as he thrust. — Tell her you want more!

— I… fuck… want… — Yuna moaned, the words coming out almost unintentionally, her body surrendered, her asshole broken but throbbing with pleasure.

They continued, taking turns in her ass, each one more aggressive than the other, until she no longer knew where the pain began and the excitement ended. The couch was soaked in sweat, her blonde hair a mess, and her moans filled the room as the four of them used her without mercy.

Yuna was at her limit, her body sweaty and marked, her virgin asshole now broken by the huge cocks of Gael, Ian, Luan and Andrew. The couch creaked as if it was going to fall apart, and her moans were coming out hoarse, uncontrolled, as the four brutes thrusted without stopping. She had already given in to the mix of pain and pleasure, the alcohol and marijuana making her head soft, but now things were going to another level — she was about to break for good.

Gael was back in her ass, his thick cock stretching her to the max as he held her hips with brute force.

“Fuck, this ass is swallowing everything now,” he grunted, thrusting deep, each thrust making her body tremble. “You like this, don’t you, you slut?”

Yuna tried to respond, but all she could come out was a loud moan, her mouth half open as Andrew shoved his cock down her throat again.

“Tell me, bitch!” Andrew said, slapping her face so hard that her red lips bled a little. “Tell me you love being fucked like this!”

She choked, her cat-like eyes glazed over, tears streaming down her face as Andrew’s cock hit the back of her throat.

— I… love… — she managed to murmur, her voice almost fading, her body moving on its own against Gael.

Luan laughed, grabbing her breasts and squeezing her nipples hard while Ian reached between her legs, rubbing her clit with rough fingers.

“Look at this bitch, she’s dripping,” Ian said, laughing as his fingers got wet. “You were born for this, blondie.”

Yuna’s head was spinning, the pleasure coming in waves so strong that she couldn’t think straight anymore. Her ass was burning, her body was aching, but every thrust, every slap, every curse was pushing her to a place of no return. She started to laugh, a low, broken sound, her eyes unfocused as the mind break hit her hard.

“That… fuck me… break me…” she moaned, the words coming out unfiltered, her voice shaking with ecstasy. “More… fuck, more!”

The guys exchanged glances, surprised for a second, but soon they took advantage. Gael thrust faster, his cock throbbing inside her asshole as he cursed:

— See, you idiots? She's asking for it! Let's finish this whore once and for all!

Luan switched places with Andrew, shoving his thick cock in her mouth while Andrew went for her ass, thrusting at an insane speed. Ian stood in front, rubbing his cock against her breasts while Gael held her in place. It was chaos—four huge cocks, hands everywhere, slapping and pulling hair, and Yuna in the middle, lost in a sea of ​​pleasure that had swallowed her sanity.

— Fuck, I'm going to cum in that ass! — Andrew yelled, his rhythm getting sloppy as he thrust deep, his cock throbbing.

— Then cum, damn it! — Gael replied, laughing as he held her hips so Andrew could finish.

Andrew gave one last loud moan, thrusting all the way in and cumming inside her ass, the heat of his cum filling her as she screamed, her body convulsing. He pulled out, his cock dripping, and Luan took his place, thrusting into her ass without even waiting.

"My turn, bitch," Luan said, his thick cock forcing its way in as Andrew's cum dripped down her thighs.

Yuna was beside herself, laughing and moaning at the same time, her eyes rolling back as the pleasure consumed her.

"Cum... cum in me..." she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper, her body limp but still responding.

Luan thrust hard, her asshole already so broken that he could easily enter, and he came right after, filling her up again as he slapped her ass.

"Take it, you whore, swallow it all!" Ian was next, thrusting into her ass while Gael shoved his cock into her mouth, the two of them synchronizing their movements.

“Open your mouth, blondie,” Gael growled, grabbing her hair as he thrust into her throat. “I’m going to cum on your face.”

She obeyed, her mind broken, her mouth open as Gael came, hot cum running down her face, dripping onto her red lips and chin. Ian finished in her ass, the third to fill her from behind, and Yuna fell onto the couch, her body shaking, her asshole throbbing with the cum from all three.

Andrew, who had already cum, rubbed his half-pumped cock against her breasts, leaving a wet trail.

“Is it over, bitch?” he said, laughing as she moaned softly, almost fainting.

Yuna didn’t answer. She was slumped, her blonde hair a sticky mess, her face covered in cum, her asshole dripping as her body convulsed in spasms of pleasure. The mind break had hit her hard — she was no longer the confident Yuna, the bitch who ruled everything. She was just a broken body, lost in an ecstasy she never imagined.

The guys straightened up, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

"Mission accomplished, huh," Gael said, fastening his belt. "Tell Lia that she won't forget it any time soon." They left the room, leaving Yuna there, the sound of the party slowly returning to her ears as she tried to breathe, her body and mind in pieces.

Yuna lay sprawled on the couch for a time she couldn't even count. The noise of the party outside — the loud music, the laughter, the breaking of glasses — seemed to come from another world. Her body was a mess: her dress torn on the floor, her blond hair stuck to her face with sweat and cum, her fair skin marked by redness, scratches and slaps. Her asshole was still throbbing, sore and hot, the guys' cum dripping down her thighs as she tried to draw air into her lungs. Her head was empty, an echo of the mind break that had just happened, but little by little she came back to herself.

She stood up slowly, her legs wobbly, and grabbed what was left of her dress to cover her body. The broken mirror on the wall showed a Yuna she barely recognized — her feline eyes were sunken, her red lipstick smeared with blood and cum, her face pale but with a strange glow. She laughed, a low, hoarse sound, almost as if she couldn't believe what had happened.

— You sons of bitches… — she muttered to herself, her voice weak but with a new tone, somewhere between anger and fascination.

On campus, rumors began to spread the next morning. No one really knew what had happened in the private room, but everyone saw Yuna leaving the dorm with her dress torn, her hair messy and her walk a little crooked. Some said she had been humiliated, others that she had enjoyed every second of it. Lia heard the whispers and smiled, satisfied with her revenge, but unaware that she had awakened something in Yuna.

The blonde didn't disappear, as some expected. She returned to campus a few days later, wearing her usual short skirt, her red lips shining, but her gaze… her gaze was different. More dangerous, more aware. She still teased, still tossed her hair and laughed at the guys who drooled over her, but now there was a weight in her words, a shine that said she knew what could happen — and maybe even wanted it again. — Hey guys, who's buying me a drink tonight? — she said one afternoon, in the same tone as always, but with a smile that made the guys hesitate.

Yuna had changed. She wasn't just the confident bitch who manipulated everyone anymore. She had a broken side, but also a new side, a fire that the gangbang had lit. The campus whispered about her, the legend growing, and she let it. After all, the game had changed — and she was ready to play again, her way.

But not everything was resolved. As Yuna paraded through the courtyard, a pair of eyes followed her from afar, hidden among the students. It was Heitor, Lia's boyfriend, the guy who had started this whole mess. He had been quiet since the party, but his look wasn't one of guilt or regret — it was one of obsession. He knew what had happened to Yuna, he had heard the rumors, and something in him was burning to pull her back into the abyss. In his hand, a cell phone flashed with an unsent message: "We need to talk, blonde. I know what you've become." The game was far from over.

[valeisaslut]

Hey I know you said your inbox is so full right now but I can't get this idea out of my head.

Imagine rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader going to the short and sweet tour and sabrina arresting reader for juno

Plus ellie definitely told reader they are trying the Juno pose later that night!

oh paris. PARIS. you’ve activated something ancient and unspeakable in me with this idea. i’m writing this like i’m on deadline and sabrina herself is standing behind me with a glitter gun. okay so—

IMAGINE COLLIDE'S ROCKSTAR!ELLIE AND POPSTAR!READER GOING TO THE SHORT N' SWEET TOUR!

the short n’ sweet tour. madison square garden. sold out. the air tastes like glitter and overpriced lip gloss. everyone is either wearing little bows or little nothings. sabrina’s deep in her pink glittery bodysuit, hair curled to oblivion, heels high enough to be a safety hazard, walking the stage like it owes her money.

you and ellie are in the VIP section, but it’s not chill. nothing about you two is ever chill. you’re center-left, full view, already clocked by all of the arena. ellie’s in her feral dyke uniform: worn leather jacket. white wife pleaser, low-rise jeans hanging on by a belt and a prayer. sunglasses indoors. gave a shit about the sn's tour dress code. chewing gum like it’s a personality. muttering, “this is gay propaganda” every few minutes.

you, meanwhile, showed up looking like a slutty disco ball. tiny rhinestone corset spelling out “SWEET?” in cursive, miniskirt that keeps riding up, platforms that technically qualify as a weapon. your hair’s perfect, your makeup’s evil. the fans know who you both are. everyone knows.

and sabrina knows who you are.

you’re friends. talk everytime you're in the same award show. follows each other on instagram. she reposted your “please stream short 'n sweet or i’ll cry” story. you reposted her "OMG I LOVED BETTER LIES GO STREAM RN" story. it’s borderline cinematic.

and then—then—the lights go gold. the stage fogs up like a dream. first few chords of “juno” hit like a religious event. sabrina does that slow dramatic hair flip she’s legally required to do before every slutty song, and every single girl in the arena dies at the exact same time. like cardiac arrest, mass gay fainting, someone in section 212 is literally sobbing into her cowboy hat.

and then sabrina starts scanning the crowd, doing her little “juno” hunt. she’s smirking. pacing. absolutely villain-coded. but the second she sees you—she breaks. stops mid-step. flicks her hair, nearly trips over her. looks directly at you.

"omg guys… i got really distracted… this girl is like–so hot i’m going actually insane right now."

the camera cuts to you and it’s over. the entire arena SCREAMS. and you’re mid-scream too, waving your arms, yelling “OMG WHAT THE HELL!! I LOVE YOU SAB!!” like it’s the fucking hunger games and your name just got drawn.

sabrina is cackling. fully turning red. “you guys i think i’ve never fallen in love but... you know... a popstar and popstar relationship goes hard.”

"oh my! my clothes are falling OFF!" then—her long pink glittery skirt drops. unprompted. sabrina just stands there in sparkly miniskirt and boots, shaking her head.

the crowd goes absolutely feral. ellie grabs your thigh like she’s about to restrain you physically. sabrina recovers, smirks at ellie’s direction, and goes:

"i’m sorry to do this in front of you, ellie williams—who is looking extremely hot too, by the way—but... y/n... you’re under arrest for being too hot."

YOU DIE. CROWD DIES. security splits like the red sea. sabrina has the crowd hand-deliver a set of fuzzy pink cuffs to you and winks. you are standing there visibly malfunctioning. like gay windows XP shutting down.

ellie, meanwhile, is recording the entire thing on her phone. she zooms in 800%. breathless. “oh my god. oh my god. my girl just got arrested for being too hot. i love live music. this is my woodstock.”

you take the cuffs and lift them like a trophy. the arena fucking erupts. someone faints. people are sobbing. someone on TikTok is already posting “when your fav popstar arrests your other fav popstar in front of your fav rockstar” with a Lana track in the background.

the camera pans back to Sabrina and ellie’s hands are IMMEDIATELY everywhere. whispering “you’re so hot when you’re legally apprehended.” you try to sip water and she full-on licks your shoulder. “ellie please.” “no. i’m in heat.”

backstage, you and sabrina take selfies with the cuffs, and she’s holding your face like she just discovered sapphic joy for the first time. ellie photobombs looking like the devil.

you post: “sabrina carpenter arrested me. ellie’s gonna finish the sentence.” ellie posts: “i support hot women’s rights and wrongs.”

and later, in her place, ellie has the video playing on a loop, full volume. she’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but her boxers and a chain around her neck, hair messy, looking like she just survived a riot (which, spiritually, she did). she’s gripping her phone like it’s sacred scripture, eyes locked on the part where sabrina does the pose—you know the one. all fours, ass arched, head tossed back in slow motion. the camera caught it in 4K.

"baby. baby, pause it. go back. right there. RIGHT THERE."

you’re standing at the foot of the bed, fully naked, hair wild, lipstick smudged. ellie looks up at you like she’s witnessing divinity. you roll your eyes and sigh dramatically, but you’re already dropping to your hands and knees on the mattress, arching your back, biting your lip.

"have you ever tried... this one?"

ellie groans so loud it echoes. drops her phone like it’s been made irrelevant by your existence. leans forward slowly, eyes dark, voice low:

"you know what comes next."

and what happens next that is technically classified, probably illegal in three states, and definitely a public safety hazard. but just know: the cuffs stay on.

and somewhere in New York, sabrina carpenter wakes up in a cold sweat, heart racing, with no idea why.

unhinged. legendary. historic queer moment. you win the internet for the night.

thank you paris for your contribution to global gay culture.

[multific]

The Gentle Heart of Rome

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: Geta's wife is overwhelmed by the violence of the Colosseum, but your sensitivity only deepens his love for you.

The sun hung high above the Colosseum, casting golden light across the sand-soaked floor of the arena. The crowd was roaring, nobles and commoners alike standing on their feet as blood stained the earth below.

Gladiators fought with savage precision, swords clashing, screams echoing across the stone walls.

But amidst the chaos and brutality, there was one figure that did not belong.

You.

You sat beside your husband, Emperor Geta, dressed in flowing silks the colour of rosewater, your eyes wide and trembling behind the delicate veil you wore.

The scent of iron was thick in the air, and though Geta sat straight and proud, enjoying every second of the spectacle with his brother Caracalla on the other side, you could barely breathe.

You turned your face, eyes squeezed shut as a scream pierced the air, followed by the sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh.

The crowd cheered louder.

“Love,” Geta leaned in, his voice gentle, though tinged with confusion. “You are not watching.”

You couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry… I thought I could, but-”

Another cry.

Another flash of blood.

You felt your stomach churn.

Geta’s smile faltered. “You are unwell.”

“I can’t… I can’t bear it,” you whispered, voice quivering. “There’s so much blood, and they’re hurting each other."

Caracalla laughed from beside Geta. “She’s soft, brother. Doesn’t have the Roman stomach.”

You flinched, heart pounding.

You didn’t belong here. You never had.

You weren’t a woman of war or vengeance.

You loved flowers and quiet mornings, and Geta’s soft hands when they weren’t calloused by sword hilts.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you murmured. “Forgive me.”

Geta’s expression changed then.

The pride and amusement faded from his face, and something more tender replaced it.

He looked at you, not as a disappointed husband or a stern ruler, but as a man who loved a woman too delicate for this brutal world.

Without another word, he stood.

“Brother?” Caracalla asked, raising a brow.

“I’ve seen enough for today,” Geta said, offering his hand to you.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward him. “But… it’s not over.”

“I don’t care,” he said softly. “Come. Let’s go home.”

You rose with him, unsure, and followed quietly through the stone corridors until the roar of the crowd became a distant hum.

When you were finally alone, back in the quiet of your garden within the palace walls, Geta sat you down gently on the marble bench beneath the olive tree.

He knelt before you, a hand on your knee. “I didn’t know it would upset you like that.”

“I know you love the games,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”

“Disappointment?” he echoed, frowning. “You think your soft heart is something to be ashamed of?”

You looked down. “It’s not fit for an emperor’s wife.”

Geta reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s exactly what I need. Do you think I wish to come home to more blood and fire?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are my peace. My gentleness. My reason not to become like him.”

You knew who he meant, his brother.

Caracalla, who thrived on carnage. Who bathed in it.

“You could have any woman,” you said. “Someone brave. Fierce.”

“I don’t want brave,” he said, lifting your hand to his lips. “I want you. The way you gasp when butterflies land on your fingertips. The way you cry when you read poetry. The way you hate to even see a bird wounded.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the clarity in his voice.

“You keep me from losing myself,” he said. “Don’t you see? If I forget what it means to be gentle… I’ll become a monster.”

You threw your arms around him then, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms came around you instantly, warm and solid, his hands stroking your back with comforting tenderness.

“I love you,” you said against his skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I love you, my gentle Empress.”

Later, as the sun dipped into dusk and the air turned cool, Geta led you through the gardens, your fingers laced in his.

No crowds. No violence.

Just the sound of birds and the rustle of leaves.

And that night, he held you tightly in bed, his breath at your temple.

“I won’t make you go again,” he murmured. “Not ever.”

You smiled into his chest. “Thank you.”

He kissed your hair, pulling you closer. “I’d rather lose the crowd than lose you.”

And from that day on, though he ruled Rome with strength, the people said Geta had grown softer.

They didn’t know the reason was love.

.

[goldfades]

in the meantime could u maybe write something about Paige and reader celebrating the big East championship win 🙏🏼 it could be teammate or just gf reader either way I’ll love it ofc

omg yes!!!! i literally cannot believe this is paige's (+all the seniors) last one LIKE DO NOT MAKE ME CRY

The confetti clung to your skin, glimmering gold and blue under the bright arena lights. It was stuck in your hair, tangled in your jersey, even dusted across your arms like some kind of proof that this moment was real. That you won.

Big East champions.

It still didn’t feel entirely real. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the pure exhaustion settling into your bones after forty minutes of war on the court. But then you turned, and there was Paige—grinning so wide it had to hurt, her eyes bright with something that was more than just excitement. More than just another win.

Because this wasn’t just any championship.

It was her last one.

Her last Big East tournament. Her last time standing in this arena as a UConn player, with her teammates, with you.

The thought hit you like a punch to the stomach, knocking the breath out of you in a way the game never could.

But before you could dwell on it, Paige was moving—crossing the few feet between you in two quick strides, grabbing you before you could even think.

And then suddenly, you were off the ground.

“Paige!” you shrieked, arms instinctively wrapping around her as she spun you in a dizzying circle, her laughter ringing out over the noise of the crowd.

“You did it!” she yelled, breathless, holding you like she had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

You laughed against her shoulder, gripping the back of her jersey. “We did it, P.”

She finally set you down, but her hands didn’t leave your waist. The confetti rained down around you, the cameras flashed, your teammates were still celebrating in a chaotic blur—but in this moment, it was just her. Just the way her hands tightened slightly like she was memorizing this, like she needed to, because it was the last time she’d ever get to do this.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

“This is your last one,” you murmured, not really meaning to say it out loud.

Paige’s smile faltered, just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the flicker of emotion she was trying to push down.

“I know,” she admitted, voice softer now, only meant for you.

It wasn’t like this was the end. She had more games left, a tournament to prepare for, an entire career ahead of her. But still—it was an ending. And even though you were trying to ignore it, trying to just live in the moment, you could feel it settling between you.

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe to tease her, maybe to tell her you weren’t ready for her to leave—but before you could, someone slammed into you from behind, nearly knocking you forward.

“WE’RE CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

It was KK, obviously, screaming at the top of her lungs as she threw herself into both of you, her arms squeezing you so tight it knocked the air from your lungs.

The moment broke.

But the weight of it remained, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right time to sink in.

Paige knew you. Knew you too well, if she was being honest. Which was why the second she saw the glassiness in your eyes—just a hint of it, the kind of emotion you hadn’t fully let settle yet—she went into full distraction mode.

Because this was not the time to get in your feelings. Not yet.

Not when there was still confetti falling from the rafters, still so much yelling and jumping and celebrating left to do.

So, before you could get even a second to dwell on the reality of this being her last Big East tournament, she grabbed your arm, her grip firm but easy, guiding you back into the blur of teammates.

“C’mon, superstar,” she said, nudging you just enough to keep you moving. “We’ve got pictures to take, trophies to hold, and quotes to give about how dominant we are.”

You rolled your eyes but let yourself be pulled along. Because of course Paige wasn’t going to let you be emotional. Not right now.

(And honestly, you weren’t sure if you were grateful for it or annoyed by it.)

The team was gathered near center court, surrounding the trophy like it was some kind of sacred relic. Everyone was still giddy, still on an adrenaline high, the kind of energy that buzzed through your veins and made you feel untouchable.

KK was the first to grab you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shaking you a little too aggressively in excitement.

“We won,” she practically shouted in your ear, as if you didn’t already know.

“I know,” you laughed, steadying yourself.

“We won,” she repeated, shaking you again, like she wasn’t physically capable of handling the joy running through her body.

“Dude, she knows,” Ice cut in, smirking as she popped up beside you. “She was there.”

“And dominating,” Paige added, bumping her shoulder into yours. “Not that we expected anything less.”

The compliment made your face warm, but before you could react, the photographer was waving you all into position.

“Alright, everyone squeeze in!”

You were pulled into the middle of the chaos, bodies pressed against yours, arms wrapping around shoulders, hands reaching for the trophy. Paige was right there, naturally, always finding a way to be close, standing just slightly behind you with a hand gripping your jersey like she was making sure you didn’t go anywhere.

The photographer started counting down.

“Alright, on three! One… two…—”

You felt Paige move before you even saw it.

The second the shutter clicked, she launched confetti into your face.

You spluttered, swatting at it as the team lost it around you, everyone cracking up as you tried to shake the golden pieces out of your hair.

“Paige!”

“What?” she said, all innocent, dimples deep as she grinned at you. “Just making sure we remember this one.”

The pictures were instant classics.

One perfectly normal one—smiling faces, the trophy gleaming, arms wrapped around each other like you’d never let go.

And one ridiculous one, where half the team was mid-laugh, you were scowling at Paige (affectionately), and she was just standing there with the smuggest expression on her face, clearly pleased with herself.

You didn’t know it yet, but that was the one you’d all look back on years from now. The one that would make you laugh, that would bring it all back in an instant—the confetti, the noise, the pure, unfiltered joy of it.

Because that was what Paige did.

She made things memorable.

Even when it was her last time getting to do them.

After the pictures, the celebrations continued. More hugs, more yelling, more moments that would be stitched into your memory forever.

You and Paige found yourselves side by side again (because of course you did), watching as KK and Azzi ran around the court, dumping what was left of the confetti over Ice’s head.

Paige nudged you. “You good?”

You exhaled slowly, glancing at her. “Yeah.”

She didn’t believe you. You could tell by the way she looked at you—like she was waiting for you to crack.

So you caved.

“This is your last Big East championship,” you admitted, voice quieter than you meant for it to be.

Paige held your gaze for a second. Then she just shrugged.

“Yeah.”

The simplicity of it almost made you mad.

“How are you not being emotional about this?” you asked, baffled.

She smirked. “Oh, I am. I’m just not trying to make you cry about it yet.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yet?”

She threw an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into her like it was second nature. “Later,” she said. “Right now, you’re gonna celebrate with me.”

And, really, how could you argue with that?

The adrenaline had long since faded. The laughter, the yelling, the chaos of the locker room celebrations had all dissolved into something quieter, something slower. Now, it was just exhaustion clinging to your bones, the kind that came from everything—from the game, from the emotions, from the weight of knowing this night had to end eventually.

The hotel room was dark except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The kind of light that made everything feel softer, like it was cushioning the inevitable.

Paige flopped onto the bed with a heavy sigh, her arm immediately flinging over her face. “I’m dead.”

You barely managed a laugh as you kicked off your sneakers. “No, you’re dramatic.”

She peeked at you from under her arm, eyes half-lidded, lazy with sleep but still sharp enough to catch the way your voice wasn’t as light as you wanted it to be.

She knew. Of course she knew.

You sat down beside her, the bed dipping under your weight. The silence settled between you, comfortable but full. There was no running from it now. No confetti to throw in your face, no teammates to jump on top of you, no camera flashes to freeze the moment in time.

It was just the two of you. Just the reality of the night settling in.

Paige was the one to break it.

“You okay?” she asked, voice quiet but steady.

You swallowed. You weren’t sure.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your hands clasped loosely in your lap. “It just… hit me all of a sudden. This was the last one. Your last Big East championship.”

She was silent for a second. Not in avoidance, not in dismissal—just thinking, like she wanted to find the right words.

Then she pushed herself up, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. “Yeah,” she said, simply. ���It was.”

Your chest felt tight. “Doesn’t that make you sad?”

Paige gave you a look. “Of course it does,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But… I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve really let myself feel it yet.”

You turned to face her fully, tucking one leg underneath you. “How?”

She huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Because if I start thinking about it too much, I’m gonna cry, and I’m not giving you the satisfaction of seeing it first.”

You rolled your eyes. “Paige.”

She met your gaze then, softer this time. “I don’t want this to be sad,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to look back on tonight and think about how it was my last one. I want you to think about how much fun we had. How we won. How we did it together.”

Her voice was steady, but you could hear it—the emotion threading through the words, the kind that was buried deep but there all the same.

You felt your throat tighten.

“But things are gonna be different,” you whispered. “After this. After the season.”

Paige held your gaze. “Yeah,” she said. “They will be.”

And that hurt. Even though you already knew it, even though it was inevitable.

But then she reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours, grounding you.

“But that doesn’t mean we will be,” she said, firm in a way that left no room for doubt. “It’s not gonna change this.”

Your heart clenched. “You don’t know that.”

She squeezed your hand. “Yeah, I do.”

You blinked, trying to keep the sting of tears at bay. “How?”

Paige exhaled, running a hand through her hair before looking back at you with that look. The one that made you feel like she was seeing right through you, like she had already made up her mind about something and there was no point in arguing.

“Because it’s us,” she said simply. “No matter where we are, no matter what happens, we’re still gonna be us.”

You stared at her, heart hammering against your ribs.

She wasn’t saying it to make you feel better. She wasn’t just saying what you wanted to hear.

She meant it.

And somehow, that made the lump in your throat even harder to swallow.

Paige nudged you, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Besides, you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

You let out a watery laugh. “Unfortunately.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Wow. I pour my heart out, and this is what I get?”

You sniffled, swiping at your eyes. “You were barely vulnerable.”

Paige smirked. “Okay, but I was vulnerable, which is already groundbreaking.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving her lightly. She let out a laugh before tugging you toward her, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in a way that felt familiar. Like something you could hold onto.

You exhaled slowly, letting yourself sink into her warmth, letting yourself believe her.

Because maybe things would be different.

But maybe, just maybe—she was right.

[stylesispunk]

"Hands in the hair of someone named marcus" | part ii

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

previous part

Summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, General Acacius is willing to fight for you and you become his most important reason to live.

w.c: 6k.

Warnings: angst, smut (if you could call it that), power imbalance, violence, fluff.

a/n: Thank you so much for the love you gave to the first part of this one (I could cry). I literally loved General Acacius so much and he deserves better and all the flowers. With this part I don't know if a third one is necessary, so I hope you like it and enjoy it! Remember, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading. 💌

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

by the way, I'm working on some requests, I haven't forgotten about you. I'm just really busy. 🤞✨

“You make it sound so simple,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with deep worry

Marcus smiled faintly, the corner of his lips lifting in a way that made your heart burst. “Love doesn’t erase chaos, my lady,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of years spent in timeless battles. “But it gives you something to dream of”

The peace you had found in Marcus words and presence, was fleeting as a storm passing by during a summer day. The soothing protections you felt under his stare was shattered the moment Geta and Caracalla noticed your absence.

Despite them not being as much loved as you by the people. Servants’ loyalty fell on them and it was a matter of time for them to find the truth intentions behind the demeanor of the beloved General Acacius.

You barely had time to breathe before the heavy doors to the villa burst open, and there they were, Geta and Caracalla, flanked by their guards. Their faces were twisted with fury, their regal demeanor replaced by a feral madness that made your blood run cold.

There you were back the palace, locking gazes with the man your brothers had promised you to. And you barely had time to breathe before there was blood was dripping from the fallen gladiator who had been won the battle in the arena.

Yours felt in your ears, the rush, the bombing and the guilt.

Your hand was a fake prize for a foolish man dreaming of his freedom. Dreaming of belonging to the most powerful family of the empire.

You were speechless, so it was Acacius who stood by your side as a personal armored guard, swearing to protect you from the cruel madness your brothers had descended into.

"Do you think I do not love you, sister?" Geta asked, with a tone that sent shivers down your spine. "I wouldn't allow a man like that to marry you" he said referring to the now lifeless gladiator laying on the floor.

Geta walked closer to you, in a swift moment he raised his hand to caress your face, but before he could even reach your skin. Marcus stepped in front of you, defying the emperor

Geta froze, his hand lingering midair as Marcus placed himself between the two of you. The tension in the air was suffocating, the once-roaring crowd now silenced by the audacity of Marcus’s actions.

"Step aside, General," Geta hissed, his voice dripping with menace, though his expression betrayed a flicker of disbelief.

Marcus met his gaze with unflinching resolve. "With all due respect, Emperor, I will not."

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he took a step closer, his face inches from Marcus’s. "You dare defy me?”

Marcus did not waver. "I swore an oath to serve Rome, and that includes its people. Your sister above all. She is not yours to intimidate, Emperor."

The crowd murmured in hushed tones, the audacity of the general spreading like wildfire among them. Caracalla rose from his seat, his expression one of cold calculation as he descended the steps toward the scene.

"Kill him," Caracalla shouted, his eyes burned with anger.

Geta ignored him, his focus locked solely on Marcus. "You think your rank protects you, General Acacius?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he spoke with measured restraint. "I think my loyalty to Rome and its empire is unwavering. But I will not stand by and allow cruelty you bring to your sister.”

The words struck a nerve. Geta’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he finally dropped his hand, though his eyes never left Marcus. "Bold words, General," he said, stepping back. "Perhaps too bold for a man whose future depends on my goodwill."

He turned to the crowd, spreading his arms as if to dismiss the tension. "Let it be known," he declared, his voice echoing across the arena, "that my sister is under my protection. Any man who wishes to court her must prove his worth, not just to her, but to Rome."

His gaze flickered back to Marcus; his smile venomous. "Are you willing to stake your life on this, General? To face the arena in her name?"

Marcus did not hesitate. "I am."

The arena erupted in chaos, the crowd roaring with approval at the prospect of a new fight. Geta’s smile widened as he leaned closer to Marcus, his voice low enough for only the two of you to hear.

"Then prepare yourself, Acacius," he whispered. "Because I will make sure this fight is the hardest battle of your life."

He turned and strode away, Caracalla following closely behind. Marcus remained still, his shoulders rigid as the crowd cheered for the fight to come.

You reached out, your hand brushing his arm. "Marcus," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He turned to you, his expression softening for the briefest moment. "Do not fear, my lady," he said, his voice steady. "I will win. For you."

Your heart ached at the weight of his words, but before you could respond, he stepped away, his focus already on the battle ahead.

The days passed in agonizing silence, and ahead to the battle at the coliseum, you were confined to your quarters, guarded closely by your brother’s guards. Two of the were stood just outside your door as a warning, even beyond all that, as a reminder of the power Geta and Caracalla held over you.

You hadn’t had news of Marcus since the day you parted ways after he told your brothers he was going to fight for you at the Arena. The fear and worry consumed you, and even your own servants met with a soft indifference and dismissal. It was as if the world had conspired to separate you from the one person who had fought to protect you. You spent your days pacing the confines of your chamber, that now felt suffocating.

You imagined Marcus alone, preparing for the fight under the oppressive gaze of your brothers. Was he thinking of you? Did he share the same fear that gripped your heart? Or was he steadfast in his resolve, his mind fixed solely on the battle to come? 

Would he have regretted it?

Not bearing the questions anymore, you got up from your bed determined to break your brothers’ orders and persuade the only desire fueling flames in your heart.

The moon hung low in the sky, its light spilling into your chambers as you slipped through the doorway, your heart pounding in your chest. The guards outside had been lured away with a clever diversion, and you moved quickly, draped in a simple cloak that hid your identity.

You held your breath, waiting, but the guards remained oblivious.

Wrapping a cloak tightly around your shoulders, you slipped into the corridor, moving swiftly but silently. The villa seemed to be a labyrinth of shadowy hallways.

The night air bit at your skin as you reached the courtyard. The sound of the guards’ boots echoing in the distance urged you forward, and with grace, you mounted the horse, urging it into a gallop toward Marcus’s quarters at the edge of the city.

The journey was risky. The streets of Rome were alive even at this hour, the echoes of revelry and the whispers of the approaching battle filling the air. You kept your hood low, your heart racing with every shadow that moved.

Finally, you arrived at his villa. It was modest compared to the luxuriousness of the imperial palace, but it was guarded nonetheless. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, their posture rigid. You dismounted, your steps purposeful as you approached them.

“I need to see him,” you said, your voice firm despite the tremor of fear beneath it.

The guards exchanged a glance, their hesitation palpable once they noticed who you were. “The general has ordered no visitors, my lady.” one of them said.

“I am not a visitor,” you countered, your voice rising slightly. “Will you stand in my way?”

They hesitated, but something in your tone made them step aside.

“I’ll take you with him” one of them offered.

You nodded. The guard gestured for you to follow, leading you through the dimly lit villa. You kept your hood low, your heart pounding in your chest. Every creak of the floorboards and every distant sound made your pulse quicken, but you refused to let fear deter you.

“This way, my lady,” the guard whispered, stopping at the end of a long hallway. “His quarters are just beyond this door.”

You nodded, slipping a small pouch of coins into his hand. “Thank you,” you said softly.

He bowed his head. “I wish you both the best.”

As the guard retreated, you turned to the door. Your hand trembled as it hovered over the handle, the weight of the past days pressing heavily on your shoulders. You took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.

The room was warm, lit only by the glow of a hearth. Marcus sat at a sturdy wooden table, poring over a map with a furrowed brow. His armor was laid in the table beside him, the metal gleaming in the firelight. The sight of him dressed in a white tunic, so strong, made your chest tighten with longing.

The sound of the door closing behind you drew his attention. His head snapped up, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then his features softened, his brow relaxing as recognition dawned.

“My lady,” he said, rising to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you said, your voice thick with emotion as you stepped closer. “I had to see you.”

His gaze flickered to the door behind you, his shoulders tensing. “You shouldn’t have come. If your brothers-”

“I don’t care what they think,” you interrupted, your voice trembling with resolve. “I needed to see you. To know you’re well.”

His expression softened, and he reached out, his hands settling on your shoulders. “You took an enormous risk coming here. If they find out-”

“I don’t care,” you interrupted, your hands gripping the front of his tunic. “I couldn’t bear another moment without you. Tomorrow feels like a lifetime away from seeing you again.”

Marcus’s gaze darkened with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, and his hands slid down your arms, pulling you closer. “You’ve always been braver than I deserve,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But you shouldn’t have to be.”

He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, as though he needed to memorize the feel of you. The weight of the world melted away in that moment, leaving only the two of you and the quiet hum of the night.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You were the closest thing he had to touch the moon that shine over you with his own hands, his heart felt at ease at the thought of you and now that he was looking directly at you, he felt alive and braver than ever.

“Tomorrow, I’ll fight for you and for us,” he said, his voice resolute. “And I’ll win. I swear it.”

His words were a solemn vow, carrying the weight of his love and his unyielding strength of power. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and for a moment, the universe seemed to hold its breath, the stars outside aligning for the two of you.

“Marcus,” you whispered, “You’re everything to me. I don’t care about their rules or their power. All I care about is you.”

His lips curved into a faint smile; a softness rarely seen breaking through the stoicism that often cloaked him. “Then you’ve already given me the strength I need,” he replied, his hands sliding from your arms to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, as if memorizing the feel of your skin beneath his calloused touch could save him from his duties and just sacred himself to serve and adore you.

“I’ll return to you,” he said, the conviction in his tone leaving no room for doubt. “No force in this world could keep me away.”

The sheer intensity of his gaze sent shivers through you, and you found yourself leaning into him, finding solace in his unwavering presence. “I’ll be waiting,” you promised, capturing his lips in a desperate attempt to feel like he wouldn't die for you in the arena.

You didn't want to become the wife of a dead husband; you didn't want Marcus to die for you. You just wanted him and all the love he had to offer.

Marcus deepened the kiss, his hand pressing against the small of your back to hold you closer, as if he too feared the distance that tomorrow might bring. His other hand cradled your face with a gentleness that contrasted the ferocity of his actions. For a moment, time seemed to halt, the world outside fading into oblivion. It was just the two of you, locked in an embrace that spoke of love, desperation, and promises yet to be written.

“Acacius” you whispered, feeling the fire burning inside you.

Marcus’s name on your lips was a melody he never wanted to stop hearing. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, his breath mingling with yours as though he couldn’t bear even a whisper of space between you. The fire you felt inside was reflected in his gaze, a raw, unyielding passion, tempered by the tenderness of a man who loved you more than life itself.

"Say it again," he murmured, his voice low, rough, as if your words were the only thing grounding him.

“Acacius,” you repeated, your voice trembling at the feeling of his hands roaming all over your body as a delicate map of Roma itself, the same Acacius had sworn to serve and protect.

His hands traced your skin with reverence, as if he were mapping the contours of not just your body, but your very soul. Each touch was delicate, as though he were imprinting his essence into every inch of you, claiming you in the most intimate way possible.

"Your name," he breathed, his lips brushing against your ear, "is the only thing I need to hear. The only thing that matters." His voice was like a caress, both tender and desperate.

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on your neck, of his touch, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “And I, you," you whispered back, your hands exploring the firm planes of his chest, his heart beating in sync with yours.

His actions hit a chord inside you that you didn’t know existed. The weight of his promises and devotion, the depth of his feelings, was overwhelming. You leaned closer, wrapping your arms around him, needing to feel him against you, to feel that he was real.

"I need you, Marcus," you whispered, your lips grazing his jaw, trembling with the depth of your words. "I need you to come back to me. Please, don’t let anything happen to you."

He pulled you into him, his hands framing your face as he kissed you, slowly, deeply, pouring all of his promises into the kiss. "I swear it," he breathed against your lips, his hands sliding down your body, his touch fierce with resolve. "I will come back. No matter what. I swear it on the gods and on my heart."

With those words, he kissed you again, and in that kiss, you could taste the sweet desperation, the love, the unspoken promises. And as the world outside faded away, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. He was yours, and you were his. And nothing, not even fate itself, could break that bond.

“Lay on the bed” he ordered, softly. Still caressing your jaw and neck with the touch of his lips on you.

Under the spell he seemed to have you under, you obeyed him, lying down carefully on his bed, not breaking the gaze between the two of you. He came towards you, with a look that seemed to burn you, but with love and adoration, to which you could give yourself without thinking of the consequences.

With his body over yours, he kept looking down at you as if you were the greatest treasure in this empire. His lips drew maps over you, on your cheeks, on your lips, on your neck. When his hands rested on your breasts, it felt like the air in your lungs didn't know where to go. The feeling was something you hadn't experienced, but you wanted to dive into it.

His fingers worked with your dress, leaving you completely bare under his stare. You turned your head to the side, embarrassed to be seen this way, but he with his fingers held your jaw, delicately.

“You’re the most beautiful woman, my lady” he whispered, kissing your lips, as his hands returned to your breasts, eliciting whimpers from your mouth.

His lips began to move down from your lips to your chest, planting kisses on where your heart was beating rapidly for him and the love you felt. Then, he delicately grabbed one of your nipples with his mouth, savoring the way your body reacted under his actions, your back arched for him, and his hands caressed your waist, trying to hold you in place.

Under him, under his actions, but not under his possession.

“Acacius” you moaned, softly. The way he was making you feel was something foreign to you, something you thought you would never feel.

His hand travelled up to your lips, his thumb tracing delicate patterns on your lips, as you kiss it with the same intention despite the fire burning inside you, your mind felt void and your body felt limb under Marcus orders.

With his hand on your lips, his detached from your breast, planting kisses down, leaving a hot patch down until he reached your stomach.

“God…” you whispered faintly.

His hands intertwined yours in attempt to hold you, as he kept kissing down your stomach, going even lower, until you could feel his breath where you needed him the most.

"I want to give you all I have," Marcus whispered, “But tonight I cannot.”

Before you could even respond, you felt his lips on your thighs, soft and delicate working up on you. Your breathing seemed to catch, until he reached the place where you needed him most.

Releasing a long sigh, your body seemed to gave up to him “Acaius...yes, just there.” you murmured faintly.

His lips seemed to know every part of you and nothing ever felt as good as it felt now. Your back arched as his mouth seemed to be taking you to the stars. In every kiss, in every touch, in every foreign sensation that was becoming familiar.

Acacius was starved, hungry for you. “You taste like heaven, my lady” he murmured.

Your hands let go of his, reaching up to his curls, bringing him even more impossibly close. You could feel his breath on you and how his tongue worked to please you.

Before you could even cry out, he detached his lips from your cunt, grabbing your mouth with his fiercely. His hands roamed over you, pulling you closer to him, as if he couldn’t get enough. Your legs instinctively crossed around his middle, anchoring him to you, and for a moment, the world outside seemed so distant, so unimportant. It was just the two of you, entwined in a way that made everything else fade away.

His lips left yours for a moment, trailing soft kisses down your neck as he whispered sweet things to you, his voice hushed and filled with the kind of devotion that left your heart racing.

“I’m sorry my lady, I shouldn’t have- “

“I’m yours,” you interrupted, locking your gaze with his.

His eyes softened as he gazed down at you, his hands now resting gently on your waist.

“And I’m yours” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm against the delicate curve of your neck. “Every part of me, every breath, belongs to you.”

“I want this” you reassured.

“And I do want this too, my lady. But after I win, after I marry you. I will take you with no fear inside me.” He replied. There was no need for more words; everything had already been said. The love, the longing, the passion was there.

With a final kiss, Marcus slowly pulled away, his forehead resting against yours once more. "I'll be back for you," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "I swear it."

And you, holding him in your arms, closed your eyes, trusting him, knowing that no matter what, you would always find your way back to each other.

You gazed into Marcus’s eyes, your heart still racing from the intensity of the moment, but his words pulled you back to reality. There was no escaping what tomorrow would bring.

"Rest?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "How can I, knowing what you're about to face?"

Marcus smiled, his expression softening with a warmth that made your heart swell. “Because, my lady, you need your strength for the days ahead. And because I promised you I would return.” He gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Sleep, knowing that I am fighting for you. For us."

Your throat tightened as you nodded, unwilling to argue any longer. You needed to let him go, if only for a short while. You kissed him one last time, a lingering promise between you both, before pulling away reluctantly.

"I'll be waiting for you," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside your chest. "I know you'll win.”

With a final, lingering look, Marcus kissed your lips for the last time. “Go back to the palace before they find out you are gone.”

You nodded, your heart heavy with the weight of his words. The reality of the situation hit you all at once—tomorrow would change everything. Marcus’s life hung in the balance, and there was nothing you could do but wait and trust in him.

“I’ll go back,” you whispered, pulling away from his embrace reluctantly. The cold air of the room seemed to hit you all at once, and the walls felt smaller, enclosing around you as you stepped away.

Reluctantly, you turned to leave. The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and the silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on you. Every step away from him was a struggle, but you had to return to your brothers' watchful eyes, to the prison of the palace where they kept you safe, yes, but at what cost?

The night felt endless as you made your way back, every sound magnified in the stillness. You slipped inside your quarters, the shadows of the room wrapping around you like a cloak.

The dawn arrived far too quickly, casting a pale light through the narrow windows of your room. The silence of the early morning felt suffocating, the weight of the coming day settling over you like a thick fog. You lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, unable to summon the strength to rise.

What if he doesn't make it out alive?

The day of the fight arrived, the arena packed with eager spectators. The air buzzed with excitement and bloodlust as the crowd roared for their favorite gladiators. You sat in the imperial box, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched Marcus step into the arena, his armor gleaming in the midday sun.

He looked up at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. For a moment, it was as if the crowd didn’t exist, as if the two of you were the only ones in the world.

Geta leaned toward you, a wicked grin on his face. “Enjoy the show, dear sister. It may be the last time you see him standing.”

You ignored him, your eyes fixed on Marcus as the gates to the arena opened, and his opponents emerged.

Two gladiators, seasoned and ruthless, stalked toward him, their weapons glinting menacingly. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices deafening as the fight began.

Geta's smug expression faltered as the fight progressed. Caracalla leaned forward, his lips pressed into a thin line. They had underestimated Marcus. He wasn’t just their general; he was a force of nature, unrelenting and unyielding.

Your heart raced with every clash of swords, every grunt of exertion. When one opponent fell, another rose to take his place. It was as though they were testing Marcus, pushing him to his limits, but he didn’t falter.

A particularly vicious challenger came at him with a spear, forcing Marcus to dodge and roll. The crowd gasped, and your breath caught in your throat as the blade skimmed his armor, drawing a shallow line of blood.

“Do you see how much he bleeds for you, sister?” Geta’s voice was low, meant only for you to hear.

You didn’t answer, your eyes glued to Marcus. His movements slowed for a brief moment as he wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, but when he straightened, his resolve burned brighter than ever. He caught your gaze, and in that instant, it was as if the rest of the arena disappeared.

He fought for you, for the life you both longed for.

The final opponent stepped forward, a hulking brute armed with a massive sword. The crowd fell into a hushed silence, the tension thick in the air.

“Come on, Acacius,” you whispered under your breath, gripping the fabric of your gown so tightly your knuckles turned white.

The battle was brutal, each strike echoing through the arena like a drumbeat. Marcus moved with precision and strategy, using his smaller size and quicker reflexes to outmaneuver his opponent. The fight dragged on, the brute’s strength clashing against Marcus’s endurance.

Then, with a burst of speed, Marcus ducked under a wide swing and plunged his sword into the man’s side. The brute fell to his knees, and the crowd erupted in deafening cheers.

Marcus stood over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving, his armor streaked with blood. The herald stepped forward, announcing his victory to the roaring masses.

Geta scowled, his hand tightening around the armrest of his throne. “So, he wins,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Marcus turned to face the royal dais; his sword lowered but his gaze unwavering. “Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla” he called out, his voice carrying across the arena. “I have won this fight, as promised. Now I claim my prize, your sister as my wife.”

The crowd fell silent, awaiting Geta’s response. He rose from his seat, his face a mask of reluctant acceptance. “Very well, General Acacius,” he said, his tone clipped. “You have proven your worth. Take her.”

The silence that followed Geta's words felt like an eternity, heavy with the weight of what had just been declared. The air was thick with anticipation, and every eye in the Colosseum seemed to be on you. You stood there, still in the royal box, your heart pounding against your ribs as the realization hit you. Marcus had won, but the price was not just his life, it was your freedom.

Freedom was wherever he was.

You had been raised to understand the weight of loyalty, of duty, of family. But the fire that had burned between you and Marcus, the undeniable connection, had created a chasm between you and your brothers’ demands.

With each step Marcus took toward you, you could feel the eyes of the crowd on you, the pressure mounting as Geta’s scowl deepened.

“Don’t make me regret this, General Acacius.” Geta sneered as Marcus reached the steps, his voice laced with venom.

“I will not,” Marcus replied, his voice low. He climbed the steps of the royal box, his eyes never leaving you. When he reached you, he extended a hand toward you, strong and yet gentle, as if offering you not just a way out, but a promise of something more.

“Come with me, my lady.” he said softly, his voice breaking through the tumultuous emotions swirling inside you.

You hesitated for a moment, looking between your brothers and Marcus. Caracalla’s gaze was colder than ever, while Geta’s expression was twisted with frustration. It was clear neither of them had wanted this outcome. But they had given their approval, and now, there was nothing left for you but to make your choice.

Without a word, you placed your hand in Marcus’s. His grip was firm and reassuring as he helped you down from the royal box and onto the arena floor. The crowd erupted into cheers, their admiration for the general evident, but all you could hear was the steady beat of your heart.

“I do,” you whispered, the weight of everything, your family, your duty, your past, melting away under the intensity of his gaze.

“Do you truly wish to be mine, my lady?” Marcus asked, his voice a mix of challenge and tenderness as he gazed down at you, his hand still holding yours.

The days following the battle were a whirlwind of preparations, but not the kind you had ever imagined. While the Colosseum was still abuzz with the echoes of Marcus’s victory, the grand celebration your brothers had envisioned was coming. Servants ran through the villa, gathering flowers, arranging fine fabrics, and preparing for the grand ceremony that would take place the following day. But amidst all the anticipation, Marcus had quietly arranged something more personal, a moment just for the two of you, away from the expectations, away from the people, and away from the watchful eyes of the world.

A ceremony where only the two of you would be able to be part of.

No witnesses, but only the eyes of God.

The morning sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the soft hues of your garments as the servants busied themselves around you, adjusting folds and fastening clasps. You stood still, gazing out the window as they worked, your thoughts swirling between the ceremony last night and the new reality of soon-to-be Marcus’s wife.

The quiet hum of their chatter stopped abruptly, drawing your attention to the doorway. Marcus stepped in, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that seemed to quiet everything around you. He was dressed simply, not in the regal finery expected of a groom, but in a dark tunic that spoke more to his strength than his status.

His presence commanding yet calm. The servants turned to greet him, bowing their heads respectfully.

“May I have a moment with my lady?” he asked, his voice steady but kind.

The servants exchanged glances, then nodded, bowing their heads again before retreating from the room. As the door closed behind them, Marcus crossed the space to you, his steps unhurried.

“You seem a vision of grace this morning,” he murmured, his eyes taking in the sight of you.

You turned to face him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You flatter me, my general.”

His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress. “It seems they left a task unfinished,” he said softly, gesturing to the loose lace at the back of your gown.

Before you could respond, Marcus stepped behind you, his hands deftly taking the lace and beginning to knot it. His touch was gentle, yet firm, the brush of his knuckles against your back sending shivers down your spine.

“There,” he said, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. “Perfect.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, where the silk of your dress met your skin. The warmth of his lips lingered, leaving your heart pounding.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his breath sending a thrill through you.

You turned slightly, your gaze meeting his. “Marcus…” you started, but the words seemed to fail you.

He straightened, his expression softening as he cupped your cheek with one hand. "Are you ready?" He asked gently.

You nodded, though your heart beat faster at the thought of what he had planned. “What are we doing?” you asked, curiosity stirring within you.

With a smile, Marcus held out his hand, the familiar strength and tenderness in his grip making your heart swell. "Come with me," he said softly, leading you out of the room and down the hallway, away from the bustle of servants and preparations.

You followed him through the villa’s quiet halls, your feet barely making a sound on the marble floors. Finally, you reached the private garden at the rear of the villa, a secluded spot surrounded by towering columns and vines heavy with flowers. The air here was cooler, calmer, and the scent of blooming jasmine filled the air.

This was where he had chosen to steal a moment for the two of you, where there would be no prying eyes, no expectations, just you and him.

"Acacius, what are we doing here?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.

He turned to face you, his eyes shining with something deeper than just love, a sense of peace, perhaps, or gratitude. “Before we stand in front of everyone tomorrow, I wanted to share this moment with you.” he said, his tone low and sincere.

He reached for your hand, gently pulling you towards him. “This is our wedding, our vows,” he continued, his words soft but filled with unwavering emotion. “I don’t need the crowds to tell me I’m making the right choice. I just need you.”

A tear welled up in your eye at his words, the depth of his love and devotion overwhelming you. Marcus cupped your face with his hands, the touch warm and grounding.

“I know we can’t avoid the grand ceremony tomorrow,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But here, in this moment, with no one else around, I want to give you all of me. You are my heart, and I want to vow myself to you, not in front of an emperor, not before the masses, but just to you.”

With his words, Marcus dropped to one knee, the powerful general you had come to admire now humbled by love and sincerity. "I stand before you today, not as a general, not as a man of Rome, but as a man who has found his purpose in you. You are my courage, my calm, and my reason to fight for something beyond duty. I vow to protect you with my life, to honor you with my actions, and to cherish you with every breath I take. Whatever battles may come, I will face them with you by my side. From this day forward, my heart belongs to you, and you alone."

"I..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him. You cupped his face in your hands, your eyes searching his for any trace of doubt. But there was none. There was only a quiet strength that matched your own, a promise you could hold onto for a lifetime.

"Acacius," you breathed, and this time, it was your turn to drop to your knees before him, your heart too full to be contained. You touched his face gently, as though afraid the moment might shatter if you touched him too hard.

"I vow to you as well," you said, your voice gaining strength with each word, your heart swelling with an emotion that could no longer be contained. "I vow to stand by your side, no matter what comes. I will be your strength when you need it, your peace when the world feels too heavy. I will love you beyond all else, in every way, in every moment. You are my heart as much as I am yours, Marcus. And I will spend every day proving it to you."

Marcus took your hands in his, his thumb brushing across your skin in a gesture so simple, so intimate, that it felt like a promise in itself. "You are everything to me," he whispered. "And from now on, your protection is my biggest battle to fight.

[honeybeedewdrops]

Photo Gone Wrong | L.Norris

Summary: McLaren ask Y/N to take a picture of Lando and Oscar holding their first and third place trophy. What could go wrong?

Warnings: mention of a bloody nose

______________________________________________________________

The McLaren garage was the place to be after the Singapore Grand Prix. "Y/N" Someone called as you walk out of the garage. You stop and see one of the social media managers calling you over, Oscar and Lando close by her side.

"hey what's up" you say walking over to them. "Would you be able to take a picture of the boys holding their trophies for the McLaren socials." You nod and start to get your camera out. "Sure any particular way" You ask. "yeah were thinking like this one" the social media managers says getting out her phone and showing you a picture the boys had taken a few weeks ago.

"oh uh ok" you says not so sure about this picture many things could go wrong. "What? What's wrong you seem hesitant" the social media manager asks "I just what if one of them drop the trophy and break my camera or worse me" you state "come on Y/n don't you trust us" Lando says "You not so much. Oscar he's fine" Lando rolls his eyes. "Come on Y/n" Lando begs "i'll make sure he doesn't so anything" Oscar says "fine" you agree. You get down on the ground and point your camera up "Ok lean in" you say. Lando grips his trophy and nearly drops it causing you to squeal and turn away. Lando started laughing, "Lando" you complain "alright alright i'm serious" he says as the two lean in.

You snap a couple photos and before anyone could react Lando had dropped his trophy. He scrambled to catch it but even with his fast reflexes it was too late. The trophy came to a crash against your face the end hitting just perfectly in between your camera and cheek hitting your nose full on. You toss your camera aside not caring about it and sit up grabbing your nose, crying out in pain. Blood started to gush out. "Oh my gosh Y/n I am so sorry I didn't mean it" Lando panicked. "I think, I think you broke my nose" you says as tears started to pool and fall. "We need a medic" Lando calls and Oscar takes off towards the medical center at least that's where you hopped he was going. "I am so sorry. what can I do?" Lando asks "Can you maybe get me a towel or something?" you ask holding your bloody nose that was really hurting. Lando looks around and spots a bag a few meters away he opens it and hands you a shirt. A crowd started to form and you started to get embarrassed. You tried not to put too much pressure as if you did it hurt.

A few minutes later Oscar came rushing over a few of the medical team right behind him. At that point your hands and the t-shirt you had were covered in blood. "Hey can you tell me your name" one Medic asks "Y/n" you say as the medic takes the cloth away. "ok that looks pretty bad" He says going into his bag and removing the t-shirt the medic poked around your nose making you flinch any time he'd touch a tender spot. "I'm sorry" he'd say.

Once the medic was finished he handed you some tissues to catch the blood. "Ok now we are going to get you onto the stretcher and get you down to the center" you nod as the three medics helped you up and then onto the stretcher. Lando walked up to you "Y/n i am so sorry" Lando apologies once again. "It's fine Lando I'll be fine" you said as they wheeled you away Lando following close behind.

They get to the medical center where you are put on some heavy medication to help with the pain as well as a blood thinner to help with stopping the bleeding. "Y/n we are going to take you to the hospital to get you checked out and make sure it's not a serious break from the looks of it you'll be fine will just have to wear a splint for about 2 weeks" "ooookkkk" you nod lazily the pain meds really doing some work.

The medic leaves to get the ambulance ready. "Sorry about your shirt" you said holding out the bloody McLaren shirt. "It's ok it's not even mine" he said pushing it back into your lap "oh good" you say and closes your eyes. "Y/n" Lando says "mmhm" "I am so sorry" you groaned tired of hearing him apologise "ugh stop apologising" "I can't help it. I feel really bad" you sighs "I'll be fine Lando" the medic comes back and start loading you into the van. Lando once again by your side. In the ambulance the bleeding had finally stopped and your nose was really swollen and starting to bruise.

Once at the hospital the doctor did confirm you had a broken nose but it wasn't severe enough that you needed surgery just needed to set it back and keep a splint on for 2 weeks.

Lando was very sweet the entire time, he waited the entire time. Even after you begged him to leave to celebrate his win with the team he didn't.

Luckily for you there was a 3 week break in between Singapore and Austin. When the Austin race did roll around you didn't have to wear a splint anymore and the swelling had gone so now it was just really bruised, but many still asked what had happened. 

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Good Old Days

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball/Women’s College volleyball (UConn / NC State AU)

Inspired by: “Good Old Days” by Macklemore ft. Kesha

Summary: Childhood best friends turned lovers rediscover love during final seasons.

A/n: this is Paige’s pov…..

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @paige05bby , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe.

Told me that the nights spent on rooftops, the laughter echoing from backyards, and those wide-eyed dreams we swore were real—those would be the good old days.

That you would be my good old days.

I met you when we were eight.

You’d just moved into the house down the street, wearing your older brother’s oversized hoodie and scowling like you hated Minnesota’s snow more than anything else.

I threw a snowball at your window. You came outside to yell at me. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

We had our first fight two months later. You didn’t want to share your last Capri Sun. I called you selfish. You cried. I cried harder. We made up two hours later when I offered you my fruit snacks.

Childhood friendship. Pure, unfiltered, untouchable.

It stayed that way until we grew up.

It was the summer before we turned sixteen when it all changed.

Fourth of July. You wore a red tank top, fireworks reflected in your eyes. We laid on a blanket behind your cousin’s truck, half-drunk on soda, half-drunk on feelings we couldn’t name.

You said, “Do you ever think about us? Like… more than best friends?”

I didn’t answer. I kissed you instead.

That was our first kiss.

That was the start of something I didn’t have the words for yet.

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe. Someday, these will be the good old days.”

We said I love you the next month.

We said I hate you two weeks later.

Because that’s how we were.

Passionate. Stubborn. Real.

You wanted to go to homecoming. I didn’t have the guts.

I let you go with someone else, even though my heart screamed at me to ask you.

You were furious. “But you didn’t even ask either, did you, Madison?”

When you used my middle name, I knew I’d really hurt you.

You didn’t talk to me for three days. That was a record. I hated every second of it.

We got high together for the first time senior year. An edible at a bonfire. You laughed so hard you snorted water out your nose. I couldn’t stop saying I love you. You kept repeating it back through tears of laughter.

Those were the nights we thought would never end.

Then college came.

UConn for me. NC State for you.

We promised nothing would change.

But it did.

Distance didn’t kill us. Time did. Pressure. Injuries. Growing into different people.

Still, you showed up for me when it mattered. Like that day—August 1st, 2022.

ACL tear. Pickup game. My whole world flipped.

You flew in without saying a word. Showed up at the hospital in your NC State hoodie, hair in a messy bun, eyes red.

“I knew you’d need me,” you whispered. “So I came.”

I’ll never forget that.

“I just wanted my name in a star. Now look at where we at…”

Senior Night. February 16th, 2024.

I stood on the court, mic in hand, heart racing like it was my first game again.

“I know everyone wants me to address the elephant in the room… but umm unfortunately this will not be my last senior night at UConn. Im coming back!” I said, voice breaking as the crowd exploded.

You were in the stands. I saw you. I always found you first. You were crying, grinning, clapping so hard your palms must’ve burned.

That night, we laid in my bed. Not lovers. Not exactly friends. Something softer. Something complicated.

“I feel like this is it,” I murmured into the quiet. “Our year. I think we can bring it home.”

You turned to me, eyes glossy. “I think so too. And even if it isn’t… you’re already enough, Paige.”

No one else could’ve said that and made me believe it.

April 5th, 2024. Final Four. UConn vs. Iowa. 69-71. We lost.

I was in shock. Tears running down my face.

You were the first person I saw when I looked up.

No cameras. No fans. Just you, waiting by the tunnel.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged me like it was 2015 again and we were back in my backyard crying over a scraped knee.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

And God, I needed that.

Then your shoulder tore. Final season. Senior year. The one you came back for.

You tried to push me away again.

“Go focus on your season, Paige.”

I didn’t leave. I flew out. I brought your favorite smoothie and an ugly teddy bear from the airport gift shop.

You looked at me, broken and raw. “Why are you still here?”

“Because if I had to do it all over again—us, this, the heartbreak, the magic—I would.”

We spent spring in late-night FaceTimes.

Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just stared at each other, eyes heavy with sleep and old feelings.

Other nights, I’d find myself in Raleigh. Or you in Storrs. Quiet visits. No social media. No explanations.

We sat on my roof one night after a party. Music below. Stars above.

“I wish time would slow down,” I said.

You nodded, head on my shoulder. “I wish we could be 16 again. I wish you’d asked me to homecoming.”

I looked at you. “I wish I had too.”

April 4th, 2025. Final Four. We won.

April 6th. National Championship. Tampa. We did it. Natty secured.

I collapsed in the confetti, tears soaking my jersey.

I searched the crowd again. And there you were. Hands cupped over your mouth, eyes bright with joy.

I pointed. You smiled.

After the game, I found you in the tunnel.

“Come back to Connecticut with me,” I said, breathless. “Come celebrate.”

You hesitated for one second. Then nodded.

April 7th. Welcome Home Rally. Gampel Pavilion.

You were front row. Cheering louder than anyone. I saw you mouthing my speech with me. You’d always known me best.

Later that night, parties in Storrs. I kept looking for you.

When I finally found you on the porch steps, red solo cup in hand, you grinned.

“Remember when we thought this was impossible?” I asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “But then again… we always were kind of unstoppable.”

April 13th. The parade in Hartford. Thousands of fans. Confetti and chants.

You were in the crowd. Again.

Always showing up.

Always my good old days.

April 14th. WNBA Draft.

I wore black. You wore purple. We didn’t sit together. We couldn’t. But the after party we were glued to each other.

I pulled you into my arms and whispered, “Thank you for every version of me you loved.”

You kissed my cheek and said, “I’ll always love every version.”

And now, sitting in this quiet hotel room, draft hat on the table, champagne on the dresser—I think about us.

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout the band… thinkin’ ‘bout the fans… in a small club in Minnesota…”

I was thinkin’ ‘bout you.

How we used to sneak out, lie on the grass, dreamin’, figuring out who we were. The futon nights. The fights. The Fourth of July. The homecoming I ruined. The edible giggles. The hospital rooms. The long drives. The late nights. The confessions. The heartbreak.

All of it.

Those good old days.

And I finally understand what the song meant.

“Maybe these are the moments… maybe I’ve been missin’ what it’s about…”

I smile through the tears.

Because even though we didn’t end up where we thought we would, I had you.

And that was always enough.

I pick up my phone.

Me: You up?

🏐💕: Always for you.

Me: I don’t know what happens next. WNBA, life… all of it. But if I had to go through every moment again—the best, the worst, the magic, the pain—I would. With you.

🏐💕: I’d do it all again too.

You send a picture. It’s us. Fourth of July. Sixteen. Right before our first kiss.

And I know, deep in my bones, in my heart, in the history written in every scar and every smile line…

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe…”

These will always be my good old days.

I don’t remember falling asleep, only that your voice was the last thing I heard and your picture was the last thing I saw. Fourth of July. Age sixteen. A still frame of a beginning.

The next morning, sunlight pours through my hotel window like it’s got something to say. My phone buzzes. It’s you.

🏐💕: Wanna get breakfast?

Me: Always.

We meet at a little diner a few blocks from the hotel. It’s nothing fancy—red booths, sticky syrup bottles, that smell of burnt coffee and cinnamon pancakes.

You’re already there when I arrive, hoodie pulled over your head, sunglasses on despite being indoors. You wave me over with a fork in one hand, smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

“I did once you answered.”

You snort, nudging a mug toward me. “I ordered your coffee. Hazelnut. Two sugars. I remembered.”

“You always do.”

We fall into conversation like we never stopped. College talk. Draft nerves. Rookie contracts. Training camps.

Then, it quiets. There’s a lull between bites of waffle and sips of coffee. You glance out the window, chewing your lip the way you always do when you’re nervous.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod. “Always.”

You meet my eyes. “Do you think… do you think we missed our chance?”

I set my fork down. My chest tightens. “I used to think that.”

“And now?”

“Now I think… maybe we needed the time apart to grow into the kind of people who could try again. And get it right.”

You look down, then back up. “I never stopped loving you.”

I reach across the table, cover your hand with mine.

“I never will.”

It’s not loud. Not dramatic. No background music or movie-score-worthy kiss. Just you and me, in a booth that smells like syrup, holding hands like we’re sixteen again and scared of what love could mean.

Only this time, we’re not scared.

This time, we’re ready.

And maybe we can’t rewrite the past, but we can choose what comes next.

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe…”

“…that someday, these would be the good old days.”

And maybe—just maybe—we’re about to start the best ones yet.

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                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️