#HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN WELL ADJUSTED AND OKAY

[lovecla]

TAKE IT EASY (OTHERWISE I’M LEAVING) | connor bedard.

© property of lovecla, nhl masterlist, single chapter:

ᡣ𐭩 — pair: connor bedard x fmc (olivia)

ᡣ𐭩 — synopsis: in which connor bedard’s girlfiend, olivia, is tired of seeing her boyfriend destroy himself every single day.

ᡣ𐭩 — word count: 3.1k

ᡣ𐭩 — chapter warnings: inspired by the song “you” by chase atlantic, angst, hurt with a dash of comfort.

ᡣ𐭩 — from me to you: the second chase atlantic released this album i knew i had to write something inspired by it. i missed writing for bedsy and since he’s our golden, hardworking boy, i thought this was very fitting. hope u like it 🤍

ᯓᡣ𐭩

but you've been diggin' up the truth

haven't slept in like four nights now

blame it on substance abuse

out in the deep end, i'm swimmin', i'm swimmin' again

YOU WOKE up startled with the loud bang coming from somewhere inside your apartment, your whole body jumping and your heart starting to race inside your chest.

Now, almost fully awake, you stare at the clock sitting on your bedside table, reading the time. 4:13 a.m., and when you pat the other side of the bed, where your boyfriend of two years should be laying, you frown as you find it empty and lukewarm to the touch.

“Connor?” You whisper, scared to wake him up unnecessarily, even if you knew he wasn’t lying with you in bed. Again.

You get up, the fabric of his old Blackhawks sweater heating up your skin, as you put on your slippers and leave the bedroom, noticing traces of Connor’s absence here and there— his slippers aren’t by his side of the bed, his duffel bag isn’t on the hallway like it usually is, his water bottle isn’t on the couch like he had left it last night, when you both went no sleep at one in the morning.

So that’s why you don’t understand what he’s doing by the front door, ready to leave, even if he had only slept for three hours.

“Connor?” You call again, watching as his blue eyes look at you, surprise and guilt decorating his expression like a famous painting hanging on the Louvre’s wall. “What are you doing?”

Your voice is still soft, and despite the scare, your eyes can barely stay open. You’re tired, tonight was the first night you had allowed yourself to sleep freely since now you were done with your exams. And you were happy because you managed to convince Connor to come home earlier, at eleven instead of midnight, just so you could spend some time together, like you used to do when you started dating.

“Liv, hey,” he whispers, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

That’s when you realize what he’s doing. The bag, the stick on his hand, the outfit. He’s—

“Are you serious right now?” You take a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure. “You’re going to the rink? At four in the morning?”

“Baby, you know I need to,” he tries to sound convincing and if it wasn’t for the fact that this is probably the hundredth time he’s done this, you would’ve actually believed him. “We have a game coming up and—”

“Yes, I am well aware of that, Connor. But you went to sleep at one. Two nights ago, you also went to sleep at one and woke up at five. And the night before, and the night before that too.”

You don’t try to hide your feelings anymore. You want him to know you’re upset, and you want him to know that this, whatever the hell he’s doing, isn’t okay.

“I know, baby, but you know I have to keep practicing so I can help the guys.” He’s now facing you, his body visibly tense.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Connor, what the hell. There are other twenty fucking people in your team, you’re not the only player there. It’s not your responsibility only!” You cover your face with your hands, truly upset.

“Liv,” he calls your name, and it hurts to even hear it, because his voice is so full of guilt and shame. It makes you feel sick. “You’re not being reasonable right now. This is the NHL. You know how hard I’ve worked for this. There are people counting on me.”

“And I’m not one of them?” You whisper, making eye contact again, only to realize you’re not strong enough to have this conversation at four in the morning.

“Liv—”

“It’s fine, Connor. Go to practice.” You sigh, making your way back to the bedroom, praying that he doesn’t notice the tears running down your cheeks.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

you said, "take it easy, otherwise i'm leaving

yeah, i don't wanna stay and watch you die",

ᯓᡣ𐭩

CONNOR HAD an injury.

His jaw had been fractured, and he had to go to surgery to fix it. You were in the arena watching the game with Connor’s sister when it happened, and you had never been so scared.

You know Hockey is about hitting people as much as it is about playing and winning, but you won’t lie and say your heart doesn’t hurt inside your chest whenever you see Connor getting hurt on the ice.

And you aren’t dumb. You know that some players will purposefully hurt him just because he’s good. And even if people aren’t one hundred percent sure that that is what happened that night, you still remember the terrible feeling of losing when you were in the ambulance with Connor to the hospital, trying your hardest not to cry in front of anyone because you know what they would say.

She’s not tough enough to date a NHL player.

But you believed yourself to be tough. The only problem with all of this is that you knew Bedard would never take great care of himself, meaning that you’d have to be with him twenty-four-seven, which wouldn’t be a problem, if only he accepted your help.

Now, four weeks after the surgery, you’re inside the United Center, the Blackhawks arena in Chicago, stomping your feet as you walk towards the rink, the sound of your steps being muffled by Connor’s constant skating.

“Connor.”

You have to call him a few times so that he can finally get out of his head and look at you; once again, those blameworthy eyes looking down at you, as he skates closer to the benches where you were standing.

“Liv.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Connor?” You snap. “You’re supposed to be resting. You’re definitely not supposed to be on the ice.”

“I know, but my jaw is just fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” He removes his helmet, running his gloved hand through his hair.

“It didn’t seem like it was fine last night when you had to swallow a bunch of pain pills because it was hurting. Connor, don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” You can feel your face heating up, and you’re trying so hard to keep your shit together but— “You have to allow your body to rest. If you keep up with this, you won’t get better—”

“That’s not an option, Liv, and you know it,” he hissed back, now looking more distressed than guilty. “This is my life. And I did allow myself to rest, I spent four weeks doing absolutely nothing, just like the doctor asked me to.”

“He said six to eight weeks, Connor,” you sigh, tired, not actually believing you’re having this conversation with him. “Please. Just think about how I feel when I know you’re not well enough to be here yet you still are.”

He pressed his lips together, placing his stick on the floor next to him and moving his helmet around his hands.

“Liv, you know I love you but this— Hockey is what I am. It’s what I do. You have to understand—”

“And I have done nothing but understand you!” You shout, finally losing your cool and snapping at him, your loud voice echoing through the empty arena’s walls. Connor takes a step back, but now you’ve already started and you won’t can’t stop. “Ever since we met, I have been nothing but understanding. I stood by your side at all times, even when what you were doing wasn’t healthy for you!”

“Olivia—”

“I went to sleep alone and cried more nights than you could ever imagine,” your voice cracks, and your stubborn tears are already rolling down your face. “I still supported you no matter what. I cooked your meals, I packed your bags, I went to those ridiculous gala dinners and I did it all with pleasure because I love you and you’re supposed to do these types of things for the people you love!”

“Baby—”

“So you don’t get to stand in front of me and ask me to understand how badly you treat yourself and how you don’t care about anything else besides Hockey when I gave up everything to be with you!” You try to wipe your face, stepping back when Connor tries to reach you. He frowns when you flinch. “I gave up my freedom because I wanted to be with you and God knows I’d do it all over again because I fucking love you.”

“Baby, I know all of this and I’m grateful, I really am but—”

You let out a wet chuckle, shaking your head. “There’s always a but with you.”

“Hockey is important to me, baby.”

“And I am not.”

The silence after your words is cruel, and it tears you apart, scratching your skin and making your insides hurt. His blue eyes, your favorite color to ever exist, are also filled with tears and you hate to see it. You hate to feel bad about saying these things.

The thing about loving someone is that the thread between giving up yourself for them and giving yourself to them is really thin.

You love Connor Bedard. Have loved him for years now. He makes you happy, he listens to you, he’s your best friend.

“You know that’s not true, Liv,” he gets closer, the sound of his skates hitting the ice making you want to puke. “You know you’re more important to me than any of this. You know I love you.”

“No, Connor, I don’t,” you whisper, smiling even when all you feel is pain. “I can’t do this. I won’t watch you d-destroy yourself and not do anything.”

He removes his gloves quickly and grabs your wrist, cold fingers holding your arm down. “Olivia, wait.”

“No,” You shake your head. “I need time. Sorry.”

You don’t look at his face as you leave the arena, and you certainly don’t listen to his voice shouting your name, over and over again.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

i don't know what to do

i’m stuck in a loop, stuck in a loop

ᯓᡣ𐭩

HE WATCHES you talking to the children from afar.

You’re sitting on the floor, and it’s so obvious you’re better different from everyone else at the party. The children surround you like you’re their favorite princess or superhero, all of them wanting a little bit of your attention.

Connor feels like he should be offended, since those kids were there to see his team in the first place. It was some kind of reunion Foligno arranged with the media team, inviting some of his son’s friends and some other children with less opportunities.

But he isn’t. First of all, he’s thankful because if it weren’t for your charm, he would be the one having to deal with the children, something he wasn’t very fond of. Sure, he likes kids and he’s happy they like him, but if he could avoid social interactions, he would.

Besides that, watching you happy is something that he had missed, and he feels like shit for it. He knows he hasn’t been a good boyfriend, and he knows he should do better. Ever since that one night at the rink, you haven’t been the same.

But if he thinks about it too much, he realizes that you haven’t been yourself for a long time now.

And it hurts.

It hurts because he doesn’t know what to do. He loves you, the very first girl he fell in love with, but he also loves Hockey. As a young player in the NHL, he feels like he constantly needs to prove himself to others, and since people give him so much attention, he needs to keep on being a good player.

He doesn’t know how to balance things, how not to spend hours and hours without end on the ice, muting all of his doubts and worries while he keeps throwing the puck in the net.

You smile at a little boy who’s now handing you a flower, and Connor smiles as he watches you ask the little boy to put it on your hair, laughing when the other kids stop their babbling to clap at your newest look.

You make eye contact with him, and he feels himself getting devastated when he notices that the shine in your eyes lessened a little when you looked at him.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

(why do you hate me?)

i could never hate you, despite the words that you've been sayin'

i’ve been having breakthroughs

and hoping you were proud, just maybe

anxiety drives me insane, and my newest addiction is pain

i know i said it was a ‘phase’

five years later, still stuck in my brain

ᯓᡣ𐭩

CLOSING THE front door with a sigh, you let your first sob out. The tears won’t stop, and you don’t bother to wipe them, it would be pointless.

All you want to do is slide down to the floor and stay there, letting the hardwood hurt your back and get you dirty, but you can’t. Your car decided to break in the middle of the road on your way back from college, and you had to walk until you found the nearest telephone to call your insurance company, which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the terrible storm going on, the water drops penetrating your thin shirt like you weren’t even wearing anything in the first place.

It’s just one of those days where everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong, but you’re already so fed up with life lately that this all seems too much.

“Liv? What happened, baby?”

You lift your head up faster than you should've, because now you can see tiny, black dots floating around in your vision. You weren’t expecting to see Connor at your house, much less wearing the apron you gave him when he prepared his first dish by himself two years ago— a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Connor,” you whisper, not looking him in the eye. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I texted you,” he says, removing the apron that read “cook it yourself, cunt”. “What happened, baby? Are you hurt?”

You don’t say anything, mostly because you’re certain that if you let one little word slip past your lips you’ll start crying uncontrollably once again, so you just shake your head and leave your things on the floor beside you, walking past him so you could get to your room.

He’s quick to follow, though, watching as you remove your wet clothes and get in the shower, both of you silent and lost in your own thoughts.

Not talking to Connor about your feelings feels weird, but you can’t help but feel like you’re holding him back. It’s sickening, because all you want is to stay with him and be happy, but sometimes loving is also letting go.

You get out of the shower, feeling the tears coming back when you spot the change of clothes Connor left for you on top of the toilet lid— his shirt, his pants, your favorite panties.

He knows you too well. He knows who you are as a person and he knows who you want to become. He knows your fears and your ambitions, he knows your dreams and hopes. He knows what you stand for and what you absolutely despise.

He knows you.

You change, and leave the bathroom quickly, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for days.

“Some lady from your insurance company just called, saying your car will be ready next week,” Connor says, and only then you noticed he’d been standing next to your wardrobe the entire time, crossed arms in front of his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me your car was broken?”

You shrug. “I knew you were at practice. Didn’t want to bother you.”

“So you walked home? In the rain?” You can tell by his tone that he’s upset, but there’s nothing much you can do.

“I mean, what did you want me to do?” You scoff. “My phone died and I had no cash on me. And honestly, we both know that you would never leave the ice for something like this.”

“Liv, you know that’s not true,” he whispers, getting closer to you. “You know that I’d leave at any moment if I even knew you needed me.”

“Whatever,” you mumble before reaching for your phone in your bag, the device thankfully still dry, and put it to charge, removing the hundreds of pillows you have on top of your bed and throwing them on the carpet floor, already visualizing the amazing sleep you’d have.

“What are you doing?” You feel his hands on your back, his body closer to yours than it’s been in a while. “You haven’t had dinner yet. I cooked…”

His sad tone makes you break again, and you hate yourself for it. But you still love him so much, and it hurts to see what you’ve become.

“Liv, please, tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads, turning you around and wiping your tears with his thumbs. “I’ll fix it, I promise. Just tell me what’s wrong, baby.”

“Can you fix us?” You whisper, resting your head against his chest, inhaling his comforting scent. He smells like home and the winter. “Can you fix what we’ve become?”

He’s quiet for a while, long fingers caressing your hair, like he used to do back when you had started dating.

“I’m trying, I swear I am,” he whispers back, and you can finally hear genuineness in his voice. “You’re everything to me, baby, and I won’t lose you.”

“I’m not asking you to give up on Hockey,” you explain, watching as your tears stain his shirt. “I’m just asking you to take care of yourself. Connor, I need you to take care of yourself.”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry,” he kisses your cheek, the first time his lips touch you in more than two weeks. “I’m so sorry.”

You listen to his heartbeat and sigh, choosing not to say anything. You know the only way you can find out if he’s being genuine or not is with time, because only it will tell if you’re fixable or not.

But as you let yourself sleep close to his body that night, losing yourself between the sheets and his arms, you can finally breathe again.

Because he said he’ll try, and Connor Bedard always tries his hardest with everything.

[goblinontour]

Sting

he can’t always be the man

warnings: sub!alex, smut, anal fingering (m receiving), handjob, piv, overstimulation, subspace, crying, two slaps

word count: 6.5k 

He’d watched you slide out of the taxi first, caught the way you shifted your weight as you stood. It was then that he saw it: the faint, almost imperceptible tear at the side of your left thigh, just above your knee. You hadn’t noticed. He could tell that by the easy way you moved, so blissfully unaware of that tiny betrayal of fabric. But he noticed. And all night, that threadbare little mark was all he could look at, all he could think about, as you both moved through the evening like actors on an unwritten stage.

It was funny, really — the way something so small could hold such power over him. That barely-there hole in your tights became a quiet obsession in that small amount of time, a tug at the edge of his mind every time his gaze wandered in your direction. There were moments when his attention should have been elsewhere, on the faces you both half-smiled at, the clinking glasses, the fractured conversations weaving around you both. But he’d find himself drawn back to that tear, imagining his fingertips grazing over the rough edge, feeling the vulnerability of the fabric giving way to your skin beneath it.

Now, the two of you sat side by side in the back seat of another taxi, heading home, silent and suspended in the soft yellow glow of passing streetlights. You were close enough that he could smell the faint trace of your perfume — something sweet and lingering, fading as the night wore on. He thought about reaching over, his hand brushing just above your knee, where that rip teased him from beneath the hem of your coat. Maybe if he let his hand rest there for a moment, his fingers could wander to that tiny flaw, catching on the nylon and teasing it wider. But there was still time on the clock, a stretch of ten more minutes that felt impossibly long with the weight of that simple, forbidden urge pressing at him.

He almost laughed at himself. All this over a barely-there tear in your tights, a glimpse of skin. But it was more than that. It was what it suggested — a chance to touch something you didn’t even know he was looking at, to reach into that intimate, secret place where you’d let something small and imperfect slip through the cracks. It was everything unspoken between you, condensed into a stray thread he couldn’t bring himself to ignore.

The traffic slowed, the taxi lurching to a soft halt at a red light. He thought about reaching over, again. Just for a second, just to feel the roughened edge beneath his fingertips, to let his touch travel that forbidden path. But he didn’t. Not yet.

The leather seat beneath you groaned as he shifted closer, and he settled his head on your shoulder, pressing his cheek into you with a softness that felt almost vulnerable. Usually, it was your head that found its way to his shoulder — your quiet way of grounding him when words felt thin and hollow. But now it was him, nestling into you, like he wanted to bury himself in the warmth of your skin and hide there for a little while, away from everything that wasn’t the two of you in this dark, intimate slice of the night.

The driver might as well have been invisible, a shadow behind the wheel, guiding you both through empty streets that blurred under the passing streetlights. He didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only the warmth between you, the quiet hum of the engine, and the sound of his breath shifting against your coat.

“You okay, baby?” you asked, tilting your head to look down at him, breaking the silence as your fingers grazed his cheek. His leather jacket made a soft, almost comical squeak as he adjusted his weight, a reminder of how close he was, how each tiny movement stirred up a new layer of something between you. 

“Huh?” He looked up, eyes a little dazed, as if pulled from some hidden place you couldn’t quite see. “I think so, yeah…yeah.”

You brushed your knuckles softly over his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw in a way that made his eyes close, just briefly. “You sure? You seem off.” You kept your voice low, gentle.

He nestled in closer, his breath fanning against your neck, hot and unsteady. You felt the faint prickle of his gelled hair against your skin, an imperfect contrast to the softness of his breathing. And God, you’d love to feel it beneath your fingers, feel that wildness just barely tamed, slipping through your hands. If he’d only let you.

“Mhm…just-” He let his words fall off as he shifted, letting his thigh rest over yours, claiming this one small corner of you like it was the only thing anchoring him. It was the only other touch he’d allow himself for now, each beat of restraint coiling tighter within him. Waiting for you, maybe, to make it easier, to let him know it was okay to want more, to ask for more.

His hand was warm against your thigh, barely touching, and yet the weight of it — of him, folded into you like this — felt heavy with meaning. There was a certain unspoken desperation in that one small touch, like he’d already mapped out a hundred ways he wanted to hold you tonight, but for now, he was letting himself settle for this.

“Need ya tonight…” he murmured, his voice rough and frayed around the edges, as if he’d given up trying to hold back that lingering ache.

“We’re almost home, baby.” you replied, reassuring, your hand squeezing his thigh just enough to send a shiver through him. You felt him flinch beneath your touch, as though the gentle pressure was too much, too close to that quiet place he hadn’t let himself fully feel until now.

“No, I mean-” he stammered, pulling back just slightly, his eyes searching yours, almost asking you to see through him, past whatever words he couldn’t quite put together.

“I know.” You met his gaze, a knowing softness threading through your voice, and he felt it — felt the quiet promise there, the warmth and understanding that made the rest of the world fall away.

The rest of the ride had blurred by, or maybe he’d just let it blur. Everything outside the taxi faded into smears of city lights and shadows, indistinct and irrelevant. All he knew was the steady heat of your body next to him, the quiet ache of waiting. He’d given in, let himself go bare before you, peeled down to something raw and vulnerable. And now, with nothing else to hold onto, his mind was flooded, full to bursting and yet strangely still. Full of everything and nothing at all, because deep down he knew you’d take him somewhere he couldn’t get to alone. It had already begun.

The bedroom felt thick with anticipation, a quiet heat hanging in the air as he lay back, watching you in the dim light, his eyes drinking in every detail. His jacket lay discarded somewhere near the door, his shirt forgotten as his gaze followed you, taking in the languid way you undressed, unhurried, as if savouring every slow step you took. He swallowed hard, his fingers digging slightly into the sheets at his sides. His skin was already warm from the friction of the night, but there were places on the bed that still felt cold, sharp against his exposed skin, leaving him caught somewhere between comfort and a need that he could barely keep in check.

You stood at the foot of the bed, one hand on your hip, and he noticed again the tear in your tights. His mind buzzed, catching his eye all over again, making his fingers itch with the thought of tracing it. He imagined running his hand along that faint thread, felt the desire to pull it just a bit, to tease it further, to see the fabric stretch and fray. But his thoughts were cut off when he heard his own voice, unexpectedly soft, yet steady.

“Keep your tights on.” he murmured, his voice carrying a dark edge, almost a plea wrapped in a command. The words slipped out before he even had time to think them over, but once he said them, he felt their weight settle over both of you. He saw the way your lips curved slightly in response, a faint glint of mischief sparking in your eyes. His pulse quickened. Saying it aloud made it real, solid, something that could no longer stay confined to his imagination.

You looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment, reading into everything that lay beneath his words, and then you simply nodded, accepting his request with a calm that sent a shiver through him. In that moment, he felt completely exposed, as though with just those four words, he had laid himself bare before you, more than when he’d let himself lay naked on the bed, letting you see the hidden edges of his want.

Without breaking eye contact, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra with a smooth motion, letting it fall from your shoulders, the last piece of you — save for those tights — slipping away. He watched, transfixed, feeling a rush of warmth flood his chest. Every movement you made felt deliberate, a kind of unspoken answer to his request, and it only deepened his sense of surrender.

“Don’t speak, okay?” you said, your voice calm but firm, a hint of authority cutting through the intimacy, leaving no room for protest. He caught the way you looked at him, a subtle edge to your gaze, like you were testing his ability to give in completely, to hand over control and let you guide him through this fragile, electric space between you.

He swallowed, his throat dry, and managed a small nod. “Understood.” he whispered, though he could barely hold onto his composure, his voice rough and unsteady, quiet but obedient, already thinning as he let himself submit. He watched you carefully as you climbed onto the bed, your knees pressing into the mattress, your fingers curling over the edge of the bottle of lubricant you’d set down beside him. So close, mere inches from his hand, a silent promise lying between the two of you, but it almost felt like a threat. You hadn’t moved closer, hadn’t yet reached for him, and he felt the tension coil tightly within him, a reminder that he was yours to shape, to hold, to let unravel at your pace.

“Keep your legs down.” you instructed. He felt the weight of the request, the way each word hung over him, and he shifted slightly, pressing his legs into the bed, though every instinct in him wanted to reach out, to pull you closer. The fabric was still warm beneath him, but the cool spots pressed into his skin in sharp contrast, heightening every sensation. He had to fight the urge to reach for you, to pull you down into him, but he resisted, holding himself still, waiting for your touch, for the weight of you to pin him down and erase whatever small amount of control he still had left.

When you settled over him, pressing his thighs down into the bed, a soft sound slipped from him, a breathless half-whimper, caught somewhere between complaint and surrender, involuntary, as your weight pinned his thighs to the bed. He hadn’t realised just how much he wanted that feeling, the quiet restraint of your presence holding him down, in a way he hadn’t felt before. His body was taut beneath you, every nerve alight, the warmth of you so close yet just out of reach, and he couldn’t suppress a breathless murmur. “The bed is cold.” he whispered, an apology almost hidden in his tone.

But you were quick to answer, your gaze sharp and knowing as you pressed your hands firmly against his chest, each palm splayed across the skin of each pec, feeling the way his chest rose and fell under your touch. “What did I say?” you replied, a soft warning lacing your tone, and he felt a flicker of heat shoot through him at the way you held him there. 

“Sorry.” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, his lips already pressing tightly shut in response, knowing he’d stepped over some invisible line. He could feel the heat of his own breath on his lips, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he forced himself back into silence. But the apology lingered in the air between you, and he couldn’t help the faint flush that coloured his cheeks as you watched him, studying the way he fought to hold himself back, tinged with exhaustion, and you could see the way he waited, his mouth tense, like he needed to keep himself from asking for something, even now.

You let out a quiet, disapproving tsk, lifting a single finger and pressing it softly to his lips, letting him feel that faint touch — a gentle warning, a reminder. He fell still beneath your touch, exhaling slowly, and he could feel his entire body reacting to that simple, delicate contact. His eyes held yours, and he let himself sink into the warmth of your approval as you murmured, “Good.”

He could feel himself giving in more fully, the restlessness of the evening settling into something deeper, more focused. His lips stayed pressed together, His lips stayed pressed together, and his eyes, though tired, held onto that flicker of trust, of surrender. You leaned in close, the heat of your breath soft against his skin, your voice dropping into that low, intimate tone that made his pulse race all over again.

“Now touch yourself.” you said, each word quiet and unwavering, but carrying a weight that sent a thrill straight through him. He looked at you, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands, and felt the final threads of his restraint slipping.

And with a steadying breath, he obeyed. His hand moved instinctively, reaching for his cock, the heat in him unfurling, restless, urgent. But before he could even make contact, your hand closed around his wrist. He froze, the moment breaking into fragments as he looked up at you, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“What?” he breathed, his voice sharp with impatience, edged with a faint sting of frustration. His mind, so caught in the hazy tension between surrender and need, barely registered what was happening. He was desperate to move, to feel, to give in fully, and the sudden stop had sent a jolt of longing through him, an ache that was both maddening and addictive.

Your response was wordless at first – a swift, deliberate slap across his cheek, the sting blossoming hot and fast against his skin, leaving him momentarily stunned. He felt the air catch in his throat, almost choking on the breath he’d tried to suck in too quickly, his mouth slightly open in surprise. His pulse quickened, the heat pooling deep in his chest, radiating out to his limbs. It wasn’t the pain that surprised him – though he felt it, sharp and electric – it was the calm, steady look in your eyes, a gaze that stripped him down to nothing, made him feel seen in a way that left him dizzy.

And then you leaned in, one hand reaching to gently wipe the single tear that had slipped from his eye. “You look so pretty…” you murmured, and the words hit him with a force he hadn’t expected, a quiet, undeniable warmth that settled over the sharpness. It was a contrast that left him feeling light-headed, the sting on his cheek mingling with your praise, an impossible mix of tenderness and control that tightened his chest, made him ache for you even more.

He took a shaky breath, meeting your gaze, and in that moment, he understood, saw the glint of something unspoken in your eyes. He let out a small, almost bashful laugh, a release of the tension that had built up within him, as he reached for the bottle of lube resting on the bed. Right, he thought, feeling the subtle shift of power between you, letting it wash over him as he squeezed the bottle onto his fingers.

But as he spread the cool gel over his skin, he realised the texture wasn’t quite right – it wasn’t the one he preferred, the one you both knew he’d reach for given the choice. His brows furrowed slightly as he wondered, Did you do it on purpose? He could feel the subtle difference in each movement, the way it created a faint resistance against his fingers, like another layer of your control, present even in this small, unspoken choice.

You shifted back onto your heels, giving him the space to continue, your presence like a shadow hovering just at the edge of his awareness, watching, waiting. He took a slow, steadying breath, positioning himself as he reached down, his hand gliding lower until his fingertips dipped between his legs, cool and slick. His body responded instantly, the anticipation rippling through him as he traced small circles, rubbing, spreading it across his skin in a way that made every nerve hum with awareness.

One knee twitched, almost lifting from the bed, but he fought to keep it down, his breaths coming faster now, deeper, as he gave in to the sensations building within him. It felt like he was teetering on the edge of something delicate, something suspended between pleasure and surrender, and he could feel the quiet weight of your gaze as he moaned softly, his voice breaking the silence, a breathy sound filled with longing.

And then, finally, he let his middle finger slip inside, his breath catching at the sudden fullness, the way his body instinctively responded to the touch. “Fuck…” he whispered, the word spilling out almost involuntarily, a soft, desperate sound as he let himself sink deeper into the moment. The pleasure bloomed through him, raw and overwhelming, as he pressed his eyes shut, letting everything fall away except for the sensation, the quiet, intimate presence of you, watching, guiding him in silence.

“Come on, baby, one more.” Your voice was gentle but insistent, a quiet encouragement that washed over him. His eyes opened briefly, his chest rising and falling with the effort as he added another finger, feeling the stretch and burn as he tried to reach deeper, to push himself further, if only for you.

But he couldn’t quite get there – not in the way he craved, not enough to reach the spots that would undo him completely. He realised then, with a flicker of heat low in his belly, that this wasn’t really about his pleasure. It was yours, a kind of performance, one that left him raw and vulnerable under your gaze. And he was okay with that. More than okay – he was desperate to see the way your eyes would darken, the way your lips would part as you watched him lose himself for you. So he kept going, eyes closed, face taut with concentration as he slowly pumped his fingers into himself, taking on the strain, the surrender.

He hadn’t noticed you move closer, so when he felt the wet warmth of your tongue press against the back of his hand, the sensation jarred him, made him shudder. His fingers slipped from their rhythm, and without a thought, he brought his hand up to your mouth, his breath catching as you took them between your lips, your mouth soft and hot around him. It was instinctive, his need for you overtaking any hesitation. He knew you felt his taste, mingled with the faint salt of the lube, as you drew his fingers in deeper, letting your lips seal around his knuckles. He was helpless, caught in the way you took him, slow and deliberate, like each movement was meant to break him down.

His breath hitched, his lips parting in a silent gasp as he watched you, every nerve in his body focused on the feel of your tongue tracing along his skin, running over each line and ridge of his fingers. He felt like he was floating, like he was slipping somewhere beyond himself, his awareness narrowing down to nothing but the way your mouth wrapped around him, the subtle pressure of your teeth, the soft warmth that made his whole body hum. You looked up at him, your eyes holding him in place, and he let out a shuddering exhale, his mouth open, lost in you.

With a slow, torturous pull, you slid his fingers out of your mouth, leaving them wet and gleaming. He felt the air cool against his skin, the slickness of your saliva clinging to him, a reminder of how thoroughly you’d claimed even this small part of him. It was dizzying, the way you took your time, the way you’d turned his own hands into something for your pleasure. He could barely keep himself still, every muscle tense as he waited, watching, his fingers hovering between you both, uncertain but craving whatever came next.

You leaned forward, letting your breath warm his skin before your tongue traced a deliberate line from the base of his cock to the very tip, slow and unhurried. He sucked in a sharp breath, his body tensing, almost lifting off the bed with the shock of sensation. His mind was hazy, so wrapped in everything you’d done, of everything he’d offered to you, that he hadn’t realised how deep his need had grown. But now, the warmth of your mouth, the wet heat of your tongue against him – it was overwhelming.

“Please-” he whimpered, his voice breaking, betraying the raw edge of his desperation. The word slipped out before he could stop it, before he even knew what he was pleading for. He wasn’t sure if he wanted more or if he simply wanted to survive this feeling without completely losing himself.

“Shhh…” you whispered, your hand wrapping around him, squeezing with just enough force to draw a wince and a gasp, a silent reprimand. The pressure was perfect, grounding, and he felt the heat build and swirl under his skin, a pulse of sharp pleasure that bordered on pain. A thought drifted through his mind, foggy and hesitant – when had he become this willing, this eager for a touch that left him burning? Was this what it meant to be a masochist, or was it something different, something that only existed here with you?

You kept your movements precise, measured, not giving him anything too easily, each stroke and touch intentional. Your tongue traced around him, lingering, savouring, and he did everything he could to keep still, to be good, to stay quiet. Every instinct was telling him to reach for you, to move, to take what he craved – but he held himself back, feeling the delicious tension build inside him, letting it spread through his body like a current, leaving him at your mercy.

His murmured pleas faded into soft, unrestrained moans when your fingers moved to where his had been just moments before, pressing against him in a way that left him dizzy. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, pushing inside him with a force that felt almost punishing, each movement deeper than he’d managed on his own. There was no gentleness in the way you claimed him, and he felt every inch of it, the stretch, the sting, the intensity of each thrust as you filled him completely, taking him apart piece by piece.

The roughness of your touch, the way you didn’t hold back, left him bare. Each time your fingers pulled out, he felt a faint burn, a reminder of the stretch, and he braced himself, his body growing more sensitive with each push, each thrust that felt like it reached into the very core of him. He didn’t even know if he could last. The sensations were blurring together, pulling him to the edge with every motion, every murmur and graze of your fingers.

He bit down on his lip, the pain mingling with pleasure as he tried to keep himself steady, his body shaking under your hand. But all he could focus on was you – your hand, your fingers, your mouth – and the way you consumed him, held him there, where everything felt exquisite and too much and exactly what he needed, all at once.

You leaned over him, your breath warm against his cheek, feeling the tension thrumming through his body, taut as a wire about to snap. “You close?” you asked, voice low, laced with that knowing tone that made his pulse race even harder. He didn’t answer, just let out a broken, desperate gasp, his eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched tight into the sheets as if he could keep himself from losing control. 

“You gonna come on my fingers, huh?” you coaxed, leaning in closer, your words a soft demand. “Answer me.”

“Yes…so close…” he whispered, his voice strained, his body shifting restlessly beneath you, caught within the desperate need to hold on, just a bit longer, for you. He squirmed in your grip, barely able to handle the intensity, his gaze flickering open for the briefest moment, his eyes glazed with lust, with that pleading look that told you he was right on the edge.

But then you leaned back, withdrawing your fingers suddenly, and he whimpered at the loss, his body still tingling from the stretch and the way you’d left him feeling so completely undone. “I want you to fuck me.” you murmured, your voice leaving no room for question. The words alone made him shiver, his breath hitching, his body throbbing in response to your command. 

You moved to straddle him, and his gaze followed every slight shift. He felt your hands slide down to guide him, positioning him exactly where you wanted him, but just as he braced himself for you to sink down, you paused, fingers reaching between your thighs.

In one quick, decisive movement, you gripped the torn edge of your tights and ripped them further, the nylon giving way under your touch with a sound so sharp and final it almost made him wince. The tear spread up your thigh, and he couldn’t help but stare, a faint ache in his chest at the sight. You’d ripped them so fast, so ruthlessly, and a part of him flinched at the cruelty of it. He wouldn’t have done it like that – he would’ve traced his fingers over that little tear, maybe kissed the skin underneath. But the way you’d just torn them open, effortlessly, almost without thought…it felt like you were unravelling him, too, pulling apart every last defence he’d tried to hold onto.

His breath was shallow as you settled over him, the rough edges of the torn tights brushing against his hips, a reminder of your deliberate destruction, your impatience to feel him without anything in the way. His face was a mixture of panic and need, his breathing ragged. “No- please-” he stammered, his voice laced with desperation. “I can’t…I’ll come…” The protest was weak, barely a whisper, and you ignored it, your hands steady, your resolve unwavering as you slowly sank down onto him.

He gasped, his hands reflexively reaching for you as he felt himself surrounded by your heat, his mind slipping further into that place where thought was lost, where all that mattered was the way your body moved against his, the way you took him in so completely, so thoroughly. His eyes were closed again, a futile attempt to control himself, to hold back from tipping over into oblivion. But you weren’t about to let him get away with that.

“Watch.” you ordered, your voice cutting through his haze. “Watch your cock fill me up.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze falling to where your bodies met, to the sight of you taking him in, inch by agonising inch, your body settling over him. He watched, helpless to stop the flood of sensation that swept over him. And the moment your hips stilled, pressing down to take him fully, he could feel the tension break within him, his body jerking beneath you as he lost control.

He shuddered, his hands clutching your waist as he felt himself pulse, the pleasure crashing over him, filling you with each desperate, instinctual thrust. He felt the warmth of his release inside you, the way it flooded between you both, and a soft, ragged moan escaped his lips, his body going slack beneath yours. The moment stretched, suspended between you, his head falling back against the pillow, his eyes barely able to stay open as he looked up at you, his breathing heavy, his mind foggy, blissed out from everything you’d just pulled from him.

You stayed there, letting him come down, letting him feel the weight of you, the heat of you surrounding him still, holding him in place even as his body gave way to exhaustion, the thrill and rawness etched into every part of him. And he couldn’t help but smile, that quiet, blissful smile that only you ever seemed to draw from him, his mind left spinning, his heart pounding as you’d taken him apart.

“Baby…” Your voice was soft, deceptively gentle. 

He blinked up at you, his gaze dazed, unfocused, and he mumbled, “I’m- I’m sorry.” his voice trembling, cracking at the edges, his eyes glassy with the threat of tears he was trying to swallow back.

You leaned in close, your breath brushing against his cheek. “I thought you were a man, Alex…” you whispered, sharp and unforgiving. Before he could process it, your hand came down again, another slap across the same cheek, the sting spreading like fire. His skin was flushed, reddening under your touch, but this time, he didn’t react, didn’t even flinch, almost as if he’d been expecting it, bracing himself for whatever you’d give him.

You tilted your head, observing him with a look that was equal parts cruel and possessive, taking in his broken expression, his breath shuddering in his chest. “You’re just a little boy, aren’t you?” you murmured, the words laced with a kind of knowing that broke through whatever restraint he had left. 

That did it. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his lips quivered, and finally, he broke, and when he did, it was quiet – a soft, ragged sob that slipped out before he could hold it back. It seemed to come from somewhere deep, a release he hadn’t let himself feel until this very moment. His chest heaved, and a single tear escaped, trailing slowly down his cheek, disappearing into the fabric beneath him. You’d led him here, piece by piece.

“You think you can make me come now?” you murmured, your voice low, challenging, a question that wasn’t really a question at all. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, and you knew that. You’d already decided – you were in control now, and he had no say, no power left but to surrender to the rhythm you set.

Slowly, you began to move, so subtly he might not have felt it at all. Or maybe he was feeling everything too intensely, his senses overloaded, his body so sensitised that it bordered on numbness. Maybe he’d finally floated somewhere beyond sensation, beyond thought, until there was nothing left but you. Each gentle lift of your hips, every subtle press as you sank back down, was like a tide pulling him deeper. You could feel him, spent but still so sensitive, as your bodies met again and again.

A faint wetness slicked between your thighs, a reminder of his release, of the way he’d given himself up to you. You knew how he normally felt about things like this �� the mess, the stickiness, the tangibility of it all. Usually, he’d flinch, squirm, his brows knitting with discomfort if anything lingered too long, if it wasn’t kept neat. But tonight, he didn’t care. He was too far gone, too blissfully adrift to mind. And maybe that was what made it so exquisite, that he’d given even that up, abandoned every control, every wall he’d usually keep so carefully constructed.

He tried to make a sound, his mouth falling open, lips parting, but nothing came out. His breath was shallow, his body pliant under yours, and for once, you didn’t watch him. You leaned forward, letting your lips brush the curve of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin as you pressed soft kisses there, each one a silent promise that you’d guide him back when it was time. But for now, he was good, perfectly, beautifully lost.

With a deep breath, you quickened your pace, the friction building as you moved against him, your own body beginning to crest toward release. He was your anchor and your audience, and as you chased that final, intoxicating high, you could feel the way his body responded to every slight movement, even in this undone state, holding onto each moment, letting himself be taken, without question, without resistance.

The wave of pleasure came slow and steady, sweeping through you, filling the space between you both, a shared warmth that seemed to hold him there as much as it held you. You stayed that way, still connected, feeling him breathe, your own heartbeat slowing as you brought him back, brought yourself back, from the edge you’d gone to together. You felt it, the unexpected pulse, his body giving in to another orgasm that caught him off guard, his expression empty yet vulnerable, completely still under you. His skin felt warm, flushed, somewhere unreachable. 

You leaned in close, pressing a soft whisper to his neck. “Hey.” you murmured, voice gentle as you began placing slow, feather-light kisses from his neck, tracing a path up to his cheek, feeling the dampness where his skin was still wet.

As you kissed along his face, down to his eyelashes that glistened with those unshed tears, you saw him begin to come back, bit by bit, returning from the quiet. You shifted, letting your body relax fully on top of his, feeling your weight settle over him as he slipped out of you. You felt your warmth on his lower belly, a reminder of how close you’d been, how deeply entwined you were. And slowly, you sensed his awareness returning, his chest beginning to tremble beneath yours, small shudders building until he drew a sharp, desperate gasp, as if finally realising he needed to breathe again.

You moved instinctively, your hands gentle but firm, one reaching up to tangle in his hair, carefully breaking apart the strands still stiff from gel, while the other traced down the length of his arm. With each stroke, you felt him soften, his defences lowering, until he reached out, wrapping his arms around you with a fierce urgency. His grip was tight, holding you so close it was as though he wanted to fuse your bodies together, as if letting go even slightly would unravel everything you’d shared. He held on until there was barely room to breathe, both of your chests pressed so tightly together that neither of you could take a full breath, but neither of you cared. 

He needed this closeness, needed you fully in his embrace, his hands pressing into your back, fingertips digging in just enough to ground him in the reality of your touch. His breathing was erratic, his body warm and trembling, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath yours, the soft, wild thud of it syncing with your own. And you simply stayed there, held within his grip, breathing in unison, letting him feel every inch of you, every quiet promise that you wouldn’t go, that you’d stay right here as long as he needed.

Your fingers traced slow circles into his scalp, soothing, gentle, coaxing him back to a place of calm, and as you felt his breathing begin to steady, he buried his face into your neck, nuzzling closer, his lips brushing faintly against your skin. The silence wrapped around you both, thick and comforting, and you knew that even without words, he understood.

He stayed silent for a long moment, his arms still locked around you. You felt each shaky breath he took, felt his heartbeat slow but still rapid beneath your cheek as you stayed pressed against his chest. Finally, his voice broke the quiet, soft and almost shy.

“Thank you…” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely more than a breath against your skin. His fingers loosened slightly, tracing gentle lines down your back. “You…I don’t know how you do this to me.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, your hand cradling his cheek, brushing a stray tear with your thumb. “It’s okay.” you murmured, keeping your voice soft, soothing. “Just let yourself feel it.” 

A fresh tear slipped down his cheek, and he turned his face into your hand, his lips brushing your palm in a quiet, grateful kiss. “I’ve never…” he started, but his voice broke off. “Never felt this…open.”

You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the raw emotion that he rarely let anyone else see. Gently, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, delicate and tender. His hand found yours, fingers interlocking as he held on.

“Don’t worry about words.” you said quietly. “Just let me take care of you.”

He nodded, his gaze softening as he took a shaky breath, and you carefully extricated yourself from his hold, moving slowly, not wanting to break the moment. He watched you with a kind of reverence, still lying back, and as you moved off the bed, he kept his eyes on you, silently following every movement, as if he needed that reassurance.

You reached for a warm, damp cloth, returning to sit beside him, gently urging him to relax back onto the pillow. He flinched slightly as the cloth made contact, his body still oversensitized, every gentle press of fabric sending ripples of sensation over his skin.

“Shhh…” you whispered. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.” 

He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling as he tried to relax under your touch, his gaze following the slow, careful movements as you gently cleaned him, wiping away every trace of what you’d shared. You could see the gratitude in his eyes, the way he’d gone soft.

He let out a shaky breath, his hand finding yours once more, squeezing. “I’m…I’m here.” he whispered, as if saying it aloud would help him believe it. 

You leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to his hand. “I know.” you replied, your voice a warm promise. “I’m right here with you.”

a/n: based on some requests, I cba to find them all now but maybe you know which ones I mean. I think I like how it turned out

[blushblushbear]

Scale, Seth and Haru husband headcanons pls?

ngl I think all 3 of these dudes would have a weird adjustment period to being husbands, though frankly I think Scale would maybe have the easiest time (well-- MAYBE Haru, but okay---)

Scale

I think the biggest change from boyfriend to husband is going to be him questioning if he should continue his assassin work

He's not going to set down his knives quickly or lightly but like----

he has a spouse now

he doesn't want them becoming a widow/widower

OR EVEN WORSE GETTING CAUGHT UP IN HIS BUSINESS??

bruh, he would DIE

I highly doubt he'd actually end up quitting but there WOULD be some changes around here

for starters--- he has a better divide between his personal and professional life

This is maybe me watching too much venture bros but I really do like the idea of Scale adopting a sort of on the clock/off the clock mentality ("That's my business-- but we're not at the office right now, ya see")

also he gets WAY more protective

your home is probably laced with all kinds of booby traps

and he DEFINITELY makes you run drills

like fire drills but instead of fire it's enemy assassins

Aside from the stuff pertaining to his career, he's actually a very sweet and loving husband

Not necessarily a 'I made a home cooked meal in my apron' every night kind of loving but more a 'I stopped by that place you like and got us dinner' type

also def kind of nerdy husband but less about magic or dnd and more about weapons and armor (though don't get it twisted, he'll get down hard on some dnd)

lots of quality time whenever he's home

lots of texts when he's away

lots of cuddles on the couch and falling asleep in each others arms

he knows your favorites and brings flowers when he's been gone for a while

you're his home <3

and frankly he's very protective of that home

Seth

okay honestly

Seth is probably the one who has to step up to being a proper husband the most

at the start he's definitely bad at this whole 'being a good husband thing'

but all it takes it you getting visibly frustrated with him a handful of times and he realizes he needs to up his game

his life is REALLY different now, but if he gets to spend it with you it's worth it

and for what it's worth he's actually really good at apologies

and also good about being sincere about them too, it's not just fluff to get him out of trouble

he's also very protective of you but he's not as 'DECLARATION OF HIS UNDYING LOVE AND PROTECTION AGAINST THE LIGHT OF THE MOON' as Scale is about everything

also is actually really good at listening to you vent/share work drama

also always offers to send your annoying co-workers to hell

you say no but the offer still stands

is only really good at barbecue and baking so anything too far past that you're gonna have to order in or cook for the night

also I don't know if he'd suggest this first but if the subject of having date night comes up he's actually really really about date night

likes to take you somewhere nice or fun or both

also will try to convince you to adopt a hellhound

this will be a forever conversation in your marriage, just letting you know now

Haru

so look

I'm not saying Haru would ever cheat on you

actually far from it

BUT I WILL SAY that going from a long ass life time of tom catting around every night to a committed long-term monogamous relationship is going to be a major life change for ANYONE

including Haru

that being said that's actually kinks you worked out early in your relationship

I do get the sense that Haru low key misses his old life a bit, but knowing you has changed him too much and he could just--- never go back ya know??

and frankly he wouldn't want to

but again that's like--- also stuff that was dealt with during boyfriend stage

actually honestly, once you're committed to each other, he legit doesn't see you as anything other than his mate

married or not his attachment is the same honestly

marriage isn't JUST a human thing but it's more of a you thing that a Haru thing

as far as he's concerned you two are as good as married already

all though who could pass up a party to show you off and celebrate your union???

so yeah-- you'll have to bring it up, but Haru is down to marry you right away

so I think with Haru, YOU'RE going to have to change your life the most due to marriage

he's kind of the leader of a whole group of people

he's not going to make you come live with them, but you ARE gonna have to at least be next door

that's gonna be the biggest marriage hurdle depending on who you are

though if push comes to shove he is willing to find a successor and run away with you

but low key please don't make him do that cause his people need him and he loves them and also he'd feel guilty about it FOREVER haha

but yeah past that married Haru is not much different from boyfriend Haru except he's a little bit more clingy/up front about pda etc cause HEY that's his SPOUSE, he's allowed

he also does REALLY LOVE calling you his spouse in front of anyone and everyone as many times as he can

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.12

Hii guyss, here's part 12 of the story. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 11, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, and as you stir awake, you realize you’re wrapped in Charles’s arms, his chest rising and falling against your back. Strangely, there’s no awkwardness; it feels natural, as if you both belong there. You’re enveloped in his warmth, and for a quiet moment, you simply savor the feeling. Slowly, you turn, and he stirs awake, blinking a few times before his lips curve into a soft smile.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice a little raspy from sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper back, a smile creeping onto your face.

A few minutes later, you’re both dressed and ready, and Charles guides you out of the hotel and into the bustling paddock. Cameras flash, but he keeps you close, expertly shielding you from the media frenzy. You’ve barely taken in the sights when you arrive at Ferrari’s motorhome, and Charles turns to face you with a grin, pulling his signature cap from his bag. He tugs it down on your head gently, giving you an amused look.

“You’ll need this. I expect to hear your cheers even from the car,” he teases, adjusting the cap on your head.

You laugh, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, I’ll make sure you hear me, Leclerc.”

He grins, and in a moment of spontaneous warmth, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, his voice low and sincere as he looks into your eyes. The world around you fades, and for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

Just then, your phone starts vibrating persistently in your pocket, breaking the trance. You glance at the screen and see Arthur’s name flashing.

“Oh,” you say, breaking into a slightly nervous smile. “It’s Arthur.”

Charles’s expression changes subtly, but he masks it with a quick smile. He releases you, stepping back, though his hand lingers on yours for just a second longer. “Better take it,” he says, his voice warm but with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.

As you answer the call, Arthur’s familiar voice fills your ear. "Hey, just wanted to check in. How’s it going?”

You glance back at Charles, who’s already striding confidently towards the Ferrari garage, giving you one last wave. “It’s great,” you say, “just… great.” You hold the phone close as you watch Charles disappear into the Ferrari garage, his last glance making your heart beat faster.

“Arthur?” you say, shifting to a quieter spot. “So far, everything’s been amazing. Charles has been… well, honestly, he’s been incredible.” You can practically feel Arthur’s silence on the other end of the line, but you continue, biting your lip nervously. “Actually, I have something to tell you… but you have to promise you’ll keep it between us, okay?”

Arthur’s voice comes through, trying to sound casual. “Of course, anything for you. What is it?”

You take a deep breath, feeling your cheeks warm. “I think… I think I might have feelings for Charles. I don’t know; it’s just, this whole trip has been—”

Arthur cuts in, his voice strained but controlled. “Y/N, you know Charles. He’s… well, he’s been talking to some girls on Instagram lately. Pretty regularly, actually.” His tone is casual, almost as if he’s mentioning it offhand, but each word hurts you more. “I mean, I just thought you should know. Might be better if you didn’t get your hopes up.”

The air around you seems to shift, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to think. “Oh… really?” you say softly, your chest tightening.

Arthur lets out a faint sigh, though his hand clenches around the phone on his end. “Yeah. Look, I’m just looking out for you. I don’t want you getting hurt. You’re important to me, Y/N.” He pauses, his voice softening. “Maybe… maybe it’s best if you don’t put too much stock in Charles.”

Your head feels a little heavier with the news, but Arthur’s voice sounds so sincere, like he truly cares. “Thanks, Arthur. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Always,” he replies, his voice low and possessive, though you don’t quite catch it. “Just remember, I’m here for you—whenever you need me.” You finish your conversation with Arthur, his words lingering in your mind like a shadow over the excitement you’d been feeling. He said he was just looking out for you, and you know he cares, but somehow, his words have left a weight in your chest.

“Y/N?” Charles’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you look up to find him watching you with a gentle smile. “I’m heading out for some tests now. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

You nod, giving him a small smile, but it’s not as bright as before. Charles notices immediately, his expression shifting. “Hey… you okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound upbeat, but there’s a distance in your tone that surprises even you. “I’m just… good luck out there.” You force another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Charles looks at you, frowning slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. He steps a little closer, placing a hand on your arm. “Are you sure? You seem… different.”

You glance down, feeling suddenly unsure if you should share what Arthur said. But you don’t want to burden him before his tests, so you nod quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Go on—focus on your practice. I’ll be cheering from here.” You manage a soft laugh, trying to ease his worry.

His eyes linger on you for a moment, as if he’s searching for answers, but then he nods slowly. “Alright, if you say so.” He gives you a reassuring squeeze on the arm before stepping back. “Just know, I’m here if you need me, okay?”

You give him a nod, watching as he walks off with a hint of reluctance, casting one more glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the paddock.

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16

[cedar-sunshine]

Yet again overjoyed at how normal Orion seems compared to Tristan. Like yes this is a well adjusted man who was raised in a friendly and loving home and makes rational and good decisions. Haha why do u ask. Haha. (: don't look in the closet haha. (:

[thewingedwolf]

one thing about hbo is that when they get a journalist coming up to them and going “man do i have a fucked up story i want to follow” they really do let that person go wild. i’ve mentioned the way the ronan farrow one really moved me emotionally and that’s just because ronan knows how to investigate and tell a story to get you righteously angry for who it is he’s defending. he’s good at his job!

but this one, quiet on the set, has genuinely made my jaw drop a few times, even if i think some of the framing could have been better in the last episode. of course i know about all the rumors about dan schneider and the abuse on set, it’s hard to have been into the teen nick scene and not notice, and it’s pretty easy to figure out which kids were being harmed through too much attention and which were being harmed through not enough attention, and there’s been all sorts of rumors floating around for over a decade!

but the build up to the drake bell reveal was well handled, i thought. i was initially skeptical because i think it’s hard to make a documentary about child sexual abuse without leaning into being exploitative in some way. and at first, where you have the actors who left early, like katrina, or who you remember but weren’t mega famous like giovannie, and they’re all saying “this set was so weird & inappropriate, i knew something was wrong but i didn’t have the experience or vocabulary to say what” it feels a little too schlocky. like, oh we’re just kind of speculating on the inappropriate nature of dan’s “friendship” with amanda bynes for two episodes? yeah it is fucked up that two pedophiles were on that set, but did they hurt anyone on set?

and then drake bell walks into the room dressed like timmy turner and says it was me. he hurt me.

i can’t stop thinking about the choice of clothes here and the way it helps drive home the point of the doc. he’s sitting there in fairly odd parents colors as an adult and can’t describe the sexual trauma he experienced as a child still, has never spoken about it, had his mom lie to his father over it because he was so screwed up. really driving home the point that he was just a kid who had a knack for physical comedy and it got him preyed on by dan, a man who should have protected him, set up and handed over to a monster who traumatized him for months and years.

but when that reporter said she got a judge to let them unseal the court documents because drake bell told her how much support peck had? my jaw dropped, like yeah this is reporting, this is someone who saw this story and finally fucking cared not about the salacious details but about who knew what and why they did nothing to stop this from happening. it’s not about forcing drake bell or katrina jackson or alexa to live through the worst moments of their life - it’s about how so many people knew what was going on and didn’t do a god damn thing to stop it. it’s about how these monsters, these convicted pedophiles, were given access to little kids to hurt and traumatize and everyone knew and didn’t just look the other way, they actively helped cover it up. THATS the story. Not that it was an isolated tragedy but that it was a clinical, purposeful environment built by people who wanted to harm little kids.

[elytrafemme]

every single fictional character i like should split and have mood swings like me. "ohhhhh but it's not canotical" "ohh they have good control over their emotions and stable views on the world" i don't fucking care. i see cq in his fake desert i see klavier's control dialogue i see dahlia and her serial murders and komaeda and the gun literally fuck with me right now. we need to stop being cowards about our fictional character headcanons i think everyone should kill people always because i can't

[silvershayde]

Sometimes it really feels like me my sister and my mum are the only ones who actually take care of my cat

[sakitenmaenjoyer]

tsukasa's so funny bc in earlier stories whenever he showed a hint of anything negative he'd go "AUGHHHHHHH IM A USELESS PIECE IF SHIT. WAIT DONT THINK THAT WAY I HAVE TO BE BETTER"

[kateschi]

midnight check-in

synopsis: in the middle of the night, you are woken up by a call from your husband.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the phone buzzes on the nightstand, dragging you from the edge of sleep. squinting at the glowing screen, you see katsuki’s name flashing across it.

it’s late—past the time he should have been home, but not unusual given the unpredictability of hero work. swiping the call open, you press the phone to your ear, voice still heavy with sleep.

“did I wake you?”

his voice is rough, but familiar, crackling through the line like static.

there’s no apology in his tone, but you can hear the subtle hint of concern buried underneath, like he’s weighing whether he should’ve waited until morning to call.

“no,” you lie, sitting up and adjusting to the quiet darkness of the room. “it’s fine. what’s up? are you coming home soon?”

there’s a brief pause on the other end. you hear the faint shuffle of his gear, like he’s shifting in his seat, maybe still in the office or the agency car. “yeah, I’ll be home in a bit. just… wanted to check in.”

check in? katsuki doesn’t just check in. the man’s explosive, stubborn, and blunt to a fault—never the type to dance around what’s on his mind. so, when he calls you this late just to ‘check in,’ something feels off.

“everything okay?” you ask softly, leaning back against the headboard. your fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, tracing small patterns over the fabric.

“yeah, just a long-ass day,” he grumbles, his voice a little lower now. he’s tired, you can tell, but there’s something else lurking in the background of his words.

“didn’t mean to be out so late. I know I said I’d be back before—”

“katsuki,” you cut him off gently. “you don’t have to apologize for doing your job. I know how it is.”

he lets out a frustrated huff, and you can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, the way he does when he’s feeling restless.

“still,” he mutters. “I said I’d be there, and I’m not. doesn’t sit right with me.”

your heart softens at that. even though his words are gruff, katsuki has always had a way of showing he cares—usually in his own roundabout, katsuki-style way.

“you’re here now,” you say, your voice a little warmer. “that’s what matters. I’m just glad you called.”

another pause, this one heavier. there’s a slight crackle from his end, like he’s shifting again, probably leaning back in whatever chair he’s stuck in, the tension still clinging to him.

“yeah, well��� I didn’t wanna wake up and find out you’re pissed I didn’t get home.” there’s a touch of humor in his voice, and you can practically hear the smirk on his lips. “figured I’d save myself the trouble.”

you chuckle softly, shaking your head. “you’re not getting out of trouble that easily, katsuki.”

“darn,” he clicks his tongue, but the familiar grumble in his tone makes you smile. it’s his way of saying he missed you, without actually saying it.

for a moment, there’s just comfortable silence between you.

the sound of his steady breathing on the other end of the line makes your chest ache a little—wanting him here, not just on the other side of a phone.

“you almost home?” you ask quietly, the warmth of the blankets doing little to fill the empty space beside you.

“yeah.” his voice softens, dropping just enough that you can tell he’s not as guarded anymore. “should be there in about ten.”

“good,” you murmur, stifling a yawn as you sink further into the bed, imagining him walking through the door any minute now. “I’ll wait for you.”

there’s a beat, a moment where his breathing catches ever so slightly, before he grumbles again, but softer this time. “you don’t have to stay up for me, y/n.”

“I want to.”

the silence that follows feels different—warmer, like he’s smiling, even if you can’t see it. and maybe it’s the exhaustion in your voice, or the way you said it so matter-of-factly, but something in him shifts.

you hear him let out a quiet breath, the kind he only ever lets out when he’s alone with you.

“...you’re such a damn idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. just warmth.

you smile into the phone, eyes already half-closed. “takes one to know one.”

he snorts at that, a rare sound of amusement that you love catching him off-guard with. “whatever. just keep your ass in bed. I’ll be there soon.”

“mhm,” you hum, already feeling the drowsiness tugging at you again, but there’s something in the comfort of his voice that keeps you tethered.

you shift slightly, hugging the blanket closer, waiting for the familiar click of the front door. before you drift off entirely, you murmur, “love you, katsuki.”

there’s a pause, and for a moment, you think he’s hung up. but then, quietly, with all the weight of a promise, he replies.

“yeah. love you too.”

the call ends with a soft click, but even after, the warmth of his voice lingers in the quiet room. you smile to yourself, feeling the space beside you growing less empty by the minute.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[rafecameronssl4t]

arranged marriage au reader where her postpartum depression is so bad. where she barley picks at her plate, and when the doctors check in on her , they scold her for not keeping healthy for the baby to feed off her. and it’s to the point where rafe has to leave a trip early bc it’s so bad

You know I'll come || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: incase you didn't read it before, make sure you read my important notice!!!

Warnings: ppd, angst, mention of fainting

Word count: 2,114

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

“Y/n, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” James said with a sympathetic sigh, his gaze fixed on the monitor while you sat on the lounge, your eyes glazed over as you stared blankly at the coffee table. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the monitor and the occasional rustle of Anita’s movements as she adjusted the blanket draped over your lap.

“This is the third time you’ve passed out this week. You were lucky Anita was there to catch you before you could have seriously injured yourself.” James exchanged a concerned look with Anita, who stood close by with a worried expression. The gentle, almost maternal way Anita fussed over you spoke volumes about her deep concern.

“You must eat. Your body needs proper nourishment, not just for yourself but for Leo as well.” At the mention of your son, your eyes flickered up from the table, the name ‘Leo’ momentarily pulling you from your daze. “Where is he?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper as you attempted to sit up, only to be gently restrained by James.

“Leo is asleep,” Anita said softly, her tone soothing. She moved closer, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as if to offer reassurance. James continued, his voice gentle but insistent, “Rafe has been informed of your condition and has decided to come home early. He’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, the confusion evident on your face. “Rafe isn’t supposed to be here until Friday,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief as you tried to process the unexpected news. “Rafe is aware of how unwell you are right now. He deemed it necessary to return home early,” James explained, his tone gentle but firm.

Your mouth parted in a silent response, the weight of the news settling heavily on your shoulders. James continued gently, “But for now, you should rest. Take these, they’ll help you sleep.” He extended a small container of medicine towards you. With a grateful nod, you accepted the tablets, feeling their cool, smooth surface against your fingertips.

You placed them in your mouth and swallowed, the slight bitterness leaving a fleeting aftertaste. As the medicine began to take effect, James and Anita exchanged a look of quiet concern. The room felt heavy with the unspoken tension of your fragile state, and the soft rustling of the blanket seemed to amplify the stillness. You leaned back, letting the exhaustion overtake you, the weight of the day’s events and Rafe’s imminent arrival already beginning to blur into the dim haze of impending sleep.

~

"Mr. Cameron, there’s news from Mr. Berkeley concerning your wife," Kate’s voice broke the quiet atmosphere of the plane as she approached Rafe, her iPad in hand. She hesitated for a moment, gauging his mood, knowing that any news related to you could quickly shift his temper. Rafe looked up from his laptop, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, already bracing for the worst.

"What’s happened now?" His tone was clipped, the edge in his voice betraying the unease that simmered beneath his composed exterior. Kate took a breath, her fingers gripping the iPad a little tighter. "Mrs. Cameron fainted for the third time this week while walking down the stairs—" Before she could finish, Rafe’s expression darkened, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Is she injured? Is Leo okay?" His words, though direct, held an unmistakable undertone of worry that he barely managed to suppress. Kate glanced up from her iPad, her eyes meeting his with cautious reassurance. "No, sir. Y/n isn’t injured, and Leo wasn’t with her at the time." A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Rafe as he leaned back in his seat, his hand moving to rub his temples.

The initial wave of panic subsided, but the underlying concern remained, gnawing at him. He closed his laptop with a resounding thud, the noise loud in the otherwise still cabin. "And this is because she isn’t eating well?" he asked, his voice flat but laced with frustration. "Yes, sir. Mr. Berkeley mentioned that Y/n has been struggling to finish her meals," Kate explained, her tone professional yet careful, aware of how delicate the situation had become.

Rafe scoffed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Of course she is," he muttered under his breath, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He stood abruptly, the tension in his body clear as his jaw tightened, hands flexing at his sides. The weight of responsibility, of having to constantly manage his wife’s well-being, pressed down on him. The sound of the plane’s engine hummed softly in the background, creating a quiet that felt too heavy, too filled with thoughts he didn’t want to dwell on.

His thoughts raced, caught between his commitments and the deepening worry that had taken root. Rafe’s decision was swift. "Tell Anthony to turn this plane around. We’re going back to Kildare." Kate blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his command. "But, sir—" she began, her voice hesitant. "Did you not hear what I said?" Rafe snapped, his tone cold and commanding now. His patience, already thin, was gone. "Tell him to turn this plane around. Now." His blue eyes, usually so controlled, flashed with intensity as he stared her down.

Kate swallowed hard, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and making her way to the cockpit without another word. The weight of his anger, his concern for you, and the complicated web of their marriage hung in the air even after she left. Rafe stood there for a moment, alone in the silence. His fists clenched as he stared out the window at the endless expanse of sky, his mind already filled with thoughts of what awaited him back home.

~

"Where is she?" Rafe's voice echoed sharply through the grand foyer as he shrugged off his blazer, his tone tense but controlled. Anita, always efficient and poised, was quick to take his suitcase from his hand. "She’s currently asleep on the sofa. Mr. Berkeley just left a couple of minutes ago," Anita informed him, her voice soft, trying to keep the atmosphere calm.

Rafe nodded, his expression tight as they walked deeper into the house, the weight of the past week’s events evident in his stride. "How is she?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost hesitant tone. His usual composure was cracking, revealing the concern he so rarely let show. Anita glanced up at him, catching the rare flicker of vulnerability in his face.

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips, sensing the subtle change in his demeanor. "She’s doing better. She ate a full meal last night and this morning," she replied, her words laced with reassurance. Rafe’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the news, though only slightly. "Good," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

As they reached the living room, the soft flicker of the TV caught his attention. The sound of cartoon characters filled the room, a stark contrast to the heavy emotions swirling inside him. Rounding the corner of the sofa, his eyes landed on you—fast asleep, curled up with the blanket tucked around you. Your exhaustion was evident, your face peaceful but pale.

However, Leo was wide awake, his small hands reaching out as he lay nestled beside you. Rafe's heart softened at the sight of his son, so innocent and oblivious to the storm brewing around him. Gently, Rafe scooped Leo up into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that few ever saw. He pressed a kiss to Leo’s cheek, the gesture instinctive, as if grounding himself in the quiet moment.

Without a word, he turned off the TV, silencing the cartoons as the room fell into a soft hush. For a moment, Rafe stood there, holding Leo, his eyes drifting back to you, wondering how things had reached this point—his life so far from what he’d imagined, and yet, here he was, tethered to this quiet moment with you and Leo, torn between frustration, duty, and something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Rafe gently pulled the blanket further up your body, his fingers brushing the soft fabric as he ensured you were as comfortable as possible. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze softening as he watched you sleep, the rise and fall of your chest steady and peaceful. There was a quiet vulnerability about you now that tugged at something deep inside him—a feeling he didn’t often allow himself to dwell on.

With a quiet sigh, he turned away, careful not to wake you. As he walked toward the door, he called out, “Anita?” Anita appeared almost instantly, her usual calm and attentive presence filling the room. “Yes, Mr. Cameron?” she asked, her voice respectful but warm. “Have the chef prepare Y/n’s favourite meals,” he instructed, his tone firm yet carrying an unspoken urgency. “I want her to be eating properly, no excuses.”

His gaze flicked back to you for a second, as though making sure you were still resting soundly. Anita nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. “Of course, sir. I’ll take care of it immediately.” Satisfied, Rafe adjusted Leo in his arms, holding him close as he glanced back at you one last time before stepping out of the room. “Leo and I will be outside by the pool,” he added, his voice a little quieter now, as if the tension from earlier had begun to ebb slightly.

Anita nodded again, watching as Rafe walked away, his steps quiet and measured, the sound of Leo’s soft babbling accompanying him as they made their way toward the open terrace. There, Rafe hoped the fresh air and the familiar comfort of home might bring him some clarity as he processed everything—his thoughts still tethered to you even as he tried to focus on his son.

~

Feeling a gentle hand on his shoulder, Rafe looked up, surprised to see you standing beside him. The colour had returned to your cheeks, and there was a small but genuine smile on your face. For a brief moment, relief softened his usually guarded expression. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, careful not to disturb Leo, who was napping peacefully on his chest.

You offered him another soft smile, walking around to sit on the lounge chair beside him. Your eyes lingered on the still waters of the pool, the calm reflection contrasting with the heaviness in the air. “I’m fine,” you replied, though your gaze remained fixed ahead. Rafe’s eyes stayed on you, his expression stern, not easily convinced by your words. “Did you eat?”

His tone was sharp, but there was an undercurrent of concern that you couldn’t ignore. You nodded slowly, though the hesitation in your movement gave away the effort it took. “I’m sorry you had to cut your trip short—” you began, wanting to apologise for the disruption, but Rafe quickly cut you off. “Don’t.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for further apologies.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of Leo’s head, his eyes briefly softening as he did so. “There’s no excuse for you to not eat,” he continued, his voice hardening again, as though the frustration he’d been holding back was finally spilling out. You looked at him, studying his side profile as he avoided your gaze.

His jaw was clenched, tension radiating from him, but it wasn’t the anger that struck you—it was the concern buried beneath it. You knew this dynamic between you, this mixture of obligation and care, was a complicated dance neither of you had perfected. Your fingers absentmindedly twisted the ring on your finger, a physical reminder of the ties that bound you both. “At least Leo is doing okay,” Rafe muttered, his voice softening as he made eye contact with you.

“That’s all that matters.” But the moment the words left his lips, he saw the shift in your expression. There was something in your eyes—an unspoken sadness, a flicker of something deeper that you kept buried. You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Of course,” you replied, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. You stood up slowly, your body feeling heavier than it had a moment ago.

“I’ll head back inside,” you murmured, already turning to leave. Rafe watched you move, the silence between you thick and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Instead, he refocused on Leo’s sleeping form, his hand gently cradling his son’s small body as the feeling of missed opportunity settled heavily around him.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Oh my god, you laid out freelance inventor perfectly for the justice league to mistake Danny for Batman, especially with John Jones already making his thoughts known that Bruce wayne would be the perfect himbo for Batman lol. Does the entire league pull together to make a beach day seem intentional and end up making so many mistaken assumptions along the way? Either way, I adore what you have going. I'm kinda curious if you had any thoughts on Damians' first reaction to meeting Danny? If not, that's okay. I just love the thought of Danny bonding with Damian in a feral way or through sparing like ghosts tend to in this fandom

The first time Danny meets Damian Wayne is when he comes to the Manor for a surprise visit. He usually would have called ahead or messaged Alfred, but it was a last-minute decision to stop by Gotham on his way to Metropolis.

Initially, Danny was going to a technology expo hosted by Lexcorp, but it was delayed due to a giant fight. A robot had flung Superman through the convention hall, causing severe damage.

Since he now had a weekend free while Lexcorp searched for a new venue, he figured he would spend it with his favorite one percent. Imagine his surprise when he noticed the first thing he noticed was that Bruce had a biological son, one he had told to stay hidden.

He had told his displaced son not to venture out of the manner because he didn't want the public to know about him. Danny hadn't felt this angry in a long, long time.

The glare he sent Bruce had the man flinching, causing Damian, fresh to the Manor and not used to seeing his Father as anything but commanding, to raise an impressed eyebrow. "Kids. Bed. Now. I want to talk to your Father."

"No." Bruce cowered. "Please stay, kids."

"Sorry Bruce, I actually have to touch up some photos for this month's photo op," Tim was quick to say, jumping from his seat.

"I also really need to get started on some paperwork for the gymnastic gym." Dick laughed nervously, dropping out of the handstand he was in. Danny never understood how the young man could randomly spring into flips and handstands.

Damian did not inch from his chair, though. He meets Danny's gaze with a cool upturn of his nose and crossed arms.

"You have no control over me or my actions, Harlot," Damian hissed, but a pale Dick and Tim pushed him out. Jason had been out on some far-off island trip with his friends- Roy, Kori, Artemis, and that delightful Bizzarro who spoke like it was an opposite day every day.

He was the only person to whom he would not talk to Damian. Everyone else would look Danny in the eye and justify why they would assume that a child should be treated as a secret was the correct thing to do.

"Well?" Danny asks when all Bruce does is sit there, hands on his lap and sweating. He narrows his eyes, crosses his arms, and watches the sweat drip down Bruce's head. "Explain yourself."

"Danny, I swear I wasn't aware of Damian. His mother told me she had a miscarriage. If I had known, I would have told you-" Bruce started but was cut off by Danny marching across the room and practically snaring into his face.

"That's not why you're in trouble, Bruce. Why are you treating a nine-year-old boy like a dirty secret?!"

"um..well, that's...you need to understand he's a bit unstable-"

"Choose your next words very carefully, Bruce." Danny cuts him off, recrossing his arms. Bruce swallows before he seems to gather unknown courage and straightens out his back.

"Danny, I don't think Damian needs to be a secret forever, but he needs to adjust before he can go out. He had a hard life with his birth mother and tends to lash out in violent outbursts. Just last week, he pushed Tim off the stairway!"

That's alarming. In fact, it isn't very good to think Tim would not be safe in the same household as Damian. They talk more about it, especially the part where Damian makes clear he wishes to replace Tim and would do nothing to remove him.

Damian is a threat to Tim's well-being. He mentions this to Bruce, who waves it way like a damn fool.

"Tim can handle it."

"Just because he can doesn't mean he should," Danny growls, throwing his arms into the air. "I can't talk to you right now. I can't even look at you."

"Danny, please-"

"Nope. I will tell Tim to stay with me, and I will make plans to take Damian out and about. If you treat someone like a criminal, they will act like one. I'm going to help that young boy settle here, but I will not do it at the expense of another. Don't call or message me." Danny growls, strutting out of the room only to practically run into Damian.

The boy raises his chin as if daring Danny to tell him off for eavesdropping. For one second, Danny is reminded of Jazz, back when she had been so insistent that she was an adult.

His eyes soften, and he knows Damian can see based on his surprise blink. "H kid have you had the chance to go into Gotham yet?"

"Why would I waste my time with the peasants? I am an elite warrior, destined to rule over them."

Huh. He reminds Danny a lot of Jazz now, with her anti-social tendencies- not that she refused to be around people, more like she refused to make friendships with people her age because she thought herself too mature for them- and a little of the battle-hungry ghosts in the Zone.

He can handle that.

"You are to be a general, right? Why are you acting like a common foot soldier?" He asks, watching the boy's entire demeanor freeze over. "A good ruler is not just combat strength. They can take command and can easily step among their fighters. How can you do that if you do not understand the common folk's way of thinking?"

Damian opened and closed his mouth before narrowing his eyes. "You mock me."

Danny shakes his head, falling to his knees so Damian won't need to strain his neck. He keeps the baby talk out of his voice but only barely. He gets the sense that like his sister, Damian would prefer to be treated like a mini adult. "Never. I'm genuinely interested in your thoughts, but you must know that all knowledge is power. Know thy enemy..."

"...as one knows thyself," Damian finishes his quote, looking vaguely intruded. He considers the offer before nodding. "I shall accompany you on your outing and gain valued observations of the average American child."

"Only after you apologize for attacking Tim and tell him to his face how you will not be doing that again," Danny warns, raising a finger at Damian's clouded face. "A good leader does not want insubordination. Attacking Tim did not prove anything but how unreliable you are and how much you fear Tim."

"I do not fear Drake!"

"Then why does his presence so threaten you? Bruce told me how out of all his kids, you seemed so sure you could take him in a fight but not a battle of wits."

Damian's eyes grow cold before he lashes out a hand. Danny catches it quickly, much to the boy's shock. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Not bad, but not what a regular American child would behave. You would have been singled out as a spy the second you stepped in the street."

"....I shall work on my reaction and emotional regulation." Damian yanks his arm free, striding away but not before glancing back at Danny. "You are strange."

Danny smiles. "Thanks, kiddo."

The boy vanishes from sight, and Danny sighs. He must now find Tim and help him pack to stay with him. He also needs to yell at everyone in the Manor, including Alfred. Honestly, that man enables Bruce far too much.

[harrysfolklore]

yn piastri fretting over oscar’s broken rib and oscar’s like, “gee you’re worst than mum” & nicole’s just like, “yeah i don’t need to worry about oscar when yn’s around”

the rumors are true: i'm obsessed with writing this little scenarios

read little bitch here

"Are you absolutely sure you're comfortable? Maybe we should prop you up a bit more," you hover anxiously over Oscar, adjusting his pillow for the third time in as many minutes." Oh, and do you need more ice? I can run and get some. Actually, should we call the doctor again? Just to double-check everything's okay?"

"YN, I'm fine," Oscar groans, "It's just a broken rib, not the end of the world. I'll be racing in Hungary next weekend anyway."

"What? No, absolutely not!" your eyes widen in alarm. "You can't race with a broken rib, Oscar. That's insane!"

Oscar rolls his eyes dramatically. "It's cracked, not broken. And I've been cleared by the medical team," he stresses, "You're worse that mum sometimes."

From her seat in the corner, Nicole chuckles. "Oh yeah, I don't even have to worry about you when your sister is around. She's got the overprotective mother role covered."

"Thanks, Mum," you say, turning to her. "My therapist has great opinions about it. She says my anxiety comes from a place of love."

"Yeah, well, your love is suffocating me right now," Oscar snorts.

"Osc, I'm just worried about you," you stressed again, "It's too dangerous. What if you crash? What if your rib punctures a lung? What if-"

"What if aliens invade during the race?" Oscar interrupts, mimicking your concerned tone. "What if a meteor hits the track? What if I suddenly forget how to drive?"

"This isn't funny, Oscar! I'm serious!"

"So am I! Carlos nearly drove with a burst appendix, and he was fine!"

Carlos, who's been quietly watching the siblings' back-and-forth like a tennis match, pipes up. "Well, 'fine' might be stretching it. I was in quite a bit of pain, actually."

You whirled on Carlos, who suddenly looked very interested in the ceiling. "Oh, don't even get me started on that piece of stupidity!"

"In my defense," Carlos cleared his throat awkwardly. "I didn't actually race…"

"Only because the team had more sense than you did!" you exclaimed.

"Back when you pretended to hate Carlos but you were at the edge of your seat worrying the entire time he was at the hospital," Oscar teased, making you roll your eyes.

"That's not the point right now," you crosses your arms over your chest, glaring at Oscar. "We're talking about your safety, not my past… concerns."

"Oh, but I think it is relevant," Oscar grins mischievously, sensing an opportunity. "Remember how you kept texting the group chat every five minutes when Carlos was in the hospital? 'Just being a decent human being,' you said. As if we couldn't see right through you."

You feel your cheeks heat up, aware of Carlos' gaze on you. "That's... that's completely irrelevant," you stammer.

"Is that so, hermosa?" Carlos chuckles softly, moving to stand beside you. "I didn't know you cared so much back then."

You shoot Carlos a look that's half embarrassment, half exasperation. "Don't you start. And you," you turn back to Oscar, pointing an accusing finger, "stop trying to change the subject. We're talking about your cracked rib and your ridiculous idea to race with it."

Nicole, who's been watching the exchange with poorly concealed amusement, decides to intervene. "Alright, kids, let's all take a breath. YN, honey, I understand you're worried. But Oscar's right - he's been cleared by the medical team. They wouldn't let him race if it wasn't safe."

"But-" you start to protest, only to be cut off by Oscar.

"No buts," he says firmly. "I appreciate the concern, sis, I really do. But this is my job, and sometimes it comes with risks. I promise I'll be careful, okay?"

You sigh, feeling your resolve weaken. "Fine. But I swear, Oscar, if you so much as wince during that race, I'm storming the track myself."

"Now that I'd pay to see. YN vs. Formula 1 security," Carlos jokes, "My money's on you, mi amor."

As you and Oscar continue to bicker, your mom and Carlos exchange amused glances. Carlos leans towards her, speaking in a low voice.

"Has YN always been like this?" he asks, a fond smile playing on his lips as he watches you fuss over Oscar.

"Oh, you have no idea," Nicole chuckles softly. "This is actually quite mild compared to when they were kids. There was this one time when Oscar was about seven, and he fell off his bike. Scraped his knee pretty badly. YN, who was ten at the time, went into full nurse mode."

"What did she do?" Carlos raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Well," she continues, "She insisted on 'quarantining' Oscar in his room for a week, claiming he needed complete bed rest. She even made a 'Do Not Disturb: Patient Recovering' sign for his door. Poor Oscar was going stir-crazy by day two, but YN wouldn't let him leave. She brought him all his meals, read him stories, everything."

Carlos can't help but laugh at the image. "That sounds exactly like something she would do."

"Oh, it gets better," Nicole grins. "When I finally convinced her that Oscar was fine to go outside, she insisted on wrapping him in bubble wrap before he could ride his bike again. Said it was 'necessary protective gear'. Oscar looked like a little astronaut waddling down the street."

Their laughter catches your attention, and you pause in your debate with Oscar about the dangers of racing with a cracked rib. "What's so funny?" you ask suspiciously.

Before Nicole can respond, Oscar, catching on to the conversation, groans dramatically. "Oh god, Mum, please tell me you're not telling the bubble wrap story."

Your eyes widen in realization, and you feel a blush creeping up your neck. "Mum! You promised never to mention that again!"

Carlos, still chuckling, wraps an arm around your waist. "I think it's adorable, hermosa. You've always been a protector."

"Well control your girlfriend! She's trying to bubble wrap me again, I swear!"

"I am not! Although..." you trail off, a mischievous glint in your eye, "it's not a bad idea for the race. Extra padding couldn't hurt, right?"

"YN, no!"

[kairoot]

TEETH ⌇ SJY

SINK MY TEETH IN YA— jake has been hiding a huge secret from you—he’s a vampire. after going six months without feeding, his control is slipping, especially when he's around you, sensing your blood. when you notice his strange behavior and confront him, he brushes it off. but soon, he can’t hide it anymore and reveals the truth, expecting you to be scared. instead, he’s shocked when you offer to let him feed from you.

𝓅𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 vamp!jake x 𝑓．𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 esatablished relationship , thriller (?) , suggestive 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 biting.. (jake is a vamp hello…), kissing, physical touch, etc. — ℳ𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴：layout insp by sav bb 🤍. please reblog and/or leave feedback. it is greatly appreciated !— 𝐌𝐒𝐅.

“you ready, babe?” jake asked, walking in the bedroom while still running a comb through his gelled hair.

you adjusted the necklace in the mirror, moving it around to your liking.

“almost.”

jake chuckled to himself, knowing it always took you a while to get yourself dolled up and you’d stand in the mirror until you actually liked what you were wearing.

“you look fine, baby.” he appeared behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you close to him.

you sighed, not believing him but prepared to leave anyway. you both decided to attend the town’s halloween party tonight (you begged jake to go), seeing as you don’t really go out as much as you used to. when you and jake started dating, you both attended nearly every gathering there was. but jake had suddenly become uninterested in going out.

you wondered why, seeing as he always seemed like a people person to you but after some thought, you figured he just wanted to stay in and enjoy each other in private. you didn’t mind it, but a part of you missed the lively atmosphere.

jake still clung to you, placing his face in the crook of your neck.

“what perfume are you wearing tonight? smells so good..” he mumbled, almost slurring, taking in whatever scent it was. the smell was so intoxicating, he almost felt faint.

“i didn’t put any on yet,” you giggled, not noticing his grip on you tighten and the slight tension in his body.

now jake was confused. if you didn’t have any perfume on, why was your scent so strong? it seemed irresistible.

but once he thought about it, the answer popped in his head. before he could pull away, a searing pain shot through the front of his mouth, causing his hand to fly up to hold it.

you turned around when you heard him let out a painful groan, placing a hand on his jaw, giving him a concerned look.

“is everything okay?” you questioned, waiting for him to answer as his face contorted in discomfort.

jake had realized that it’s been nearly 6 months since he had a taste of the red liquid that kept him alive. he had been feasting as if he were human and could live off of normal meals. but he should have known that wasn’t the case. he thought he could handle it— pretend to be human. but now his control was slipping.

jake swallowed hard, stepping back from your touch. “i’m fine.” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction, and he couldn’t meet your eyes. he took another step back from you, sitting on the edge of your bed.

you could sense that something was wrong, a strange tension in the air. “jake.. what’s going on?”

he exhaled shakily, his facade crumbling. he didn’t want to tell you, but he knew he couldn’t keep this hidden much longer. not with the way your scent was overwhelming him, making his throat burn with need.

his hands rested beside him as he gripped the bedding, trying to calm himself down. he avoided any eye contact with you, scared that he’d immediately lose all self-control.

“baby, we don’t have go this party if you’re not feeling well—“

jake shook his head, forcing a smile that didn’t really reach his eyes, “no, i’m fine. i promised you we’d go.”

you hesitated, not at all convinced by his words. his body had relaxed a bit more but you could tell he was holding back on something, “are you sure, jake?”

jake sighed, running a hand through his hair. “i’ll be okay, babe, honestly. i just need a distraction.” he finally looked at you, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “you’ve been looking forward to this. don’t let me ruin it for you.”

you smiled softly, walking toward him to hold brush your hand against his cheek. “alright.. but i’m driving,” you said, grabbing the car keys from the dresser. “i’m not letting you behind the wheel when you look like you’re about to faint.”

jake chuckled slightly, but there was no argument. he followed you out of the bedroom, the tension between you both still lingering. you hoped the party would actually distract him, seeing as you had a feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling you.

as you made your way to the car, you glanced at him, seeing the way his jaw clenched. he seemed so distant and you couldn’t help but worry about what the night would bring.

you both arrived at the party’s venue— a large but old mansion decked out with eerie decorations. pumpkins were scattered across the yard while cobwebs covered the corners of the porch. the sound of laughter and music was heard from the open doors of the house.

you turned the car off, sitting there for a moment before getting out. you wanted to ask jake what was really on his mind or what was bothering him.

“baby,” you called for him but no answer. he was distracted and looking at whatever was going on outside the passenger window.

“jaeyun.” your hand touched his arm this time, catching his attention. he hummed in response, turning his head to face forward now.

you shuffled closer to him, your chest pressed against the side of him.

“you know you can talk to me right?”

instead of answering, he sighed, lowering his head. if you kept asking about what was bothering him, he’d have no choice but to tell you. he hated keeping things from you especially because he knew you only wanted him to feel better and you wanted the best for him.

you leaned in to press soft kisses along his jaw, making him exhale softly. your hand made its way to his chin, turning his head so he was facing you.

you pecked his lips a couple of times before pulling away slightly to look him the eyes. they seemed darker tonight, the usual spark in them looked like it had disappeared.

"jaeyun, i mean it," you whispered against his skin. "if you're not feeling up to this, we don't have to go in. we can just head home, or even sit here for a while. i just want you to be okay."

jake closed his eyes briefly, his hand slipping down to rest on your thigh. his grip was firmer than usual, as if grounding himself with your touch. he wanted to tell you, wanted to explain the storm that was building inside him-but the words wouldn't come. not yet.

"i'm fine, really," he finally said, though even you could hear the strain in his voice.

"alright," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

"but if at any point you're feeling worse, we'll leave, okay?"

jake nodded, though you noticed the way his fingers twitched against your leg.

with that, you both stepped out of the car. the cool night air hit you immediately, the atmosphere of the party drawing you in as you made your way toward the mansion. you could hear the music more clearly now, and the sounds of people laughing and talking grew louder with every step. the porch creaked slightly underfoot as you climbed the stairs, and the glow of jack-o'-lanterns flickered in the dim light, casting long shadows across the yard.

jake walked beside you, quieter than usual. you glanced at him, still feeling that nagging worry tugging at your chest, but you didn't press him any further. not yet.

“hey, you made it!” one of your friends called out from the entrance, waving excitedly as you and jake made your way inside. you returned the wave, feeling a little lighter now that you were here.

the inside of the mansion was just as lively. the grand ballroom was filled with people dancing, their costumes a blur of color under the dim, spooky lighting. fake bats and skeletons hung from the chandeliers, and fog machines pumped mist across the floor, creating an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere.

you turned to jake, who was scanning the room, his eyes darting from person to person. you noticed the way his jaw clenched again, the same tension from earlier creeping back into his posture.

“you okay?” you asked, touching his arm.

“yeah, just… a lot of people,” he muttered, his voice tight.

you frowned, your concern growing. he usually loved being around crowds, but tonight, he seemed different—on edge.

“why don’t we grab a drink?” you suggested, hoping to distract him. “maybe that’ll help.”

jake hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the crowd, but eventually nodded. “yeah. sure.”

you led the way to the drink table, but as you walked through the sea of partygoers, you noticed the way he kept glancing around, making you think he was looking for something—or someone.

you both made your way through the crowd after getting drinks, but something about jake’s energy felt off. he was quieter than usual, not fully engaging with anyone who greeted him, his hand gripping yours just a little too tightly. every so often, you caught him looking around, almost like he was on edge, but when you asked him if everything was okay, he brushed it off with a forced smile.

“i’m fine, i’m okay” he would say, but you weren’t convinced.

the party went on for a while, but jake grew more distant with every passing minute. eventually, you both decided to leave early, the fun of the night overshadowed by jake’s strange behavior. he seemed relieved as you left the venue, though the tension between you still lingered.

when you arrived home, the atmosphere had shifted again. jake seemed distracted, his body tense as if he was trying to hold something back. you went into the kitchen to grab a snack, thinking over the night’s events.

as you were cutting up your fruit for a late snack, a sharp pain ran across your finger as you sliced it while using the kitchen knife. you hissed, dropping the knife as you instinctively pressed your other hand to the cut.

“damnit,” you muttered, holding your hand under the sink to clean it. as you did, you noticed jake’s sudden stillness. he hadn’t moved from his spot in the doorway, his eyes locked on your hand.

his gaze was fixated on the small trail of blood now dripping from your hand, his breathing heavier than before.

“it’s just a cut,” you said softly, noticing the strange look in his eyes. but as you stepped toward him, his expression darkened, a hunger creeping into his features that made your heart skip a beat.

“you should… get that cleaned up,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “i’ll get the bandages.” he said, but his eyes never left your finger.

but before you could move, jake was suddenly closer to you, his body tense and his breathing ragged as if he was fighting against something. you could feel the heat of his presence, the way his eyes darkened as he watched the blood still pooling at your fingertip.

“jake, what’s really going on?” you asked, your voice soft but filled with concern. “you’ve been acting strange all night..”

he hesitated, his jaw clenched, but you could see the struggle in his eyes.

he wanted to pull away, but he leaned in instead, his nose brushing against your skin as he inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut. “your blood.. the smell is driving me insane.”

your breath caught in your throat. “..what does that mean?”

he swallowed hard, his eyes dark and filled with a hunger you’d never seen before. “i haven’t fed in months, y/n,” he confessed, his voice raw. “i tried to stay away from it, i swear.“

you stared at him, the weight of his confession settling over you like a heavy fog. “you… you’re a—?” the words felt foreign on your tongue, but jake’s pained expression told you everything you needed to know.

he nodded slowly, stepping back as if ashamed. “i didn’t want you to find out like this. i’m so sorry.”

you were quiet for a moment, processing everything. then, despite the fear and the shock coursing through you, you made a decision. “then take it.”

jake’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “w-what?”

“my blood,” you said, your voice steady even though your heart was racing. “if you need it, then take it. i trust you.”

jake shook his head. “baby, you know i can’t do that. i don’t wanna hurt you..”

“you won’t,” you whispered, moving back until you were pressed against the door, his body hovering over yours. “i know you won’t. i trust you, jake.”

his eyes searched yours, desperate and conflicted, but the hunger was too strong to resist. with a shuddering breath, he leaned in, his hands holding the sides of your neck as his lips brushed against the skin.. “tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

you shook your head, breath shuttering as you tilted your head back. his arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer.

“bite me,” you whispered once more, your hands gripping his shoulders as you waited to feel that small pinch.

jake’s fangs elongated as he wasted no time sinking his teeth in you. you gasped softly, the feeling being a mix a pain and ecstasy.

a deep groan of relief escapes his lips, the satisfaction of finally feeding without blood overwhelming him. his grip tightened on your hips as he pulled you closer, nearly losing control (again).

jake pulled away before he could drink any more, his lips tinted red before his tongue darted out to clean it up. he pecked the bite mark, hoping it would soon feel better.

you clung to him, almost hypnotized by the feeling of his teeth against your skin. he looked in your eyes, chuckling at the dazed look you gave him.

“you okay, princess?” he asks as his hand brushed away the strands of your hair.

you nodded, way too distracted to even give him a verbal response.

“c-can you do that again?”

🖇️. @wonsdoll @mimismenu @yourssincerely-mimi @riribelle @nerdimoo @sngleehee @elysianiki — only accepting 40 people.

🝮. @k-films

[endursent]

- Through the Dark

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , dry humping , a bit of pining , tight spaces , NSFW 】

【 note; i've never written smut/nsfw before, so this is treading new grounds for me, but I need to practice for gss because i want that to be juicy. expect more, lol. it'd also be nice to get requests/suggestions to stir by brain a bit if you'd like.

also, the reader's gender is never mentioned but there are gender-neutral they/them pronouns used twice in the middle to enforce that ambiguity. 】

【 word count; 3.391 | read on ao3 】

“Stop… moving so much,” Sunday strains through grit teeth, he’s trying not to sound annoyed or upset, but it’s an uphill battle. 

  “You’re moving first, I’m just adjusting,” you whisper back, you can’t tell what expression he’s making in the darkness, but you’re sure it’s on some scale of annoyance or frustration by the sound of his voice. 

  “You–”

  You hear footsteps approaching and slap your right hand over his mouth, your heart beats faster as they approach, quick taps against hardwood floors… you feel Sunday still completely, his jaw moves slightly beneath your palm as he swallows thickly. Neither of you move an inch until distant shouts sound and the footsteps fade. You still keep your hand over his mouth for a moment longer just in case. You can’t see out of the closet you’ve squeezed into… what if there’s someone listening on the other side? Just waiting for either of you to make a noise?

  Your heart continues to beat rapidly in your chest, you feel it hammering against your rib cage–and you’re sure Sunday feels it too.

  After a while, you take a gamble and lower your hand from his face, surely they’re gone now? 

  “...” Sunday doesn’t say anything, a tense silence falling between you. His voice is a whisper when he finally does speak. “... is this a usual occurrence?”

  You have to take a moment to try and understand what he means. “Ha? Being stuck in a closet?”

  “Yes,” he just grumbles, disapproval clear in his tone. 

  “... no,” you mumble in return. The how and why of the situation was irrelevant—mostly because it’s your fault and you don’t want to think about it—what was much more important is that you are stuffed into a closet with Sunday with barely any wiggle room and you’re not keen on facing a horde of angry guards who could potentially be hostile with only you and Sunday to fend them off. 

  Your limbs barely have any space, Sunday’s arms are above the both of you, his elbows on either side of your head as the space is so narrow he can’t even lower them—there’s no direction wide enough for his arm to bend. Your chests are pressed together so tightly that the ornament on his scarf has nearly poked you in the eye three times and you felt the tickle of his feathered wings against your cheekbone when you turned your head to the door.

  The rest… is the uncomfortable part—not that being pressed like sardines in a can isn’t uncomfortable in general. Sunday is slightly taller than you and has to spread his legs on either side of you so that he can fit—the closet isn’t exactly tall either, so the two of you are slightly hunched as well, thus you have to tuck your legs under him so that he’s practically sitting on them, your knees press against the wall achingly and one of your thighs is pressing very insistently and directly between his legs.

  The strain in his voice is probably only half due to the uncomfortable, hunched position, and half because with every slight move you make, you’re essentially grinding your thigh against his crotch. It’s hard not to notice the situation, but for his–and your own–sake you pretend not to. 

  Unbeknownst to you, Sunday is fighting for his life. He hasn’t been touched by another… ever? Not like this, even if accidental. He feels the tips of his fingers prickle and his jaw clench unconsciously as he tries his best not to react outwardly. 

  “Okay… they should be gone now,” thankfully your hands were bent downwards, and thus you could push against the closet door with your elbow.

  But it doesn’t budge.

  You press again, nothing. It’s locked, or blocked by something. No matter how you try and push, the door doesn’t budge.

  “What is it?” Sunday frowns, he can’t see what you’re doing and the closet doesn’t have any holes or window on the door to allow light in. “Open it, just…”

  “It’s locked,” you interrupt him. 

  He says nothing… and you can almost sense the mixture of frustration and disappointment in him, but a soft, warm exhale fans over your face, it almost tickles. “Try again,” he urges surprisingly softly. “Perhaps it’s just stiff.”

  You do as he asks, but no luck. “… it doesn’t open.”

  Sunday clicks his tongue. “Alright—stop pushing, be still,” he nudges your head with his elbow. With every press against the door, your body pushes away from it—and your thigh flexes, pressing against him further. 

  There’s another beat of silence, but you can’t stand it—thankfully, an idea flashes in your mind and you decide to give him a heads up… this will require some wriggling. “Sunday, my phone is in my pocket, if I can get it and send a message to the Express group chat, someone must be able to come and pry the door open.” Never have you imagined a more useful task for Dan Heng’s spear.

  “Can you reach it?” he asks as you shift your arm from being stuck between your stomachs and squeeze it between your bodies. His eyes squint at the feeling. 

  You bite your lip in concentration. “Probably… but I’ll need to try and stretch my thighs and waist to fish it out…” 

  “I see…” he understands what that entails, but he’s not sure he likes the idea. “Can you reach my phone instead? It’s in my coat pocket.”

  You pat around his side and try to find it, it could be easier… but to reach down you have to try and bend forwards—which means pressing your forehead and face directly into his chest. The scarf wrapped around his collar is soft… and it smells nice, like cinnamon. Though his chest itself isn’t very soft, he’s rather skinny. 

  But no matter how you reached and even tried to tug his coat up, the pocket was too far down and his phone even deeper inside. There’s no other way.

  “I’m sorry,” you truly are, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Maybe if we just wait…”

  “No,” he shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your nose. “Just do it.”

  Deciding to try and just get it over with, you nod and start shimmying your back and ass upwards as much as you can to try and create space for you to be able to tug your phone out of your pocket. And it has the exact effect expected. 

  Sunday grunts, he tries to bite back any noise and his thighs twitch before he presses them against your hips tightly, as if trying to close his legs… it’s torturous, your thigh drags up and shifts and moves against him as you fish for your phone, he can’t even reach down to still your leg or tug at himself—anything, his arms are at too much of an awkward angle to be able to bend down in the tight space, so he’s stuck just enduring the searing heat that’s pooling dangerously easily between his legs. 

  Finally, you get a proper hold of it and drag your phone out of your pants pocket, you settle back down which elicits a sound from him that shoots through both of you like an arrow. “Sorry!” you quickly try and apologise, but the soft twitching of his body signals that the apology will do precious little.

  Sunday swallows thickly, so much so that you could hear it. His body was warm before, but now it feels like he’s radiating heat against you. He doesn’t want to say anything, worried his voice might not sound right—but the position you realigned into is pressing him almost painfully flat against himself… which also means he feels every small drag or shift you make. 

  You try to tilt your shoulders in a way that lets you see your phone screen… if you can just text the Express group chat that you’re stuck, surely someone can put off what they’re doing and come let you out. 

  It’s tricky to turn the phone in your hand with only one to spare and try to unlock it without seeing the screen, where even is the messaging app again? You just try your best to guess… until you try and type, which is when your phone tilts from your fingers and clatters to the ground.

  “…”

  “…”

  Fuck. 

  An exhale leaves Sunday. “You dropped your phone.”

  “… yeah,” you sound like a puppy being scolded by its owner. With your phone facing up on the floor, he could just barely see you giving him guilty dog side-eyes.

  He couldn’t explain the frustration it brought him that now no one knew of your positions—you had managed to send a … half-message… but it probably didn’t mean much to anyone. 

—

[17:42] You: slfep dmgwlsGn f

[17:43] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: Huh?

[17:46] Himeko: Probably put their phone unlocked in their pocket again...

[17:49] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: lol

—

  The light from your phone turned off as it was left untouched for too long, and you groaned slightly. Great… now what? Surely you’re not going to be stuck here forever.

  He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure much longer, especially not when your damned body is pressed against his like this, the smell of your clothes and the occasional brush of your hands when you move them in the little space they can be moved. 

  It certainly doesn’t help that he finds you irresistible. 

  How could he, after his world had been turned—his beliefs, his ideals and his goals all turned from reaching forward, to halting in front of a mirror, forced to confront his reflection and pick out the flaws in his own mind before himself. 

  And you treated him just as you would any other person, despite what he had done, despite his false sense of benevolence that he still worked to understand how to redirect to something more realistic, how to understand what it is that drives... 

  His thoughts are interrupted—unfortunately, because it was distracting enough—when you pat his coat again to try and find his phone, but his skin begins to tingle every time you touch him, his poor body highly sensitive from the growing tension in his pants. “S-stop, be still—please,” he breathes, his voice suddenly far closer to your ear than it was before, his soft hair tickling your cheek. 

  Oh, that was…

  You’ve never heard his voice sound like that—not that you’ve known him for long enough to hear many of the pitches of his voice could make, but the way it rose slightly and cut off before pleading with you…

  Why do you want to hear it again?     “Sorry,” you say again, losing count of how many times you’ve said it already. “Are you okay?”

  He wouldn’t admit to his predicament with a gun to his head, but… it’s impossible to ignore, and there’s no way you don’t know either. He takes a deep—shaky—breath. “You can’t… move your leg?”

  You don’t want to lie to him and say yes, your knee is aching from being pressed so firmly against the wall of the closet, and your tailbone isn’t faring better against the other wall. You can pretty much only move it side to side unless you try and straighten your knee out—which as he felt earlier, was far worse. “Not really.”

  He swallows again, Sunday is glad he’s wearing gloves and that the closet is dark, or else you would have felt his sweaty hands or seen it on his brow by now. “I see.”

  He can’t stay like this much longer, his heart thunders against his chest, he hears it clearly as his breath hitches when he tries to provide himself some relief by shifting his hips to one side—but only proceeds to drag against you again, causing maddening friction that makes his thighs flex. 

  The tension in the air is so thick you’re not sure if it’s just the fact the closet doesn’t exactly have a vent, or that your nose is a hair’s width from Sunday’s neck, but it’s making your head feel lighter and your breaths deepen the more he tries to find more comfortable positions and fail, letting out short breaths or grunts. At this point he might as well just find the relief he’s desperately holding back from chasing. It would be less painful. 

  “Sunday,” his name falls from your lips quieter than you meant to, and surprisingly, your own name leaves him equally shyly. A simple breath that made your spine straighten instinctively—causing you to poke yourself in the eye on the ornament on his scarf. “Ow—“

  “Stop moving,” his tone sharpens and you feel a palm on your head. “… nhh—“  Sunday’s body twitches, you feel a throb against your thigh and he fears he’s going to burst if this continues. “…”

  But he can’t in his right mind just ask you if he can use your thigh to satisfy this torturous ache. 

  Thankfully, your mind is usually not ‘right’. “Hey,” you muster up some courage, it helps that neither of you can’t see anything. “If you need to…”

  “No,” he interrupts you, shaking his head—and a wing slaps you in the face, you feel like your face is taking too many swings today. “No, absolutely not.”

  “You sound like you’re about to cry.” His voice is tight, but not because he’s about to cry—he might, if this keeps going for too long—but because he’s reigning in every single willpower he has to hold himself still. “Will it be better if I do it?”

  He clicks his tongue, this entire situation could have been avoided if someone didn’t trigger the alarm. He could’ve gone about his day and not had to—yet again—confront a side of himself left neglected. “No… fine, let me.”

  It was… tentative, shy, as if he thought that short and subtle movements would mean you wouldn’t feel anything or not notice too much. Every shot of warmth from his waist to his fingers and toes made him shudder and his chest tighten, it was a fight on all fronts to both keep quiet and focus on being careful at the same time. 

  It was hard to watch, or rather listen to, as the dark was still all-encompassing. 

  Maybe he would feel better if he didn’t have to think about the uncomfortable silence in the darkness. 

  You can’t reach up, your hands stuck below your chests, otherwise you would have touched his face first. He likely wouldn’t have been as startled as he was when your lips suddenly—yet gently—pressed against his. 

  “Wh—mm you—doin—m—“ it’s almost comedic how his question is only half communicated, surprised and confused by the kiss that he slowly eases into, accepting your offer and splitting his attention. 

  His hips grind against your thigh, slow at first and uncertain, but as your mouth takes half his mind off of it, he begins to move more desperately. He’s been held at a precipice for so many minutes, an agonising hour that felt so long that he thought he would surely explode in some form if it were to continue for much longer. Sunday’s lips are surprisingly soft against yours, warm and inviting as he pushes back, his hand above your head that laid on it is now searching for purchase, as if he wants to take hold of you properly. 

  The two of you pull back to breathe, and Sunday wastes no time to duck his head next to yours, damp lips brushing past your temple and to your ear. He plants wet, open mouthed kisses below it, the sensitive skin tickled by the sensation as his tongue drags against the shell of your ear. 

  But he doesn’t give up, taken by the heated moment and relaxed barriers, his hips continue to cant against your thigh, his worldview narrowing to the sensation of your warm skin under his lips, to the delicious friction created by both your pants. “Hahh…“ he breathes out, a string of saliva separating his lips from your skin. 

  You move your leg in tandem to his grinding, you can’t help but feel his pleasure as if it were your own, the way his body trembles with strain, the breathy sounds below your chin and flex of his hips. You feel your own body respond and warmth pool needily, but you ignore it—he’s the one that’s been suffering for an hour in this stuffy space, you can wait… you try to convince yourself at least, ignoring the subtle throb of your own, at least it was just against air and not pressed against something as well—or perhaps that’s worse. 

  It’s embarrassing, Sunday echoes in the back of his mind, not only that he’s had to resort to this, but also the fact that he wants more. He doesn’t just want to rut against your thigh like this, he wants to touch you with his hands, trapped at an awkward angle over your shoulders. He wants to feel your own heat, the warmth radiating from your clothes against his a tempting tease, a longing of seeing what’s beneath. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your neck, your lips—he wants to feel all of it. 

  Sunday mumbles your name again before his lips find your ear and the top of your throat once more, a hint of teeth as he captures your earlobe between them, a shiver running through you, you can hear his mouth and tongue so clearly... he kisses a reddened spot left below your ear from his single minded focus and his hips falter and his body twitches together, but he only succeeds in brushing his bangs against your chin and his small wings fluttering outward. The surge of heat emitting from his straining cock was unbearable, he moved faster, a breathy sound of your name on his lips again, Sunday says it for the third time as tension fills his body and all he can focus on is the warmth of your frame against his—a bit too tightly in the cramped closet—the soft warm breaths against his ear and the way your hands unconsciously started grabbing at his coat. 

  You feel him tense and groan, the choked sound foreign on his lips, you never expected to hear such a bodily sound from him, nor could you stop it from raising every hair on your arms. You hold onto him as he practically falls against you, Sunday’s breaths are heavy and his arms tremble by your head, his mind feels like it’s been tossed around a bit before stuffed back in upside down, he can’t straighten up or lie down and has to practically sit on your thigh. 

  “Are you okay?” you prod and poke at his stomach worriedly. “Was that okay? Are—“

  “Please… j-just… one moment,” he pleads, not ready to answer a barrage of questions just yet. His heart is beating so fast it almost worries him, his throat feels dry and his legs are weak. He did nothing but drag his crotch up and down your thigh and this is the state he’s left in? He can’t imagine how you would leave him if he got a real taste—

  He shakes his head and you splutter as you get a mouthful of feathers. “I… might have dirtied your pants,” he says shamefully, the sticky wetness between his legs left behind from the height of pleasure was surely going to stain you too. Though it felt good, certainly, he is having some post-clarity… for you to see him so tense and desperate as this—he always has a careful front, not more so than before, but the habit remains. 

  “I have more,” you try to assure him… you don’t have them with you, but you do own more. “So…”

  He presses his forehead against your shoulder. “… I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  A small smile cracks your lips and you stroke his side. “Okay, we‘ll talk later… how about a second grab for your phone? Now that you’re all, eh… spent?”

  “… don’t send anything until we’re dry.”

[haikyuuhoo]

tired eyes

pairing: gojo x reader

wc: 790

warnings: light angst, minor manga spoilers

a/n: tagging @shotorus in this bc sel your sleepy gojo thoughts made me unable to stop thinking about this idea I've wanted to write. I know this is so different to the vibes of what you were talking about but I figured you deserved the tag since this lil drabble finally made its way out of my head bc of you <3 (pls don't feel like you need to read this I'm nervy just tagging you lol)

Gojo’s keys clang loudly against the bowl on the table in the entryway, and he has half a mind to cringe at the noise, seeing as it’s so late and you’re probably asleep by now. He unzips his jacket as he drags his feet in the direction of the bedroom, heaving out a sigh and finally letting his shoulders relax a little, letting some of the tension he’s been harboring for days leave his body. He's so tired that he feels like he could fall asleep in his clothes without even crawling beneath the duvet, though he knows he should at least shower first. But that's all forgotten when he steps into the warm glow spilling into the hallway from the light on your nightstand, and he hesitates for a moment when he notices that you're not asleep—in fact, you're very much awake, like you've been waiting for him.

Your gaze darts up when you see the figure in the doorway, a smile immediately lighting up your face. “You’re home,” you say as you set aside the book you were reading and pull your headphones off.

Gojo raises an eyebrow, making his way to the edge of the bed where you rise onto your knees to meet him. “You’re still up?”

And you nod, shrugging one shoulder slightly as you bring your hands up to cup his face. “Of course. Can’t really sleep well when I’m waiting for you to come back from a mission, ya know?” You say it so casually, but it makes him frown knowing you’re referring to the nineteen agonizing days he was gone from you. You lean in to close the distance between you two, pressing your lips to his in a hungry kiss that has him grasping your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“Well, as much as I wish you wouldn’t stay up just for me, I’m glad you did,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“Mmm,” is all you hum in response, pushing your fingertips underneath his blindfold. And then you kiss his nose, then his forehead, and then briefly his lips again.

And those lips fall into probably the prettiest pout you’ve ever seen. “You gonna take it off?” he asks, his voice low, and normally the tone would have you moving quickly to take everything off of him, but not tonight. Tonight, his voice is low with exhaustion, and you'd noticed the way it seemed to seep into his bones the moment he entered the room.

“No,” you say softly, and he nearly whines, “you’re tired. Your eyes—” You gently let your fingertips smooth across his eyelids over the blindfold “—I’m sure they need the rest.”

Gojo had a penchant for coming home with migraines after missions, all that time with his blindfold off to help him fight draining him and making his eyes even more sensitive than normal, and you’re sure tonight is no different.

“But I want to see you.”

The corner of your mouth tilts up. “I may not know exactly how your technique works, Satoru, but I know you can see me.”

And this time he does whine, squeezing your waist and pressing his forehead against yours. “You know it’s not the same. I wanna see you.”

You hum, stringing him along like you’re thinking about it and toying with the edge of the black fabric. “Okay,” you finally say, “just a peek, yeah?” Before he even has a chance to respond you're lifting it off and dropping it to the side. His hair falls around his face, messier than it normally is, and you gently brush it back.

Gojo blinks a couple of times to adjust his eyes to the light, and your chest tightens at the sleepy smile he gives you, at the way his eyes seem dimmer than usual. “Hi,” he whispers.

And you’re suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion that has you blinking back tears. “Hi.” You cup his face again, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “I missed you.”

He flashes you a grin. “Aww, no need to miss me too much, you know I can’t stay away from you.”

And you both know it’s his attempt to lighten the mood, to pretend that someday there's going to be a time when you’re not waiting up for him, when you can be at peace despite knowing his responsibilities will always take him away for days at a time, when he's not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—when there's not a very real possibility that someday he may not come home to you.

So you decide that today you two will pretend, and you let your tears fall, giving him a wobbly smile. “I know.”

reblogs & comments always appreciated <3