#gamechanger_ao3

[nerdvsquarterback]

sign of life please 😭

🏈😘

[nerdvsquarterback]

🌸 how is author-nim? 🌸

honestly it makes me feel dumb to make posts like this because i genuinely do not think any of you are like.... dying to know abt the creature behind the game changer machine but here we go anyway i've been incredibly fucking fucked lately between work, going vegan, school, family, et al obligations. currently taking 12 credits, working full-time, & doing more mutual aid for local orgs like food not bombs so i don't go insane within the current political climate. i got really into writing t&t-related stuff for like... 30 days. ngl. conservative men x cat-human hybrids had my goat for a minute. i fleshed out the universe to a WILD degree, created three other pairings besides rex/lala, & genuinely tried to write a draft for KU but... it flopped because i started missing game changer lol. so yeah. i'm back. missed you guys. i don't know if we're going to return to updates every sunday, it's probably going to be "updates when updates happen since i'd rather not commit to something i might not be able to provide consistently -- i did that to yall last time so i feels bad (｡•́︿•̀｡) just know that i'm re-obsessed with our idiots so the writing is currently flowing :) i'll try to get around to answering comments soon! i love each & every one of you for sticking around/popping back up for the update. more to come ~ 💖

[nerdvsquarterback]

Did your patreon get deleted ?

.... it got unpublished due to inactivity LMAOOOOO but it's back up 🤘 let's fucking goooo

[nerdvsquarterback]

a hostile takeover (francis minific)

tw: substance use, sadomasochism themes, bondage, degradation/humiliation, dubious consent/coercion dynamics

The device blinked blue. Then white. Vapor curled into my lungs and set fire to every thought that deserved extinction. I inhaled until I forgot how to blink.

Until my bones softened.

Until the noise of the world receded to something tolerable and distant, like static behind glass. Then I exhaled, as slowly and silently as a man watching a funeral he himself had planned. 

The joint acquisition was already in motion. I’d pulled the threads days ago—shortselling press, quiet rumors, a calculated leak about the chief financial officer’s vacation expenses and a thirty-eight-thousand-dollar tab for “corporate wellness.”

The market, predictably, responded like an animal shown blood. Panic. Overcorrection. Liquidation.

Now they were weak. Vulnerable. And I was very calm.

I swirled the wine in my glass—not to drink it. Just to watch it move. To give my hand something to do while the CEO on the other end of the call began to realize what was happening.

What had already happened. What had always been inevitable, really.

“You’re not being rational,” he said breathlessly. I could picture him: sweating in some boardroom, tie loosened, eyes darting to the people in the room who’d already stopped believing in him. His voice strained to carry authority, but I could hear the panic blooming under it like mildew in the walls. And still, he clung.

I tilted my head, eyes rolling languidly to the ceiling. “Non,” I agreed. “Rational would have been selling three days ago. Now it is simply... flailing.”

He made a sound. It might’ve been a scoff. It might’ve been fear. Difficult to tell, didn’t matter—these were the final nails in a coffin months in the making. Emotion was irrelevant always, but especially so in business. 

“You leaked false numbers.”

“I leaked audited numbers,” I corrected. “You simply didn’t expect anyone to care.”

Another pause.

In the background, I heard something crash. A rush of feet, then a voice—feminine, shrill and panicked. My guess was a PR intern throwing up. They always do, the first time. 

Stocks had never interested me. I’d found out from an early age that I preferred things swollen past the point of survival—people, companies, empires. All of this was as natural to me as breathing. 

“Mr. Devereux,” the CEO said again, sharp now. “This is still recoverable. If we go public together—”

The ghost of a smile flitted over my lips. “Au contraire, Mr. Bellamy. I am not interested in a shared statement.”

“Then what do you want?”

The question hung in the air like a dropped glass.

I looked out the window of my penthouse. The sky was soft with dusk. Pinked edges. Cooling stone. The city below glimmered with the quiet desperation of early evening—headlights blooming like bioluminescent insects, pedestrians flitting between crosswalks with the twitchy energy of animals sensing nightfall.

It was the hour of premature romance. The hour when couples took photos of the sky as if it wasn’t the same dying light they’d see tomorrow.

My gaze skimmed the skyline, with its angular silhouettes etched against cotton-colored air. The hills were smudged with fog, softened to watercolor. The ocean, distant but visible, caught the last light. Pretty, in the way that expensive postcards were pretty. 

It was all very aesthetic. It meant nothing.

“I want your resignation,” I said, my vowels stretching like ribbon—slow, thin, intentional. “By midnight. I want your board seats vacated. I want the patents transferred. And I want you to thank me, publicly, for my generosity in not pursuing criminal charges.”

“You can’t—”

“I already have.” I stretched out my legs. “You’ll see it in the morning papers. The headline is quite good. I gave them adjectives.”

Another beat. Then:

“You’re a fucking monster.”

I smiled.

“At last,” I murmured. “You’re being accurate.”

Then I hung up. And took another hit, holding the smoke deep in my lungs until my ribs ached and my eyes blurred. The vapor spread slow, molten, through my chest, turning time into something fluid and slow. I exhaled through my nose, watching the faint curl dissipate against the glass.

Somewhere beneath the haze, I remembered that another acquisition would be arriving soon. And this one, I would be quite busy with. Not a company this time. An alpha. 

Specifically—an Economics major from my International Policy class, all height and useless muscle, wrapped in his father’s money like armor. He thought this was a game. Thought the past few weeks—our debates, my offhand remarks, the way I’d taken his frat brother in hand—were a prelude to his idea of conquest.

What he didn’t know was that I’d been orchestrating his unravelling from the start. 

He’d resisted, at first. Pretended not to care when I told him outright he was too vanilla to be worth my time. But the wound to his ego had festered, and now he was coming to my penthouse, thinking it was his idea.

I smiled faintly to myself, drawing another slow inhale. He didn’t know that I’d already acquired him. Or that tonight, I would strip him down to the raw material and take everything.

I would ruin him, too. -----------------------------------------------------------------

Grayson was already hard when I opened the door. Of course he was.

Button-down open, sleeves pushed to the elbows to show off average muscles. Hair gelled within an inch of its life, as if he were auditioning for the role of Man Who Fucks. The smirk he wore was casual—curated, even—but I knew that look. The kind alphas practiced in mirrors. The kind that said, I know what you want, and lucky you—I’m here to give it to you.

“You’re early,” I said, stepping aside. “How American.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked me over—too slowly, like he thought his gaze was something I should feel. It caught on the knot of silk tied low around my waist, lingered as though fabric could be undressed with eyes alone. My feet were bare against the marble, a glass of wine balanced in my hand, the stem turning idly between my fingers.

I let him look. His pupils dilated, just slightly.

“Nice place,” he said as he stepped inside without waiting to be invited, eyes sweeping the penthouse like he was taking mental inventory of assets we owned jointly. “Lemme guess. Your parents are both in…” He hesitated just long enough to feign calculation. “International stocks? Or—no, wait—something big in real estate. Yeah?”

“Wow. How did you know.”

It was almost impressive, the confidence required to be so incorrect. As if money this precise, this intentional, could ever be the product of parental handouts. My mother’s hands had only ever offered me weapons. My father had been a vial in a lab. Everything here, every inch of glass and marble, was mined from the bones of corporations that underestimated me. Acquired without mercy, stripped for parts, and repurposed into something useful.

Something mine.

But Grayson didn’t need to know that. He needed to keep seeing me as a version of himself—just enough to think he could compete, not enough to see how quickly I’d outpace him.

I turned from the door without answering, letting him trail behind me through the narrow sweep of entryway into the open span of the living room. The city glowed against the glass wall, lights shivering in the deepening dusk. He glanced at it once, but his focus kept dragging back to me, to the measured pace of my steps, the whisper of silk over skin.

“You live here alone?” he asked, his voice pitched in that casual way people use when they think they already know the answer.

“Alone,” I said.

He gave a low whistle and dropped into the low armchair opposite the sofa without waiting to be told where to sit, leaning back like he owned the posture—legs sprawled wide, one arm thrown over the side. His scent was sharp with aftershave but otherwise neutral per the patch sitting squarely over his gland.

I crossed to the bar, refilled my glass, and took the seat beside him. The air between us was still, deliberate. I let it stretch, watching him adjust under the weight of it.

The stem of the glass ticked softly against the marble side table, as I set it down to reach for the rig on the console beside me. Grayson’s eyes tracked the movement.

“You smoke?” he asked, sounding disbelieving.

I glanced at him once, tilting the mouthpiece toward my lips. “Frequently.”

The device gleamed in my palm, still faintly warm from the last hit. I rotated it between my fingers, the glass cold on my lower lip.

Grayson wasn’t watching the rig. He was watching me.

Perfect.

I tapped the chamber once. It blinked—a slow, lazy pulse, like a sleeping animal. Blue. Then white. Then still. Instead of taking the hit myself, I held it out to him.

"You want?" I offered, casual.

Grayson grinned, already reaching for it. “Hell yeah. Me and my frat brothers do gravity bongs all the time.”

Of course he didn’t ask what was in it. He took it like he was proving something and brought it to his lips, cocky and open-chested, tipping his head back as if he were about to crush a beer. “You ever do gravity bongs?”

I smiled. “No.”

“You’re missing out,” he said, already mid-inhale.

I watched, offering no instruction and instead watching as he ripped the hit like it was a race. He held it with a clenched jaw, throat working. I could practically see the vapor unfurling inside him like a fuse.

“This is smooth,” he said after a beat, voice slightly hoarse. “Not even that strong.”

I let him sit in that silence. Watched thin clouds trickle from the sides of his mouth. Three seconds. Five.Ten.

He blinked. “Wait.”

There it was—the flicker. A hitch in his breath, a narrowing of focus.

“…What is this, like, thirty percent?”

“Live resin,” I said mildly. “Eighty-seven.”

As if on cue, his chest seized, and the first cough tore out of him so violently his shoulders jerked forward, the device nearly slipping from his hand. I plucked it from him as another cough followed, wet and ragged, until he was doubled over, eyes watering, trying to laugh through the fit.

“Shit—fuck—this is—” he wheezed, one fist pressed against his sternum like that would hold the smoke in. I watched impassively, the corner of my mouth twitching. It was always remarkable, how quickly swagger dissolved into red-eyed sputtering when confronted with something potent.

His posture softened, head tipping back like the couch had caught him mid-fall. The smirk stayed a moment too long, then slid off, leaving him open-mouthed and slow-blinking.

“Still feeling chill?”

A pause. “…Yeah.”

It was a lie. His knees fell wider, breath dragging low in his chest. Heat rose sharp under his skin. The part of him that had come here to win was already somewhere else entirely.

“You’re really pretty,” he murmured, as if surprised to hear it out loud. “Like… in a fucked-up way.”

“Merci.”

His gaze followed the shape of the word on my tongue. “Is that French?”

I didn’t answer. Two fingers slipped beneath his collar, thumb grazing his gland. The air thickened. He shifted, thighs parting further, a hum building in the back of his throat.

Then I tugged the fabric just enough to close the distance. My mouth brushed his—not soft, not searching. A flick of tongue, the scrape of teeth on his lower lip. Not a kiss. A sample. He hadn’t even registered it yet. Too slow. But when he finally did, the reaction came all at once. 

He reached for me, greedy, trying to pull me in against his body and chase my mouth like he’d earned it. My palm met his chest and shoved him back into the couch, thumb pressing down on his gland.

“Ah,” I scolded him softly. “But remember our deal?” I saw the flicker in his eyes when he remembered. The deal. The clause. It had begun in class, the day he was still licking his wounds from the third debate I’d gutted him in. He’d been sulking, still smarting from the weekend, when I’d taken his frat brother just to prove I could. Why not me? he’d blurted.

No preamble, no shame. Already exactly where I wanted him.

I hadn’t slowed my step. Why didn’t I fuck you like I fucked Felix? Why do you care when we’re incompatible? I’d muttered, attempting to slip past him into the tide of students filing from the classroom.

But he’d stepped into my path to block me, words spilling out in a furious whisper. Too fast. Too nervous. Who says we’re incompatible? Just because you want to be on top? You really think I can’t do that? If Felix can, so can I. Shit, I can do it better. Was he even good for you?

He’d made it clear he’d thought he could do better, and that was how we’d arrived at it. Not a promise. Not even an offer. Just a clause, spoken as mildly as a footnote: if you can take everything I give you without crying, I’ll let you fuck me. Now he blinked. Then laughed, cocky again. “Yeah. I get to fuck you.”

“If you can take everything,” I reminded him pointedly. “That was the condition.”

His smile widened. “Whatever you did to Felix, you can do to me.” He eyed me, squaring his shoulders. “What, you wanna do it all night or something? You know I’m on the wrestling team, right? I have stamina.” My bones felt electric as I stood up. Grayson watched me, pupils blown wide, smile softening at the edges, already mistaking my silence for tenderness.

I turned my head slightly, catching my own reflection in the window. Dusk had turned the glass to ink. Behind me: the lights, the velvet, the boy on the couch.

In front of me: a night full of screaming.

And I hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Take your shirt off,” I said abruptly. A command.

His grin twitched. Not confusion—not yet. Just surprise. “Damn, bossy. Okay.”

He peeled the shirt off and tossed it somewhere. My gaze ticked over his chest and came away bored—it was bronzed and sculpted enough to suggest some half-hearted gym effort funded by protein powder and family money.

“Now get on your knees.”

“Oh, we’re doing that?” he said, sliding down onto the floor with a short bark of laughter. “You want a little show first? Should I flex or—?”

He was still talking when I started walking a slow circle around his body, one hand resting against my jaw, the other tracing absently down the silk at my hip. I circled him like he was a prototype. Something I might return if it didn’t perform as advertised.

Perhaps it showed on my face, because Grayson’s voice trailed off. His smile faded.

I stopped behind him and leaned forward, one hand tangling in his hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt his head back.

“If you’re going to fuck me,” I murmured near his ear, “you’ll need to follow instructions. Let’s begin with obedience.” -----------------------------------------------------------------

Obedience was not a strong suit of his, as it would turn out.

The first hour was easy. I gave him little licks, the occasional slow stroke of my hand, the softest scrape of teeth along his neck—enough to keep him at the edge without ever tipping him over. I made him say please three times before I even touched him directly.

By the second hour, he’d stopped pretending it was beneath him and had started panting for it, hips jerking every time I brushed close. I kept my hands light, my mouth lighter, careful to make every touch feel like a privilege.

Then I introduced the plug.

The look he gave me was worth every second of the night so far—wide-eyed confusion tipped with indignation, like I’d just asked him to renounce his American citizenship.

“Wait. You want to… what?”

“Mm,” I hummed, spinning the plug for his inspection while pressing a thumb against his hole. “Nothing you can’t handle, right?”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. I don’t—I’m the alpha,” he stammered, incredulous. “You’re the omega. I’m supposed to fuck you. You’re being serious right now? You really want me to—to—”

I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to hear how ridiculous he sounded. Then, casually:

“Felix took it.”

That landed exactly where I wanted it to. His whole posture shifted—still wary, still uncomfortable, but competitive now. “Yeah? Well, I’m not Felix,” he said, trying to inject swagger into a voice that had gone slightly tight.

“Good,” I said. “I’d like to think you can take more than he did.” What I didn’t say: Felix had lasted all of seven minutes before crying and begging me to stop. 

I gave him an out—told him the word to use if he wanted it all to stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth through the stretch, his breathing jagged until it wasn’t, until the tension started leaking out of his shoulders. He relaxed, incrementally. Just enough.

And then he came.

That was against the rules. Unfortunately for him.

So naturally, I got up and left, with him tied to the bed.

“Yo. Yo, Francis—wait—you can’t just leave me here like this! Dude. No, no, where are you going? Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t—no, no, no, man, this isn’t—this isn’t normal. You’re not normal. Who even does this? Francis! Come back! Come back, bro, I’m serious—this is fucked, I can’t—fuck—”

At the doorway, I didn’t even turn.

“When I return, you’ll call me Sir.” I let the pause hang, sharp as glass. “Or I won’t touch you anymore at all.”

I didn’t gag him. I wanted him to hear himself begging, wanted him to hear his voice break. -----------------------------------------------------------------

It was three hours later when I officially returned to the room I’d left Grayson in.

I stood in the doorway for a long moment, simply watching. His face was red, streaked with tear tracks that had dried and been replaced, over and over. He was grinding on the plug without meaning to, thighs trembling with each frustrated shift.

I stepped closer, letting my palm trail along his side. He startled toward me instantly, like a tether yanked taut.

“Are you fucking kidding me, man, you left for hours—”

Quick as a snake, my hand shot out, fingers wrapping just under his throat. “Business doesn’t stop for pleasure, you know,” I told him with a shake of my head, meeting his wide eyes. “I had Felix tied up for much longer.”

I climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips. The robe slipped, silk pooling at my thighs. I half-expected some crude retort, but he stayed silent, except for the sharp inhale when I maneuvered his cock past the hem to slide against the wet seam between my leg. “Remember what you’re supposed to call me?” “Sir. Oh—fuck, Sir—” His head tipped back, hips bucking helplessly despite the bonds.

I rubbed along him twice more, slow and deliberate, feeling his entire body strain toward me. Then I pulled away, letting my fingers drift down to the base of the plug. I gave it the smallest yank, just enough to make him gasp and jolt, every muscle in his legs tensing hard enough to shake the bed.

“Still think you can take everything?” I asked.

His voice came out ragged, catching in his throat. “Yeah—hah—fuck yeah, I can—”

The sound broke off into a sharp moan when I twisted the plug again, a slow roll forward that pressed exactly where I wanted it to. His toes curled, thighs shuddering under me.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “That’s—fuck—that’s so—”

“You’re talking too much,” I scolded, reaching for the gag on the nightstand.

He barely registered what it was before I slid it between his lips and buckled it snug around the back of his head. The sound he made was muffled but desperate, and I watched his jaw flex against the leather, his eyes flicking up to mine.

“Better,” I murmured, dragging my fingers along his cheek before returning to the plug. I took my time pulling it out completely, already ready with a different one. A larger one. 

I started working it in, a little deeper with each slow push, watching his body betray him. The flush up his chest, the way his hips tried to follow the motion, the choked noises spilling uselessly against the gag. The alpha who’d stormed into my penthouse thinking he’d do the taking? All gone now.

A particularly deep angle had him jerking hard against the ties, eyes going wide. He groaned—long, guttural—and then again, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“You like that?” I asked softly, giving him a moment to breathe before easing it back out just enough to make him whimper.

His nod was frantic.

I smiled, curling my free hand around the base of his cock, not to stroke him—yet—but just to hold him there, swollen and leaking, while I pressed the plug forward again. His whole body trembled.

“Good,” I said. “Because we have two more sizes to go.”  -----------------------------------------------------------------

I was fucking him when my phone lit up. Kerrigan.

Of course. How poetic.

We were whispered to be rivals in certain circles, but what most would never know was that Ainsley Kerrigan and I were merely opposite sides of the same coin—his repression voluntary, mine carved in by force since ten. Two men suffocating in different prisons, though only one of us had learned how to weaponize the bars.

I didn’t slow. The strap drilled into Grayson’s body with a steady rhythm, each thrust dragging a muffled cry from behind the gag. His wrists strained against the ties, hips jerking between resistance and need. My hand pressed flat to his lower back, keeping him exactly where I wanted him, sprawled and open.

The gag came free with a sharp metallic click, and his jaw sagged open at once. Wet, desperate noises tumbled out, raw from hours of biting down against restraint. He moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for oxygen, only for the sound to curdle into broken pleas—half-choked, half-sobbed. Perfect.

My lips curled as I pressed accept and set it to speaker. Grayson’s voice carried into the open line instantly and I heard a sharp intake of breath, as if Kerrigan was choking on Grayson choking. “Kerrigan,” I drawled, letting my voice slip lower. “You’re interrupting a session. My hands are full. As is his mouth.”

Whatever Kerrigan said, I barely listened. My attention was split between his voice and the body beneath me—one hand curling idly around Grayson’s hip, the other adjusting the strap’s angle to make him choke on another ragged moan.

“Edge training,” I informed Kerrigan smoothly, as if giving a quarterly report. “Six hours in. I have an alpha econ major tied to my bed, leaking all over my sheets, and he still hasn’t earned permission to come. Say hello, puppy.”

Grayson didn’t balk. “Sir—please—please, I’ve been good, I—fuck—please let me—”

I hummed in approval and shoved the gag back in before he could finish. “You see?” I murmured into the phone. “It is a hostile takeover, darling, I assure you. He didn’t quite consent to this.”

Kerrigan raged louder. I rewarded Grayson with a punishing snap of my hips, then stilled when his cock twitched in desperation. My palm pressed flat against the small of his back, pinning him as if nothing at all was happening. 

By the time Kerrigan circled back to his usual tirade—stone-throwing from his glass house, hypocritical as ever—I was already bored. I fisted Grayson’s hair, yanking his head up just enough to hear the strangled noise he made against the gag.

“Please. I’m giving him clarity. He came in rather cocky. Now he calls me Sir with tears in his eyes and says thank you when I slap him. I’m providing education. Just not the kind that earns credit hours.”

Kerrigan’s voice shook on the line, high with righteous fury. Always so easy to bait. Sick. Twisted. A disgrace. The words poured out of him like steam escaping a kettle, shrill and inevitable. I smiled faintly, savoring the way his outrage made him so transparent. 

“Oh, come now,” I drawled, one hand still steady on Grayson’s hip as he shuddered beneath me. “Don’t pretend your hands are clean. You were looking positively ravished at our last group tutoring session. All those love bites… and I bet you still haven’t so much as blown him.”

There it was. The hitch.

“That is none of your business,” he spat, teeth grinding audibly.

“Ah, but it is my business,” I countered evenly. My gaze flicked down to Grayson’s tear-streaked face, the gag muffling the sound he made when I adjusted the strap’s angle. “When your repression bleeds into my calendar. You’re not angry that I skipped tutoring, Kerrigan. You’re angry that I’m fucking someone’s brains out while you’re still pretending yours aren’t leaking down your spine every time that quarterback breathes near you.”

His silence was sharp, jagged. I could almost hear him clenching his jaw hard enough to crack enamel. “At least I don’t degrade people for sport—”

I smiled wider and adjusted my rhythm until the boy under me sobbed. Loosened the gag so his cries could leak out. Perhaps it could be therapeutic for Kerrigan, who knew.

“You degrade yourself for free, Kerrigan. Denying every instinct. Pretending control is a virtue. That puppy of yours would bend you over in a heartbeat, and you’d let him. We both know it. The only difference between us is—I enjoy myself.”

“Please, Sir, I need—I’m gonna—please, please, I can’t—”

“No,” I said—not to Kerrigan, but to the boy writhing under me. “You’ll wait. Be still. Let me finish with my colleague.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Kerrigan seethed on the other end.

“And you’re celibate by choice,” I shot back. “I’d ask who’s worse, but I already know the answer. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now, as I’m moments from climax—something your repression won't let you do without a spreadsheet and a panic attack.”

I ended the call before he could respond, tossed the phone aside, and drove into Grayson harder, finally giving him the ruin he’d been begging for all night. Not quite everything, but the closest he’d ever come. -----------------------------------------------------------------

He was quiet now. At last.

No more posturing. No more smirking. No more cocky remarks. All of that had bled out of him hours ago, leaving nothing but obedience. He was on his side, arms still behind his back, face slack against the sheets. A faint sheen of sweat cooled over his skin. His breathing was slow, uneven, like the air was heavier for him now.

He never asked about fucking me. That was gone from him entirely, dissolved like sugar in heat. He didn’t even look at me as if I owed him anything. And that, more than the begging or the tears or the ruin, told me I had stripped him clean.

I rose from the bed and crossed the room, the silk of my robe whispering over my thighs. The air was cooler out here, away from the heat radiating off his body. I poured the last of the wine into my glass, watching the dark liquid twist against the light from the city.

The skyline was the same as it had been when I’d finished dismantling his father’s company—bright, indifferent, a scatter of gold against the black.

I’d known who he was by the second debate. The attendance sheet in International Policy had confirmed the surname, and I’d remembered the file on my desk. Bellamy & Co., mid-size, overleveraged, bleeding out under the weight of my acquisition. I’d been gutting it for weeks before I ever told him he was too vanilla for my time.

A coincidence, I’d thought then. But then he kept coming back—bristling, posturing, mistaking disdain for invitation. How could I resist? To strip the father in daylight and the son at night? To carve out the dynasty root and branch?

Behind me, Grayson shifted on the bed, a small, involuntary sound catching in his throat. I watched his reflection in the glass—pliant, ruined, stripped of all that gaudy certainty.

Some bloodlines collapse in boardrooms. Some in bedrooms. Tonight, the Bellamys had the honor of both.

[nerdvsquarterback]

home invasion type shit (minific)

⚠ cw: graphic violence, systemic failures, domestic abuse, medical neglect this is a piece of beckett's story. please do not read if you are sensitive to any of the above things. your mental health matters 🤍

x x x x x x x x x x

The sound was soft. Subtle. The kind of noise you only notice when you haven’t really slept in four days and your brain’s fried from cramming sixteen hours of AP anatomy into a skull that already holds too much.

I’d been rereading the same sentence for twelve minutes. Something about the pituitary. I didn’t even remember. My highlighter had dried at the tip.

Click at the back window. A grunt. A boot on the sill.

I set my highlighter down. Closed my textbook. Got up. No shoes. No phone. Just the tire iron from under my pillow.

Yeah. I’m not subtle. You sleep light when the world trains you to. You keep your weapons close. You live with the knowledge that someday, someone might come back.

The benefit of living in an apartment the size of a shoebox was that I was in the kitchen before he landed. The way he dropped in, it was like he’d done this before. Cool. I had, too.

Big guy. Hoodie. Gloves. Mask. No weapon. He straightened up, full of swagger and creep-ass energy, only to stop cold when he saw me.

I stared back at him. Quiet. Even behind his mask, I could tell he was sizing me up, taking in my small stature.

Then: “You know your anatomy?”

He hesitated. I smiled.

“Guess you’re about to learn. This is your humerus. Let’s test how funny it is.”

I swung first. The tire iron hit his elbow with a wet snap. He screamed like a little bitch and stumbled back towards the window, already trying to bail, but nah. I was already on him. We were gonna dance.

The tire iron dropped onto the carpet.

Grabbing ahold of his hood, I yanked him inside. He stumbled, hands scrambling for balance, but I wasn’t letting go. I dragged him into the kitchen like I was hauling garbage to the curb. The kitchen was better. More room to move. Cleaner angles. Less carpet to soak.

He tried to wrench away and square up, like his size meant something. I nailed him in the groin, grabbed his arm, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first onto the floor. His knees caught him at first—but I got a grip behind his neck and drove his head the rest of the way down, hard.

The sound it made against the hard linoleum was the first truly satisfying thing I’d heard all week.

“This one’s parietal.” I said, slamming the side of his head against the floor with a sharp, jarring twist of my grip. His body convulsed, boots scraping the tile. I shifted my weight and drove his skull into the other side with the heel of my palm—hard enough to knock the air out of him. “And this one’s the matching set.” 

He whimpered. Tried to pull his arms beneath him. I elbowed his shoulder flat and grabbed another fistful of his hood.

“Temporal bone,” I muttered, dragging his head sideways and bouncing it once—twice—against the floor just above the ear. “Damage here can mess up your hearing. Not that you’ll need it.”

His legs kicked. I moved my knee, pinned him harder.

“Occipital,” I breathed. “Let’s see how hard I have to slam you for lights-out.”

I yanked his head up and smashed it into the floor, flat against the base. The crack was dull and wet, like splitting a melon on concrete.

“Please,” he choked out, voice wet and cracking under the blood. “Fuck—okay, okay, please—”

I paused just long enough to grab his mask and yank it all the way down, exposing the raw split of his lip, the panicked twitch of his eye. Ugly fucker.

“You talking now?” I asked, deadpan. “Where was all this energy when you climbed through our window?”

He sobbed something I didn’t catch. Tried to curl sideways. I grabbed the back of his neck and slammed him again.

Blood hit the fridge. He sagged—but I wasn’t done. Not even close. Guys like him were vermin. They’d hit the same house twice in a week if they thought no one would stop them. You had to make it clear that if they came back, they’d die.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” I sneered. “Thought you picked the right house? You been watching us?”

“You jimmied our window with these hands? Bold of you, bro. Bold as fuck.” I grabbed two fingers in one hand. Bent them back, slow, until the tendons snapped and the bones followed. His scream cut off into a sob.

I dropped his wrist, stepped on his hand with my full weight, and twisted my heel. “I’m gonna break all your fucking metacarpals.”

And I did. Repeated the same with his other hand. This time, when he tried to scream, I covered his mouth with my fist. Fractured his jaw. Then hit him again. Kept talking.

“That crunch just now? That was your nasal bone. Or it was. Now it’s cartilage soup. This next one—” Punch. “—zygomatic. That’s your cheekbone. Fractures clean, like a damn wishbone. Hear that crack? Maxilla. That’s your upper jaw. Real important for eating and not choking on your own tongue. Yeah, say goodbye to that. And this—”

Punch. “—is your mandible. Lower jaw. You’ll be sipping protein shakes through a straw for months. That pressure behind your eyes? Lacrimal bone, dickface. I could shatter it if I felt like it. And that crunch at the center of your nose? Vomer. Thought that was just cartilage, didn’t you? Bleed on my floor, you fucking waste of oxygen. Do one thing right.”

I leaned down and put my face to his mangled one, whispering.

“Lemme guess. You thought we’d be asleep. You thought we’d be helpless. You thought a broke single mom with two disabled kids and one overworked omega would be easy fucking pickings.”

He weighed more than me and his weight was practically dead at this point, but I still flipped him over. I didn’t look at him too closely, because I knew if I did, I’d just see my mom’s face. And he wasn’t her. Kidney time.

I drove my fist into his side, just under the ribcage, where the soft tissue gives. He let out a guttural choke—not a scream anymore, not even a word—just that horrible sound a body makes when it gets hit wrong.

There was the resistance of muscle, then the slight give where the kidney sits. One down. I repositioned, used my other hand to hit the other side—sharper this time, aimed just right. Both kidneys down. 

“But I don’t sleep.”

I shifted my stance and hammered my fist into his side—angled upward, right where the floating ribs start. Just enough to break. I felt the dull crack through my knuckles, and he let out a breathy, panicked groan, instinctively curling around the pain like that would help. It didn’t, because I hit the same spot again.

His body jerked. Another one snapped. Probably two. I knew the signs. Knew the math. One hand to his side, the other flailing. Couldn't scream right. He couldn’t even get enough air. 

“And I’m not helpless.”

My fist went straight into his groin—short, brutal, and deliberate. I watched him fold over, body spasming, legs twitching like his nervous system couldn’t figure out how to respond.

His kidneys were already fucked. This was just insurance. I wanted him useless. I wanted him humiliated.

I wanted him to remember what it felt like to be dismantled by someone he thought was weak.

His forehead hit the tile with a thud, and I let him stay there for a second, writhing in pain like something half-stepped on and still twitching.

“And you picked me.”

I hit him until my arms ached. Until my knuckles tore open. Until his begging turned wet and garbled. And then—just when I thought I’d wrung every drop of fight out of him—I heard it.

Thin crying from down the hall. Mila and Jamie. 

Something in me broke wide open.

“You woke them up.” I wasn’t breathing. “You made them cry.”

I grabbed him by the shirt and slammed his head into the floor one more time. “You don’t get to make them cry.”

“Beckett?”

Behind me, my mom’s voice—raw. Tentative. I angled myself so she wouldn’t see, even though there was nothing she could do about it. She didn’t need the reminder. Bro was still breathing, but he wasn’t going anywhere. I got to my feet, refusing to look over my shoulder, afraid of what my mom would see in my face.

“It’s handled,” I said softly. “Go check on the kids.”

I waited until her footsteps retreated, then I stepped over the guy’s body and went to wash my hands. Watched the water run red for a minute before grabbing the phone off the hook to call it in.

The line clicked. I could hear my own breath echoing in the receiver.

“Emergency services, what’s your—”

“Yeah,” I cut in, voice low. “I’ve got a live one.”

My knuckles were aching. The floor was sticky beneath my bare feet. I stared at the guy’s body slumped against the base of the fridge, half his face swollen beyond recognition.

“Might need a medic,” I said. She asked what I meant and I didn’t elaborate, just gave the address.

I paused to listen to the wheezing coming from the floor, the way his lungs stuttered between attempts at staying conscious.

“He’ll survive,” I added after a beat. Then: “Probably.”

I didn’t wait for questions. Just hung up.

The cops showed up twenty minutes later. Took their sweet time, as usual. No sirens. No rush. Just the soft crunch of tires outside and the lazy thunk of doors closing, like they were here to check a meter instead of respond to a break-in.

I didn’t bother fixing myself. Didn’t wipe off the blood. Didn’t put on a shirt. I opened the door exactly as I was—shirtless, arms streaked with drying red and my pulse steady like I’d just finished doing dishes.

Two officers, both alphas, stood on my doorstep and I saw that moment where their trained expressions slipped when they got a peek inside. The younger one flinched first—eyes flicking to my chest, then the cuts along my knuckles. The older one squared his shoulders like he thought he could puff up and retake the scene.

Too late.

I’d already set the tone. I was the one covered in blood, standing calm. He was the one with the badge, arriving late to a crime that was already over, and I watched him realize that.

Watched the shift in his jaw, the subtle tension in his hands as he registered that I’d done his job for him. I let the silence stretch before I spoke.

“He’s in the kitchen,” I said, voice flat, like I was reading a grocery list. “Concussion. Fractured elbow. Broken fingers. Dislocated jaw. Couple ribs down. Missing teeth.”

Their posture changed again. Not sympathetic. Not horrified. Wary. 

The older cop squinted. “You should’ve called us first,” he said like I was the problem. “You can’t take justice into your own hands—”

I stared at him.

“You mean like when I was nine and called because my pregnant mom got punched in the stomach and my dad was laughing?”

He flinched. I tilted my head, slow. “Oh,” I said. “Right. You wouldn’t remember that one. Must’ve gotten lost in the stack.”

I could feel my pulse rising again. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. Just that old, cold ache under my ribs that always came up when I remembered calling and waiting. Calling and waiting. Listening to the sound of my mother sobbing while the dispatcher promised help that never came.

“Or when I was twelve and there was a break-in, and we called 911 and begged for help—and no one came? You know what that fucker took? Mom’s lupus meds. My sister’s palsy meds. I just sat there with a steak knife and a disconnected line, waiting for help that never fucking showed.”

The younger cop looked away.

“Or when I was fourteen and my mom had a broken collarbone and my brother drove her to the ER in the middle of the night and told them she tripped, because if he said what actually happened, you’d just write it off as another ‘domestic misunderstanding’?”

The older one cleared his throat. “Look, son—”

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “I’m not your fucking anything.”

Silence.

The intruder groaned behind me. I didn’t look at him.

“Let’s just be honest,” I said. “Would you rather I called you and let him kill us?”

They didn’t answer.

Of course they didn’t.

Because they knew. They knew. Just like I did. Just like my mom did when she bled through two towels waiting for help that never came. Just like Mira did, seizing in my arms. Just like Jamie did every time the world got too loud and there wasn’t a damn person in it willing to listen. Anything they said would’ve been a lie.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Didn’t think so.”

I turned away. Let them in. Gave the official statement. I didn’t want to watch them flinch their way through the wreckage of the kitchen, but I did anyway.

Watched as they knelt beside him like he was something fragile, as they spoke into radios and nodded at each other like they’d shown up in time for anything but aftermath.

They rolled him onto a stretcher, slow and careful, trying not to aggravate his injuries. He groaned again. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

Instead I watched them wheel him out like trash collected late and I hoped the gurney hit every goddamn bump in the floor on the way to the door. I hoped every step jolted through his fucking broken ribs and his kidneys spasmed until they burst.

I hoped he remembered my face. Our address. That this was the wrong house to fuck with.

Then I looked down.

My hands were sticky again. Fresh blood had dried across my knuckles like paint—cracked in the creases, clotted at the joints. I peeled it off in flakes, slow and quiet, watching little pieces of him fall to the ground like lint.

I kept going until my palms stung.

Until the shaking started again.

“Leave the report on the counter and get the fuck out,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ve got an AP exam in five hours.”

When the front door finally clicked shut behind them, the house went still. The only sign that something had even happened was the blood everywhere. I’d clean it up. Finish studying. 

I stood there for a second, then I padded down the hall and sat outside my mom’s room, with my back to the wall.

I could hear them inside. My mom and Jamie and Mira. One of them—probably Mira—sniffled. Jamie muttered something low and looping, like he was stuck in a sensory loop. Mom soothed them with a whisper.

They’d fall asleep again eventually. They always did.

I leaned my head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. My hands were shaking. I curled them into fists again, just to stop the twitching. 

It wasn’t over. It never was. But it was quiet.

[nerdvsquarterback]

[MINIFIC] classroom wreckage

I should have walked away.

I really, really should have.

But Ainsley had made the mistake of sighing, all bratty and exasperated, and muttered, "You’re getting soft, Vaughn."

And boom. Now I had him in an empty classroom, bent over some professor’s desk—no idea whose—with his pants shoved down and my cock driving into him, hot slick dripping down my balls every time I bottomed out. He was so fucking wet, I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it—felt like the tightest slip n’ slide to ever exist.

I pulled out just enough to watch it—thumbed him open with both hands, spreading his cheeks wider so I could see the way his hole stretched around me, pink and slick and so fucking wet I could see the mess we were making.

My cock twitched, soaked and shiny, and when I pushed back in, slow and deep, I watched the way his rim clung to me, fluttering around the head like it didn’t want to let me go.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I wanted to take a goddamn picture. Hang it on a wall. Put it in a museum labeled “Max Vaughn’s Descent Into Madness: Exhibit A.”

I couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop fucking thinking about it.

"Fuck, sunshine, you’re soaked," I groaned, letting go of one cheek so I could slide my hand down, fingers dragging through the slick mess between us. I thumbed over his stretched rim—wet, twitching, swallowing around me—and couldn’t help the grin that hit my face when he shuddered all over, his whole body clenching.

His face was smashed against the desk, curls all fucked up, and I could barely see more than the top of his head—but I knew he was scowling. Little nerd couldn’t not scowl, even while moaning like he was trying to win an award for it. And sure enough—

"Max. Shut the fuck up," he snapped, all breathless and bitchy like I wasn’t balls-deep inside him.

"Nah, baby," I panted, spreading him open wider. God, his mouth was sharp as hell, but he looked fucking filthy. Needy. "I think you like it. I think you like being stretched open like this. Fucked sloppy."

His face burned red and he opened his mouth to no doubt snarl something back, but that was the same moment I found his prostate. I nailed it on a deep thrust and his entire expression rearranged, mouth dropping slack on a breathlesss sound. 

“You—oh my God, Max—”

Fuck. His hole was sucking me in, gripping my cock like a vice, every squeeze making me want to fuck him harder, deeper, until there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t know I’d been here.

I was gonna lose it.

"You feel so fucking good," I groaned, draping myself over his back and biting at his neck. "So fucking wet for me, Ains. Fucking leaking all over my dick."

Ainsley trembled, letting out only a whimper. No words. I grinned against his throat, licking a long, slow stripe up to his ear. My hips snapped forward again, and he gasped, his fingers clawing over the desk.

"You’re disgusting," he hissed. I bent lower, dragging my teeth along the curve of his throat, loving the way he tensed and shuddered beneath me.

"Yeah? You sure?" I panted, reaching back between us, thumb rubbing through the slick mess I was making of him. "You’re the one dripping all over my dick right now. Sucking me in like you don’t wanna let me go."

Ainsley let out a sharp, bitten-off sound, something between a moan and a snarl. "Max—" he gasped, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"That’s right, baby," I murmured, dragging my lips across his jaw and fucking deep. I ground against him, making him feel every inch of me stretching him open, just like how I could feel it—all of it.

Like the way his hole squeezed and fluttered, slick making wet, messy sounds every time I buried myself inside him. He felt so fucking good, so soft and hot.

"Jesus, you’re tight." Hadn’t we just done this before leaving my apartment? I groaned, gritting my teeth and slamming my hips forward. Ainsley whined, squirming.

"You—" He sucked in a breath. "You’re gonna make me—"

"Yeah?" I grinned. His whole body was shuddering, gushing wetter with every thrust. I could feel it. The way he was right there, teetering on the edge and clenching down like a fucking vice, like he needed every last drop of me inside him.

"Come for me, nerd," I panted.

"Fuck you," Ainsley gasped, but then—

He broke.

His whole body seized, his hole spasming, cock spurting between us and painting his own stomach as he threw his head back and sobbed my name. I groaned his name back, burying my face against his shoulder and fucking him through it, feeling every throb and squeeze of his orgasm.

"Fuck, baby," I panted, gripping his hips, slamming deep one last time—

And then—my own orgasm hit me like a fucking truck.

My cock started to jerk within the grip of his tight heat, flooding deep inside him with so much cum, my balls tight and aching. I panted against his skin, my hips grinding slow, milking every last drop inside him, feeling how fucking full he was, how wrecked he looked.

I swayed, boneless and spent, but managed to gather him off the desk, wrapping him up and pulling him close. He responded slowly, sluggishly latching on, his fingers pressing into my skin.

"Goddamn," I muttered, kissing his temple, letting my hands roam over his body, soothing over every tremor.

Ainsley breathed slow, his chest rising and falling, his face flushed and glowing, body a mess of slick and sweat and my cum dripping out of him. I pressed a lazy, satisfied kiss to his cheek, nuzzling into his hair, grinning against his skin.

"So," I murmured, nipping his earlobe, "still think I’m getting soft, sunshine?"

Ainsley slapped my shoulder weakly.

"Get off me, Vaughn."

I probably should’ve let him go.

Like, logically speaking, Ainsley was already late for class, his sweater vest was rumpled, his lips were swollen, and his glare had lost all bite—mostly because he was still dazed from how hard I’d just fucked him.

But logic had never been my strong suit. And, more importantly, Ainsley smelled like me now.

I could smell myself on his skin, under his scent patch, in the sweat clinging to his collar. It was faint, but it was there—the proof that I’d had him, that I’d marked him up from the inside out. That I’d ruined him for the day. 

And maybe that shouldn’t have made my alpha brain purr, but fuck if I wasn’t buzzing with some primal, stupid, possessive thrill at the thought of him walking into class exactly like this—flushed, wrecked, and covered in my scent.

He was mine.

So yeah. I probably should’ve let him go.

Instead, I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

Ainsley made a muffled sound of protest, a weak little noise against my lips, but his hands still clutched at my shoulders like I was the only thing keeping him standing. Which—fair, because I probably was.

God, I loved kissing him.

I loved how soft he got, how the tension in his shoulders melted away the second I touched him. I loved the way he sighed into my mouth, his fingers curling tighter against my chest like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove me away or pull me closer.

I loved the tiny, desperate noises he tried to bite back but came out anyway, the little shivers that ran down his spine every time I licked into him deeper, the way his thighs were still shaking as I slid my hand down the curve of his waist.

He was always fighting me. But not when I kissed him. When I kissed him, he just… let himself feel it.

So I kept kissing him, slow and deep, cupping the back of his neck, dragging my teeth over his bottom lip. He was so warm, still pliant from being fucked and breathing hard.

Ainsley whimpered into my mouth.

I swallowed it down, growling low and kissing him harder, tilting his head back so I could taste him exactly how I wanted. And yeah—I was already getting hard again because how could I not?

This was Ainsley. My Ainsley.

The nerdiest, grumpiest, most perfect little brat to ever walk the earth. The omega who drove me absolutely insane, the one I wanted more than I’d ever wanted anything.

I pulled back just enough to breathe him in, resting my forehead against his, panting, grinning like a lovesick idiot because that was exactly what I fucking was.

Ainsley blinked up at me, eyes unfocused, cheeks dusted pink. And then, horrified, he shoved at my chest.

“Vaughn, you absolute fucking caveman,” he hissed, scowling as he wiped at his mouth, like he hadn’t just melted into me like warm butter. “I am already late for class, and now I look—” He gestured at himself, frazzled and ruined, voice dripping with betrayal. “Like this.”

I licked my lips, smirking. “I’m sorry, who was the one who was crying ‘harder’ and ‘hurry and make me cum or I’ll fail you’?”

He bristled, cheeks flaring hotter. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You sure about that?” I shot back, holding his glare.

I wasn’t surprised when he broke first, letting out a furious huff and shoving away from me. He yanked his clothes back into place and spun on his heel to storm off, but I caught his wrist before he could get more than a step away.

“Hey,” I murmured, squeezing gently. “Come back here.” He went stiff all the way to his socks and I just knew he was rolling his eyes not once but twice. Fucking brat. 

“I’m sorry, okay? You know how I get when you wear clothes, babe.”

Ainsley turned on me so fast I almost flinched. His glare could’ve curdled milk. “I hate you.”

I held both hands up, words starting to pour as I pled my case. “No, seriously—just listen for like two seconds. You wanna know the problem? It’s the sweater vest.”

His sigh was so loud I swear it echoed.

“The vest,” I continued solemnly, trying not to laugh at how clearly he was done with my shit. “Sunshine, you wear that thing and I forget my own name. It’s psychological warfare. You look so fucking good—like if a Nobel Prize and a porno had a baby. It does something to me. Up here.”

I tapped my temple. His mouth twitched. Barely. But I saw it.

So naturally—I made it worse.

“I’m serious,” I said. “You walk into a room looking like that and all I can think is, fuck him into another tax bracket.”

“Max,” Ainsley hissed furiously. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“And the little tie? Babe. The tie is my Roman Empire.”

He flicked me. Hard. Right in the center of my forehead.

“Ow—”

“Die,” he said, voice flat as death. But he didn’t storm off.

I grinned helplessly, fucking buzzing as I reached out to smooth his vest down, fixed his collar, ran my thumbs over his jaw like I was memorizing the shape of him. He swallowed hard, gaze darting between my lips and my eyes, and I almost—almost—kissed him again.

Instead, I let my fingers drift down to his wrist, pressing my lips against the inside of it.

Ainsley sucked in a sharp breath. His pupils dilated.

I grinned against his skin.

“You smell like me now,” I murmured.

He made a small, strangled noise, wrenching his wrist away, scowling like he wanted to throw himself off a cliff. “Goodbye, Vaughn.”

And then he turned and power-walked away like he was fleeing a crime scene. I chuckled, shoving my hands in my pockets, watching him go. I swear I heard him muttering “never happened, never happened, never happened” under his breath.

Yeah. He smelled like me.

And I couldn’t fucking wait to do it again.

[nerdvsquarterback]

[minific] alt ending to ch38

i just finished writing ch38 yesterday and i wanted to give you guys a lil smth smth, like what if max broke his vow? canonically, he wouldn't (our boy has integrity), but.... what if?

so this is that. enjoy!

Pretty soon, Ainsley was halfway in my lap—hands clutching my shirt, knees hooked on either side of mine, pressed so close I could barely think. And then he moved. Just a tiny shift. His hips dragged forward—like he was chasing the pressure—and I felt it.

I felt how wet he was.

Against my thigh. Soaked.

I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t. My whole body just froze, every nerve lighting up at once. His slick had bled right through, hot and messy, everywhere, and now I could feel it soaking through my sweats like he’d marked me.

My cock throbbed so hard it hurt.

He whimpered, barely a sound, but his hips kept moving like it wasn’t even a decision. Like his body was just doing it. Like he needed it. Slick smeared hot and sweet across my leg and I swear to God, I almost came just from that.

From him using me like that. So instinctive. So desperate. 

And I still didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Just let it happen. Let him rub his leaking, scent-high little body against me and pretended I could survive it.

Jesus fuck.

He was soaked, still grinding and clutching at me like I was the only thing holding him upright. My thigh was slick with it now—hot and wet and so fucking real—and I couldn’t stop shaking from how hard I was.

And then he leaned in, real slow and deliberate, pressing his nose right up to the side of my neck—breathing me in.

My heart stopped.

Because that was when I realized—I wasn’t wearing a scent patch anymore.

I didn’t even remember taking it off. I must’ve done it without thinking? Maybe in the bedroom? Or sometime between the kiss and the kitchen and the way he moaned when I said he tasted like trust. But now it was off. And he was smelling me. Like... really smelling me.

His whole body shivered against mine.

Then he murmured it. Barely a sound. Just one word.

“Max.”

Right against my mouth, soft and whimpering, like he was begging and hated himself for it. He rolled his hips again, slower this time, slick dragging hard over my thigh.

And then his hand grabbed mine and shoved it down. Not subtly. Not like an invitation. He pressed it between his thighs, right up against his crotch, where he was soaked through and hot, and I could feel it: heat and wet and the soft curve of him under my palm. Soaked hole. Soaked for me.

My breath punched out of my lungs.

I couldn’t even think. My body locked up like it was short-circuiting on instinct and pheromones—because it was. Every part of me was screaming take him. Right there. On the couch. On the floor. Hell, on the ceiling if necessary. It didn’t matter. I needed to touch him. I needed to get his clothes off. I needed to taste him.

“Sunshine,” I rasped, barely able to speak. “You’re—fuck, you’re not playing fair.”

But he just blinked at me, all flushed and glowing and evil-pretty, like this was totally fair, like he was the victim and I was the one seducing him.

And he didn’t say a word. He just rocked against my hand again.

I knew what he was doing.

I knew it in my bones, in my blood, in the deep, echoing part of my brain that still remembered how to run plays and read defenses—he was baiting me. This wasn’t a meltdown. It wasn’t heat haze or confusion. This was intentional. Calculated. Cold-blooded omega war tactics.

He was slick all over my thigh, whimpering into my mouth, pressing my hand against his pussy like I was some kind of wind-up toy he just had to activate. And he was gonna look me in the eye after I lost control, after I fucked him stupid, after I came with my face buried in his neck—and say something like:

“I never said I wanted it. You did that all on your own.”

I could already hear it, already see it—his stupid smug smirk, all flushed and glowing and superior, like he’d just defended a paper on how easy it was to make me snap. Like I was his little science project, and this was just another data point to file away under Max Vaughn is pathetically weak when wet omega pussy is involved.

I should’ve walked away.

Should’ve pulled back. Put on my patch. Made a protein shake. Read a fucking ethics article and clung to my GPA vow like a life raft.

But instead, I groaned. Loud and raw. Helpless.

And I yanked his sweatpants down. They dropped off his hips like they had never mattered and there he was—slick and pink under my palm, dripping and swollen. 

Jesus Christ. I almost blacked out.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t gloat. Not yet. Just bit his lip and watched me, that smug little glint already in his eyes, probably already planning his victory speech.

I was breathing too hard. My hands were shaking. I knew he wanted me to break.

So I did.

I slid two fingers through the mess between his thighs and felt him pulse around nothing. So fucking wet. So hot. He gasped—sharp, needy—and I didn’t even try to stop the sound I made back.

I was already gone and so was he.

If I was gonna lose, I was gonna fucking lose spectacularly on purpose, with my whole chest. Let him smirk. Let him say the line. I’d take it. Hell, I’d earn it.

Because my sunshine was worth the fallout.

I slid my fingers through his slick again, slower this time, just to feel it. Just to hear the soft, wet sound it made as it coated my skin. He let out a high, stuttering breath like he wanted to stop himself—but couldn’t. His thighs twitched around my wrist. His hips tilted up. Still no words.

I rubbed the pad of my thumb just barely over his sweet spot and watched his whole body seize.

God, he was so sensitive. His thighs jerked and he gritted his teeth, fingers curling into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. My cock was throbbing, straining against my own sweats like it was trying to get closer without permission.

I didn’t even realize I was lowering him until he was on his back across the couch, legs over my lap, pants gone, flushed all over and wet like he’d been thinking about this all day. Maybe he had. Probably had. He was evil like that.

His eyes fluttered open—just barely.

“Max,” he whispered again, real quiet. Real ruined.

I didn’t answer.

I just dropped to my knees.

The scent hit me like a drug. Sweet and slick and omega, all tangled up with mine now that my patch was off, buzzing so loud in my chest it felt like a second heartbeat. I shoved the coffee table back with one hand and pulled his legs over my shoulders, hauling him closer until my face was right up against him, until I could see it—how soaked he was, how pink, how badly he was twitching for attention.

“God, your—fuck, your pussy—I mean, your hole, sorry, whatever, it’s just—Jesus, it’s perfect.”

“Not a pussy, you ape,” Ainsley snapped out, flushed. He was already dripping onto the cushion. Already open for me.

I looked up once, just to check—half-expecting him to say stop, to pull the rug out from under me, to remind me this was all one big bratty trap.

But he didn’t. He just looked down at me with that glassy, blown-out stare and tilted his hips forward like a fucking challenge.

So I dove in.

Tongue flat, mouth open—one long, slow lick through all that slick until he shuddered and moaned like he hated himself for it. I buried my face between his thighs and ate, greedy and reverent and fucking starving for him.

Every time he gasped, I pushed deeper. Every time he rocked against my mouth, I grabbed his hips and held him still so I could keep going. He was already trembling. Already leaking so much slick it dripped down my chin.

He came once—hard—legs shaking, thighs clenched around my ears like a vice. His fingers twisted in my hair, breath broken, back arching. His whole body was pulsing. But I didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. Just kept licking through it like I was trying to memorize the taste of him.

And then I heard it another soft, choked, “Max—”

Not a protest. Not a warning. A plea.

That was it. That was the moment.

My vow? Dead. In the ground. Buried with honors. I think I even groaned against him, because some part of me knew—knew—this was the point of no return. That I was choosing this, choosing him. Choosing to lose.

And I didn’t fucking care.

I dragged him down the cushions, hands rough on his thighs now, kneeling up over the couch as I shoved my sweats off with one hand, cock already leaking and desperate. Slick was smeared everywhere. My fingers, my mouth, the inside of my thighs. The couch. Him. Me.

“Max,” he whispered again, dazed.

I didn’t ask. I just pressed the tip of my cock against his slick, flushed entrance, shuddering from how fucking ready he was.

I paused. One second. Two. And then I pushed in.

Slow. Deep. All the way, until I bottomed out and he gasped under me, his back arching, hands fisting in the cushions. He was tight, wet as hell, clenching around me like he’d been waiting for this longer than I had.

My vow shattered.

It didn’t even matter anymore. I was inside him. I was fucking him. And he was taking it like he’d planned it from the start. I looked down at him, chest heaving, breath catching in my throat—and that was when he did it. That little fucking smirk.

Barely there. Just the edge of it. Just enough to let me know.

“I never said I wanted it,” he whispered, voice all breathless and smug and evil. “You did that all on your own.”

And I swear to God, I came just from hearing it, so hard it felt like punishment.

Like judgment. Like my own body had finally snapped the leash and said you failed, but at least you failed spectacularly. I was barely inside him before I was groaning, teeth grit, cock pulsing helplessly while he clenched around me and moaned like he was soaking it in on purpose.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. He’d said the line—he said it, all smug and breathless, that bratty little whisper, and it broke me.

I pulled out just enough to thrust back in—slow at first, still shaking, still overloaded—but the second I felt him flutter around me again, all hot and soaked and full, I snapped. My hands found his hips, mouth dropping to his shoulder, and I started fucking him for real, finding a rhythm that was hard and deep.

Like I had something to prove and he knew it. Like this was a test I was already failing and couldn’t stop taking. My hips slammed into him, and he took every thrust like it was a gift—tilted his head back, lips parted, eyelids fluttering. His legs wrapped around me again, slick sticking to my abs and thighs and balls, coating everything.

“God—fuck—Ainsley,” I gasped, rutting harder, driving into him like I could still earn something if I just went deep enough. “You—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”

He let out a high little laugh. Laughed. Evil omega bastard. On a breath, he muttered, all soft and mocking, “I didn’t ask you to do this.” And he squeezed around me, clamping his walls down like a vice.

I growled fully, the sound rattling chest-deep. Couldn’t help it. There was another orgasm building in me just from the way he gripped me, like his body was trying to wring every drop out of me.

“You wanted it,” I bit out, pushing deeper, forcing his knees higher, “you fucking wanted it—”

“I never said that,” he gasped back, but he was breathless, cock dripping against his stomach, toes curling. “You’re—ugh—so desperate—”

I snapped my hips forward, slamming into him deep and grinding there. He cried out, high and choked, hand flying to his mouth like he didn’t mean to make the sound. His eyes were glassy, body trembling again.

So I did it again.

Over and over. Deep. Brutal. Worshipful. Slick everywhere. The room smelled like us—raw heat and sweat and bond. I didn’t care about grades. I didn’t care about vows. I just needed to fuck him until he couldn’t smirk anymore.

“Say it,” I groaned, biting at his neck. “Say you wanted it.”

“No,” he whispered.

But his legs were shaking, mouth open, his hole taking everything.

I kissed him. Sloppy, deep, claiming his mouth while I rutted into him, grinding through another orgasm, losing track of time, of sound, of everything but the way he cried out for me the second time he came—his body seizing up around my cock, clenching so tight I nearly blacked out.

He didn’t say a word after.

Just smirked like a man who knew he’d won, and I just laid there, still inside him, still panting, body wrecked and brain melting, knowing he was gonna hold this over me for the rest of my life, knowing I’d do it all over again. On my own. Every time. And then I woke up. Rock hard, soaked in sweat, and absolutely fucked in the head.

[nerdvsquarterback]

The meme you have linked for the chapter 24 sneak peek is hilarious😭 the sheets are gonna be all the way up and hes gonna be holding onto them for dear life😭😂 One of my fav parts of the fic are the hilarious text mags! Can we get a mini fic on any couple texting👀

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA you absolutely fuckin can i had way too much fun with this

8:14 AM - Calculus Max: yo help me out rq 👀👀👀👀 Ainsley: It is too early for you. Max: rude asf Max: im like learning stuff fr Ainsley: It better be related to Calculus or I’m ignoring you for the rest of the day. Max: it is i swear Max: also im seeing u at 7 remember 😈 Ainsley: What is it. Max: just listen okay Max: so if limits are all about “approaching” smth Max: what if i approached u 😏 Ainsley: … I literally just warned you. Also, that is not how limits work. Max: seems like u just don’t wanna be mathmtcly correct babe 😌 Max: ???? Max: whered u go 👀 9:32 AM - Calculus  Max: yo new problem Max: so my prof said if the derv of position is velocity, then the derv of velocity is acceleration. Ainsley: Derivative*. But yes. Max: so if i take the derv of acceleration does that mean i get speed² 😏 Ainsley: No. The DERIVATIVE**, and you get “jerk,” which measures the rate of change of acceleration. Max: … Max: HAHA WHAT 💀💀💀 Max: JERK?????? Ainsley: Yes, jerk. It is a real term in physics. Max: LMAOOOOOO Max: IM GONNA TELL THE BOYS I CALCULATED MY JERK FUNCTION 💀 Ainsley: Ugh. 11:05 AM - Statistics Max: if theres a 10% chance of smth happening Max: n i try it 10 times, it HAS to happen once Max: right???? Ainsley: No. Probability does not work like that. Each attempt is independent. Max: k but if i asked u out 100 times whats the odds u say yes 😏 Ainsley: Zero, because I would remove myself from the data set. Max: 😒 Max: playing hard to get i c 2:03 PM - Ethics Max: ok so my xthics prof just hit us with the trolley problem right Max: what if the 5 people on the tracks deserve it??????? 🤔 Max: like what if they committed tax fraud Ainsley: That is not how moral philosophy works. Also, stop misspelling Ethics. Your Professor is going to fail you out of spite. Max: 1st off all my xthics prof loves me Max: 2nd ok but what if it was how it worked Ainsley: It is not. Max: ok Max: new plan Max: <voice msg = “what if i jump onto the tracks but push one guy in front of the trolley so it slows down and everyone else is safe????”> Max: hey Max: ains????? Max: ?????????????? 3:47 PM - Ethics Max: <voice msg = “no but for real i can’t stop thinking about it now. WHO BUILT THE TROLLEY TRACKS SO POORLY????????????????”> Ainsley: The tracks are not the point. Max: o hey 😌 Max: nah but like fr fr we gotta talk abt this citys infrastruct Ainsley: Maxwell. Max: like Y is there a lever that lets u just change life or death sitches Max: who tf put that there Max: WHO APPROVED THAT Max: ? Max: ains?????????? Max: STOP LEAVING ME 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 5:15 PM - Biology Max: OK SO jst learned tht humans have trills of cells Max: what if they all decided to leave 😳 Ainsley: … Assuming you mean ‘trillions’, that is not biologically possible. I would say it’s almost the worst thought you’ve ever had, except you’re still thinking. And texting me. Max: 💕 yw baby Max: but fr what if Ainsley: Then you would cease to exist. Max: … Max: i jst got so scared rn. Ainsley: I cannot emphasize enough how much I do not care. Max: 🥺 Max: ok but what if i just held onto them really hard Max: like, my cells Max: rly hard Max: ??????????????????? Max: my cells Max: like i think if i just clenched all my muscles at once myb i could keep them in place????? Max: HEY Max: 😤😒

6:32 PM - Pre-Tutoring Max: hey y do we even have an appdix??????? my txtbook’s sying theyre like… just vibes Ainsley: I hate that I understand what you mean. Max: 😏 so im right? Max: so happy ur bk btw 🥰 Ainsley: Absolutely not. The APPENDIX* is a vestigial organ. It used to help digest plant matter but is now mostly useless. Like you. Stop. Texting. Me. Max: 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔 Max: so ur saying i cud remove mine + be MORE evold??????? Ainsley: No. That is not what I said. Nor is it how evolution works. Ainsley: You are regressing rapidly. And I am so tired. Of you. Max: ok but what ELSE can i remove & still be fine 👀 Max: what if i just got rid of my pinky toes????????????????? Ainsley: I cannot emphasize enough how much I do not care what you do with your pinky toes. Or what do you do with anything, for that matter. Leave me alone. Max: ok but hypothicly if i did would i run faster Max: like if i got rid of my pinky toes??? Ainsley: HYPOTHETICALLY, go fuck yourself. Max: BET but maybe u could help 🫦😏? Max: make sure im doing it rite Max: walkin in the library now wya nerd 👀 (Ainsley has already blocked Max, but now he’s getting tormented live and in-person, HAHAHA.)

3:14am BONUS: Max: baby Max: babyyyyyyyy Max: u up 👀 Ainsley: It is 3 in the morning. I am asleep. Max: i cant sleep Max: like Max: do u think pigeons have feelings Ainsley: .... Ainsley: I beg your fucking pardon. Max: like… do they feel love 😭??????? Ainsley: I hate you. Max: like if i was a pigeon & u were a pigeon would we still be in love 🥺 Ainsley: We have literally never been in love. Stop texting me and go to sleep. Max: 😭 NO bc now im stressed about the pigeon divorce rate Max: do pigeons even get divorced Max: ? Max: are u there nerd 🙄 Max: ?????? ains???? 😤 Max: ok im googling it  Max: omfg Max: omfg BABY Max: did u KNOW some birds MATE FOR LIFE??????????? Max: would u still hate me if we were swans 😌 Max: do u hate me fr