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beiasluv · 7 months

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forbidden fruit pt.2 | charles leclerc

part 1

a/n: i wrote last part at like midnight, apologies for any typos 💀 enjoyy 🤍

‘y/n l/n and charles leclerc. forbidden love, rival or lovers?’

front line mercedes driver, l/n, and the ferrari driver, leclerc, had been seen having a conversation together before the grand prix in italy…

“y/n, question for you please.”

the conference room. same old same old. lewis, you, and george were seated together in front of thousands of lenses, ready to pick each and every length of your skin just to get a piece of information they could sell to the media.

it was the day before the big race in italy, the media was catching their eyes closely at all the drivers - especially you know which two.

“..yes?”

“about the incident after the qualifying round, what had happened with charles?”

the clicking of the pens and the scratching of the notebooks were starting to get you any minute. clearing your throat you grabbed the mic closer to your mouth,

“i’m sure charles meant no harm..we’re racers..erm…rivalry isn’t the furthest thing from us.”

“are you dating charles, y/n?”

alarms were set off in your mind. it would be a crime if george and lewis couldn’t hear them. you were nothing with charles leclerc. he’s the reddest flag of all. really. you were nothing.

"we," clearing your throat and grabbing your mic closer to your dry lips. "we're not talking on any terms."

smile, y/n. smile for the cameras.

"what are your thoughts on the ferrari team this season? any comments?"

the journalist raised his hands through the crowd, his pen almost fell off his lap from the enthusiasm.

"it was always a challenge to race with any team on the track, ferrari included," you nodded. "the ferrari has a strong car, they are one of the many tough contenders. obviously, every team wishes to win...and so does mercedes," glancing a tight smile at the interviewer who took the answer down the notebook. perhaps a little bit too messy for your driver's head to decipher.

"how about when leclerc saved you? any additional comment?"

"i.."

you caught lewis shifting in his seat; his hands started to calm up together in front of the mic, seated between the three drivers and the whole internet. you could only pray your zoning out was missed by the media and you know who.

if only you could express your infinite pain of being the only female in the male-dominant sport, no paper could ever hold just a nick of the feminine rage pregnant inside you.

how come the only question you got asked was about 'charles,' 'men,' 'dating' and never the sophisticated 'performance car racing' or the ones filled with personalities?

george russell, for the record, your biggest shipper, even chipped in. he pushed the mic closer to his face and looked dead into the camera - if looks could kill - "please, this is a mercedes drivers' briefing."

the tension is sky-high, or you could say: rocket-sky-high. george settled back in his seat as you threw him a quick thankful smile. only god knows what the media is going to make up this time.

'george to the rescue'? bullshit.

"lewis, over here please."

"y/n, leclerc's getting aggressive. be careful for an overtake-"

"copy-"

the adrenaline is rushing, flowing, and doing whatever the heck it can in your bloodstream. pushing the pedal as hard as your baby could possibly could, the wind rushed against your face. if it wasn't for the helmet you had on, your face would've been cut like it were a thousand knives thrown at you.

looking to your right you see the infamous red ferrari again, surging with the wind and springing out against the green grass beside the track.

"leave space! you fucking-" you muttered as your fingers tick all the necessary buttons of the formula 1 car in order to keep your position above the ferrari. "what the fuck is he doing!"

praying the car tires could take a bit more, you applied as much pressure you felt comfortable on your baby for the first place behind the checkered end line. you glanced at the body behind the mask of the helmet as you continued to push and pray, push and pray.

if only you knew the ferrari was reciprocating the act.

what was important was you finishing above leclerc - mercedes finishing above ferrari, of course.

"leclerc! y/n! leclerc! who's going to win?! would he complete the overtake?!"

holding on to your steering wheel for your dear life, you saw something of a maroon color rushing to your side. perhaps it was the speed of the car that distorted your vision or was it something in your cheeks?

shut up-

"leclerc! leclerc! leclerc! ferrari have gained another victory home! ladies and gentlemen, charles leclerc!"

"fuck!"

the cracking sound from your radio chimed in your ears - at the worst time possible - "y/n! 0.02 second behind leclerc! P2!"

yeah, thanks. thanks for rubbing it in your face that leclerc had beaten you once again.

"..thanks," slowing your car down against the wind, you came to a halt after the race line; obviously at a considerable distance behind the red ferrari. climbing out and plastering on a fake smile for the media and your beloved fans.

the monégasques national anthem was blasted through the speaker throughout the whole podium. any fan knew this song belonged to any of the leclerc and ferrari, for now.

holding your hands in the comfort of in front of you, you tried to remain calm throughout the whole song. nevertheless, your heartbeat was beating fast for the obvious reason after the race.

the shit-eating grin was plastered on the driver standing on P1. can you even blame him? congratulations, you had beaten your rival for the longest time and were placed on P1 while wearing your infamous red suit.

while you were wearing your notorious mercedes's fire suit on your waist, just like all the drivers on the grid (and charles), you grabbed the champagne bottle as the others did so.

"good one, leclerc.”

you sprayed the champagne straight onto the monégasques’s back, maybe it was a little intentional that you shook the bottle a little harder for more pressure of the liquor.

no hard feelings, of course. you only knew his hair was soaked under the cap on his head and the tingling of the bubbles down his neck.

how unfortunate.

charles smirked back as he aimed his half-empty champagne bottle at you, "it's still not a date."

what.?

seeing you in your stunned state, he lowered the bottle to an acceptable level. leclerc cleared his throat and wiped the foam of champagne off his upper lips and chin; looking back with the biggest annoying grin on his face, "congrats on the podium. next race?"

oh, how you wish you could smack his grin off his mother fucking face again. rubbing it into your face.

the media..the media. breathe in, breathe out.

"will do, 16."

"congratulations on P2,"

toto patted your back as he entered the mercedes's headquarters. how lovely it is to see his drivers bundled up in his room, once again, after a race 'gone wrong.'

"what is it this time," he sighed as he lowered himself to his chair, not ready to be resigning the team principal position for a therapist for his driver.

the room was your comfort zone, safe to say. the picture of toto's kid, susie, and all of his essentials to complete the job for a team principal. crashing into his room with george wasn't an abnormal thing in your team, nor was it the first time of your career with him.

"they kept asking if you're dating charles, huh?" toto grinned as he faked wipe his mouth for the dramatic effect.

"i'm sick of it-"

the environment of the room shifted - for the better, surprisingly. also. did you mention the fact that this room felt more like a therapy session than a team principal's room?

and. wikipedia got it wrong, it was: toto wolff, team principal and CEO of mercedes, and a part-time therapist.

perfect.

"i'm sure we've put on a great fight," toto nodded towards you, the unspoken tension of the media was killing you inside out.

"i'm sick of the media, toto-"

george shifted next to you on the black sofa, "who knows, they're just trying to write a story out of nothing."

"it'll be the death of me if I have to continuously declare my love life on the internet," resting your head back on the back of the couch you did.

the coldness in the room was cleared by a bit as george snaked his arm around the back of the couch, he whispered into your ear, "you don't have a thing for charles..do you?"

"i hate you."

"night, toto. night, george."

bidding toto and george goodbyes, you grabbed your bag from the floor and beeline for the exit door.

the hotel bed is calling your name like a mantra at this point. the race was mentally and physically exhausting, what could be better than a nice, warm bath and a soft bed waiting for you?

the sky was pitch black, darker than your deepest thoughts in solitary, but the pitch was never dark. thanks to the eyes-scorching light to illuminate the track during the night races.

“sup lando..sup daniel”

“good race, l/n.”

walking past a couple of drivers, quick and friendly nods were exchanged as you head for the garage for your beloved mercedes.

and for the love of god, the eyes of the ferrari next to your mercedes were ignited.

how could this get even better?

making your way into the garage, you tried to be as quiet as you possibly could. digging in your purse for the key was a painful ride to ride.

'ah, found it.'

your fingertip dug into the muscle memory as you press the button you hoped was coded with 'unlock.'

fuck.

how gracious of mercedes to make the unlocking sound so loud. so loud that it caught the attention of the ferrari driver. so loud that leclerc's neck flicked towards the sound of your car and you swore you could feel his grin growing.

the second slowed down by a quarter as you seized the handle for the door and swung your bag and body inside the car. perhaps it was not fast enough for the P1 winner today as he made his way next to your car before you could even shut the door. ignoring his steps as he teasingly walked over to his ferrari and played with the key in his hand.

"you put up a great fight for the first place," he grinned. "next time.." he opened his ferrari,

“eyes on the track, l/n.”

"how-...don't you worry about it, leclerc," you scoffed, hiding the beating of your heart. fucking hell- stop beating so fast-

raising his eyebrows in one quick, swift motion, he entered his ferrari, "of course." the driver was fully engulfed by the shadows of the vertical door, but his eyes were still looking into yours, "nice drive today."

"you too."

your phone screen screamed it was 2 in the morning, but who cares? the tiktok on your phone was a little more entertaining than seeing charles off the track - okay, maybe a lot less - but the thing so addicting about tiktok was a life mystery for you.

curling up to your side, your phone was plugged into the wall next to your bed, your hand starting to get numb from holding your phone for too long.

asmr. f1 edit. asmr. f1 edit. asmr. f1 edit. you were going to go mad. for the love of anyone, if you see one more edit of charles leclerc on your fyp, you are going to throw your phone out-

honestly, you wouldn't lie that you enjoy an edit of yours once in a while, but hell, charles leclerc..fucking leclerc...who told him that he can look so fucking fine after a horrible race from the ferrari?

you were almost tempted to slam your phone on the nightstand and get some sleep for the night. also. who cares if you wake up late tomorrow?

knock..knock

"oh, come on," you cursed. the audacity to knock at 2 in the morning?

you swung yourself off the comfort of your hotel bed and tiptoed towards the door of your room. your pajama short and oversized t did not help with providing the necessary warmth.

peaking through the cat-eye, you saw the last thing you were expecting.

charles leclerc, in the flesh. he was leaning one of his arms on your door as he was about to raise his hand for another knock.

"gasly! open the door-"

"have a problem, leclerc?"

gosh, you wished you could take a pic of how terrified he looked. shit. was he looking at the unbearable state of yours, or what? short shorts, oversized t, and your hair-

"y/n- i'm-"

squinting your eyes, you adjusted to the light of the hallway, "gasly's not here."

silence engulfed the air between you like a buffet. he continued to stare blankly at you. gosh- could he stop with his dark, green, eyes- fuck. "…leclerc?"

was it the tension or your ears going deaf - you weren't sure - that made you couldn't even hear his - probably lame - excuse of why he knocked at your door at 2 in the fucking morning.

what did matter was the blabbering of his mouth traveled through one ear and straight to the other, just like an f1 car, speeding on any straight path-

"-i think i'm fucking in love with you"

"charles...don't."

charles stopped - his breathing, his steps, his brain, and whatever he could be conscious of. you started - started leaning onto the door, started clutching the other hand to the door blocking the other half of your heart from his.

"what d'you mean 'don't'?" leclerc's mouth was gaped, letting the least amount of air in to keep his heart beating - for you.

retracting your hand, and the door, away from him; you still found his hand in the comfort of over yours, the one that you held onto the door to not fall onto the wooden floor of your hotel room.

every breath you took was a sharp nick on your lungs, but you've managed to heaped out, "i'm sorry, charles-" just in time before your lungs would betray you.

"why?...why?...please-"

"why? -really? why?"

finally regaining the willpower to look back at him, and not cry, you were greeted with his reddened eyes, "what the fuck do you want with me-?"

"you- you could go around and tell me all these nice things in front of my face and- and god knows what you've been calling me behind my back-"

his grip on your hands tightened as he opened his mouth again, but you cut him short- "it drives me crazy- fucking crazy that you act all so nice to me when we've fought our whole lives against each other."

"...what ever happened to all of your loathing glares when i'm on the podium?"

who cares what the sleeping people, ghosts, or whoever the fuck on this floor hears. you were done with cradling your heart as far away as you could from the pitch. it was stupid. fucking humiliating, at least, that you've found yourself back - back at the start.

all the effort to fight for your place on the grid as the only female driver and all of your effort to carry your dignity above all the scandals came crashing down just for a second of your selfish desires. was it so bad to want love from someone who really cares for you all your life?

dancing, kissing, crying, loving. was it so hard to deny when it is literally in front of your fucking face? under the reddest flag of all.

you wished and prayed every day that the races would be over soon so you could stop seeing his shit-eating grin, his eyes, his remarks, his cologne filling the air whenever he walked past.

charles stood in silence, unmoving, as if the time had stopped. if only you knew he was trying- trying to find the right word to express this weird sensation in his brain, his chest, his fucking heart. they all just ended up tangled in italian, frech, and english. mon amour. my life-

"..is that how you really think of me-" he felt slightly betrayed by his wrong tone, but even more by your thoughts.

"you think- y/n- you think i'm just trying to tick you off the podium?"

"..are you?" wiping the tears that betrayed you and escaped from the comfort of your eyes. "look- look at all the headlines- 'mercedes and ferrari.' is this really the- the condition you want to love under?"

"i'll love you under any condition i want," he breathed shakily as he continued to hold the door of your room open. who cares about the ruffled sheet you left or your phone uncharged by the bed?

"there's nothing between us-"

"you have a girlfriend for fuck's sake!"

"it's a PR relationship! and who cares what the media thinks? i'm not doing ferrari any good by confessing my heart raw to you-"

"you think mercedes is getting anything out of this but rumors? i've fought the press for all my fucking life from the scandals inside the pit-"

"this isn't about mercedes, and this isn't about the goddamn media-”

charles ran his hand through his messed up hair, "and I would have thought you knew that..."

"maybe- maybe i don't. maybe i'm too scared to love again. maybe i'm too scared of what would happen if we ended on a bad note. maybe i'm a coward for not wanting to open my heart for you.

-maybe i'm stupid...for you"

"you're not stupid," he said- decreasing the gap between you two, trying his hardest not to reach to wipe your tears.

"we won't work out," you sighed. "we'll focus on our drives, we'll fight, you'll leave."

"please," charles grabbed your waist and pulled you in, once again - you gave in. "i'll make it work."

all your walls came crumbling down as you broke down like a dam on his shoulder. you buried your face onto his chest and gripped his shirt until you didn't care it would crease. a mantra of apologies came out of charles's mouth that you wouldn't even waste an energy to decipher.

his hands found their natural comfort in your lower back, rubbing in lines of traces and tracks you'd spend the rest of your life trying to decipher.

tucking a piece of your hair behind, he kissed all of your tears away. his mustache which had grown since the karting days grazed your skin like they were made for each other. his cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling too much like an idiot in front of your hotel room..106.

you were still gripping his shirt hard, as he closed the space between your lips and his. it seemed like all of your walls were crushed to the point of no returning; towering over you, he pressed his body against yours like there was no more- like the last lap of the race.

the level of oxygen in your lungs was starting to set off an alarm in your head, but you didn't care. you were kissing the reddest flag of all in the grid and you were not regretting anything.

pulling away for air, he smiled against your lips; sending a wave of breath onto your chin.

"you have a lot to explain to toto."

"i'll have my ways..."

oh my goodnesss. if you like it, please do whatever you want to, I’ll appreciate it 🫶🏻

today’s a great day to take care of yourself, luvv 🤍

tag: @leclerclvr @buendiabebeta @be-your-coffee-pot @al-luvx

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randombush3 · 2 months

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dies irae

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three

words: 12425 (sorry not sorry)

summary: part four, the part that made me realise another part was necessary

warnings: drugs, alcohol, cheating, (a lot of???) vomiting, general angst tbh

notes: in all honesty, i started this with the intention of finishing the series, but it hit 12k and i thought maybe not x

weird little comment, but the last section was originally written in spanish (hear me out: i was on the plane and i didn’t want the people beside me to read it over my shoulder) and i’m still feeling a little iffy about my translation of my og version but oh well!

i hope you enjoy this and are content w waiting another five years for me to churn out the new FINAL part

The sand is warm beneath your feet, each grain rubbing against your bare soles as you sprint. The ground under such surfaces often hardens, proven by the sweat trickling past the thin string of fabric that holds your bikini together. If the beach were not so private, you would be worried about wandering camera lenses.

However, there is no one else here but your favourite people. Well, maybe Nico has dropped to the bottom of the list now that your energy has been worn down while his does not seem to waver.

“I give up,” you pant as he continues to tumble down the shoreline, changing his tactics and swerving into the water, comfortable in his sea. The same sea he looks at each morning from your bedroom window. The one he learnt to swim in. (That and a variety of hotel pools.) “You win, you win!”

The small figure, around twenty metres away, comes to an abrupt halt, wobbling on little legs for a moment. Then he begins to run again, but this time towards the towels and constructed shade you had set up earlier. Unwillingly, you race him back to base camp.

“He ganado,” he declares as he taps Alexia’s shining back as though she is the signpost signifying the finish line. Your hand caresses the divots of muscle soon after, brushing sand across smooth, tanned skin. Nico peers at you strangely, but understands, thanks to Tia Alba, that the beach outfits are special to his mothers.

“Mi ganador,” comes a tired murmur of praise.

“Did you see, Mami? I was so far ahead.” She nods, craning her neck upwards to talk to him. You gladly sprawl out on the vacant towel, passing on the baton to your wife, fortunate that Elena has been asleep in her buggy for the past twenty minutes. “Can I play with Lela now? Is nap time over?”

“No, sweetheart, naptime has just begun.” He looks up at you with pleading, bored eyes. The one unfortunate consequence of going to a private beach is that, unless you bring along your babysitter, there is no one else for Nico to play with. Alexia and you are both exhausted, and today is supposed to be about relaxation. Three-year-olds don’t understand that concept. “If you don’t want to sleep, how about burying Mami?”

“In the sand?”

“Sí, in the sand.”

He leans close to your ear. “Mami says I’m not allowed to do that,” he whispers, though he has not quite mastered the volume of such a tone yet. Alexia pretends not to be listening, but you can feel her foot prodding your shin in protest.

“Rules are sometimes made to be broken,” you tell him. “And if you do bury her, the only way to make her happy again is to get ice-cream. Which means you can also get ice-cream.”

“You are so annoying,” grumbles Alexia.

“This morning, I believe the word you used was ‘sexy’,” you retort. With the Euros on the horizon, it seems that the two of you are using up what little time you have to spend together. Though Alexia sometimes feels like there are hands wrapped around her neck after she failed to win the Champions League once more, she is more than happy to take advantage of the time off before she tries to make amends internationally.

“Mm. You are magically both.”

You tug your sunglasses – Prada, brand-new from a modelling campaign – down slightly, so that they sit lower on your nose. The sun is warm and doing its best to wear Nico down as he finds his discarded spade and begins to dig, and Elena is still fast asleep.

A mischievous grin forms on your lips, one that Alexia knows well. Topless, she flips over onto her back, excusing herself with a muttered comment about an ‘even tan’, and that is invitation enough for you to cup her cheek, your touch as fiery as the surface of the sun that blankets the beach. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair as you lower yourself down to her level.

“The phrase is ‘annoyingly sexy’ in English, darling,” you murmur, your eyes locked onto hers. Even now, after six years, the proximity ignites desire over every inch of your skin, and you cannot wait to kiss. Alexia’s initial grumble turns into a soft chuckle, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more. Impatiently, you kiss her, aware that the moment will soon be ruined by a spray of sand as Nico pursues his mission.

She is just as eager to kiss you back, craving the way you seem to hold the solution to every problem. Part of Alexia’s mind has not yet been able to comprehend the way in which you love her. It is hidden by the other, much larger compartment: the one that reminds her every day that she should never, ever tell you, because it would break your heart. To you, Alexia is making up for lost time. To her, she is secretly begging for forgiveness that you don’t even know she is due.

She knows the minute your phone rings that everything is about to go wrong. No one is supposed to call you today; you have been emphatic about it. You blindly reach for the ringing device, ready to lob it into the ocean, but Alexia grabs your wrist. “It must be something important,” she says, and it feels like she is telling you she understands; you are busy, and she understands.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” With a quick jog up the steps and onto the concrete of the promenade, you perch on the stone wall separating the beach from the carpark, bare feet swinging over the edge. The rough surface of the wall presses uncomfortably into the exposed flesh of your bum, but you remind yourself that you will soon be lying back down on the beach towels. “Hi? I thought we agreed that pretty much everything could wait until tomorrow. I don’t care about any photos taken of me, and you know that my automatic position is simply to ensure that the children’s faces are blurred out before they get spread around.”

“Y/n!” Your publicist sounds nervous. It’s a stressful job, you guess. Between organising interviews and brand deals and the like, she has to stamp down on unwanted rumours and be on the look-out for any perceived cracks in your very public person. Naturally, you are not perfect.

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi.”

“I’m afraid that it’s not a picture of you this time.” Alexia is now famous in her own right, as she always should have been. With a Ballon d’Or under her belt, you have been promoted to a ‘celebrity couple’.

“She has her own team, you know.”

“I’m sure she will be firing them soon.” The joke fails to land, instead crashing and burning and… You freeze.

“Why?”

“I am sure that you are aware we have feelers out for anything that could potentially harm your reputation.” You nod foolishly, caught up in the undisclosed severity of the phone call, forgetting that she cannot see you. “An hour ago, we were contacted by a photographer; one of the usual ones we get in when you’re in need of a bit of a press-boost. He’s based in Barcelona, has lots of friends in the area and such. I have the terrible job of telling you.”

Your heart quickens as the confession hangs in the air, leaving a heavy silence on the other end of the line. The anticipation builds, and you can almost feel the impending storm swirling just off the coast, waves beginning to thrash against rocks, nature beginning to tear the world down.

“He claims to have some photos, ones that could potentially damage your image,” she says, tone measured and professional. “I haven’t seen them yet, but he described them as… intimate, to say the least.”

“Of Alexia?” you question carefully, forcing the words onto your tongue. “Intimate? What do you mean?”

“Well, they are of her and someone else. Someone who isn’t you.”

“Who?” Dread sets in, and the wall is suddenly not the most uncomfortable thing about your position. You feel too exposed, unsafe in what you are wearing. Taken advantage of, perhaps.

Cheated.

“I have not seen the photos yet, babe. I don’t know what else to tell you.” He would have attached them in his email. Paparazzos don’t have time to harass you digitally as well as in real-life. She must have avoided opening them. Or. Or she is lying.

“I need to see those pictures,” you assert, your need for clarity driving the sentence forwards.

“Are you sure?” You nod again, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, knowing that she cannot see you but feeling helpless to do anything else. She takes your silence as confirmation. There is a brief click of a mouse, and the animated swoosh of an email. “They should come through in a moment.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you… alright?”

She quickly takes the hint from the lack of response and hangs up.

You rest your phone on your thigh as your arms grip onto the ledge of the wall, pulling yourself backwards so that you do not fling yourself off it. You shake as you reach safety, and your fingers feel numb as they tap the screen, accessing your emails robotically until a pinwheel is all that separates you from the photos.

Intimate, huh.

They are practically snogging.

There are eleven images, and each one delivers a blow more painful than the last.

The beach feels confined, like an elaborate cage that you cannot escape. The shoreline creeps towards you, and you seem to be pressed against the hot metal of the car in the carpark. You struggle to recognise the scenes captured as ones where you were present, and the unfortunate date in the bottom right-hand corner evidences the photos as a time when you were not in Barcelona at all: 2021.

The realisation hits hard and you find that everything you have ever believed to be true has simply been a cruel joke that you were excluded from.

What you have been sent is more than just proof; it is a betrayal etched in pixels, an undeniable record of a moment that shatters the foundation of your relationship. Your heart races as your scroll through the images, cruelly reminded of a reality you desperately wish were not true. One you had no idea existed. One that had been kept secret from you.

The lump in your throat grows, and your eyes blur with unshed tears. You are overwhelmed by sharp pain coursing through your veins, and it is as if you have been injected with a poison that burns through your cell tissue, disintegrating every block of your body. It scorches the things you know to be true.

Love goes up in flames before your eyes.

And then a voice that you really do not want to hear speaks, and, just like that, the ashes of what has disappeared are suddenly ablaze once more.

“Nico y yo vamos a tomar helado. ¿Quieres algo?” Sandals, sunglasses, a loose linen shirt. Nico holds her hand, proud of himself. You cannot bear to look at either of them, so you stare at the towels a few metres beneath you.

“Where is Lena?”

“Dormida, aún.”

Shaking, you stand up, enjoying the sharp rocks that pierce into your skin, reminding you that you are yet to die. “Take Nico. I’ll go back down and sit with her.”

“Vale. Te quiero.”

You don’t reply. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

Every step feels as though the world is cracking open and you are going to fall to your death, yet, in the midst of the impending doom, you feel as calm as can be. Numb, perhaps.

Elena stirs as you adjust the parasol providing her the necessary shade. A hand reaches out, prepared to grab onto you, searching for your body like you are her lifeline. You are her lifeline; you are her mother. And so is Alexia.

A tear rolls down your cheek as you let her pull your fingers to her mouth, nails brushing her lips as she whines with the headache of waking up from a nap. “What are we going to do?”

…

The car journey home is silent on your part. You stew in your nothingness, unwilling to engage in the light conversation Alexia creates to keep Nico awake before his sleep schedule is ruined. Barcelona flashes past you, and the city that you once admired feels like the scene of a crime. Looking out the window is almost as sickening as if your eyes were to land on the woman beside you. Almost.

You withhold your grief for the evening, going through the motions of nightly chores; putting the kids to bed, finishing the remainder of your packing, drying the dishes without throwing them at the blonde hair that sails past as she sorts her own suitcases out. A few texts are exchanged between you and your publicist, in which you graciously decide that those pictures will not come from you. Though if her team fails to catch them before they reach Twitter, that is not your problem.

Under the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the comforting blanket of darkness, you clear your throat.

It has been six hours since you found out.

Every second that has passed has done so with excruciating pain, yet you cannot determine whether it has sunk in at all yet. You wonder if, given the chance, you would crumple into yourself and weep as though she has died.

When you look at Alexia, readying herself for bed, you decide that the whole situation is laughable.

You are so stupid. You thought she loved you more than that, and you were embarrassingly incorrect.

“I want you to leave now,” you say firmly, only the bed between you. Alexia pauses, pyjama shorts halfway up her muscular legs as she peers at you curiously. Her confusion is infuriating. “I want you to… go to your mother’s or something. You’re not sleeping here.”

“Why? What have I done?”

She speaks as though this is a normal argument, or as though you are hormonal and unreasonable. You clench your fists and remind yourself not to wake the children up. “I am surprised you didn’t follow her to Mexico.”

It is then that Alexia Putellas realises three things. The first: she hasn’t spoken about Jenni since she left for Pachuca, and she barely pays attention when Nico persuades her to find the stream for the striker’s matches. The second: it has been six months since Jenni called whatever they were doing quits. And the third… the third is how well and truly fucked she is.

She should have confessed her crime the minute she first slept with her; the night after they were knocked out of the World Cup. Elena wasn’t even a concept, then. You took her back though you were unaware you had ever lost her.

Last year, when it was Alexia all alone, she should have confessed her second betrayal. A longer, more hurtful betrayal. Something fuelled by meaningfulness, not passion and heightened adrenaline. If she were in your position, the physicality would not be what obliterated her heart; the emotion behind the entire affair would.

She wipes her eyes, aware that she has started to cry. It is all the confirmation you need. “I’m so sorry,” is the only thing she can think to say, but ‘sorry’ does not amount to the pain she knows she has caused. ‘Sorry’ won’t heal a wound that has cut deep, cut through years of love and happiness and supposed loyalty. ‘Sorry’ does not change the fact that Alexia lent herself to Jenni, let Jenni take her in any capacity she wished, and then returned to you as though it had never even happened.

In all honesty, part of Alexia is very curious about how you have found her out. Mapi would not risk being caught up in such a storm, and Jenni would gain only suffering from telling you because she knows that Alexia would never choose her. Though she has spent night after night with her finger hovering over her sister’s contact, she resolved never to tell Alba either, for fear that her sister would see her for the monster she is and side with you. Selfishly, Alexia does not want anyone to side with you, but even she finds it easy to hate herself.

“Is that all you can offer me?” you croak, and it is clear to Alexia that you are this calm because you are putting your children before yourself. They do not need to hear their parents’ marriage implode; not tonight, not ever. She cannot bear to meet your eyes as you pierce through her bowed head. “Alexia.” She pulls her shorts up fully, forehead parallel to the floor. “Alexia!” you snap.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

Alexia Putellas is regarded by most as intimidating, yet, here, she is anything but. She is meek. Pathetic.

She is a woman who continued to make a stupid mistake although she was given so many opportunities to fix it.

And, when Alexia finally grows the balls to look into your piercing eyes, she sees, reflected in your hardened, dark pupils, weakness and idiocy, rimmed with the most stinging of betrayals. It kills her to see you fight your own tears, and it is worse when you have to break eye contact because you are afraid you will vomit if it goes on any longer.

“You are packed, so you can leave tonight. Sort yourself out while I get the children up.”

Everything is ruined because of her.

It is the last night Alexia lives under the same roof as you. It is a horrible way to end a golden age, and the worst possible confirmation of the fleetingness of all things that exist. You hate the world, you hate Jennifer Hermoso, and you hate that you can’t bring yourself to hate your wife.

Alexia says goodbye to a sleepy Nico and a clingy Elena. Your daughter refuses to let her mother go the minute she is passed to her, and all four of you try your best not to cry, whether it be from confusion, regret, or heartbreak.

Nico, inquisitive as one is at his age, does not let the door open without questions. ‘Why now?’ is what causes Alexia to freeze, searching on your face for permission to have one more second with him. You cup the back of Elena’s head, fingers splaying out against her soft hair, soothing her back to sleep. And you nod.

She crouches to his level, dwarfed by her suitcases. In her pocket, her phone buzzes; her taxi has arrived. “¿Te acuerdas cuando te hablé sobre la responsabilidad? Soy la capitana, cariño, y tengo que cuidar a mi equipo, así que ‘ahora’ es lo mejor para ellas.” You are grateful for the lie.

“¿Ahora yo mando? ¿Como me dijiste?”

“Sí. Tienes que cuidar a Mama y Lela, y protegerlas como yo os protejo a vosotros. Y nos veremos prontito, petit. Te lo prometo.”

He is fighting his tears, stiff like a toy soldier marching off to an imaginary battle. You half expect Nico to salute with his chubby, unpractised fingers, but he simply stands there, between Alexia and you. Though Elena is safe in your arms, Nico is caught in the crossfire, two feet innocently leading him into no man’s land.

You take a deep breath as Alexia closes the door behind her. She has been driven out – her own doing – and she knows, because she knows you, that there will be no space in your life for her until your gaping wound dulls in pain. The journey to her mother’s house is the second time she ever considers killing herself, with the first being the night her father died.

But this is how it goes.

You fly to England the next day, holding it together until Elena and Nico are safely in the hands of Anya, but you do not give her a reason for her much-needed babysitting abilities.

It is a small secret. You keep it because on top of being in agony, you are so fucking embarrassed. You. You got cheated on. You weren’t enough for her. (And Jenni was?) It’s really easy to pretend you’re stressed for Alexia, knowing she is heading into a tournament that Spain could win but won’t.

The first official step you take – the very first – is with a nanny. You meet her the day after landing at London Stansted, and she seems to be the perfect choice for the interim period of your life that you have unexpectedly entered; she speaks Spanish, she is discreet, and she reassures you that she is there to enhance family life, not destroy it. And possibly another alluring factor: she is quick to sign an NDA and promise that no photos of your children will make it into any dogshit magazine.

Her first interaction with your children is two hours before your lunch with your publicist, manager, producer, and lawyer. They have agreed to congregate – they have seen the pictures (an exclusive peek, as the deliciously world-destroying surprise photoshoot has not yet been picked up by anyone with ganas to publish it). Each one has a purpose, each one wants to profit off your heartbreak, and, though they’d never admit it for fear of breaking their hard exteriors, each invitee would also like to see if you’re okay.

“Do you… like her?” you sheepishly ask your son while Isabela, the nanny, supervises Elena’s lunch. You’re not entirely sure your daughter understands that the hummus is supposed to go into her mouth, not redecorate the highchair table from white to beige, but Isabela does her best to instruct her, the familiar tinkle of Alexia’s language making your daughter’s eyes light up.

He looks a little puzzled. “Is she a babysitter?”

“Sort of.” You sigh, “it’s just that I have a lot to do, and Mami is playing football now. Isabela is going to help us, but I want to make sure that you want that.”

Nico shrugs. “Don’t care.”

“And she’s going to speak in Spanish, just like Mami does.” In anticipation of a worse reaction, you wince at the slight insinuation that you’re replacing Alexia. He doesn’t pick up on it.

“She sounds funny.”

“That’s because she’s from Colombia,” you answer him, and he nods, storing that information for later. Probably for when Alexia calls to speak to him (a moment you are dreading).

“Is Colombia near Mexico?” He perks up; you know what’s coming next. “Does Isabela know Jenni?”

You have to remind yourself that Nico has not done anything wrong. The fault of the mother is not the son’s, and, briefly, you pray he has inherited your fidelity for the sake of his future partners.

You pretend that the name that just fell from his lips does not fill you with the overwhelming urge to strangle someone. And, calmly, you reply, “probably not, but you can always ask her.”

…

Alexia does not know what to do.

She wishes, she really does, that someone would pass her a clock… and she knows she has trained and worked hard enough to wrestle the hands of time back a year and change her decisions in every situation. Alas, that is impossible.

She tells Mapi, as the team touches down in England, what has happened. The defender is unimpressed – angry, even, at her best friend – but nothing warrants what is to come.

The morning feels eerily normal. Breakfast is difficult, especially when all Alexia can think while she eats is that every morsel in her mouth fuels the monster she has become. Every bite, every sip of coffee, leads her to live another day. She is not particularly certain that she deserves that.

Mapi does not look at her, swerves her request to be partners when training begins. Head down, eyes slowly filling with tears, Alexia takes the punishment. She says nothing when Pina pinches her side, “Patri’s being annoying”, and drags her into the drill.

She runs, she passes the ball, Pina turns and shoots it into the mini-net.

Pina runs, she passes the ball, Alexia turns.

Something goes wrong.

Maybe it is that the pitch is uneven, cut up from whoever had trained before. Maybe it’s the pass, slightly off-target. Maybe she is at that point in her menstrual cycle where the risk of injury is higher – that’s being looked into, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s that her body can no longer stay so robust when everything else in her life is hurtling towards the ground in the most epic downhill slope possible.

Maybe.

The pop is unmistakable, and the pain searing. She can’t help the scream she lets out, barely registering whoever has rushed to her side while she presses her face into the dirt, tears watering the grass.

“I’ve done my ACL,” Alexia gasps, lifting her head up slightly. She catches sight of the blue sky, the green grass. The bright sun shining down on her, hot against her neck but nothing in comparison to the agony in her knee.

She blinks, thinking her eyes are blurring from her tears.

A second later, she is unconscious.

When Alexia wakes up, she is glad to have passed out. She has no memory of being hauled off the pitch or brought into the medical room. Her head aches and her knee throbs, but she knows that there is someone beside her so she does her best to hold in the immediate wave of sobs that seem to take over her.

A calloused hand reaches for hers, unclenching her fist, urging her to squeeze the pain away, pass off some of it to her companion. They have given her pain medication. She can tell because the white walls dance around her and the only word she can manage to get out is your name.

She whispers it over and over again.

“I know,” comes a soothing voice, poorly concealing the worry that cracks the tone. “Shh, I know, I know. You’re okay, Ale. She’s… she’s on her way.”

…

The call is unexpected.

Mapi never has much reason to talk to you on your own, unless you share a concern for your wife’s wellbeing. You suppose that’s a bit of a redundant commonality now. Your lawyers have drawn up a custody agreement and, upon meek request, divorce papers: a gift for after the Euros.

“Dime, Mapi. Estoy trabajando,” you say curtly, signalling from inside the booth that the phone call is nothing to worry about and you can resume the recording session in a moment.

Mapi’s news makes you even more resentful than you were already feeling, because you can’t help but sprint to your car the minute the address is given.

…

Pain becomes part of everyday life.

Crutches, too.

Alba and Eli already existed as frequent visitors, but the former increases her appearances so that she has moved in the day before Alexia’s surgery.

It spills out, the night of the surgery, that Alexia and you are no longer together. That you left her, with good reason. It’s a surprise, considering you had stayed by her side during the twelve hours in England between the medical room, the hospital, and the airport.

When Alexia reluctantly tells Alba why, Alba decides that you are a saint and her sister, a sinner. She holds her hands behind her back to keep herself from slapping Alexia across the face, but little does she know, Alexia longs for the anger, wishing she wasn’t being pitied for her injury. She wishes there was no injury to be pitied for, but, then again, she tells herself that she deserves it and accepts the agony as one would hold a blade to their wrists and slit them.

This behaviour, this quiet ideology that she has been punished for her mistake, is what leads Alba to ensure the keys to the balcony are hidden and the kitchen knives are tucked away in a cupboard, out of sight. Or perhaps it is what she hears her sister telling herself in the mirror. Worthless. Degenerate. Evil, cruel, horrible. Selfish!

She has two children with you, for God’s sake!

“I have ruined my own life.” Her words burn, the intensity of her anger enough to make Alba flinch, hands gripping the steering wheel harder, forcing her way forwards. The hospital comes into view and Alexia cries out in anguish. “I have ruined it, Alba! I have ruined everything!”

Alexia, The Ruiner.

She bears the new name with something more than disappointment. She lets the nurses examine her knee, compliment Alba for her care-taking, and reassure her about the surgery. She lets them talk her through possible complications, secretly hoping one will occur and she will wither away; no longer a footballer, no longer a mother, no longer your wife. Just Alexia, The Ruiner.

Alba and her argue, Alexia lying back in the cot, hospital gown patterned against clinically white sheets, light fabric against her paling skin. “You wanting to die is not you wanting to kill yourself. It’s your regret, and it’s your cowardice at not being able to face the consequences of your actions.” Alexia had been hot-headed enough to voice how she did not want to make it through the surgery. She is in excruciating pain, and is convinced they need to investigate it. “It’s your knee, not your heart. Your heart hurts because you cheated on her and she rightfully left you! Don’t you ever say something so fucking stupid again.”

“Alba!” Eli’s entrance is neither good nor bad. “Alba, leave her.” Alexia’s tears run down the sides of her face, hitting the sheets like little bullets. The soft caress of her mother’s hand across her cheek is no comfort, and Alexia only sobs harder. “You are going to be fine, mi cielo. The surgery is going to go well and you will come back even stronger.”

Alexia knows that, once you have torn your ACL, you are more likely to tear it again, so she mentally disputes her mother’s claim. She has no energy to voice the thought, however.

“Mamá, she’s convinced she’s going to have a heart attack.” Alba points to her sister’s chest, as if to disagree by showing their mother that nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. They begin to argue, and Alexia watches her family implode, deeming herself once more, Alexia, The Ruiner.

It’s not a heart attack, it turns out. She falls victim to a severe panic attack just as they begin to wheel her away. They increase her dosage of anaesthetic.

Unfortunately, the next morning Alexia comes to after a successful surgery and remembers nothing. That is until she looks to her bedside and finds only her mother there (Alba having gone to the big, empty apartment to adjust it to her sister’s newly-disabled lifestyle).

She relives the kisses Jenni used to press to her neck, the marks sucked into her skin though Jenni knew she was not hers to brand. She relives your expression when you told her you knew, the grimace you had worn, the way your eyes flicked to the ensuite as though you were going to throw up at any point.

She hears her knee pop again, sees the trophy slip from her grasp, sees it float into the realm of possibility along with the Champions League cup.

“You’re awake,” Eli says with surprise, offering a warm but sympathetic smile. She reaches out to touch Alexia, but Alexia jerks her body backwards, instantly regretting it when her knee begins to ache unbearably. “They said you’ll be in a lot of pain at first, but it will subside and, soon, you can start recovery. Your physiotherapist is going to visit in an hour or so, and I cannot count how many well-wishes you have received.” Weirdly, Eli thinks to herself, Jenni has said nothing.

Alexia shakes her head, trying to dispel the fog in her mind. “Do the… Do the children know I am hurt?”

“I believe so,” Eli replies with a nod. “Y/n broke the news to them, but we haven’t heard from her since you went into the operating theatre. I have no idea whether she’s going to come here. I assume she will.”

“She won’t,” mutters Alexia, refusing to look at her mother.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy. She’s your wife, of course she is going to come.” A dark storm brews in the cagey hospital room, but Eli remains an oblivious ray of sunshine. “I know you don’t want Nico and Lela to see you like this, but they miss you. They must have been so excited for the Euros!”

All of it is the wrong thing to say. If Eli had known, she would have approached the uncertainty differently.

If Alexia were not so angry at herself, so guilty, so destructive, she would have calmly explained that your absence is both warranted and understandable.

Instead.

Well, instead, this comes out of her: “She is not going to come because I had a fucking affair and she has left me and taken the children to fucking England where they are probably never going to be allowed to see me ever, and I will live out the rest of my days as a fucking coach because I am useless and I am never going to play football again!”

Eli sits back in her chair, shocked.

“What have you done?”

Neither knows if it is a question or a damnation, but Alexia chooses to answer her mother regardless; “I have ruined everything, and now I am paying the price for it.”

…

Your friends gloat a little bit, calling it Karma. Anya and Gio are first in disbelief, but they soon progress onto the stage of hatred – something you have not yet been able to access.

For now, life feels as though it is on auto-pilot. Your children are happy and safe, your country is going to do well in the Euros, and time does not stop ticking no matter how hard you wish it would.

Alexia’s surgery is successful. You see the update on Twitter, not wanting to contact Alba or Eli in case Alexia thinks you have forgiven her. You haven’t. Perhaps you never will.

“There are two ways you can go about this,” Gio says with a smirk, holding out a thong to you as you stand in your bedroom in just a towel. “You’re hot and rich and famous… and now single, too.” You are not completely sure of that, but you nod, following along. You slip into the lace and then point to the England shirt folded on top of your pillow. It gets thrown at your face. “You can wallow in it and weep like a damsel in distress, giving her the satisfaction of breaking your heart…”

“I don’t think she wanted to–”

“She cheated on you,” Gio cuts you off bluntly. After a moment, your shoulders drop and you resign to hearing her plan. “As said earlier, hot, rich, famous… Babe, just get with someone else. Get with everyone else! Your babies are looked after 24/7 and this is London, my dear. The pond is really an ocean and you are a catch. As your bestest friend, I know what’s best for you. You’ve got an album coming out in September, a tour to hop on in November, and about three thousand dildos you can hop on after that!”

You cringe. “Don’t be crass.”

“Don’t be a prude.” She gestures to herself. “Look at me; Mia’s fine and healthy, doesn’t legally have to see her arsehole of a father, and I get a good shag every fortnight.”

“No, I’ve drawn up the custody agreement already. I’ll go back to Barcelona when the school year starts, and we can swap every two weekends. But I’m keeping our home – she can find somewhere else to live, seeing as all of this is her fault.”

“And the tour?” Gio asks as you pull on your England jersey and a pair of shorts. Good weather has blessed the start of the tournament, and you have been invited to the first match at Old Trafford by Manchester United themselves. Gio and Anya are coming, and you think they have put you in with a few of their players and executives. Your father has his own ticket, planning to meet you there and convince you to pay your grandmother a visit (she doesn’t like that you are lesbian and therefore you don’t like her).

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “because I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to make the children’s lives even more unstable. Maybe it’s best to give them a few months to adjust to the idea of us not being together.”

Gio hums in agreement, knowing she had it easy with her own co-parenting adjustment because her daughter was a baby with no recollection of her parents being a couple, much less in-love. “You’re a good mum.” She kisses your cheek and wraps you in a very needed hug. “You’ll get through this because you are stronger than a pathetic affair.”

You swear.

“What time’s our train leaving?!”

The match is a good one, and the atmosphere is enough to make you feel the slightest bit alive. Spain plays in two days, and though you have good reason to believe Alexia is going to be there, you are booking a family trip to Legoland to delay the first hand-off of many.

England win with one goal to nil, courtesy of Beth Mead’s chip. You are on your feet, cheering the entire match. One of the United executives tells you that he loves your passion and asks you if you’d take his ticket to the post-match drinks as he wants to head home for a nap. You laugh, the old Mancunian reminding you of your father, and accept. It’s just the one ticket, so you bid Gio and Anya goodbye, book a hotel for the night (comfortable with the idea that Isabela has safe hands to care for your children), and give your father a valid reason to pass up on the visit to Didsbury.

The only person at this event that you really know is Alessia Russo, after exchanging a few DMs last Christmas to wrangle a signed Manchester United jersey for Nico’s Christmas present (a gift Alexia had refused to say was from her as well).

“No kids today?” she asks with a grin, pulling you into a friendly hug.

“Didn’t manage to get them tickets,” you reply. “But now I get to drink, and you get to watch me and wish you weren’t on a nutrition plan.”

She shakes her head. “We’ve actually been instructed to celebrate the wins. Sarina Wiegman says it’s a key part of tournament success.” You look around the room, noticing every Lioness here, hair still wet from the showers and donning team-issued tracksuits, has a can of beer in their hands. Jorge Vilda could never. “Glad to see you haven’t yet become a Spain and Barcelona fan. Feeling patriotic enough to be introduced to our captain?”

Leah Williamson bears the same concentrated eyes gifted to Alexia; determination, victory, leadership.

You’re unsure if you have ever formally met her, perhaps at the Brits once. “I go with Alex? Alex Scott,” she says, as though she is trying to impress you. She takes the briefest of looks down to your hands that hang near your waist with no glass to hold (the bar has cut you off for half an hour).

You wear one ring. It is not the one with which Alexia promised you her total devotion, but it is from her all the same. An old gift – maybe from your first anniversary?

Leah doesn’t ask whether you are still married.

“I heard your son loves football?” He is obsessed with his mother, he wishes to follow her in every single thing she does. “You should bring him to our next match. I’ll get him one of those passes, and– Hey, you know what? I bet there’s a way I can get him a place as a mascot for one of the matches! Both our next ones are down south.”

You smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, course. He might be a bit young but I’m always glad to help out our little fans, and it might throw Spain off their game.” She winks, offering no further explanation, and is suddenly called away before you can request more information.

You have to admit, the idea of Nico walking (toddling) out with England makes you feel both proud and satisfied. It will be a tiny jab towards Alexia, which, honestly, is a privilege considering how she has stabbed you in the back repeatedly with a machete.

When your son’s first time on a proper football pitch is with Alessia Russo, holding her hand with wide eyes and a wider smile, you are sure Alexia has smashed the screen of whatever TV she has been studying her opponents with.

…

Spain playing England in the quarter-final feels intensely political within your family.

Alexia is in Brighton for the first time in her life, and she hates more than anything that she is not preparing herself for a match. She won’t be going through her pre-game rituals for another seven months, at least.

You tell Isabela to take the children to Alexia’s hotel, unable to put yourself in front of the wheel. Your hands have not stopped shaking since your manager texted you a screenshot of their conversation (seeing as you refuse to talk to her, not for pettiness but for fear of breaking yourself in two), and Isabela poured you a glass of wine before she left to calm your nerves.

You feel sick, and the toilet water turns red as your body rejects the rioja. Once you have wiped your mouth, you laugh at the notion that even Spanish wine is unwelcome inside of you.

“Who are you?” Alexia demands as the revolving doors of the lobby reveal her two babies with a stranger. She is quick to remove Elena from the arms of this new woman, although she is disgruntled by how comfortable her daughter seems. One of her crutches falls to the ground, Alexia not having been able to master childcare and post-surgery impairments because she has not seen the children she is supposed to care for, but she does not find it in herself to care.

“Hola, Sra. Putellas. Encantada.” Isabela holds out her hand but Alexia does not shake it, jaw clenched at the way you have gotten a Spanish-speaking nanny as though to completely erase her babies’ Catalan accents and memory of their other mother! “Me contrataron para ayudar a Y/n con los niños. Me dijeron que usted se encargaría de ellos hoy.”

“Sí, lo estoy haciendo, porque son MIS hijos.” She looks at Nico, who has been hiding shyly behind his nanny’s leg, afraid of his mother’s fierceness. Alexia softens, hoping to welcome him into her embrace, but her stupid knee won’t bend and she can’t get onto his level. Isabela reaches out to help her, or to at least steady her so that she doesn’t drop the squirming toddler she is holding, but the help is unwanted and, quite frankly, embarrassing.

Alexia’s frustration brings tears to her eyes.

She quickly blinks them back.

“¿Le gustaría que la ayudara, Sra. Putellas? Me han pagado por trabajar hoy, así que no es un proble–”

“¡No!” Alexia snaps. Silently, she curses how condescending and petty you have become. Paying the nanny in advance to taunt her for her injuries! “No. Estaré bien. Soy su madre.”

“Por supuesto, pero también está herida.” Isabela looks around the lobby for a moment. “¿Está sola?”

Alexia knows that Mapi’s parents are going to be arriving any minute now, kindly offering to help out with Nico and Elena. “Oh, we do not mind! We’d love for María to have children of her own,” they had said.

“Soy perfectamente capaz de manejarlo–”

“Isabela,” Isabela supplies.

“Isabela,” Alexia repeats. “Ahora, si ha terminado, vaya a disfrutar su día libre.”

She waits on the sofa just left of the door for Mapi’s parents, silently begging them to arrive as soon as possible. Nico is bored and would like to run around, upset that Alexia denies him his fun whenever he whines to play. Elena is tired, grumpily napping in Alexia’s lap, but that means she can’t position her knee the way the surgeons had asked her to. Isabela hadn’t meant to, but she had dumped two rucksacks of toys, snacks, and clothes onto Alexia, who still hasn’t been able to retrieve her crutch from the floor.

Close to tears and very overwhelmed, the arrival of the couple comes as a great relief. “Oh, you poor thing,” coos Mapi’s mother, a caring woman from whom her friend inherited the same quality. She kisses Alexia’s forehead and instantly takes the weight from her lap, hushing the soft whimpers Elena lets out. “Let us look after the babies. You make sure you have the tickets sorted. Have you taken your pain medication? Oh, let me take care of it for you.”

The fuss is something she has had to get used to, but she is thankful for the assistance. They wrestle Nico into his red Spain jersey, something he was not delivered in, and they ensure all three of their wards are comfortable before the stadium appears in the windshield of the taxi.

Alexia begins to get nervous.

Spain has more talent than England – always has – but they don’t have the same funding nor support. Their manager is a dickhead and the federation corrupt, and Alexia’s teammates suffer daily in a way no Lioness would be able to comprehend. She fears for their reputation, for their progression.

Her nerves increase when she sees you in the stands, in your own box of course. It seems that you see her too, but your only acknowledgement of her presence is the wave you give to your children. Alexia has to remind them sharply in Catalan that they are Spanish.

Afterwards, when Spain lost and Alexia is blaming herself for the defeat, you walk through the tunnel, following Leah’s directions that she had sent over text. You’d added her to your contacts yesterday, growing tired of Instagram DMs.

The odd thing about this area is that to your left, nothing is heard and the air hangs its head in shame, but to your right, a nation celebrates its victory. Sadly, you know you have to fetch your children from the Spain changing room before you say goodbye to the English heroines.

You knock on the door, politely. You have never been more glad that a player has not been selected for a squad. Jenni has missed the Euros due to injury, much like her partner-in-crime.

A solemn Ona Batlle, a Manchester United player who serves as a bridge between worlds in your household, opens the door, making no attempt to force a smile when she sees that it is you. You are (were) their captain’s wife; you are like family.

“Hi,” you breathe, not wanting to be the one to pierce through the silence.

Ona stands to one side and you pass.

Most of the girls are tearful, sniffling into their jerseys, heads in their hands, but no one is as distraught as Mapi. Her sobs take the fun out of winning, her devastation crushing and contagious and impossibly hard to ignore. She buries her face into Alexia’s shoulder, but it does nothing to muffle her cries.

You gulp, catching hazel eyes, understanding the plea to not make this feel worse.

You are heartbroken, and so is Mapi. For different reasons, yes, but both organs are shattered in the same way.

Alexia mutters something very quietly, secretly wishing Mapi does not let her go because this is the first time the defender has actually spoken to her since Alexia did what she did, but the blonde hair stops itching her face soon enough.

Rooted to the spot, you search the room for two smaller Spaniards, finding them both taking after Alexia, comforting the players.

“Nico, Lela, come on,” you croak, finding tears in your own eyes. “Say bye-bye to Mami.”

Their hugs and kisses are missed the moment Alexia leaves the country, and the absence of them makes Alexia crumble completely when she finds the letter from your lawyer that Alba has been hiding from her.

…

September rolls around with school, the start of your custody agreement, and the release of your new album.

Judgement Day.

For many, it confirms the split from your wife. Those pictures were never picked up by a magazine, so you have had them deleted with a baseless threat to sue for defamation.

Alexia no longer has to communicate with you through one of your employees, but any texts exchanged are few and far between. She tells you that she is renting a flat near the training centre. It has three bedrooms, but Nico and Elena share one because her mother is living with her while she recovers from her ACL. She also partially tore her meniscus, though she had hesitated to pass that news on, but everything seems to be in order and she is ahead of schedule.

You reluctantly text her whenever you leave the country, whether that is because you are flying to London for work (and to visit Leah, who you are now good friends with) or because a club opening has called and you have answered. It’s not as messy as the media makes it seem, but you agree with the articles that say you seem to drink as though it is what keeps you alive. The word ‘addict’ gets thrown around, but you are sitting in an armchair in front of your therapist before that escalates, if not for yourself then for the sake of your children.

They themselves do not understand. Nico frequently asks when Alexia will come home, though he has usually just visited her when this question pops out, and Elena throws big tantrums during the swaps. Those are done at a neutral location: the park near you. You hope the playground takes the edge off the palpable tension between you and Alexia as you sit on opposite sides of the same bench, exchanging brief updates about your shared duty until whoever is a mother for the next two weekends makes up an excuse to go.

Just before Christmas, once you have calculated that it’s technically Alexia’s turn with their children until January, you go on your biggest night-out since the days when all you were was a 2010s pop star in a girl-group. With no one to go home to and an empty house in Highgate awaiting your return, you get the closest to sleeping with someone else since before meeting Alexia. Her lips trail down your neck, the white powder on her nose rubbing onto your skin as she presses herself into you. You grope her body desperately, painfully dissatisfied by the bones and creamy skin your hands find. You are used to muscle, to strength, to power.

Not some anorexic model who calls you a MILF and hasn’t had a sober day in years.

In the end, you don’t end up sleeping with her, but it makes the headlines nonetheless. Your publicist lets them. “The world needs to see you move on, even if you aren’t,” she says. Your slight disagreement is not voiced, and social media explodes with further confirmation that you are single. A group of football fans are quick to attack you, calling you cruel for leaving Alexia when she is injured, but the thousand-person army doesn’t particularly bother you. You are doing your ex a favour by not opening up about the reason for the split, and you are both aware of that.

You spend Christmas with your parents, who are not pleased to have you moping about their house. Your father tells you that success is the best revenge. You tell him that your album has topped the charts in December, winning its battle against Christmas music.

“But that hasn’t mended a broken heart,” he is unkind enough to point out. “And neither will models, drugs, or alcohol.”

At this point in the day, you have made it through a bottle and a half of wine and a pack of Marlboro Golds. Voice hoarse from smoking and sobbing the entirety of Christmas Eve, you tell him to “fuck off” and call a taxi for yourself.

You don’t remember the destination you had typed in, but you end up at Leah Williamson’s house.

Leah is home, having returned from Milton Keynes half an hour ago, and is not really surprised by the state you are in. She supposes that she has gotten to know you well enough to realise that you are far from stable. This is the first time the English captain has seen you heartbroken, but she is unsure whether it will be the last.

…

Your tour commences the following month, with January being a fresh start to a new year. You tell Leah, who invites you out with her on NYE, that this year you won't be cheated on. It is not the comment that makes her laugh, but rather the way it slurs out of your mouth.

Barcelona feels suffocating when you arrive at the park to say goodbye to Nico and Elena. You’ll be in the States for the entire month and maybe some of February. Alexia is sure it will be fine, especially since the team has taken it upon themselves to look after the two children and help where they can. Additionally, Alexia is growing closer to one of her friends, Olga, who loves children and wanted to be a teacher before she decided on something much cooler.

Alexia has the courtesy to send Mapi and Ingrid in her place, knowing that you do not want to talk to her. You haven’t yet heard her explanation, but that does not matter. Nothing excuses what she did, and nothing will. (And with Jenni, who is no longer the godmother to Elena, the title being revoked instantly.)

“Will you miss us?” Nico asks as you kiss his soft hair, hugging him tightly. “Mami said that we have to swap every three findes so why no now?”

“Why not now?” you gently correct him. “Because I have to work. I’m going to sing in front of lots and lots of people and, maybe, write some new songs!” Your attempt to excite him crashes and burns, but you are not going to give up. “This is a secret so you can’t tell anyone, but some really, really special people want to make songs with me.”

“Who?” he pouts.

“Well, one of Mami’s favourites, Karol G. She is very nice, and she told me she has an idea for a collaboration.” Petty, yes, but also a career move. Nico’s innocence and lack of understanding about the meaning of separation means that he sees your plans as a very nice gift for Alexia. “And, let me think. Ooh, Bad Bunny – you know him, don’t you? I’m sure Pina or Patri or–”

He pulls away from your embrace, taking a step back. “Sí,” he says, sounding exactly like Alexia, “but to Mami, she no like because he says rude things.”

“Adults are allowed to say rude things,” you reply with a cheeky smile, winking at him. “Your mami says rude things all the time, but not in front of you.”

“Really?”

“Yep, but you’ll have to ask her about that.”

Alexia has hobbled through the nighttime routines, aided by Olga, who has halved the job by picking Elena and Nico up from nursery and school and watching them until Alexia’s day at the training ground had ended. Her and Olga haven’t kissed yet, but Alba has advised her sister to be quick about it if she ever intends to. Alexia is not sure she does want that, because your absence has only made how much she loves you (and how much she fucked up) even more obvious.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room, which is technically the master bedroom – only fair, Alexia thinks, because they are having to share here but not when staying with you – and Elena is fast asleep by the time Nico is tired of the bedtime stories he has relentlessly requested. She brushes off the slight sting of his dismissal of her acting and helps him settle underneath the covers.

As usual, she presses a kiss to both cheeks and the tip of his nose, and tells him to have nice dreams and a good rest. The weekend starts tomorrow, which means he gets to join Alexia at the training centre and sit in on the sessions. Alexia is slightly jealous because she is still stuck in the gym, but as long as he is entertained, she will get over it.

“Mami, how long is a month?” asks Nico, voice small and groggy and… is that a hint of an accent? Maybe the two and a half months of Isabela’s Spanish has affected him. She will look into it.

He tugs on her jumper when she spaces out. “Sorry,” Alexia whispers. “A month is thirty days. Maybe you need to pay attention at school.” She pokes his cheek playfully, and he giggles.

“I do pay attention, I do. Thirty days is long.”

Alexia dreams of the football pitch, of the grass she has been promised she will play on before April. “It can be very long,” comes her agreement, picturing where in her recovery she will be come February. “It can also be very short.”

“I miss Mama.”

His statement, unbeknownst to him, is uncomfortably relatable.

“Thirty days will be very short. You’ll see her again soon, and, you know what? She made me promise to give you goodnight kisses from her every night! She is going to send them to me from America, and I’ll pass them onto you.”

“Really?”

“Sí,” says Alexia with pursed lips, raising her eyebrows to invite him to doubt her. He looks up at her with adoration, as if her word is law. She can only be thankful that you are merciful enough to have not turned her own children against her. You have expressed your wish to keep them from being collateral damage, and Alexia respects you for that.

“Mama said that she makes songs in LA with Karol G!”

Then again, there are other ways to be petty.

…

Touring has always exhausted you. Eat, sleep, travel, sing, in varying orders; the schedule grows repetitive and tight after the first week.

After the first show in LA, you bring a blurry face to your hotel room. You kiss her, you can’t bear to do anything more, and you let her sleep off her drugs in your bed while you take the sofa in your suite.

High on adrenaline half the time and utterly knocked-out when not, you zombie your way through the travelling, grouchily rehearsing new songs on the road, signing merchandise for your screaming fans. You get asked about your private life in a few interviews initially, but the journalists soon learn that the topic is to be avoided if they wish for you to talk to them at all.

The headlines continue to tear apart images captured of you at clubs, and magazines never seem to find the pictures of you with your children when you visit them while you make your way around Europe.

There comes a point where you look at a woman and she becomes, in the eyes of the media, your latest plaything.

Alexia is seething by the time your two-night show in Barcelona rolls around.

One day, when Nico and Elena understand the concepts of affairs and heartbreak, they will see the articles written about their mothers; the hate Alexia gets, the times she has been called a whore by fans of the same sport she devotes her life to, the stark inequality between her and her male counterparts. With these horrors of the world, they’ll see the pictures of you, pupils blown out, eyes red. Women clinging onto you that perhaps faintly resemble Alexia.

Because Alexia knows you, because she loves you, she can see that what has been labelled your ‘slay’ era is really fuelled by devastation. A disaster that she caused. It riddles her with guilt, but she doesn't know how to expel that emotion from her head without reverting to the early days of her loneliness where she ate nothing and made her sister seriously worry whether she was going to find her bleeding out in the bathtub one day. And so, with a lack of command over such a strong feeling, she decides to rage. She is furious with your irresponsibility.

“Where should we eat?” your guitarist asks with a grin as you touchdown in Barcelona. The soft murmur of Spanish and Catalan is unexpectedly comforting, the familiarity grounding. Maybe Barcelona has become your home. Maybe it never stopped being that, because home is where the heart is and, frustratingly, yours still belongs to the woman who tore it out of your chest and didn’t even have the guts to tell you about it.

“I can’t,” you reply quickly, wiping the sweat from travel off your brow with the sleeve of your turtleneck. “I promised my son I’d tuck him in while I’m in the country, and my daughter has been drawing at nursery so I’d like to collect some of the pictures and see if I can get them blown up onto canvases.”

Laughing, your crew make their way off the jet. “You know, most celebrities would pay thousands for abstract art but you get yours from a toddler.”

“She’s talented.” Mapi draws with her, you’ve been told. Elena is what makes Ingrid yearn for a ring to appear in their relationship sooner rather than later. “And take the piss all you want, but if you had had to put my kids through what I have, you’d feel the same.”

The sofa in the Putellas household (the apartment no longer inhabited by Eli, who was very glad to escape the intense atmosphere as soon as Alexia was cleared to live by herself) houses three unsettled humans of varying sizes. The biggest, Alexia, shifts on the soft, new cushions, awaiting your arrival with gulps of brewing tears and the latest set of paparazzi photos of you fresh in her mind. The boy, Nico, practically vibrates with excitement, promising himself that he will drag out this bedtime as long as possible to make up for all the others you have missed. The smallest is upset because she hasn’t fallen asleep yet, kept awake by her older brother who shakes her whenever she starts to drift off, hastily scolding her with a ‘no, Lela! Mama is coming home’.

With no key to this flat, you are forced to be buzzed up.

The anticipation builds. Nico and Alexia try to remember what you smell like, testing themselves to see if they can recall it scent for scent. Have you changed your shampoo? Alexia wonders, Do you still use the same moisturiser?

“Hi, my darlings!” you squeal as the door flies open and Nico comes hurtling into your crouched form, closely followed by his unsteady little sister. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” You squeeze them as though you are never going to let go, and only release them from the hug when Elena begins to whine, adrenaline rush dying and tiredness overcoming her once more.

“Mama, home,” Nico says with an inaccurate finality. You spare Alexia a glance as he pulls you through the bare walls and grey decor until you reach a door with stickers up and down the white-washed wood. “Mami made me change, but you can read! Lela wants this one.” He rumages through the box of books near the children’s whiteboard (on it, the odd x’s and o’s of football tactics), pulling out a few to stack into his own pile before thrusting something you recognise very well.

“Mami reads to us in English sometimes,” he says matter-of-factly, though Alexia silently curses him from where she is standing in the doorway. “Important to know.”

You chuckle. “Mm, very important. How else would you talk to me?” Elena quietly crawls into your lap, happy to take over Nico’s bed, where you are sitting. You stroke her hair, holding her close. “Mami reads you ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’?”

He is too young to know what scepticism looks like.

“Es que hay ‘La Pequeña Oruga Glotona’.”

You refuse to look at the voice which speaks, but you nod.

“Alright, why don’t you get into bed, and then I’ll start to make my way through the mountain of books. I am absolutely all yours for tonight, my loves.”

…

Alexia’s hands slam down on the dining table, slapping against the wood with a loud bang. “Enough!” she exclaims, her voice slicing through the tense air like a knife. Her eyes blaze in fury and you shrivel, not quite sure what you have done to her. You grant her the silence she needs to continue, though her shout echoes through the shattered tranquillity like a bomb that continues to explode. “It is enough.”

“What, Alexia?”

You sound kind of… bored once you have regained your composure. Your shock is now replaced with a blank expression, and you run your eyes over your nails, examining your cuticles so that you don’t risk making eye contact with her.

“You think you can just waltz in here as if you haven’t offered yourself to the entire world and expect everything to be okay?” Her voice trembles with indignation, venom dripping from each word she spits out. “You can’t go from common slut to mother in one day!”

Nails forgotten, you square your shoulders and set your jaw. “I hadn’t realised you were the jealous type, Ale.” The nickname slips out like a poisonous dart, taunting her, wounding her. It rattles her, and you intend to shake her more. “It’s none of your business, not anymore. Deal with it – or don’t, I don’t care.”

“What kind of example are you setting for our children?” she continues, lips curling into a scornful sneer. “Kissing anything with a mouth! Like some, some hormonal teenager. And to have it all over the papers? It’s trashy! It’s embarrassing for me, because my wife has her hands down the pants of every woman she meets, pumped full of alcohol and drugs and… You, you go to these events, paid to get yourself on the front pages so that they can be mentioned in the location of the incident, and… and that’s like prostitution! Making money from your body, from sex!”

Her fists clench and she storms towards you, footsteps harsher than her bad knee can probably take, but you make no move to back down. You lift your chin up; “I don’t have to resort to prostitution for money. I have more than enough.”

“Then you do it for attention,” Alexia reasons with herself, albeit very loudly. “That is what you are, aren’t you? A slut for the cameras and the glitz and glamour of it all. So quick to jet off on tour, leaving me with our children–”

“I may be a ‘slut’ for attention, but at least I am not a whore for a woman who is not my fucking wife!” You press your hand to her chest roughly, pushing her away from you. “I’m not the one who had an affair, I’m not the one who ruined everything!”

Alexia recoils at your words, freeing herself from your searing touch before she melts. She forces her fury to its boiling point. “How dare you,” she seethes, voice cracking at the ferocity in which she forces the sentence out. “You think you can just throw my mistakes in my face?” You hold your ground. She will not intimidate you. “You think you’re so righteous, but you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be.”

It is a baseless accusation. You both know it.

“The only fact we have here is that you fucked Jenni. Our daughter’s godmother. Your ‘best friend’, my friend too! I trusted her, and I trusted you, and you took that trust and obliterated it by sleeping with her!”

Alexia wants to cut you deep, wants to give you the gory details of it all, but she hears the croak of your voice and knows you will not make it to your hotel if she tells you.

“I slept with Jenni, sure, but you have passed yourself around enough to make us even.”

“Nothing will make us ‘even’, Alexia,” you cry, meaning to sound scarier than you do. You can’t help the tears from streaming down your face, nor the hoarseness of your throat. “And I would never ever do to you what you did to me!”

You have to go on vocal rest the next day, otherwise the concert would be called off.

Alexia refuses to attend, even though most of her teammates will, instead pawning Nico and Elena off to your backstage staff and dangerously driving herself to Alba’s place.

It is one of those nights where Alba cannot leave her side for fear Alexia will choke herself to death on her tears. When the elder of the two can longer hold it all in, Alba ties her hair back with an old hair bobble so that the blonde strands don’t get in the way of her sister’s vomit.

("I don't want to live like this," Alexia says, her eyes wide and alert. Her little sister looks at her with empathy, searching, with a broken heart, for a version of a woman from the past she's not sure she knows. This Alexia is not the same.

"Of course you don’t." It's obvious. Obvious by the way she forces her existence without happiness, without company, without a smile. It's like there is no sun in Alexia's world, nor a blue sky, nor an end.

It never ends.

So, she says, "I don't want to live like this, without her, without the family I dream of every night, every waking moment. I don’t want to live, Alba. I didn’t want to live in August, and I haven’t since, and I… I do it because people rely on me." She takes in a deep, acidic breath, grimacing at the taste of bile on her tongue. “If it were just me, just Alexia”--The Ruiner, she silently adds–“I wouldn’t be here. Alba, Alba, I don’t want to live like this.”

She carries on repeating it because Alba has to understand. There can't be a possibility that Alba thinks her sister is insincere. What a lie that would be! To Alexia, she prefers death over continuing like this, with her head in the toilet and vomiting, vomiting, vomiting.

"If I had the chance, I would go back to August 2021 and never sleep with Jenni. I’d not let her kiss me, not give into it. I'm exhausted from it; from my loneliness, from the kids' questions, asking when their mother will come back home. Do you know that Nico asked me if we still loved him? If she still loves him? And why his friends have two parents and he seems to have a shell of a woman for one, and a vacant space in the king-sized bed for the other?"

"She might not want you again, however, and your imagined future may be false – it is the opposite of reality, no? If I were her, I wouldn't. You cheated on her when she only gave you love and patience and… Well, Alexia, I swear I really want to see you happy, but I just don't think she'll forgive you."

"And why not?"

Alba sighs. She places her hand on Alexia's back, moving it in circles to calm her sister down. When they were little, it was always Alexia who helped Alba. With school, with her problems, with new lovers or ones from the past. It was her responsibility to take care of her little sister, and when their father died and there were only three of them, Alexia felt that responsibility even more.

Here, roles reversed, Alba can only apply that which she has learnt from the heaving lump of flesh slumped on the chequered tiles.

"Alba," repeats Alexia, lowering her voice, relenting. "She loves me."

The younger of the two can’t help the tears that brim in her eyes, distressed in her own right. "She loves you despite your other girlfriend because she's a saint. She's a saint but, if you want her to be happy, you cannot take advantage of her," Alba warns gravely, sincerely, and correctly. Alexia lifts her head and looks at the clock on the bathroom wall. Alba's apartment is clean and trendy, just like the woman, and she has dirtied it with her presence. She remains, for the foreseeable future, Alexia, The Ruiner.

"Smartass."

"It's just the truth."

"Well, if that's the truth, I'd rather you be a liar."

Alba sighs again, more heavily, and asks Alexia to get up from the floor. If Alexia's knee hurts, she says nothing and jumps up and down. "Ay, your knee," Alba grumbles but Alexia keeps going. She keeps going and going until she can't breathe and her lungs hurt. She keeps going because she believes it will rid her of her sadness, or at least hopes so. She hasn't stopped when Alba asks her to. A loud voice breaks the silence. "What are you doing?"

"Destroying everything. If I can't be with her, I don't want to play football. I don't want to walk, or see, or talk. I just don't want to live."

To Alba, this tells her two things. One is that her sister has gone batshit crazy. The other? Well, that is the solution. It's simple, really; one sentence, and Alexia will know what she has to do.

"You need to fix this.")

Heartbreak is ugly, but Alexia’s guilt is uglier.

#woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #barca femeni #woso imagines #fc barcelona #mapi leon #ona batlle #alexia #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine #randombush3

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unoislazy · 5 months

Text

Fucking Brat

Mizu x Reader

Summary: you fuck around, you find out.

Disclaimer; Ray if you read this fic I’m gonna kill you.

Obviously swearing.

A bit heated but no nsfw

————————————————————

You and Mizu met during one of her many stops, this stop in particular happens to be the town you lived in. Mizu had essentially saved you from being taken by three men who had no regard or respect for your boundaries. From then on, you refused to leave her side, wanting some kind of protection in exchange for really anything Mizu wanted.

Well apparently the one thing off the table was your cooperation.

While traveling together, you and Mizu butt heads constantly. The fact that she had kept you around this long would’ve been a shock to anyone considering how you two talked to each other. You always liked to poke fun at things that she did, situations you came across, anything and everything. Mizu never openly found your jokes or teasing manner all that funny and yet for some reason unbeknownst to you, she kept you around.

You liked to tease her, oftentimes that meant just openly flirting with her despite never getting a reaction. You almost thought it was impossible for her to ever flirt back so you never felt any shame in what you said. She had never truly given you a reason to believe otherwise so you constantly tested her patience.

You had found a place to rest, which this time surprisingly was not in the middle of nowhere in the woods. Due to low funds, you, Ringo, and Mizu all had to share a room but you had agreed to sleep on opposite sides of the room.

Now you sit staring at the woman across from you, the room was extremely quiet given the fact that Ringo was not there. You had your chin resting on your hand as you pouted. Mizu didn’t even need to look up to know that you were staring at her.

“What do you want?” She asked, one of her hands lightly rubbed a cloth on the lense of her glasses to clear them up.

“Am I not allowed to look at you?” You asked in a very sarcastic tone, you knew what you were starting.

“Not when you’re staring, no.” She argued, her voice was low and she didn’t really want to enable you by responding but she couldn’t help herself.

“Why? Are you going to burst into flames if I don’t stop?”

“No, but you’ll lose an eye.” She responded, placing her glasses down on top of her cape which had been folded beside her. She really had no reason to wear them, you already knew two of the secrets she hid.

“Oh, scary.” You mocked, pretending to be trembling in fear. “You know you’d never hurt me.”

“You wanna bet?” She asked, finally looking up at you.

“You’re no fun.” You pouted again, now facing away from her. You didn’t think Mizu would actually ever put you in danger, but honestly you didn’t want to find out either.

“Never said I was.”

“Do you have even the slightest sense of humor?”

“Considering what you think is funny? No.”

You groaned at her response, she was so annoyingly dull and barely ever gave you anything to work off of. Which is why, any chance you’d get, you’d try your best to annoy her and push her to her limit.

“So, Mizu.” You began. The woman didn’t even pay you any mind this time but you knew she was at least still listening. You had slowly begun to make your way next to her, much to her very clear dismay. “Are you always so serious?” You asked despite obviously knowing the answer.

“Only when I’m annoyed.” She answered just as plainly as she had every other time. By now she had already set down her glasses but she still refused to properly look at you.

“You know I feel like our time together would be much more pleasant if you would lighten up a bit.” You jokingly suggested. You didn’t mind her reluctance to give you any sort of answer, sure it was incredibly annoying, but it only made your job more interesting trying to find more intricate ways to go about it.

However, this time Mizu didn’t even answer. She sent you one look and that was it.

“Your eyes are so pretty, it’s too bad that every time you look at me they’re only filled with disdain.” You pouted, still not gaining any response from the woman. Alright fine, if she was going to be boring, you’d have to up your game.

You moved yourself closer to the woman, now sitting beside her

You very carefully moved your hand closer to hers before you muttered,

“You know letting yourself have fun won’t kill you.”

You were persistent, she’d have to hand you that. She had to catch herself at one point, she couldn’t let herself so much as look interested in whatever kind of trouble you were trying to offer. No distractions, that was what she kept herself to, and that’s what she planned on staying with.

Your persistence was beginning to get on her nerves though, not because she didn’t enjoy your useless bickering, oh no it was quite the opposite. It was because she enjoyed it that she was annoyed. She didn’t want to let herself cave in, she had to keep herself from pointless endeavors, no matter how tempting they may have been, and you had tried tempting her on more than one occasion and nearly succeeded.

Why she kept you around if she didn’t want to be distracted was beyond either of you.

“Come on Mizu.” You teased, your hand overlapping hers as you noticed the annoyed look on her face. It wasn’t incredibly noticeable but the way her lips and nose scrunched ever so slightly let you know you were doing precisely what you wanted. Besides, Mizu was no stranger to being blunt, had she not wanted this attention she would’ve stopped you well before this point.

Your hand slowly traveled from her hand, lightly grazing up her arm before landing on her shoulder, you leaned towards her and whispered,

“Let go, just for a little.”

Mizu then swiftly grabbed your arms pulling them off her shoulder and then pinning you down. You hit the ground fast, but it wasn’t a hard enough impact to hurt, if anything it simply shocked you. You weren’t expecting such a sudden outburst, and especially not such a restricting one. Now you were lying beneath her, her lower half straddling you much like you had seen her due to a few others on your travels.

You’d never admit it to her but any time she did this to someone else you silently wished it would have been you, well it seems like you got your wish.

You looked up at her, her breathing wasn’t incredibly heavy but it was noticeable enough, her hands were tightly wrapped around your wrists, they didn’t hurt but it was a bit uncomfortable.

The annoyance she held on her face had become much more noticable, but her eyes held an emotion that you couldn’t quite read.

“Do you ever stop talking?” She asked, obviously not wanting an answer. Your eyes were widened from the sudden shift in attitude before you smirked.

“I think you already know the answer to that.” You joked, earning a scoff from Mizu.

“You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I am.”

“Would you shut up?”

“Make me.” You challenged. The woman whose face was no more than a few mere inches away from your face paused for a moment. She was contemplating something and honestly with the way she acted it could either be that she wanted to slit your throat or make you regret saying that somehow.

You wouldn’t though, you said what you said and you meant it.

“What, you don’t know how too? That’s too bad, I guess you’ll just have to de-“ Before you could finish your snarky remark, Mizu had planted a kiss directly on your lips. It wasn’t a soft loving kiss, it was rough, full of longing, and an annoyance that only you could be the blame for. You couldn’t help but melt into it, sure you were trapped underneath her so there was not much else you could do but you’d be lying if you said this wasn’t something you wanted to come out of your shameless flirting.

She shifted a bit on top of you, her legs were firmly planted on either side of your waist keeping her still. She was still holding your hands down but not as tightly as she had been, one of them slowly moved down your arm as she deepened the kiss.

While this wasn’t exactly what you were expecting from Mizu, you weren’t complaining. If anything you just expected, “you’re so annoying leave me alone.” And to call it a day, but clearly that’s not where you were going to leave this off.

As flirty and unflustered you wanted to act about this situation, you knew you wouldn’t be able to last that long. Your heart was pounding rapidly, you shifted your legs a bit uncomfortably underneath her, trying to readjust yourself.

Seeing as this wasn’t the outcome you were expecting you didn’t know where to go from here, you truly didn’t believe you’d get this far.

After some time Mizu finally released from the kiss, lifted off of you only to return back to the position she had been in before where she was a few inches away from your face. Once she had lifted from you, you both sat in silence for a moment before she let out,

“God you’re such a fucking brat.” She practically growled. You stared at her, your eyes widening even the slightest bit as you felt your stomach do a backflip. You had never felt that way with anyone so feeling it now with her was a discovery you had not planned on making at this specific point in time.

As funny as you might have thought this situation was before this point, You had pushed her to the limit and now you were dealing with the consequences of it.

You weren’t complaining either.

She continued to hold you in place despite you making no real effort to move away from her, not like you could even if you tried. You both sat there, inches away from each other, just staring at each other. Her eyes were filled not with annoyance like you expected them to be but… amusement. She was enjoying this just as much as you were.

Seemed like she was willing to partake in a distraction after all.

Your reluctance to make another joke at her expense after saying what she did didn’t go unnoticed by Mizu. A smirk slowly made its way onto her face as she scoffed, “That's what gets you to shut up?” She asked rhetorically.

She wasn’t wrong, you hadn’t said anything since then and honestly it embarrassed you. You had so many good lines but that one thing made you shut down almost completely. It felt almost as if the whole reality of the situation came running into you full force.

You were laying under Mizu as she straddled you, and you got yourself into that position by annoying her until she wanted to make you shut up. If this was anyone’s fault, it was your own.

“Nothing to say now?” She mocked in a way similar to how you had originally. You didn’t know what to say and all you could do was just stare at her. What does one say in this position?

“Where did this come from?”

Finally you had at least managed to get a few words out.

Mizu leaned forward, her lips gently brushing against your ear as she whispered,

“From you testing my patience.”

With that the feeling had come back yet again. She knew what she was doing and you really couldn’t complain, not like you would anyways.

“Not so brave when you have no power.” She continued to tease, a very knowing smirk stayed plastered on her face before she had neared your face once again. You could see it in her eyes that she had gotten some sort of idea and you hadn’t a clue in the world what it could’ve been.

“Since you feel it so necessary to speak all the time,” She began, pushing your wrists together so you could grab them with one hand, the now free hand was now gently placed on your chest.

“Why don’t you say out loud what you want to come from this, and we’ll see how lucky you get.”

Her eyes were staring into yours, suddenly you felt as if you never wanted to speak again. Sure this wasn’t what you planned but it was still what you wanted, and yet you felt an odd sense of stage fright.

It was only you two, no one else. Ringo had been off gathering items which often took him up to an hour, Taigen had been left behind yet again after trying to get Mizu to duel him for the millionth time. There was no one else but you and her and an empty room.

“I want…” You began, earning an expectant gaze from Mizu. She was being surprisingly patient for someone who seemed to really want to drag you off the pedestal you pretended to put yourself on sometimes. As you tried to express whatever it was you wanted, her hand slowly made its way from your chest and up to gently cup your face,

“You don’t know, do you?”

It was as if she read your mind, or just paid attention to the fact you couldn’t figure out how to answer. You shook your head, you didn’t want to admit to her that you had been bluffing throughout your flirts but it seems like that wall was wearing thin either way. You were surprised it even took this long to begin with, you had been bluffing from the get go, but now that you were actually face to face with the extremely attractive woman who you’ve said multiple things you might have wanted to take back, you didn’t know what to do or say until it finally clicked,

“All of you. I want all of you.” You finally answered. It wasn’t the answer your originally intended but it was an answer nonetheless.

“Not exactly what I was referring to, but it’s ambitious, I like it.” She admitted. You couldn't help but feel embarrassed before she leaned down yet again and whispered,

“Let’s see how much you can handle.”

632 notes · View notes

worldsover · 8 months

Text

link in bio top 0.1% creator ft. Jiheon

length ✦ 7.6k

genres ✧ sex toys; lazy sex; cockwarming; camgirl!Jiheon

(sequel to [PPV] BG SEX...mp4; for @co-reborn)

✦✧✦✧✦✧

“So, how do you think it came out?” Jiheon asks. She’s in your lap as you sit on the couch.

You take a second to process the words, with Jiheon interrupting the review of the footage. All that’s in your brain is the delightful sight of her deep in pleasure while you fucked her from behind, as well as the delightful feel of her thighs squishing under your fingers right now—you love the way your touch can make her giggle.

“I think it’s a good start,” you say. “Once you get a better set up, I think it’ll be even better.”

In your mind, it’ll only be better when your cock is buried in her again, not just nested between her ass cheeks as they are now.

Things unfortunately don’t get better as Jiheon leaves the warmth of your embrace. Turns out your judgment was flawed, however, when she ties her hair into a messy ponytail and gets on her knees between your spread legs.

She looks up and smiles. “Now for your payment, Daddy.”

You grab the phone.

This one will be on camera.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit. Fifty thousand dollars." Jiheon is scanning the financial dashboard; her channel, creamandheonni, has blown up, and it's only been three weeks, having only posted the sex scene, a quick blowjob, and a few flirtatious pictures. Your understanding of this new porn paradigm is tangential at best, through surface-level conversations with fellow actors who had this much more lucrative side hustle; you're aware regardless that Jiheon's frankly absurd growth can be attributed to her filling a niche, a rare intersection of natural prettiness and genuine enthusiasm.

"That's great news." From behind, you pull Jiheon into your arms. You were content with your life, or maybe just unwilling to diverge from the routine of mediocrity. You kiss the top of her head and bury your nose in her sweet-smelling hair, only tinged with pink as it'll soon fade back to black—more and more now, you want to entirely eschew routine. "You're going to be so successful," you say.

She's still scrolling through the dashboard, checking out her comments and likes, though she makes herself comfortable by leaning into your neck and humming. "Should I move out now?" Jiheon asks. "I mean, this place is a little cramped, and you have a nice house, right?"

Your fingers rake the ends of her hair. Deep breaths, your nose catches coconut, honey, a bit of jasmine. As Jiheon settles into your torso, her silky hair makes your neck feel fuzzy. You consider your next words carefully.

"If you want… you can move in with me while you look for a better apartment. No hurry, okay?"

There are people whose eyes you look into, deeply, yet feel nothing—for one, everybody you work with in a porn studio. However, Jiheon is not one of these people. She tilts her head back to look at you, and your heart trips on a bump on the floor and it bumps. Her fake blue lenses make her wide eyes shimmer like calm waves in a summer sea, or a cool drink on that same balmy day.

"You'd really let me stay with you? Are you sure?"

Hold her tighter; she coos. "Yes," you say, more confident now. "And if you need a partner for any more videos..."

"I was just gonna ask that," she says with a sly grin. She turns around, straddles your lap, and puts her arms around your neck. "So you don't mind me moving in?"

"Not at all."

Jiheon kisses you, her lips soft and plump against yours. She starts to grind into your lap, your cock hardening under her ass.

"And you really, really don't mind helping me film?"

You laugh. "Whatever you need, baby."

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Whatever she needs. Apparently, it's much, and you're unsure how she fit her life in that shoebox.

As if she's always lived here, Jiheon has taken up half your house. Your fridge isn't a textbook example of a single male's diet anymore, gaining a whole variety of side dishes inside and its door now plastered with notes—mostly advertisements for new restaurants to try, though occasionally something more sentimental. Your bathroom has turned into a storage closet, filled with all kinds of self-care items, nail polishes, and beauty masks. You even come home one evening to find a pink coffee machine sitting pretty on your countertop. She's managed to snatch up your master bedroom, relegating you into your guest bedroom, a quaint empty room now home to a vanity with lights. But that did not bother you, because you sleep together most days, and now you sleep a lot better, and wake up much earlier, with Jiheon wrapped around you every day.

The title of the film is Jiheon Fucks Her Landlord For Rent, and you don't need the script. Read it thirty times already. It's true that you're being exploited for money, but consider this: Whatever. This is top-shelf content you're having the pleasure of starring in, even if it's something like unpaid overtime. You come home from shoots to Jiheon sprawled naked on the bed, and your job cannot compare. With her petite ass out and her laptop open in front of her, she picks out songs to listen to while she edits clips to put up for sale. Then she would pounce on you, pushing you onto the mattress and riding you until you're both spent, and you would only hope she remembered to put a camera somewhere.

There is one fundamental problem for you, though—she is a fucking monster when it comes to fucking, and that's why, no matter how many times you fuck her, no matter how much cum you deposit inside her, no matter how tired you are, she always wants more.

Tonight is no exception. She saunters up to you while you're watching television, plops herself down right into your lap, and wiggles her ass over your crotch, a position that's become domestic.

"Hey," she murmurs, her arms around your neck, "whatcha watching?"

Not even a token effort to lean to the side so that you can keep watching. You shrug as your hands land on her back. "Not sure. Some sport. Volleyball. Tennis?"

Jiheon leans forward to nibble your ear. "Doesn't sound exciting. How about we do something more exciting?"

Your hands end up moving down to cup her ass—inevitable. "Mm, yeah? What'd you have in mind, baby girl?"

She grinds into your dick, hardening in haste. Jiheon pulls back to smirk at you, her eyes dark. "I was thinking… hmm, maybe Daddy could film me getting railed?"

"You just want enough money to buy a new toy," you say, laughing. Jiheon has accumulated quite the collection ever since setting up her OnlyFans, and you're still working out how to handle taxes and expenses with all that.

"Guilty," she chirps, pecking your lips. "But c'mon. I'll make it worth your while."

"Jiheon, today I had sex with three girls. Three." Your voice is as blank as your expression. "They were all just like you, new to porn. What more do you think I'd want?"

You're trying to tease her, and indeed, she sticks her bottom lip out. But there's genuine exhaustion there because as stated, three girls. Unstated is the hours standing around, waiting for them to get ready, ultimately ending in a sickeningly faux excitement

Jiheon stares into you. "Maybe you'd like spitroasting me? I've been talking to one of your porn dude friends about it."

You perk up. The image of Jiheon's face distorted, tears flowing down her cheeks, with two, maybe three dicks in her, is an enticing one.

Then you scratch your head. "Sorry, wait, 'porn dude friends'?"

"Yeah, your coworkers, you said you only like a few of them. And I talked to one of them and we've been coming up with a video idea."

As usual, you can never guess where she would be headed next. "Well, now you have me curious as to who."

She crosses her arms. "Mmm. Maybe I'll tell you after you fuck me."

You slouch. "Jiheon, I'm serious. I'm exhausted."

"You're shooting four scenes today," Jiheon says, sternly, and with her directorial tone, maybe she does have a career behind the camera too. "Trust me. We can do something relaxing. You know, nice and slow, maybe use this new toy I got. You don't have to pound me like rice flour into mochi. Or like some random girl who's gonna wash out of the porn industry after five scenes."

You counter, "You did in one."

Her lips tugging at a smile again, Jiheon slaps your chest. "Shut up, you know what I meant. Anyway, I'm just trying to suggest something new here. You can stay completely still inside me, and film me cumming over and over while I keep the new vibrator on me."

You close your mouth tight. The only thing your penis ever has to say about the topic: the more, the better; it says this in hardness. Jiheon giggles, knowing she's already convinced you.

"Besides, you could get some practice, lasting longer, without the pills," she says. "And then there's the whole thing about 'getting to cum inside the tightest pussy you've ever felt after years of being a porn star, honestly' but maybe you're taking that for granted now. Hmph." You'll never understand how she can look so cute while saying such immodest things, but Jiheon's pouting is undeniable. "I'm seriously excited about the vibrator though," she adds in that same breath.

However, you turn up your nose. A few spanks to Jiheon's ass, and you say, "And here I thought you only needed your Daddy to fuck you."

"Well, apparently Daddy is busy all day fucking three girls, so he's all tired by the time he gets home." She pouts, leans over, bedroom eyes, and whispers, right into your lips, "I have needs too, you know. Can't you take care of me properly?"

"Fine, fine. Let me shower first, you kinky little..." You trail off, searching for the right insult.

"Slut? Whore? Addict for Daddy's cock?" she supplies as she weighs down into your lap. "You're not going anywhere. I want your cock all sweaty and musky and used by some other girls."

"Alright, I get it," you say, peeling Jiheon off your thighs. "You're a kinky little slut whore addict for my cock. Let me at least get the cameras."

Jiheon grins, giving your cheek a kiss as you stand up. "Can't wait."

She runs back to her room to change clothes, finding a few things, a cock ring, an adorable thin black choker, and the newest addition—a blue bullet vibrator. You consider sneaking to the shower anyway, though before you make up your mind, she returns to the living room, setting up her laptop.

You've already prepared the three cameras, including a POV camera as well as the microphones, and you return seated to the couch. She checks all the lighting ("Natural but nice, not too bright," she said, giving her a leg up on most studio directors), the framing of each shot, while skimpy black underwear hugs her tight ass. How did Jiheon become such a detail-oriented person? This certainly doesn't seem like the same girl who was cum drunk in your lap after her debut scene. But you know how these amateur scenes always end—the sort of mess that makes a viewer need to watch the whole way through.

Jiheon starts the scene in earnest as she often does: one clap to mark the scene, then she shows off her outfit, this time a pink crop top and a black thong. She takes off her clothes slowly, then she cups her breasts, her nipples hardening under her touch. Jiheon finds her own delicate touch inadequate, desperate to pinch at the delicate pink buds under her top, and she moans quietly in response—moans grow louder with her other hand between her thighs, digits toying with her slit through the underwear. She's already soaked. The familiar shape of her pussy lips reacquaints itself with the light. It's where the theater would applaud. As she pulls away, licks her fingers clean, Jiheon lets out a little whine. You know it's genuine because you see her lips turn downwards for a split second, pouting at her self-induced lack of touch.

Composing herself, her big smile returns, and she gets down on her knees to crawl: destination—camera A to the side of the couch, pointing toward the center of the living room. Though you're not the target on the tripod, your view is pretty great. Jiheon's back is arched, her chest low, and her pert ass jiggles subtly with each step. Your eyes are glued to that edible little treat, and your hands are itching to grope and squeeze, but you resist. Jiheon is much more of a natural at this than you—when she reaches her destination, she gives the lens a kiss, then turns around, showing off her ass and wiggling her hips.

"Cut." She repositions the camera to face you on the couch, then she claps. Despite the clear marker, and though you know all this 4K 60FPS footage is going to make your new server room in the basement whine, you keep recording. Jiheon has a history of going off-script.

One example: she has two perfectly good feet, yet she's crawling back over to you, and before you can say anything, she's already got her lips against yours. Jiheon kisses you passionately, her tongue running along your lower lip and making you groan. It's the sort of footage you can put in a bonus reel.

She points out the cock ring and the vibrator on the table."We can start with the POV camera. Show off putting the vibrator on me and the cock ring on you. Then camera B for the penetration, and camera A for the full body." Then she's back to kissing, sitting on your thigh, and did you always have a Pavlovian response to directorial whisper or did she instigate that is a new question.

Jiheon picks up the vibrator, turning it on as you position the camera on your shoulder. Her head is down as she fiddles with the settings, and you take the opportunity to cup her breasts. Jiheon lets out a moan, a low sudden noise, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She turns around, places her legs over yours, and pulls down her thong.

"Daddy, can you help me put this on? I'll suck you off as thanks," she says, her voice sweet as sugar.

You take the toy from her hands and press it against her wet entrance. Wetter now. She shudders and whimpers. Her thighs tense. When you turn it on, the toy buzzes against her clit and she lets out a heavy groan, what a symphonic cacophony. You tease her folds for a moment, circling the toy around before pushing it inside. The small thing disappears completely within Jiheon's cunt. You attach the blue wire coming out of her cunt to a strap around her thigh, then you play with the vibrator's settings on your phone, making Jiheon squirm.

"Oh, Daddy, fuck." Jiheon's legs clamp together, trapping your hand between her thighs, but it's only the second-best trap inside something greedy; your cock's becoming jealous of the vibrator inside her.

Riding your palm and fingers, she rocks her hips back and forth, her back arches, and her adorable tits sway enough to get your mouth watering. She leans back against you, her hands gripping your arm.

"Fuck, you're so good at this. So good at getting me off." Jiheon turns around, her lips brushing against your ear.

You would attribute most of it to the machine doing work inside of her, but you don't want to ruin her video, so you simply kiss her neck, sucking on her soft skin. You can't ever get your lips off of each other's bodies. Her taste, a little sweat, a little heat, is not just a once-in-a-while dessert anymore—it's rice; it's water; nipping at her flesh is a staple, a daily need.

Jiheon sighs and purrs and grinds harder when your cock hardens against her ass. Your hand speeds up, trying to keep up with her hips, and you hold down a groan. You know the character you're supposed to play, played it plenty of times before. The silent catalyst, the tabula rasa, the self-insert.

It's easy to avoid stealing undue focus from the true star. Jiheon needs no help at center stage: the camera and her are lifelong acquaintances, already friends, lovers, married, divorced. With subtle expressions and not-so-subtle wails, she's an actress at heart.

In the backdrop, on the inside, the vibration toying with Jiheon's pussy stays constant. Even as the scene rapidly evolves—bodies shifting, her back arching like a violin, your hands plucking at her strings—the small toy is still consistent and patient. Its mechanical insistence is punctuated by erratic wet sounds, and you harken back to the trial and error you've gone through with microphones, trying to find a balance of quality and durability. Well, water resistance.

Jiheon wrestles some control of her arms, grabbing the hem of her pink crop top and pulling it over her head. The sight of her perky breasts has your tip leaking precum onto her already-drenched underwear.

But there is no contesting who's closer to the brink of climax. Her panting increases in frequency, her thighs crush your hand in its soft wet prison, her movements get faster, her breathing becomes heavier, her muscles tense up, and her entire body shudders. It's like it's all happening in slow motion, each second drawn out longer and longer, and you watch intently, unable to tear your eyes away from her orgasm.

You push the toy deeper inside, and she squeals, vibrations reaching the most sensitive spot inside her. Her inner walls begin their spasming, and the increased urgency of Jiheon's grinding makes that more than apparent. Her desire spikes, sharp, hard, to her own breaking point. Between clenched teeth, her words come out stuttered, a fractured melody.

"Fuck, fuck. Please, close, cumming, please... so, fucking, good, fuck."

Jiheon's face twists as she screams out and throws her head back. Her orgasm rushes through her—the first of many to come, you're well aware. She pulls you closer, nails digging into your arm, and shakes into your chest. Her nectar gushes out, ruins her panties, cascades down, overflows, drips onto your wrist and cock and thighs, dribbles down her legs, and you can hear dripping onto the floor and only hope the camera picks up the puddle below.

Eventually, her back crashes down onto you as her eyes flutter, staring off at nothing. You, meanwhile, can only admire your handiwork, naked, her breasts heaving as she struggles to catch her breath, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. She lets out tiny mewls, her tongue occasionally darting out to lick her lips.

Anyone else would be done. Jiheon is still hungry and needs more.

She takes a few deep breaths before turning around and looking at you. "I think you deserve your reward now."

Jiheon grabs the cock ring off the table and slides off your lap. She positions herself between your legs, staring up at you with big eyes, then her tongue flicks across the tip of your dick, and you sigh. She's teasing you; are you happy, or are you frustrated, or are you shifting back and forth? Her hands cup your balls to massage them slowly. Jiheon presses her lips against your shaft, leaving wet kisses all over your cock. It's pleasure and torture, the slow pace that she's going.

A look of realization, she gestures for you to stop the vibrator.

"Wait a minute," she says, frowning, as she pushes the silicone ring on your cockhead, "you're too hard to put this on. Won't fit. Why do you have to be so big, Daddy?"

The two of you laugh. "You know, you saying that won't help."

Jiheon pouts, leaning forward. She gives your cock another kiss, her tongue slipping out and licking at your head. You groan, and she wraps her lips around you, sucking gently. Jiheon's mouth feels so warm and wet, and she's bobbing her head up and down your cock, taking more and more of you each time.

"Alright. After you cum inside me the first time and get soft, we can put it on."

The first time is an inaccurate assessment. That'll be your fourth orgasm of the day. She's going to milk you dry. You watch her take you deeper, her tongue swirling around your cock. You hear her gag as she pushes further, her lips brushing against your pelvis. She's going to milk you dry; send your complaints to her throat—it's the only place Jiheon's going to listen. Your hips buck forward, your hand grabs the back of her head, and you bury your cock completely in her mouth.

She's a mess. Tears streaming down her face, her makeup smeared, and a dazed expression, it's almost like she isn't fully present. Jiheon pulls back, coughing and spluttering, spit and precum dribbling down her chin. She's a mess; why bother cleaning at all, wiping her face, when she knows she'll just be covered again? At most, she licks her lips clean, and you're not sure it has anything to do with being clean. Her hand wrapped around your cock, Jiheon smiles while jerking you off slowly.

"God, your dick is so yummy. Even after you've fucked so many other girls today, you still taste so good. Or maybe it's because you fucked them? Mmm, whose pussy am I eating right now, Daddy?"

Her words are poison, hypnotic, said with the sincerity of a saint. She leans forward again, recapturing your tip. Jiheon sucks, her cheeks hollowing as she looks up at you, eyes watering, yet unbothered by it. Once more, she pulls away, and now the saliva running down her chin drips down onto her tits. You reach down to smear the mess across her chest, then you smear the sticky bead of semen on your slit across her lips; she accepts happily.

You brush your thumb against her cheek. "You're so good at sucking my cock, baby girl."

Jiheon preens under your praise, pressing her face against your hand, and her tongue darts out to lick your palm, her eyes never leaving yours—well, the camera, but close enough. Her tiny fingers continue their work on your cock, rubbing it against her cheeks; they squish like mochi against your tip.

In her own world, she's playing like a pet, and your cock's her favorite toy, but soon enough, she refocuses. When Jiheon mouths "vibrator," you comply, turning it back on. The buzzing grows louder as you turn the setting up, making her squirm.

"Can't believe you want more," you grunt. Your thumb hooks into her mouth, prying her lips open. "You're so fucking spoiled."

Her tongue swirls around your thumb, her eyes closing, and she lets out a muffled moan.

"I know, mmh, I know, Daddy, thank you."

Jiheon sits back on her heels, moaning as she fingers herself and relishes in the toy's vibrations while leaving your cock between your lips. She repeatedly moans and hums out "thank you" against the tip of your cock, making messy bubbles of spit and precum. You go back to well-established techniques of holding back your orgasm, tensing up muscles, and looking away, while Jiheon has her own second climax swelling forth. However, try as you might, the sound of the vibrator pulls you back in, and you end up focusing on Jiheon's body as it quivers, her face as it contorts, her open mouth as she comes undone once more, her juices soaking her fingers.

Knees shaking, she clambers back up onto the couch, straddling your lap. You can empathize with how she's withering, her limbs jello; your arms are tired too, the POV camera still on your shoulder, and your cock is achingly hard and ready for its release. However, her boundless energy returns soon, and that right there is the problem/perk of working with Jiheon—she doesn't know when to stop.

She presses her body against yours, burying her face against the nape of your neck. "Please, Daddy, I need you inside me. I'm so wet right now," she whines, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

You chuckle, grabbing her hair and pulling her towards you. Jiheon moans as you slide her across your lap. You rub your dick against her thighs, against her pussy lips—from which a thin blue cord exits—and then she rolls her hips forward, eager as ever. Your tip drags against her clit a couple of times, and Jiheon whimpers, her cunt clenching at the small vibrator inside, desperate to be filled.

"Fuck, please," she says again, gasping. "Please Daddy, inside, in, in... my pussy's so, so needy, please. I promise, it'll be so, so good. You'll be so, so full inside me."

You try your best to restrain your own voice—as always, her pussy feels so warm and tight around your shaft, and her walls clench around you; however, this time, you feel the odd sensation of the vibrator against your cock, her pussy an even more snug fit for you. She lets out many whimpers as she writhes above you, though eventually, she sits still and adjusts to your size and the novel vibrations against her womb. When she opens her eyes, they shine with tears as she sniffles.

"This feels, oh, god, so good, Daddy." Jiheon's voice is barely above a whisper, her breath hot against your skin. "Mnh, just stay like this."

You and Jiheon fight the same battle, the urge not to move at all. Nestled close together, pleasure washes over you at its own accord. Try your hardest, but the reality is that one of you must succumb, and the next will follow suit.

Every minute or so, she shifts and fidgets, or your cock twitches, its desires well known: to piston Jiheon's tight body up and down your length. Despite the soreness from your previous orgasms, every bit of self-restraint is necessary. The warmth of her cunt, the light panting into your ear, the vibrations resonating along your whole length—it exceeds the effects of any pill. All this effort to exert no effort.

Jiheon lets out an incoherent whine, probably about your throbbing cock's growing hardness, or its leaking precum. No matter how hard she tries, she shivers and squirms in your lap, her needy cunt too impatient.

This very impatience gets her in trouble. Right now, her face twists, lips twitching to a frown while little pleasured sighs and groans escape. How sensitive and on edge she must be. This very impatience got her a career.

Jiheon closes her eyes tight, as though that'll distract her from the persistent toy or your throbbing cock inside her. Her legs wrap around your waist, her heels digging into your back, and she settles down onto your cock further. Whisper-subtle motions, they're more reflexive than a reaction. It's a miracle that Jiheon isn't bouncing on your shaft. You know your fellow star too well. She would love nothing more than to ride your cock right now, to make a mess of your lap again, to stuff and unstuff her tight cunt full of you, to milk you dry again—but she made a promise. She must wait. With her jaw unhinging, wide, only the whites of her eyes there, this seems the hardest thing she's done in her life.

This is the hardest in yours. Sweat-filled photoshoots, keeping yourself erect during a gangbang, even working through flus are nothing in comparison. The seconds tick by, both seemingly endless and insignificant, and you wait, and wait, and wait.

Jiheon's heart beats against your chest, tits pressed into you, and you keep her steady with a palm on her sweaty back. Her head drops onto your shoulder and her hair tickles your neck and her warm exhalations send shivers down your spine. It's hard to tell where your bodies separate, how much is you and how much is her. You melt into each other, one being, joined together by heat and time and pressure. With this vibrator inside, time withers away Jiheon's endurance. While you're teetering on an unstable edge, you're not surprised that she slips before you.

One small change, one little sigh, her face eases out its tension, lips parting, and before you realize it, she's moving. Lazily, sure, yet unmistakably. Jiheon moves her palms, slides up her thighs, caresses her flat midriff, caresses her pert breasts, pinches her hardened pink nipples.

You're getting dizzy, your vision blurring as Jiheon's walls begin suffocating your numb shaft.

"C-cum, s-soon, Daddy," she stammers, her words coming out in between shaky breaths, and hearing her voice soothes you, somehow; the sound of Jiheon speaking reminds you that you're not just in some dizzying endless vibrating cockwarming dream-fall-flight-story-recording— "Oh, fuh, fuck."

"Go," you murmur into her ear. "Cum. For me."

Despite the delirium, the agonizing climb to the top of the rollercoaster, Jiheon manages to look into the side camera. With the perfect image of her mouth open and her eyes rolling, you realize you're not a professional compared to this woman. Was that all an act? Regardless, you're lucky to be here, to witness her, to be a part of this. She's gorgeous, and she's coming apart at the seams, all around your cock, a mere happy bystander, or maybe instrument is more apt.

The vibe makes Jiheon spasm at first, and then she growls out a groan as her toes curl and her fingers squeeze, thighs completely clenching around you. Her pussy spasms and squirts around your cock. Her ass shifts upward, and she fucks down against your length, grinding your sensitive cock against her vibrator. You make sure the POV camera is trained on her face, blissed out as it is, her lips parting for moans.

Jiheon leaks all over you while her hips roll to and fro aimlessly. After she lets out a long hum of contentment, she dips her head into your shoulder and inhales deeply.

"Did you cum inside me?" she asks quietly.

You shake your head.

She scoffs. "You really are spent. Tsk. I might just have to fuck that out of you." She raises her hips, and immediately, her face contorts. "S-sensitive. Never mind. Oh, fuck, lower, lower it, vibrator."

"Yup," you chuckle, reaching for your phone, and Jiheon collapses into you, her body twitching.

You grab her midriff to pull her off, but she stops you. "No, no, stay. Stay, I'll keep warming your cock, Daddy."

Smiling, you kiss her temple.

"Thank you." Jiheon adjusts her position, moving her feet up onto the couch, trying to get as comfortable as possible—as comfy as can be with the tenderness of yet another climax, with your cock still inside her, with the vibrator still going at its lowest setting. You grab her ankles, spread her legs apart, and massage her thighs; happy, she hums, locks eyes.

You hold her close to you while your eyes wander over her facial features. Jiheon's lips and cheeks are flushed red, sweat drips down her neck, hair a complete mess, and there's a shimmer in her gaze. Hard not to get lost in such vivid blue pools—the lenses suit her well.

It's cinematic. It all happens in slow motion. You should've trusted the directorial vision. She leans forward, her forehead brushing against yours. You connect lips, then your tongues seek each other's mouths, while her fingers rake your back. Maybe Jiheon is finally learning to take things slow, taking her time as she kisses you gingerly, languid movements of her mouth, and soon her lips stay pressed against your throat.

She's panting against your skin, her body warm against yours. "Mm, feels good."

"Yeah?"

Jiheon nods, her tongue circling around your Adam's apple. She nibbles at your neck, making you groan.

"But, Daddy," she says as she sucks hard, bites down on your flesh, and leaves her mark on you, "I need you to breed me. I can cum around your cock again if you need that too. If my pussy with a vibrator isn't good enough."

"It's definitely good, baby. It's not just me. I'm honestly afraid I'll break you if I thrust." Your hands wander to her ass, groping her soft flesh and spreading her cheeks apart. With all these overwhelming sensations, you focus on kneading her soft skin, and she wiggles her ass, looking down at you.

You don't know what set you off. It's the sound Jiheon makes when you firmly sink your digits into her butt, a whimper, then a needy moan; it's the heat surrounding your still erect dick; it's the low rumble from the toy's vibrations, reverberating through your entire cock; it's her lips against your neck, pressing kisses into your pulse point; and it's that glacier-melting smile as Jiheon looks up, delirious and satisfied. You love it, and you love her, and you love the noise Jiheon makes when you turn up the vibrator with a swipe of a finger; you love feeling her tense up as you grab her ankles to place them on your shoulders; and you love her teeth biting down hard when your hips rut up into her cunt on reflex—years of porn experience telling you to fucking piston every woman on camera like machinery.

She looks up at you, her eyes hooded, and then the damn smile again; how can a woman go from completely disheveled to such an angelic expression within seconds?

"Break you." You're out of breath, but doing it, breaking. Whether it's her or you, something must. You can feel it—at your wit's end.

Whatever energy stored inside Jiheon floods out as she's consumed in her second orgasm. She stops trembling and drops her legs down, yet you don't relent, totally fucking her through her high. Pound away (bring out the wooden mallets). The more Jiheon writhes around you, the more she pushes you over. Her cunt is slick and quivering, her girl cum drips down your shaft, and when she cries out for you, her whimpers quickly give way to screams. Make do with your ending.

With a hard shove and the encouragement of a whirring vibrator against your shaft, you cum how a drunk drives his vehicle: hazardously, sloppily, careening. Slumped forward against Jiheon, you thrust wildly, hips jutting as spurt after spurt spills inside. A mindless haze comes over you as you ride out this climax to the crash against the wall, and you're only vaguely aware of your arms and thighs burning, your heart beating faster and faster and faster. It's a fucking mess inside of Jiheon, and it's quickly a mess outside, warm viscous cum frothing out and bubbling at her lips, coating her thighs, dropping onto the cushions. You continue to move, a dying animal, muscles firing with no signal. Through this, Jiheon is getting rawed so rough she has tears forming, sniffling through every "please, give me everything, Daddy" and "want all your cum". Forget your previous orgasms today; Jiheon's greedy pussy has you pulsing shots of semen over and over like you never made a career of it. The vibrator continues to buzz loudly against her soft walls, your throbbing and aching cock, not giving up just because it's been submerged under a Neptune of cum.

Hazy, and your body a bundle of nerves, overstimulated, overworked, you try to push Jiheon off of you—she takes a handful of spilled seed from under her legs before they latch around your torso.

She looks at the camera to the side and licks her cupped palm. You can tell every single motion for her is agonizing, the toy still going at it—you sympathize as you realize you're still issuing weak bursts, so you take your phone to the side and turn the intensity down.

Jiheon breathes out shakily, closes her eyes momentarily, then focuses on regaining her bearings, on your warm sticky cum shooting into her deepest. When she's gotten enough brainpower back, she holds your face with both her hands, making you look up at her and kiss her pouty lips, where you taste yourself and Jiheon's sweet juices.

"I've got a few more in me," Jiheon says.

You're gasping and wheezing for air. "I guess... I guess I'll just fucking pass out and you can use my cock or whatever."

"Hold on, you forgot something." Keeping your cock inside her ass she turns around, Jiheon reaches for the cock ring on the table. Facing the camera B as she leans back against your chest, she finally addresses the camera that was behind her: "Daddy says he's done, but I know he's got so much more for me."

For once, you feel freedom. The vibrator falling out, Jiheon slowly unsheathes your soft and spent cock from her cunt, which absolutely drips with your creampie—thick ropey cum clinging and breaking onto your crotch, her legs, the couch, and the floor—and now your flaccid member just lays against her sloppy lips.

"I know my pussy makes a great cock ring but…" She holds the cock ring up to the camera, showing it off, no doubt with a smile.

With an almost clinical detachment, Jiheon swiftly attaches the cock ring onto your slick shaft, an action even more devoid of romance and eroticism than switching one sex toy to another, to be honest. After clasping the cock ring on the base of your cock, she brings the cum-covered vibrator to her lips, licking you off your fluids that stuck to its surface. She hums and moans as she takes in every drop, sucking it clean.

She weighs into your chest, easing you to lay onto your back. Jiheon places your cock in between her thighs, nestling her slit along your shaft, then supports herself half-sitting up by putting two hands on the couch. You hiss as Jiheon rocks her hips back and forth, her pussy lips giving way and sliding against your soft and sensitive dick, her ass rubbing against your thighs. She takes a moment and spreads her legs to reach between them; you can't see, but then you feel the vibrator pressing against your balls, and you let out an embarrassing groan. Jiheon giggles as she looks down at you, amused.

"You sound so good, Daddy. Let's keep filming, alright?" Jiheon kisses your forehead.

"Mhm," you manage, swallowing thickly, throat dry. You're not sure how long your mind will last, but you'll at least keep your eyes open, trying your best not to fade out. Jiheon adjusts her position above you, squatting on the balls of her feet, knees together, her feet planted on the couch, and your cock sandwiched between her thighs. She's putting little pressure on you, yet your breath hitches.

Jiheon begins moving again: her hips sway back and forth, her pussy lips rub against your cock, and her ass bounces. As her pace gradually increases, her movements become more erratic while her gasping grows heavier. You can't do anything other than lay back and watch Jiheon riding your softness. She keeps pressing the vibrator against your balls, waves of pleasure coursing through you.

You thought it was over. That the video would end with a fade to black as you fade to black. However, by some miracle (which is a fair title to give to Jiheon), your erection returns, albeit weakly—yet she notices immediately, turns around to sit on your thighs, facing you again. She smirks, places the vibrator at the bottom of your belly, so you try your best to keep your face straight. Leaning forward and placing a hand against your chest, her nails dig into your skin.

"Not so tired after all, hmm? You must really like my wet pussy rubbing against your cock, don't you, Daddy?"

A small part of you wants to die and join the rest of you already dead. There's no way you'll get through the night; you've never cummed this much in your life. Not even the fake semen tube dispenses this much. Jiheon is testing you and pushing you—but yet.

She positions her body against you again, her cunt pushing down against your length as it hardens slowly. And you can't help it, you find her body begging, enthralling. Thighs meet your sides. palms press against your chest. As Jiheon rubs up and down, your shaft finds itself either between her slick pussy lips or her asscheeks. She bucks when she feels the firm cock ring against her, squeals whenever the vibe brushes against her. You remember to put the vibrating toy back inside her, and Jiheon cries out.

"Oh my god! Shit!" At this point, she's dripping onto your cock, thick cream trailing down, living up to her username. "Fuck, yes, Daddy, fuck." She pants as you relax with your hands behind your head. "I fucking need you again, please. Cock, inside. Put it inside. Please, please, I don't care, how, how sore. Don't need to walk, or move, tomorrow, put cock, in, in."

She trembles above you, so desperate to stay upright. This view never gets old—it never can. As her orgasm rocks through her, Jiheon nearly loses her balance.

You know one way to keep her in place: your cock, now fully rigid, slips out from her slippery thighs, the perfect stand-in for support. Jiheon grabs your shaft, squeezing tightly, making sure you don't move as your tip presses against her cunt. Folding against your torso, you feel her pussy spasming around your cockhead. "Mmgh! Fuck!"

She slides her hips back and forth, trying to catch your length, and though her motions are stunted by jolts of ecstatic heat, she eventually finds home at the root of your shaft, ass against your crotch. You aren't moving—no need. The vibrator continues its whirring, and you can feel it going wild. But it's different now, as the constant stimulation now makes you painfully aware of your cock's rawness. Jiheon sits upright, arches her back, presses her hips down as she moans.

The position is killing you, your cock buried deep inside her, nestled safely between her slick walls—you don't feel safe. You're a prisoner. These are her walls; these are her rules; your cocks her's to do whatever she wants. Jiheon's hands ball into fists, her nails leaving small red crescents in her palms, as she tries to steady herself. Her eyes are shut tight, her teeth grit as she groans, her legs shaking as she continues to twitch, her entire body electrified.

At some point, you're not sure when one of Jiheon's orgasms ends and the next one begins. Hell, you're not even sure if you're cumming at all, or if that's all the fluids from earlier sloshing around in her as you stir it up. Whether or not you've creampied Jiheon once or a dozen times, seed seeps out, even as you plug her pussy snug. You could pull out, any moment—no, you can't; stop lying. Your throbbing dick is trapped, trapped, trapped. A feeling of powerlessness, of vulnerability, of ultimate surrender washes over you, followed by a sense of unbridled gratification. Jiheon is overwhelming—and instead of seeking to overpower her, you want nothing more than to let her take all of you.

You're something. You're nothing. You're teetering on the edge between the two.

When Jiheon collapses, falling flat against you, you're certain you've passed out, maybe. Jiheon hums, kissing your shoulder, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath. The vibrator will probably run out of battery. You should definitely take off this cock ring. Clean up. Clap (though roaring applause would be more fitting). Shut off the cameras before you end up filling up the server and losing your footage somehow.

You feel something, your eyes opening. At some point, Jiheon unhooked the cock ring and pulled the toy out of her pussy, and now she's just laying on top of you, hugging you tightly. She's breathing peacefully, her face buried against your neck.

You raise your arm. Resting your hand on Jiheon's head, you can feel her heartbeat, its quickened pace becoming calmer and calmer. She sighs, and you begin playing with her hair, fingers tangled in her long pink locks, and she seems to enjoy this as you hear a quiet moan escape her lips. Your other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer, and Jiheon presses herself against you.

The two of you stay like this, lying together silently. Eventually, Jiheon lifts her head, leaning forward, her face only a few inches away from yours.

"We should really shower and clean all this up," she whispers.

You shake your head. "Five more minutes."

Jiheon smiles before placing her head back on your shoulder.

You're going to need much more than five minutes. It's only fair that you procrastinate—when Jiheon can pay off your mortgage several times over, and she still hasn't looked for a new place. Might have something to do with that satisfied smile.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

Also extremely inspired by Jiho's scene in @ggidolsmuts' Part 12: Stud(y)ing - Oh My Girl.

#kpop smut #reader insert #male reader #fromis smut

675 notes · View notes

thepascalofus · 9 months

Text

Supply Run - Return (part two)

AO3

PART ONE

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x afab!Reader

Word Count: 8.0k

Summary: You’ve been Mando’s crew partner for a year now. Throughout that year Mando has warmed up to you and given you signs that your heart throbbing crush on him is reciprocated. There’s one thing making you hesitate. The condoms he bought on the most recent supply run.

Chapter Summary: While Mando takes a trip to the market and gets what he needs, he ponders your relationship and what it means to him.

Content Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only! Switching POVs, post season 2, the Crest lives, strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of Grogu, soft!Mando, insecure!Mando (a smidge), helmet loopholes, pining, idiots in love, jealous!reader, sad!reader for a little, mentions of sex work (sex work is work!), eventual SMUT (making out, grinding, f!receiving fingering, f!receiving oral sex, p in v, PRAISE kink, dirty talk), FLUFF, cuddling, happy ending guaranteed!

A/N: Thank you all so much for the responses on the first part! This is my first fic that I've ever shared and it makes me so happy that other people enjoy my writing! Enjoy!

Mando handed his scope off to you in the worn down store. Wallpaper peeled from the ancient wooden planks of the walls. Cobwebs littered the untouched areas of the store. The work stations in the back, visible from the pick up counter at the front, were in complete disarray. Several projects started, but not finished. Several projects finished, but not retrieved.

You took the scope in your hand and twisted it in your hands until your gaze landed on the name of the manufacturer and the serial number. Your eyebrows shot up once the brand of the scope was revealed, it twisted in your hands once more. Hands raising the metal tube so it was level with your eyes, you looked into the scope.

“Ah! I know what it is!”

Mando watched in confusion as you ran to a workstation and grabbed a singular tool. How did you know what was wrong so quickly? He sat in the hull of the Crest for hours attempting to fix the scope. The motions of taking the scope apart and putting it back together were etched into his brain from the number of times he did so.

You returned to the front of the store with the tool in hand. “This manufacturer has been having these issues lately. They built their magnification system like no one else, but they didn’t seem to account for the need to recalibrate the scope every once in a while. Recalibrating too often causes the lenses to misalign.”

Mando calibrated his every day. He had to. It was part of his job. A miscalibration could be the difference between a two hour hunt and a twelve hour hunt.

Your face twisted in concentration as you inserted the tool into the side of the scope. Jostling the metal, it popped open and allowed access to the inside. “For some reason they put these weird pins in…” You trailed off while you removed a total of three thin metal pins. Once the pins were removed, you clicked the top of the scope back into place and handed it to Mando.

Mando previously took the scope apart countless times. He never noticed any pins.

“Twenty credits, please.” You said with a smile. Your gaze met his–you somehow found it through his black visor–and you maintained eye contact.

The display on the inside of Mando’s helmet only progressed seven minutes after he entered the store. Inside of his helmet his eyebrows shot up. He was impressed. Not only with your efficiency, but with the reasonable price as well.

“I’m impressed.” He stated. Nodding at you, he retrieved a few credits from his utility belt and set them on the paint chipped counter. He turned and walked a few paces and then stopped in front of the door.

He’s been looking for a crew mate for weeks. The potential candidates he’s stumbled across were either annoying, rude, or incompetent. Throughout his time as a bounty hunter he’s been to countless repair shops. The service was always lack-luster, prices were too high, repair time much too long.

Sure, he just met you eight minutes ago, but you had potential. He turned on his heel and faced you. Armor glinted in the low lighting of the run down shop.

“Are you in the market for a new job?”

–

Walking to the market, he’d been reflecting on his decision to bring you onto the Crest as a crew partner.

It was the best decision he ever made, besides saving Grogu from the Empire.

You were intelligent. Friendly. Resourceful. Efficient. Brave.

You stared a Mandalorian straight in the eyes–well, visor–and didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even break eye contact, unlike everyone else. People would turn to whoever they’re with to avoid his gaze. They spoke like he wasn’t a meter or two away–and like he couldn’t amplify their voices with his helmet.

His tall, broad stance usually set everyone on edge. The heavy weight of beskar armor, a reminder of his skillset, didn’t aid in calming the nerves of anyone either. He was typically soft spoken around others, as he noticed people’s reactions when he spoke–eyes wide, speech stuttering, shaking hands–scared.

Everyone was afraid of him.

Except you.

When you first boarded the Razor Crest, Mando was extremely careful in making sure you were comfortable. The majority of his days not hunting were spent in the cockpit or in his bunk. Whenever you crossed paths in the hull you offered him a small smile and quickly looked away. Did your bravery fade away?

He came back from a hunt one day, quarry in tow, and he was relieved to hear, “How was your day?” Fall from your lips once the bounty was in carbonite.

Still cautious–mindful of how the modulator made his voice sound–he kept his answers short and to the point.

“Fine.”

“Busy.”

“Awful.”

Hearing the four words you said after each return from a hunt, and being able to give you a response without you slinking away, made the hunts worth it.

One night always stood out in his mind. It was just like any other return from one of his hunts. Mando dragged the quarry up the Crest’s ramp by a cord tied around their ankles. He lifted the man to stand up, doing so effortlessly with a few grunts to spare.

Your living space was in the hull, so he always tried to make the ends of his hunts fast. You didn’t have any choice but to watch. Mando didn’t want to make you watch for too long. Maker, he didn’t want you to watch at all.

His fist slammed the button to begin the freezing process. Breathing heavily, he stood and watched the bounty as they froze into the carbonite cell. A blanket of silence covered the hull once the hissing of the freezing mechanisms came to a stop.

“How was your day?”

There it is. His favorite part after the hunt. Knowing you were there, safe within the hull, and that you wanted to be friendly with him–even after witnessing him freeze a person he tracked down for several hours.

“Nothing you want to hear about,” he replied, his voice tinged with tiredness. The helmet’s modulator most likely didn’t register the sleep in his voice. Truly, he didn’t think that you would want to hear about it. The Mandalorian was afraid that hearing about his hunts would put you on edge. You already extended a branch of friendliness to him twice a day. He didn’t want to give that up by talking about the bounties he tracks down.

“Try me.”

Those words.

Those words have only ever been spoken to him by enemies. It always caused annoyance to wash over him, head to toe. He’s a Mandalorian. Confident of his skills in combat. No matter the odds, Mando knew he would like them.

But when those words tumbled from your lips, it was different. When his enemies weren’t scared of him, it was annoying. When you weren’t scared of him, adoration filled his body. And not adoration in a patronizing way, but adoration as a form of respect.

It made him want you that much more.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Mando realized the crotch of his pants were tight. Nonchalantly, he clasped his hands together and rested them below his belt.

“Quarry tried to escape and they ran. Would have been back four hours ago,” the modulator gritted out. Again, he was conscious of how the modulator warped his voice. “Not too fun,” he added in an attempt to make the conversation more casual.

You were silent. He whispered a curse to himself under his helmet, one that he was certain wouldn’t be picked up by his modulator. Was his answer too much? Mando quickly became nervous and started to shift his weight from one foot to the other. The silence you left in the air made him a bit anxious.

The T shape of his visor peered over to you. You stood still in shock, reminiscent of the people that saw him in public. Before his thoughts could spiral too much, you replied, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dank farrik. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to comfort him. “You don’t have to be sorry,” his chest brushed against your shoulder as he swiftly hopped onto the first rung of the ladder up to the cockpit. “It’s my job.”

“That doesn’t mean it sucks any less,” you said. He smiled underneath his helmet at your consideration. Your eyes widened and your mouth opened and closed as you realized what you said, “sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that your job sucks.”

You weren’t wrong. Making his way through tough terrain, relying on a blinking red light on a piece of metal to guide him. Finding them was a task in itself, but dragging them back to the Crest was the other half of his job that sucked. Mando looked over his shoulder at you and replied matter-of-factly, “My job does suck.”

A giggle bubbled out from your chest. Every once in a while you would be reading a funny article on your Holopad and your laughs would echo through the hull of the Crest, making their way up into the cockpit. He needed more of them. His silver helmet shook slightly from side to side and he turned back to climb the ladder. But not before he also let out a small chuckle.

If you were comfortable enough to stand up to him, and laugh at his awful attempts at jokes–after he just hauled a bounty onto the ship–Mando realized he was safe.

Not only were you safe with him. He felt safe with you, in more ways than one.

Kriff it. You extended a friendly attitude towards him–a faceless warrior covered in impenetrable armor–then he could extend a friendly attitude towards you as well.

You asked him about this day, both in the mornings and the evenings. He learned about what you like and didn’t like. One item stood out to him. Caf. He always entered into a cloud of caf scent when he sauntered into the hull in the mornings. Mando was usually up before you, so he figured he would start making you a cup every morning. Confident enough in knowing which kinds of caf you preferred, he would stock up on caf every supply run.

The Mandalorian got closer to you, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes he would catch his hands landing on your waist or your lower back when he passed you on the ship. You’d shoot him a small smile in response. The distance he kept from you only decreased. He wanted to see your smile more and more.

One thing he didn’t see coming was your interest in Mando’a. He would mumble to himself in the ship while completing various tasks.

“What’s that word mean?” You’d occasionally ask. The Mandalorian would explain their meanings, sometimes struggling to translate the word to Basic.

He must have taught you at least two dozen words in Mando’a by now. Each time you asked you would give him your full attention.

At night, if he amplified the sound with his helmet enough, he could hear you practicing the words and recalling their meanings. It motivated him to share more words with you.

–

All of these experiences have led to this day. He’s been planning it for a month or two now.

He wants to ask you on a date. Nerves bubbled up from his stomach and throughout his body. They suddenly came to a halt.

Not now. First, he needs to collect information on a quarry.

Lost in his thoughts, he looked up and the market filled his vision with you in his peripheral. It wasn’t too busy, part of the reason why he was comfortable enough for you to shop on your own. He clarified the meet up point to you and watched as you took off. You had a bounce in your step, probably due to your excitement at shopping alone.

Once he meandered further into the market he began to collect information. This market was the bounty’s last location. Mando’s guess was that he either simply wanted to be in a small city, gambled their life savings away, or they paid for visit after visit with the workers at the brothel until they ran out of credits.

Only one way to find out. The gambling and brothels didn’t start up until later in the afternoon. To kill the time, and to possibly find the quarry, Mando wandered throughout the different sections of the market.

He asked a few vendors about the bounty. Mando described the man to many market sellers and only got a slight lead from one woman donned in patterned fabrics.

“I think he went that way,” the woman gestured with one of her hands towards an intersection, “Take the left path. I don’t know anything else beyond that.”

Mando dropped a few credits into her hand and gave her a polite nod, “Thank you.” He continued on and curved his gait to take the left path. From the signs and general merchandise displayed on each stall, he knew he was entering the clothing section of the market.

The helmet covering his head swiveled from left to right and right to left. No one matched the description of his quarry. Repeating his previous process, he made his way down the stall-lined alley and asked a couple different vendors.

Once the last vendor finished talking, and provided him with another lead, he dug his hand into his pocket and slid the credits on the stall’s counter towards them. Turning his back towards the vendor, his feet carried him two steps back into the market.

Then he saw you.

You stood hunched over a table of colorful bracelets. Tapping his fingers to the temple of his helmet, Mando zoomed in and the helmet displayed your face to him, deep in thought. Looking down, you were hovering your hands over a grid of various green bracelets.

You stopped on one. Mostly brown, almost too much to be in the green section, Mando thought. Nonetheless, the green and silver streaks peeked in and out of the thick threads of brown that made up the bracelet. Your fingers sorted through the sizes of the bracelet and selected one that looked close to your size.

Clutching it in one hand, the other hand searched for another of the same bracelet. It was larger than the previous size. You set the smaller bracelet down and tested the strings. The bracelet was adjustable, and you smiled at the discovery.

You transferred the bracelets onto the table of the stall and used one hand to dig into your pockets. Palm held out flat, Mando guessed that about twenty credits sat in your palm. He followed your gaze to the sign listing the prices.

PRICES

1 bracelet = 15 credits

2 = 30 credits

3 = 45 credits

4 = 60 credits

Shoulders falling, you dropped the credits back into your pocket and returned the bracelets to their original spot in the grid of green. Ground crunched beneath your shoes as you turned and continued wandering through the market.

Mando noted it was the third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Not wanting you to realize he saw you, the Mandalorian walked in the opposite direction you took. After twenty minutes he noticed that the stalls became much more strange than the stalls in the clothing section of the market. Peering at the different products for sale, he saw a potions shop offering “super strength elixir” and a vendor selling various pet-like creatures. A few more vendors passed his peripheral vision as he continued his strides. They came to a stop once a building larger than the surrounding stalls came into view.

His helmet tilted upwards to read the sign displayed front and center on the large building: BROTHEL.

Tapping the side of his helmet, the time on the helmet’s display indicated that the brothel and gambling scenes had just begun. Mando tapped the temple of his helmet once again and the warm bodies within the building lit up, like he had x-ray vision. He counted a dozen in total. One body stood in the same spot inside near an entryway–the bouncer, Mando thought.

The bouncer was the individual that allowed access in and out of the building. If their memory was decent, they would be like a living guest book. Mando figured he could bribe them to reveal information, which was his usual plan with most of the beings he spoke with.

He sauntered over to the side of the building the bouncer was standing at. A singular light flickered over the side door, the sun was still out, so Mando was confused why it was on. The beskar helmet observed the side door.

Metal. Double deadbolts. Keypad on the left side. Small slit at eye level–neck level for the Mandalorian.

As soon as he crouched down to look near the slit, it slid open and revealed a thick pair of black eyebrows. Black eyes bore into the brow of Mando’s helmet, as the bouncer couldn’t seem to find his eyes.

“Do you have an appointment?” The bouncer asked. The voice behind the door was gruff, as if the words had to crawl from the depths of his throat.

“No,” Mando responded.

Black eyes blinked and then disappeared when the bouncer closed the metal slit.

Mando was taken aback and furrowed his brow. His fist pounded on the door. He just wanted this hunt to be over with. He wanted to get back to you.

The slit in the door revealed two black eyes once more.

“I have credits and will pay you if you give me information on a client your establishment may have served.” Mando’s modulator gritted out loudly. Straight and to the point. All business.

Eyes disappeared again, but were then accompanied with the sounds of the deadbolts unlocking. The metal door swung open to reveal a man dressed in all black with a silver name tag. Black hair matched the rest of his ensemble.

Still holding the door, the bouncer asked, “What’s the bounty look like?”

An eyebrow raised inside Mando’s helmet, but he figured the bouncer knew the drill by now. Even other bounty hunters knew that brothels were what many bounties visited. A gloved hand unbuttoned a pocket on his belt and retrieved a bounty puck. Clicking the side of it, the puck displayed the quarry.

The man stepped out of the doorway and onto the pavement, pulling the door closed behind him. His black eyes slightly squinted when his gaze trailed up and down the hologram.

“Ah yeah, I’ve seen this guy. He has a type, always goes for the blondes.”

“Does he have any upcoming appointments?” Mando questioned.

The bouncer sighed in thought and pulled a small notepad from his pocket. Mando mirrored the man’s motion and produced a pen and notepad from his pocket.

“The guy has an appointment in two days. He just asked to see a blonde. Figures.” The man shrugged and opened his notepad. Mando noticed it was a planner, and the bouncer flipped to the pages for the appointments two days from today.

“Which workers would take him as a client?” Mando’s modulator churned the words. His pen clicked as he readied himself to write.

The man donned in black made a fist with one hand and raised a finger with each name, “Ari. Taima. And Nomi. They would be in rooms one, five, or seven.”

Wow, Mando thought, this guy really knew the drill. He quickly finished up writing down the names and room numbers of each worker. The pen scratched feverishly against the cream colored paper, leaving behind black strokes to form letters and numbers. Notepad folding closed and the pen clicking, signifying the end of his notes, Mando returned the pen and paper to their place in his pocket. His opposing hand reached into a different pocket and produced a sizable amount of credits. Feeling generous, thankful that this hunt was going to be quick, he compensated the bouncer handsomely.

First task done. Second task on the horizon.

Creaking produced from the hinges of the metal door as the bouncer disappeared behind it once more. Flickering light gleamed off the beskar armor that protected the Mandalorian in combat. Although he wasn’t going into combat, because he wouldn’t be nervous if he was.

Mando trained most of his life with the greatest warriors in the galaxy. Combat flowed through his blood easily. It was a part of him.

But he was never trained on how to ask people out on dates.

On top of that, he was never trained on how to ask you out on a date.

He didn’t want to misread the situation. You could just be friendly. Who would want to date a man and not know what he looks like? Who would want to constantly live on a ship, without a permanent home?

Being Mando, he prepared for the worst. If you said no, he figured that you would be uncomfortable living with the man who asked you out on a date. Knowing that he’s attracted to you. He would fly wherever you wanted and give you some credits to get started. Kriff, he’d send credits for however long it takes for you to get on your feet. Then he’d leave you alone.

Admittedly, the Mandalorian would probably keep an eye on you to make sure you were safe. You just wouldn’t know he’s there.

But if you said yes.

Mando’s chest bloomed with anticipation. Firework-like tingles trailed up and down his limbs at the thought. He bit his lip within the confines of his helmet when he realized his pants had gotten tighter. Thankfully he was a Mandalorian, because heat washed over his face, half due to arousal and the other half in embarrassment.

The brown eyes underneath the helmet widened. If he wanted to do more with you and you agreed, he didn’t have protection.

Turning on his heel, cape whipping behind him, he made a quick pace back to the brothel.

Once he arrived at the gray building, the light at the side of the building having more of a purpose, Mando glided towards the same door as before. Bringing a fist up to the metal, he knocked three times.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Clink. Shhhkt.

“Do you sell condoms?” the modulator quickly blurted.

All business.

—

He arrived at the meet up point before you. Leaning against a nearby tree, Mando checked the time constantly, as if he was devoted to the action more than his Creed. If you were late, he always went looking.

Thankfully, you trudged up to the food stall on time with a hefty bag full of purchases. Fine, brown gravel grinded against the soles of Mando’s shoes as he made his way over to you. His gloved hand slipped the bag from your grasp and the pair of you began walking back to the Crest.

Both of you carried on with your normal post-supply run routines. You and Mando, but this time just Mando, piled the purchases from the market onto the hull’s floor. From there, the items could be sorted through and put in their respective places around the Crest.

As Mando finished unloading the large bag of purchases, he quickly dug around for the receipts. He knew how much you liked to review the shopping haul each time a supply run was completed. Mando enjoyed seeing the satisfaction wash over your face after you read over the receipts.

But this time was different. You froze once you got to the last receipt.

Mando’s helmet tilted in confusion. He took a few steps closer towards you, “What’s wrong? Did we forget something?”

You remained still while your eyes darted over the lines on the receipt. With your back turned to him, Mando found the opportunity to zoom in on the ink printed on the flimsy paper.

ITEMS PURCHASED (1)

CONDOM - 12 PACK

Oh. Fuck. FUCK.

He hasn’t even asked you on a date yet and now you probably already think he’s a perv. Nerves took over his body as you continued to stand still.

Your hand quickly crushed the receipts and threw them in the trash, “Nope! The last receipt didn’t look familiar but,” you trailed off slightly but recovered, “I remembered what I bought from the place.” A nervous laugh–obviously fake, Mando knew what your real one sounded like–escaped from your lips.

He fucked it up. You knew he was interested in you like that. And you didn’t feel the same. He hasn’t even asked you on the date yet. It’s all screwed up now.

But he also felt like he didn’t have enough evidence. What if you did like him but the idea of…needing to use the condoms…made you nervous.

Mando had to at least try. The least he had to do was ask you.

He cleared his throat and grabbed the bag off of the floor. You stood away from him, biting the inside of your cheek, nervously watching his movements.

“I’m going to go to the night market,” he informed you, “I have some business with a bounty I need to take care of.”

The bounty wouldn’t be captured until two days from now. In reality, he was really going to go and purchase snacks, takeout, and a pair of those bracelets you admired. It would have been suspicious if he met you back at the meet up point with bags full of snacks. The beskar man figured it would be best to hold off on buying them until later, and tell you he was getting a bounty, so you wouldn’t catch on.

He should’ve waited for this second trip to buy the condoms, he thought.

–

Mando left to, “Go to the night market,” he said. You saw the condom listed on the market receipts, you knew where he went tonight. What he’s going to do.

The brothels.

Yeah, sure, he’s paying a worker to give him a service. No feelings attached. But you didn’t want him to be with anyone else. Was Mando necessarily yours? No. Have you ever had sex with him? Also no.

That didn’t stop you from getting jealous.

And it wasn’t just jealousy. It was fear. What if he fell in love with one of them? Or what if he was going on dates? He could have a romantic interest you don’t even know about. Next thing you know, they’re going steady and you’re kicked off the ship. Or worse, you have to watch him love someone that isn’t you.

No more silence with him in the cockpit, watching as the hyperspace lights soar past the windshield. Feet tapping down the ladder as you both began your nighttime routines. He’d wait in the hull near the door of the fresher in just his helmet, undershirt, sleep pants, and socks. As he lifted off the wall from his leaning stance he’d ask you, “Are you done?” Holding his own hands in front of him, trying to seem relaxed, as if he was trying to look less intimidating. “Yeah,” you’d quickly respond, leaving the fresher and brushing past him. Sometimes his hand found your waist as he passed, or the small of your back. “Thank you,” he’d grunt gently as he closed the fresher door.

No more of Mando letting out a small, “Good night,” before lingering on your closing eyes and watching as your lips smiled, forming your response, “Good night.”

Falling asleep, you knew you’d wake up to him. He would be up before you on most days, leaving you a fresh cup of caf and your favorite ration pack (when he had them). The short chatter between you two, going over the logistics of the next hunt, telling stories from your past, or just thinking out loud to each other. Gone.

You would be banished from home.

The fear struck your chest. Heat searing through your ribcage and meeting your spine, the visions repeated over and over in your head. Tears fell like waterfalls from your eyes. Most streams connected underneath your chin and trailed down your neck. Your back met the hull’s wall as you sank down onto the floor. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Your head was heavy and numb.

Just breathe. You knew you weren’t going to die. Go through some heartbreak? Maybe, but you knew you’d be alive. It helped. Your breath slowed and the fear dissipated into the air around you. That didn’t stop the flow of tears down your cheeks as your eyes were fixed on the closed ramp.

–

Mando’s footsteps set a steady pace back to the market.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

He displayed a map of the marketplace as an overlay on the display of his helmet. Mando usually reserved this practice for combat to aid in determining exit strategies and the best plan of attack.

But now he was using it to calculate the most efficient route throughout the marketplace in order to see you again sooner.

Closing the overlay from the helmet’s display, he was met with the sight of the market. Long strings of lights decorated the different stalls. Many vendors took advantage of the dark and used different, bright combinations to reel in customers. Some lights were multicolored. Some flashing. Some huge and some small. He thought of the “ooh”s, and, “ahh”s that you would let out at the brilliant display.

The Mandalorian started in the food section of the market. Carefully examining which vendors carried your favorite snacks, he made purchase after purchase in quick succession. His helmet remained on a swivel, scanning the stalls from right to left and left to right.

A stall offering your favorite kind of takeout came into view.

Once Mando arrived at the stall he ordered two takeout meals. The vendor looked startled and confused as he ordered. They shakily accepted the credits for the two meals. Gazes drifted away from Mando and quickly returned as he stood waiting for the meals to be prepared. A bell rang and he retrieved two warm containers, placing them in his bag alongside the snacks.

One last stop. The bracelets.

Marching through the food district, he came upon an intersection at which the left path led him to the clothing district. Yet again, his helmet pivoted on his neck from one side to another.

The third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Mando continued his steady pace until the bright green stall came into view. The brightness of the exterior paint was exaggerated by the warm light emitted by lanterns, which decorated the outside of the shop. He didn’t notice before but the store sold children’s clothes. Onesies. Small shoes. Tiny hats.

A small tunic. Small enough for a human child younger than one year old. The tunic reminded him of Grogu’s. Mando’s bare hands brushed against the material countless times as he cradled The Child in his arms.

The last time he spoke about Grogu was with you. You listened and offered support. He’s never had anyone do that for him.

His visor turned to his left. The soft fairy lights of the stall reflected off of the beskar helmet on his head. As if the beskar reflected a dark sky decorated with bright stars. Various fabrics hung from the side of the vendor’s stall to cover the old wooden planks. Little accessories were placed throughout the shop on different tables and displays.

Mando wasn’t focused on those items, he was focused on the long table of bracelets organized by color. His feet carried him to the green section. The helmet turned downwards to allow him to observe the selection.

Shit.

There were so many bracelets similar to the pair you held, just all in different combinations of green, silver, and brown. Was it the bracelet with the large green cord and the small silver and brown threads? Or the one with the large silver cord and green and brown threads? Or thick brown cord with streaks of green and silver? His hands hovered over the options, doing his best to recall the details from earlier in the day.

“It’s this one,” a woman’s voice said.

A bit startled, the Mandalorian looked up and found a woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore long robes with intricate patterns. Jewelry decorated every limb and part of her body, like jewels were dripping down from her skin from a storm of gemstones. Hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. Her smile was kind and her gaze met Mando at his eyebrow.

A good try, he thought.

“I’m sorry?” He replies. She couldn’t possibly know which bracelet he was trying to find.

“You were watching them earlier. From across the street,” she let out faint exhales as she let out a short laugh, “Maybe you should hide a little better next time.”

She reached out and picked two bracelets out of the display grid. “I remember the sizes too,” she said, “The person you watched held onto them for so long, they seemed pretty attached to them. I kept track of which bracelets they were just in case.” The robed woman shot him a friendly wink.

“In case of what?” Mando questioned. He was still in shock that the woman noticed him staring at you from across the street.

The woman glanced up at him like that was a dumb question, “In case you came back to get them, Mandalorian. This isn’t my first day on the job.”

It saved him the time and stress of trying to remember which one it was, so he shrugged and watched the woman’s jewelry dangle as she typed onto the register.

Beep. Beep. Beep beep. Ching.

“Okay sir, twenty credits please!” The woman extended her hand out and waited for Mando to place credits into her palm. She was met with the tilting of the black T shape on Mando’s beskar helmet.

“I thought the price was thirty,” he stated as he began to reach into his pockets to retrieve his credits.

The woman let out another small laugh, “Oh, I suppose I should have made the sign larger,” her decorated fingers pointed to a small sign above the one that displays the bracelet prices.

$10 OFF WHEN YOU BUY TWO OR MORE

Mando’s shoulders dip in realization that you could’ve bought the bracelets in the first place. A sigh escapes his modulator and he hands the credits over to the intricately robed vendor. The credits clink into her palm, and then into the register.

He waits silently for her to package them up in a small bag.

“They like you, you know,” the woman mentions, “No one like them would be deciding on which bracelets to buy for that long if they didn’t.” She paused as she was about to place the larger of the two into the small bag, “And look at the size of this one! It’s definitely for you.”

The Mandalorian nods, “I appreciate that,” he pauses before turning away, “let’s hope they do.”

–

Mando sets a faster pace back to the Crest than the one he took from the Crest to the market. He’s impatient, he can’t wait to walk up the ramp and see your body curled up, comfortable and safe, while you sleep soundly in your bed–if you can even call it that, he thought. You usually went to bed early when he went on hunts, otherwise you would be awake talking to him.

Slipping the bag from his shoulder, an ungloved hand rummaged through the contents searching for a small bag. His fingers found the familiar texture and he pulled it out from between the snacks and the takeout.

Mando slung the bag back over his shoulder, pulled the larger of the two bracelets out of the small bag, and slipped his hand through the ring of brown, silver, and green. Grabbing one of the ends with his fingers and pinning it to his palm, the other hand tightened the bracelet to a comfortable size around his wrist.

Once the small bag was returned to its place inside of the larger one, Mando peered around him to get a good look of his surroundings.

The sun was about to set, leaving only a sliver of light available to provide dim light to the landscape. Rocks littered the ground. Shadows from each one making them appear larger in the light of the impending dusk. He reached up and tapped a finger to the temple of his helmet. No living thing was around him.

He paused and set the bag on the ground. Doing one last scan of the area, one of his hands gripped the chin of his helmet and lifted the beskar from his head. The hand held the helmet at his side while he marveled at his wrist.

He caught a good patch of remaining light and watched as the green and silver threads gleamed against the thick brown ones. The bracelet was beautiful. Not only because of the design, but because you picked it out. And it was for him.

Becoming paranoid, the Mandalorian quickly slipped his helmet back onto his head. He waited for the seal of the helmet to engage before continuing back towards the Crest. This time, at an even faster pace.

–

You sat there until you heard heavy footsteps approaching from outside, the hydraulics of the ramp coming to life. Thinking fast, you stood up and made your way towards the fresher to start your nighttime routine.

“Why are you still awake?” Mando’s voice was confused. He stood in front at the top of the ramp with his helmet tilted, hands resting on his hips, but his shoulders were slumped, a bag slung around one. He looked…worried.

Mando was right. Usually when he went on hunts you went to bed early. Nowadays the only thing that kept you awake was him. Talking with him was how you spent most evenings on the Crest, your voices echoed and bounced back to each other in the hull.

He’s used to seeing you curled up on the sleeping pad covered in blankets. Soft breaths came from your body and radiated throughout the Crest. Just like a minute ago, his footsteps would come up the ramp with his bounty in tow. Soft grunts could be heard kitty-corner from your spot in the hull. A hiss of mechanisms as they froze the bounty in carbonite. Then a bit of silence.

The absence of the carbonite freezing stood out in your mind. No bounty, even when he said he was going to go and find one. Your eyes teared up slightly again as the realization truly set in. Mando really did go to the brothel.

You just wanted this night to be like any other night he came back to the Crest with a bounty.

After the bounty was frozen, heavy footsteps made their way across the floor of the hull. But they always stopped a few paces away from your bed, halting for a moment. Mando would complete his nightly routine. Setting the Crest’s coordinates for the next planet and showering in the fresher if he needed to–he usually did.

No matter what the events of his nightly routine were, it always ended with him standing in the doorway of his bunk–the sound of his footsteps always stopped partially inside.

“Good night, cyar'ika.”

You didn’t know what the Mando’a meant, since Mando never used that word around you, but you knew that the, “good night,” was all you needed to finally fall asleep.

You always waited up for him, only until reasonable hours of the night, of course, but he didn’t know it.

The sound of his footsteps in the present snapped you out of your hazy state. Crying really does a number on your brain.

“Just…couldn’t fall asleep,” you offered him a small smile as you pulled some products out of the tiny fresher cabinet. You wet your face and applied a small amount onto your fingertips, tapping them together for both hands to have the product. As you lifted your face and your hands to the mirror to begin washing your face, you were met with swollen lips, puffy eyes, and slight tear trails dried onto your face, despite the water you just splashed onto it. You froze.

There goes any of your chances to get away with how you spent your night. Staying up late staring at the Crest’s ramp. Waiting for Mando to come home. At least what you thought was home.

“What’s wrong?” Mando’s voice got clearer as he approached the fresher door. His strides long, footsteps clunking, as he removed his leather gloves and tucked the pair into his utility belt.

You went to turn away from him but he got there faster than you could. His ungloved hand rested on your shoulder, grip slow yet firm as he turned you to face him. He rubbed tiny circles onto your skin with his thumb once his eyes beneath the helmet noticed yours.

Your reflection on the silver beskar of his helmet stared back at you. Could you even get away with a lie at this point? What else would have made you cry? It’s not exactly like you could have said the truth either.

Oh yeah, I was sitting here having a panic attack as you participated in a perfectly normal service that is offered on this planet. Then I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you, and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.

Mando’s hand waved in front of your face and it brought you back into the present moment. “Did someone come onto the ship while I was gone?” His voice gritted out from the helmet’s modulator.

“Maker, no,” you huffed and tried to look less suspicious, hoping he’ll just drop the topic.

“Then what is it?” He murmured, his modulator barely picking up his syllables. His wide shoulders took up most of the fresher’s door frame. The grip on your shoulder tightened slightly.

“It’s…I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.” You shrugged and repressed the heat of anxiety creeping down the back of your head. Turning to wash and dry your hands, you let out a sigh and started to walk towards the main open space of the hull. Your shoulder gently bumped him as you slid past his large frame in the doorway.

Suddenly your hips were being snapped backwards and dragged back towards the fresher. His damn finger was in your belt loop again.

He pulled you close to him, feeling the heat from his knuckle dig into your hip and spread throughout the rest of your body. His helmet leaned down to look you in the eye and tilted once again.

“Try me,” he paused. He brought his hand up to grip onto the valley where your neck meets your shoulder, slowly enough so you could back away if you so desired. His large palm and thick fingers were calloused and warm. The grip he had on you was still gentle, slightly squeezing. “You know you can tell me, right?”

You let a deep inhale permeate through your lungs. The words flowed through your individual cells. Thoughts of lying escaped your body with each breath. The debate inside your head would end. Whether he had those feelings for you or not.

“I got upset because you went to the brothel.” You told him. Lips trembling and eyes squinted open in an attempt to meet his gaze.

“The brothel?” He held both of your shoulders and brought his visor closer to your face. Thumbs rubbed your shoulders yet again. He sighed as your name left his lips and traveled through his helmet, “I didn’t go to a brothel tonight.” A titled T-shaped gaze met yours. You knew he was looking you in the eyes, and yours into his.

Brows furrowed, you sniffled slightly, “I-, I saw that condoms were on the market receipts.” The thumbs on your shoulders stopped, his chest didn’t rise and fall. He froze. You made Mando freeze.

“Look I know I’m just being dramatic and paying for that kind of thing is completely normal. I just,” you trailed off and thought of a quick replacement for your worry, “I was worried you would get hurt there.”

Mando’s shoulders fell and his helmet cocked to the side. “What?” He questioned. “How would I get hurt? None of the workers there had weapons.”

“How would you know that if you didn’t go?” You whispered to him. Your gaze left his and it dropped to the shape in the center of his chestplate. The crystal shape rose up and down slowly.

“I got information on a bounty there earlier,” he sounded like he was talking to a hurt animal. Gentle. Slow. Calm. “What's the actual reason you’re upset?”

Kriff it.

“I had a panic attack because I thought you went to the brothel. Maybe you would like the worker there more than you like me, I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you,” your chest heaved and as you listed off your previous thoughts of worry. Your hands shook as they landed on top of Mando’s, and you took a deep breath, eyes meeting his gaze like before, “and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.”

Mando is quick. He flipped his hands to grab one of yours and tugged you into the hull. Kneeling, he opened a cloth bag, one from the market, and dug into it to search for something.

He actually went to the night market. You thought, now you look so clingy. So needy. He was just going to show you what he got to prove he went.

He turned and held his hand out. Sitting on top of the golden skin on his palm was a bracelet.

The bracelet from the market.

“I saw you looking at these, you looked for a long time and then put them down,” He stood up and set his gait to slow steps as he made his way over to you.

You laughed nervously, accompanied by a small sniffle, “Sorry yeah, I know I just should have been getting the stuff we needed. You didn’t have to go back and get it for-.” Mando raised a finger to halt your speech and continued what he was saying previously, “you put them down. You had two bracelets.”

“They had lots of them that I liked…I had two that were a tie and I just decided to get neither-.” Mando cut you off again.

“You were holding one bracelet consistently and then picked another in a bigger size,” you froze at his words. Dank farrik. Now he was going to think you’re super clingy.

“I wasn't completely sure who you wanted to wear the bracelet, but I took a guess.” He pulled his long sleeve past his elbow and revealed his bare forearm. Strong. Capable. Solid. And a matching bracelet was donned on his wrist.

Your cheeks radiated with heat as he took your wrist and put your bracelet on you. His warm fingertips brushed the soft skin of your wrist, sending chills throughout your body at the meticulous skin-on-skin contact.

Once the bracelet was secure around your wrist, Mando dipped his head and looked down at the floor. One of his hands gripped the underside of his helmet, and the other held onto your wrist. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture. He quickly lifted his helmet to release his mouth, and he pressed three kisses on your wrist where the bracelet was. Mando’s lips were soft and timid, his hand caressing the skin on yours. Silver from his beskar helmet blocked your view, but Mando sealed his helmet and brought his eyes underneath the visor to look into yours.

“This means everything to me.”

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)

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sunonyoreface · 1 year

Text

He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 10

an: this is my favourite part yet! Thanks for your patience!

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 2700

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: angst, military setting, explicit language mentions of torture, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

I can still hear ringing from hours of relentless whirling of the helicopter engine beating against my eardrums. Ghost pulls me through the snow with one rough hand wrapped around my arm and the other on his pistol. In the time it took us to fly here, he only riled himself up more. Searing, red anger radiates from beneath his suit. I dread the moment we pass through that door.

Ghost doesn’t clear the safe house. He doesn’t have to. A thermal imaging camera attached to the chopper told him no one’s been there in hours. The night vision lenses reveal to him that no one’s trampled through the slushy snow or left tracks of any kind in days. The tiny cabin is between one of their bases and a large town in Latvia. It isn’t accessible by road. Only a helicopter, ATV, or 40-mile hike from the nearest settlement will get you here. This place isn’t meant to be found. The Ultranationalists won’t have suspected us to leave the country. No one will. Even the other task members have no clue where we are. Only Price. We’re completely alone.

It’s supposed to be safer, but I feel far from safe.

The cabin shakes as he slams the door shut and flips three deadbolts. There’s no escaping him. Even if I somehow miraculously made it out of the cabin, I’d be shot dead before I could make it ten feet away. Inside I am completely blind. There isn’t an ounce of light. Ghost releases me and blood rushes to the spot on my arm he was gripping. I can feel the bruises forming already. He brushes against my back as he steps further into the dark. It’s eerily silent. There’s no traffic outside or music from neighbouring rooms or wind gusts rattling the windows. Everything is completely still. Only my heavy breathing fills the dreadful space.

A small table lamp clicks on as Ghost lets go of the chord. The tiny metal chain clinks against the glass base. He paces around, looking completely out of place. We’re in a small room with a burgundy futon, a wooden table with two chairs, a tiny wood stove, and several cabinets on the far side of the wall. This is the only room in the whole building. It’s cozy and quaint; the kind of place new couples spend too much money on for a weekend getaway. There’s also another lamp standing in the corner of the room that Ghost now switches on. The lamps cause two jagged shadows to follow him around the room. Its warmer here than at the base, but not because the heat is on. This building doesn’t have heat, but we’re closer to the ocean so everywhere’s warmer. It’s just cold enough for the snow to stick to the ground in a slushy consistency.

I stand by the door, watching as Ghost undoes the clasps on his helmet before taking it off and placing it on the wood table. His skull mask is still covered in the bloody remnants of our interviews from this morning. Next to it, he places the large assault rifle. He doesn’t offload his handgun or any of the other various weapons strapped to his person. No, he might need those yet.

Ghost pauses for a moment as he scans the room, taking in our surroundings until his eyes land on mine. As much as I want to, I can’t look away. There’s something about his eyes. There always has been. They hold so much depth it’s hard to describe. So much horror I physically can’t describe. A type of desire that I’m afraid to describe.

He silently stalks across the wooden floor, holding my gaze the entire time, holding onto his anger even longer. Ghost stops only inches away. I shift back toward the door to put some distance between us.

“Are you scared of me?” his eyes narrow as he examines my face. Ghost is a well-trained bloodhound. There’s no hiding my fear from him. He can smell it pulsing through my veins. He can hear the muscles in my heart thundering at a terrifying speed.

“Should I be?” already, my voice is unsteady.

“I would,” he says plainly. My throat tightens and my mouth runs dry.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why’d you lie to me?” he ignores my question, jumping right to the very thing that is fueling his anger. Ghost is already standing too close for comfort, utilizing his size just like he does during the interrogations.

“I didn’t lie to you,” I lower my voice. Maybe if we’re both whispering, he won’t start shouting.

“You did,” there’s venom in his voice. I can hear the rattles of a snake hiding in tall grass. If I take the wrong step, I’m sure to be bitten.

“I told you what he said. Just not all of it,” I press my sweaty palms to the side of my thighs. Ghost’s brooding eyes are shadowed by the bloody skull mask. He’s so close I can smell the tangy, metallic scent. I taste it on my tongue as I bite the inside of my cheek. I feel it in my veins as it pulses through my racing heart.

“That’s rubbish,” his brows furrow and his lower lids tighten.

“Is it?” I ask. What would he do if he were in my position? Are my actions truly that unforgivable? “Why don’t you just interview me like you do them? Then, you’d find out.”

“Because you’re not one of them,” he says with certainty. Maybe not, but are we so different? For years, people told me I was just like my father and he’s “one of them”. How different can we be?

“Maybe I am,” I push back. The rattling sounds closer. My mind is warning me to step away from the snake, but some morbid part of me wants to see what’ll happen.

“You’re not,” he states.

“How do you know?” I ask. What makes him so certain? Sure, 141 does their research before kidnapping someone, but maybe I could be an Ultranationalist. Maybe he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks. Maybe I’m the snake.

Ghost reaches into a pocket on his thigh. He pulls out his switchblade and snaps the blade out. My eyes widen as I step further back, trapping myself against the door. Ghost stalks even closer. His movements are slow and predatory. I have nowhere to go as he presses his chest into mine. The hard equipment strapped to his vest hurts as it rubs against my clothes, jutting into my flesh. One hand harshly wraps around my mouth as the other presses the tip of the blade against my cheek.

I jolt away from the pain and try to wriggle from his grasp, but it’s no use. Ghost has me pinned against the door with no escape. The pressure is sharp and I feel the skin threatening to break, any harder and he’ll draw blood.

“Simon,” I try to say his name but the words are muffled. My hands wrap around his forearm and squeeze. Not in an attempt to pull him away, but just to get him to stop. His skin is hot under my cold fingers and his tense muscles ripple beneath my palm.

When I finally make eye contact with him, my heart skips. His eyes are dark and analytical. This isn’t about hurting me. He is simply gauging my reactions. This is a test.

The skull mask leans in closer. “An Ultranationalist wouldn’t flinch. They’d lean into the pain,” he whispers. Ghost releases me, taking only a small step back. I don’t wait to catch my breath before asking my next question.

“Do you like hurting them?”

“I do,” he says with a sense of pride. It’s now that I realize he doesn’t see these men as people. In his eyes, as soon as they joined the Ultranationalists, they abdicated all their human rights.

“That’s sick.”

“Maybe,” he says, taunting. “But it’s nothing in comparison to what they do.”

I ignore his attempt at changing the topic.

“Do you like hurting me?”

“Y/n,” something in his voice changes. It’s strained, almost. I see his brows furrow at the edge of his mask. He leans back at this. “Do you think that low of me?”

“In Price’s office, the two of you mentioned intercepting a high-ranking Ultranationalist’s family member. That’s what you did to me,” I wait for him to tell me I’m wrong. I want him to tell me I’m wrong. That the families of the men they hunt aren’t being punished for their crimes. Deep down, I know I’m not. “Did you know about that?”

“I helped plan it,” Ghost admits. My throat tightens even more and I fight the urge to cry. Of course, he did. It’s all some stupid vendetta. They don’t care who’s hurt in the process. Part of me can’t help but feel betrayed. I should’ve expected it. When I look into his eyes, there’s no regret. I’m just collateral to him. There’s a larger plan at play and my life is just a small game piece.

“Were you there when it happened?” I ask. I need to know. How much of my suffering was directly because of him?

“No.”

“Do you know the things they did to me?” my voice cracks. “How they pumped me so full of drugs I couldn’t stay conscious? And when I was awake, I was sick for hours. I was so drugged up I could barely stand, let alone walk. My body didn’t feel like my own. They locked me in a dark room alone for weeks. The only time I saw another person was when I was fed just twice a day. I didn’t know if my family was okay! I still don’t! I had a bag over my head ninety percent of the time and when I couldn’t keep up, they’d grab at me and push me until I’d hit a wall or the floor. Did you know that, Simon? I am covered in bruises! Even now,” my eyes start to water, but my sadness begins to transition to anger. “You planned all of that, Simon?”

Ghost takes a moment to watch the emotions flicker across my face and weigh his options. He takes a deep breath before saying “It was a part of the plan. You were supposed to believe you were taken by the Ultranationalists, so you’d be more willing to cooperate with us. We contracted the job to one of our Russian allies so it couldn’t be directly traced back to us. The fact that you were looking into your family’s past was just a coincidence. A convenient one, but a coincidence nonetheless,” his voice is reserved. He’s holding back again and it only hurts more.

“You’re no better than them,” I hiss at him. “At least they’re honest about what they do.”

Ghost scoffs at me and when he looks at me his eyes are narrowed and his brows furrowed. “Honest,” he laughs in patronizing disgust. “You don’t know a fucking thing about them.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about you either! Everything you’ve told me was a fucking lie!” I hate to admit it, but I break first. I’m the first to raise my voice and now all bets are off.

“Have you watched the news lately? Don’t you-”

“It’s hard to watch the news when you kidnapped me!” my face is red and I feel a burning rage. I feel like I’m on fire. Like Ghost has soaked me in gasoline and struck a match.

“Shut your fucking mouth for two goddamn seconds,” he snarls. There are flames in his eyes. “Haven’t you seen the bombings? The shootings? The fucking airport attacks? Any of it? That was all them! They’ve killed thousands of people for political power and they’re only getting started,” his fists are balled at his sides as he pushes into me again. I so badly wish I was closer to his size. At least then I’d have a chance.

He’s becoming just as worked up as I am. Good. He deserves to feel what I feel. The anger. The pain. The betrayal. How fucking unfair all of this is. Ghost’s breathing becomes faster as his chest heaves with disdain. I imagine a scowl on his face as he tries to justify his actions. As he tries to justify all of the violence he is responsible for. 141 isn’t as righteous as they’d like to believe. Their hands are caked in layers upon layers of years worth of blood. Their skin underneath is stained a type of red that won’t wash off in the sink.

“If we take out Makarov and his top generals, we can disband the Ultranationalists. We can stop this utter madness from becoming any worse. If we do that, we’ll save thousands of people and stop wars before they begin,” Ghost rests both his hands on the side of my neck, his thumbs just under my ears. His grip is light, but I feel the urgency under his fingers. “I will do anything in my power to see that happen,” he says, reigning himself in as he steps back.

“Even kill my father,” I whisper. His eyes flicker back to mine. He doesn’t need to say anything to confirm my suspicion.

“He’s a bad man, y/n,” Ghost’s voice lowers.

“You don’t know him,” the pain is evident on my face. My heart aches and I miss him.

“No. But I know what he’s done,” he watches my expressions, calculating how much he should tell me. “Last month he coordinated a shooting at a refugee camp. Could call that his specialty. Refugee camps and immigration centers, sometimes homeless shelters. He targets vulnerable people and causes that the Ultranationalists know will get people riled up. Your father is responsible for the death of hundreds of innocent people. Do you know who lived in those camps? Young families. Children who had their whole lives ahead of them. He killed them y/n.”

My face scrunches up in disgust and disbelief. I feel the bile creeping up my throat as my stomach twists itself into an impossible knot. My knees want to give out. That can’t be true. He wouldn’t do that, not the man I know. My father is an introvert who likes to buy loaves of expired bread and feed pigeons in Central Park. He runs my mother baths and cooks too much pasta and kisses me on the forehead every time I visit. He is not that man.

“You’re lying,” my bottom lip trembles. “Everything you’ve told me is a lie, why would you tell the truth now?”

“I have video,” he says coldly. “Four of these attacks alone have detailed surveillance footage of him present during the events. But he’s not always present. Often, they’re planned at a distance. He’ll have coordinated most of them from your home.”

“That’s not true,” I mumble into my sleeve as I wipe my nose. “It’s not,” the tears finally spill from my eyes. It can’t be true.

“So no, y/n, I don’t like hurting you,” Ghost cups the side of my face, his thumb brushes along my hair as he gently guides me to look at him. “But I’d do it a million times over if it means stopping Makarov.”

“Where does it end?” my voice is pleading “Makarov, then my uncle, then my father, and all of their generals. Who else do you have to kill before it can finally end? Me? Am I on that list, Simon?”

“I would never do that to you,” he murmurs as his other hand brushes away my tears. All I want is to lean into his touch. To have him hold me and tell me everything’s going to be alright.

“How can I believe you, Simon? How can I believe you after everything you’ve done? After all the lies you’ve told,” my soft voice cracks.

His thumb soothingly brushes up and down my cheek. With each deep breath he takes, his vest pushes further into my chest. Before the pressure was alarming but now, I find a strange comfort in it. I want him to say that there’s a way out of this. That maybe he was wrong about my father. That when I go home, it’ll be like I never left. Simon leans down and rests his forehead against my own. My mind drifts to the blood sprayed across the white skull.

“You can’t.”

PT11:

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley cod #simon riley fanfic #cod ghost #ghost imagine #ghost x reader #COD MW2 #cod imagine #cod ghost imagine #MW2 #MWII #mw2 imagine #mw2 fanfic

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jayden-killer · 2 months

Text

Greediest man in the Stone World.

summary: you've just being awaken by your old friend and classmate, Senku, in a whole new human era. But, who's this young guy claiming you as his? a/n: waahh, i sincerly apologise if i disappeared...again. i literally forgot my tumblr writing page, and life took a.. strange turn of events(?) kinda. i hope this first ryusui one shot will make me forgive!!!

☆

Dark. And then... a golden beam of light passed through my eyes, blinding me. My muscles began to melt. I felt them sore, as if I had slept in an uncomfortable position all night. Or maybe, for three thousand and fifty years. This was what was brought back to me when I woke up from that sleep I thought was eternal. The first thing my eyes noticed when they hatched was a blinding sun. There was so much green. So much vegetation was not seen even in the well-preserved jungles. Then, a group of boys with familiar and unfamiliar faces. My eyes met his.

"Senku..?"

I uttered that name in a subtle tone of voice, and the boy did nothing but address to me that mischievous grin of his own.

"Yoh, Y/N...we need your help".

[ Time skip...(*ゝω・)ﾉ ]

"So... you need my dexterity in putting these little pieces together so you can build, um... Repeat it, thank you".

"An oxygen tank" Senku rest, without even thinking of getting that smirk off his face.

His attitude hadn’t disappeared after 3,500 years. Not even when he claimed in front of a professor that their speeches were meaningless.

Here we go again...

Between a sigh and the other I immediately set to work, while in the distance I heard Senku arguing with what seemed to be his colleague.

Just in the middle of my work I felt someone touching my shoulder gently. A delicate touch, like that of a… "Child?" The girl in question wore a watermelon helmet on her head, with lenses inserted in the two holes that created a space for the eyes. She made a sound of wonder, her hands to her mouth.

"So, you are new here!" With a confused look I lowered myself to her level, able to have a face-to-face conversation with the little creature. " I suppose so..? And you are...?" That little girl who didn’t immediately show her intentions and courage was pretty to say the least. "Suika wanted to welcome you to the Science Team!" she said clearly, now showing me her hand to shake her. I took her, and with a kind smile, I accepted her request. "How kind of you! Since I am now a new addition to your team, can I have the honor to meet my future colleagues and companions?"

Little Suika nodded happily, running in the opposite direction where I was working. Heck. Maybe it was me who was no longer a child like her, but Suika seemed really fast in the race, not giving me a chance to keep up. I didn’t know where he was taking me; we passed through several huts, erected on wooden structures, running as if someone was after us.

The only one chasing her was me. Looking back to see if we’d actually drifted apart, my foot tripped on a double-sized rock. The collision with the stone made me lose my balance; I was ready to crash on the dirty ground and have some bruises all over my face for a few days. Only that never happened. In the instant that I was about to feel my face against the damp soil, two arms wrapped my waists not too strong, but with determination, preventing me from slipping a second time. I didn’t even realize I closed my eyes. "It’s not even the first day you’re back here on Earth, and you were destined to get hurt. Pff, not very convenient for our team, huh?"

A moment later my eyes sprang to meet his, and those eyes reminded me of an autumn now close to winter. " Well, lady killer, now you might as well put me down. I’m not meant to be your princess." I said authoritatively. His powerful arms let go of my body, and with a little thump my butt bounced off the ground.

What an idiot!

Not only was he now laughing at me with a fat laugh, as if I had just said the funniest joke on Earth, but he didn’t even deign to preseed himself! The blond slightly lowered his head, as I was still on the ground, and with an energetic voice he replied: "Not yet", later going in the opposite direction, with firm step. Oh, what kind of weird I had in front…

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

"Become mine! With all my Drago you would become the luckiest woman in the world!"

Somebody kill me...

It had been two months since I had made my unexpected (better to say, unlucky) acquaintance with blondie, who had the name of Ryusui Nanami. With his egocentrism and sheer avarice, he had proved to be one of the most promising members of the Kingdom of Science so far, with great skills for navigation. Apparently he came from one of the wealthiest families in Japan, and he certainly had not lost the habit of being indulged in everything, even after 3,500 years. And since our first meeting, he hasn’t stopped trying once. On every occasion he would give me his flirtations comments (sometimes shabby), he would become handsy, or he would try to buy me with his stupid Drago.

I was not one of those women who was so easily deceived, especially if a situation was about money. He thought I would give in so easily. I was so determined to prove to him the opposite, during these months, that this would give him up. With a gesture of the hand, I pushed him away. " I’m sorry, Ryusui. As I’ve explained many times before, I’m not interested." I took a dramatic break. ".. to you."

He whined loudly like a little baby, fogetting his money behind to get close to me. "You’re making a mistake!" "I have made many mistakes in my life," I answered sharply. "Then add another to your long list." I nailed him down with my sharp look, sketching a tight smile. Nothing to do. That man would never wave the white flag in the sky. However, it was becoming a nuisance, and having it close to me like a fin was starting to run out. For the worse. I had only one idea that could have saved me in that instant, from a near future in which he was no longer clinging to me like an octopus: make him believe he had a chance with me. A bold idea; nevertheless, it had to be tried. Either it will make it or break it. "Maybe, in the future, you might have a chance…" I implied in a vague tone, already heading somewhere, any, to get him off my back. I could swear to see his eyes shining remarkably with hope, and a new fire, fueled by determination.

He snapped his fingers, his iconic gesture that everyone, by now, had learned to recognize, and if he did, it was because he decided to do something. There were no roads back. "HA-HA!" His laughter seemed to flow throughout the Ishigami village. Even Senku and Chrome turned to us, with confused scowls, to see what was so funny at the time. But Ryusui found nothing amusing in this situation, except a challenge to complete.

"So be it! I’ll show you how much I’m willing to change your mind. Anything to get the chance to become yours!"

Though I did not turn to look at him, once again, his muscular arms clasped my waists, turning my body to meet his. Face to face. "You, damned Nanami, what do you want now?!" That gesture had taken me by surprise, because he was not used to come so near me, but with his cheeky smile, he kissed me on both the cheeks. A quick gesture that made me blush remarkably in my face, almost to feel it burn under the palms of my hands. "What the f...?!" "You don’t know it, but you’re already mine!"

#dr. stone #senku #dr stone x reader #ryusui nanami #ryusui nanami x reader #senku ishigami #senku ishigami x reader #senku x reader #ryusui x reader #anime imagines #anime and manga #anime x reader #gen asagiri #imagine #one shot #sfw

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neopuppy · 2 years

Text

Beatbox (M)

preview: “Hey hey, you a new transfer?”

The boy next to you appears horrified, offended with his jaw hung loose. Round eyes more pronounced behind bifocal frames, he splutters, licking at his prominent two front teeth. “I’ve been in this class all year! You transferred into my grade! 10 years ago!”

“Huh?” You shrug, prodding the inside of your cheek in thought. “Really? Weird.”

“Y-yo-you have to be joking!”

“Anyway,” you flick his chin, smirking. “I need a tutor.”

pairing: Jaemin x female reader

word count: 6k+

genre: college AU, nerdy Jaemin, y/n a meanie, crackish, one shot, it’s filth…yay nana day🥳💕

smut warnings: switching, oral, grappling(headlocks, chokeholds, thigh crushing, full nelson, pinning, etc), degradation, competitive rough sex, breeding, spit, use of ‘bunny’, submission

‘If you fail your political history course, I have to sit you out for the upcoming season.’

“Who even studies this shit.” The sheet filled with requirements to continue competing with your varsity wrestling team wrinkles between your fingers.

Three of your courses blared at you, circled with vibrant red sharpie to add more threat behind your coaches words.

‘If you don’t pick up your fucking slack asap, say goodbye to competing in the championship finals.’

No amount of kicking at your locker and swinging your backpack around on your way to class assisted in relieving any of your frustration.

If only you had a dick, fat chance any guy on the boys wrestling team had to worry about their grades. Everyone knew the dean favored his beloved male athletes, bragged and boasted about across states through various top leading universities.

“A tutor” you murmur, rolling your eyes. Reprimanded and put on time-out until you have at the least found a tutor. Either miss out on one of the biggest tournaments in the upcoming weeks, or get your ass a tutor to help you pass your mid-terms.

Someone smart, obviously, a full fledged nerd with their nose buried in a book.

Hmm, no, not Renjun… he hadn’t even made top of your class last year.

Definitely not that pervert Haechan that got caught behind the bleachers jerking off..

Glancing around, you begin to weigh your options.

Jeno, he’s a brain, but he still had tape holding his glasses together after you snapped them in half two months ago. His fault for getting in your way and making you late to practice.

A bleached blonde head of hair and a pile of books masking your potential essential nerd grabs your eye.

The communist manifesto hovers before his face, allowing you enough of a view of thin rimmed silver lenses and eyebrows furrowed deep in concentration. Sneakily you move over to the closest seat near him, silently rejoicing when you spot a pocket protector sitting on his chest.

Perfect.

“Hey hey, you a new transfer?”

“Huh?” You shrug, prodding the inside of your cheek in thought. “Really? Weird.”

“Y-yo-you have to be joking!”

“Anyway,” you flick his chin, smirking. “I need a tutor.”

The blonde before you grows more indignant, fumbling to set a bookmark in place and fully turn to face you.

“Why would I help you?!” He scoffs, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “You pulled down my pants at our 8th grade dance! In front of the entire school!”

“That was you?!”

“And then you poured punch on me! And told everyone I pissed myself!” He stammers, tapping one of his loafers with each shake of his leg.

“There’s no way that was you!” You giggle, waving him off. “That was this dork Jaem—“

“Jaemin!” He hisses, ripping off his glasses to fix you with a steely look. “Me!”

“Oh my god?? Why are you blonde?” You snort, reaching to stroke the peach fuzz decorating the side of his face. “You need to bleach this too furball.”

Jaemin rustles, smacking your hand away with his lips pursed together, appearing more and more perturbed by everything you say. “Don’t touch me!”

Letting out a sarcastic filled coo you lean in closer, pinching at his cheek. “Aw, did I upset the bunny?”

His eyelids push so far back that you’re surprised when his eyes stay put, expecting for them to fall out and bounce on his notebook.

“What did you just call me?” He says incredulously, grasping onto your wrist tightly.

“Damn, this nerd has some strength,” you cringe, shaking him off. Weakly punching at his arm only to feel overtaken with disbelief again, digging a finger in as you pout wondering why he feels so firm, too firm for a nerd..

“I said stop touching me!” He glowers, forcefully ripping your arm away. “Go away! I do not want to help you in any way!”

“Aw come onnnn, pleaseeee bunny?”

“Stop calling me that!” He hisses, inching closer to speak sternly. “Why do you keep calling me that?!”

Sticking out the top row of your teeth, you tap at the first two and proceed to form bunny ears with your index and middle finger. “You act like one too, vicious and temperamental..”

“Listen,” he snaps before your face, nearly chopping your nose in the process. “I am not going to tutor you! and stop calling me a bunny!”

Hope seems lost until you notice a crimson flush spiking up from his nape. Jaemin’s gaze bounces, clearing his throat as he reaches for his book, faint shades of pink burn at his cheeks, reaching up to the corners of his nose.

“Aww, you like it!” You laugh, scooting closer for your leg to drape over his. “Hear me out bunny, if you help me out, I’ll help you out.”

“I don’t need nor want your help.” He mutters, refusing to meet your stare any longer. Aware of the blush taking over his face destroying the facade he continues on with.

“That’s not true, and you know how I know that?”

Sighing, his chin dips in, frustrated by his curious subconscious. “How.”

“Who else was going to let you know that your fuzzy sideburns give away that the curtains do not match the drapes?” You joke, digging your elbow into his side. Breaking into a round of giggles at the sight of his front teeth poking out again with his mouth hung open.

“Listen, bunny boy, my coach is up my ass about finding a tutor. Just swing by at the end of practice so I can tell him someone with a 4.0 gpa has agreed to help me.” You plead, squeezing at his arm again with confusion. “Why do you feel like that?”

Jaemin throws a hissy fit, shimmying out of your grip once again while snarling in a much too cute way for you to take seriously. “No! Now go away you damn cretin!”

“Hear me out!” You grunt, rolling your eyes. “I know the captain of the football team gives you a swirly every Monday morning.”

Jaemin’s jaw drops yet again, beginning to hate himself for not just getting up and moving away. Starting to find one of your bullies attractive had to make him sick in the head somehow. “Why do you know that?! You just asked me if I transferred!”

“Uh.. selective memory.” You shrug, playing it off with a wide smile. “Anyway, what if I can get him to stop?”

His ears perk up at that, flitting a shifty gaze your way. “You can’t.”

“Oh, trust me, I can. He’s wanted me to suck his dick since the first day of Uni.” You nod mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows.

Jaemin slumps deeper into his seat, contemplating how late it’s making him, having to rush to lecture after rinsing and restyling his hair.

“You know, toilet water is terrible for a fried bleached scalp.”

“My hair is not fried!” He barks, nose scrunched up adorably in irritation.

“You’re right, it looks great..” you note, testing a silky tuft of locks between two fingers. “Kind of weird for a nerd to care this much about his looks though..”

Jaemin jerks away, glaring at you for the name. “Applying for internships has been hard..”

“Ahh, well the blonde looks great on you at least.” Giving him a thumbs up, you invade his space once again. “So, how about it? No more toilet diving if you tutor me??”

He sighs again, expression full of thought as he pouts and aggressively taps at the end of his pen.

“Fine.” His shoulders drop, feeling tense and uncomfortable by the proximity you’ve kept up for much for too long at his side now. Not missing the way your fingers kneaded at his bicep earlier or the intrigued ‘hmm’ tickling at the back of your throat.

“Great! Come by the gym at 4!”

Jaemin trudges toward the gym hall, retelling the memories of his first year when Haechan had convinced him to join him and peep on the girls wrestling team practice from behind the bleachers.

His throat dries, regretting every life decision he’s ever made as he steps inside and spots you choking another girl down onto the ground under your armpit. Deeply swallowing, he settles at the corner of the bleachers uncomfortably. Unable to even pretend that he’s not fascinated by the way you grunt and scream like a wild animal with a mouthguard in as you throttle your opponent down.

Jaemin hates the way he has to tug at his collar, clearing his throat while blinking away to calm his excitement. This was all Haechan’s fault, always going on about how hot wrestling porn is, especially when the girl in the video starts off strong only to lose and get annihilated by a huge cock.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.” His friend said while peering through small open spaces from behind a set of bleachers. “Look at that one.”

Haechan nudges his chin in your direction, grappling down your opponent with a shout and slamming your fists on your chests like a beast. “Bet she would be so fun to fucking ruin.”

Jaemin hates that his friend was right. Even now as he watches you jump up from the ground showing off your flexibility with a cocky grin; he can’t help but think about it. How exhilarating and hot it would be to experience you trying to take him down. Fight him with that same smile stretching your mouth in a crass way, disgusting how full of yourself you are. The way you walk around thinking you’re hot shit and no one can touch you.

Too deep in his head, Jaemin manages to miss you walking right up to him. Shaking out of his thoughts as you let out a boisterous obnoxious laugh and point at his lap.

“Are you seriously fucking hard from watching me practice!?” You shout out much too loud, humiliating him as your teammates all glance over and begin to laugh.

“Ugh. Fucking nerds are all the same.” Your friend taunts passing by on her way to the locker room. “Just like that other one that thinks we can’t hear him busting a nut behind the bleachers.”

Punching at his shoulder, you laugh more, clutching your stomach and wiping at tears before they can run down your cheeks. “That’s so cute bunny, you wanna wrestle me or something?”

Jaemin’s mouth opens. Opens and slams shut repeatedly, lost for words as he drags a heated gaze over your sweat soaked uniform. Spending too much time admiring the fold between your thighs wedged up nicely between your…

“Dude, what the fuck? Quit staring at my vag like that.” You punch him again, whistling for your coach to come over and meet your ‘tutor’.

Jaemin jumps up, standing by your side with false confidence. “Maybe I do!”

“What was that now, bunny?”

“Stop calling me that!” He huffs, balling up his fist. “I could wrestle you, and I’ll beat you.”

“Excuse me?!” You snort, fixing him with amused wide eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

“I am.” He says, nodding and pursing his lips to appear tough. “If you pass your mid-term, then you owe me a match.”

Nerves rise fast as your coach approaches, spluttering, too stunned to think over what he’s said. “You have a thing for girls beating your ass?”

Jaemin’s nose twitches, eyes thinning as he shoves against your side. “We have a deal or what?”

“Fine!” You panic, rushed to answer while waving at your coach. “I got a tutor!”

Between fake smiles and quickly falsifying study sessions, you end up actually taking on tutoring lessons.

“Why do you have a wrestling mat in your basement?” Jaemin asks one day, following you through your house to the second room you have taken over for practice purposes.

“The better to wrestle you with.” You wink, nudging his side. “I’m studying hard just to whoop your cute blonde bunny ass.”

“What happens if I lose?” Jaemin questions, cracking his toes against the wrestling mat laid out in your basement.

“What do you mean ‘what if?’, you still think you have even the slightest chance to beat me?” You sneer. Too cocky for your own good as you squat with your legs stretched to loosen your hips. Predicting you will need the extra help if things go as you’ve planned.

Jaemin’s gaze shifts, bouncing around the room he’s helped you study in over the past couple of weeks. Toying with the zipper cool against his throat as he realizes how ridiculous this situation is.

“Listen, I don’t think this is a good idea.” He reiterates, briskly eyeing the loose sweats hiding what he assumes is your spandex wrestling uniform.

“It’s okay to lose, bunny.“ you wink, standing up to discard the zip-up hoodie covering up a skin-tight fitted one piece. Snug in all the right places to have his throat visibly bob the second he spots your smooth skin, lathered in lotion you noticed he seemed to enjoy the scent of the last time you wore it during a study session.

“I’ll go easy on you.” With a coy smile you shove down your bottoms just enough to give him peeks of your naked hips. The majority of the lycra fabric has bunched up, riding up your ass in a lewd way that makes Jaemin clear his throat, averting his focus to the ground.

“I truly have no idea how you passed your mid-term.” Jaemin rolls his eyes, stretching back his shoulders as he reaches to unzip his sweater.

The prideful grin bunching your cheeks slowly falls apart, drooping comically the more he unveils planes of flesh; sculpted and carved to perfection from long hours spent lifting weights.

Jaemin lets his jacket slip down his arms, standing proud with a blank face as your jaw hangs. It takes more restraint than he imagined to control the twitch pinching at his mouth, avoiding the intense stare tracing from his lengthy throat, pronounced Adam’s apple, broad shoulders and thick chest trapped between bulging biceps.

“What the fuck.” You announce, breathlessly. “What the fuck dude?!”

Jaemin shrugs, breaking into a smile that scrunches his nose, pushing his glasses up higher between his brows. “You’ll go easy on me, right?”

Jaemin’s buff. A fucking buff nerd that’s never once mentioned that he took up absorbing protein shakes like water and bulking up at the gym after long days filled with studying and schoolwork.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin before your tongue can loll out like a thirsty dog. “Try not to look so shocked, it’s kind of rude.”

“Why—” you gulp, finally snapping out of it enough to toe off your sweats and kick them aside. “Why the fuck are you this yolked?!”

Jaemin shrugs, unzipping his bottoms to further make you shrivel, lowering his jeans to show off the tiniest pair of spandex shorts. They dig into his upper thigh, cutting at the flexed muscle framing the thick shape between.

“Oh come on!”

He chuckles, bending over to strip the rest of his clothing off. Balling up his outfit to throw aside, he stands straight in all his glory, cut and ripped leading up to a soft round face and doe eyes, front teeth digging into his lower lip.

“You’re fucking with me.” You utter, cleaning off imaginary drool from your chin.

“Not yet..” Jaemin cocks a brow, cracking his neck side to side. “I got tired of not fighting back, so I started working out.”

He shrugs, done explaining more when he recalls that you are one of the many who tormented him over the years. Making fun of him without care, invisible to you unless it was to pick on him.

“That makes sense.” You murmur to yourself, kicking out your legs before settling in a lowered stance, preparing to take down your larger opponent. “Guess I won’t be taking it very easy on you after all.”

“Won’t you spare me?” He smirks, bending at his knees with his arms lifting to grab you and tackle you down.

Jaemin gulps to contain his nerves, thankful for the shadow falling on his glasses beneath the dim lighting fanned throughout the room. His throats already began to dry, flitting over your breasts obscenely squeezed out, shoved together creating perfect perky fat mounds ready to be choked between his fingers.

Time to size up your competitor goes to complete shit. Jaemin’s thick beyond comprehension. Corded muscles strain up his thighs to narrow hips and a tight little waist dipping in such an absurd way. His frame widens ridiculously, more ridiculous than the situation you’ve put yourself in as a mere joke.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Licking at your lips, you begin to circle him, following suit as he mimics your motions.

Inhaling a deep breath, you meet his gaze, lowering your chin for intimidation. “Hey, Jaemin.”

“Huh?”

You almost feel sorry attacking his weak spot by throwing him off. It’s playing dirty, but you know there’s no better way to get him plastered on his back. Tackled down onto the mat with your face buried in his chest, Jaemin lets out a gust of air. Caught off guard as you ram him down in one fell swoop.

He grunts, the back of his head bouncing off the mat; realizing he should have suffered itchy burning eyeballs and opted for contact lenses today.

“Amateur,” you groan, tethering his forearms together. Each muscle lining your back screams, flexing as you attempt to take control by slotting your hips against his. “Shouldn’t be s-so cocky—“

Jaemin growls, huffing out another breath to blow his bangs off of his forehead. Jerking his hips up to jostle your weight to the side brings on instant regret, muffling a curse by locking his lips. His cock fattens, searing heat pulses from the tip of his length to his navel.

“F-fuck,” you grit, pressing harder onto his crossed arms until his chest caves. “Playing dirty won’t help you win.”

Jaemin’s breath lodges, clenching the backs of his teeth as he bends his knees. His heels dig into the mat, hoisting up with more force until you topple over and lose your balance, fast as he escapes your grip and grabs onto your shoulders and plants your back flat.

“Playing dirty?” He asks, licking at his front teeth.

Jaemin circles your thighs, pushing them open to space an area for himself between your legs. He hovers near your lips, glasses slipping lower, just above the tip of his nose. “Like you distracting me with your entire ass out? What the fuck are you even wearing, huh?”

“Get off of me!” You say with clamped teeth, only bringing amusement to his face as his biceps bracket your head. “This is a normal uniform!”

“Yeah,” he laughs, using the end of your nose to set his glasses back into place. His hips roll, a focused control freezing your lower half down as his knees burn against the mat, turning sticky with moisture secreting. “A normal uniform for some slut doing wrestling porn. That’s what this is for you, isn’t it?”

He finishes the question with a pointed grind, cock nestled against your clothed core further burying the material of your suit between your folds. “Between the two of us, you know who lacks brains here.”

Jaemin’s gaze darkens, lowering closer until his bottom lip runs between the seam of your mouth. Fitting together deliciously, wet from sweat gathering on both of your upper lips and saliva clinging to the tips of your tongues.

He can feel it, hot and humid against his groin. Your pussy spreading over his shorts, clit incessantly rubbing on your suit with each little shift.

“Ugh, f-fucking nerd.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you struggle by jostling your lower half as much as you can. Barely fazing him as he licks down your chin, forming a trail of drool down to the middle of your neck hollowing in for him to lap at. The sweat pooled there tastes savory at first, hit by a bitter aftertaste from the alcohol in your scented lotion. Fitting for you, sour and sweet as you’ve acted with him.

“Call me a nerd again.” He pushes up, causing your eyebrows to twist as his chest pumps out. Pecs hard as a rock, nipples pointed like icicles despite the heat gathering between your bodies. “See what happens.”

“Oooh, s-so scared,” you choke, Jaemin grabbing onto your throat when you try to sit up and shove him off. “I’ll break your glasses, see how tough you f-feel.”

Your taunting only eggs him on, ferociously pushing his side against your inner thigh until your centers fully exposed for him to press three digits against your exposed folds. Gliding up to pinch your suit around your clit until your feet slip and you kick at the mat.

“Get this wet for a fucking nerd huh?” He jeers, rolling your bundle of nerves under the damp fabric. “Maybe that’s why you bullied me, wanted me to fuck that bratty better-than-you attitude out of you.”

All you can do is struggle, attempting to dislodge your throat from his menacing hold, only seeping his fingers further into the veins rapidly pulsating up the sides of your neck.

“If only it had been the other way around,” he goes on mocking, blurring over your clit faster and faster until you’re coughing between trapped moans. “Imagine if I bullied you, getting your revenge on me years later by cornering me and fucking me until I’m incapable or forming a sentence.”

His speech lands on muted ears, passing through a thick fog of arousal that clogs up your senses, too focused on how thick his forearm looks. The veins rippling upward toward his meaty bicep shout at you, pumping full of anger with each flick of his wrist.

“You’re right, I got hard watching you practice.” He confesses, turning his hips for you to feel his chubbed up girth against your inner thigh. “Wanna know why?”

Gurgling escapes you, licking at the roof of your mouth to suppress another embarrassing sound from passing. He laughs, sharp teeth gleaming as they catch the light. “Because..”

Gathering the seat of your bottoms, he tugs at the material with a balled up fist. Ripping roughly at it to make you writhe and squeal in pain, burning against your clit with each pull. “This is why, to see you like this. So fucking full of yourself, but you can’t even pass a stupid test without a nerds help.”

Mesmerized by your folds swelling up around your suit, Jaemin’s waist bends in, momentarily forgetting about his grip on your neck; just enough to give you leeway to push up on your elbows and regain control.

It’s easy to pin Jaemin down again, startling him with power he wished to assume you lack. He curses when you fling him down roughly and mount his chest. Gathering fistfuls of his sweaty blonde locks, you rip at his scalp until he’s whining, elongated neck arched back releasing an obscene moan between his pretty pink lips. Ragged breath spills from your chest, working hard to maneuver forward until your inner thighs clap against his cheeks. Slotting your suit aside too fast for Jaemin to even let out a gasp of surprise.

Smashing your core down against his mouth sends a hiss flying out of you, grinding down hard despite the ridges of his teeth scraping along your clit. He muffles, flailing beneath you, glasses fogged up with slick and heat radiating from your lower half. A relieved laugh sounds, nodding as you work to crush your thighs around him to a suffocating point.

“Bunny talks tough—“ you grit, gyrating against his tongue until he groans. Losing your train of thought once again when his tongue curves, applying pressure against your entrance until you give. Loosening up and relaxing enough to push through. “Fuck.”

Jaemin can’t complain, even as he struggles to breathe through his nose, stuffed full of your clit rubbing incessantly against him. He’s crazed, determined to stretch his jaw until it breaks under your unforgiving thrusts.

Behind your back his knees bend, angling his hips up to fuck at nothing but air. Desperate as he slaps a merciless grip on your ass, repeating it until you get the message to ride his tongue.

Securing one hand on his head, you pull harder, using the hold to control your motions. His tongue wiggling between your walls while passing vibrating grunts, raspy broken whimpers. The unexpected slap you deliver between his thighs has him coughing, choking and screaming finding it impossible to swallow a long enough breath.

“Little b-bunny can’t even handle f-fighting a girl can he?” You scramble to taunt him, whimpering as he manages to dislodge his tongue and suck on your clit. Spreading your ass apart to have your hole pulse open against his chin as he uses every inch of his face to rub and flick. Messy, fucking disgusting with a pleased gleam hiding under splattered lenses.

Jaemin’s teeth nip, lapping side to side on your clit before he wraps his lips again. A mean suck and nimble digits digging in too close to your rim have you toppling forward. A shouted moan expelling as you whine and bounce down to fully release your orgasm on his chin and neck.

White haze takes over the room, brain spinning too much to process being manhandled onto your back. Only between a coughed whimper do you come down, blinking up to find Jaemin above you, grasping your ankles above your head with a devilish smirk playing at his lips.

“You think I give up that easily? That was child’s play.” He taunts, pushing hard abdominal muscles against your exposed puffy cunt. Rough and grating as he passes from the thick line of dark hair trailing down inside of his shorts. A silent gasp emits as he grinds against your ass, hoisted off the mat the more he tests your flexibility, continuing to push and push until you’re folded in half.

Lazily you blink, reaching between your upper halves to scrape at his chest. Tweaking and pinching at one of his hardened nipples. With clenched teeth he takes advantage of your drunk-like post orgasmic state, releasing an ankle and replacing his hold with a hard bite. Sharp canine teeth sink near your tendon, shaking his head to make you shout and whimper louder. Free hand making use of your moment of weakness to release his erect length.

“Know what mean girls like you need?” He says between licking at teeth marks left behind on your ankle. Stroking to the tip of his length as he directs himself between your dripping wet folds. Sliding up and down for you to go crosseyed, stupid dumb just from feeling how fucking thick and wide he is.

“B-bunny..”

He doesn’t give you a chance to say more, penetrating with one fluid practiced motion. Years of masturbating and studying porn only served to build up his knowledge. Practicing what he learned with any girl who would give him the opportunity at science camp over the last few summers.

“Thick fucking cock to shut you up.” Finishing his sentence with a choked growl, he grinds, adding emphasis by giving you each inch.

The moan that rips from your chest says it all.

Full, so full. Thick, so fucking thick.

He’s bigger than any popular jerk you’ve fucked at frat parties. Obscenely stretching you out, split open and so unbelievably full.

“Aww,” he tries to mock, unable to stop himself from pressing in balls deep. Pressed deep enough for coarse dark hairs to scratch against your clit in the position. Folded in half and dwarfed beneath his massive size, both of his hands snake around your ankles, using his rocking hips to aid the push he gives. Your calves surround you, burning up the backs of your thighs from tight tendons working overtime.

“Weak. Nothing but a hole to take my cock.” Regaining some semblance at the visual of tears beginning to pour freely down your cheeks, Jaemin arches back, burying his knees into the mat to hit your hard with a pointed thrust.

Pinning you down with every muscle straining in his arms, he fills you to the brim. Cock too thick, nestling past any squeeze you give, any push the muscles inside of you use to suffocate his length.

“Don’t s-stop,” you choke, eyeing where he continues to dive in and out. His cock glistens coated in thick amounts of wetness, globs of it stuck on the patch of hair at the base. Wet, filthy and so fucking wet everywhere.

“So fucking greedy, full of cock and still you want more?” He spits, licking at saliva dribbling down his chin. “Want me to fill you up? Breed you like nothing but a stupid little cum dump.”

“Uh huh..” no amount of humiliation burning up your chest can deny how good it feels. Unwilling to even struggle or bother to get away from his hips pummeling forward. Hiccups and coughed sobs assist the rapid nod you give him, too overwhelmed to even picture how much Jaemin can give you.

He wishes he could laugh, but you feel too good, too perfect. The tip of his length catches on your convulsing hole with each draw back. It’s too much for you to even look at, witnessing the tip lifting at the skin covering your mound. Feeling deeper than what you can even actually see, as if his cock can reach the back of your throat with every thrust he gives you.

“Pl-please bunny..” you babble, worrying your bottom lip, fingers twitching for something. Finding his shoulders to weakly scratch at, dragging down to the cut his bicep muscle creates. “I-inside, please..”

Jaemin groans, circling his hips in a more meticulous manner. Cock dragging against your walls in a way that sends your toes curling. Legs trembling, nearly ripping free of his hold when he hits you just right, cockhead kissing your cervix with ease, hitting the perfect angle each time.

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

Maintaining his hold to keep you bent in half somehow, Jaemin fucks faster, ruthless and harsh, encouraged by your babbling and whines. Thrust after thrust harder than the previous, ripping his chest and abdominal muscles to appear carved out of stone with all the more vigor he utilizes to fuck you like you need and beg for.

“Ahhh…fuck!” Jaemin’s voice comes out strangled, using every bit of his strength to keep fucking you even as you lock up around him. Gripping a powerful orgasm around his cock, the pressure, push and pull almost forcing his cock to slip out. Gushed around, so wet and sloppy, spilling release down to his balls.

Despite your shrieks, he only manages to go even faster. Blurry above you as he pounds through your orgasm, gritting and panting similar to one of your opponents by the end of a long match. Rumbling from deep within his chest as he meets your eyes, glasses dropping off, tightening up when you find his blown out pupils.

Jaemin cums, cock thrumming violently with each hot drop of release bursting free, filling you up and up until he has to curse. Removing his hold as his broad shoulders tremble, absorbing the heat between your bodies through tremors rolling up his tense back muscles.

That’s enough, you think, rolling away in search of a towel to wipe yourself with. Whining when your hip lets out a nasty crack, you knew that pre-stretch would be needed, but not this much.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A lowered voice asks, shivering up your spine as you whimper, burning where your wet thighs rub against the mat feebly attempting to crawl away.

“N-no no m-more..”

Jaemin laughs, worse than an evil villain from any movie or show. Slow to walk on his knees over your pathetic excuse of getting away. He hauls your arms back, clicking his tongue with a breathless chuckle. “This will teach you to fuck with nerds.”

Burying back inside of you aches more than you can comprehend, imagining your brain exploding and spilling out of your ears as he rolls down. Cock sunk in to the hilt, gushing out the release he just filled you with. His size too much for you to hold both in, slick, wet, and so fucking loud with each draw back and slap of his hips.

“Jaemin!” It’s your first time wailing out his name, not missing a beat as he picks up the pace. His chest falls against your back knocking air out of your lungs, more determined to ruin you on his cock again. Make you regret the day you first saw him and made the worst decision to fuck with him.

“Where’s your cute bunny now?” He asks against your ear, watching your eyes roll back into your head. Biting at your jaw, he reaches around, budging his bicep against your chin. Hips snap brutally into you, pulling you into a death inducing chokehold roughly. He pulls harder, making your chest shove out and waist dip in until you’re bent far back, slapping one hand against the mat.

“You give up?!” He grunts against your cheek, jostling your throat with a shake of his arm. Tongue hanging out panting, you reach for his wrist, scurrying to hold onto anything you can.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A quiet cry and suppressed choke follows your palm smacking the mat with repeated motion. In disbelief by the sound of grunts, flesh clapping against flesh, popping wet and nasty with each smooth glide of Jaemin’s cock filling you up without losing any speed.

“Fuck,” his eyes squeeze, stomach muscles contracting with each unforgiving thrust further dragging you up the mat. Chasing after his next release, Jaemin runs for the victory by throwing his other arm around your neck, further pulling you into a headlock. Groaning by how much wetter you get, purging out more and more arousal with every ripple of his bicep against your jaw.

“That’s right.” He starts, blinking away sweat that won’t stop raining down, getting trapped in his long eyelashes. “Never forget how you let a nerd beat you.”

Another weak tap and pinch on his wrist has you cumming, arching high enough to nearly make him lose his rhythmic pace. Using powerful thigh muscles to push up and hit you with thrusts hard enough to have your heart beating out past your chest.

Slam after merciless slam turns messy, hips swerving pushing past your cunt gripping and milking for him to cum again. Give you the warm load to keep inside this time, greedily squeezing around him for another.

The squeaky cracked moan Jaemin lets out has your eyes rolling to the side, pleased that even after all of his tough talk, you can still weaken him somehow.

Tapping on his forearm finally gives you a chance to take deep breaths, only to be plastered by his limp dead weight collapsing onto you.

“So,” Jaemin breathes, wet chest heavily panting against your back. He bites at your nape, hoisting your chin up with his forearm perched under your jaw. “What’s my prize?”

“Ugh..” nothing more than a lazy response pours out of you. Continuing to reel and shiver under the weight melting you down into the ruined mat covered in every type of bodily fluid. “Whatever.”

If not for the chokehold around your throat, you’d knock out in less than a second. Thoroughly fucked and ran through by the same nerd that you once picked on and made cry for a laugh. The irony doing more to make your gut curl in with renewed arousal as you lock up around him.

“What was that? Whatever, huh?” He has the audacity to let out a fake chuckle, rumbling at the top of your spine. Free arm reaching down to push between your connected lower halves as he lifts to create space. “In that case..”

Jaemin’s index finger slips past bruises forming on your backside. Teasing as he pushes between your ass and traces your puckered rim. He pops free from your ruined hole, kissing at the backs of his teeth as a pool of cum bubbles out; settling in the shape of a perfect triangle at the top of your squished together thighs.

Prodding at your hole, Jaemin bites away a smile when you squirm and whimper, turning to give him a look full of excitement and fear. He meets your gaze with maniacal thrill, pushing his pouty lips together to create a faucet for a thick wad of spit to pour, landing directly on your ass to be smeared around.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

#jaemin smut #na jaemin smut #nct smut #nct dream smut #kpop smut #nct jaemin #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #jaemin x you #neopuppy fics #onek #nct dream imagines #jaemin imagines #na jaemin scenarios #nct dream scenarios

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wen-kexing-apologist · 8 months

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A Pause for Reflection: Part 2- Only Friends, Racism, and the Commodification of Queer Asians

Hello! It is me, your friendly neighborhood wen-kexing-apologist. Before Only Friends aired, knowing how sex heavy this show was setting up to be, I decided it might be kinda funny if instead of posting my initial reactions to the episodes, which I knew were going to be something akin to an incomprehensible key smash, if I instead committed to a bit where I wrote very dry, academic essays on sex and sex imperatives in Only Friends.

Well, I wrote an essay on Boston, his cruising habits, and my speculations around him being an embodiment of older queer culture expecting like…three people maybe to make it through legitimately 13 written pages with block text citations. But it did surprisingly well, and so now I have decided to full send.

In my first Taking Pause post, I wrote about respectable promiscuity and the way I felt that concept impacted perceptions of queer people and queer culture, especially as it relates to engagement with Only Friends. This time, I want to dampen the mood a bit further, and discuss racism and its impact on perceptions of queer Asian characters in the BL industry. This was spurred by Only Friends and especially inspired by the posts I have seen going around that project false purity on flawed characters, but will cover Asian BL engagement more broadly as well.

Disclaimer: I am a white Westerner, addressing this post primarily to white Westerners, and using Western sources.

The Commodification of Queer Asian Men

Racism is a complex subject, and while people of color are not absolved of white supremacy mindsets through colorism, this invitation for conversation is mostly geared towards my fellow white Westerners. Racism is persistent, pervasive, and insidious in part because we do not always know when and how our own personal biases and learned racism impacts how we interact with the world, or in this case media.

With the increasing mainstream acceptance of gays and lesbians, and the increasing visibility of LGBT folks more generally, gay space and straight space, gay sociality and straight sociality, are increasingly blended (Dean, 2014). The commodification of gayness is only one example of this. (Ahlm, 2017)

We are frequently spoiled by BL because of how much exposure to queer people in stories we are allowed to see. These stories are not primarily or inherently made for queer people, but what this massive index of gay shows gives the general public is large amounts of exposure to the concept of gay people (about queers), and growing popularity allows for a rapid commodification of queer Asian experience.

I want to take a second to show the definitions of commodification, so anyone reading this is aware of what lenses I am working from.

Commodification: to turn (something, such as an intrinsic value or a work of art) into a commodity (Miriam-Webster)

Commodity:

an economic good: such as…c. a mass-produced unspecialized product

a. something useful or valued; b. convenience, advantage

a good or service whose wide availability typically leads to smaller profit margins and diminishes the importance of factors (such as brand name) other than price

one that is subject to ready exchange or exploitation within a market (Miriam-Webster)

Personally, I think it is reasonable to argue that BL and BL branded pairs are exploited by and are an exploitation of the market. We have seen the number of in-universe ads in our standard Thai BLs, the number of BLs being created every year is increasing with the understanding that these shows can be profitable, sell products, sell concert tickets, sell out theaters, make money on fan events, etc.. I think many of us have begun to love when Oishi Green Tea, Nivea Micellar Water, or Canon printers show up in our BLs, but it cannot be denied or ignored that those are commercials for products being sold to us through the images of queer characters and within queer stories. Meaning, the queer stories we are able to interact with en masse are there to sell us a product as well as a story.

How does this relate to racism? By making queer characters of color sell products within the stories they exist in, we establish a relationship to queer characters of color that extends the commodification of queer men of color themselves beyond what already exists by nature of racism and white supremacy within queer spaces:

It’s almost as if no gay men of color exist outside of fantasy cruises to Jamaica, Puerto Rico, or the ‘Orient’. And even then, they exist only to fulfill the sexual fantasies of gay white men. ‘Exotic’ vacations to far away places are marketed to rich white men and [low income] colored bodies are only another consumable product easily purchased with western dollars. As such, gay men of color, whether found within western borders or conveniently waiting for white arrival in the far off corners of the globe, are nothing more than commodities for consumption. (Chong-suk Han, 2007)

How many shows have we gotten out of GMMTV in recent years that are absent, or near-absent of in-universe ads? Three? The Eclipse, The Warp Effect, and Only Friends? What themes are at the center of these shows that may make them distasteful to corporations trying to sell their products?

Now, I entered the BL scene after The Eclipse aired, so I don’t know what its reception was like at the time. But I am pretty certain it was a popular show. Yet, I have personally witnessed the adverse and negative reactions to, especially Ayan, when Our Skyy 2 x The Eclipse aired and we saw Ayan keeping a secret that was hurting Akk’s feelings. I saw the sheer amount of posts coming out of tumblr about how Akk and Ayan were characterized so wrong in this show. And, I am trying to be polite here, but there were just grossly misrepresentative takes on tumblr about the characters we got on screen in OS2, who were extremely in character based on the source material, and not the idea of the characters we have built up in our heads as the lines between Ayan and Khaotung or Akk and First blurred over time.

The Warp Effect is a show I have constantly been asking people to watch as Only Friends approached and continue to market as required viewing while we are still in the early stages of Only Friends, but it was not widely watched as far as I could tell from the activity on my own tumblr feed and from the number of people I saw reblogging my Case for Watching TWE post who said they had yet to see it. And I get it, it was marketed more as a heterosexual show rather than a BL, but I will go down swinging to defend my position on that show as The Queerest Show of 2023 (so far).

I think about all the ways people on tumblr have re-written certain characters in their minds to be purer, less morally dubious, more babygirl in order for them to justify loving and supporting a character that is either objectively a terrible person or who has made any number of mistakes that have gotten themselves or others hurt. Listen, my most beloved gay boys are Wen Kexing and Akk but I will be the first to tell you both those men are war criminals. That is not a joke. I love Akk to death as a character, and he let a car roll into a crowd of protestors.

Which is to say, that I am personally made to feel very uncomfortable when I see people twisting the realities of who queer Asian characters are in order to create a false, more pure and innocent version of who they want queer Asian characters to be. Why? Because it treats queer Asian male characters like dolls, like objects to manipulate and control, rather than as the people they are written and intended to be, and the fanservice that is expected of the actors that portray them is not much different:

At the same time that they are invisible, gay Asian men are also seen as being exotic, submissive fantasies for white men. However, being seen as exotic and submissive is yet another form of subtle racism where gay Asian men are not seen as individuals but as a consumable product for white male fantasy (Ayres, 1999). (Chong-suk Han, 2007)

And yeah, I know some of you may try to deflect this by saying or thinking “wka this quote is about white men and thus does not apply to me” it does. It does apply.

On the Subject of Fan Service

These production companies make a lot of money off of selling the fanbase the idea that these actors are romantically involved outside of their acting careers. GMMTV and Idolfactory are perhaps the most committed studios to fanservice that I have seen, often to the detriment of the health and safety of their talent and potentially their own financial interests. He’s Coming to Me was delayed, and had it’s distribution fucked with because fans protested Singto being separated from Krist and paired up with Ohm for one show. Freen was recorded and blackmailed with a video that showed she was in a romantic relationship with Seng. Articles were published making it seem like it was a truly wild concept that Man Trisanu and Ben Bunyapol were acting to create the chemistry they get on screen. These companies know they can make money off of the fictions they create, both the ones we see as television shows, and the ones we see in fan meet ups. These people are actors, some may date, some may not, some may be really good friends, some may hate each other’s guts, but the fact of the matter is we will never know for sure. Everything we see on camera is a performance.

How Objectification of Queer Asian Men Relates to Only Friends

I mean…

I don’t know about you all, but I have seen post after post of people projecting images of purity and perfection on to Mew, twisting themselves forward and backward to justify a character’s objectively terrible decisions, or finding scapegoats to blame for their blorbo’s actions. I have seen people truly, legitimately struggle with seeing their favorite acting pair engaging in intimate scenes with different scene partners. And, to me it reads like some audience members are physically unable to separate the actor from their character, or to accurately identify reality from fiction. These are actors, they are playing characters, we know how good of actors they are. We are all aware of how much of a chameleon First is with his roles, how powerful Khao is at portraying grief on screen, how expressive Book is, etc.

Force and Book are not fucking, Book is not stringing Force along, Force is not fucking Neo and potentially breaking Book’s heart. Top and Mew are fucking (or will). Mew is stringing Top along. Top is fucking Boston and potentially breaking Mew’s heart. Khaotung is not ditching First to go rescue Book, First is not trying and failing to maintain boundaries with Khaotung. Ray is ditching Sand to go rescue Mew, Sand is trying and failing to maintain boundaries with Ray.

Harkening back to fanservice. Personally, I believe that only ever marketing “love pairs” (aka Force and Book’s characters as a romantic couple or First and Khao’s characters as a romantic couple on screen) severely severely limits the acting potential for any and all of the performers involved in those couplings. Can you imagine what Only Friends would be like with Neo and Louis, rather than Neo and Mark? Louis is great, but I’m not sure that he could do pining simp, or angry revenge the same way Mark can. You can see how good of a match up Fluke Pusit was with Thor in The Warp Effect and you can see how good Fluke Pusit was with Ohm Thipakorn in A Boss and a Babe.

As I mentioned in Part One, Jojo has said there is going to be sex in every episode. We know these boys have already hurt each other and will continue to hurt each other. We know these boys have already slept around and will continue to do so. There is no need to vilify a character for being a flawed human being. There is absolutely no need to vilify an actor for portraying a character who is a flawed human being. We don’t need to uplift the characters that are withholding their sexuality from others as inherently good, moral, victims of the inherently bad, immoral, predators ruining their lives with their high sex drives.

…popular culture is permeated with ideas that erotic variety is dangerous, unhealthy, depraved, and a menace to everything from small children to national security. Popular sexual ideology is a noxious stew made up of ideas of sexual sin, concepts of psychological inferiority… and xenophobia. The mass media nourish these attitudes with relentless propaganda…

All these hierarchies of sexual value- religious, psychiatric, and popular- function in much the same way as do ideological systems of racism, ethnocentrism, and religious chauvinism. They rationalize the well-being of the sexually privileged and the adversity of the sexual rabble…this kind of sexual morality has more in common with ideologies of racism than with true ethics. (Rubin, 1984)

I am begging people who are having difficulty seeing their favorite actor be shitty on screen to take a pause, take a breath, remember that they are actors, playing a fictional character in a fictional role. Fictional characters performing fictional actions has not, does not, and will not ever be a true and definitive indicator of that actor’s own personality, morals, or beliefs. Boston being an asshole does not mean Neo is an asshole. Ray being an asshole does not mean that Khao is an asshole just as Gaipa being kind does not mean that Khao is kind. Jojo and co are not monsters for creating a manipulative character(s), or including physical fist fights, drug use, promiscuity, cheating, sexual assault, abortion, kink, fatshaming etc. etc in to their works. You are not a bad person for liking imperfect characters who engage in bad actions, and you don’t need to create scenarios that place blame for those actions on others in order to justify liking a character. Everyone on that set appeared to have a great time, and Jojo stated very clearly that all scenes were run by the actors in those scenes and anything the actors were not comfortable with being shown to a broader audience were immediately deleted. The actors were granted agency and autonomy that is not usually seen and we are seeing the performance they want to share with us, the performance they liked. That does not mean they themselves approve outside of fiction of the behaviors their characters may portray.

Conclusion

We all need to, but white Westerners especially, be extremely careful and introspective with the ways we are engaging with queer Asian media. We need to be careful and introspective with the ways we are engaging with queer Asian characters. Asian BLs, Thai BLs especially lean heavily in to the commodification of queer Asian stories and characters. GMMTV sells products, and uses their talent as the salespeople, which I personally believe makes their talent, and the characters in their stories far more susceptible to objectification than, say, Japanese BLs that do not distribute their work as easily, or cater as readily to international audiences.

As @bengiyo said in his post, it is totally totally fine if you do not like something. Only Friends could not be your style, there could be themes that are triggering for you, etc. that’s fine. But if you are refusing to engage with this Only Friends because Force as Top acted like he was fucking Neo as Boston, or squirming about whether or not you can watch other shows these actors are in going forward because their performances as dumb, horny college students in Only Friends made you question the actor’s morality, then I truly, deeply, and fully beg you to pause, take a step back, and reflect upon what it is about witnessing these behaviors that is causing your reaction.

I want to end with the following quote:

Thus, white men can choose when they want to be objectified, but men of color are simply objects. As discussed above, existing only as props for white male consumption represents another subtle form of racism. As Tony Ayres notes: First, there is overt belligerence…The second response is the exact opposite of this racist antagonism. It is an attraction to me because of my Asianness, my otherness ... This has nothing to do with my individual qualities as a person ... It is the fact that I conveniently fit into someone else’s fantasy (1999, p. 89) (Chong-suk Han, 2007)

As a reminder that we as fans, need to take a step back and consider if, when, and how we are objectifying queer Asian men. We are seeing a huge period of growth in the Asian BL industry, which means we are very likely to get more shows where we are going to see more stories like Only Friends that center realistic depictions of gay Asians as written and directed by gay Asians. And we have to check our privilege, homophobia, and racism at the door.

Sources

Ahlm, Jody (2017) Respectable promiscuity: Digital cruising in an era of queer liberalism, Sexualities, DOI: 10.1177/1363460716665783

Chong-suk Han (2007) They Don't Want To Cruise Your Type: Gay

Men of Color and the Racial Politics of Exclusion, Social Identities, 13:1, 51-67, DOI:

10.1080/13504630601163379 Rubin, Gayle (1984) The Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality- Chapter 9: The Sex Wars.

(thank you to @bengiyo, @lurkingshan, @neuroticbookworm, @so-much-yet-to-learn, and @waitmyturtles for your beta readings!)

#only friends #only friends the series #ofts #sandray #topmew #topboston #bostonnick #forcebook #firstkhao #neomark #wka long post #jojo tichakorn #the eclipse #the warp effect #the eclipse the series #twe #our skyy 2 #our skyy 2 x the eclipse

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callofdudes · 1 month

Text

Happy National Women's Day (yesterday, woops) Celebrated with a platonic story for y/n, Laswell, and Farah.

Readers gender is not specified. This isn't beta read because my eyes really hurt today for some reason.

You had just gotten back from a mission followed by Farah's forces and accompanying assistance of one Alex Keller. After getting back the guys were pretty tuckered out. Price and Simon going for a smoke and Johnny going for a long snooze in his bed. Missions usually left you exhausted.

However, this was the week that Laswell got a much needed break from her work and she wanted to spend it well.

She was sat on the couch, watching you and Simon quietly talk. Farah was cleaning her goggles, frowning over a small scratch in the top corner of the lense.

She could see the stress on Farah's face, and just from your posture she knew you needed a break as well. So when Simon got up to use the bathroom she leaned forward.

"What do you two say we get out of here for a couple days?"

You looked up curiously. "What do you mean?? Get a hotel or something?"

She shook her head. "Camping. My brother has a cabin up in the mountains where his buddies and him go climbing. We could go spend some time out there."

"Would it be quiet?" Farah asks.

"Most likely, it's not a big place. The spot we usually go isn't touristy either."

Farah looks to you. "I've never been camping outside of missions."

"If we can get a place with room for three and not get eaten alive by mosquitoes and the like, then yeah."

Laswell nods. "It's a cabin, so I don't think you'll have to worry too much about mosquitoes. But it'll just be the three of us." Laswell stands, stretching and grabbing her coffee. "We'll head out tomorrow after you're packed."

So the next morning you and Farah brought out your backpacks to Laswell's car. She only had a small vehicle but it was enough to fit all your supplies. Laswell brought her climbing gear, and enough food to last you a week at the cabin.

Once you were all ready to go there was one person you had to say goodbye to.

"Simon it's ok, I'm not going to be gone that long, only a week."

"A week... What am I supposed to do until then??"

"Hangout with the guys, take some time off to relax your feet. Read your book. You'll be ok."

Simon grumbled and looked over at Alex who was staying with them. To Simon's dismay.

You smiled softly, and fixed his sweater hoodie. "Only a week." You wrap your arms around him and he hugged you back, squeezing you for good measure.

Soon enough you packed in and set off on your journey. Farah plugged her phone in and played music from the passenger seat. "Any song requests??"

"Remember that one song you played the other day? With the guitar solo?"

Farah smiled and put the song on, and you jammed away in the backseat. Laswell put her son blocker down and set you off to the nearest coffee shop. Because what's a road trip without coffee?

She took the tray from the man at the drive through window and handed Farah her iced coffee and you your drink. “There you go.”

“Thank you mom.” You smiled and leaned back.

“Of course. Now, it’ll be a bit of a drive.” But you guys were ready for that.

You drove for the rest of the day. As you got closer to the mountains, Farah and you both pointed out a fair bit of wildlife you saw along the roadside.

Farah’s entire day was made by seeing baby ducklings going for a dunk in a small pond with their mom.

Laswell pointed out a few deer on the way, and soon you reached the place. Driving up the road and parking in front of a rather nice little cabin. It was old, with a couple swinging shutters and the frame would need some repainting.

“This is nice.” Farah looked around the grassy area behind the cabin that led up into a large hill. A small fire pit set up around some trees and a stone pathway up to the stairs.

“How did you get this place again??”

“My brother rents it most of the summer for his rock climbing. They come every few weeks.”

“Cool.”

Laswell nods, opening the car door and putting her park pass in the window. She tossed you the keys. “I'll go tell administration we’re here so they don't freak out. You two and get the first pickings.”

You and Farah smiled at each other softly. “Thanks laswell!” You called and grabbed out your stuff. You unlocked the house and you two headed inside. In the small entry way was a couple buckets full of wood and a shelf of paper and some lighters.

A tiny kitchen area and a gas stove. It was a cozy little place. Heading into the next part of the cabin there was a small bench, a cabinet with some games and a bed tucked against the opposite wall.

The back bedroom was separated by a curtain, inside being another two beds.

You and Farah looked at each other. “you can have either, I don't mind.” She said softly.

You were quiet for a moment. “You want the one by the window??”

“I'd like that.” She admitted.

You nodded and tossed your stuff on the bed in the corner, and let Farah have the bed next to the big window looking out at the field.

Laswell came back with a bag of some firewood and her climbing equipment. Taking dibs on the bed in the other room and getting comfy.

After which she promptly started on some dinner because she was starving. Until then you two opened her tray of fruit from the cooler and snacked away.

“So where do you usually go rock climbing, Laswell?” Farah asks.

“We usually go up one of the old trails. There's an open section of land that shows off this huge rock face. It's the perfect climb. I think it'll be easy enough for you two.”

“We’re capable Laswell.” You chuckle. You could smell the food waft through the cabin. She plated up, and came over to set down two plates for you two. You moved over on the bench allowing Laswell to sit down, and you all dug in.

Talking and laughing as the sun starts to go down on the field, the food being quickly devoured. Laswell brought out brownies as dessert.

You gasped softly. “Are those….”

Laswell smiled and ruffled your hair. “She said they're all yours.”

You eagerly popped the lid off and snatched one to dig into. “Oh Farah, you gotta try one. Her wife makes them the best.”

Farah smiled softly and reached in and took one out. “What's in it, Laswell??”

“Hm? I have the recipe list here if you want to look at it.” She took it from her bag and passed it over. Farah read through it before biting in, humming happily. “Oh, oh these are good.” She took another bite.

“Can I just…” She slid the recipe back toward herself and Laswell nodded. “All yours”

Farah tucked it into her pocket and you two devoured the brownies. Laswell’s wife was the best, always asking what sweets you guys would like best and sending Laswell out to work with a box or two for you guys.

Eventually you all headed to bed. You crawled into bed and rolled over, falling asleep.

Farah pulled the blanket over her shoulder, and opened the window to look out at the darkness. The cool breeze on her face.

She sighed softly, and closed it. Flopping down and rolling over again. She looked into the darkness, trying to arrange the blanket to try and get comfy.

When she couldn't, she leaned over and grabbed the flashlight off the nightstand, flicking it on low. She went over to you, standing at the edge of the bed for a bit before poking you.

“Y/n?” She whispered. You mumbled softly and opened your eyes. “Farah?”

“I'm sorry… I can't sleep.” She whispered.

You smiled softly, and rolled onto your back. You pulled the blanket back to allow her in. “Come on.”

She pursed her lips and flicked the light off. But she crawled into the bed. You gave her some more blanket and closed your eyes again. Farah laid next to you, sighing and slowly closing her eyes.

She held out her hand and you linked your pinky with hers. Helping her relax and fall asleep.

The next morning Laswell was up first. She got dressed and needed a coffee. She pushed the curtain to the second room open and smiled softly when she saw you and Farah curled up, pinkies still linked.

You two could sleep in.

She tied up her hair and went to the kitchen to put hot water on the stove and look through the food bag for what to make for breakfast.

The sound of the kettle woke you up, slowly rubbing your eyes and sitting up. Farah felt you stir and also opened her eyes. “Hmm…??”

“It's ok, you can keep resting if you want.” You assure, and crawled out around her. You scratched your stomach and headed out to the main room.

“Well good morning.” Laswell greeted you.

“Mornin…”

“Coffee??”

“Please.” You nodded.

You sat down at the bench, and heard the curtain shift. “I'm gonna change.” Farah gave you the heads up.

Laswell handed you your fresh coffee. “What do you feel for breakfast??”

“Eggs??” You gave her the innocent best child ever look. “Please mom??”

“Tell you what, find the carton in the cooler and I'll see what I can do.”

Farah filled up her water bottle as Laswell made breakfast, checking her phone. She snickered a little from across the table.

Without further incentive you rushed to the cooler and dug around for the eggs, bringing them to her.

She chuckled and saw Farah come out from the back room soon.

“What are you chuckling about?” You teased softly.

Farah turned her phone and showed you a photo of Alex around a corner with a blurry Ghost in the background.

“You think he's dead yet??”

“Knowing Simon and Johnny… maybe.” You snickered.

“Those three are going to kill each other.” She fully smiled briefly before looking down at the accompanying texts.

“Well, he's still alive but accidentally took some of Ghost’s gummy worms it seems.”

You cringed a little. “Ooh… ouch. I'll have to talk with Simon to make sure he didn't hurt Alex too badly.”

You both have a chuckle over it and Laswell brings you your eggs.

And without hesitation you dig in, humming happily to have your stomach full of food and happy.

“How long is the hike to the rock face??”

“Not long. Fifteen minutes at most. And I've got all the gear for you.”

“Awesome.”

“Now that you've got some fiber in you, let's get going.” Laswell fills her water bottle and grabs the bag of equipment.

“I can carry it for you??” You offered, but she shook her head. “I got it.”

You headed out down the road and hiked up the trail into the mountains. Seeing the tall trees and smelling the fresh air. Feeling the gentle breeze on your warm skin.

Laswell led you up and off the main path to a small outcrop. And there it was. A tall rock face up the side of the mountain with clearly outlined passages and handholds from how much it had been traversed.

Laswell secured her hair and handed you your gear. You and Farah got snug and comfy. Laswell set up the ropes and pegs in the ground to hold you three.

Chalking up your hands.

“You ready, princesses??”

“Hey!” You huffed, rushing after Laswell. Farah chuckled under her breath and found a small ledge to slide her hand into. And you three started to climb.

Farah scaled it fairly easily, though it definitely felt easier when under the pressure of a mission.

You found another handhold and pushed your foot up, feeling around until you could find a spot to slot your shoe in. Securing the tie on your belt.

“You doing ok Farah??”

“A little sweaty.” She wrung her wrist out.

“Let's pause for a minute.” You secured your line and tugged it a couple times before taking your hands off the rocks, keeping your feet in place to keep you from spinning.

Farah did the same, wringing out her wrists and wiping her sweaty palms on her hips.

“Need some more powder??”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You grabbed it off your belt and handed it to her, letting her resupply, and you did the same.

“I bet Laswell is already at the top.” You chuckled.

Farah looked around, trying to spot her. “Oh she probably is.”

“Let's catch up then, hey?”

Farah nodded, and you continued to climb until you reached the top.

And as you suspected, Laswell was already at the top. “You're fast.” You pushed yourself up, shaking out her legs, looking back down at where you came from.

“Oh.” You wobbled a little, stepping back. “It's best not to look down for a minute.” Laswell tipped and looked out at the edge of the cliff. The sun showed out from behind the clouds. It casted down over the lake and reflecting off of the water.

Farah took out her phone and got a picture of the view. Motioning you and Laswell to get close.

You wrapped your arm around her, keeping your hand just off her waist as she attempted a simple smile. Catching the moment with you three.

“Now I'm gonna tell Alex about the fun we’re having.” She chuckled, and put her phone away.

“Maybe I could bring Simon here.” You wondered aloud. You threw sat around the cliff on a small blanket, drinking from your water bottles.

“Hey, I just remembered.”

Farah and Laswell looked at you curiously.

“Happy National Women's Day.”

The two smiled. “That is today, isn't it?” Farah said, and Laswell nodded.

“It is. I almost forgot.”

“I mean, we got the Barbie movie.”

Farah smiled. “I got to see it with some of the girls from my group. Their families said I could come with them.” She fidgeted with her water bottle. “We want to go with Miss Farah.” She remembered them saying.

Laswell looked out at the cliff. “I remember dragging John out with my wife and I.”

You snickered. “Uh oh, how did that go??”

“Oh I think he fell asleep.” She snickered. “It's not his typical movie. But hey, he gave a kicker of a review afterward in the car home.”

You looked down at your hands, looking at all the roughness to your hands. Your battered knuckles and the dirt under your fingernails.

“Do you guys ever feel pressured to look or act a certain way??”

A moment of soft silence went by, letting the breeze drift between you three. “Yes. I think it comes with the territory… but even though I have respect, I still feel mentally challenged a lot to prove myself.” Laswell said.

“Like some of the men in my charge can't understand how I could be as smart as them or understand how to handle pressuring situations.”

"But... Recently a lot of the pressures and beauty standards have been pushed by other women. Which, is sad, considering a lot of them think we need all this stuff done to look pretty or be wanted. But it just isn't true."

You nodded. “Yeah…”

Farah sighed softly. “It feels pressuring every day, to have to dress and act a certain way. Follow a certain code or I won't be respected. I had a man tell me I wouldn't ever have a voice if I didn't have a husband to speak for me.”

You frowned, but nodded. Farah fidgeted a little. “But you know what? I did find my voice. And a voice for many other men and women who couldn't speak before.”

She smiles. “And for every bad person I meet, I've met ten more amazing men I know I have in my corner.”

Laswell nods. “I second that.”

You smile more, happily raising your water bottle. “To the women, and all those who support them.”

You clinked your water bottles and took a large sip. “I'm glad I get to spend the week with you guys. I know it's gonna be awesome.”

“We’re going swimming next.” Farah says quickly.

Laswell and you laugh. “Swimming is next on the list then.”

#call of duty #happy national womens day!#national womens day #kate laswell x reader #laswell x reader #kate laswell #farah karim x reader #farah karim imagine #farah karim #platonic x reader #platonic relationships #readers gender not specified #cod fic #cod mw3 #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod x reader

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bubblegum-cherry-lips · 5 months

Text

you kiss me, and everything just stops.

summary: a bad day, that turns into a bad week - but that's okay because you have James and that's all you need. (modern au)

pairing: james x (gender neutral) reader

cw: none

word count: 958

Now that you think about it, you definitely should have checked the weather app - you are soaked to the bone, hair plastered onto your neck and forehead, tiny shivers running through your body at any stronger gust of wind that blows, making the already miserable situation even more miserable.

In your defense, you were stressed out - a bad day turned into a bad week and you have reached your limit at a dinner party hosted by your company; and since that wasn’t a right place for you to snap, you decided to rush out and head for the one place where you know you can be yourself without being judged. The problem is, it’s the middle of November, the rainy season started long ago, and you have forgotten your umbrella at the event.

A car speeds by you and you have around three seconds before it goes through the puddle and splashes you to your waist, the coat now dripping and your sanity almost snapping. Thankfully, as you turn around the corner you finally see the familiar building, and you all but run towards it. If you slip a few times and almost fall on your ass, you ignore it because the salvation is right there and you’re knocking frantically, hopping from one leg to the other in hopes of warming yourself up.

Only when the door opens and you are greeted with a mop of messy hair and panicking eyes, you realize that maybe, you should have knocked less panicky, because James looks like he’s half ready to fight.

“Y/N?”

His voice is heavy with sleep, hair sticking in every direction; his glasses fog up when he opens the door and the cold air hits them, and god you’re already smiling because no matter how miserable you are, the sight of sleepy James Potter can make all your worries melt away. He tries to clean them with his shirt, the soft skin beneath it making an appearance as he lifts the hem of the shirt and rubs the lenses, his eyes finally finding yours once he’s no longer blind.

It’s adorable to watch the flash of emotions that goes on in his eyes - from happiness, to confusion, and then finally setting on panic.

“Christ, Y/N.” Fingers wrap around your wrist and you are being pulled inside, the now wet parquet floor beneath your boot slippery enough for you to stumble again, this time sure you’re about to kiss the floor.

The chest you land on is firm and warm, and definitely not what you have expected - on instinct, since your fingers are basically frozen and you can’t feel your cheeks, you lean into the warmth and nuzzle into the soft material, and comforting smell.

“Mhm. You’re warm.”

“And you’re like an ice cube! What happened?”

You’re being enveloped in a gentle hug, the one only James knows how to give. Hugging James always feels like pure sunshine - his hugs could melt the very ache in your bones, stop your mind from spiraling into the dark void and make the world seem a little bit better when you really have nothing to hold on to. He is never stingy with his hugs either - he loves giving them, loves resting his chin on the crown of your head, letting one arm rest on the lower part of your back while the other one roams over to your neck, your shoulders, caressing any patch of skin it can find.

“Nothing happened, I just missed you.”

“You saw me this morning.”

“And I started missing you the second we parted ways.”

Laughter rumbles out of his chest, and it’s so beautiful that you legit whine when his hands start pulling you back, away from his chest enough for him to look you in the eyes. You notice that his shirt is now completely wet, and the puddle forming where you’re standing is turning into a small lake - and you’re uncomfortable with the clothes sticking to you, you’re still cold despite being inside, and none of it matters at the moment. Not when he leans forward and his lips are on yours for a few seconds, a smile breaking on them as he proceeds to pepper your cheeks and forehead with tiny little pecks.

“You’re a dork.”

“And you love it.”

“Only God knows why, but I really do.”

In the morning, you two may end up talking - because James will not believe you when you say that everything is fine, and eventually you will break and the events of the past week will be spoken into the air between you two. He will hold your hand, and when you feel like there is no strength left in you, he’ll kiss you gently and make you breakfast, and keep you hostage for the next 24 hours. Maybe he’ll invite Sirius and Remus over, and they will bring Lily and Mary with them, with a bunch of shitty movies and even shittier food for your health (and Remus will let it slide this time, because he knows you need it).

But all that, it’s for tomorrow - right now, he leads you to the bathroom and with careful fingers helps you undress, lending you his clothes and removing your rings and necklace with a look of pure concentration on his face (and his tongue sticking out, which you find adorable and then decide to kiss the air out of his lungs). And when you snuggle next to him, your eyes already heavy from the hot shower, you will fall asleep faster than you did any night in the past week - and some of that exhaustion will finally melt away.

Sirius was right, when he had compared James to the summer sun.

#james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter #marauders #james potter fic #mention of remus and sirius #as well as mary and lily

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theresattrpgforthat · 5 months

Note

do you have any recommendations for games with interesting superpower mechanics? bonus points for a clear love of superhero comics as a genre

THEME: Superpowers

Oh gosh do I have some recommendations for you. I have likely spoken about pretty much all of these games before, but I feel very strongly about them and I can’t help myself from talking about them again!

Exceptionals, by Bramble Wolf Games.

Exceptionals is a game inspired by X-Men about and for the spaces and communities marginalized peoples make for themselves. Play as a Geno, one of little less than 0.5% percent of the population that has gone through a mysterious process called Claremont-Simonson mutation, as you try to navigate a world that won’t make room for you. Exceptionals is a game about what the mutant metaphor means to you and the different lenses through which we view it. Punch back and build something of worth together in this narrative tag-driven tabletop role playing game.

What Exceptionals does differently than the other games mentioned here is that it ties all of your character abilities to descriptive words or phrases. You’re not just heavily armoured, you have bone spikes and you’re exceptionally good at resisting extreme temperatures. Your powers can just as easily be things that slow you down and get in your way as they can be handy weapons or powerful resources. Not only that, but your character is also defined by their role in the community. Are you excellent at socializing and often called on to provide a distraction? Or are you good at noticing details, and therefore asked to investigate local mysteries? Each answer gives you a tag you can use to improve your chances of success.

If you have some experience with Fate, you might find Exceptionals to feel pretty familiar, with the biggest difference being in the dice used. The system itself uses 2d10, with modifiers applied through tags, the environment around you, and social bonds. Your bonds are crucial to improving your chances, and that is why Exceptionals champions community. If you want a game that cares deeply about the media it’s drawing from, then I recommend Exceptionals.

Spectaculars, by Scratchpad Publishing.

Spectaculars is a tabletop roleplaying game where players create their own comic book universe, craft heroes and villains to populate that universe, and then play through full-length campaigns to tell incredible stories of heroism and villainy in a world of their own creation.

Spectaculars has different decks of superpowers depending on the kind of genre you’d like to play in, but you can also mix and match if you’d like. Your superpower options are dealt to you randomly, with five basic superpowers always available if you don’t like the options you’ve been given. You get five unique cards, out of which you can choose up to three. I really like this because it prevents analysis paralysis, while still giving you a good number of unique options!

Your superpower ability is usually tied to a percentile - 80 being your best power, 70 being the second best, and 60 being the tertiary (should you choose to take all three). Rolling under that number means you succeed, and you can also roll advantage or disadvantage dice to determine extra details - like whether your move sets up another superhero really well. Each superpower could have up to two different effects, using situational limitations or time tokens to debuff anything that is extraordinarily powerful.

So for example, the Corrosion power gives you the ability to reroll any advantage dice you roll once, as long as you are trying to corrode non-living matter. However for Light Manipulation, you can make whatever light effect you evoke last for longer if you put two time tokens on your card, and you can allow yourself to use your power and do something else at the end of the round by adding four time tokens to the card. At the beginning of your turn every round, you get to remove a time token. This is a great game for folks who love tactile play, as the tokens, dice and power cards give you a lot to handle.

If you want a more in-depth review of Spectaculars, you can check out this summary by Deeper in the Game.

MASKS, by Brendan Conway, at Magpie Games.

Halcyon City has had more than its fair share of superheroes, superteams, supervillains, and everything in between.

Your team of young supers must forge your own path amidst the pressures of a world full of people telling you what to do and who to be, and kick some butt along the way!

Masks: A New Generation is a superhero tabletop roleplaying game full of action, youthful angst, and dazzling bravery. Take on the roles of members of the latest generation of superheroes, young adults trying to figure out who they are and what kind of heroes they want to be.

I am remiss if I don’t talk about MASKS, the first game I would turn to if I wanted to replicate Young Justice, Teen Titans, or anything from the Spiderverse series. This game is often cited as one of the definitive examples of what a Powered by the Apocalypse game can do, and for good reason. The superhero powers are present as picklists tied to each playbook, while what separates the playbooks is the inherent struggle of the character. Are they trying to hide their mundane identity? Are they struggling with feeling like a freak? Do they have a legacy to live up to?

I think these thematic elements show a deep love for the superhero genre, and I also love that the chances of success aren’t tied to what your abilities are, but rather your reasons for using them. If you are trying to protect someone, you’re rolling Savior, but if you’re trying to do damage, you roll Danger. In either situation you could be using your powers, but it’s intent that matters - and then you describe how you want to do it in order to give us an idea of what success or failure would look like.

FASERIP, by Gurbintroll Games.

FASERIP is a neo-clone game of super heroes, based on a classic 1980s role-playing game. The game contains a flexible yet streamlined super power system, and a completely new character generation system which keeps the fun and unpredictability of the original game’s random character generation but tempers it with an emphasis on balance and player choice.

This is a retro-clone from another superhero game that has since gone out of print - I think perhaps Marvel Super Heroes? Unfortunately I’m not familiar with the source material, but I can tell you that this version is free!

FASERIP is pretty granular in your ability level, ranking characters and difficulty levels from Zero to Infinite. Your superpowers in this game have a few important factors - source (how you got the power), rank (how effective it is), and boosts (how flexible your abilities are. Powers are determined randomly in FASERIP, with roll tables used to determine what kinds of powers you get and how many boosts you get. If you’re a fan of older rules systems and random power generation, I recommend checking out FASERIP.

Those of Us Who Know Better, by C.J. Linton.

Those of Us Who Know Better is a tabletop roleplaying game about transgender superheroes whose powers come at a price. Civilians by day, in community every other Thursday evening, and heroes by night, the players use their powers to problem solve and offer protection and support around town. These powers must be used sparingly, however, because every use of a superpower demands a specific and costly remuneration.

For some reason or other, your characters are under a contract that gives them powers. How that contract came to be and how it functions is up to you, but the result is this: every time you activate your superpower, you must pay a price. If you do not pay this price, your character is immediately subjected to intense physical pain.

The book has a short list of some common superpowers, such as flight, fire manipulation, and super senses. It also has a short list of consequences - with options such as get an animal to bite you, run for five minutes, and take a shot of alcohol. The book has some basic guidelines for what to consider when creating your own powers and prices, so I think the world is your oyster with a game like this.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #superheroes

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vaguely-concerned · 7 months

Text

Stray Gods Character Design Thoughts

In order we're going Pan, Apollo, Persephone, Eros, Aphrodite and a little bit of Venus! Disclaimer that I have no professional experience in character design at all, so these are only my vibes-based ramblings and observations purely for fun and because my brain simply won't shut up about this game haha. Also I will freely admit Pan probably gets the most attention in this because of who I am as a person and where my heart truly lies at the end of the day lol

PAN

Ok, first of all I have so many questions and they all delight me. This guy is the god of the wild places ("Where else would I be, but among the trees and the wild things?"), he lives in a magical garden on top of an office building... and he’s walking around everywhere in an expensive three piece tailored suit (when Freddie accuses him of being a sleaze in a cheap suit he protests mildly that his suit is anything but cheap haha). The cut of it is really carefully thought out and planned, but the bold colours under the grey coat and (studied I am sure) careless details like the tie also make it fun and playful. Which is pleasingly coherent with the general theme of his character in the writing too and I adore it.

This is not the point, I know, but I’m wondering how he makes that work just like. Practically now. Has Athena fixed up Olympus with in-house laundry service? And other sentences I did not expect to type out today lol. Ah well he’s wily I’m sure he has his ways.

I can't heap enough praise on it, this design is SUCH an interesting and elegant marriage of the immediately recognizable satyr features and thus animal symbolism with all its added pagan weight in a post-Christianity setting, and the sort of ‘man of wealth and taste’ imagery of the devil at the crossroads they clearly want to evoke, especially in his first scene. And partially through his mannerism there’s also an added element of like… eccentric but surprisingly competent college professor — just look at the way he carries himself whenever he isn’t putting on the charm or when he’s being guarded and self-contained. That little hands resting on his back pose exudes ‘nerd’ so deeply to me haha. (Incredibly fuckable nerd, to be sure, but still!)

you don't fool me buddy I know what you are. I know all the trouble you went to to get a book.

His body language shifts very quickly between wild playful expressiveness and a sort of nonchalant urbane detachment that borders on coldness sometimes, and it fascinates me. Especially since that more refined unavailable side seems to be something he’s deliberately cultivated, to some extent. When Grace calls him out on how boring it sounds to just let yourself go numb and distant to survive, he doesn’t deny that at all, only saying that at least it’s been quite effective.

Putting the rest under a cut to save people's dashes! I may, as they say, have gotten a tiny bit carried away.

Physically he’s not very imposing — he’s only a little taller than Grace, and the shortest of all of the love interests, which I find somehow very charming and also plays into him being more of a guile-based character. “Seeing as I am neither big nor truly bad, it behooves me to be wary of those who are both” indeed!

I’m fairly sure he’s the character wearing the most layers. Even his hands are mostly covered by gloves. He partially covers up his eyes with the tinted glasses — interesting, as one of the features that most give his real nature away with their sidewise pupils, and the lenses are tinted purple as the complimentary colour to yellow, so it downplays just how bright they are. All together it’s very much a ‘well, he’s certainly got to be in there somewhere’ sort of vibe at times. (Since he also seems to care about his clothes quite a bit — he complains about scuffing his pants during the climb in the Medusa mission if you go the lockpick route — I have drawn the conclusion that getting him out of all of that must take quite a bit of time, no matter how much practice he’s probably put in over the years of meeting 'delicious people' lol)

It’s a design that manages to give, at the same time: animal-featured ancient god, deal with the devil, teacher, overtones of con man if you’re inclined to be Freddie-levels of uncharitable lol, eccentric rich weird uncle… there’s a lot going on here and somehow it all works haha. He isn’t wearing any jewelry at all unless you count the glasses, which now that I’m looking at the rest of the character designs in this game is actually fairly rare among them!

His eyes really are incredibly bright when uh naked as it were, though. I like the implication that he is aware of this and actually goes out of his way to downplay it, even when he’d normally be wearing glamour anywhere it would strictly matter for it to show. Between that, the meaningful zoom in on him at the Underworld when Apollo says that all the Idols can be themselves there even if they don’t look human, Pan claiming he’s been distrusted and side-eyed by the others basically since the beginning and seeming kind of frustrated and hurt about it, in his deflecting way, and the implication of a hierarchy among the Idols at least under Athena’s leadership in this stained glass painting (notably all the visibly non-human Idols/hangers on are at the bottom, and Hecate, Asterion and especially Medusa are the characters most affected and confined by the oppressive status quo Athena upholds)...

this one! sing it with me now EVERYBODY LEAVES THIS PLACE ALIVEEE ok we can move on

you know, some possible Subtext and Implications going on here, I’d say. (It is only potential subtext and implication, though, so, you know, take my extrapolations here with a grain of salt!) He certainly doesn’t do himself many favors with the persona he’s built up in regards to being trusted and included either, but his status as a little bit of an outsider does seem to precede that so I feel like it’s more of a response than the main cause. Along the same lines he gets much more testy about the Green route of ‘I Can Teach You’ than he does about you just not choosing him in the Red one, he takes that pretty gracefully. So it is the being deliberately kept on the outside and openly distrusted and dismissed that gets to him. (To be clear I don't think openly distrusting a strange guy showing up in your living room like that is at all unreasonable either haha I just think the nuances of his response are enlightening as to where he's really coming from)

this one isn't even to illustrate anything it's just because I love him so much and think he's pretty I'll be real with you all

Anyway I just keep thinking about how incredibly tender it would be if sometimes, when they’re in private, Grace takes his glasses off to see his eyes better and he lets her. That shakes something deep in my soul apparently. That fucks me up but like in a good way.

APOLLO

- Apollo’s style of dress leaves his navel helpfully exposed for the copious amounts of depressed gazing he habitually subjects it to. (I say this not entirely without affection.)

a crumpled tissue of a man

In keeping with his incredibly emo mode, there’s very little colour involved and he doesn’t take much care to present anything with care (look at the state of that shirt and tell me if Apollo has picked up an iron in the last forty years), BUT interestingly he’s not entirely open and unadorned, he does wear that network of jewelry across his chest and neck. Which I think is to show that the old Apollo is not entirely gone (“There he is, god of the sun”), even if he has been a sack stuffed with sad for a long time now. I wonder how many of these things are leftover preferences from being only Lucas — presumably the tattoos at least are from before he fished Apollo up from the sea? If I’m reading the vibes right on that, the blue of the tattoos and the gold of the sun… thingy he wears with the jewelry are the main splashes of colour in his design aside from his hair, and they’re both ‘leftovers’ from both his previous lives, surfer bro and solar deity recently fallen on hard times. Physically he would be tall and imposing, parodically built, except that he carries himself with all the confidence and panache of a damp depressed dishrag.

Also I can’t believe this guy is walking around everywhere in sandals. Apollo makes sad flip-flop sounds wherever he goes, including when he steps up during ‘The Trial’. That’s so amazingly pathetic (affectionate).

We can see from the photo with him and Calliope that he wasn’t always quite this much of a mess. Once, he did his shirt up a whole maybe four buttons and wore something that wasn’t beige!

Intellectually I acknowledge that it's a design meant to provide fanservice, even though I personally could not consider this guy in a sexual or romantic light if you gave me a thousand years to build up to it. (I've said it before but if he's anything to me, he is the incredibly fail father figure continually letting me down in tiny ways I never had.) Godspeed to the Apollo-enjoyers out there, though, Summerfall gave him those abs and that poor little meow meow energy just for you and it's your right to enjoy that

- Pan and Apollo also bring out some really interesting contrasts both as characters and designs when you hold them up against each other:

Once you scratch the surface a tiny bit Pan clearly has just as much self-loathing as Apollo (“If Athena had taken me up on my offer, the Idols would have been better off” uh. Okay buddy we’re gonna have to process that one together later what do you say), but where Apollo is completely helplessly open in his misery at all times, you need to unbutton Pan at least three layers until you get a honest or straightforward emotion out of him and I think that’s amazingly carried through into their visual designs. It's Good Visual Storytelling Brent

PERSEPHONE

- I’m fairly sure the colour of Persephone’s suit is supposed to evoke pomegranate seeds. See and judge for yourself I suppose:

She also has details on her coat that depict foliage and growing plants, but colour-wise they and the rest of the detailing is in the blue-green that symbolizes the Underworld and so death. Her jewelry is gold, which — and I’m about to do some reaching here, I’ll be big enough to own — could play in with Hades being the god of riches as well as of the dead/the underworld. Probably it’s because it works well with the colour scheme, but I’m going to pretend that it’s because even if she didn’t get the throne she did get that motherfucker’s hoard when she killed him <3 Love that for her. Her jewelry is more rose gold than Apollo’s yellow gold, too. Watch me go for even more of a reach: between the necklace and the watch, those round discs of gold remind me of the coins put on the eyes of the dead but like you know repurposed since she doesn't need them to pay the Ferryman. I never promised I'd be reasonable in this did I.

The short hair works real well for the butch vibe and looks amazing no notes, but I think it’s also a deliberate way to differentiate herself from her younger self — when speaking of Demeter’s death, she says that moment was also the final death of that young her, ‘that girl with the long hair who loved her gardens’. Clearly the Idols do a lot of reinventing themselves over the ages in more and less conscious ways.

She has a tattoo of what looks to be foliage and a skull across her left chest and arm. I really like that idea of her having the testament to both sides of her — goddess of spring, queen of the underworld — directly on her skin, under two layers of clothes that each represent those aspects. The one on her arm looks like stalks of grain tied together to resemble the bones of the hand/forearm, maybe? which is metal as fuck, needless to say.

She is TALL and scary and the staging always plays that up, Grace tends to look up at her like O.O. I love how sharp she is too.

Also she is incredibly hot but you don’t need me to tell you that you all have eyes I assume.

EROS, APHRODITE and VENUS:

- I love literally everything about Eros’ design except his hair. Not even the concept of the haircut and colours or anything, just the way it’s rendered. It looks like one strange flat cap I can’t quite make understandable in three dimensional space as hair in my head lol. Other than that it’s a banging design though, the delicate see-through material over the leather BDSM harness is genius. Choosing this form of sensuality and attractiveness for him to embody -- one that is so deeply queercoded -- also works super well. The warmth and vulnerability of his body language on top of it is *chef's kiss*. just. please define his hair a bit more and it's perfect haha.

- I'm not sure I have that much to say about Aphrodite’s design except that of course she is beauty she is grace etc., it takes a lot of thought to make such a simple design shine and by god did they do it she’s so stunning. Also interesting how her dark blues and greens with cool/silvery details contrast with Venus’ warm reds and pinks and… brass? Idk I don’t really understand jewelry haha. All warmth and soft romanticism, anyway, it looks nice. (Side note but I love Venus’ rose tattoo.) Eros and Venus have much more matching colour schemes and they both bring those islands of warmth standing around Aphrodite in her shimmering ocean coolness. (Which of course is something she has to deliberately put on before going into public these days, and is unselfconsciously glamorous in the way of an old timey Hollywood starlet, as the blue route of 'The Ritual' lampshades)

:') *whisper* everybody...

Venus is wearing pearls, which is pleasing considering her connection to Aphrodite (and the backgrounds of the 'Lost in a Moment' variant of 'The Ritual')! and both of her and Aphrodite's outfits go for a shoulderless look to great effect.

ETA: When the camera is close on Aphrodite you can actually see that she has dark circles under her eyes, only partially covered by the makeup :'( I didn't notice that before I played through 'The Ritual' on a bigger screen today

All in all I just want to acknowledge what a fantastic job the character designers at Summerfall Studios have done! There are some really fresh new takes on these mythological figures here, and it makes so much sense within the world the game presents without resorting to well-worn and tired iconography, I really do admire it greatly.

#stray gods #stray gods pan #stray gods apollo #stray gods persephone #stray gods eros #stray gods aphrodite #sorry about the varying quality of the screenshots I have done my best lmao #if there's anywhere you can get the sprites in high resolution I couldn't find it so uh well be gentle lol #it's SO hard to track down scenes where you see them all in full figure and decent clarity #stray gods meta #meta #i don't even know if this is coherent anymore but it IS out of my head which is what I needed it to be haha I am free!! for now

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