here is a carrd for the crisis happening right now in Yemen
here is a carrd for Hong Kong
here is a carrd for Palestine.
here is a carrd for trans rights
here is a carrd for the terror bill in Philippines.
here is a carrd with various donation links (for Syria, BLM etc)
here is a carrd for LGBT+ rights
this post is constantly being updated - please send an ask if you find more!
NOTE: There are many more Carrds under the cut. This post would become too long if I added more and for the sake of easier access, I put the rest under cut!!
The cruelty of Marielle being tormented throughout the season by the voices of everyone who died there, only for her to die at the end knowing that, even after death, she will still be trapped there...
you have to consciously unlearn racism and continue to watch for it because it will come out without realizing. because so much of society is structured around it. shrugging and going "i dont care" or "i dont know how else to say it" means you are okay with being racist and hurting other people with how much you dont give a shit about them.
simply the fact that different body types for women go in and out of style throughout the decades should be enough to tell you that women’s bodies are considered consumable goods under capitalism
It is not x reader if you describe the readers fucking key features.
“As he gazed into your blue eyes…” I have brown eyes.
“You’re pale porcelain skin.” I’m black
“Your hair was a mess but you were late so you put it in a messy bun and ran out the house.” I have short ass dread locs.
Genuinely I’m getting sick of this shit. It’s sad that POC creators have to make their own fanfics and specify it’s only for POC because anything else uses specific attributes that usually only a white person could have. It’s such a fucking turn off to read a good fucking story and then for some reason the author has to fuck it up by adding “your silky hair.” Like wtf is happening? If you have a person in mind then you can make it a character x oc that’s okay! But it is NOT x reader when you’re literally turning us into something that’s not even us. Like do some of yall not realize white peoples are not the only ones reading this shit? Ik many ppl have addressed this but some ppl rlly aren’t changing and it’s just so odd to me. If u want to specify how the “reader” looks. Do everyone a favor and just say it’s an OC there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not fair to people. And it’s not even just about POC. Just in general. Like imagine a brunette reading that shit and it says “your beautiful blonde hair” like???? It’s not fair, it’s just weird. It’s not x reader, it’s x oc and seriously that’s okay!
AN: absolutely had to go back to my roots with this one, especially after the old guard 2 coming out.
Summary: One refused to break, the other never stopped pushing. Somewhere between ruin and want, Andy let herself feel again.
Warnings: smut but it's not something wow :)
I wake up choking on blood that’s no longer mine.
The world around me stinks of smoke, scorched metal, and burning rubber. My shirt’s torn where the bullets ripped through me. I remember the sound, like fireworks going off inside my chest. I remember collapsing.
And now I’m standing up.
Breathing.
Alive.
My hands shake as I press them to where the wounds should be, but all I feel is smooth skin. No blood. No holes. No pain. Just… me. Whole again. Somehow.
I don’t get to think about it for long.
Footsteps echo off the concrete, heavy and fast. Someone’s coming. I grab the closest thing I can: a broken metal pipe. My fingers barely wrap around it, but it’s better than nothing. I push myself back against the alley wall, crouched, ready, heart racing like it’s trying to outrun death a second time.
Three shadows break through the smoke.
The first is tall and sharp-eyed, moving like every step is measured. The second broader, with something sad in the way he holds himself. And the third—
Her.
She walks like she owns every inch of ground beneath her boots. Hair dark and wild. Eyes like they’ve seen the world burn a thousand times over.
She stops a few feet in front of me. Looks at the pipe in my hand.
“Cute.” she says flatly. “Put it down.”
“Back the fuck off.”
My voice wavers, but I don’t drop the pipe. I already died tonight. I’m not going down without a fight if it happens again.
The woman doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She studies me like I’m a puzzle she already knows how to solve.
“You’re loud for someone who just came back from the dead.”
I flinch. Just a flicker. But she sees it.
She turns to the others. “She's definitely the one. No question. The dream fits.”
“The one?” I echo, breathless. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see,” says the taller man. “It’s… complicated.”
“You want to explain why I’m not dead instead?” I snap. “Why my chest is fine when it was full of holes ten minutes ago?”
“Because you’re one of us.” the woman says — and finally looks at me, really looks. Her voice softens just enough to unsettle me. “It hurts like hell the first time.”
I don’t know what to say.
I grip the pipe tighter. My knees feel like glass, and I want to scream or cry or run, but none of those feel like real options right now.
She turns her back on me and starts walking away like she’s said all she needs to.
“No real answers?” I yell after her. “You just expect me to follow you like this is some immortal cult recruitment drive?”
She stops. Glances over her shoulder.
“You want to live?” she says. “Then move.”
And I do.
I don’t know why. But I do.
⸻
The car ride is quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch. I sit in the backseat like a ghost, trying not to breathe too loud. The guy driving — Booker, they called him — keeps glancing at me like I might explode. The one in the back beside me, Nicky, offers a small smile I don’t return.
And her?
She sits up front, staring out the window like nothing in this city can surprise her. Like I’m just another errand she has to deal with before she gets back to something important.
She hasn’t looked at me since I got in.
When we finally stop, it’s outside an old house that looks like a fortress that should’ve collapsed a decade ago. Inside, it’s colder, all exposed brick painted black, weapons lining the walls, half-drunk coffee on the table. A war room, if war rooms had a permanent layer of blood and secrets soaked into the floorboards. Next after it is the living room where the other two, Nile and Joe, are waiting.
I stand there awkwardly, still clutching the stupid metal pipe.
Andy — that’s her name, I overheard one of them say — heads to a table and starts cleaning her axe like she hasn’t just kidnapped me from death.
“Nice place” I mutter. “Very murder-chic.”
“Thanks.” she replies without looking up. “We just remodeled.”
“Let me guess. After your last hostage bled out and came back screaming?”
She stands.
I straighten up, immediately regretting it and shutting my mouth.
She crosses the room slowly, controlled, eyes locked on mine. I hate the way my pulse skips and I take a small step backwards. I hate the way she’s still so damn calm.
“You think you’re the first this has happened to?” she says. “You’re not special.”
“I never said I was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I scowl. “Wow. You must be a hit at parties.”
Booker lets out a quiet laugh. I catch Nicky rolling his eyes at Joe who's also laughing. None of them seem shocked by this back-and-forth. Like Andy picking a fight is a normal Tuesday.
I glance at her. “Are you all immortal? Or is it just her with the stick up her ass?”
Andy’s lips twitch. Barely.
She takes another step toward me, and this time I don’t back up. But I feel her presence like pressure. Like standing too close to a fire.
“You want answers?” she says, voice low. “Then shut up and listen.”
“I died three hours ago,” I snap. “I think I’ve earned a little room to freak out.”
“Freaking out is one thing. Acting like you know what’s happening? That’ll get you killed. Again.”
“You mean again again?”
She huffs a breath. It’s almost — almost — a laugh. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You died. You came back. Like I said, you’re one of us now.” she says. “We don’t age. We don’t die. Until one day we might if we're not careful enough. That’s the system.”
“That’s not a system. That’s—”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Exactly."
A beat of silence. I glance at the others, but they don’t step in. They just watch us.
“Maybe we start with her name, Andy.” Joe offers gently.
Andy doesn’t ask.
She just looks at me.
And for some reason, I answer. “Y/n.”
She nods. “Y/n. Great.”
Turns away again. Back to her axe. Like I’m checked off a list.
I stare at her back, hands clenched at my sides. There’s a knot in my chest I can’t name. I don’t know if I want to punch her or… no, definitely punch.
But I follow her anyway when she leads me to my room.
Because as much as I hate it and as much as she pisses me off, I believe her.
I believe whatever this is… it’s just beginning.
⸻
“This is a terrible idea.”
I’m standing in what used to be a garage and now apparently it doubles as a training space. The floor is cracked concrete. The air smells like sweat and gunpowder. And Andy’s tossing me a practice knife like I know what the hell I’m doing.
I catch it. Barely.
“Not the worst one I’ve had.” she says, circling me. “Top ten, maybe.”
I glare. “Oh, great. I get to be one of your mistakes.”
“Only if you’re slow.”
I tighten my grip on the knife. “You realize I’ve never even held one of these before today, right?”
She stops. Looks at me like that’s not her problem.
“You already died once.” she says. “Now you learn.”
“That’s your pep talk?”
She doesn’t answer. She just lunges.
I don’t expect it. One second she’s standing still — the next, she’s a blur of dark hair, hard muscle and cold calculation. I stumble back, instinct barely kicking in as the knife in her hand flashes toward me.
I raise mine too late. She knocks it out of my grip in half a second.
I’m on the ground before I even realize I’ve fallen. My elbow skids across the concrete.
She doesn’t offer a hand. Of course she doesn’t.
I sit there, heart pounding, fury rising.
“You done?” I hiss.
“Not even close.”
She backs off, waiting. Not taunting. Just watching. Like a wolf watching a cub try to bite.
I pick up the knife again.
This time, I swing first.
She blocks me. Effortlessly. Again and again. I keep trying, but it’s like punching a tornado — nothing lands, and the wind just keeps throwing everything right back at you.
After a few minutes, I’m breathless and sweating. My arms ache. She hasn’t even broken a sweat.
“You keep leading with your right.” she says, voice flat. “Stop telegraphing your moves.”
“Oh, thanks, coach.”
“You want to stay alive, don’t you?”
“I thought the whole point was that I can't die.”
She stops, eyes hard.
“That’s not how this works.” she says quietly. “You just don’t know if or when and we haven't figured out why or if there's a way to prevent it, yet."
That sobers me.
She steps forward again, knife lowered now. Less teacher, more threat.
“You think immortality makes you invincible?” she murmurs. “It doesn’t. It just makes the pain last longer.”
Something twists in me at that, but not exactly fear. Something deeper. Something that sits between my ribs and presses against my spine.
I stare at her.
“You enjoy this?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“Tearing me down. Proving you’re stronger. Is that what gives you this drive?”
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes then, brief, almost human. And it's gone just as quick as it appears.
“I don’t enjoy anything,” she says.
That… sounds like the truest thing I’ve heard all day.
I exhale slowly, then lunge again.
This time I don’t go down as fast. This time I make her step back. Only half a step. But she notices.
When we break apart again, breathing heavy, she nods once.
“Better.”
I don’t know why, but the word settles somewhere warm in me.
I still hate her.
I still want to wipe that unreadable look off her face.
But maybe I don’t want to leave.
Not yet.
⸻
By the time she calls a break, my lungs are burning and every part of me feels bruised, even the parts I didn’t know had muscles. I drop to the ground with a groan and let the knife clatter next to me.
Andy doesn’t sit.
Of course she doesn’t.
She just paces the edge of the concrete space like she’s still judging every move I didn’t make fast enough.
“I’m gonna kill you in your sleep.” I mutter, half into my shoulder.
Her mouth twitches.
“If you can get close enough.”
“Okay, General Buzzkill. We get it. You’re the baddest immortal in the room.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
But I glance up and she’s watching me again. Not like a threat or like prey. Just watching. Quiet. Still. That same weight behind her eyes I’ve been trying to ignore since I first saw her.
I sit up slowly. “Why do you hate me so much?”
She doesn’t blink.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She shrugs. “You’re untrained. You’re impulsive. You don’t listen.”
“I died yesterday.”
“And you’ll die again if you don’t toughen up.”
“Is that what this is?” I stand, pushing the ache out of my legs. “Tough love?”
Her eyes narrow. “This is survival.”
I throw the knife onto the floor.
“God, you’re exhausting.”
“And you’re alive.” she snaps, stepping toward me. “Because we found you in time. Because we pulled you out before someone put two more bullets in your skull and buried you under a freeway.”
I freeze.
Her voice lowers.
“You think I like this? Any of it? I’ve seen what happens when new ones go rogue. I’ve seen them hunted. Tortured. Used. We don’t have the luxury of being gentle.”
Something inside me cracks at that. Not because she said it loud, but because she didn’t. Because for a second, she sounds tired. Not angry. Not hard. Just tired in a way that makes my chest ache.
I speak before I can think.
“Who did you lose?”
Her eyes flash. That wall slams right back down.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You looked at me like I was someone else the moment you saw me,” I press. “So don’t act like I’m just a soldier to train.”
She turns away. Not because she’s giving up. More like she’s trying not to say something she’ll regret.
Silence thickens between us.
I could leave it there. I should.
But I step toward her instead.
“You know,” I say, softer, “for someone who’s supposed to be a leader… you’re really bad at talking to people.”
She turns her head just enough to look at me. Something flickers in her expression. Not anger. Not even annoyance.
Something older.
“I stopped trying to talk to people when they stopped living long enough to hear me.”
And just like that, I understand more about her than I want to.
I look at her. Really look. Past the sharp lines and the cold stare and the steel in her voice.
And I see it. Not weakness, not warmth, but grief that’s dried into armor.
I step back.
“I’m still here,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. But her eyes don’t leave mine.
And for once, we stand in silence that doesn’t feel like war.
⸻
Later, in the middle of the night.
I wake up choking on air that won’t fill my lungs.
My heart’s pounding so loud I think it might crack my ribs open from the inside. The blanket’s twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My hands are shaking.
I think I fell asleep on the couch without realising.
I died.
And I can still feel it — the fire, the heat, the way my body crumpled like it didn’t belong to me anymore. The sound of the gunshots in that alley plays on a loop in my skull. And that cold split-second between breath and nothing.
I sit up fast, elbow slamming into the edge of the couch. The house around me is dark, quiet. Everyone’s out cold. Nicky’s snoring can be heard from his and Joe's room but aside from that it's quiet.
But she’s awake.
Of course she is.
Andy stands near the window, half in a shadow, sipping something from a chipped mug. She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t need to. I know she heard me.
“Can't sleep?” she asks without looking back.
I swallow hard, throat dry.
“I did,” I manage. “Just didn’t stick.”
A beat passes. She nods slightly. Like she understands too well.
I drag my legs over the side of the couch and sit in the dark, breathing slowly. The living room smells like old leather and gun oil and whatever tea she’s drinking. Something bitter.
“You always stay up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when you wake up feeling like your lungs are full of bullets.”
Finally, she glances over her shoulder. Her eyes catch the moonlight and it's probably the most deadly sighting a person can catch. Quiet. Measured. See-through-you blue.
But I see the way they linger a second longer than they need to.
“You’ll get used to it.” she says.
I laugh, hollow. “What? Dying?”
“Coming back.”
I press my palms onto my eyes. “I watched my mom die last year.” I whisper, surprising even myself. “Cancer. Took everything from her piece by piece. She held my hand. She told me she wasn’t afraid.”
Andy doesn’t move.
“But I was. I was terrified. Because it wasn't the first time I lost a parent to a stupidly unfair illness."
Silence.
I hear the creak of floorboards before I feel her presence. She walks over slowly, mug still in hand, and sits across from me on the arm of a chair. Close, but not too close.
“I thought dying would be the worst part,” I say quietly. “Turns out it’s what comes after.”
She nods once. “It usually is.”
I look at her. Really look. She’s still in the same clothes from earlier. Still armed. Still unreadable.
But her posture is different now. Looser. Still guarded, but not fortified.
“You remember yours?” I ask.
Her jaw flexes. She looks down into her tea like it might tell her what to say.
“Too many.” she answers finally.
I want to ask more. I want to pry. But something about the way she says it makes me stop.
“I don’t know how to be this” I whisper. “…thing.”
“You don’t have to know. Not really. Not now.” she says. “You just have to survive long enough to figure it out.”
I smile faintly. “That’s your version of comfort?”
“Take it or leave it.”
Her tone’s dry, but her eyes are on mine again, and this time there’s something warmer there, not soft or vulnerable. Just real.
I look down. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You sat with me.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
Eventually, she stands and walks towards the hallway, to her room, back into the shadows. But before she disappears entirely, she says—
“Nightmares don’t go away. But they do get quieter. And when they don’t… we make noise that's louder them.”
I don’t say anything.
I just lie back down, and for the first time since this whole thing started I don’t feel alone.
⸻
Somewhere in the next few days she wants to train me again. I don't complain. I just try harder than last time.
She moves like a storm — fast, cold, and unstoppable. I throw a punch, but she’s already sidestepping, countering with a quick jab that I barely block. My arms scream, but I don’t back down. Not yet.
“Faster.” she snaps, eyes blazing. “More focus.”
I grit my teeth and charge again, blade flashing in my hand. She catches my wrist, twisting with just enough force to make me stagger, but I catch my balance and shove her away.
She stumbles but recovers instantly, a ghost of a smirk ghosting across her face. “Not bad.”
I wipe sweat from my brow, chest burning, heart hammering.
“You’re tough.” I say, voice rough.
“Only because I had to be.”
We circle each other, neither giving an inch. The air is thick with unspoken things — the mistrust, the challenge, the strange pull I don’t want to name.
She feints left, strikes right, and I’m forced to dive, scraping my knee against the cold concrete. But I hear her breath catch.
“You’re learning,” she says.
“Maybe I’m teaching you something, too.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We clash again, faster this time, the rhythm settling into something fierce and dangerous — like a dance only we know the steps to.
And when she pins me briefly against the wall, our faces inches apart, I see it for just a flicker. A softness buried deep behind the storm.
She pulls back, breathless.
“That seems like enough for now.”
I laugh, bitter and breathless, but underneath it all, I’m smiling.
Because maybe… just maybe, we’re not so different after all.
⸻
At some point next week, I need a break.
It’s supposed to be nothing.
Just a walk. A few blocks away from the house. My chest’s been tight all day, like I can’t get enough air with Andy watching me like a hawk, judging every breath I take. So I slip out without telling anyone. Fifteen minutes, max.
I don’t notice the man following me until it’s too late.
One second I’m heading back, turning into a shortcut alley, which I know it's pretty stupid in itself, and next thing I know he’s there. Fast. Big. Blade glinting in the low light. He doesn’t know what I am. Thinks I’m just another target.
He gets one swing in.
It slashes across my ribs before I react — hot, white pain flashing through my side. I cry out, stumbling back, heart slamming into my throat. I raise my knife. I can't believe I'm saying this but thank fuck for Andy drilling into me to always have one with me. I’m ready. I am.
But then he’s not on me.
He’s on the ground.
Because she’s there.
Andy moves like hell unleashed. No warning. Just the sound of her boots pounding the pavement and her blade flashing once, twice — precise, clean and lethal. The man doesn’t have time to scream. He just drops.
Dead.
I press my hand to my side, still breathing hard, blood wet between my fingers.
She turns to me slowly. Her eyes are wild. Not angry, but furious. Not just at him. At me.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” she snaps, storming toward me. “Do you think you can just walk off into the dark like this and trust that nothing's going to happen?”
“I just needed air.” I hiss, flinching as the wound starts to pull back together. “It wasn't supposed to... he came out of nowhere!”
“I already told you multiple times that you're not untouchable!”
“I know that, Andy—”
“Do you?” she growls, voice low now, but dangerous. “Because that looked a hell of a lot like someone who forgot how fast this world chews people up.”
I look at her.
I mean really look at her.
Her fists are still clenched. Her jaw’s tight. Her chest is rising and falling like she just ran through fire.
And her eyes are on me like I almost died.
Because maybe I did.
And maybe she couldn’t stand the thought of it.
She steps closer, lowers her voice, but it doesn’t get gentler. Just heavier.
“You don’t get to die on me, Y/n."
My throat goes dry.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is my breath and the blood I can still feel drying under my shirt. She’s close enough to touch now. Close enough I can see the pulse ticking hard in her neck.
I try to say something.
But I don’t. Because this quiet, furious protectiveness is new. And it’s charged. I think I like this side of her.
So I just say, “Sorry.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and something in her hard expression flickers, just for a heartbeat.
Then she exhales through her nose. Still intense. Still unreadable.
“You’re lucky I got here fast.”
“Yeah" I murmur. “I am.”
And neither of us moves away.
⸻
I’m still sore when we get back, but not from the stab wound, not really. That healed hours ago. It’s everything around it that aches.
The adrenaline. Andy’s voice echoing in my skull. “You don’t get to die on me.”
I can’t stop thinking about it.
But thankfully, the others give me zero time to stew in it.
The moment I step into the house, Nile’s on me.
“Okay, what in hell happened? We need the tea.” she says, practically bounding over. “You disappear for thirty minutes and come back with murder face and blood on your shirt.”
“It's not really my blood.” I mutter.
“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Booker chimes in, raising an eyebrow. “Because it’s not.”
“Technically,” I say, tossing my jacket on the back of a chair, “it was mine. Just not for long. And then someone added his to the mix.”
Joe peers over the top of his book. “Ah. So we’re back on the ‘immortal but still self-destructive’ routine.”
“Classic move." Nile grins. “Which Andy must’ve loved.”
Speak of the devil.
Andy steps inside behind me, dead silent, still brimming with leftover fury she’s pretending doesn’t exist.
Nicky, barely glancing up from cleaning his rifle, says casually, “Did she stab you, or just threaten to?”
“Threaten." I say, dropping heavily on the arm of the couch. “With her eyes.”
“Ah, yes,” Nicky nods solemnly. “The infamous Andromache the Scythian death glare. More effective than most weapons.”
Andy glares at him in perfect silence.
Booker leans back in his chair. “Did she tell you the thing about not dying on her?”
My head snaps toward him.
He grins. “Yeah. She pulls that one out when she’s really invested.”
Andy finally speaks. “I can still kill all of you.”
“And that’s not denial." Nile says, biting back a laugh.
“She only says that when she’s cornered emotionally.” Joe stage-whispers.
I turn to her with a smirk. “So it is personal after all."
Her eyes lock on mine. Calm. Measured. And dark.
“You’re enjoying this." she says.
“I mean… yea." I say. “Certainly feels nice not being the rookie punching bag for once.”
Nicky raises his mug in a mock toast. “To Y/n. Who lived. Barely.”
“Cheers.” Nile echoes.
Booker nods gravely. “And got yelled at like one of the chosen few.”
I can feel Andy’s patience thinning like a wire pulled too tight.
So I lean back, stretch my legs out, and grin at her with just enough smugness to push.
“Something you’d like to add, boss?”
Her gaze flicks to me. Cold. Unreadable. Calculating.
But then there's a shift.
Subtle. Slow.
“I’m just waiting for the moment you slip up again.” she says, walking up to me.
I stand back up, defiant. “Oh yeah?”
She stops just in front of me. Close enough to be a challenge. Close enough that I can smell that strange mix of steel, earth, and blood she always carries.
“I’m going to enjoy making you pay for this.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
The corner of her mouth lifts. Sharp. Dangerous. But not unfriendly.
“We’ll find out.”
And just like that, the air between us pulls tight again. The others don’t even try to hide their looks.
“Oh boy,” Nile mutters. “We’re gonna need popcorn for this.”
⸻
Later at night, the next day.
Everyone else has drifted off — Nile passed out on the couch with a half-eaten protein bar, Nicky and Joe curled up together like something out of a Renaissance painting, Booker sprawled in a chair, a book dropped from his hand.
I’m in the kitchen, alone, half-focused on peeling a stubborn orange, when I feel her behind me.
Andy.
I don’t turn around. But I feel her before she even speaks. That still, deliberate presence that sets every nerve of my back on edge.
“You enjoyed yourself today.” she says quietly, voice like velvet dragged across steel.
I stop what I'm doing and smirk without looking at her. “Little bit, yeah.”
A beat.
Then a hand slips past me, slow and deliberate, reaching for a glass from the shelf above me. Her arm brushes mine. Her front is almost pressed to my back. Warm. Solid. Unapologetically close.
“That was quite a show you put on." she murmurs near my ear.
I swallow. “I didn't know it was gonna go like that. They they'll team up against you."
“Oh, I think you had a vague idea that it could happen.” She steps to the side, just enough that I can finally see her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is calm. Composed. But her eyes burn with something cooler than fire. “They’re predictable. You… not so much.”
“You sound almost impressed.”
“I’m not.” Her voice lowers. “I’m interested. There’s a difference.”
She circles me and steps in front of me now, somehow making me turn unconsciously, close enough that my back presses against the edge of the counter. She rests the glass down beside my half-peeled orange. Then her hand settles casually, on my wrist.
I freeze.
It’s not a threat. Not a grip. Just contact. Intentional.
“You liked turning it on me.” she says, gaze locked on mine. “Getting the others to laugh."
“And you didn’t?” I ask, voice quiet now, breath thinner than I’d like.
Her thumb brushes once along the inside of my wrist. Just once.
“I don’t like being cornered.”
Her other hand comes to rest beside my hip, fingertips ghosting the counter, caging me in without force.
“But I do like evening the odds.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Is this your idea of payback?”
She doesn’t answer.
She just lifts her hand from the counter — and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Slow. Careful. Her fingers trail just slightly against my jaw, then linger at the hinge for a beat too long.
“You’re not immune to me." she says.
I stare at her. Heart pounding. Voice gone.
“You can talk back. You can challenge me. You can even pretend you’re in control.” Her fingers drift down my neck, a featherligh touch before she finally pulls back. “But we both know what happens when I get close.”
She steps away. Calm. Cool. Untouched.
I’m still pressed to the counter, pulse in my throat, skin burning.
She looks over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
“Next time,” she says, “be ready for more than teasing.”
And then she’s gone.
Just like that.
⸻
The next day, I pretend nothing happened.
So does she.
The others go about their routines — cleaning weapons, stretching, bickering over supplies. But Andy’s nowhere in sight. Not for hours.
And then, sometime after sunset, she finds me.
I’m in the back room, sharpening a blade. Alone. Half-focused.
She says nothing as she steps in and closes the door behind her.
The sound clicks like a promise.
“I was thinking,” she says, tone too neutral to trust, “we haven’t trained since you got cocky.”
I don’t look up. “You want to humble me again?”
She shrugs off her coat. “I want to see what you learned.”
I stand.
She’s already preparing, running her hands through her hair to slide it back a little. No warmup. No soft edges. Just her — razor-sharp and waiting.
We circle. No weapons this time.
Just fists. Bodies. Will.
She moves first, fast, testing. I block. Barely.
She smirks. “Good.”
I go on the offensive. She dodges. Fluid, easy.
I strike again. She catches my wrist and twists. I pivot, free myself, and press in too close.
She lets me.
For one second too long.
And then she hooks my leg and I’m on my back, breath punched from my lungs. She doesn’t even break a sweat.
She leans over me, one knee between mine, pinning me to the mat.
“That all you’ve got?” she murmurs, voice low and even.
My hands come up to push her off, but she grabs them, presses them above my head, hard enough to hold, not hurt.
Her grip is warm.
Her face is inches from mine.
“I thought you were here to train.” I breathe.
Her eyes flick down to my lips.
“I am.”
Her free hand skims along my jaw, down my throat, until her fingers settle on my sternum, light and firm. Holding me in place like a pinned animal.
“Your heartbeat’s erratic.” she says quietly.
“Yours isn’t.”
“Exactly.”
I shift under her, trying to find air that doesn’t taste like her.
“You play dirty.”
She leans down just a little more.
“You haven’t seen dirty yet.”
And just like that she pushes off me, back to her feet, like nothing happened.
I lie there a second longer, breath short, skin flushed.
“Again?” I ask, voice rough.
Andy turns, gaze unreadable, mouth curved just slightly.
“Oh,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “We’re just getting started.”
⸻
I don’t remember falling asleep. The exhaustion drags me under before I can fight it. I left the door cracked open just a sliver, enough for light to slip in and, maybe, someone else too.
She said she'd be close if I needed her. I wanted to test it.
I never thought she’d come.
But here she is.
The room is quiet, gray with the first light of dawn filtering through the curtains. Then a presence, steady and sure.
I stir, half-conscious, senses sharpening. Not in the chair across the room where I expected her to settle. It’s beside me.
Next to me.
My heart races. Not from fear, but something rawer. Anticipation. Something electric.
I open my eyes slowly and see her: Andy. Fully clothed, lying half on her back, half on her side, watching me with those impossible eyes.
“Hey." I whisper, voice tight.
Her voice is low, smooth like gravel. “You left the door open.”
I swallow, heat rising to my cheeks. “Didn’t think you’d come in.”
She smirks faintly. “You didn’t lock it.”
“I thought you’d take the chair.”
“I thought about it.”
She shifts closer, the mattress creaking softly beneath her. Heat hums between us.
“But you didn’t,” I say, breath uneven.
Her gaze sharpens, unflinching. “You wanted me close. Despite what you keep saying, you like it when I'm here to look after you."
I say nothing. Words fail under the weight of that truth.
Her hand moves slowly, deliberately, until her fingers ghost over mine. Just a whisper of contact, but it lights a fire through my skin.
“I promised to even the field.” she murmurs, voice thick with meaning.
“By sleeping next to me?”
A slow, amused curve touches her lips. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you didn’t sleep.”
“I don’t.” she replies, steel threading through her tone. “But I stay where I’m needed.”
Her eyes search mine, unreadable and intense.
Then, her hand slides fully over mine, curling her fingers around my wrist with quiet certainty.
My breath catches.
“You’re playing with fire.” she says softly.
I meet her gaze, steady despite the heat pooling low in my belly. “So are you.”
The space between us shrinks. Her breath fans my cheek. Warm, steady and impossible to ignore.
I’m rooted in place.
Then, with slow, deliberate grace, her other hand traces down my arm, fingertips curling lightly at my wrist, anchoring me.
Her voice drops to a whisper, so close it trembles against my skin.
“You won’t be the one who breaks me.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding wild.
She leans in, the scent of earth and iron close around her, and presses a kiss to my temple.
Not soft. Not tentative.
Claiming.
Dominant.
I’m caught, breathless and undone.
She pulls back just enough to gauge my reaction, eyes dark, unyielding.
“You think you’re in control?” she murmurs, a trace of challenge in her tone.
I shake my head, breath shallow. “No.”
A slow, satisfied smile curves her lips.
“Good.”
Her grip tightens once before she releases my hand and slides just out of reach.
But the charge lingers, thick and undeniable.
She’s made her move.
And the game has only just begun.
⸻
We stop for supplies on the way back to the house in some half-forgotten, rusted-out town with one gas station, a diner, and a convenience store that hasn’t seen a health inspector in a decade.
The others fan out, taking shifts watching the cars and stretching their legs. I duck into the store to grab something to snack on. Just moving, keeping my hands busy.
He corners me before I even realize he’s there.
What is it with guys lately? I swear...
Some guy. Local. Tall, sunburned, smells like smoke and sweat. Starts off “friendly,” slurred charm and a too-wide smile.
I try brushing him off politely.
It doesn’t work.
His hand lands on my arm. Too familiar. His body too close.
“You’re not from around here.” he says, voice low, like he’s offering something. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not,” I say, pulling my arm back. “So maybe keep your hand to yourself.”
He laughs, like I’m teasing him. “C’mon, I’m just being nice. No need to get all—”
His fingers slide down to my wrist, and before I can react, he's in trouble.
Andy doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t shove. Doesn’t even look angry at first.
She just appears.
One second, I’m cornered.
The next, her hand is wrapped around his wrist, tight and unyielding.
Her body slots between mine and his like a wall of steel, all stillness and precision. Her voice is soft. Controlled.
“I think you misunderstood.”
He blinks. Laughs nervously. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything—”
Her grip tightens. Something pops in his wrist. He chokes back a sound.
“Oh, I know what you meant. I watched you touch her,” Andy says, eyes fixed on his face. “She pulled away. You didn’t stop.”
His bravado starts to collapse under her stare. “I—it was a joke. I didn’t know she was—”
She leans in closer, voice lower now. “Now you know. She’s with me.”
He flinches. Her tone leaves no room for argument.
No mistake.
Andy lets go just a second too late for him to think it’s mercy. He stumbles back clutching his wrist and flees like he finally realized he’d stepped on a landmine.
She turns to me then.
Her eyes search my face — not frantic, not asking — but checking. Searching. Seeing. Reading.
I’m fine. A little breathless. A little stunned.
But then her hand finds my waist.
The touch is subtle. Firm.
Grounding.
“Let’s go.” she says simply, like the moment didn’t just burn the oxygen out of the room.
We walk out together, her hand not leaving me. Not once.
As we pass Booker, he raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”
Andy doesn’t look back. “Handled.”
⸻
Back at the house, the team filters in one by one, conversation light, movements easy — like nothing happened.
Like the man back at the store didn’t grab me.
Like Andy didn’t nearly snap his wrist in three places.
But my skin still burns.
Not from fear.
From her.
Andy disappears for a while, as she always does after she’s too close to something that matters. I half-expect her to stay gone for the night. To avoid the look I’ve been holding for her since the ride back.
But she doesn’t.
I hear her boots down the hall, steady, unhurried. And then she’s in my doorway, same calm expression. Same unreadable eyes.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers.
“You don’t need to stand there like you’re waiting for permission.” I say quietly, not looking up.
A beat.
Then I hear the door click shut.
She steps inside.
Slow. Careful. Predatory in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“You didn’t say thank you.” she says.
I scoff, finally looking up at her. “Is that what this is about?”
She takes another step closer. “You were cornered. I handled it.”
“Yeah. You handled it.”
I rise to my feet, meeting her in the middle of the room.
“You could’ve just pulled me out.” I say. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” she agrees, voice even. “I didn’t.”
There’s a pause, thick and electric.
“Why?” I ask.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Because he put his hands on you. Because he didn’t stop. And because I didn't like that. I don't like sharing." She says the last part lower, almost muttering.
The air leaves my lungs in one hard exhale.
“You’re not subtle, you know that?” I say, heart hammering.
“Neither are you,” she answers, stepping even closer.
Now we’re inches apart. Close enough to feel the heat between us.
“You could’ve just told me.” I say.
“I don’t talk when I can act,” she says. “And I wanted him to remember what happens when someone touches what’s mine.”
My breath stutters. Mine.
She lifts her hand — slow, deliberate — and runs her fingers lightly along my jaw, down my throat. Barely a touch. But it holds weight. Possession. Warning.
I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Did it scare you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.”
Her hand rests on my waist now, firm and warm.
“Because next time,” she says, voice like fire under control, “I won’t stop with just his wrist.”
And I believe her.
I lean into her touch though not fully, not completely, just enough to show her I’m here. That I didn’t run.
“You didn’t have to scare him like that.” I whisper.
Her thumb brushes just beneath the hem of my shirt, not moving higher. Just anchoring.
“I didn’t do it for him.” she says.
⸻
It starts with a joke.
We’re stuck at home, if I can even call it that, while Nile and Booker run recon. Rain lashes at the windows. Thunder rumbles low across the sky. I’m curled on the couch flipping through some old paperback, trying not to fall asleep.
Andy walks in, freshly showered, barefoot, wearing that damn black tank top and sweatpants slung so low it’s unfair. She crosses the room like she owns the air.
She always does.
And sometimes I wonder if she really might own it.
She looks at me. Smirks. “You always sit like that when you’re trying not to think about me?”
I blink. Where the hell did that come from? “Excuse me?”
She gestures lazily. “All tucked up. Pretending to read. You’re terrible at pretending.”
“I’m actually trying not to think about throwing you out the window.”
“Mm.” She sits on the arm of the couch. “That’s not what your breathing says.”
I snap the book shut. “You’re so full of yourself.”
I really fucking hate it when she can see right through me like this.
She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “I’m not wrong, though.”
There’s a dangerous pause, the kind she loves. The kind she loves to build. Then she slips down from the armrest and sits beside me, far too close, like this is hers now too.
“You flinch when I touch you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “but not like you’re scared. Like you’re trying not to feel it.”
My pulse jumps.
I laugh once, sharp. “You’re imagining things.”
Andy’s voice is calm. Patient. Wicked.
“No. I’m not.”
Her hand brushes my shoulder — casual, like it means nothing, but we both know that’s a lie.
“You breathe differently. You blink slower. You shift your weight away.”
“I don’t—”
“Even now.” she murmurs, fingers gliding along my arm, featherlight. “There it is.”
I try to move, but she catches my wrist.
Not hard. Not painful. Just final.
She takes a second to study me.
Her gaze pins me in place. “Let’s play something.”
I raise a brow. “Play?”
“You don’t move. No flinching. No pulling back. No deep breaths. No clever remarks.”
“And what happens if I win?”
She leans in, nose almost brushing mine. Her voice is low and terrible and beautiful.
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
Andy smiles like the devil. “Then you get to do the same to me. To test me.”
A beat of silence. The world narrows to the space between us.
“…Fine.” I say, and I hate how breathless it comes out.
She doesn’t waste time.
Andy shifts onto the couch, one leg folding beneath her, the other bracing her weight as she faces me fully. Her hand slides down from my wrist to my thigh. Not suggestive. Just there. Aware of what it does.
She starts slow.
Her fingers trail along the inseam of my pants, innocent and infuriating, before gliding back up to my hip where they rest. No movement. Just presence.
“Still breathing?” she murmurs.
“Barely.”
“Good.”
Her other hand lifts to my neck, fingers skating just under my jaw. She watches the flutter of my pulse, the way it betrays me.
Then her thumb slides to the corner of my mouth.
“You always talk back,” she says softly, like she’s admiring something she plans to break. “I wonder what it’ll take to shut you up.”
I hold my ground. Just barely.
She leans in, lips almost brushing my cheek, her voice slipping just beneath my skin.
“Still not reacting?”
“Nope.” I whisper. My voice cracks on the second syllable.
She laughs low, pleased, lethal.
“Liar.”
Then her hand drops to my knee and pushes it gently open.
I don’t move, but my breath goes shallow. Everything tightens.
Andy notices. Of course she does.
Her hand follows the line of my thigh up, slow, so slow it’s cruel. Not chasing heat, chasing control.
She leans in again, this time to my ear. Her lips do touch now. A whisper. A sin.
“I could wreck you without even trying,” she says.
My hand curls into the couch cushion, nails digging into the fabric.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, still close, her body a cage around mine.
“Say it.” she murmurs.
“…Say what?”
“That I’m right.”
I grit my teeth.
She waits.
And I know that if I say it, she wins. But if I don’t—
Her thumb dips under my chin. Tilts it up.
The air snaps between us.
I stare at her mouth. Then her eyes.
“Fine.” I say, voice shaking. “You’re right.”
Andy hums, satisfied.
And then, without warning — she leans in and kisses just below my jaw.
Not a soft kiss. Not a tease.
A claim.
She stays there. Breath on my skin. Her hand still on my thigh. Her control absolute.
Then she pulls away, slow, deliberate, eyes on mine.
“You did well.” she says.
“I want my turn." I manage.
She stands and the absence of her is worse than the touch.
“You’ll have to earn it.”
⸻
I find her outside.
The storm’s passed, but the wind still curls through the night like it wants to be remembered. The air is sharp with damp pine, wet stone, something ancient and quiet.
Andy stands alone on the back porch, hands in her pockets, jaw tight. Watching nothing.
She hears me approach, of course.
“You’re persistent.” she says without looking.
“You like that about me.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deny it either.
I walk up beside her, lean against the railing, close enough to feel her heat.
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Expectant.
“I’m here to earn my try.” I say finally.
Andy turns her head just enough to glance at me. “Are you now?”
“I don’t like to back down from a challenge.”
“No.” she murmurs. “You push. Even when you don’t know what you’re pushing into.”
“I think you want me to push.”
A beat.
She lets out a quiet, amused exhale, the closest she’ll give to a laugh. “Careful.”
“I’m done being careful.”
And then I touch her.
Slow and deliberate.
Not rushed. Not greedy. I reach up and gently tuck a small strand of hair that got loose behind her ear, letting my fingers trail along her cheek, her jaw. I take my time. Watching her.
She doesn’t move.
I step in closer, hand slipping to the back of her neck. My palm warm against her skin, thumb brushing the hollow behind her ear.
“I know what I’m doing.” I whisper.
Her breath changes. Sharp and low.
I feel it.
I press a kiss to her neck, right where she marked me before.
She lets me.
For a second.
Then she grabs me.
Not rough. Not angry.
Just suddenly. Her hands are at my waist, spinning me, walking me back until my spine hits the porch post with a quiet thud.
She pins me there with her body. Her eyes are fire.
“You’re playing with something you don’t understand." she says.
“Then teach me.”
Her mouth is inches from mine. Her hands still on me, holding me in place. Her breath is a storm.
And then—
She steps back.
And that’s when it happens.
Her expression changes. Not teasing. Not smug.
She looks… raw.
Wounded.
“You think I can be tamed,” she says quietly. “That this is some game.”
“I know it's not,” I say, confused now. “You’re the one who started it. Who let me."
Andy shakes her head. “I started it because I thought you could handle it. Because I thought I could.”
I step toward her again, gentler this time. “What are you talking about?”
She doesn’t move.
“I’ve buried everyone I’ve ever touched,” she says. “Lovers. Friends. Family. All of them. I’ve watched them die. I’ve held their hands while they forgot me. While they aged. Bled. Fell apart. I live, and they don’t.”
A beat.
“And then you happened.”
My breath catches. “Andy—”
“You’re not ready." she says, voice hoarse now. “You think you are because you want this. Because it feels good. But you’re not ready for what I’ll become if I let you in.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
I take a step closer. “Why? Because you care?”
Her jaw tightens.
“I care." I say anyway. “You do too. So stop pretending that’s not what this is.”
Andy stares at me. That unreadable expression again — only now I can feel what’s beneath it. Pain. Rage. Desire. Fear.
She looks like she might leave.
But instead, she touches my face.
Her thumb brushes beneath my eye. Soft. Reverent.
And then she whispers, “Don’t make me love you.”
It’s the quietest thing she’s ever said.
And it hits like a goddamn explosion.
⸻
The next day is a mess of silence.
No one says anything, but they feel it.
That something happened. That something’s shifted.
Andy and I don’t look at each other all morning. I pretend I’m fine. She pretends I don’t exist.
It’s childish. It’s infuriating.
By late afternoon, I snap.
She’s in the weapons room, alone. Cleaning a blade like it personally offended her.
I lean in the doorway.
“We going to talk about last night?”
She doesn’t look up. “Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“I told you to leave it.”
I cross the room. “No, you told me not to make you love me, which is just about the most manipulative thing you could’ve said.”
Andy slams the blade down on the table.
“That’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it, Andy? A warning? A scare tactic? You thought if you said something sad enough I’d just back off?”
Her jaw tightens. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“And I thought you were braver.”
That gets her attention.
She turns slowly, eyes cold. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“No. I think you’re afraid of yourself. Of what happens if you stop pretending this isn’t real.”
“Immortality doesn’t come with a future. You want something I can’t give you.”
“I haven’t asked for anything.”
“You didn't have to," she snaps. “because you already matter and I can’t afford that.”
The words hit hard, like she meant to wound.
But I don’t flinch.
I step closer. Steady. Intentional.
“You think I don’t know what it means to carry grief?” I say, voice low. “To lose everything? To wonder if it’s worth it to care again? I’ve lived that. Hell, you know I'm not even the last time that happened."
Andy says nothing.
I keep going.
“I’m not here to be another grave in your memory, Andromache. And you'd be stupid to think I won't do my damn best to make sure you're not one on mine. I’m not asking you to fall into something blind. I’m standing in front of you right now, telling you I’m not walking away. Not unless you make me.”
She stares at me like I’ve split her open, but says nothing.
“You want to protect me?” I whisper. “Then stop trying to push me out.”
Her breath stutters — just for a second. But I see it.
The crack. The tremble. The mask slipping.
“You don’t get it,” she says, softer now. “You don’t understand what it’s like. To feel so much for someone and know it’ll end in pain. So many times, the same fucking thing."
I nod once. “Then love me anyway. Trust me. Worst case scenario, let it hurt later.”
Silence.
A beat.
Then another.
Her expression changes. Not soft and not broken.
Real.
Andy steps toward me. Slowly. Like she’s making a choice with every inch.
And when she stops in front of me she just rests her forehead against mine. Hands loose at my sides. Breathing like she hasn’t in centuries.
“I hate that you say things like that.” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I hate that I believe you.”
“I know that too.”
We stay like that for a long time.
And when she finally moves, it’s not to run.
It’s to stay.
⸻
The house is still.
After the last time when she finally didn't run neither of us actually made a move. It's just been quiet and peaceful.
We spent time, she's been siting closer to me, being just slightly softer.
It’s late. One of those hours that doesn’t feel real, where the silence hums louder than anything. I can’t sleep.
I find Andy in the hallway on my way to the kitchen.
She’s leaning against the window, staring out into the dark. Arms crossed over her chest, jaw set like she’s fighting some internal war.
I guess she can't sleep either.
She turns her head when I approach. Eyes meet mine. And for once, she doesn’t say anything sharp or clever. Just watches me.
I stop a few feet away. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“No.”
I wait.
She lets out a breath and looks away. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“This time I meant it.”
I nod, stepping closer to her, careful not to push too hard. Just to be there.
“Can I ask you something?”
Andy turns her eyes back to mine.
“What?”
“Do you want me?”
She goes still.
That charged, awful, beautiful stillness she always slips into right before something cracks.
I take another step. Close enough to feel her heat. “Because I do. I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried so hard. But I’m tired of pretending.”
“I’ve spent centuries learning how to pretend.”
“Then let me help you forget.”
Silence.
Andy’s hand reaches out cautiously and brushes my wrist. Light, barely there. But it makes every nerve in my body stand.
I cover her hand with mine.
Her voice is quiet. “If I kiss you now—”
“You will. I know, don't worry. I want you to." I whisper.
Her jaw clenches. She stares at me like I’m a cliff she’s about to leap from.
And then she steps forward and does.
The kiss starts soft. Slow. Her lips just brushing mine, hesitant, like she can’t quite believe I’m real.
Then I kiss her back.
And the moment I do, something in her breaks open.
Andy’s hands slide up into my hair and pull — not harsh, but hungry. Her mouth claims mine fully now, heat flaring, kiss deepening in seconds. It’s not polished. It’s not patient. It’s real. Her lips part against mine, breath catching, and when I press closer, her body answers without hesitation.
She groans into my mouth, and I swear I’ll never forget the sound.
I tug her shirt up just slightly, fingers brushing the bare skin at her waist, and her whole body jolts like I’ve set her on fire.
She kisses me harder.
Her hand moves to the back of my neck, holding me in place as her mouth drags down my jaw, then back to my lips again like she can’t decide where to devour me first.
We stumble back against the wall. My spine hits it, her hips pin me there and God, she moves like she’s wanted this for centuries and finally let herself admit it.
I gasp into her mouth. “Andy—”
She cuts me off with another kiss, deeper this time. Messier. Desperate.
I’ve never been kissed like this.
And I kiss her back like I never want it to stop.
Her thigh slips between mine, and I react — a breathless moan against her mouth — and that makes her smile. She pulls back half an inch, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot and ragged.
Her voice is wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head instantly. “Please don’t.”
Her lips crash into mine again.
We don’t make it to the bed.
Not right away.
Because she needs to feel me want her. Needs to know it’s real.
And I let her.
Because I do.
⸻
Andy’s kiss turns hungrier, rougher. Her thigh presses up between mine, and my body grinds against her like instinct.
Like I’ve been waiting for this.
Because I have.
She pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Bedroom. Now.”
Her voice is hoarse. Commanding.
And I go.
We stumble into the room, kissing, breathing, tugging at clothes, everything frantic now, everything earned.
Andy shuts the door with her foot and spins me, pushing me back until my knees hit the bed.
I fall back. She follows.
Crawling over me with that slow, lethal grace that makes it clear she’s not just here to make me feel good.
She’s here to ruin me.
“Take your shirt off.” she says.
It’s not a suggestion.
I obey.
Her eyes flicker down as I do, and the sound she makes low in her throat, something like reverence laced with want, shoots straight through me.
“Lie back." she says.
I do.
And then she’s on me, straddling my thighs, her mouth finding my neck, biting just enough to make me whimper. Her hands trail over my ribs, down my stomach, slow and certain, like she’s learning me by touch alone.
Her mouth follows.
Kisses. Bites. Licks.
Every inch of me, from collarbone to navel, kissed open.
Worshipped.
Owned.
She makes her way down my body, lips brushing skin that’s already burning. She kisses the inside of my thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make me twitch.
And then her hand pushes my legs open.
She looks up at me.
Eyes dark. Voice calm. Controlled.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
I do.
Her mouth closes over me and I gasp, fingers clutching the sheets, spine arching. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t have to. She licks slow, deliberate, building pressure until my hips lift off the bed.
“Andy—”
“Shh,” she murmurs, lips slick. “You’ll come when I say.”
I groan.
Half-plea, half-surrender.
She slides two fingers into me without warning, and I cry out, thighs shaking, body clenching around her. Her mouth never stops. Her fingers curl just right.
She watches me fall apart and smiles.
“You’ve wanted this for so long." she says against my skin.
“You’ve teased. Fought. Tested me.”
She thrusts again, deeper.
“This is what happens when you lose.”
I whimper. “Please—”
She adds a third finger.
“I said, you’ll come when I say.”
And she keeps going.
Until I’m a mess, breathless, legs trembling, hips trying to chase what she keeps just out of reach.
Then her voice softens, just barely.
“Now.”
I fall apart with her name in my mouth. Shaking. Crying out. Her hand holding me down through every wave.
She doesn’t stop until I collapse, trembling.
But she doesn’t move away either.
Instead, she kisses her way back up, dragging her tongue over my skin, settling her weight over me.
“You still breathing?” she murmurs, mouth brushing my ear.
“Barely.”
“Good.”
And then she leans in and kisses me deep, slow, letting me taste myself on her lips. It’s filthy. Intimate. Kind of beautiful.
But I’m not done.
When she tries to move off me, I flip her over surprising her enough to make her laugh, breathless and low.
“Your turn.”
She doesn’t stop me.
But she watches.
Every second.
Her eyes follow my hands as I undress her, gaze never wavering until I finally take her in. All of her. Scars and strength and skin that still feels like mythology.
“You’re staring." she murmurs.
“I’ll stop when I’m done memorizing.”
She closes her eyes like that does something to her.
And then I show her what she’s made of me.
My mouth finds her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip of her stomach.
She breathes my name like it’s the only thing that steadies her.
When I finally slide between her thighs, she parts for me instantly. Wet. Ready. Body pulsing with need.
But she still says, “You’d better not stop.”
And I don’t.
"Wasn't planing to."
I make her fall apart the way she made me, slowly, deeply, over and over, until her hands are in my hair and she’s whispering things I don’t think she’s ever said to anyone. Things in languages I don’t know.
When she comes, it’s quiet, devastating, her body arching, muscles clenching, mouth open in something like prayer.
And afterward, we lie there. Tangled. Spent. Bare.
Andy turns her head, eyes on mine.
“I don’t want this to end.”
“It won’t.”
She studies me for a long moment.
And for once, there’s no mask.
Just her.
She leans in and kisses me slow. Deep. Like a promise.
And I know I’ve just become the only thing in this world that can both destroy her… and save her.
remember when you bought a gaming console and all the things you needed to use the console was already in the console so you didnt have to go buy a bunch of other stuff and remember when you bought a game and you put the game in your console you could play the game immediately there was no downloads or subscriptions or dlc it was all right there in the game you bought do you remember tell me do you remember any of it
