#HE WAS SO CLOSE TO SAYING SOMETHING (chews on the keyboard)

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

- You know, I see my fair share of ruins and death, too. Maybe that means we’re perfect for each other. - You tease, but… There’s nothing more for me here, but we can talk back at Skyhold, and I… I have to think.

[hoshigray]

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭 𝐌𝐞, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 | gojō satoru

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: bully! Gojo x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! you + Gojo are college juniors - first kiss - fingering (f! receiving) - sqüiřtıng - virginity loss - corruption kink - missionary + deep impact positions - clitoral play - unprotected sex (psa: wrap the willy, you sillies!) - premature ejaculation - pet names (baby, crybaby, cutie, princess) - itty bitty possessiveness - mention of spit/drool and tears.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.6k

“Yo.”

“Yes, Satoru?”

“You never had your first kiss, huh?”

Gojo Satoru takes pleasure in being your bully — nothing in his third year of college gives him much joy than being your one source of torment. Sure, he’s got everything: being the campus’ grounds #1 heartthrob, a star player on the men’s basketball team, and an excellent scholar in all his courses despite being a dickhead. But, even if he possesses the things that put him at the top of the class body, his other fountain of entertainment comes from something - or someone - that playing ball or dormitory parties can’t produce the same level of internal enjoyment. 

You and he were alone in his apartment, umbrellaed under the instruction of working on an upcoming project this month. Of course, boredom is evident in the tall one’s heavy sighs as he looks through multiple articles on his laptop. Cerulean orbs wander away from the device’s screen and land on the other side of the couch; another figure glued to the armrest is concentrated on typing their keyboard to notice the prying survey. 

Gojo’s ennui begins to flicker out the moment he sees you, wanting nothing to do with this damn assignment and just to mess with his favorite pushover. This is precisely why he prompts himself to ask you a question, and judging by how quickly your fingers stop typing, now his attention is hooked onto a matter way more fascinating.

He spots your flattened lips. “…Wh–Where did that come from?”

“Just curious, a random thought that came to my head.” 

“Why was that the thought that—“

“Hey, aren’t ya gonna answer the question?”

You stammer. “What makes you think I never had my first kiss?!”

He lifts a brow; his round shades shine when he smirks. “So you did have a first kiss?” Your lips open with no voice, and both silver eyebrows rise from the silent answer you’re giving, only for you to close your mouth and avert your gaze elsewhere. Gotcha, he stifles a chuckle. “Thought so, you terrible liar. Embarrassed I called you out? Haha, hilarious.”

Your eyes may be on the words of your document on your laptop, but the heat on your cheeks and the uncomfortable knot in your gut kept brewing. You chew on your lips to focus on something other than the guy getting a kick out of your lack of experience — the guy you don’t hear close and place his computer on the coffee table.

“Hey,” the closeness of his voice takes you aback, and you’re surprised to see him sit closer enough to bring a hand to close your laptop. “Wanna kiss me?”

Mortified eyelids shoot wide. “Wanna—Wh-What!?!” What the fuck is going on?!? “Why would you ask me—“

A nonchalant shrug adds more weight to your shock. “Why not? It’s just you and me, alone in my apartment at 8 o’clock. Sounds like a perfect opportunity, doncha think?” 

“Yeah, to do work!” Your emphasis fails as Gojo takes your device to add to the table surface. “I-I didn’t come here for you to question me and ask to—“

“You got someone else you’re waiting for?” He uses a hand to cage you from escaping, a knee between your legs. He knows he has the upper hand, observing behind shielded sunglasses as he awaits your response. 

“I–W-Well,” God, what did I get myself into? “Not necessarily…”

“So, do you not trust me with your first kiss?”

“That’s…That’s not the point—“

“You’re deflecting!”

“Satoru,” the way you say his name — low and soft, a pleading whisper — makes something switch for Gojo, looking at your bashful expression with hesitant hands, barely pushing his chest. “We shouldn’t…Let’s get back to the assignment?”

That wasn’t working on him; he’d never want to stop teasing you, especially now when you look too cute. “Let me kiss you one time, ‘kay? Then, we’ll go straight back to work.” He can see the cogs work in your brain, deciphering whether he is genuine. Was he? He couldn’t tell; all he was thinking about was how your lips felt. “I promise, princess.”

You didn’t mean it to happen, but you scan from his shades to his lips; now, it’s all you can see. The bob of his Adam’s apple, when he gulps, has your breath hitch, and after a few silent seconds with no movement, he begins to descend his face lower, and your lids swiftly close. So does his as he gently places his pillowy lips onto your plump ones, and a hushed squeak doesn’t go neglected.

Cherry — that’s the flavor that Gojo can taste. It has to be from the lip gloss you plastered on your lips that made them inviting to gawk at, pretty lips that the tall other couldn’t stop peering occasionally. He licks the bottom, taking in more of the taste with a soft groan. You yelp, gaping your lips further to give the man above an idea, and chew on your bottom lip. More whimpers slide past your control, hands gripping his sweatshirt as he peppers you with soft kisses, latching onto yours for longer seconds from one after the other — so much for one kiss.

You’re the one to break it off, hesitantly backing away from him to breathe. Hot skin returns to the cold air, and intimate huffs fuel into the space. You open your eyes slowly, half-lidded with knitted brows and scorching ears. You examine Gojo’s neutral expression; orbs that were once filled with reluctance are now replaced with a...wonder.

An innocent wonder that nearly has Gojo shut down from seeing as your hands steadily ring around his neck. There it is again, another switch flipped. This time, a spark ignites his brain, curiosity coursed to a more indecent field after what it feels like taking your first kiss. Because the way you’re looking under him — entirely submitted to him and his touch — wasn’t something he expected to rock his core. And all he can think about now…

…Is what taking all of your firsts would be like.

“—Taaahhh, haah…! Satoru, w-wait a min—“

“Hey, baby, tell me, what’s it like having my fingers inside you?”

Gojo’s little experiment delved into different extremes; your first kiss was the starting point of the many thoughts that perturbed his thinking. He wanted to know more about your potential firsts. For example, such as right now, how you’d be if he were the first to touch your privates. 

The atmosphere around the living room became hotter; the tepid silence switched with the erotic sounds and squeals that exited your system. Your legs spread apart, Gojo in between your thighs as his big, calloused hand swims under your panties to shove away and meet the bareness of your cunt. You were so wet, your liquids effortlessly coating his fingertips with barely any push. An entire mess between your inner thighs and labia. And that made Gojo’s mind go wild.

“Holy shit,” he chuckles in a heavy sigh. “So fucking wet and tight…Heh, you’re all like this because of a kiss, huh? So adorably pathetic.”

Refutation is impossible as he curls his forefinger inside, scraping your upper wall in a manner you never envisaged. “Sator—Mmmph…!” He keeps pushing the digit to the knuckle, touching crevices of your inner channel you could never reach. “O-Ohhh, Jesus…”

“Mmmm, fuck, you're twitching like crazy,” and Gojo was loving every second of it. The taller junior then decides to test something and creeps his middle finger near your opening, smearing itself with your come as lube. 

You sense him push the finger in, nerves heightened. “W-Wait, Satoru, I can’t—“

“Oh, yes, you can.” He interrupts you with a cheeky sneer. “You’re practically asking for it with you twitching so much. Watch.” Gojo pushes the middle digit leisurely; your beseeching babbles become increasingly incoherent when he adds the whole thing with the other finger. Now, both of them have you shrilling from their intrepid fashion, grazing on your vaginal walls with every pull and shove until his knuckles smooch your labia.

Good God, the place is so hot, your face is hot, your body’s hot, your insides feel hot — everything is just too hot for you to handle! And your brain cannot hold itself together as the seconds go. You throw your head back, your eyes sewn shut, “OhGod, ahhck! Wait, stooop! Go slow, go slo—Ohhh!” Gojo does the exact opposite; the pace of his fingers surges to a tempo you find difficult to ride through. Your entire frame locks together, preparing for the inevitable to slip past your hold, and tremors course around you as your orgasm hits you like a train.

Simultaneously as Gojo continues to rut your soapy cunt, a clear liquid disperses out of your urethra and sprays outward. Sprinkling onto the skin of your thighs and drenching your underwear. Although you’re not the only one who gets caught, Gojo at the front gets a genuine display of you showering his forearm with your essence, damping his sweatshirt in the process, and even a bit on his sunglasses.

It happens the third time: something snaps inside Gojo once he sees your oddly beautiful teary face. It’s at that moment that something in his core breaks and permeates his entire body with a force that’s been itching to get out when he kissed you earlier. He swallows thickly because the next thing he does after this will eat him alive, a queerly anticipated feeling for the white-haired man.

Of course, Gojo is astonished at what transpired, the shock in his eyes concealed by the shades. “Did you…just squirt on me?” His ears pick up the sound of you sobbing, your hands covering your face as you whine.

Massive tears roll down your cheeks, “I—hic—I told you to wait…!” 

It’s a no-brainer that Gojo pulls you off the couch and leads you to throw on top of his bed, stripping himself off his pants and briefs to free his raging erection and crawling up on top of you after chucking his shades off. A gasp leaves puffy lips when his pink glans meet the folds of your vagina, burrowing between your labia to coat with your slick.

“Satoru, wait,” you voice. “D-Don’t you have a condom?”

“Sorry, ran out of them.” Lies. Gojo knows he has rubbers tucked in his nightstand. However, the intention to use them is nowhere to be found. Because tonight – knowing completely and damn well you’re still a virgin – he had to fuck you raw. The drive to do so sent shivers up his spine. “Don’t worry, cutie. I’ll promise to pull out.”

Yet again, another deception.

Gojo pushes the tip in as he counts your breaths, watching every wince and contortion of your expression as the cockhead ventures and seeks shelter inside your slit. Your body is squirming through every exhale, and Gojo’s coaxes to relax your rigidness are somewhat helpful as you intake air. Before you know it, your mouth goes to a permanent ‘o’ shape once the tip is inserted, the act of breathing stops, and your body recoils and tenses as he slowly forces the foreign limb to carve your tightness inch by inch.

Oh, fucking shit…!! Oh yeah, Gojo thanks himself for not putting on a rubber. The firm grasp of your walls around his length nearly has him lose balance, sinking into your warm wetness clenching onto him so deliciously. He bites his lip to composure, a futile attempt as he throws in a few slow thrusts, and the snug of you has him in a chokehold. Then, when he hits your cervix, you instinctively grip onto him tighter and wrap your legs around him, and Gojo almost chokes. 

“F-Fuuck, wait, wait..!” He curses, submitting to a release way too early; his hips tremble as his cock ejaculates into your vagina. Shocks rattle his brain, rolling his eyes to the ceiling at the sensation of pooling himself into you. “Shit, oh shiiiit…this fucking pussy is driving me crazy.”

It really does because Gojo, still keen from his climax, dials the cadence, rutting into you with purpose. The sudden movements have your shrieks bouncing across the bedroom walls, and hits to your womb are frequent and cause more tears to strike down without your comprehension. “Nnnmm! OhhhmyGod…! Mmoohh!!”

“Heh, look at you cryin’,” Gojo teases you from above, licking a tear before kissing your cheek and ear. “Guess that’s expected for your first time, huh…Hnnnm, God, you’re clenching my dick so much.”

“Th-That’s because you’re—“The curve of his shaft has the tip graze your walls in an angle that makes your back arch. “Ahhoooo!! I’m fuull; you’re making me fulll…!!”

“Awww, am I making you full, crybaby?” He mocks you in your ear, the snicker sounding too salacious to the drum. “You full with my dick that it got you whining and crying for me?”

I can’t do this! Your brain dissolves into mush, and your face is too hot to construct adequate consciousness. “I can feel it, I can feel…”

“What is it? I can’t hear you through all the sobbing,” Gojo unscrews your legs to maneuver one for him to straddle and the other to lie on his shoulder. The new position gave him a directed way to piston his pelvis into your aching cunt, your squeals turning into screams as pokes to your womb come with the feverish pacing. He’s hitting so deep you can’t catch up! “What, you think you’re about to cum?”

You nod hurriedly. “Yes, yesss!!”

“Oh, that’s what you want now?” The snow-headed man chortles before sneaking a hand to your vulva, where his fore and middle finger swipe on your clit. “Tell me, is that what my pathetic angel wants?” You nod again, so he pinches your bud. “Tell me properly~.”

“—Ahhnnn, ohh, Sa—‘Toruuu!!” You pan to him. “Pleaseee, please make me cum, I wanna cum…!!”

God, this was a picture worth savoring. The image of you being all desperate for release, wanting nothing but to succumb to your wanton desire. You looked so ruined, like a completely different person compared to the meek exterior Gojo used to. And it’s all because of him – his words, his touches, his lips, and his dick – that you’re like this. A fact that only propels him to hammer his hips into you harsher. 

“Good girl,” he bends down to close his face to yours. Surveying you make such erotic faces as he keeps playing with your clit is food for his soul. “Enjoy yourself, princess,” and he steals your lips once more for another kiss.

Your orgasm comes to you quicker than ever, thanks to the work of Gojo’s hips, the hits of your cervix, the pinches on your clitoris, and the sloppy makeout session. Your body freezes and lets the aftershocks jolt you to a rocky clarity, your head in a dense fog, and your vision just about blurry. Your legs quiver with heaving breaths, and Gojo keeps thrusting as you soon fall out of your euphoria. 

The cold air blankets both of you once tense muscles calm down and bring you two back to reality. Silence befriends the lack of words aside from the pants of breath, and Gojo sluggishly withdraws his cock out of your wet chasm, whistling at the sight of his load slowly protruding out of your essence.

“Hey,” your face forms into a helpless expression. “Bet you never tried anal before.”

Tonight was dedicated to conquering all of your firsts. And Gojo means that with every bone in his body!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⊹ transparent edit made by me + dividers from @animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[4mrplumi]

01. spiderwocky ── 'spidey' bot

platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

“there are more advisable ways to source materials, (name),” a robotic voice ushers in your ear, “i could run a route for the nearest hardware store, safe enough for you to reach”.

you wave her out of your head, murmuring around your breath as you examine the multimeter in your hand. “‘s alright, spidey… they won’t mind me borrowing.”

you’re cooped up behind a large cargo box in the batcave, looking for throwaway tools to use, hoping to be able to fix the sp//dr suit before returning to queens. you’ve known bruce’s tech since you first came around, piecing out the fact he was batman soon after. batman and his batplane, his batmobile, his batgrapple… hell, maybe even a batGPT? he won’t notice if you snatch a little something.

“they’re out, can’t be too bothered to roam out in gotham when there’s perfectly available gizmos here, can i?” you chew on a fruit candy you nicked from the kitchen earlier, it might be damian’s, you’re not sure, “won’t be back till… eleven, tops?”

sp//dr crawls down your arm, her metallic legs causing a pin-prickly sensation, and making you shiver. “rather still, (name), i do not like advocating for such behaviour. what would your father think of you stealing?”

you stiffen for a second, pressing your lips into a thin line. “yeah, what would he?” you manage to scoff, shutting the lid of the box you were scouring through. “run a scan on the tech in here, would you? maybe there’s a micro-comm i can slip out-”

a shooting sensation of anxiety fills you, and you’re suddenly skittering to the nearest wall, sp//dr following close in suit. the water-curtain in the batcave parts to make way for a jet, the engines whirring so, so quietly, you think you’re hallucinating it. 

the hatch starts to open, and sp//dr whispers at you to climb up the wall, hide in the dark before you can run off. batman and the littlest robin hop out, their conversation to far away to eavesdrop on… for a regular person.

you narrow your eyes at them. super-hearing isn’t something you’ve experimented with, but you know it’s there, recalling the way your ears nearly exploded the first time your spidey-sense kicked in. maybe if you really concentrate? you squint at them, and the quiet becomes clear.

“perhaps it’s an installment… such work has become very popular as of late.” the little robin says, crossing his arms as batman types away on the long, long keyboard at his computer. “i doubt it,” he replies, his voice always sounds like gravel being rubbed against cement when he puts that cowl on, you think, “witnesses say it ‘showed up out of nowhere’, and the footage glitches out before the structure came in.” the screen in front of them switches to a recording, in black and white, crunchy even with the computer’s high data compatibility. 

you don’t stick around, scampering up the wall to the shaft you came in through, quiet as a bug as you stalk out from behind the grandfather clock that decorates the opening. the batman can figure out weird happenings in his city, you just need to be capable enough to help yours.

spider crawls onto your wrist, her metal parts rearranging themselves to turn into a bracelet. her voice hums out from a little blue dot on it, forever monotone. “please now, (name), return to your room without detection, fixing the suit can wait for tomorrow.”

you can’t help but smile a little at her instruction, slipping your new tools into the pockets of your jacket. “maybe it can,” you mutter back, under your breath, swiftly making distance from bruce’s office after you leave it, “but it’s not going to, is it?”

(name), duke notes glancing at the kid, who seems thoroughly submerged in schoolwork at the dining table, is more quiet that he’s accustomed to.

now- that’s not to say he’s used to (name) at all, having barely spoken to them last year, and missing them the year before that when they went off on some trip over the summer.

but it had been impossible to ignore the atmosphere of supreme awkwardness that followed the kid like a ghost, when they shifted on their heels, wanting to ask dick if they could hang out, or tim if he could look at some “cool question” they got as homework. now, that awkwardness had just been replaced with something… quiet. something still, and simpler. it was a drastic change, making him purse his lips into a thin line each time he saw them run back to their room the second everyone got back home from patrol. 

he wants to ask if anything's wrong, but… how? what would he even say? duke isn’t close to (name) at all, and it’s not like anyone else is either. heck, he’s barely even seen the kid. the house is decorated with pictures, relics from everyone (but... you) that bruce keeps up. in comparison, you drop in to the manor for a few months, haunting the place, before leaving just as quickly as you came. he didn’t even time to acknowledge you existed the first time he met you, too tired from patrol to be able to entertain any of your questions. wouldn’t it be weird to just… bluntly ask what in the world’s wrong with them, when he doesn’t know what’s supposed to be right?

duke looks away sheepishly when (name) glances back, seemingly aware of his staring. he’ll ask, he will. he just needs to figure out how… and when. when tim creeps into the living room, still in his suit, (name) crawls away up the stairs without acknowledging him, quiet as a bug. before… everyone just chose to excuse the noise (name) made. 

tim turns his head to where duke’s looking, the space now empty, and shrugs in dismissal. (name)’s not sitting there anymore.

you haven’t blinked in ten minutes, the thought drifting idly at the back of your head. you’re camped out in the dingy stairwell of some building, sp//dr’s little inbuilt projector painting a slideshow on the wall in front of you. her voice buzzes out from microscopic speakers.

“everything i could compile in the given time,” she speaks, “the information was protected quite fiercely… barely existed at all.” 

“so- what? like this doesn’t have a lot of notes or something?” you ask, scribbling down the words you see onto sticky notes, pasting them on the pages in your journal. sp//dr pings in acknowledgement on your wrist, switching to the next slide.

the batwing suit, one of the most high tech wearables you’ve ever had the opportunity to look at. call it inspiration, you’d murmured to sp//dr when she inquired about why you wanted the files on it, it’d be both a development in your knowledge and good for the sp//dr suit.

really, it was. the interior skin had similar properties to the hypothesized “nanotechnology” a guy at school had talked about, and the extra features would have genuinely enamored any mecha-geek.

your notes were simple. the “system” acted similar to sp//dr, and she already had a compartment in your suit, so it wouldn’t be too important. gyroscopic assist… that’d be interesting. most of your time’s spent swinging around, and the motion control on your suit is pretty good already, consider it an upgrade?

what’s most interesting about the suit is the toxikinesis, and energy negation. now, so to speak, you’re aware of the batman’s cautions against metas. apart from the signal, you’re not too well aware of anyone with any kind of powers in gotham (apart from yourself right now).

but hell, releasing poison mist? nullifying energy? that’s got to be cheating! even with all the other things the illustrious spiderman can do, it’s too cool of a thing to let up. before having to move into the manor with bruce wayne and his entourage of coloured birds, you’d lived with your father’s files taking up all the room on his desk, leaving only the stuffed drawers for the pictures you made for him. 

he’d been illustrious in his own right, taking out the little time he had to spend time with you. but not really be with you. still, in his interest, you took to technology too, tinkering with little robot kits your father’s friends gifted you. and it stuck. even after you were pulled out of school one day, the teacher’s expression looking unfathomably sad. the remorseful hunch of the officer’s back who’d eased you into telling you about your father’s accident was the only thing you looked at, your little kiddish throat feeling dry. 

it had stuck with you after you were put into bruce wayne’s house, as per your late mother’s wishes. it stuck with you after you were sent away from the manor to boarding school for most of the year. it stuck with you even after the sharp pinch of the spider that bit you a few months ago, changing the trajectory of your life in a way you couldn’t complain about.

in the midst of your “studies”, you hear a doom slam, and shouting ensue. in regular gotham fashion, it’s vulgar, filthy and loud. spiderman responds to conflict with fight. (name) prefers flight. you shove everything into your bag, scuttling down the steps as the shouting gets louder, something about hogging the elevator before it starts making your head feel hot and dizzy from anxiety.

the suit’s going to need work. the batwing suit’s fairly slimmer than your bulky mecha, making the components proportionate would take time.

maybe you could ask… no, he’d be too busy anyway. your tongue feels like lead when you lie to sp//dr. she asks; “what are you thinking about?”, you say, “a lot of things.”. you're not thinking of anything at all.

in your silence, sp//dr’s monotonous company is like a soothing balm. so soothing in fact, you don't see a stray sticky-note glitch in red and blue, and then; disappear entirely.

₊˚⊹ a/n : was this bit kind of a nothingburger... maybe. next entry sometime soon,, we'll get to see the society there. thanks for reading!!

taglist @shycreatorreview @facelessgetolover @mileskisser @1abi @kenyummy @selvyyr @systemix @momentomoribitch @redsakura101 @k-anaru @stupouid @glowinthedarkjellyfish @blankface333 @sassycupcakecomputer @miyseilish @xzmickeyzx

[golden-reverie]

Burnt Out

Author’s note: Hello to anyone who sees this! I’m Elodie, 24, from the Midwest. I love to experiment with writing, and my guilty pleasure is anything to do with Harry Styles. I’ve been so inspired by all the amazing writers on here, so I finally decided to take a stab at something of my own. I hope you enjoy :)

Summary: You’ve been running yourself ragged over a work project, and Harry isn’t having it.

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: MDNI, spanking, punishment, fingering, pre-established dom/sub relationship, stern dom!harry, sub!reader, fem!reader, aftercare, all actions and dynamics are consensual

The soft glow of the laptop screen flickered against the walls, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit house. Y/N’s fingers danced over the keyboard, her eyes locked onto the cascading lines of code. Stray wisps of amber hair had escaped the messy bun atop her head, and she absently chewed on the end of a pen—an old habit from her college days. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of keys and the quiet hum of the laptop’s fan.

Harry lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of concern and quiet frustration. The faint aroma of the dinner he’d prepared still clung to the air, a cruel reminder that she had once again skipped a meal in favor of work. Outside, the streetlights cast a soft, silver glow through the thin curtains, tracing ghostly patterns on the floor. Y/N remained wrapped in the world of her screen, completely oblivious to his presence.

He cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the hush like a blade. “Y/N, it’s late. You need to come to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “Just a few more minutes, Harry. I need to finish this.”

Harry sighed, raking a hand through his unruly curls. “You’ve been saying that for the last three hours. You need a break.”

This time, she did glance up—just long enough for him to catch the flicker of exhaustion in her gaze before she turned back to her work. “I can’t. This project is a big one. I have to get it done.”

Harry pushed off the door frame and strode toward her, his presence heavy, unyielding. A warm hand landed on her shoulder, grounding her. “You’ve been at this nonstop for weeks. You need to take care of yourself.”

She shrugged off his touch. “I will. Just not tonight.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not how this works, Y/N. You know the rules. You agreed to them.” His voice remained level, but there was an edge to it now, a quiet authority that she could no longer ignore. “Your body needs food, rest… You’ll burn out if you keep this up.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but for the first time in hours, she hesitated. She exhaled slowly, her voice softer, but still laced with defiance.

“I just… need to finish this. Can’t you see that?”

Harry’s expression didn’t waver. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You can finish it tomorrow. During normal hours. Right now, you need sleep. I already let you skip dinner, and we both know that wasn’t the first meal you’ve ignored lately.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’ve run out of patience, love.”

Y/N stilled. She understood the implication behind his words. Her breath hitched, cheeks heating.

“Harry, I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone was gentle, yet immovable. “And you will.” With deliberate ease, he reached out and closed her laptop, the sudden silence deafening.

She finally looked at him, her eyes flashing with something between defiance and reluctant surrender. “You’re being over the top,” she muttered.

Harry smirked, tilting her chin up with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Maybe I am. But someone has to be.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, slow and deliberate. “You’re not taking care of yourself. And that’s not acceptable to me.” His voice was softer now, but it carried an unmistakable weight.

The air thickened, charged with something unspoken yet undeniable.

He took a step back, nodding toward the staircase. “C’mon. Up you get.”

Y/N hesitated for half a second before pushing up from her chair, her body drawn to his like a tide to the shore. As much as she wanted to argue, she knew he was right. This project had pushed her past her limits—late nights, skipped meals, unanswered texts and calls—Harry had let a lot slide. But tonight, that grace had run out. And now that she had been pulled from the blue-light-induced trance she had been under, she found herself grateful for his insistence.

As they ascended the stairs, a different kind of tension coiled low in her stomach. She knew exactly where this was going, and she could already feel the electricity crackling in the space between them.

Harry sat on the edge of their bed, his eyes steady as she hovered in the doorway. He extended a hand, beckoning her forward.

“C’mere,” he commanded.

She found her place in between his legs. His hands fell to her hips and slinked around to the soft flesh under her ass, holding her in place. She looked down at him, anticipating his next move.

“I think you have a pretty good idea of where this is headed, yeah?” His eyes held a quiet patience that stood in sharp contrast to the inevitable sentence looming over her head.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

Harry hummed in approval. “I’ve let a lot slide these past couple of weeks,” he said, tilting his head forward in search of her eyes. “I know big projects come up and that they sometimes get the better of our judgment. That’s just life. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by skipping meals and running on two hours of sleep each day… I know you know that.”

She rested her hands on his shoulders, fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. A nervous habit.

He blows out a soft sigh, brushing his fingers against her skin, “I gave you plenty of chances to course-correct, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting perfection, but you’ve been running yourself into the ground, and that’s not something I can just overlook.”

She chewed her lip, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face. “I know. I’m sorry.” A frustrated breath escaped her lips, “It’s just… this project is important to me, and you know how cutthroat my coworkers can be. I can’t afford to fall behind.”

“I understand,” he says, lightly squeezing her flesh beneath his hands. “And I love how hard you work, but regardless, you know you can’t be on your A-game if you’re not taking care of yourself… That’s why we put these rules in place, remember? He moves his right hand up to her jaw in a silent command to meet his stare, “Because I love you and I care about you.” His voice was steady, eyes unwavering. “And sometimes you need a reminder to care about yourself, too. Yeah?”

She maintained eye contact this time, the guilt she had been trying to push aside settled heavily in her chest. “I love you too.” she mumbles, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t just an apology—it was an admission. She had ignored the rules, brushed aside her own well-being for weeks, and now the weight of it all felt like it was seeping out of her pores, pooling at his feet.

Harry lets his hand drop from her chin, his expression firm but not unkind. “And I appreciate that,” he says, his tone shifting, sharpening. “But you know the deal.”

It wasn’t necessarily a question, but she answered him, nonetheless.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Alright, over my knee,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He patted his thigh—a silent summons, firm and absolute.

Y/N hesitated for a moment. Not out of reluctance, but out of the sheer pleasure of the moment—this dance between them—the thrill of defiance followed by sweet surrender. She always wanted this, always needed this, and until right now; she hadn’t realized how much she’d been craving it.

He didn’t rush her. He never did. He simply waited, watching her with steady, knowing eyes. The weight of his gaze alone sent a shiver through her, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin. Taking a slow, measured breath, she finally relented, placing her hands on the mattress for balance as she draped herself over his lap.

He took a moment to admire the sight before him—the gentle arch of her back, the delicate vibration in her limbs, betraying her excitement. His hands smoothed over her spine, warm and comforting, a soothing contrast to the tension coiling inside her.

He could feel her trembling almost imperceptibly as she laid there—a quiet, unspoken longing bubbling up from her core. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, peeling them down her legs with deliberate ease before tossing them aside.

His palms roamed over the swell of her ass, his touch featherlight, teasing. Y/N bit her lip, resisting the instinct to press her thighs together as he traced the lace trim of her panties, feeling her heat radiating through the delicate fabric. That alone nearly unraveled him. His cock strained painfully against his sweatpants, but he forced himself to linger in this moment—the exquisite torture of making her wait, of drawing it out until she was teetering on the edge.

His hands traveled upward, finding the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin beneath. He heard the small hitch in her breath, watched as goosebumps bloomed across her flesh. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted the fabric, removing it from her body, letting the cool air kiss her bare back as she shivered in his grasp.

He towered over her, his presence commanding every ounce of her attention. His voice, low and unwavering, wrapped around her like a steel chain. “Is your work more important than your own health?”

Y/N inhaled sharply, steadying herself before she answered. “No, Sir.”

“And who decides when you’ve had enough?” His head tilted slightly, waiting—expecting.

His voice rumbled through her, a dark, velvety vibration that settled deep in her bones. Her breath hitched. “You do, Sir.”

A flicker of approval danced in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His palm ghosted over the curves of her ass, tracing gentle circles that did little to soothe the anticipation humming in her nerves. “I want you to count for me.”

She barely had a moment to brace herself before his hand left her skin—only to return with a sharp, resounding crack.

“One!” she gasped. But before she could stop herself, her right hand shot back instinctively, trying to shield herself from the sting.

Harry was faster. He caught her wrist effortlessly, pinning it against the small of her back. His fingers wove through hers, the delicate touch at odds with the firmness of his next words.

“You know better than that.” His voice carried a quiet, heavy disapproval that made her stomach flip. “We’re starting over. Every time you squirm, we’ll go back to one again. Understood?”

Y/N swallowed hard, resisting the urge to whimper. He meant business tonight. “Yes, Sir.”

The next blow landed just as hard.

“One, Sir.” This time, she tagged on the honorific—not required, but a subtle touch she knew he'd appreciate. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Then came the next. And the next.

“Two, Sir… Three, Sir!” The quick succession stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her voice edged with both pain and something deeper, something needier.

He could feel it—the way her body responded, her skin flushing beneath his touch, heat rolling off her in waves. His palm burned against her flesh, but he reveled in it. He lived for this part: the slow, deliberate breaking down of everything but sensation.

By number twelve, the sharp slap landed against the tender flesh of her lower thighs, and she wailed, the sound raw and unfiltered. Tears pricked at the edges of her vision, but still, she forced the number past her lips.

Harry knew her body better than she did. He knew exactly how to unravel her, how to make her cry out first from frustration—then from sheer, unadulterated pleasure. He wanted her mind empty, consumed only by this, by him.

The next set of strikes sent waves of something heady through her, an intoxicating blend of pain and euphoria. Her breath stuttered. She barely managed to grunt out the numbers between each punishing impact, her body trembling, craving.

By the time he reached twenty-eight, her head had fallen slack against the bed, silent tears soaking into the duvet. This was the most Y/N had ever taken. Normally, he didn’t have to go past twenty before she surrendered completely, but tonight—tonight she had been stubborn. Each slap chipped away at the stress, the tension, the weight she had been carrying for weeks.

He felt the moment her body gave in. The way her fingers went limp in his grasp, her voice raw, spent. She wasn’t resisting anymore—just accepting.

“Thirty, Sir,” she sobbed, the words almost lost in the haze of exhaustion and relief. Then, softer still, “I’m sorry.”

Harry let his hand relax, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the heated expanse of her skin. Her body was still shaking, but not from pain. Not anymore. He knew she had slipped, drifting into that quiet, blissful space where nothing existed beyond the warmth of his touch and the safety of his presence.

And he wasn’t about to pull her out. Not yet.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of his palm smoothing over her, and the lingering, uneven sniffles escaping her lips. He let her breathe, let her be.

After a couple minutes, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “You did so good baby. I’m proud of you.”

He pressed a few final, featherlight kisses along the curve of her lower back, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “Are you ready for me to check on you?”

He already knew the answer. Knew what he would find when his fingers slipped between her thighs. The anticipation sent a thrill down his spine as he let his hand drift lower, tracing the seam of her slick folds, drinking in the heat that seeped into his skin.

She was dripping.

Harry was hard beneath her, the evidence pressing insistently against her stomach, and he knew she could feel it too. But tonight wasn’t about him. Yes, she had broken the rules—deserved the punishment she had just endured—but more importantly, he wanted to strip away the weight she had been carrying. He wanted to unmake the stress that had hardened her and replace it with something softer.

His thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her squirm, a broken whimper muffled against the duvet.

“Good girl, Y/N,” he praised, his voice a low hum of satisfaction.

“Just gonna make you feel good now, yeah?”

He slid a finger inside her, slow and deliberate, while his free hand threaded into her hair, stroking, grounding her.

Her nod was small, but he felt the way her body melted, giving in to his touch. Wetness seeped onto his thigh, further proof of how much she needed this—needed him.

He pushed a second finger inside, reveling in the way her walls clenched around him, her body trembling from the overwhelming sensations. With every stroke, he could feel her tension unraveling, her muscles slackening, the last remnants of restraint slipping away.

The world around him dissolved as his fingers curled inside her, seeking out the spot he knew would make her crumble. “You’ve been so good for me,” he whispered, his lips grazing the damp skin of her shoulder. “Took your punishment like a champ. Now, I want you to come for me. Just like this.”

Her skin tasted of sweat and salt, the scent of her arousal thick in the air.

Y/N was a paradox—a perfect blend of submission and defiance. As obedient as she was, that stubborn streak of hers ran just as deep, a constant challenge that kept him on his toes. But nights like this? When she surrendered completely, yielding every inch of herself to him without hesitation?

He savored it. Relished it. Worshipped it.

Because having all of her—mind, body, and soul—was a privilege he would never take for granted.

He studied her like an artist captivated by the final stroke of their masterpiece, burning the view into his memory—the flutter of her lashes as her eyes turned glassy, the flush that crept down her neck, the way her cunt clenched so tightly around his fingers as if trying to keep him there forever. He wanted to teach her to let go. To release all the anxiety, frustration, and exhaustion that had been suffocating her for far too long.

But he needed it to come from her—wanted her to own her pleasure as much as he did—to know that she was worthy, desired, loved.

Harry’s fingers slid deeper, moving with deliberate slowness as they arched just right, pressing against the spot that had her moaning, her body instinctively grinding against his palm. Her face was buried in the duvet, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped, overwhelmed by the rush of sensations flooding through her.

“Come on, Y/N. Let go for me,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with filthy promise.

Her body tensed, and he knew he had her. She trembled on the precipice before the dam broke. A shattered moan tore from her lips as pleasure ripped through her, muscles spasming in tight, rhythmic waves. The heat of her release coated his figures, and he didn’t stop—not yet.

He worked her through it, his thumb never relenting from the steady, precise strokes against her clit. He wanted everything. Wanted to hear her cry out for him, to watch the pleasure drag her under until she had nothing left to give.

And under she went.

Her cries turned breathless as the last tremors wracked her body, her limbs going boneless beneath his touch. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, smirking at the needy little whimper she made at the loss. He soothed the ache with soft strokes along her trembling thighs, grounding her as she came back down.

“Atta girl, sweetheart,” he cooed, voice laced with satisfaction. “That feel good?”

A slow, exhausted nod was all she could manage. As the haze of pleasure lifted, she became aware of everything at once—the damp strands of hair sticking to her nape, the tingling in her limbs, the lingering warmth radiating from her backside.

But nothing could pull her back to reality quite like his voice.

“Can you sit up for me, sweet girl?”

***

Water cascaded from the shower head in silken ribbons, a warm, soothing contrast against the cool tile. Steam curled in the air, thick and languid, blurring the edges of the room until it felt like they existed in their own private universe. The scent of eucalyptus clung to the mist, wrapping around them like an embrace.

Harry held Y/N close, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the quiet strength of him anchoring her. Her head rested against his collarbone, the sound of his heartbeat a calming metronome against the storm that had been raging inside her for weeks.

His hands moved slowly over her damp skin, drawing soothing circles along her spine, his thumbs tracing the delicate ridges of her back. She shivered—not from the cold, but from the contrast of sensations: the warmth of the water, the cool air beyond it, the roughness of his calloused fingers against the softness of her flesh.

She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze through the water’s shimmering veil. Her lips were parted, her lashes heavy, surrender written in every line of her expression. Harry felt something deep and primal stir in his chest.

With a lingering kiss, he turned her around, his fingers threading through her hair as he worked the shampoo into a gentle lather. His touch was reverent, a contradiction of tenderness and strength, his large hands cradling her head with the kind of care that made her stomach flutter. She sighed softly, melting into the sensation as she rested against his muscled body, her small noises of contentment filling the air like music.

When the last suds had been rinsed away, Harry reached past her to shut off the water, the sudden absence of sound leaving them in an intimate hush. Without hesitation, he grabbed the towels he had set out earlier, wrapping her in one before she could feel the bite of the air. He took his time drying her off, the plush fabric gliding over her sensitive skin like a gentle breeze, coaxing a soft sigh from her lips. Then, with the same quiet devotion, he slipped one of his t-shirts over her head, the oversized fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

As Y/N moved through the final steps of her skincare routine, Harry retrieved a bottle of lotion from the cupboard across the room. He approached her with the grace of a shadow, gently tapping her on the bum.

“When you’re done, I want you to lay on the bed on your tummy. Ok?” His voice a smooth, honeyed command.

She finished up and did as she was told, sinking into the mattress, her head resting on her folded arms. Her damp hair spread across the silk pillow like a river of dark water, cool and smooth against the fabric.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she heard the soft sound of lotion being smoothed between his hands. A moment later, the hem of her shirt lifted, and his warm palms met the tender skin of her backside. Y/N sighed deeply, the coolness of the lotion a welcome relief to the heat lingering from earlier. His hands moved with slow, deliberate strokes, massaging away the sting, his fingers tracing the curves of her body with intimate familiarity.

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Y/N felt herself unraveling beneath his touch, sinking into the present moment, leaving behind the weight of the stress that had knotted itself into her muscles. He always knew how to bring her back—how to pull her from the depths of her mind and remind her that she didn't have to handle everything on her own.

When he was finished, he leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck before pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate skin there.

“How do you feel?” His voice was a low murmur against her ear, thick with warmth and something deeper—something unspoken but understood.

Y/N swallowed, taking a moment to gather her words. “I—I feel good, Sir,” she admitted, her voice still laced with the remnants of pleasure and submission. “Still a little out of it… but good.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “I’m glad for the punishment. I really needed that.”

She shifted to sit up, and he caught her chin between his fingers, maneuvering her head to face him.

Harry’s lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring patterns along her cheek. “You did well tonight. You know that, right? M’proud of you.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a blanket—warm, protective, unwavering. She smiled softly into his touch.

A beat of silence stretched between them before he spoke again. “When you feel like things are spiraling, I need you to know you can come to me.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. It was slow and deliberate, filled with everything he didn’t need to say—everything he had already proven.

When she finally pulled away, her voice was softer, more certain. “I do know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner. It’s… a habit, shutting people out when I’m stressed. But regardless, you didn’t deserve that.”

Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, “Yes, I’m well aware of that habit of yours, which we’ll crack one day. But in the meantime, you can push all you want, sweetheart. Unfortunately for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She giggled, letting him pull her into his chest. “On the contrary. Very fortunate for me,” she corrected, her voice tinged with affection.

He grinned, maneuvering the covers so she could slide beneath them. Reaching over, he switched off the lamp on his bedside table, casting the room into a velvety darkness.

As Y/N melted into him, the last of her tension slipping away, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered against his skin, finally surrendering to the quiet lull of sleep’s embrace.

...

Ahhh! Kind of out there for my first post but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Hope you enjoyed!

[ldydeath]

Don’t Look Back | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Jiyong is stressed on tour and says something he can’t take back

Warnings: mild language 

Author’s Note: Hi guys! This is a part one of a two part collab fic. My best friend, the lovely and talented @wcnderlnds wrote part two, go check out her post to see how it ends!

PART TWO HERE

Everything was too much. You knew that, Jiyong knew that, but you couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t protect him. He should’ve never taken on this tour so close to his enlistment. You knew he wanted to do this one last thing for his fans, something to remember him by. But the stress was about to swallow him whole and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You glanced down at your buzzing phone and sighed.

Jiyong’s face appeared on the screen, you knew he was calling because you weren’t in Japan yet. You were two hours away by flight and the show was still hours away, but you’d promised you’d be there. You answered the call, his voice filling the line before you could even say hello.

“Are you coming to the show tonight?” Jiyong’s voice whined through the phone and you let out a sigh, your hand rubbing your temples.

 You had hours of work to finish in order to get to the airport and you weren’t sure you were going to make it. The tour was nearing the end and you’d promised you’d be there for the last leg. Japan, the Europe dates, and the final night in Taiwan but work wasn’t letting you get away easy.

“I’m going to be getting in right as the show starts at this rate.” You sighed before slamming your hands down on your keyboard.

“You’re still at work?” You could hear the disappointment in his voice and slowed your typing. “I just have to finish some things before I’m gone for three weeks.” He let out a sigh and you chewed on your bottom lip, waiting for him to tell you not to come. 

“Okay, I’ll let you go. I miss you.” the phone went dead before you could reply. 

You slammed your phone down in frustration, trying your best to clear your thoughts so you could at least get to the airport in time to not miss your flight. You missed him too, you hated being apart for as long as you had been.

 At least he hadn’t told you to not bother, that was a step in the right direction, unlike his dates in North America. An ongoing theme throughout this tour was his back and forth on wanting you there. You knew he was going through a lot, but it didn’t excuse his behavior towards you. 

Deciding they could finish the rest without you, you left, making it to your plane just before doors closed and sat down in your first class seat. Of course he had gotten you the best seat money could afford. As you were getting situated, your phone buzzed and you stilled, almost afraid that it was work calling you back. A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you saw who it was from. That sigh turned to a groan when you read his words. . 

If you can’t make it, just stay home. I’ll be back before I head to Europe and we can just fly out together.  

You didn’t know why he was pushing you away so much, you knew how lonely he’d been all tour. At least you’d be there in time for the show to start, you could hang out and see Japan after. He was there for a couple days anyway and you’d already made plans to sight see before you headed home. 

I’m on my way. Plane taxiing now. See you soon. You hastily replied back before shutting off your phone and sliding your eye mask over your face. 

You had just enough time to catch a nap before you’d be whisked off to the show. In true Jiyong fashion he’d had a car sent for you once he’d realized he couldn’t pick you up himself. You turned your phone back on once you were in the car to see several missed calls and texts from Jiyong, Daesung, and his management team. 

Well, that wasn’t good. You ignored everyone else blowing up your phone and dialed your boyfriend's number. Straight to voicemail. He was probably just getting into costume for the show. That was all. Everything was fine. It didn’t stop your heart from racing, the nerves settling in the closer you got to the stadium. 

One of Jiyong’s managers met you outside and led you backstage. It wasn’t hard to find Jiyong, he was standing by his entrance spot, his shiny jacket sparkling in the lights, your nerves settled as you saw him. 

“Hey” You grinned, that grin faltering as soon as your eyes met his. 

He looked exhausted. When was the last time he’d slept? Or eaten? He was so thin. You should’ve been here sooner, you could’ve forced him into a bed with a bowl of soup and not let him get up for a few days. You hadn’t seen him this bad off since that night he’d fainted over a year ago. Your heart dropped into your stomach and you reached for him, wanting to beg him to cancel the show. You knew he wouldn’t though and he smiled at you before turning away, your arms falling pathetically to your sides. 

You hesitated before following his crew to the side stage, your favorite spot to watch Jiyong. It always amazed you how quickly he could transform from the exhausted man you saw a few minutes ago to the king of the stage. His fans were none the wiser to how he was truly feeling as he used up every ounce of energy he had on that stage. But you knew, and you caught every stumble, every large inhale, how many times he looked up towards the ceiling. 

Once the show was over Jiyong headed over towards you, grabbed your hand and led you towards his sitting room. He looked up, eying the team of people following behind the two of you closely and shook his head before leading you inside and closing the door on them. He took one swift step towards you before his lips were on yours, his arms winding around you tightly. You could almost feel the weight of the day falling off him as you kissed him back. 

This is what he needed, after all the long days and sleepless nights. You. He knew he was being needy and a bit all over the place with his emotions but now that you were finally here he was going to do everything in his power to make it up to you. 

“Jiyong” You whispered as you broke the kiss, your hands sliding up his chest as you looked into his tired eyes. “Come on, let's get you changed and get some dinner. I’m putting your ass in bed tonight.”

The annoyance that crossed his face was alarming, he’d always appreciated you being the one looking out for him. He’d been off all day though, you reminded yourself as you stepped around him, moving to collect his hoodie. He took it from you wordlessly, stripping out of his sparkly red suit jacket and sliding the hoodie over his head in one swift movement. 

“I don’t want you to be here if you’re just going to baby me.” Your eyes widened as you looked over at him. Surely you’d heard him wrong.

“I’m not babying you, Jiyong. You’re clearly not sleeping and when was the last time you ate?” He glared at you, folding his arms across his chest. 

“This morning. I’m fine.” 

“That’s bullshit, Jiyong. You’re not fine.” You pulled out your phone, pulling up the various missed calls. “If you were fine you wouldn’t be crying out for help when I’m on an airplane. What’s going on with you?”

He glanced down, running his hand through his already messy hair and let out a sigh. “You were supposed to be here for this, not come at the end and start worrying about me.” He glanced up, all the pain you thought maybe you’d imagined was visible on his face. “I needed you here.”

“I had to work!” it was a lame excuse and you knew it but it was all you had. They wouldn’t just let you take months off work to let you follow Jiyong around the world. 

“I told you I’d take care of you. What do you think that fucking ring meant? You don’t have to work.”  His icey tone caused you to flinch, he’d never been this angry with you before. You glance down at your ring, absentmindedly twisting it on your finger.  

“We talked about this, Jiyong. I’m not going to quit my job and sit at home worried about you for the next two years. After the wedding, we agreed to revisit that topic. Don’t throw it back in my face now. I’m here. I’ve been here for you every night regardless of the distance.” 

You two had had your share of fights before, but this felt different. Like you were both toeing a dangerous ledge and if you weren’t careful someone was going to get hurt. You held his gaze daring him to say something. Anything.

“Maybe it’s not good enough.” Your eyes widened in shock, your heart thumping so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it.

He didn’t mean that. You knew he didn’t mean that, but all rational thoughts had seemed to exit your brain as his words cut you so deeply. All you wanted to do was hurt him back.

“Not good enough? Being awake at three in the morning when I have a meeting at seven to make sure you’re ok, that you’ve eaten, isn’t good enough? Hopping on a flight to be here with you wasn’t good enough? I have supported you through everything, Jiyong. I have loved you through all of it. If that’s not good enough then I don’t think anything will be. Maybe you should take this back, if I’m no longer good enough.” Your voice cracked and you willed yourself not to cry, he wasn’t going to see your tears today.

You slid the ring off your finger, holding it out for him. He blinked, looking down at the ring. This isn’t what he wanted, he had always wanted you. He’d be damned if he broke in front of you right now, though. If you were just going to give up on him because of one bad day, then fine. He moved over to you, snatching the ring out of your hand and slid it onto his pinky. 

You shook your head, moving towards the door. “If you walk out that door don’t come back.” His sharp voice broke the silence in the room and without looking at him, you opened the door, walked out and slammed it behind you. He closed his eyes, letting out a long exhale. He’d really fucked this up, hadn’t he?

tag list: @wcnderlnds @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @loveesiren

[mooooonnnzz]

holy shit world/insure made me sob. would you consider doing a part two ? i’m imagining stan and ford telling dipper and mable childhood stories with the reader. they’re vague about it, saying stuff like “they aren’t here anymore” so the twins just think read died. then reading coming back through the portal and they connect the dots. omfg i’m obsessed with this concept.

Word/Insured Part 2

Stanford Pines x Sibling!Reader/Stanley Pines x Sibling!Reader

☆ GUESS WHO FINISSHHHEDDDD!!!

☆ this'll have 2 parts so it's easier to digest, since it's lawnngg so if it abruptly ends, that's just me splitting it

☆ 4,5k words

☆ gender-neutral reader

☆ possible tw: drinking to cope, mentions of suicide, gagging and descriptive chewing? and just angst

☆ srry this lowk kinda took long to write both keyboard and mouse just died on me when i was writing this so i had to find an old keyboard oops

☆ if this does well, i'm considering on making hcs of reader adjusting back to their home dimensions and diving deep into the twins n their trauma !!

☆ that's all. i hope you all enjoy! :3

�� Stan and Ford hadn’t talked to each other since your disappearance. The anger and hatred that Stan held onto was enough to deter him from even granting a glance at Ford who tirelessly tried to get Stan to talk to him. He’d begin the conversation with ideas he’s thought through the night prior, ideas that most likely secured a chance on bringing you back. But Stan wanted nothing to do with him. His head was shrouded with your screams, the way you yelled out for Stan instilled such a soul-crushing guilt on Stan; he wasn’t sure he’d properly function as a normal human being after this. Not to mention, you and Stan were two peas in a pod, spending 10 years together after the collapse of their family truly brought the pair together, closer than they’d ever thought they would be. And now Stan is going through the same grief he felt when he was kicked out of the house, Ford doing nothing but sparing a sorrowful glance to him as he shouted for his brother, anticipating Ford to do something; to clean his name and everything would go back to normal. But instead, he turned his back on him. The situations were massively different but the pain was eerily still the same. 

✶ Stan would spend majority of his nights clutching your belongings close to his chest. He didn’t care if it looked weird, those were the only things that he had left of you at the moment. Nights were spent crying himself to sleep, envisioning different scenarios where he had caught onto your wrist and pulled you back to the ground, where it was safe, where he was there to protect you. He couldn’t let his mind linger on the idea of you being stranded in another dimension, helpless and lost, not knowing what to do or where to go. The mere thought of it sends his heart crumbling down to his palms, all shredded and shattered beyond repair. He was your big brother, he was supposed to protect you. To keep you safe from harm's way, he betrayed that very promise by leading you to the place where you were taken away from him too soon. And that alone gutted him. Ford would hear Stan sobbing into the night and all he did was lay there in his bed, submitting himself to the torture to hear his brother’s wretched cries. Because, this was his fault. Stan wasn’t shy to tell him that almost every waking moment of the day when he has the chance. The guilt haunts him.

✶ Verbal arguments were pretty common between the pair. Stan mainly started them when he was pulled out of the haze he was in and roughly back to reality. A reality where you weren’t around anymore and that irked him, because who else was at fault other than his idiotic brother? “Do you ever wonder how more lively this house would have been if ya hadn’t pushed [Name] inside the portal?” His tone was harsh. They carried thick venom to them, his words permanently burning their way into Ford’s brain. “Not this again,” Ford’s heart quivered. He had just recollected himself from yesterday's fight and now Stan wants to barrel through another one? Ford avoided Stan’s glaring eye contact. “Stanley, I told you many times before. I’m sorry! I’m sorry for screwing up, I’m sorry for being the reason why [Name] isn’t here anymore.” Ford’s head tilted back, his eyes staring longingly at the ceiling. “You don’t know how much this eats at me, Stanley.” He blinks away the tears threatening to escape, his head lowering back down to meet Stan’s fiery stare. “But I beg of you, please. Don’t hate me for it. I can’t lose you again, not after losing [Name].” The look in Ford’s eyes was something Stan would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He looked so broken, so shattered, the shell of someone who once was a prodigy at everything he touched was now crushed to bits; pieces of him scattered, lost to time. Stanley’s anger faded into a mellow irritation. Shifting his hands awkwardly on his chest, his face softened ever so slightly. “Fine,” He grumbled, rushing past Ford, their shoulders roughly rocking against each other. Ford sniffed, wiping the tears off his face. This was a new development. A spark of hope flickered in Ford. 

✶ Alcohol and cigars were Stan’s life vest. He’d rob a few packs of beer and down them within two days. It wasn’t healthy, but at least it distracted him from everything that was happening, right? Stan was pretty much drunk every day, and if he wasn’t, he was out on the porch smoking cigars, hoping that one day Ford would find him dead on the floor with beer cans surrounding him, his last moments spent thinking about how much he missed you. Stan wasn’t an angry drunk much to Ford’s surprise, considering how he spent his times where he was sober yelling at Ford, rather he’d rot away on the couch or floor, silently crying to himself in a puddle of his own tears. Many times Ford would have to pick up Stan, rest him on the couch and try to sober him up. And it wasn’t an easy task to do, picking up Stan with his weak arms was a workout for Ford. “Why couldn’t I save them?” Stank drunkenly babbled out, his head swaying side to side. “Don’t move too much, Stanley. You’ll give yourself a headache.” Ford warned, propping his head up with a pillow. “If I wasn’t so slow, [Name] would still be here.” Stan hiccups, his eyes glistening with tears. No matter how many times Ford hears Stan painfully talking about you, it still hurts the same and even more. “It’s not your fault, Stan.” Ford said, pulling a blanket up to his chest. “It’s not yours either.” Stan’s hand patted Ford on his face, thinking that it was his head. When Stan pulled his hands away, tears were streaking down Ford’s cheek. Hearing Stan tell him that it wasn’t his fault healed a piece of him and that quickly triggered the waterworks. “There, there, brother.” Stan patted Ford’s back as he sobbed into his hands. “It’s not my fault,” He repeated in loud sobs. “It’s not your fault.” Stan echoes. 

✶ Ford handled his grief and stress by huddling himself in the lab, isolating himself from Stan’s drunken state and researching his work. Trying to find loopholes that he can tie them close with a workaround, with a quick fix that would bring you back. Cans of beer were discarded around his lab, just the same as upstairs. But he wasn’t downing beers like Stan, he chugged one or two to dull out the ache in his heart, to keep it from distracting him. He knew when to stop and limit himself. He wasn’t dependent on alcohol. Sleep was something Ford considered useless. That would only distract him from his work, from his progress. Stan walked into the lab, puffing a gray smoke of air out onto the air. Your absence has bestowed so much despair onto the pair and he hadn’t realized until this very moment. Walking over to Ford, he placed a hand on his back. He was messily sleeping on top of his work, glasses hanging off his face, mouth open, drool dribbling down to his arms and paper. His dark circles were so dark and he was unshaven, chin stubbly with hair. Has he been getting any sleep? He wouldn’t know because he’s always drinking the day away. Stan internally groaned at himself. Not only has been neglecting himself, he’s been neglecting his brother. Burning out the cigar, he grabbed a blanket from upstairs and draped it over Ford. “Sleep tight, Stanford.” He said, gingerly squeezing his arm. Stan sat right next to him, wanting to keep him company and dozed off. When morning came, Ford awoke to Stan’s head colliding with his chair. For that one morning, Stan’s snores were music to his ears. 

✶ “S-Stanley!” Ford’s body lunges up from the couch when he sees Stan briskly pass by him and into the kitchen. “I-I’ve done some research and I-I think I found a way to get [Name] back!” He stumbles over his words, the lack of sleep weighing heavily on his foggy brain. The only thing that is keeping him up as of now is coffee he had been taking in shots for the past few days. The way he moves is fidgety and erratically and Stan takes notice of that. Pouring a cup of coffee for himself in a mug, he leans his back against the counter. “You need sleep, Stanford.” He brings the rim of the mug to his lips, his eyes never leaving Ford’s trembling figure as he takes a big gulp from his coffee. Ford couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Stan spoke to him! It was measly four words, but that’s more than he has ever said in the past five months, that wasn’t angry nonsensical words that were being thrown at him or depressing drunken babbling. “No, there’s so much to be done.” Ford runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “You need to hear me out. We need to find the other two–” Stan shushes him. “I won’t talk to you until ya sleep, Stanford. Don’t you bother trying to back out from this.” He looks at Ford with a stern expression, almost the same one Mom wore whenever he warned Ford to not do anything stupid in the backyard with Stan. “B-But!” Stan doesn’t hear his weak objections, he’s already out of the kitchen before Ford can conjure a good enough excuse. With a groan, Ford trips over his own feet while he makes his way back to the couch. Pushing all his research and books off the couch and onto the floor, he topples over the couch. When his head crashes on the soft plush of his sofa, his body automatically shuts off, revealing how dangerously tired he was. His eyes fluttered close and it didn’t take long for him to crash out on the couch. Stan came in to check on Ford and was pleasantly pleased to see his twin at last getting the rest he deserved. 

✶ Clinking his fork idly on the ceramic plate, Stan watched Ford make breakfast. Originally Stan was going to prepare breakfast, but Ford saw he was cooking and pushed him out of the kitchen, telling him that it was “his treat,” Stan couldn’t even utter a single word to him. He just wanted simple scrambled eggs and toast and now he’s left to fear for his life as Ford concocts a science experiment for his breakfast. “And for you breakfast, Stanley.” Ford swoops in, leaning forward as he shuffles the plate of food onto the table. “Scrambled eggs and buttered toast,” Ford smiles knowingly, placing his breakfast down. He had the same breakfast but the crust of his toast was cut off. “I don’t even know why I doubted you.” Stan scoops up the scrambled eggs with his fork and shoves it in his mouth with giddy excitement, a display of emotions Ford hadn’t seen in over 10 years. Who knew a simple breakfast would get him so happy? “Still being a baby about the crust?” He points to Ford’s crustless buttered toast with his fork, mouth muffled with food still being chewed in his mouth. Ford cringes at the sight of mashed up food in Stan’s mouth, suppressing a gag as he nods his head. “Chew your food before talking, Stanley! We’re not kids anymore.” He rasps out, his palm covering his mouth, his body shuddering with full body heaves. “Alright, alright!” With a loud gulp, he swallows his scrambled eggs. “Happy now?” Said Stan with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe not,” Using his other hand, Ford pushes the plate of eggs away. “Don’t want to eat anymore,” Stan shrugs, pouring the scrambled eggs on the plate. “More for me!” As Stan is chowing down on his eggs, Ford regains his composure. Though, he couldn’t watch Stan eat his eggs without the image of the yellow goopy food in his mouth so he averted his gaze to his hands. 

✶ “[Name] sure had grown up the last time I saw them.” This was Ford’s feeble attempt at sprouting a conversation with Stan, but he soon regretted what he said when he realized the fragility of the topic. Stan blinks, stunned. A beat passes and Ford’s ready to divert the conversation to another topic when Stan replies with a weird look on his face Ford can’t quite catch. “Well, yeah,” Stan looks off to the side. Ford lets out a breath of relief, Stan wasn’t upset at the mention of you. “They left with me when you and Dad kicked me out and we haven’t seen each other since then.” There’s a distant look in his eyes when he speaks, his words carrying a light anger to them ever so slightly. “How were th–” Stan shoots up, the chair skidding behind him. “Just because we’re all chummy now doesn’t mean you get to ask all about [Name].” The sudden shift in his emotions slapped Ford right in his face. “I’m sorry.” Ford whispers. Stan clicks his tongue, uttering to himself before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry.” Stan rubs the sides of his head with his fingers. “Let’s not talk about them right now, okay? I don’t think I’m ready yet.” Stan pulls the chair to him and sits down. He rests his head on his fist, eyebrows pinched together with a long frown on his face. “I didn’t mean to blow up on ya like that.” Stan looks Ford in the eyes, and he could see the sincere sadness swimming in his eyes. “It’s okay, Stanley. Why don’t we talk about what you do for a living?” With that, they eased themselves into a comfortable conversation, with a few hiccups here and there, but in the end, the twins both had a soft smile adoring their faces.

✶ The repairing of the portal was a stepping stone that repaired Ford’s and Stan’s relationship. They weren’t going to lie and say that their relationship now was perfect, they still had their moments of anger and differences, but with a lot and a lot of patience, their bond was soon regaining its spark. “Whaddya think, poindexter?” Stan slapped a sloppily written plan on how to fix the portal in front of Ford. “What is this?” Ford looked at the piece of paper like it was garbage. “A plan to fix the portal, isn’t it obvious?” Stan snatched his paper back up, eyes speedily reading his work, doubting his work. “Stanley, that is unnecessary. I have the blueprints to fix the portal.” Discarding his plan, he slapped his hands enthusiastically, rubbing them together. “Alright! So where are they?” Ford sucks in a breath. “In the other journals.” Stan nodded his head slowly, as if that information was already obvious. “And where are the other journals?” Ford coughs into his fist, speedily saying; “I hid them.” Stan looks at him weirdly. “Can’t we just unhide them?” Ford rubs a hand up against his prickly cheek. “That’s the thing. I may or may not remember where I hid them.” Closing his eyes, he braced for the gust of angry yelling. “you WHAT?!” Stan’s hands flew to the side of his head. “How do you forget where you put them?!” Stan made a mental note to mark down how many times Ford screwed up, so far he has two. He has a long way to go before he could be anywhere near Stan’s record. “I was in a flurry of panic! I wasn’t thinking straight.” Stan groaned, smacking his face with his hand. “Was it at least in Gravity Falls?” Stan had his fingers crossed. “Yes, obviously.” A triumph “Yes!” leaves Stan. “Okay, let’s get digging then!” 

✶ Stan severely underestimated how truly difficult it would be finding one of the books in a forest that seemed like it stretched out for miles. Every turn looks the same and whenever he’d think he’s making progress, he’s right back where he started, at least he thinks he is. Frustrated, he bangs his head on a tree. The sound of metal clanging rang in his ears and shook through the tree. He groaned, holding his head with one hand as he curiously examined the possible metal tree. “Stanley!” Ford came running to Stan’s side, panting heavily. He wasn’t used to running for more than 5 seconds, and that was evidently proven with his flushed face and out of breath wheezes. “This tree is metal,” Stan notes, taking a few steps back, winding his leg back and hammering his shoe into the tree. The tree simply shook, the metal sound nowhere to be heard. “What?” Stan can feel his brain heating up, he couldn’t make any sense of this. The tree he kicked felt like a tree, not some metal contraption. It was only when he knocked his head—An idea springs to mind. Leaning his head back, he slammed his head on the tree. Shocked noises sputter out of Ford as he watches Stan rub the sore spot in his head. “There’s something here,” He gestures to the general area where he smashed his head in. “I can see that!” Ford walks up to the tree, knuckles gently knocking on the metal plate that was disguised as a tree. His hands move around the tree, searching for a way to open the plate. His fingers snag on an elevated piece of tree and with his fingertips, he swings it open, revealing a control panel. The memories of constructing this rush to his mind. “I remember now!” He flips a switch, his head turning over to where the large log rested. In front of it, a patch of grass was pulled back to unravel the hidden place where book three was. Ford eagerly snatched the book in his hands, showcasing it to Stan. “Great job, Stanford!” He claps Ford’s back. “So where’s the other one, you remember?” Unfortunately for the both of them, Ford doesn’t remember. He had seemed to bury most of his memories after meeting Bill Cipher, anything beyond that point was an empty mess for him.

✶ With the two books in hand, they managed to tinker and repair the damage to their best efforts. After each exhausting night in the lab, he’d attempt to pull the lever in hopes that whatever they did that day would work and to their utter disappointment, it never dislodge from its spot. “Man,” Stan wipes his forehead with his forearm, sweat glistening on his arm. “For a brainiac like you, I would’ve never imagined you being terrible at building this!” Stan barked with a laugh. Ford scoffed, his attention laser focused on fixing a part of the machine. “How did you manage to build the portal in the first place?” Stan wondered, the flashlight he was using to help Ford see what he was doing began to steer away. “Stanley,” Ford snapped. “The light!” Stan jolted up in surprise, the light quickly going back to Ford. “Sorry,” He sheepishly said. “But seriously, how did you build this?” He looked at Ford curiously. “I had an assistant.” Ford mumbled, a leak of oil dotting his clothes. He hissed, grabbing a tool off the ground to fix whatever started leaking. “Had? What happened?” Ford hummed happily. He had fixed the leak. Placing the tool back down to the floor, he directed his attention to Stan. “He quit.” Ford scratched his head, unintentionally smearing oil on his cheek with his hand. “Why?” Stan tossed him a piece of clean cloth, silently motioning to his cheek. Ford took it, wiping his cheek with the cloth. “He, uh,” If Ford told Stan that he went inside the portal momentarily and came out completely traumatized, Stan would go berserk on him knowing that you went inside the exact portal that mentally ruined Fiddleford. Ford did not want to go back to the arguing and suffocating silence so he lied. “He just thought what I was doing was unethical.” That wasn’t a complete and total lie, but it was far from the truth. Stan bought the lie fortunately for Ford. “Glad at least someone had the brain to call a quits!” 

✶ Before they knew it, they were tremendously low on money. Stan was the unfortunate one to discover this revelation. On a quick supply run, Stan had gone to the grocery store and stock up on some food. When the cashier rang up him, totaling his price to 30 dollars, Stan had pulled out a penny, paper clip and a wrapper. Mentally cursing Ford for spending all his money on unnecessary science stuff, he weakly smiled at the cashier. “Can you hold onto my groceries for a quick second?” The cashier nodded their, a big bright smile on their face. “Of course, stranger!” And right when Stan was going to snag the groceries bags in his hurried rush, a woman spoke from behind him. “Hey, that’s no stranger! That must be the mysterious science guy in the woods!” She points, gathering a crowd around Stan. “Ah, no. That’s my nerdy twin brother.” Stan says, causing the crowd to coo in interest. “There’s two of them?” Someone in the crowd asked. “He probably cloned himself just so he could do two things at once!��� Someone else said. “That’s probably what happened. I’ve heard strange stories about that old shack.” Toby Determined spoke up. “Yeah! Mysterious lights and spooky experiments!” Daryl added. “Gosh, I’d pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up in there!” Pa said. Susan perked up at that. “Oh, me too! Do you ever give tours?” 

✶ A sly smirked pulled to Stan’s face. He had the perfect idea. “Yes, I do give tours! Ten…no-no fifteen bucks a person!” The crowd erupts in cheers, waving their green bills around. “Is it possible we get to see the man of mystery himself?” Susan questions. “Hmm, I’m not sure.” Stan eluded them to think that there was no possible way to get to Ford to gauge their reactions. And what they gave him sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. “You know what?” The crowd lightens up with hope. “Fifty bucks if you all want to see the man of mystery himself!” Another boisterous cheer from the crowd. “And what did you say your name was, twin of mister mystery?” Stan smiled proudly. “Stanley, Stanley Pines.”

✶ The crowd bustles into the shack, ooo’s and aaa’a left their mouths in awe of the place. “Step right up folks to a world of,” he pauses for a moment thinking. “A world of enchantment!” He gestures to all the wild findings. Grabbing a dial box with two antennae, he showcases it to the crowd. “Behold! The um, nerdy science box.” Susan looked at it with interest. The device rumbled to life and zapped her in the eye, rendering it closed. “Ah, my eye!” She covers her closed eye, stumbling back. “Uh, I can assure you, that is no way permanent!” He offers an uneasy smile. “I paid sixty five dollars for this!?” With Susan’s comment, the whole crowd erupted in complaints. Quickly thinking, he grabs a skeleton and makes a half-assed joke where the last customers didn’t make it out alive. The crowd laughs at his horrible joke and Stan smiles. “What is with all this ruckus?” Ford walks in, irritation evident on his face. “Is that him?” Someone excitedly shrieks from the crowd. “Oh my god, it is! Take my money!” Wads of dollar bills get thrown at Stan who was making a great effort to make sure he caught all of them. “Stanley, what did you do!”

✶ After answering a few questions he was coaxed into, (they stroked his ego), he kicked them out, accidentally saying that they could return another time before closing the door, smacking himself in the head. “What was that?” Stan turned over to Ford,  buckets of money shoved inside into his shirt. “I got us money! And look how much we got!” He pulls a ten dollar bill from his stack in his shirt. “Stanford, this the best thing that’s ever happened to us so far.” Ford looks at him, unsure. “I’m not a fan of ripping people off,” Stan’s hands fall to his sides. “It’s their choice to throw money at me like a madman. Listen, if we get more money, we can stock up on good materials to fix the portal, like really good parts and we can finally bring [Name] back.” Ford stewed in his thoughts for a little more. He hated to admit, but Stan was right. With a little more money, they could be sailing straight to victory with a higher chance of your return. Ford let out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but I don’t want you to mess with my stuff, got it?” Stan beamed brightly. “I promise!” He broke that later on. 

✶ Gradually, the scary shed in the woods turned into a tourist spot people would frequent. Together, they advertised the shack by plastering various signs and posters all over the woods. They even went as far to tape advertisements onto people’s windows. Ford wanted to use actual beasts he had found in the woods to show to people, but in the end they all ran away, horrified for their lives. Ford was respectfully peeved because when he’d glance over to Stan, he had somehow had the crowd hanging on to every word that spilled out of his mouth. And when he’d show the crudely sewed animal he had made within five minutes before the tour started, they all gasped in delight, their money flying to him. “How do you do it?” Ford asks as Stan closes the door, reveling in the pool of money he had made. “I just say whatever comes to mind.” Stan shrugs. “But none of your stories make any sense logically! How did they believe in a half beaver half bat?” He gestures to the taxidermy animal. The beady eyes were slowly sliding off its face, leaving a trail of glue. “Hey, the people love to spend their money on things that are obviously fake, weirdly enough.” The door rattles with a knock. “Wanna take this next crowd? I gotta sort this money.” Against his will, not really, Ford opens the door and flashes an award winning smile he had learned from Stan. Cash was already being shoved in his face. At least he earns money for looking good. Ford attempted Stan’s whole shtick and to his very surprise it worked! It wasn’t as good as Stan’s performance, but it worked well enough that people were swarming him with cash. His bitterness from before was quickly washed over and he continued on his act. When the crowd dispersed, satisfied with their tour. Stan was there in the middle, clapping widely. “That was some good acting there, Ford!” Ford smiled, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m only doing this cause we need the money.” 

Taglist: @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @lovexsage, @teddycricketdream, @theilluminatidragonqueen, @raventeen @cedarmoonzz if you wanna be added to my taglist, dm me or comment! <3

Next ->

[vandme12]

Hello hi!! I love your writing you’re so insanely talented!!

I’ve been wondering and I’ve actually requested a couple people for this but, ronin x reader who has anxiety about him getting caught? I’m so curious on how he’d react to this

You check the news before you check your messages. That’s how bad it’s gotten.

Your phone screen glares in the dim light of your apartment, headlines flashing like warning signs: Serial Killer Still at Large – Authorities Urge Caution; New Evidence Suggests Possible Suspect – Police Closing In?; “The Butcher” Case Continues to Baffle Investigators.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the words swim together, twisting into something unreadable. No name. No face. Nothing solid. Your shoulders loosen. Your stomach untwists.

He’s still free.

For now.

The relief is short-lived. What if it changes tomorrow? What if they do find something? What if—

Your phone buzzes. A new message.

goreboy: “darlin’, if you’re gonna worry about me, you should at least let me enjoy it up close. i can practically hear that pretty lil’ head of yours buzzin’ from here.”

Your pulse jumps. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You shouldn’t be talking to him—not here, not anywhere—but that’s never stopped you before.

You: “I’m not worrying.”

goreboy: “liar.”

You chew on your bottom lip. He’s right, of course. He always is.

Another buzz.

goreboy: “lemme in.”

Your heart stutters. You glance at the door. He wouldn’t—would he? Your fingers tighten around your phone. A beat passes. Then another.

A knock.

Sharp. Playful. Like he knows exactly what it does to you.

You don’t think. You move.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like he belongs there, like he owns the space. Loose hoodie, ripped jeans, a smirk sharp enough to cut. Those amber eyes sweep over you, drinking in the tension strung tight in your shoulders. He grins, all teeth.

“Knew you’d let me in.”

You step back before he can make a point of crossing the threshold himself, before he can make you admit anything. He takes his time entering anyway, letting the door click shut behind him like it’s sealing a secret.

“Didn’t answer my texts,” he murmurs, circling you like a lazy predator. “Was startin’ to think you were mad at me.”

You fold your arms, ignoring the heat licking up your spine. “I was busy.”

“Busy worrying about me?”

“I wasn’t—”

Ronin hums, unconvinced. His fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up just enough for him to drink in your hesitation. He doesn’t have to say he sees through you. He just does.

“You’re cute when you stress, y’know that?” His voice dips lower, something almost fond curling around the edges. “Not as cute as when you beg, but I’ll take what I can get.”

You push his hand away, but it’s weak. Pathetic. He knows it.

“Ronin—”

“Mmm?”

Your throat tightens. You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t even let the thought form, but it’s already there, clawing its way free. “What if they catch you?”

For the first time, he stills. Not much—just a flicker, a brief pause in that endless, rolling confidence. Then his grin stretches wider, like a beast baring its teeth.

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though.”

“Ronin.”

The teasing edge in his voice fades at the way you say his name—quiet, strained. He likes when you worry, when you care too much despite yourself. But this? This is different.

He exhales slowly, stepping closer. Close enough that you can smell the metallic bite of dried blood on his hoodie, the faintest trace of smoke and cheap motel soap. Close enough that, if he wanted to, he could crush you against him and make you forget why you were ever worried in the first place.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts a hand—slow, deliberate—and brushes his fingers against yours. An offer. A test.

You don’t pull away.

“I get it,” he murmurs. “Not used to playin’ on this side of the fence, huh?”

You shake your head. Your voice is barely a whisper. “No.”

He sighs, something almost fond bleeding into his expression. Then he leans in, just enough for his lips to ghost over your temple.

“Lucky for you,” he murmurs, “I don’t lose.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “That’s not—”

A finger presses against your lips. Not rough. Not forceful. Just there. Just a reminder.

“Shhh.”

You freeze.

Ronin leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Y’can’t change what I am, sweetheart. Can’t change what I do. But if it helps, I like that you’re worried.” A grin, sharp and self-satisfied. “Means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

Your heart pounds. “Of course, I think about you.”

“Yeah?”

He tilts his head, and suddenly, you’re looking at him again—really looking at him. At the way his pupils have swallowed up those amber irises. At the way he’s watching you, waiting for something. Daring you.

Your breath shudders out. You’re so, so tired of fighting this.

“…Yes.”

Ronin’s grin softens. Just a fraction. Then, without warning, he scoops you up, dragging you flush against his chest. A startled yelp escapes you, but he just laughs—low and satisfied, arms coiling around you like he knew you’d give in eventually.

He laughed.

Not in a cruel way—never that. It was a sharp, incredulous thing, like you had just confessed to being afraid the sky might fall. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing a gloved thumb along your cheek, his touch so light it could have been imagined. “That’s adorable.”

You weren’t trying to be adorable.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his coat, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal. “I mean it,” you whispered. “I—I know you think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. They could catch you. And then what?”

Ronin tilted his head, considering you, his ever-present smirk softening. “Then they’d throw a parade,” he said dryly. “Statues, medals, a lifetime supply of those tiny jailhouse oranges. Can’t wait.”

You scowled, shoving at his chest—not that it moved him. “Ronin.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist. It was moments like this that reminded you what he was. Not just the teasing, ever-flirting devil who stole your breath with every grin, but the thing under the mask. The thing the world would never forgive.

He sighed, tilting his head back as if to examine the sky. “You’re really losing sleep over little old me, huh?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

His voice had dipped, losing its usual playful lilt. He tugged you closer, a gloved hand curling around the nape of your neck, grounding you in his warmth. “C’mon,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “You think I’d let myself get caught? Me?”

“You’re not invincible.”

“I might as well be.”

The arrogance in his tone made you want to shake him. How could he be so calm about this? About the very real, very terrifying possibility that one day he wouldn’t walk through that door with blood on his hands and a smirk on his lips? That one day, the news would break with grainy security footage and the words SERIAL KILLER THE BUTCHER APPREHENDED splashed across the screen? That one day, you’d lose him—not to death, but to a fate that might be worse?

“You scare me,” you admitted, voice small. “Not because of what you do. But because I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone.”

Ronin stilled.

For once, he had nothing clever to say.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. His free hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing along the bone in slow, soothing strokes. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, softer than you’d ever heard him. “You really do love me, huh?”

Your chest ached. “I never said that.”

He chuckled, but there was no teasing in it. “You didn’t have to.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter everything. And then, finally—

“I’m not gonna let them take me,” Ronin said. “Not now, not ever. They’ll have to pry me out of this world with a crowbar and a prayer.”

His grip tightened just slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “And if they ever do? If some miraculous day comes when they get lucky?” He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Then you run.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was steady, like this was the easiest thing in the world to say. “No visits. No letters. No waiting. You take whatever’s left and disappear, understand?”

“No.” The word was sharp, immediate. “That’s not fair.”

Ronin huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I think ‘fair’ left the building the second we met.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that he was telling you this now, like he’d already accepted that possibility, like he was already preparing you for a world without him.

“No,” you repeated, softer this time. “If they take you, I won’t just run. I’ll burn the whole goddamn place down.”

For a moment, Ronin looked stunned.

Then, slowly, his grin crept back. Wide, wicked, almost proud. “Arson, In the name of the devil, that’s romantic”

You swallowed. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, more of a promise. One he intended to keep.

And for the first time since this conversation started, you let yourself believe him.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Heat Exhaustion

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

Trigger Warning - Panic Attack

It was late, far too late to be awake when I had a flight to catch soon, but my mind wouldn’t quiet down. I was lying on my bed, my phone resting on my chest as I stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. The past week had been a whirlwind—another podium, more speculation about Max and me, the journalist still lurking in the shadows, and now… Max knowing the truth.

I should have felt relieved that he was on my side, that he wasn’t going to expose me, but instead, I felt like the walls were still closing in. Every day was a balancing act, a game of deception that I had to play to protect what I loved. And even though I trusted the few people who knew, the fact remained that they had all found out by accident.

I never got to choose who knew the truth about me.

Until now.

My fingers twitched as I lifted my phone, unlocking it and opening the group chat with Kimi and Ollie. They had been checking in on me more than usual, sending casual texts but always slipping in a "How are you feeling?" or "You sure you're good?" I appreciated it, but I also knew they were picking up on things I wasn’t saying.

I hesitated before finally typing.

Me: Hey, are you guys up?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Ollie: Yeah, what’s up? Kimi: Everything okay?

I chewed on my bottom lip, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. This wasn’t something I could just say easily. But I needed to get it out.

Me: I’ve just been thinking a lot about last weekend. It was… a lot to handle.

A pause, then—

Ollie: Yeah, we figured. You’ve been kinda off. Kimi: Not talking as much. That’s not like you.

I let out a soft breath, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the heaviness in my chest. They noticed.

Me: Yeah… it’s just hard to explain sometimes.

Kimi: You don’t have to if you’re not ready. But if you ever want to, we’re here.

That was the thing—I did want to.

I had spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, maintaining the act, making sure no one ever saw too much. I had gotten used to it. But Kimi and Ollie were two of the people I had grown to genuinely care about on the grid. And I wanted them to know me the way that Franco, Lando, Oscar, and now Max did.

I wanted to choose them.

I gripped my phone tighter before finally typing out the words.

Me: Actually… I think I want to tell you guys something. Something big.

The typing bubbles popped up immediately.

Ollie: Okay…? Kimi: Now I’m curious.

I exhaled slowly, staring at the screen, willing myself to go through with it.

Me: Every person who knows this about me found out by accident. I never really got to choose who I told.

A pause. Then—

Ollie: What do you mean? Kimi: Are you saying… you want to tell us?

My heart was pounding. This was it.

Me: Yeah. I do. I trust you both, and I want you to actually know me.

There was a longer silence this time. For a moment, I wondered if they were freaking out, if they were regretting saying they’d always be here.

Then—

Kimi: Wow… okay. When? Ollie: Yeah, whenever you’re ready, we’re here.

I let out a shaky breath, a warmth spreading through my chest.

Me: How about after media duties on Thursday in Qatar? Just us, maybe in my hotel room. I want to finally show you who I am.

It felt strange to say it like that—show them who I was. But that was the reality. No one besides Franco, Lando, Oscar, and now Max had seen me without the baggy clothes, the helmet, the entire disguise I had carefully built. Kimi and Ollie had only ever known Ghost. Now, they would finally meet me.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again, as if they were thinking hard about their response. Then, finally—

Ollie: We’ll be there. Kimi: Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.

I exhaled deeply, my shoulders slumping with relief as I locked my phone and pressed it against my chest.

For the first time, I was choosing who to trust. I was deciding who got to know the real me. That made all the difference as my mind began to relax, I was able to fit in a nice nap before my alarm woke me to leave for the airport. 

—

The seconds dragged, stretching unbearably as I sat on the edge of my hotel bed, my hands clenched into fists so tight that my nails dug into my palms. My helmet was still on, the visor down, the only thing keeping me hidden for just a little while longer. My hoodie felt suffocating, but I didn’t push it back. Not yet.

I had been so sure when I texted them.

I had spent the whole week telling myself this was the right thing to do, that this was the moment I would finally get to take control over something that had been out of my hands for far too long. Every other person who had found out had done so by accident—Franco, Lando, Oscar, even Max. Each time, it had happened without me choosing it, without me deciding I was ready.

This time, I had made the choice. I had typed the words out myself, I had asked Kimi and Ollie if they would come.

So why did I feel like my heart was about to beat out of my chest?

I exhaled sharply, my knee bouncing as I tried to shake the feeling off. This is nothing. This is just another reveal.

But it wasn’t, not really.

Because they weren’t just my teammates or my rivals. They were my friends. And they had become my friends without knowing who I really was.

What if this did change things?

What if they looked at me differently? What if they started treating me like I was fragile? What if—

Knock knock knock.

I jolted upright, breath catching in my throat.

The moment was here.

For a fleeting second, I considered staying put, pretending I wasn’t in, sending them a last-minute excuse that something had come up. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t do that. I had come this far, had spent years hiding, and I was so tired of it.

Swallowing down my nerves, I forced myself up, my feet feeling heavier than usual as I crossed the room.

Another knock, gentler this time.

They were waiting.

I reached for the handle, hesitating just long enough to take a steadying breath before pulling the door open.

Kimi and Ollie stood there, both looking equally nervous.

Their eyes flicked immediately to my helmet, to the way my hoodie draped over me, and I saw the realization hit them—that I was shaking.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ollie said immediately, stepping forward slightly. “If you don’t feel ready, we won’t be upset.”

“Seriously,” Kimi added, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. “We don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. It’s okay if you change your mind.”

Their kindness nearly broke me.

I clenched my jaw, gripping the edge of my hoodie sleeves, trying to hold myself together. They were giving me an out—offering me an escape with no strings attached. And for a second, a small part of me wanted to take it.

But I had spent so long not having a choice.

I wanted this.

“No,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “I want to do this. I need to.”

They studied me for a long moment, like they were trying to make sure I really meant it.

Then, finally, Ollie gave me a small smile, one that told me he understood just how much this moment meant to me. Kimi nodded in agreement.

“Okay,” Kimi said simply.

I stepped back, letting them inside. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly, the room felt so much smaller.

The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on my shoulders.

I turned to face them, my hands still trembling slightly, but I clenched them into fists again, trying to ground myself.

“One rule,” I said, my voice quieter than usual. “No matter who is under this helmet… you can’t tell anyone.”

Ollie’s expression softened further, his brows pulling together like he could see just how much this meant to me. “Of course. We’d never do that.”

Kimi nodded firmly. “We promise. We wouldn’t risk losing you. We have come to care for you as more than just a competitor.”

The words hit harder than I expected, my chest tightening at the sheer sincerity in their voices.

They didn’t care about the mystery, about the reveal itself.

They just cared about me.

I inhaled sharply, feeling a lump form in my throat as I lifted my hands to my helmet.

This was it.

The final moment before the truth came out.

I hesitated, my fingers gripping the edges. My mind screamed at me to stall, to wait just another second, just another minute, but I forced myself to push through the fear.

They’re your friends. They won’t leave. They won’t treat you differently.

Slowly, I lifted the helmet off.

The cool air hit my face first, followed by the flop of my hair from within the casing.

For a second, neither of them moved as an eerie silence filled the room.

Then, Ollie’s eyes widened, his mouth parting slightly as he blinked in pure shock. Kimi’s reaction was quieter, but his expression shifted instantly, his brows raising in understanding.

The weight of the moment pressed down on me, my heartbeat hammering so loudly in my ears that I swore they could hear it.

Seconds stretched unbearably, and then—

Ollie let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his lips twitching up into a grin. “No way.”

Kimi exhaled, shaking his head with something that looked like disbelief before his lips curled into a soft smile. “That’s why you were so nervous, huh?”

I nodded slowly, unable to find my voice.

Ollie let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. “Mate, you’ve been fooling the entire world.”

Something about his tone—light, teasing, not at all distant or different—made the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly.

Kimi tilted his head, studying me for a moment before nodding. “This… actually makes a lot of sense now.”

I blinked. “It does?”

Kimi hummed in amusement, tilting his head as he studied me. “Yeah… the way you’ve been moving, the way you’ve been hiding. It wasn’t just about keeping your identity a secret, was it?” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “It was about making sure people saw you as a driver first. Not just a name… and not just because you’re a girl.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. They got it. They really, truly got it.

Ollie’s gaze lingered on my face for a moment longer before something seemed to click. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait a second…” He squinted, like he was trying to place a distant memory. Then, his jaw dropped. “No way.”

Kimi’s brows furrowed before realization dawned over him too. His expression softened in understanding. “Holy shit. You’re—” He hesitated, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “You’re Jack’s little sister, aren’t you?”

A sharp breath left me at the sound of my brother’s name.

I nodded slowly.

Ollie let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair as the memories seemed to come rushing back to him. “I knew you looked familiar! You were at a race a few years back, weren’t you? I remember Jack talking about his sister being in the paddock for a weekend, but you were—” He gestured vaguely. “You looked different then. You weren’t…”

“Disguised?” I offered with a small, wry smile.

He let out a chuckle. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Kimi exhaled, shaking his head as a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “This explains so much.”

Ollie looked at me, his expression shifting from disbelief to something softer. “Why didn’t you just race under your real name?”

I hesitated, my fingers curling into my hoodie sleeves. “Besides the problems with my parents, I didn’t want to be just ‘Jack’s little sister.’ I wanted to make it here on my own. No expectations, no assumptions—just me, proving that I deserved to be here.”

Kimi nodded in understanding, his eyes holding something that looked like respect. “And you did.”

Ollie grinned, nudging me lightly. “Yeah, you really did. And honestly? This makes you even more of a legend.”

That hit deep. I let out a slow breath, my nerves still there but quieter now, replaced by something warmer.

Kimi’s smile softened. “We’ve got your back, okay? No one’s finding out from us.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah. No matter what, we’ve got you.”

Relief crashed over me in waves, so intense I almost felt dizzy from it. For the first time in a long time, I chose to tell someone my truth. And I had chosen right.

—

The weekend’s sessions had been utterly brutal. The relentless Qatar heat wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was suffocating. It clung to my suit, turned every breath inside my helmet thick and stifling, made every movement feel sluggish. Sweat dripped down my back, pooling beneath layers of fireproofs, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn't peel the suit away between runs like the others did. I couldn’t press an ice pack to my neck, couldn’t dump water over my head to cool down.

I couldn’t even drink properly.

Every other driver could remove their helmets, take a quick sip from their bottles between debriefs, but I had to wait until I was alone in my driver’s room. The few stolen moments between sessions were the only times I could rip off my helmet, gulp down as much water as I could manage, and try to regulate my breathing before I had to suit back up again.

And qualifying was proving just how much that was wearing me down.

I gritted my teeth, forcing my trembling hands to stay steady on the wheel as I threw the car into the next corner. My arms ached from the relentless force pressing against them, my gloves were damp from sweat, and the heat inside my helmet made my head pound.

But I didn’t lift.

I couldn’t.

This was my last chance. One more lap to break into Q3. One more lap to prove I could push through.

I kept my foot down, forcing the car to its limits, wringing every ounce of performance I could from the tires. But as I rounded the final turn, the rear snapped—just a fraction, but enough to jolt my exhausted system.

I corrected it instantly, instinct taking over before my brain even had time to register the mistake. But the damage was done.

A few milliseconds lost.

Milliseconds that could mean the difference between moving forward or falling short.

I held my breath as I crossed the line, waiting—praying.

Then the radio crackled to life.

“Good job, Ghost.” Diego’s voice was steady, but I could hear the tightness behind it. “You just made it into Q3. Sitting P10 right now.”

Relief crashed into me, but it was quickly smothered by exhaustion.

“You’re not alone up there,” Diego continued. “Franco’s through too—P8. We’re happy with this, but let’s see if we can get something better out of you.”

I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper.

They wanted more from me.

They always wanted more.

And normally, I would have fought for it. Normally, I would have dug deeper, found something extra to give.

But right now?

Right now, I wasn’t sure if I had anything left.

My fingers twitched against the wheel, muscles trembling from heat exhaustion. I could feel the sweat pooling beneath my suit, soaking into the balaclava under my helmet. Every breath inside the confined space of my visor felt too warm, too thick, like I was breathing in steam.

I needed water. I needed air. I needed to be out of this damn suit for more than just a few stolen minutes between sessions.

But there was no time for that.

Not yet.

I forced myself to key the radio, my voice rougher than usual. “Understood.” My throat burned from dehydration, but I ignored it. “Let’s go again.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Diego’s voice returned, softer this time.

“Copy that. You got this, Ghost.”

I exhaled sharply, rolling out of the pit lane for the next run.

I had to.

—

By the time I pulled into the pit box, my body was on the verge of betraying me completely. The heat had wrung every ounce of strength from my limbs, leaving me trapped in my own skin, suffocating inside my race suit. The weight of exhaustion pressed down like a physical force, making my grip on the wheel feel distant, almost nonexistent. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even as I tried to flex my fingers in my lap. My chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the stale, burning air inside my helmet making it impossible to get enough oxygen.

As the pit crew jacked up my car and rolled me back into my side of the garage, I let my head fall back against the seat for just a moment, forcing myself to blink away the dizziness creeping in around the edges of my vision. The helmet felt like a furnace, trapping the heat against my skin, suffocating me with my own exhaustion.

I turned my head slightly, vision swimming, and caught sight of Franco already out of his car. His face was drenched in sweat, but he still had that easy, confident smile as he laughed with his engineers. How? He had been in the same conditions, pushing just as hard, and yet he looked… fine.

Then his eyes landed on me.

His grin widened as he raised a hand in a wave, but the second I lifted mine in return, his smile disappeared. His brows drew together, the concern sharp and immediate.

I knew exactly what he had seen.

The way my hand trembled violently, the sluggishness of my movements, the way my shoulders sagged like the weight of my own body was too much to carry.

Before I even attempted to move, Franco was already striding toward me, his playful demeanor completely gone. He reached the side of my car in seconds, one hand braced against the halo as he leaned in slightly, scanning my posture beneath the helmet.

"Hey," he said, voice quieter, serious in a way that sent a fresh wave of panic rolling through me. "You good?"

I forced myself to nod, even as my head swam. Say something. Don’t look weak.

But the moment I shifted, trying to push myself up, my body collapsed against the seat, arms going weak and useless.

"Shit—"

I barely had time to register Franco moving before his hands were on me, steadying me before I could even attempt another escape. His grip was firm but careful, as if he knew how close I was to completely shutting down.

"Oi, Nico!" Franco called over his shoulder, urgency lacing his voice. "Need a hand here!"

Footsteps rushed closer, and then Nico’s familiar presence was beside us, his voice calm but sharp. “What happened?”

“She’s overheating,” Franco answered before I could.

I wanted to protest, to tell them both to back off, but I didn’t have the energy.

“Come on,” Nico said, his arm sliding under mine as he and Franco braced me between them. “We need to get her cooled off before she passes out.”

Their help was the only thing keeping me on my feet as they guided me toward the drivers' room, my legs barely responding beneath me. Every step felt sluggish, like walking through molasses.

Inside, the temperature difference was immediate, the air conditioning hitting my suit like a wave of relief, but it wasn’t enough. I was still burning up, my skin damp with sweat beneath the layers of fireproof gear.

"Helmet," Franco said, tapping the sides. "You need to get it off."

I lifted shaky hands, fumbling with the latch, but my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Before I could even try again, Franco was already reaching for it, carefully undoing it for me.

As soon as the helmet came off, cooler air rushed against my flushed skin, and I gasped like I had been drowning.

“Here.” Nico pressed a cold water bottle into my hands, his expression unreadable but firm. “Drink. But go slow.”

I brought the bottle to my lips, the plastic slick in my shaking grasp, and took a sip. It felt like heaven against my parched throat, but even with the relief, my voice still came out hoarse.

"Thanks."

Franco crouched in front of me, his green-brown eyes searching my face for something, his usual teasing smirk nowhere to be found. "You shouldn’t have pushed that hard."

I shot him a weak glare. "Like you didn’t?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly not amused.

Before he could fire back, a knock sounded from the door followed by the nervous voice of some team staff.

“They need you both for post-qualifying media duties.”

Franco turned so fast I thought he might break something. “Are you kidding me? We just got out of the cars, and it’s boiling out there. We are barely upright right now.”

The team member sighed. “I know. I tried to push it back, but the media’s already set up. It’s non-negotiable.”

I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting out a slow breath. I wanted to be angry, to fight back, but I knew it wouldn’t change anything.

“It’s fine,” I muttered, pushing myself upright again. My legs wobbled dangerously, but I locked them in place. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Franco muttered something in Spanish under his breath, the irritation rolling off of him in waves.

Nico moved fast, reaching into a cooler before handing me something. “Here. Wear this over your suit.”

I glanced down at the ice vest in my hands, then back up at him, gratitude flashing through my exhaustion.

"Thanks," I murmured, slipping it on. The moment the cold pressed against my back and chest, my whole body sagged in relief. Even though the sweaty suit felt disgusting, the cold seeping in from this vest made it so much more worth it. Finally I pulled my helmet back on and followed Franco out the door. 

Franco was still grumbling under his breath as we made our way toward the press area, but as I adjusted my helmet again, I could feel his gaze burning into me. I knew I must still look exhausted and he had every right to be worried for me, but right now we had our media duties and neither of us got paid enough to take the fine that would come with even one of us skipping them. 

The moment I stepped into the media pen, the lights, cameras, and voices crashed over me like a tidal wave. My head throbbed from the heat and exhaustion, my limbs screaming for rest, but I forced my body to move forward, to stand tall, to act like I wasn’t breaking apart from the inside out.

The ice vest on my race suit helped, but only just. The cold was already fading, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the heat pressing down on all of us. My hands still shook at my sides, fingers twitching involuntarily, and I could feel the weakness in my legs with every step I took. But I had to push through. No cracks. No hesitation. No weakness.

The media swarmed the second they saw me. Microphones were shoved toward my helmet, journalists calling out my name—well, my alias.

"Ghost, a tough session today—"

"How was the car handling in these conditions?"

"With such brutal temperatures, how are you holding up physically?"

I kept my shoulders squared, forcing my voice to stay even. "It was tough out there, but the team did a great job preparing the car. The conditions were brutal for everyone, but we managed to get through."

I hated how flat my voice sounded. The voice changer masked everything—my exhaustion, my struggle, my pain—but my body couldn’t lie. My stance wasn’t as steady as it should have been. My weight shifted slightly, trying to counteract the wobble in my knees. I flexed my fingers at my sides, willing the tremors away.

The next journalist didn’t even bother with a question about my performance. Instead, their voice came with a sharper edge. "Ghost, we’ve noticed you’re looking a little unsteady—"

"I'm fine," I cut in, too quickly, too defensive.

A scoff came from beside me, and I didn’t need to turn my head to know who it was.

"Fine?" Max’s voice carried over the media, sharp and laced with irritation. "They can barely stand, and you all are still shoving microphones in their face. Maybe wait until they’ve had a chance to recover before making them answer pointless questions."

I swallowed, the warmth in my chest battling the exhaustion. Max was blunt as ever, but I appreciated him for it.

The journalists, of course, didn't back down. "Max, the FIA mandates post-qualifying media duties—"

"Yeah?" Charles cut in now, his voice tight with frustration. "Maybe the FIA should use their eyes and see that some of us can barely speak, let alone stand, before throwing us in front of cameras. Look at him. This isn’t normal."

I gritted my teeth, willing my body to stay still, to not give anything away. I had survived worse. I could do this.

A hand brushed against my arm—subtle but intentional. Lewis.

He didn’t say anything to the media, but his voice was low enough for only me to hear. "You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just get through it. We’ve got you."

The kindness in his tone almost shattered the wall I was desperately holding up.

But the media wasn't done.

"Ghost, how do you respond to Max and Charles’ concerns? Are you struggling more than you’re letting on?"

I inhaled slowly, steadying myself before answering. "It’s a tough race weekend for everyone. The conditions are harsh, but that’s part of the sport."

Another journalist jumped in. "There were moments on track where you seemed to be fighting the car more than usual. Was that just the heat, or were there issues with the setup?"

I exhaled slowly. "The setup is strong. The conditions make everything harder to manage, but we’re still in a good place for the race."

The questions kept coming, and I kept answering, pushing through the nausea creeping at the edges of my mind. My hands were clenched into fists now, not out of anger but in a desperate attempt to stop the shaking. My legs felt like they could give out at any second, but I locked my knees, refusing to let them see me stumble.

"Ghost, you’re one of the only drivers still giving full interviews right now, while others have already left due to the heat. Do you feel obligated to stay?"

That one made my breath hitch.

Before I could even formulate an answer, Franco’s voice cut in from a few feet away, his tone dripping with frustration. "Maybe instead of asking him that, you should be asking why the hell he is still expected to be standing here answering your questions when he clearly needs a break."

I heard Lando mutter something under his breath before stepping in too. "We all get that media duties are part of the job, but seriously, look at him. We’re dropping like flies out here, and Ghost can barely stand. Let him go."

For a moment, the journalists hesitated. Maybe they had finally realized how bad I must have looked. Maybe they saw the way I kept shifting my weight, the way my breaths were coming just a little too shallow, the way my hands wouldn’t stay still.

The team member who had escorted me here finally stepped in, clearing his throat. "That’s all for Ghost today. He needs to recover before tomorrow."

I didn’t wait for the journalists to argue. I gave a short nod, mumbled a quick, "Thank you," and turned to leave, moving slower than I wanted to, but fast enough that no one could stop me.

As soon as I stepped away from the cameras, away from the eyes burning into me, my entire body slumped. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright drained in an instant.

Franco was there in seconds, steadying me with a firm hand on my back. "That was fucking ridiculous."

I couldn’t even respond. My head was pounding too much, my muscles aching too deeply.

Lando and Oscar caught up to us, both looking equally pissed.

"You should’ve just walked away the second you got out there," Oscar muttered, shaking his head. "They would’ve figured it out eventually."

I let out a weak laugh. "Would they, though?"

Lando huffed. "Next time, we’re dragging you out before they even get the chance."

I was too tired to argue.

Lewis appeared beside me, pressing another ice pack into my hands. "Here. This’ll help."

I took it without question, pressing it against my neck. The relief was instant but not nearly enough. Lewis smiled at me with a nod before quietly walking away. 

Max crossed his arms, still glaring toward the media pen. "If the FIA doesn’t do something about this, I will."

I shook my head slightly. "You can’t—"

"Watch me."

I sighed, but deep down, I was grateful.

—

The cold water from earlier had long since lost its effect, leaving only a dull, lingering coolness that did nothing to combat the growing weight pressing down on me.

I sat on the edge of my bed in my drivers’ room, fully suited up, my helmet resting beside me as I finished the last bottle of water I could stomach. Every sip felt like a lifeline, a desperate attempt to build a reserve before the inevitable heat drained it all away. Today was hotter than any session before, and I knew—we all knew—this race would be a battle of survival just as much as it would be a battle for position.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back, trying to focus my mind. You’ve done this before. You can do it again. You just have to push through.

My fingers curled into fists against my thighs before I finally grabbed my helmet, slipping it on and locking myself in. This was it. No turning back now.

I pushed open the door and stepped out into the chaos of the garage.

—

The first laps of the race were smooth. I focused on keeping the tires in check, my pace steady, not taking unnecessary risks. The heat was already settling in, pressing against me like a second race suit, but I’d prepared for this.

Then, somewhere around the middle of the race, I hit the water button for the fifth time.

The familiar small tube inside my helmet released a shot of liquid into my mouth. The moment it touched my tongue, I gagged. It wasn’t cool anymore. It wasn’t even lukewarm. It was hot.

I spat it out instinctively, the taste bitter and almost nauseating.

"Water’s boiling," I muttered into the radio, shifting my focus back to the track.

Diego’s voice came through, calm but firm. "Copy, Ghost. Just do what you can. We’ll monitor your vitals."

I clenched my jaw. I already knew what that meant. They were watching my performance, my inputs, my pace. They’d pull me if they thought I was fading.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Laps blurred together. My mouth was dry, my throat raw from the heat. My hands were slippery inside my gloves, and every breath felt heavier than the last. I had stopped sweating at some point—not because the heat had lessened, but because my body had nothing left to give.

"Ghost, you need to think about retiring," Diego’s voice came through again, a little more insistent now. "We can see the drop-off. It’s okay."

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. "No. I can finish."

Even if I had to drag myself to the checkered flag.

"Ghost—"

"Who’s out?" I cut him off, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

There was a pause before he answered. "Doohan, Lawson, and Stroll. They’ve all retired due to the heat."

I exhaled sharply. That could’ve been me. It still could be me.

But I wasn’t done. I wasn’t finished.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, ignoring the way my vision was beginning to blur at the edges.

"Not yet," I murmured.

Then I pressed forward.

—

The moment I stopped, my body betrayed me.

I had done it—I finished the race in P6. Franco had taken P5. But there was no relief, no triumph. Only the crushing weight of exhaustion bearing down on me like a collapsing ceiling.

As I pulled into Parc Fermé, the heat that had been suffocating me all race now pressed into my skull like a vice. My vision blurred as I tried to breathe through the nausea clawing at my throat. My arms felt detached, as if they were no longer mine to command. The entire world had narrowed down to a pounding in my head and the tremors that I could no longer ignore.

This is bad. This is really bad.

I fumbled with the steering wheel, fingers trembling too hard to properly unclip it. I finally managed to yank it off, dropping it onto the nose as I reached for the halo, trying to pull myself up. My muscles screamed, burning with a fire that wasn’t just exertion—this was something worse.

My foot barely found purchase as I tried to climb out, and the second I attempted to push myself up, my strength gave out. My body slumped forward, upper torso flopping limply over the halo, my arms barely holding me up as my head hung between them. My breath came in sharp, rapid bursts, my lungs fighting against the stifling heat trapped inside my race suit.

I wasn’t just exhausted. I was failing.

Panic twisted deep in my chest, feeding into the violent shudders racking my body. My helmet felt suffocating, my suit like a second layer of burning skin. I was shaking uncontrollably, my fingers barely gripping onto the car to keep me from collapsing completely. My heart slammed against my ribs, too fast, too much—

"Breathe—breathe—" I gasped to myself, but I couldn’t.

I barely registered the footsteps rushing toward me until two familiar voices called out—

"Whoa, whoa, hey—"

"Shit—Ghost! Are you okay?!"

Ollie and Kimi.

I felt hands on me—strong, steady hands. One of them gripped my waist while the other reached for my arms, carefully but urgently trying to pull me the rest of the way out of the car. My legs buckled the second my weight shifted, but they caught me before I could hit the ground.

"She’s burning up," Ollie cursed, adjusting his hold as he and Kimi fully hoisted me up between them.

The movement made the nausea spike—the world tilted violently, a wave of dizziness crashing into me like a tidal force. I groaned softly, my head rolling against Kimi’s shoulder. The tremors in my body worsened. My knees refused to hold me, leaving all of my weight pressed into them.

"We need to get him out of here—now," Kimi said, voice tight with concern.

"Franco—" Ollie called over his shoulder, but Franco was already moving.

I barely tracked his blurred figure before he turned and sprinted towards the garage. I heard his frantic voice shouting something about Nico, ice, water, bath—but it all faded into static.

Another set of hands found me—Oscar.

"Come on, let’s get him back—" he said, already helping them move.

I didn’t have the strength to respond, to fight back against the way my vision kept fading in and out.

The three of them half-carried, half-dragged me up the pit lane. My body swayed uselessly, my legs numb beneath me, my head lolling forward and back.

I barely registered Lando’s voice until I heard his sharp inhale—

"What the hell—? Hey—what’s wrong with him?"

The shuffle of hurried steps.

Max’s voice.

"Move—what happened? What’s going on?!"

Their voices were frantic, but I couldn’t focus.

The only thing I could do was press my head against Kimi’s shoulder, my body burning and trembling and fading, fading—

The last thing I felt before my mind slipped further into the haze was the grip of their hands tightening around me.

Holding me up. Keeping me safe.

—

The cold hit me like a freight train.

A sharp, biting shock that sent a jolt through my entire body, dragging me out of the suffocating haze of unconsciousness. My skin burned from the contrast—heat still radiating off me, clashing violently against the icy water.

I groaned, head lolling to the side as I tried to blink my vision clear.

"Hey—hey, she’s waking up."

The voice was Franco’s, tight with concern.

My sluggish mind took a moment to catch up—to register that I wasn’t in the car anymore, that my helmet was gone, my race suit stripped away. I was submerged up to my chest in ice water, wearing only the thin layer of fireproofs that clung uncomfortably to my damp skin.

A firm but careful grip pressed against my shoulders—Nico.

"Easy," he murmured, steady and grounding. "Just breathe, y/n. You need to stay in the bath a little longer."

Everything still felt wrong.

My limbs were too heavy, my lungs too tight, the room too cold yet my skin too hot. My body couldn’t decide whether it was freezing or burning, and the overwhelming confusion of it all sent my mind spiraling.

"W-What—" My voice cracked—raw, hoarse.

I winced at the sound, my throat aching like I had swallowed sandpaper.

"You overheated, bad," Kimi said, leaning closer. His face was creased with worry. "We had to get you in here fast. You passed out completely."

"You scared the hell out of us," Ollie added, his usual teasing lilt nowhere in his voice.

I swallowed thickly, eyes darting around the dimly lit drivers’ room, heart rate already climbing from the weight of their words.

I had pushed too far.

I had scared them.

I had failed.

The thought hit me like a slap to the face, and suddenly, the tightness in my chest worsened.

The trembling in my hands turned into violent shakes, my breath shuddering as something clawed its way up my throat—not nausea this time, but panic. Full-blown panic.

I felt trapped in my own body.

"No—no, no, no—" I barely gasped out, my breathing spiraling into sharp, erratic bursts.

The ice bath felt too deep.

The cold was too much.

The room was spinning—

"Shit, she’s panicking," Franco cursed, immediately shifting closer. "Hey—hey, look at me."

I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I was shaking too much, heart slamming against my ribs, my vision swimming as every exhausted nerve in my body screamed at once.

Nico held me firm.

His grip on my shoulders tightened just enough to keep me grounded, his voice level as he spoke—"Breathe, kid. Don’t fight it. Just let it pass."

"You’re safe, y/n," Ollie’s voice cut through the haze, softer now. "We’re right here. You’re okay."

"You’re not alone," Kimi added, his usual stoicism cracking just enough for me to hear the genuine concern beneath it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to pull myself out of the panic’s grip.

Just breathe.

I sucked in a shaky breath. Then another. And another.

Slowly, painfully, the tightness in my chest loosened, the suffocating weight on my ribs easing—not gone, but manageable.

When I finally blinked my eyes open again, tears had slipped down my flushed cheeks, mixing with the cold water clinging to my skin.

I sniffled, embarrassed, trying to shake it off—

But Ollie just huffed a quiet laugh and reached out, gently brushing the pads of his fingers beneath my eyes to wipe them away.

"You look awful," he teased lightly, though the relief in his voice was obvious. "But at least you’re back with us."

I let out a weak breath—something close to a laugh, but more of a tired exhale.

"Thanks, Ollie."

"Anytime, y/n."

There was a beat of silence before Franco sighed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

"We gotta go, though. Cooldown debriefs and all."

I nodded, though I still felt too weak to fully sit up on my own.

Kimi, Ollie, and Franco hesitated before leaving, their gazes lingering on me, as if making sure I wouldn’t crumble the second they walked out the door.

"Go," I rasped, offering a small nod. "I’ll be fine."

It took another beat, but eventually, they filed out, leaving only Nico behind.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat on the stool beside the tub, watching me carefully as I tried to even out my breath.

Then—quietly—he handed me a bottle of water.

"Drink, kid."

I did.

—

The walk to media duties felt longer than usual.

My body was still aching, my skin still hot despite the ice bath, but at least I could move without my legs threatening to give out beneath me. The hoodie and sweats Nico had given me felt heavy, but they helped me still hide my feminine figure without having to put my race suit back on.

Helmet back on. Voice changer activated. Persona intact.

I was Ghost again.

Not the girl who had almost collapsed from heat exhaustion. Not the one who had panicked in the ice bath.

Just Ghost.

I had just rounded the corner when I nearly crashed into someone.

"Whoa—"

I barely had time to process before I felt a firm hand grip my shoulder, steadying me.

"Are you even okay to be walking around?"

Oscar.

I lifted my head slightly, immediately greeted by the sight of Oscar, Max, and Lando, all three of them looking me over like I might drop at any second.

Oscar’s expression was tight with concern, his eyes scanning me as if searching for any sign of weakness beneath the hoodie and sweats.

Max and Lando, on the other hand—they just looked pissed.

"Ghost, what the hell were you thinking?" Lando’s voice was sharper than usual, his usual playfulness nowhere to be found.

"You could have passed out behind the wheel!" Max snapped, arms crossing over his chest.

"You’re lucky you even made it to the end without crashing," Lando added, eyes narrowing.

I sighed, already feeling the exhaustion creep back in. "Guys, I finished the race. I’m fine."

"Fine?" Max echoed, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You couldn’t even get out of your damn car! You had to be carried to your garage!"

"We saw you, mate," Lando said, shaking his head. "You scared the shit out of us."

Oscar, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke—his voice softer, but no less firm.

"You should’ve retired, Ghost."

I clenched my jaw beneath my helmet, fingers curling into fists at my sides.

They didn’t get it.

I had something to prove.

After everything—after spending the entire season fighting for my place, for my right to be here, for my strength—I couldn’t just quit.

Not when I was still standing.

"I couldn’t," I muttered, my voice low.

Max let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "You’re a damn idiot."

Lando scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, no kidding. You think you’re proving a point by pushing through this kind of shit? You’re just proving you have no self-preservation instincts."

"Lando—" Oscar started, but the Brit just kept going.

"Seriously, mate, what’s the point of all this secrecy, the helmet, the voice changer, if you’re just gonna race yourself into the damn grave?"

My chest tightened.

They didn’t understand.

"I finished the race," I said again, my voice stronger this time.

Max let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, and nearly fucking died doing it."

There was a beat of silence.

I didn’t know what to say.

Because deep down, I knew they were right.

I had been stupid. I had risked everything.

But at the same time—I couldn’t regret it.

"I had to," I finally whispered.

Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. "You didn’t have to. You just thought you did."

Max took a step closer, his voice lower now. "Don’t do that again."

"Max—"

"I mean it, Ghost." His eyes burned into mine through the visor of my helmet. "Don’t pull that shit again."

Lando exhaled, shaking his head. "If you ever scare us like that again, I swear to god—"

"What? You'll do what?" I challenged, tilting my head.

"We’ll fucking drag you out of the car ourselves next time," Lando shot back, dead serious.

I stared at them for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Noted."

Oscar sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… promise you’ll take it easy for the rest of the day."

I hesitated—then gave a small nod.

"Fine."

Max and Lando exchanged a look, clearly not satisfied, but knowing they wouldn’t get much more out of me.

"Good," Max muttered. "Now go do those stupid media duties before we get in trouble for holding you up."

I let out a breath, turning toward the media pen.

I could still feel their eyes on me as I walked away.

—

The questions had been relentless since the moment I stepped into the media pen.

I had answered what felt like a hundred different versions of "How are you feeling?" and "Was the heat the toughest challenge today?" while keeping my voice steady, my responses measured.

I could still feel the weight of Max, Lando, and Oscar’s words from earlier pressing against my chest.

"You think you’re proving a point by pushing through this kind of shit?"

"You just thought you had to."

"Don’t pull that shit again."

I had brushed them off, insisted I was fine, but deep down, the doubt had already started to sink in.

And then—I heard Jack’s name.

"Jack, do you think Ghost finishing the race today proves that you gave up too soon?"

My stomach twisted.

I turned my head slightly, listening as Jack’s tone sharpened in response.

"You think I wanted to retire?" His voice was laced with frustration, the exhaustion from the race still evident. "I had no choice. I was on the verge of passing out in the car—what the hell was I supposed to do? Just push through it like an idiot?"

The reporters kept pushing, eager to stoke the flames.

"Well, Ghost did."

That set him off.

"Yeah, and look at them! Couldn’t even get out of the car! You think that’s smart? You think that’s proving a point? That’s just reckless."

My chest tightened.

They had gotten to him.

I knew what they were doing—trying to manufacture a rivalry, to paint one of us as weaker, the other as stronger, to get some headline-worthy soundbite out of him.

And Jack—he was giving them exactly what they wanted.

"Do you regret your decision now that you see what Ghost was capable of?"

Jack let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Capable of? They nearly collapsed. That’s not capability—that’s stupidity. If anything, I feel bad for them."

I didn’t have time to process the sting in his words before I was being called up for my own interview.

The second I stepped forward, I could already see the smirks on the reporters’ faces.

They were waiting. Waiting for me to bite.

"Ghost, we just spoke with Jack, and he had some strong words about your decision to finish the race today—"

"Jack said you were reckless—"

"He implied he felt bad for you—"

"Do you have anything to say in response?"

I could feel the heat behind my visor—not from the temperature, but from the frustration simmering in my chest.

I could shut Jack down. I could bite back.

But that’s what they wanted.

Instead, I exhaled slowly, forcing my voice to stay calm as I answered.

"I don’t blame Jack for anything he said," I started, my tone even. "But I think the real problem is how often these kinds of comparisons are made in the first place."

The interviewer blinked, caught off guard.

I continued.

"Jack did the right thing today. He recognized his limits. He chose to put his health first. That takes strength. That takes intelligence. He made the smart call—something I wasn’t able to do."

A few reporters shifted uncomfortably at my words.

"I let my ego get in the way," I admitted, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie. "I finished the race, sure. But at what cost? I put myself at risk. I let myself believe that stopping would be a weakness, not to myself, but to the public, to you. But looking back… I think Jack was stronger than me today."

A beat of silence.

The interviewers weren’t expecting this.

They wanted drama. Fuel for a rivalry.

Instead, I had taken the wind out of their sails.

"So no, I don’t have anything to say against Jack. What I do have a problem with is the way we push drivers to view each other as competition in moments like this—when really, we should be focusing on the bigger picture. None of us should have been racing in these conditions. And Jack made the right call."

The interviewers exchanged glances, realizing they weren’t going to get what they wanted out of me.

I just stood there, breathing steadily, finally understanding what Max, Lando, and Oscar had been so pissed about earlier.

I had been an idiot. And for the first time, I was willing to admit it.

Masterlist

Taglist: @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp @thatsnotaddy @freyathehuntress @angelluv16

[cimmanonrowl]

Don’t Blame Me pt.2

Part One | Masterlist

The moment you laid eyes on SSA Aaron Hotchner, you just know that man will be yours one way or another— no matter what it takes. And if Penelope Garcia was on your trail trying to track you down, no one would blame you for crossing all the lines just to get a split second of Aaron Hotchner’s undivided attention.

Pairing: aaron hotchner x stalker!reader

Theme: smut heaven

Contents: age gap, dom!aaron, unprotected rough sex, messy blowjob, gagging, spitting, daddy kink, degradation, filming, breeding, powerplay: boss/subordinate relationship, stalking, obsessive behaviour.

Something was wrong.

Judging from the look of surprise in their eyes as you stepped inside Garcia’s office, you knew immediately that something had happened.

You initially pushed the door open with a smile, only to find that Garcia wasn’t alone— unlike the past few weeks that you’ve been visiting her. There is a box of freshly baked croissants cradled in your arms as you wander your gaze around the room. Reid and Morgan are there too, huddled together around her desk, now staring back at you as you stand motionless by the doorway.

“Good morning,” you greeted with a hesitant smile, holding up the box of croissants like an offering. “I didn’t know you guys would be here. I brought breakfast for Pen.”

Garcia looked up from her computer upon hearing what you said, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Oh, you wonderful, gorgeous human being! I could never say no to that.”

You mirrored her adoring smile and invited yourself inside. As you handed Morgan the box of warm croissants— which he and Garcia quickly opened and bantered about— you caught Reid following your movements with subtlety. You noticed that, of course. As you always do with every hint of suspicion from anyone. So you perked your eyebrows to feign innocence, feeling a rush of blood cursing through your veins.

His eyes traveled to the croissant box and smiled briefly at you. “Thanks. We could actually use a break.”

“Break from what? It’s only 8 in the morning…”

Morgan nodded with a quiet hum, leaning against Garcia’s desk as he chewed on his food. “We were just talking about Hotch,” his voice tinged with worry as he explained. “He’s been acting really weird lately.”

“Weird? Why?”

Just like that, you knew the nagging feeling was right.

Something has definitely happened.

“Yeah,” Garcia’s fingers never stopped their dance across the keyboard as she sipped her tea. “It’s the fourth time he’s changed his phone number in the past few weeks.”

Your heart skipped a beat, nearly choking you with your own saliva. Yet still, you maintained a facade of curiosity.

“Really? That’s strange…” you said in the best worried tone you could muster. “Any idea why? Did he tell you anything?”

Reid shook his head, his eyebrows furrowing in deep thought. “We think something might be bothering him, but he hasn’t said anything to us. You know, it’s unusual for him to be this closed off.”

You watched Morgan and Garcia nod in agreement.

“Whatever it is, it’s got him on edge. We’re worried about him. It’s like he’s dealing with something he can’t talk about...”

Garcia sighed. “Maybe we should talk to him,” she suggested hopefully, looking around at her friends with wide, expectant eyes. “Let him know that no matter what happens, no matter what’s bothering him, we’re always here for him.”

“Babygirl, he knows that already. And may I remind you that’s exactly what you just said to him last night on the elevator.”

“Well, it won’t hurt if we remind him again.”

“Girl, come on,” Morgan chuckled, the corner of his lips tugging to a lopsided grin. “Really?”

“Derek! You’re not taking this seriously!” Garcia exclaimed in frustration. “Hotch just changed his phone number. Again. Doesn’t that scare you at all?”

“Hey now, don’t be like that—”

“Well, we know him. He’ll talk to us once he feels like doing so,” Reid cut them off swiftly, his eyes focused on one of the screens of Garcia’s computer set, his eyebrows pulled together in a curious frown. ���What are you doing, Garcia?”

“Oh, this? This is modern magic unfolding before you, boy wonder.”

“I told you to stop calling me–” Reid sighed in defeat, shaking his head. “Okay. What are those satellite photos for?”

“I’m tracking the activities of his last number.”

Your eyes widened a fraction, glancing around them in a slight panic you hoped could be seen as a look of curiosity.

“Is that legal?”

Garcia chuckled at your baffled expression. “Mon amour, if I do things legal do you think I will be hired by the FBI?”

Your lips twitched in the corner as you smiled at her.

“And what do you know so far, Garcia?” Reid leaned forward, his eyes squinting a little.

“Oh! Glad you asked, boy wonder. I know that... that he’d been receiving calls from three deactivated numbers.”

“Three?”

“I know right?” Garcia mumbled in agreement. “Maybe a group of cyber gangsters ganging up on him. What a bunch of losers! Look, these are different numbers. I’ll need to check in with cell service providers and ask.”

Reid shrugged, sighing as he leaned back on his seat. Then for some unknown reason, his eyes landed on you and you had to look away. You had to. While Morgan took a big bite of his croissant before speaking again, a shit-eating grin on his lips.

“We’ll leave it up to you then, gorgeous. We have to go.”

You swallowed thickly.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Pen. If there’s anyone who can do this thing, it’s you…” you forced out a smile, trying to appear supportive while a heavy weight nested in your chest.

“But do you?”

You whirled your head to where Reid was sitting, his doe-like eyes watching you carefully. The vein in your temple started pulsating at the insinuation of his simple question.

“D-do I what, Dr. Reid?”

“Appreciate it?”

“What? Of course, I do,” you said quickly, awkwardly, as you let out a surprised chuckle. “It’s good to know he has friends like you who care about him.”

The duality you’ve been playing started gnawing at you. To these people, you’re just a young technical analyst intern who craves mentorship from their star employee. Beneath, you’ve been the source of Aaron Hotchner’s distress and anxiety in the past month. You would’ve been embarrassed and ashamed as the severity of your action dawned on you... until you remembered how quickly Aaron read your messages and watched your video last night.

The one where you were bouncing like a cockdrunk bunny on a pink vibrating dildo, squirting multiple times until your legs gave up on their own, the taste of Aaron’s delicate name hanging from your lustful lips.

That night, as expected, sleep eluded you completely.

And for the first time, it’s not because you’re too occupied imagining how it would feel like having Aaron’s girthy cock pounding in and out of your desperate cunt.

The night grew deeper with silence, the only sound audible in your apartment is the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. You were lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, rest chased away by the worry that have taken root in your thoughts.

You can’t stop thinking about the conversation earlier in Garcia’s office. The way Reid’s eyes seemed to linger on you a moment too long– too intently for your own liking, the subtle but palpable tension in the air. Your heart pounded as you imagine Garcia, fingers flying over her keyboard, tracing the activities of Aaron’s old phone numbers.

If she finds out, if Garcia connects the dots…

Fuck.

Fuck.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, your voice trembling in the quiet room. “No one can ever take you away from me, Aaron.”

The thought of losing him, of being exposed, crumbled your logical thoughts. What will happen if you get caught? Will you be taken out of the internship program? Goddamnit. Of course, you will be. And no amount of political connection or bribery would save your reputation from this scandal.

You pictured Aaron’s face wistfully; the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s deep in thought, the way he commands the room with his presence. He’s everything to you, the love of your life, your reason for being. He’s the only man you can see your future with. And the idea of him slipping away, of him not caring about your existence, is unbearable. Dying would’ve been less painful.

You sat up in bed with your breaths coming in shallow gasps. The darkness of the room pressed in on you like the world was slowly caving in. You grab your phone from the nightstand, your fingers trembling as you scroll through the messages you’ve sent him. Each one is a piece of you, your body, a way to keep him close, to remind him that you’re always there.

For him.

For his pleasure.

For his needs.

For the taking.

“Reid’s suspicious,” you muttered to yourself, your mind replaying this morning’s events as vividly as you would’ve wanted. “He knows something. Fuck. He fucking knows. That fucking guy!”

You bolted up from your bed and started pacing the dimly lit room, your thoughts spiraling as you bit down on your nail. Seconds ticked and you could taste the faint trickle of blood on your tongue, feeling the way your teeth sank into the thin flesh nervously, over and over again.

If Garcia tracks the activities, if she cracks your location, if Reid digs deeper— everything could come crashing down. You’ve worked so hard to stay hidden, to keep your actions in the shadows. But now, you saw threats looming over your head. You knew those two wouldn’t rest until they saw you punished.

You know you were smart, you have always been. You kept one step ahead of everyone. But the fear, the obsession, it clouded your judgment. You’re afraid those only made it hard to think clearly.

“No one can ever take you away from me, Aaron,” you repeated to yourself, the words becoming a mantra in your head. “You’re mine. Only mine.”

You stopped by the open window, staring out at the city lights. The world outside seemed so distant, so little and so far removed from the thoughts inside your mind. You’ve always been so careful, so meticulous. You had to remind yourself that you did everything as you planned. You won’t be caught.

Not by FBI’s genius technical analyst.

Not even by fucking Spencer Reid.

No one.

The sky loomed dark and heavy when you woke up the next morning. Sipping on your hot coffee, you made your way down the hall, the sound of your stiletto hitting the floor creating soft click-clack noises. The office was already busy despite the early hours: several coffee machines and dispensers whirring, beeping fax machines, rustling of papers, and agents preparing for their duties.

But your thoughts remain fixated on Aaron Hotchner.

As you turned a corner, you almost bumped into another figure— JJ. She was walking briskly, a coat draped over her arm and a phone pressed to her ear. For a moment you wanted to scream at her for having you nearly spill your hot coffee on her, but quickly thought better of it. She’s one of Aaron’s friends. You have to be nice to her the way you were with everyone else.

“Oh, shit. Sorry— No, no. I need those files now. Yes, it’s urgent. Just make it happen,” her words spilled out in a rapid flow.

You quickly notice her expression is one of concern, eyes wide with urgency. She’s speaking quickly into the phone, her voice a hushed mix of panic and annoyance.

She gave you a strained smile.

“Hey, I need a favor,” she said, pulling the phone away from her ear for a moment. “Can you take this coat to Hotch? He’s about to leave with the team. I’d do it myself, but—” She gestures to the phone, her voice trailing off as she returns to her conversation.

You nodded eagerly, taking the coat from her. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Thank you,” JJ said, her attention already back on the call as she hurried toward the elevator, the urgency in her steps evident.

You turned and headed in the direction of the team’s meeting room, the coat heavy in your hands. As you walked, a wave of temptation washed over you like a plague— hearing whispers echoing inside your head tempting you to walk in the direction of your office instead, stuff the coat into your bag, or take a sniff in the middle of the fucking hallway.

You fought hard not to do any of that.

This is Aaron’s coat. You can feel the warmth of his presence left on the fabric, the faint scent of his cologne lingering like flowers in spring luring in the butterflies. The thought of holding something so personal, something that belongs to him, made your cunt clench in so much anticipation.

Fuck.

If only you could grind your wet pussy on this coat—

Jesus Christ. Who’s stopping you, anyway?

By the time you reached the conference room, the team was already gone. The room was empty and the only signs of their recent presence were the scattered documents and half-finished coffee cups on the table. Your heart sank as you realized you’d missed them, but the coat in your hands was a tantalizing alternative.

You glance outside the room, ensuring no one is watching, and then you bring the coat closer to your nose, inhaling deeply.

The scent is intoxicating; a blend of his cologne and the faint smell of something leather. It feels like a piece of him, something intimate and close. Your mind raced with the dirty fantasies in your head, the thrill of having something so personal in your possession.

The temptation to keep the coat was impossible to resist. Despite the risks, the potential consequences, you couldn’t bring yourself to let go of this moment.

You clutch the coat tighter, your heart pounding with intense exhilaration– so intense you could barely breathe. You know it’s dangerous, that if anyone finds out, it could unravel everything. But the need to feel closer to Aaron, to have a piece of him with you, overrides all sense of caution.

“I’ll bring it back,” you told yourself, a weak justification that does little to quell the guilt gnawing at you. “Just for a little while.”

With one last look around, you went back to your small office and slipped the coat into your bag, all while imagining all the fun you’d be having tonight. Fucking hell, you’re so wet already.

After a long, grueling day in the office, you finally made your way back to your apartment. Exhaustion and sleepiness weighed heavily on you, but an undercurrent of excitement pulses through your veins at the thought of having Aaron’s coat in your hands. It’s a small victory, a piece of him that you can hold onto... even just for tonight.

You unlocked your door languidly and stepped inside.

But as soon as you closed the door, a chill ran down your spine. Something feels off. The silence felt strained and heavy. And so you paused, scanning the dark room with growing unease. The usual order of your belongings seemed undisturbed, but you knew. You knew the small details that only you would notice.

“Hello?” you called out, taking slow and cautious steps.

Your heart raced as you moved further into the apartment. When you reached the living room, however, you stopped dead in your tracks. A shadowy figure is sitting on the single couch, watching you from the hallway. The dim light from the street outside casts eerie shadows, but you recognize the silhouette immediately.

“Aaron…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

You felt the anger exuding from him as he stood. His eyes are dark, piercing as they lock onto yours. “I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

A wave of terror crashes over you, unable to respond quickly.

“Aaron, I—”

He cut you off with just a step closer. “You really think we wouldn’t know? You think you’re that smart?”

Panic gripped you with the way his piercing gaze found your eyes, your mind racing for an escape.

“No, you don’t understand,” you pleaded, desperation seeping into your voice. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Aaron. I just—”

“Just what?” He snapped, his expression hardening. “You’ve been harassing me for a month. You invaded my privacy. I had to change my number several times because you won’t fucking listen.”

You took a step back, the walls closing in around you. The reality of being caught, of Aaron knowing the truth, of his anger being directed at you; it was suffocating.

“Aaron, please, sir… I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just... I just wanted to be close to you.”

His eyes narrow, a mix of anger and disgust etched into his features. “You think this is about wanting to be close? What are you going to say next? That you’re in love with me?”

But you are.

Tears blurred your vision as you tried finding the right words, but nothing you say could change the truth. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Aaron takes another step forward, shaking his head. “It’s too late for apologies now, don’t you think?”

“Please, Aaron...” you begged in desperation, your voice barely audible. “Don’t turn me in. I’ll do anything— just don’t be mad at me. Don’t send me away, sir. Anythi—”

“Kneel.”

Your knees buckled with that, quickly following his order. With your hands intertwined and perched on your lap, you watched him silently as he took in your submissive position. All while your cunt clenched at the sight of him in front of you— so domineering and commanding. The anger in his eyes, the coldness in his voice, the fact that he was too big and too strong that he can toss you around and fuck you like a ragdoll if he wanted to.

You shut your legs tightly, creating a soft friction on your aching clit.

“Come here,” he ordered as he took his seat once again.

And so you did, eager and desperate as you scrambled on your knees, crawling to him.

You glanced up at Aaron with a shallow sigh, blinking almost innocently as you took your place in between his legs. Your hands were itching to touch but you didn’t want to anger him anymore. You have to be good. Remember, Aaron has to like you.

“You fucking slut,” He spat angrily, undoing his belt as he stared down at your trembling body. “Take off your clothes. I don’t want to see you wrapped in anything.”

Maybe it was his voice, or the predatory look on his face, or the fact that he’s the love of your life that made you so pliant to his commands. You had your dress shirt removed instantly, unbuttoning it with your shaking fingers. You are trembling with anticipation and fear. But the heat was pooling in your cunt as you reached for the zipper of your tight skirt.

You tossed your clothes to the side as you removed them, quickly reaching for the clasp of your white bra. “T-this too, d-daddy?”

“Stupid whore, what did I fucking say?”

You whimpered. “Y-yes, sir.”

His belt came undone as you finished unclasping your bra, placing the belt on the armchair. The cold should’ve seeped right through every pore of your skin but as soon as you saw Aaron unzip his pants, you knew your world was ending, and no cold could ever dampen the lust lurching at the pit of your stomach.

“Look at these...” There’s a dark glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he scanned your naked body. He pinched your nipple in a sharp, fleeting moment before slapping both of your tits.

In which you only moaned.

“C-can I...” you mumbled pathetically, your eyes directed at the growing bulge in his pants. “Touch, sir? Please. Can I touch you?”

His rough hands gripped your chin tightly, his eyes mocking when he said: “Beg.”

As if that would embarrass you.

You fucking waited for this.

You smiled softly at him, your voice as dewy as honey. “Please, please, daddy? Can I taste you? I’ll be good, daddy, I promise. I’ll make you feel so good…”

You reached for his hand, batting your eyelashes slowly— enticingly.

But Aaron Hotchner was a man hard to impress. You yelped when he roughly gripped your hair and forced you to crane your neck upward, warm tears flooding your eyes with the sting and the pain.

“Open your mouth.”

Quickly as you did, he spat on you. Twice– once in your mouth and once in your face, reaching your eyelashes and cheeks. Pleasured moans escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, relishing the feeling of his saliva on your skin.

You were never good with pain, but the moment his palm reached your cheek with constrained force, you felt the wetness in your neglected cunt drenching your inner thighs even more. You could feel your pussy clenching in desperation but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus on your own pleasure.

He slapped your cheek again, this time harder, his fingers still tangled in your hair.

“You wanted this, huh? This is what you want, you fucking whore?” He said tauntingly before he took out his leaking and girthy cock from his pants. “I’ll give you what you fucking want.”

You barely registered everything when he forced his length on your waiting lips, down to your throat. He started pounding on your mouth, guiding your head like you’re nothing but a mere fucktoy. You felt yourself splutter and gag as you relish the burn- the stretch of your mouth to accommodate his big cock, and the feeling of his tip hitting the back of your throat.

It was too much.

And too good you wish he won’t ever stop.

You tried your best to suck him, tears dripping down your cheeks while he continued ramming his cock in and out of your mouth.

“Open wide, baby. Come on... just like that... good girl.”

You nodded eagerly, feeling both of his hands gripping your head, keeping you in one place as he assaulted you with force. Tears were now streaming down your face in a steady flow, while Aaron groaned in the sight of you struggling to take in his length.

“D-daddy—” your voice broke into a sob as he pulled your hair harshly, a string of saliva connecting your lips and his wet, veiny cock.

Without warning, he spat on your face again, loving the way you moaned and closed your eyes while catching your breath.

“Thank y-you, daddy…” you mumbled dazedly, wrapping both your hand around his length and rubbing the wetness of his cock across your face. “Love this… love you…”

“Continue sucking, whore.”

You nodded quickly, frowning at the effort of welcoming his huge cock on your mouth, and confusion when you felt his belt wrapped around your nape. Just a few moments after, you felt the rough burn of leather on your skin, forcing your head to go back and forth as he pulled the belt and bucked his hips.

Your hands clawed on his clothed thighs as you tried pulling your head away from his cock, but the belt on your nape was restricting your movement. You had no other choice but to take it in, whimper, and claw on his thighs, on his arm, on his stomach. You feel so lightheaded you can barely think.

“Fucking hell, baby—” He pulled you away from his cock, his eyes wandering on your face. Your lipstick was smudged messily on your chin, your mascara running down your cheeks. “Look at this whore, didn’t you say you wanted that?”

You nodded weakly.

“Oh, you can’t speak now?” He laughed mockingly, slapping his hard cock on your face, chuckling at the distant look on your eyes. “Well, fucktoys don’t speak in the first place, anyway.”

You nodded again, whimpering as his fingers tangled in your hair.

“Is this what you were imagining all those times you’re fucking yourself in front of your camera?”

“Yes, y-yes, daddy…”

“And if I say I film this and show this to a jury, would you like that, huh?” He said in a whispery voice, caressing your cheek almost lovingly before slapping you with light force. “Huh, would you like that? Answer me, whore.”

“Yes! Yes, daddy. W-want them to s-see…” you rambled quickly. “Want them to see w-what slut I-I am for your cock…”

You were sure you never felt pleasure like this ever before. Your past boyfriends, your fingers, your sex toys. Nothing comes close to the feeling of Aaron’s cock pummelling in and out of your tight cunt, his fingers circling on your sensitive nub. Which he also said so; he’s never fucked a young and tight pussy like yours ever before.

That being whispered dirtily in your ear was enough to send you to your second orgasm.

Your body trembled as you reached your high, your knees buckling and trembling as you struggled to keep yourself standing. You were already on your tiptoes as Aaron continued fucking your cunt from behind, slapping your ass every now and then. Every time you’d clench around his cock, a growl would ramble low from his chest and do it all over again.

“So fucking tight–” He said breathlessly, his voice hoarse and raspy. “You’re making me feel so good, baby. Look at the camera in front, come on, baby.”

“Oh, my- g-god… daddy!” Your legs trembled again as you struggled to be on your tiptoes, your eyes fluttering close at the overstimulation.

Aaron was too tall and too big. The camera was set up in front of you, but with the intense pleasure, your vision was blurry with unshed tears; the pleasure so blinding your eyes crossed while your mouth hung open, saliva dripping down the side of your lips and to your neck. You looked so fucked out you don’t even know what’s happening around you.

“You like whoring over an older man’s cock, huh, baby?” He taunted as he pistoled his hips roughly. “Is this really why you wanted to join the Bureau? You wanted my big cock to ruin this tight cunt?”

You mumbled dumbly, hoping Aaron understood. He slapped your ass again, moaning at the feeling of your pussy clenching around his girth.

“Wanted to- wanted your cock to ruin me, d-daddy...”

“I’m close... you’re so warm and tight...” He rambled to himself, his chest heaving with effort. “I’m gonna cum inside this fucking pussy. Gonna mark you, baby. Fuck, you’re m-mine.”

“Yes! Yes! D-daddy, right there! P-please…” you squealed in pleasure, pushing yourself more on your tiptoes so he would hit the bundle of nerves again. “R-right there! Oh, Aaron!”

The sound of your high-pitched moans and his deep voice tangled together in the air. You rolled your eyes as tremors shook your body, feeling his warm cum painting your walls. He released too much cum you feel a portion of it fill your belly. All while his hips pounded your cunt with slow yet sharp trusts, his jaw tight as he craned his neck to the ceiling, his eyes closed.

“A-aaron–”

“Shut up, whore. I’m not fucking done,” He exclaimed loudly, hooking your waist only using his one arm before tossing you to the larger couch. “I’ll decide when will I be done fucking this cunt.”

I know you guys didn't ask to be tagged on the next part but I really appreciate the support for Part 1 so here we are! I hope you don't mind me tagging you!

And thank you everyone for the reblogs and likes. See you on the next ones!

Tags: @urbrazysimp @pastelpinkflowerlife @mrs-ssa-hotch @222hwilsss @roseydoesypoesy @cqsmowrld @dynavol @barbeddreams @everythinglizzy @aaronlovesava @starshinegarcia @downbad4reid @mega-kittyglitter-1

[dismalflo]

hii ! i loooved your shitty it job drabble with sirius and i was wondering if we could get more of them maybe some hurt/comfort like sirius help or comfort r after something happen at work ? or sirius being accepting with something r get judged for usually (like a cute parallel to the drabble) ? tysmm !!

Thank you for requesting lovely! <3

Sirius black x reader who has a tough meeting with their supervisor ✩ 937 words

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

cw: office au, fluff, light hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, some hints of mutual pining

This is hell. Shitty boss. Shitty job. Shitty coworkers. You don’t even know why you were pulled into that meeting with the higher-ups, but there you were, getting chewed out for what felt like an eternity. Thirty minutes of berating, and all for something you’re almost certain wasn’t even your fault. Someone else on your team screwed up, and somehow you’re the one paying the price.

“We expect better from you, Y/N. Don’t let this happen again.” The words echo in your head, and you force a tight smile, nodding as you rise to leave. But as you make your way back to your desk, something shifts. There's a sharp, stinging sensation building behind your eyes, a pressure creeping into your sinuses. You feel horribly overwhelmed, everything closing in around you.

You need to get out.

Without thinking, you veer sharply to the right and head straight for the bathroom. The fluorescent lights burn too bright. The usual buzz of keyboard typing feels deafening. Is it always this loud? Your pulse spikes, and you stumble, barely able to focus.

You crash into someone, knocking the air right out of you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, trying to keep moving, but a pair of hands gently grip your upper arms, steadying you.

“Whoa, careful. Can’t be falling for me on the job,” a voice says, teasing, but when you look up, you meet the eyes of Sirius. His playful smirk fades instantly as he sees the expression on your face. His concern is immediate, softening his features as he lowers his voice. So unlike Sirius usually. 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, the words meant only for you, an effort to avoid drawing any attention. You shake your head, and that seems to be all the confirmation he needs. Without hesitation, he guides you into the nearest room.

The moment you step inside, the dam breaks. Silent tears stream down your face, and Sirius quickly realizes he’s in way over his head. Not sure of what to do, he does what feels natural: he pulls you into a hug. You stiffen at first, but then, like a switch flips, you melt against him. And as you do, he relaxes too, holding you a little tighter.

Sirius stands there for a moment, unsure if he should say anything or just let you cry. He knows the line between being a good coworker and something more is thin, and right now, all he wants is to help. His hand gently strokes your back, a comforting rhythm he hopes might soothe you, even if just a little.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, his voice low and steady, "you don't have to explain anything, but... if you want to talk, I'm all ears." His tone isn't pushy, just there, waiting for you to decide if you need it.

The quiet hum of the office sounds miles away, muffled by the thick walls of the small room. You cling to the moment of peace, still too caught up in your emotions to pull away. A small sob escapes your throat, and Sirius' grip tightens slightly, as though trying to shield you from everything else in that moment.

You pull back after a minute, wiping your face quickly with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the outburst. Sirius doesn’t let go, though. He doesn’t make you feel weird for breaking down in front of him, and that, in itself, feels like a kind of relief.

“You okay?” he asks again, his voice steady, but there's an underlying softness that makes your chest tighten. It’s a tenderness you didn’t expect, and it pulls at something deep inside you.

You nod, inhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah... sorry, that was kind of lame,” you admit with a wet laugh, trying to brush it off.

He chuckles, but the sound is softer than usual, almost relieved. “You had my heart ready to drop out of my arse,” he says, shaking his head, though the concern still lingers in his eyes.

Despite yourself, you let out a small laugh at his words. The corners of your lips twitch upwards, his humor disarming you even now. You wipe your eyes again, trying to collect yourself.

“I was just—” You hiccup, voice breaking slightly. “I was just overwhelmed, I think,” you finish, the last of the tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. “Got called into Helen’s office... sorry for being hysterical or whatever.”

He looks at you, his expression softening, and then gives a low chuckle. “I think you’re alright. I feel the same way every time I get called into that office, Doll.” He freezes for a moment, the pet name slipping out before he has a chance to stop it. His eyes flicker nervously, hoping it doesn't come off as too strange. Sure, you flirt sometimes, but nothing like that.

You don’t react with anything but an easy smile. “Thank you, Sirius,” you say, your voice sincere, a warmth spreading across your face.

Sirius holds your gaze for a moment, his own heart thumping a little harder than usual. He smiles back, the warmth in your eyes making him feel like maybe this wasn’t such a disaster after all. "Anytime, Y/N," he says softly, his voice steady.

You nod, feeling a strange sense of comfort, like a weight had been lifted—at least for now. "I’ll try to keep it together," you mutter with a wry grin, wiping the last of the tears away.

“Well, if you don’t, make sure you don't go falling into anyone else's arms.” he admonishes, with a dramatic hand to his chest.

You wouldn’t dare. 

[teencopandthesourwolf]

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Huh? What's that, big guy?” Stiles mumbles, answering the query with one of his own without looking away from Derek's laptop screen. The laptop Derek kind of bought for Stiles for when Stiles is at the loft.

Whatever. 

There's a ballpoint pen shoved in the kid's mouth—God, that mouth—and another slid behind an ear, the latter ready and waiting for Stiles to click to death in the In Between Typing Times.

The others dispersed a couple of minutes ago. Apart from Derek and Stiles, only Lydia and Deaton now remain at the loft and they're deep in conversation about the preliminary theory of who or what is killing the humans of Beacon Hills this week, and are standing at the opposite side of the open-plan space, making more coffee. Scott and Malia left to rally the other ʼwolves—not answering their phones as they're at a cinema screening—plus find and talk to Argent to arrange a pack meeting proper about the situation, so they can all work on devising a plan. Granted, there is Peter to consider—who's probably still lurking somewhere, what with lurking being one of his favourite pastimes, and can obviously hear any and all conversations that are, or could be happening inside of the building. Sadly, Derek has never been able to hide much of anything from his uncle though, so.

He thinks about elaborating on the question he asked Stiles, but can't.

He tries not to stare at Stiles, and fails.

Stiles is squinting at the screen with intent and looking like he has forgotten that Derek said anything at all. Or that Derek is still hovering close by. Or that Derek, you know, exists.

Derek is just standing there, all difficult and awkward in his own fucking home and his own fucking body, looming over Stiles like a creeper as Stiles taps away furiously at the keyboard and violently zig-zags a fingertip across the mousepad like an actual lunatic.

Derek almost laughs at that.

The Boy Who Runs With Wolves.

“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles now asks, still mumbling around the chewed ballpoint Derek is trying not to be jealous of. 

“I—what?” Derek's caught off guard; always and only by Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't skip a beat, unlike Derek's heart. “Why wouldn't I ask?” he adds.

Oh, right.

“I, uh, I don't... ” Derek trails off pathetically, swallowing any confidence he had previously mustered and looking away from Stiles, even though those big, brown devastating eyes aren't actually looking at Derek because they are, of course, still zoomed-in on whichever web page is currently yielding the most information.

Dusk is quickly closing in and all around them and the light filtering through the loft's huge window has begun to dim somewhat, so that the glow of the computer screen is now filling Stiles' eyes with bright, dancing sparks and arrhythmic shapes as they flicker like lightning from one tab to another, then another, then another. And as mesmerising as it is to watch—Stiles looking as though he is brimming with magic—the sight becomes too much for Derek, and looking away feels like his only option.

It doesn't last.

Stiles' long, large-knuckled fingers still their rapid movement just as Derek's eyes find their way back.

Derek watches the kid some more, like a lifeline.

An anchor.

Then, Stiles is taking the pen from those perfect lips as sneaker-toes slowly spin the swivel chair around, so that Stiles is now facing Derek where he stands with arms crossed reactively over his chest.

His heart.

“I asked if you were alright because I wanted to know if you were okay, man," Stiles divulges, as if that's nothing at all. As if it's something Derek hears often. He tilts his head to catch Derek's eye, which works, of course, because it always works, no matter the nature of the moment they're caught up in. "Like, I was concerned, y`know?” 

Derek feels guilty just for looking. And not only because he wants to touch but because he wants to let Stiles care.

“I care, dude,” Stiles says on cue and Derek tries to self-implode while Stiles waits, probably for Derek to look at him and say don't call me dude and hoping not to have his head bitten off or his throat ripped out. 

Derek does look again, just not for long. Barely a glance. He can't afford himself too much Stiles, not when Stiles is looking directly back at him. It's safer that way—self-preservation and all.

“You do know that, right?” Stiles tries again. “That I care.” 

Derek wants to ask Stiles if they can talk, if Derek can tell Stiles things. Derek wants to ask Stiles if he'll stay, and if he'll let Derek spill his secrets, let him tell Stiles everything, like Derek never does with anyone these days, and if Stiles will hold Derek's hand when Derek cries about it, like Derek doesn’t allow himself to anymore. Derek wants to ask Stiles if Derek can touch him and hold him and if Stiles would hold him back, if Stiles would ever want that, if Stiles could ever be his.

“Don't call me dude,” is what he actually says because he can't not. But then he steals himself, head staticky and heart thumping as he dares himself to add—after what is undeniably too-long a pause—“And yeah. Maybe I do.” 

Then they just look at each other.

Just—look.

Look and look and look and look.

They each keep looking at the other, for a very long time. Definitely too long for two people supposedly not much more than acquaintances. Allies, maybe. Comrades at tenuous best.

Then they look for longer. Look for more. Look until it starts to feel as if they are the only two people in the room, in the building, in the world.

Whatever happened to self-preservation?

Something is starting to happen, and Derek is pretty sure it's not just happening to him, and he finds he is equally stunned as he is thrilled as he is completely fucking terrified about it. 

Eventually, Stiles says, “Derek, we're friends.”

Then he's licking his lips and looking Derek up and down, shameless, adding—with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder—“Till we're not.”

The latter part is spoken like a secret, but one without the slightest hint of malice. That's not how he means it. It's more promise than threat, if Derek is remembering correctly what genuine affirmations sound like.

The sparks from Stiles' eyes are then flashing blue in Derek's and Derek could swear he hears every every one of his neurons firing inside of himself, all at once, as each of his mutated cells flare into overdrive; nail beds and gums tingling, the short hairs on the back of his neck and arms and hands standing up on end.

He feels utterly alive.

It's honestly a struggle not to keen and whine like a pup, and Derek has truly never been more happy of the fact that Stiles is unable to scent chemo-signals because Derek would be so fucked right now.

He has a reply for Stiles but it's caught in his throat, the sentence forming then solidifying, fast as a quick-drying glue.

Derek is just—standing there. Statuesque. Alternating between trying to swallow his words down and attempting to speak them, like a first class dipshit. Just looking and looking and looking at Stiles.

In an entirely mortifying turn of events, it is actually the sound of Peter's low, mocking chuckle from some tucked-away shadowy place in the loft that is the thing that forces Derek unstuck, and it takes all Derek has to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and growl out I'm going to kill you again now, Uncle. 

He takes a breath, un-clenches his fists and tries for a smile—or at least a hint of one. He doesn't want to freak the kid out.

Derek then manages to repeat Stiles's words back at him, no more than a whisper.

“Till we're not.”

Stiles is just looking and looking and looking at Derek, before he's asking, “Can I stay for the evening? You can talk to me while I research. I always work better with noise. It'll be soothing,” like he's ordering pizza instead of answering all of Derek's prayers.

Derek notes how the kid's usually erratic eye-contact is weirdly as unwavering as his usually erratic heartbeat, which is now weirdly steady as a metronome.

That's a lot of weird. 

Derek fights the urge to bite into his lip with his fangs. He wants to draw blood, and to taste it.

He embarrassingly feels his eye twitch and his breath hitch as he dares himself to do this. 

He sputters, “What do you want me to talk about?”

Stiles slowly swivels back towards the light of the laptop—ethereal milky skin and dark moles once again luminous in its white-blue glow—at the very same time as the evening's first moonshine peeks through clouds and seeps in through the loft's huge skylight.

Derek is memorised. 

Stiles starts annoyingly clicking away at the Clicking Pen, while shoving the other back between those beautiful lips of his, now mumbling his words around the thing once more and speaking them as if they are the most obvious thing in the universe.

“Everything, Der.”

.

for @poebin for asking <3 (unedited, soz)

[ghostlandtoo]

how to be alone

Buck unpacks, and the house feels less like a mausoleum to his friendship with Eddie and more like a house someone is living in. Buck is living in, because he took over the lease. It’s still a novel thought. He didn’t think his furniture from the loft would be enough to fill up a two-bed house, and the room that used to be Christopher’s is still empty, but Buck keeps the door closed and ignores it. Maybe he’ll turn it into a guest room, once he saves up enough for a mattress.

He sends a picture of the living room to Eddie, doesn’t add a caption, and then leaves his phone facedown on the table while he scrounges for dinner. There’s eggs, and bacon, and a chilled champagne bottle. The dinner of champions, Buck thinks to himself. He leaves the champagne in the fridge. Like, man, what was Tommy thinking that was for? Insane move, and Buck knows a lot about insane moves.

There’s dinner, and a shower, and Buck speeds through his nightly routine. He has a shift in the morning. He only grabs his phone as he’s about to crawl into bed for the night, and finds that Eddie replied to his message during the last few hours. looks good, he said. Buck’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. He hearts the message, sets his alarm, and closes his eyes, like he’s thirteen and pretending that it’s easier to fall asleep if he acts like he’s asleep. Annoyingly, it works.

He still goes to Maddie’s semi-regularly, because he’s worried about her, because he misses her, and because he’s still not used to being lonely. When he was a kid, the loneliness was a physical thing chewing him up from the inside out. It was only when Maddie was with him, letting Buck annoy her as she did her homework or talked on the landline with her friends, that it left him alone.

Buck’s used to being alone, is the thing. He spent a long time alone, just Buck and the Jeep and miles and miles of asphalt. Most of his friends forget about that, he thinks, because Buck never brings it up around them. He’s told Eddie the most, about the cold nights he’d spend sleeping in his Jeep, nights in a parking lot being woken up by a cop, paying for a Planet Fitness membership so he could use the showers. It was a lifesaver when Tinder really kicked it off, and a couple of halfhearted messages meant Buck had a bed to sleep in.

It wasn’t all bad. He has to remind himself of that fact. Sure, Buck spent seven years bleeding over the countryside, lugging the aching wound of his body from place to place until he finally found something that could sew him up. It wasn’t all that bad, because Buck ended up in Los Angeles, with the 118, with the family he never knew he could have. Buck’s not alone anymore. 

So he goes to Maddie’s house and cooks dinner for the four of them—five, he joked once, pointing towards Maddie’s stomach with a smile, and she had curled a hand around her belly protectively. Chimney stops grumbling because Buck stops sleeping on his couch. He kisses Maddie on the forehead when he leaves, hugs her extra hard anyways, and does the same to Chimney just to hear the way Chimney groans and shoves him away.

He drives back to the empty house with a lightness in his chest. He’s not lonely. He’s just alone. There’s a difference.

*

Eddie calls him, because he’s at the grocery store and doesn’t remember the brand of box mac’n’cheese Buck always bought for Christopher, and Buck has to talk him through the ten-step process of elevating said box mac’n’cheese. It’s comfort food. He asks who needs comforting, Eddie says Christopher had a bad day. Buck had hummed, still waking up from his nap, and it spills out of Eddie like an avalanche.

It’s a whole barrage of worries, Christopher at the center of them, and Buck listens to Eddie agonize over his decisions, over leaving Los Angeles, because he doesn’t have a job and Christopher is acting like a different person and his parents are acting like he’s an interloper on their happy family, and Eddie is 800 miles away and Buck’s chest hurts, listening to him talk. He misses him. The mac’n’cheese is because Christopher got a bad grade on a history test. It wasn’t a bad grade. It was a C, which is worrisome but not bad, except Eddie’s parents got into it with Christopher after school, and Christopher called Eddie to get him, but he’s still stonewalling Eddie and he’s just sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s truck in the parking lot while Eddie grabs their dinner.

Just talk to him, Buck says, and Eddie goes no no no, what if I fuck it up? I’m gonna fuck it up, right? And then Buck is talking Eddie down from a panic attack while they’re 800 miles apart, and Eddie is in a grocery store in El Paso and Buck is in his bed in what used to be Eddie’s bedroom, staring up at water stains on the ceiling.

Eddie puts himself back together. He thanks Buck, his voice rough, and Buck stays on the line all through the check-out process, Eddie’s walk to his truck, long enough to hear Christopher ask what took so long and Eddie to reply he had to phone a friend. Christopher yells hi, and Buck says it back, and for a moment, for a moment, he forgets about Texas at all.

*

Buck doesn’t withdraw. He’s still present. He still goes to work, throws himself into every rescue and call with his usual aplomb, does his best to keep Ravi as Ravi in his head and not guy who’s taking Eddie’s place. Bobby has a harder time dealing with Eddie’s absence, which Buck didn’t expect, and he thinks about telling Eddie all the name mix-ups except he thinks that make make Eddie go quiet, close-off. So Buck keeps it to himself, helps Bobby in the kitchen, constantly underfoot so no one can think about their missing piece.

He helps babysit the kids. He goes to the construction site of the Grant-Nash house, gives his opinion on their design choices. He buys Ravi some disc golf equipment as an apology, even though Ravi totally did him dirty by using Tommy as a get-away card, but Buck figures he owes him for the ketchup packets and packing peanuts.

It’s the rest of the time, the empty stretches, the periods Buck would fill by hanging out with Eddie. There’s no Eddie, just Buck, so he figures out how to content himself with that. He goes on hikes, finds himself at street fairs he saw advertised on Instagram, looks up recipes with a serving size of one, doubles it anyway, and eats the food at the kitchen counter so he doesn’t have to look at an empty chair. He goes on bike rides, avoids the beach, and stops at every food truck he passes. Some are winners, some aren’t.

Sometimes Buck catches sight of himself in a reflective surface, and his eyes always fall to the empty space behind his shoulder. It’s only just Buck, every time, and as the days go on, Buck pretends that he looks happier. There’s a smile. There’s the healthy flush from exercise. He’s alone, and he’s happy, and that should be enough.

*

Buck has been in love before. He knows the feeling. And when he misses Eddie, it’s nothing like the way he missed Abby. Maybe it’s because they’re such different people. Maybe it’s just a different kind of love. Once, Buck could imagine an entire life with Abby, the whole nine-yards. Buck imagines a life with Eddie, and it’s the same life Buck is living right now, except Eddie is in the space behind his shoulder. 

He isn’t in love with Eddie. Not in the way everyone thinks he is.

He loves Eddie, because Eddie is his best friend, and that love sometimes feels like a fire chewing up his insides, and Buck desperately tries to contain it, tries to keep it from spilling out of him and spreading to everyone else. He suppresses it, fire blankets and 2.5 attack lines, beats it back, but the source is still burning. Buck tries to keep it from eating away at the whole of him, reducing him to nothing, because Buck still has a life, even if Eddie isn’t in it. Even if Eddie is 800 miles away.

The fire keeps burning. Buck ignores it, and even if every call from Eddie is another fuel source, another chance for the fire to spread, Buck misses him too much to stop it. He answers the phone, the fire in his chest blooms, and Buck spends the rest of his night choking back tears from the pain.

*

He wakes up on one of his off days to no missed messages. Buck takes his bike out, coasts down hills and through the neighborhood. He runs into a woman at a coffee shop and they chat, idly. She’s interested, he could be, but Buck still lets her down easy anyway. He keeps riding, until his thighs burn and he’s at risk of needing to call someone to get back home.

He’s still in the neighborhood, Eddie’s neighborhood, now his, and he knows it better than he did when Eddie was living there. On his bike, man alone, no room for a passenger because it’s not even the type of bike where someone could stand on the spokes, and for once, Buck finally feels the sheer size of Los Angeles around him.

He’s alone.

The fire in his chest burns and burns and burns.

*

Eddie calls, and Buck answers, and the sleep-soft sound of Eddie’s voice is enough to suffocate him. Buck lays on the bed, imagines Eddie in the space across from him, the way tiredness eases the lines in his face, the way he goes soft and quiet, and only in front of Buck.

Eddie talks until he doesn’t, until the quiet sound of his breathing evens out into sleep, and Buck knows it, recognizes it. He stares at the empty pillow across from him.

“I love you,” Buck says. He ignores the way Eddie’s breath hitches on the other end. 

Buck stretches his hand across the empty bed and feels just the cold sheets. He thinks he’s going to burn alive, a flashover, and there will be nothing left of him. Except the fire. That’ll keep on living, even when Buck is gone.

He listens to Eddie’s breathing. Tucks his hands back to his side, closes his eyes, and just pretends. It works, until the morning, when Buck wakes up and finds the call dropped, and the morning light shows the empty space on the other side of the bed, and it’s just Buck in a too-big empty house.

He’s alone, and he’s lonely, and they’re not the same thing but right now they are, Buck feels it down to his bones, and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to the ache in his chest.

[mikeysonly]

Strawberry Flavored Kisses - Matsuno Chifuyu

♡ I can’t stop writing soft cute chifuyu someone take my keyboard away from me. AHHHHGGHFHDJDBSH

♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

The lights of the Rainbow Bridge glimmered across the water, reflected in soft ripples that seemingly went on forever.

Y/N rested her arms on the railing, staring out at the view without really seeing it. The fight with Kazutora earlier had been stupid… so stupid… but it still managed to sink its claws into her. She hated how meaningless arguments with her fuckass brother took such a toll on her mood.

“Yo,” came a voice behind her, light and familiar.

She turned to find Chifuyu, his blond hair shining faintly in the bridge lights, holding up a box of strawberry pocky. His green eyes were soft but in them flashed a glimpse of something more devious.

“Thought this might cheer you up,” he said, stepping closer and handing her the box of pocky.

Y/N blinked, her lips tugging into a small smile despite herself. “Bribery with snacks? Bold move.”

He leaned against the railing next to her, shrugging. “It usually works.”

She looked at the box, then back at him. “Thanks, Chifuyu. I’m guessing Tora sent you to…-”

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted, cutting her off with a grin. “You look fucking miserable, and yeah he did.”

She rolled her eyes.

Y/N fidgeted with the edge of the box, not sure what to say. Chifuyu, however, always seemed to have something up his sleeve.

“Wanna play the pocky game?” he asked casually, turning to look at her.

She blinked, caught off guard. “The pocky game?”

“Yeah. We both chew an end and see who pulls away first. It’s a classic.”

Y/N hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “And why do I feel like you’re scheming?”

“Who, me? Never!” He smirked, already pulling a stick from the box. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Unless you’re too scared...”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Fine. But if I win, you owe me an apology on behalf of all annoying older brothers everywhere.”

“Deal.” He held the pocky stick out to her, and she bit the other end with a small huff. “Fine.”

They leaned in, slow and cautious at first, chewing their way towards the center. Y/N’s heart picked up speed as Chifuyu’s face grew closer, the mischief in his eyes evident. Her breath caught as she realized just how close they were.

“Fuck it.” Chifuyu muttered, tossing the pocky aside.

Before she could react, he closed the distance between them, his lips pressing against hers in a kiss that was as sudden as it was sweet. His hand cupped her cheek gently.

When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were bright red, and he gave her a crooked, sheepish smile.

“Uhh..- I think I lost…” he said, voice low but teasing.

“No shit…” Y/N laughed, flustered. “Kazutora is gonna fuckin kill you, Fuyu.”

[gremlin-girly]

Fake Title: The Banana and the Winter Soldier

Nonnie, when I tell you this had me giggling at the DND session last night 💀🤚

Thank you @buck-star for helping me decide on a change 😌

The Banana and the Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Handler!f!reader

Tags/warnings: NSFW themes, 18+,

A/N: This one ran away from me so it's a bit longer oopsie 😅

Navigation | Based on this Ask Game

"Mission report."

You sighed, tapping the down key on your keyboard to scroll the medical report of the soldier. He'd come back in almost near perfect condition again. As always.

Your job was a mixture of abhorrent terror and boredom. You don't know why you'd were picked to be a handler, maybe someone higher up the food chain didn't like you. Obviously; the soldier had killed the last 3 handlers he'd had. You didn't know why or if you'd be next.

The boredom part happened when he was gone or these mission reports. When he was gone it was day-to-day admin. When he returned, he was fine and the mission was a success.

You didn't know why you were the middle man for a slew of information that was classified to you. It seemed stupid. It was.

Your stomach grumbled loudly before the soldier can speak and you offer him a sheepish smile as you reach for your untouched lunch.

"Fuck. Sorry." Your grumble and hold out a packet of crisps to him. "Would you like something to eat Soldat?"

"No."

"Okay." You sigh, throwing the packet back onto the desk and picking up your banana instead. You always tried to offer him food or a drink - some camaraderie - but he was always like this. Blunt. Efficient.

You scroll down and tap the banana on your lip when part of the medical report catches your eyes. Severe bruising. There's images attached and they look terrible. How can he still be walking?

You hum thoughtfully and the soldier clears his throat.

"You can continue, Soldat." You say absently, peeling the top end of your banana delicately. He's only going to tell you it was a success anyway. You pretend to listen as you take a bite of banana and he chokes up, sputtering his words slightly.

Looking over at him curiously with your brows raised you pause your chewing. "Soldat, are you ok? Do you need to go lie down?"

"N-no."

He sounds like he's in pain and you wonder if that bruising on his ribs has finally taken effect. You take another bite of the banana and he looks physically pained.

"Yeah OK, I'm not doing this when you're in pain." You huff, turning back to your screen. You click a few things before closing it down and getting to your feet with a long stretch. You can feel his hawk-like eyes watching your every move and you feel slightly uncomfortable. He was never usually like this.

"Come on," you grumble. " I'll escort you back to your room."

The soldier stands, he's so much bigger than you, muscles making the tac-suit creak as he straightens. Yeah, he could kill you if he wanted. He could do a lot if he wanted. But his programming should hopefully stop that.

You munch on your banana down the hallways, discarding the peel before you get to his room and see him inside. You offer to help him undress and he nods, watching you gingerly undo the straps on his suit and help him out of it.

You've never been this close to him before and under his watchful gaze you can feel your cheeks heat up. He was handsome, you couldn't deny it and oh boy if it didn't make at least a little bit hot and bothered by having this life size toy soldier let you help him out of his clothes.

"Handler, I-" He tries, cheeks pink, to vocalise whatever it is he's feeling. "I need your help with something."

The way he says it sounds desperate, almost pleading and you frown with worry. He'd never said anything like this before.

"Sure soldat, what is it?"

Licking his lips, he almost pouts at you before taking your hands gently over the bulge in his pants. Your breathing hitches and your eyes are immediately drawn downward, tracing the curve of the straining outline and how both your hands barely fit around it.

"You always do this to me." He says quietly. "Sometimes I can wait until I'm back here but tonight you -" he hisses a breath that sounds more like a sob. "You and that banana I just- I couldn't-"

You giggle and watch as the soldier's face turns three shades of red in the space of one second. The soldier was horny for you. That's why he was different with you. But he won double points for being so cute about it and for getting hot and bothered over a banana.

You squeeze your hands around his cock and the soldier whimpers, earning him a smirk from you.

"Dont worry soldat," you reassure him. "I'll take good care of you."

[alittlegiraffe]

"Never That" - Part 3

It started small.

Marshall had been scrolling on his phone, half paying attention to the game on TV, when he noticed it. The little notification under your latest Instagram post.

Chad liked your photo.

He frowned.

Chad—the same idiot who had been running his mouth alongside Tabitha, the same clown who had laughed about making you insecure—was liking your posts?

Marshall ignored it at first. Maybe the dude was just watching, seeing how bad he and his girl had gotten dragged online after the diss track dropped. Maybe he was just lurking, trying to save face.

But then it happened again. And again.

Your old posts. Pictures from months ago.

And it wasn’t just likes. He was watching your stories, too. Every single one.

Marshall was still frowning at his phone when you walked into the room, freshly showered, wrapped up in one of his hoodies. You flopped down beside him on the couch, tucking yourself against his side like you always did.

He barely reacted. Still staring at his screen.

You noticed immediately.

“What?” You nudged him. “Why do you look like that?”

Marshall gritted his teeth, then turned the phone to show you. “This motherfucker’s all over your page.”

You blinked at the screen, taking in the flood of likes from Chad. You snorted. “Oh, come on, he’s just creeping. Let him embarrass himself.”

Marshall’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, he better quit before he embarrasses himself off the internet.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. “Babe, it’s fine. He’s just being weird.”

Marshall wasn’t convinced. But you kissed his cheek, distracting him, and eventually, he let it go.

Until the next day.

When you checked your phone and saw a DM notification from someone you never expected.

Chad: Hey, I just wanna talk.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the message, completely frozen.

“What the fuck?” you muttered under your breath.

Marshall, who had just walked into the room, immediately picked up on your tone. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him, still in disbelief. “He—he messaged me.”

Marshall went still.

Then—

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You had never seen him move that fast.

Before you could even process what was happening, Marshall snatched the phone from your hand.

You barely had time to blink before he was scrolling, tapping, opening the DM like it was his business—because, let’s be real, when it came to you, everything was his business.

His jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grind. His thumb hovered over the keyboard like he was this close to firing off something that would make the dude regret ever touching his phone.

“Marshall—” You reached for your phone, but he jerked back, blue eyes blazing.

“Nah,” he growled, his grip tightening. “Nah, what the fuck does this dude think he’s doin’? Messaging you like—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, his breathing already getting heavier. “He really wants me to fuckin’ kill him, huh?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t even know what to say to him.”

“You ain’t sayin’ shit,” Marshall shot back. “You ain’t gotta say a damn thing to this desperate-ass motherfucker.” He scrolled back up, glaring at the message like it had personally offended him. “What the fuck does he even mean by this? ‘I just wanna talk’—talk about what? How he’s a fuckin’ loser? How his girl lied and got him caught up in some shit that ain’t got nothin’ to do with him?”

You sighed. “I don’t know, babe. Maybe he just—”

“I swear to God, if you say ‘maybe he just wants to clear the air,’ I’m gonna lose my shit,” Marshall muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been creepin’ on your page for days, and now he’s slidin’ in your DMs like some fuckin’ weirdo? He ain’t tryin’ to ‘clear the air.’”

You chewed your lip, watching the way his fingers twitched like he was debating between blocking Chad or typing something dangerous.

“You’re really mad about this,” you murmured.

Marshall snapped his eyes up to yours. “You serious right now?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “This motherfucker was just talkin’ reckless about you a few days ago, and now he’s in your messages? You don’t see how that’s a problem?”

You sighed. “I mean, yeah, but—”

“Ain’t no but,” he cut in. “He’s lucky I ain’t already buried his dumb ass for what he said before.”

You exhaled through your nose, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw, hoping to calm the tension there. “So what do we do?”

Marshall’s eyes flickered to yours. Then back to the phone.

Then—he smirked.

A slow, dangerous smirk that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, I got somethin’ for this motherfucker,” he muttered, already opening his own phone.

You swallowed. “Marshall…”

He just looked at you, that sharp glint still in his eye.

“Nah, baby,” he said, voice dripping with promise. “Let me handle this.”

You could see it happening. The shift in Marshall’s whole body, the way his muscles tensed like a predator that just caught scent of something worth hunting.

He was ready.

Ready to unleash hell, ready to rip Chad apart with words that would make him rethink his entire existence.

But you weren’t about to let that happen.

With a quiet sigh, you reached for him, slipping your fingers under his hoodie, tracing along his stomach. “Babe,” you murmured, pressing your lips just under his jaw, “he’s not worth it.”

Marshall barely reacted at first, his mind still locked on what he was about to do.

So you tried again.

“Come on,” you whispered, trailing soft kisses down his neck, letting your body mold against his. “You got better things to do.”

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching around the phone. You could feel him wavering, the heat of him, the way his focus started to shift.

Finally, his grip loosened, and he let out a slow exhale. “You tryna distract me?”

“Obviously.” You pulled him down into a kiss, slow and deep, making damn sure he forgot whatever brutal response he was crafting.

His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight, and for a second, you thought you’d won.

Until your phone buzzed again.

Your lips barely parted from his when you both heard it. The soft ding cutting through the air like a gunshot.

You felt him tense immediately.

Still tangled together, you reached blindly for your phone, already dreading whatever fresh bullshit Chad had sent.

And then you saw it.

Chad: Look, if you're sick of being messed around on, I’d be loyal to a chick like you.

Your stomach dropped.

Marshall’s whole body locked up.

For a second, everything went silent.

Then—

“… Oh, fuck no.”

Before you could stop him, before you could even think, Marshall snatched your phone, sat up, and grinned.

A slow, vicious grin.

“Nah,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “I’m done ignoring this motherfucker.”

“Marshall, don’t—”

Too late.

He was already typing.

You tried to grab your phone back, but he angled his body away, his grip ironclad. His blue eyes were locked onto the screen, sharp and furious, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles twitch.

You scrambled up, straddling his lap again in an effort to distract him, but this time, it wasn’t working.

“What are you even gonna say?” you asked, half-exasperated, half-nervous.

Marshall didn’t look up. “Somethin’ that makes sure this dumbass never even thinks about you again.”

You sighed, pressing your hands against his chest. “Baby, please—”

Your phone dinged.

Marshall stiffened.

You didn’t even want to look.

Still, he tapped the notification, opening another DM from Chad.

Chad: For real, though. You deserve better. If you ever wanna talk, you got my number now.

Marshall let out a short, dark laugh. The kind that sent chills down your spine.

“Oh, you wanna talk, huh?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Before you could stop him, he switched to voice memos, hit record, and—

“Listen up, dumbfuck,” he growled. “I don’t know what the fuck made you think you could slide into my wife’s DMs like you got a shot, but let me make this real fuckin’ clear—she don’t see you, she don’t want you, and you better keep my wife’s name outta your mouth before I make sure you can’t open it again.”

He stopped the recording, hit send, and smirked as it delivered.

Your eyes went wide. “Marshall!”

He finally looked up at you, and despite the fire still burning in his expression, there was something smug in his smirk.

“What?” he said, gripping your waist like he wasn’t about to just fight a man through a phone. “He needed to be put in his place.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Marshall chuckled, rubbing slow circles against your lower back. “I know.”

Your phone dinged again.

You both glanced down.

Chad: Yo chill, I ain’t mean no disrespect.

Marshall grinned.

You sighed.

“See?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up your spine. “Handled.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you and Marshall had a completely normal day.

No drama, no stress, no bullshit. Just the two of you, enjoying each other like nothing outside of your little world even existed.

Marshall had taken you out for a drive, blasting old-school rap while you laughed and sang along. He’d pulled into your favorite burger joint, making a big deal about how “Shady doesn’t wait in lines” before begrudgingly standing with you like a normal person.

He’d kept a hand on you the entire time. An arm slung over your shoulders, fingers brushing along the back of your neck—like he needed you close after all the shit from the past few days.

And you? You needed that, too.

By the time night rolled in, you were exhausted, curled up on the bed while Marshall moved around the room, pulling off his hoodie, getting ready to crash.

That’s when you made the mistake of opening Instagram.

You weren’t even thinking about Chad. The whole situation had felt done, buried in the afternoon, lost somewhere between a milkshake and Marshall making you laugh so hard you almost choked.

But there it was.

Your stomach tightened as you scrolled through your notifications, seeing his name again.

Chad.

And he’d been busy.

He’d been posting old pictures of you. Some from Marshall’s own page, others clearly dug up from fan accounts. Photos from red carpets, from casual outings, even some that were just candids of you watching Marshall perform.

And under each one, the captions got worse.

"Yo guys, Shady's girl is 🥵🥵🥵."

"How long before she’s bored of his cheatin’ ass?"

Your heart stopped.

Your fingers tightened around your phone as a cold, sinking feeling settled in your chest.

Cheating?

You knew it wasn’t true. Knew it. But the fact that Chad was saying it, pushing it out to the world like it was fact, like he knew something—

“Babe, you comin’ to bed or what?”

You jolted, nearly dropping your phone.

Marshall stood by the dresser, watching you with his hoodie still bunched in his hands, his brows pulling together the second he saw your face.

“What’s wrong?” His voice lost its casual edge, shifting into something more serious in an instant.

You hesitated, your grip tightening around the phone.

You knew how he’d react. You knew this would set him off again—

And honestly?

You weren’t sure you wanted to stop him this time.

Before Marshall could even open his mouth, you moved quickly, your instincts kicking in before the situation could escalate again.

You set your phone down for just a second, pushing yourself off the bed, and before he could ask what you were doing, you straddled his lap, trapping him against the headboard. Your hands found his face, pulling him toward you, and you locked lips with him in a kiss that was both desperate and full of assurance.

Marshall let out a low sound, surprised, but immediately responsive, his hands gripping your waist as you deepened the kiss, your tongues moving together like they’d done a thousand times before.

You didn’t give him time to process. While your lips were still locked with his, you reached for your phone, grabbing it off the bed and holding it at an angle just high enough to catch both of you in the frame. You were on fire—fingers tangled in his hair, a possessive grip on his face, your wedding band catching the light as it glittered in the photo.

In one fluid motion, you snapped the photo, never breaking the kiss. You held it for a beat, letting the quiet between you stretch, before pulling back just enough to smile softly at him.

“Shady’s Girl,” you whispered under your breath, the words heavy with meaning as you typed them in the caption.

His eyes locked onto yours, wild and heated, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath of your kiss. There was a flicker of disbelief, then something else—something softer—when he saw what you had just done.

“Damn,” Marshall muttered, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You didn’t waste any time.”

You smirked, a touch of pride swelling inside of you. “I’m not gonna let some idiot make me feel small, Marshall.”

He grinned, his fingers still tangled in your hair. “I never thought you would.”

With the photo sent, you didn’t wait for a reply. You simply melted into him, burying your face in his neck, feeling his strong arms come around you in a way that made everything feel right. Secure.

This was the only validation you needed.

The phone buzzed on the bed, but you didn’t care. You just kept kissing him, letting him prove, once again, that no one would ever come between the two of you. No one.

The room felt heavy with silence, but it was the kind of silence that came with contentment. Marshall’s arms around you were a steady, grounding force, and for a moment, everything in the world outside of the two of you just… stopped.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him, your fingers still tracing the lines of his jaw. His eyes were soft now, no longer filled with the storm that had raged earlier. There was something different in his gaze, something that settled between the two of you—comfort and trust in the midst of everything else.

Marshall’s hand moved from your waist to gently lift your chin, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “You good?”

You nodded, a small smile curling at your lips. “Better than good.” You leaned in again, just a soft press of lips to his. “I don’t care what anyone says, Marshall. I’m yours. Always have been.”

His eyes darkened, but not in anger—in desire. He gripped your waist and lifted you slightly, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His lips were hungry as they met yours, demanding, but gentle at the same time.

Then, the phone buzzed again.

You groaned, breaking the kiss for a moment, but Marshall was having none of it. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured against your lips, voice a low rasp. “Whoever the fuck that is can wait.”

You didn’t protest.

Instead, you grabbed your phone, glancing at it briefly. It was from Instagram.

You opened the notification and saw a flood of messages on the post you’d made. Comments of support, from fans, from friends, from people who’d seen your marriage and knew what it was about. Then there were the haters, the ones who still couldn’t understand why Marshall would want you, or why you’d stick around with someone like him. But none of that mattered right now.

What did matter was the small group of messages that stood out—the ones that made you smile. The ones from your close friends, the ones who knew your truth and had your back no matter what the world thought.

One message caught your eye, a direct one from someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

“This is what love looks like. Ignore the noise. You two are fire.”

You didn’t even think twice. You slid the phone over to Marshall’s side, letting him see it for a second before your attention was fully on him again.

“See?” you whispered, kissing his neck. “I don’t need to let him have power over me.”

Marshall’s hands cupped your face, his eyes soft but fierce as he spoke. “You never have, baby. Not for one second.”

There was a long pause, but it was comfortable, warm. You felt his lips curl into a grin as his hand slid down your back. “You know, though… I’m not gonna let that clown keep playing in your comments.”

You chuckled, shifting to lie beside him on the bed, feeling his body come to rest against yours. His arm draped over your waist, pulling you close.

“You sure you don’t wanna say something else to him?” you teased, letting your fingers trace the edges of his tattooed arm.

Marshall sighed, clearly pleased with himself. “Nah. I said what I needed to say.” His voice dropped low, the hint of a smirk still lingering. “Besides, I think he’s learned his lesson. I’m not the one to fuck with when it comes to you.”

You chuckled softly, curling into him. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

His voice was full of sincerity when he spoke next. “I’m always on your side, baby. No matter what.”

And for the first time in a long time, as the soft hum of the night filled the room, you finally felt at peace. You were his, and he was yours, and nothing anyone said or did could ever take that from you.

The next morning, you woke up feeling lighter than you had in days.

Marshall was still asleep beside you, his arm thrown lazily over your waist, his breathing deep and steady. You smiled to yourself, brushing a hand through his messy blond hair before carefully slipping out of bed.

The house was quiet as you made your way to the kitchen, grabbing your phone and a cup of coffee before settling onto the couch.

You weren’t even thinking about last night’s drama—at least, not until you opened Instagram.

The second you refreshed your feed, you saw it.

Chad was getting destroyed.

You nearly choked on your coffee as you scrolled through the comments on his latest post.

Apparently, sometime in the middle of the night, he’d tried to save face, posting a blurry mirror selfie with a long-ass caption about how people were “taking things out of context” and how he was “just stating facts” because “Shady’s got a history.”

Bad move.

Marshall’s fans were relentless.

@Stan4Life: Bro, you really thought you could come for Shady’s wife and walk away unscathed? LMAO

@RapGodsOnly: "History"??? Where??? Post the proof, Chad. We’ll wait.

@MMLP_Stan: "Shady’s Girl" really got you in your feelings, huh? 😂😂

@KillshotIncoming: You’re just mad your girl was a side quest, and Shady’s still winning.

You snorted, scrolling down further, watching as thousands of fans flooded his comments with clown emojis, memes, and every single diss track Marshall had ever dropped.

There were gifs of Marshall smirking. Screenshots of your post, captioned with “Stay mad.” Even old clips of him going off in interviews about loyalty.

And the best part?

Chad was trying to argue back, but it wasn’t working.

Every time he responded, someone else would hit him with a lyric, a joke, or just straight-up facts about how he was the one looking desperate.

You shook your head, biting back a grin. Marshall’s fans were a different breed.

Just then, you heard a low, groggy voice behind you.

“What’s got you smilin’ this early?”

You turned to see Marshall leaning in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

You smirked, holding up your phone. “Your fans are handling Chad for you.”

He frowned slightly, walking over to sit beside you, eyes scanning your screen as you showed him the comments.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Damn. They really goin’ in.”

You laughed. “You’re surprised?”

“Nah,” he muttered, stretching his arms behind his head. “They don’t fuck around when it comes to me. Or you.”

You settled against his side, scrolling a little more before locking your phone. “Guess that means we don’t have to say anything else, huh?”

Marshall hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nope. Let the Stans handle it.”

And just like that, the situation was handled—without either of you even lifting a finger.

[paishoeyeroh]

Bearer And The Bound

☰ Pairings: Sukuna x Reader, Slight Megumi x Reader

✧ Summary: When you stumble upon an ancient ring in an abandoned house, you unknowingly bind yourself to a cruel, powerful demon who thrives on torment. Trapped in a reluctant bond and forced to navigate a shared existence, Sukuna plots your downfall while you fight to survive his sadistic games. But as your fates entwine and secrets of Sukuna’s dark past begin to unravel, the lines between enemy and ally start to blur.

✧ Tags: True form Sukuna, Enemies to Lovers, Dark Romance, Demonic Bonds, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn, Sukuna is Bad at Feelings, Possessive Sukuna, Tension, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, College/University AU, More Tags To Be Added Later

✧ Status: Ongoing

✧ You can also read it on AO3

☰ CHAPTER SEVEN: Unspoken Truths

Chapter Summary: A night out leads to unexpected revelations.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The bright amber glow of the setting sun shines through the windows, casting long, soft streaks of orange across the living room. You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling through your phone with the kind of mindless detachment that comes from too much time spent alone. The screen’s faint light reflects in your eyes, its cold glow at odds with the warmth of the room, but you’re not really paying attention to what you’re looking at. News headlines blur together, photos and updates from friends barely register. It’s just noise, something to fill the silence.

Your thumb pauses mid-swipe as your phone buzzes in your hand, the vibration cutting through the quiet. A new message lights up the screen.

It’s from Yuji.

Hey! Haven’t heard from you in a while, is everything okay?

You stare at the screen for a moment, chewing the inside of your lip. You don’t even know how long it’s been since you last saw him, of course he’s noticed your distance. You feel the familiar sensation of guilt tugging at you as you type back.

Yeah, just been busy with school and stuff. You know how it goes. I’m sorry I’ve been so distant.

It doesn’t take long for his reply to come in.

Aw, it’s okay! We just miss you! Are you sure everything’s okay? We’ve all been worried, especially Megumi.

Your stomach twists at the mention of Megumi. Before you can think, your fingers start typing.

Especially Megumi? Why do you say that?

Idk, he’s just been different lately I guess. Kinda quiet, distant. Like, more than usual. Especially since that night he stayed over at your place. Did something happen?

Your heart starts to race, a wave of panic crashing over you. Does Yuji know something? Did Megumi tell him about Sukuna? No, you’d definitely know by now if Megumi said something. Right? You hesitate before responding.

No, nothing happened. Why do you ask?

You wait for Yuji’s reply. You can feel the weight of your lie pressing down on you as the seconds tick by.

Like I said, he’s just been off since that night. But it could totally be nothing. Just thought I’d ask!

You let out a breath, though the guilt doesn’t fade. So Megumi hasn’t told them. For a second, you think about what that means—about how much of a burden he’s been carrying on his own. You feel yet another sharp pang of guilt, knowing you’ve been avoiding him for too long now.

I'll reach out to him, you type back to Yuji, and then you close the conversation before you can second guess yourself. You stare at your phone for several seconds before pulling up Megumi’s contact. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a few moments, anxiety bubbling up inside you, but you finally manage to send a message.

Hey. How have you been?

There’s a long pause as you wait for his response. Your thoughts race, wondering what he’s going to say, if he’s even going to reply at all, if you’ve waited too long to fix things between you. Finally, your phone buzzes with his reply.

I’ve been fine. You?

Your fingers hover over the keys, unsure of how to continue. You don’t want to dive straight into everything, but you also don’t want to keep dancing around the issue. You decide to start cautiously.

Yeah, me too. I’ve just been thinking a lot about the other night. About you. I feel really bad, Megumi. I know I’ve been avoiding you.

Another long pause, and you feel the tension mounting. When his reply finally comes, it’s more direct than you expected.

It’s alright. I get it. I’m just trying to wrap my head around everything.

As you respond, you feel the weight of your own guilt pressing down even harder.

I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this. I never wanted you to get hurt.

It’s not your fault. But I don’t think you’re safe with that thing living with you. I still think you need to find a way to get rid of it.

Your heart sinks as you read the words. You know he’s right, but the idea of exorcizing Sukuna—of him being gone forever—feels more complicated now than it did before. You stare at the screen for a long moment, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to figure out what to say next.

I know. I just don’t know how.

Megumi’s response is immediate.

I told you, I can help. We’ll figure it out together.

Your chest tightens, a surge of panic rising up at the thought of losing Sukuna. You press the phone against your forehead and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push away the unsettling emotions clawing their way to the surface. You don’t even know why the thought unsettles you so much. Maybe it’s the bond, or the sheer chaos he’s brought into your life. Maybe it’s the fact that things have been going good lately, and a small part of you has grown strangely accustomed to his presence. Whatever it is, you can’t bring yourself to tell Megumi right now. Instead, you type a quick, simple response.

Thank you, Megumi, for everything. I’ll see you soon.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The next evening, you’re sprawled across your bed, propped up by a few pillows, your laptop balanced on your thighs as you half-heartedly work through an assignment. The cursor blinks on the screen, taunting you with the unfinished paragraph you’ve rewritten three times already.

Your focus keeps drifting, your eyes flickering toward the window or the clock on your nightstand, as if the time passing will magically bring clarity. The room is quiet except for the occasional clatter of keys on your laptop and the faint hum of activity outside.

Your phone buzzes against the bedspread, pulling you out of your daze. You glance over, expecting another email or random app notification, but the screen lights up with a message from the group chat. Nobara’s name flashes at the top. You sigh, reaching for your phone as the faintest smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Nobara: Let’s go out tonight! I’m so sick of sitting at home every Friday night. Anyone down for a dive bar?

You inwardly groan, already feeling a sense of dread creeping in. You haven’t seen your friends in over two weeks, and after what Yuji said about Megumi being different lately, you know you should probably go. But the thought of bringing Sukuna into such a setting makes your stomach churn. As if on cue, Yuji responds.

Yuji: YESSS! I’m in! Let’s drink until our livers explode!!!!

Yuji: I’ll buy the first round ;)

You roll your eyes, smiling as you read his text. Then, to your surprise, Megumi’s response comes in next. His texts are short, as usual, but the fact that he’s agreeing at all catches you off guard.

Megumi: Fine. I’ll go.

Megumi: Just don’t expect me to drink as much as Yuji.

Your stomach tightens with a sudden bout of anxiety. Megumi hasn’t spoken much since that night, and now he’s agreeing to drinks? Is he trying to make things feel normal again, or is he waiting for the right moment to say something? You can’t tell, and that only makes your nerves worse. Another text comes in.

Nobara: Finally! Now we’re only missing one person…

You hesitate. What do you say? You can’t say no now. They’d be suspicious if you didn’t agree. And to be honest, a night out with friends does sound like fun. With a small sigh, you force yourself to respond.

You: Okay, I’ll come. What time?

The moment you hit send, a flicker of unease rises in your chest. Sukuna will have to come with you, there’s no avoiding that, but the idea of bringing him into a noisy, crowded bar unsettles you. He has been better lately, borderline tolerable, but the thought of him in a space filled with drunk strangers is enough to make your head spin. You can’t shake the feeling that no matter how much control you think you have, Sukuna is always one step ahead, waiting for the perfect moment to remind you of who he really is. Even so, something about the last few weeks makes you pause. He’s been different—less antagonistic, less dangerous. But trusting him completely? That’s a leap you’re not willing to take. Your phone buzzes again, jolting you from your spiraling thoughts.

Nobara: 9pm. Don’t be late ;)

You close the chat and let out a heavy sigh. There’s no getting out of this. You’re going, whether you’re ready for it or not. And if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that Sukuna’s presence will probably make this night anything but ordinary.

You step out of your room, making your way toward the living room where Sukuna is sprawled lazily on the couch, taking up as much space as possible. His robe is slightly askew, the fabric pooling around him like some kind of dark, regal mantle, and his expression is one of utter boredom. In his hand, he’s holding one of the decorative items from the coffee table—a small glass paperweight filled with swirling patterns of color. He turns it over in his fingers, watching the light catch on the curves with a look of detached interest, as if the mundane object holds some secret he hasn’t yet unlocked.

For a moment, he glances up, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they meet yours. A flicker of amusement plays across his face, as though he’s waiting for you to reprimand him. You clear your throat, shoving your unease aside. You know you need to talk to him about tonight, to lay down some ground rules before things get out of hand.

“Hey,” you call out, “we need to talk.”

He sits up, leaning on one arm, his eyebrow raising slightly, “Oh? Are we having another heart-to-heart, princess?”

You try not to roll your eyes at his response. “I’m going out tonight with my friends.”

He tilts his head, the amusement in his expression growing. “And?”

“And,” you say, crossing your arms, “you’re not allowed to cause any trouble.”

He lets out a low chuckle, standing to his full height and casually strolling toward you, his grin widening, “But what if I want to cause trouble?”

You’re unable to suppress your eye roll this time, at his ridiculous attempt to pretend as if he has any control over the situation.

“Look, Sukuna, I’m not playing around. I command you not to cause a scene tonight or bother anyone in any way whatsoever. Okay?”

Sukuna stares down at you, the amusement fading from his face, just slightly.

“Tch. Pulling the command card, huh?” He sneers. “Fine. I’ll behave like a good little demon. But don’t blame me if your precious friends bore me to death.”

You let out a breath, relieved that the conversation went more smoothly than you’d thought it would.

“You can’t be ‘bored to death.’ You’re immortal.”

He raises his eyebrows at your response, but you continue, “I want to have fun tonight for once. Please don’t ruin this for me.”

Sukuna sits back onto the couch. “I already told you, I’ll be on my best behavior. Don’t really have a choice after your little command, do I?”

Feeling satisfied with his answer, you turn on your heel and head back to your room to start getting ready.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The door creaks on its hinges as you step into the bar, a faint chill brushing your skin as the heavy air inside the building washes over you. The unmistakable scent of stale alcohol and cigarettes hangs thick, mingling with a hint of something fried wafting from the kitchen in the back. Dim, amber light filters down from hanging fixtures over the booths lining the windows, reflecting faintly against the smudged glass panes.

Your eyes scan the space, taking in the familiar trappings of a dive bar that feels frozen in time. The battered wooden tables are etched with initials and graffiti carved by countless hands, and the leather on the barstools is cracked and peeling from years of use. The walls are plastered with old band posters, each one a relic of another era, their edges curling and colors fading. Neon beer signs buzz faintly from behind the bar, flickering now and then as if tired from decades of being left on.

The place isn’t too busy yet. A handful of people are scattered at tables or leaning against the bar, nursing drinks as they chat quietly. The speakers hum with rock music, just loud enough to vibrate the floor but not so loud that it drowns out the low murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses. You’ve always preferred places like this. Dive bars have a certain charm, their imperfections making them feel more lived in, more honest.

You move further inside, weaving past a couple of tables, and let your shoulders relax slightly. It’s not like the clubs you avoid—the sticky floors and dim lighting here feel welcoming in comparison. No blinding strobe lights or pounding bass, no sweaty strangers invading your space or asking for dances you don’t want to give. This place is raw, unpolished, and exactly the kind of scene where you can blend in without trying. The thought steadies you as your eyes scan the crowd for your friends.

For the briefest of moments, you wonder what Sukuna would do if you were in one of those clubs tonight, if some guy tried to hit on you. If, god forbid, you brought one home. The thought sends an odd, unexplainable feeling through you.

Nobara catches your attention, waving at you from a booth in the back, tucked away from most of the crowd. Yuji and Megumi are sitting on one side, so you make your way over and slide in on the opposite side next to Nobara. Yuji stands up to greet you with a hug before he heads to the bar.

To your surprise, Sukuna slides right into the booth beside you, his broad frame crowding your space as his shoulder presses against yours. His warmth is immediate, radiating through the thin fabric of your sleeve, and you shift slightly, unsure whether to lean away or stay where you are. A strange flutter stirs in your chest—unwelcome and unexplained—but you quickly brush it aside, chalking it up to the awkwardness of sitting so close to him like this.

You glance at your friends, hoping they haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but Sukuna, ever perceptive, catches the flicker of unease on your face. Leaning in closer, his lips hover just over the shell of your ear as he speaks, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the noise of the bar.

“Can’t really have any fun because of your silly command, now can I? Might as well make myself comfortable. Looks like we’ll be here for a while.”

His voice is a low rumble, smooth as silk, and it sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. You shift in your seat, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself as Yuji slams down the first round of drinks with a grin.

“First round’s on me!” He announces excitedly, holding up his shot glass. “To a fun night out with the gang!”

You chuckle, raising your glass along with everyone else, and you take the shot, wrinkling your nose as the alcohol burns its way down your throat. Yuji, clearly eager to abide by his earlier comment about “drinking until his liver explodes,” immediately calls for more shots.

“Come on, guys! Don’t make me drink alone,” he pouts at all of you until you agree to join him.

As you glance at Megumi, you notice him watching you with a strange, lingering look. It’s subtle, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes, like he’s trying to read your thoughts. You shift under his gaze, feeling the weight of the secret the two of you share. It’s an odd feeling, being here, surrounded by your friends who have no idea about Sukuna’s existence, while Megumi knows the truth. You offer him a small, apologetic smile. To your relief, he gives you a slight nod in return, his lips curving into a barely-there smile of his own before he turns back to Yuji. His silent acknowledgment eases some of the tension, and the night carries on as normal.

Yuji, as expected, is drinking the most by far, slamming back shot after shot with a grin, trying to get everyone else to match him.

“Alright, time for another round! Megumi, don’t be a fucking pussy!”

Megumi groans, holding his head in his hands. “We literally just took one, Yuji. At this rate, I’ll be passed out in a bush somewhere by the end of the night.”

“We won’t let that happen to you again, Megumi. Not after last time.” Nobara snorts, smirking and looking at you. “What about you? You’re being way too quiet. You gonna let Yuji drink us all under the table?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Fine, one more,” you say, reaching for another shot, but you know it’s a lie. The more you take, the more the nerves you’d been holding onto from earlier slowly dissipate.

Sukuna, for the most part, remains quiet. He leans back in the booth, his eyes flicking between the growing crowd and your group. Occasionally, you catch him watching you, his gaze lingering just a little too long for your comfort, though you’re too buzzed at this point to be truly concerned.

Yuji slaps the table again, his loud laughter echoing over the hum of the bar as he pulls Nobara into some exaggerated story. The corners of your mouth tug upward almost instinctively, and before you know it, you’re laughing along with them. The warmth of the alcohol spreads through your veins, smoothing the edges of your nerves and loosening the tension in your muscles. Slowly, the weight of your worries begin to lift, fading into the haze of the moment. For the first time in months, you feel light, unguarded, and the sensation is a welcome reprieve.

After a few more rounds, the group is decidedly drunk, especially Yuji. His cheeks are tinged a bright pink from the alcohol, his eyes glassy and bright with mischief as he interrupts Nobara who was telling some story about a guy she’d gone on a date with the other week. He leans forward suddenly, both hands on the table, before he turns to Megumi.

“Megumi… you know what your problem is?” Yuji slurs, his voice a little too loud. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“You’re like, you’re like a cat. Wait! No,” he slams his hands on the table, his eyes widening as he has a sudden realization, “A bear! A big ol’ bear, all grumpy and fluffy, but deep down, you just wanna hug.”

Megumi, now slouched in his seat, frowns at that. His eyelids are heavy, and you can tell he’s just about done with Yuji’s antics, although there’s a small grin fighting to escape the corners of his lips.

“I don’t want a hug, Yuji,” he mutters, his words slow and drawling, “And I’m not a bear. Or a cat. I’m more like a… like a dragon.”

Nobara and Yuji burst out laughing, which makes you laugh in response, nearly spraying your drink all over the table.

“A dragon?! Are you fucking serious? Get a load of this guy,” Nobara pipes in, still giggling, “No, you're definitely a bear. Just look at you!”

She gestures toward Megumi’s disheveled appearance, his eyes half-open and his hair sticking up haphazardly in every direction.

“Like a bear that just woke up from hibernation.”

Yuji lets out another loud cackle, drawing the attention of a couple other patrons in the bar.

“See, I told you!” he leans in closer to Megumi, a wild grin on his face. “Admit it, Fushiguro. You wanna hibernate, don’t you? You wanna curl up in a cave somewhere and sleep for like, a hundred years.”

Megumi sighs, letting his head fall back against the booth dramatically. “If it means I don’t have to listen to you morons, sure,” he grumbles.

“Oh my god,” you slap your hands on your thighs as you try to breathe, wiping the tears of laughter that have formed in your eyes. “Megumi the hibernating bear! That’s so perfect. Big, strong, grumpy bear on the outside, but on the inside? Cuddly as hell.”

Megumi shoots you a glance. “Keep talking and you guys will be the ones hibernating,” he threatens, but the amused glint in his eye gives him away.

Yuji points at him dramatically, his voice loud and teasing. “See! That’s exactly what a grumpy bear would say!”

He leans in closer, wrapping his arm around Megumi as he leans his head on his shoulder. “But secretly, he’s really a teddy bear. Just a big ol’ softie.”

Megumi groans, shoving Yuji off of him. “Get off me, dumbass,” he takes a sip of his drink as Yuji blows him a kiss, pointedly ignoring him. “You’re all insane.”

You raise your glass, Yuji and Nobara joining you before even knowing what they’re cheersing to.

“To Megumi, our resident bear!”

All three glasses clink together dramatically as Megumi slides his hands over his face, looking more than done with your antics, but his grin lingers nonetheless, and you know him well enough to see past his front.

Sukuna shifts next to you suddenly, causing you to jump slightly. You’d almost forgotten he was even there, he’d been so quiet. You glance at him quickly as your friends become engaged in another discussion, and you find that he’s already looking back at you. There’s a strange intensity in his eyes, but you’re not in a state to try and decipher it now, and without being able to talk to him in a place like this, you ignore it, turning back to your friends to join the conversation.

But with your inhibitions lowered, you find yourself leaning into his side, pressing up against his arm. If you feel Sukuna stiffen next to you at the contact, you’re far too drunk to care.

As the night wears on, Yuji becomes even louder, babbling on about random things and trying to convince Megumi to go do karaoke with him later. Nobara’s leaning into you, giggling uncontrollably, and you’re pretty sure Megumi’s had more to drink than he let on, as he looks about two seconds from falling asleep on the table. It’s when you start to feel your head spin that you decide it’s time to head home.

You say your goodbyes, standing up a little too fast, and the room tilts slightly. Sukuna’s hand is suddenly on your elbow, holding you in place.

“Steady now,” he says, his voice low, “Wouldn’t want you to fall on your face in front of your friends.” You feel a rush of warmth flood your cheeks as you try to steady yourself. You wave to your friends, who are still caught up in their drunken revelry. You head to the exit doors, with Sukuna trailing close behind.

The walk back to your apartment feels longer than usual, your steps unsteady, the world spinning around you. Sukuna doesn’t say anything, but his presence is solid, like a constant force by your side. When you reach the door leading into your apartment, you misstep, and before you can catch yourself, Sukuna’s arm is around your waist, holding you upright.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble near your ear.

You laugh, the alcohol making you feel bold, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Y’know, you’re not as mean as you pretend to be.”

Sukuna stiffens slightly, and for a moment, you think you’ve said something incredibly stupid.

“Is that so?” He chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. You swallow, your heart beating just a bit stronger in your chest as you will your eyes to focus on his face through your blurry vision. His red eyes are gleaming with amusement.

“Yeah, S’kuna,” you slur, “you could’ve let me fall, just now. But you didn’t,” you grin up at him, placing a hand over his that still grips at your waist. “You’re so nice. Maybe you’re a big, handsome teddy bear.”

His grip on your waist tightens just a fraction as he glances down at your hands, and he leans in close, his breath ghosting against your neck.

“Careful, girl. You’re treading dangerous ground.”

His voice is low and smooth, dripping with something sharp that cuts through the fog in your mind. It’s playful, almost mocking, but there’s a heat in it that makes your breath catch in your throat. You tilt your head at him, a lazy grin spreading across your face as you respond.

“Maybe I like danger.”

For a moment, there’s a heavy silence between you, his eyes searching your face. Then, he pulls back, letting go of your waist.

“You’re drunk. Let’s get you to bed before you say anything else you’ll regret.”

“I am not—“ you hiccup, “I am not drunk!” You sway slightly as you say it, and Sukuna doesn’t look convinced in the slightest.

“Uh huh. Come now,” he puts a hand on the small of your back to steady you as he leads you to your bedroom. You flop down onto your bed unceremoniously, and proceed to promptly pass out on top of the blankets.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache. The strong rays of sunlight filter in through your curtains, shining directly onto your face, making your eyes ache. You groan, rubbing your eyes and shifting in bed, feeling suffocated by the clothes still on your body from the night before. You sit up, glancing around, and notice your shoes are neatly placed by your bedroom door. And somehow, despite your faint memory of collapsing on top of the bed, you’re tucked neatly under the covers.

A glass of water sits atop your nightstand, along with a single aspirin, as if waiting for you. You blink in surprise, piecing together the remnants of last night. You don’t remember taking off your shoes, and you definitely don’t remember pulling the covers over yourself. Your cheeks flush at the thought of Sukuna doing it, the implications swirling in your mind.

Shaking your head, you slowly sit up and reach for the glass, sipping it as your thoughts run wild. You certainly wouldn’t have had the foresight to get yourself the water and aspirin before passing out last night. But would Sukuna really…? No. He wouldn’t. Yet the evidence is right there in front of your face, and you can’t shake the strange warmth that comes over you at the idea. Still, you’ll never hear the end of it if you bring it up.

You crawl out of bed, trying not to move too fast as your head spins. Your hair is a mess, and you’re sure your makeup is smudged across your face. You shuffle into the common space, eyes barely open, as you search the fridge for something quick to eat. You decide on a small container of yogurt, and as you walk over to grab a spoon, Sukuna peers over at you from his spot on the couch with something akin to amusement in his eyes.

“Well, well, well,” he smirks, “Look who finally emerged from her cage. You look like shit.”

You glare at him half-heartedly, too tired to muster up any energy for a real comeback.

“I feel like it too,” you mutter, rubbing your temples as your head continues to pound. You make your way over to the couch, taking a seat next to him. “I didn’t realize you were the type of man to comment on a woman’s appearance first thing in the morning.”

Sukuna chuckles, low and rumbling, “Just stating the obvious, sweetheart.“ Sukuna gives you a knowing grin, his eyes flitting up to the ceiling as if in thought. “You were a little bold last night too, if I recall.”

You freeze mid-bite, staring over at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

Sukunas gaze lands back on you, peering at you from the corner of his eyes. “Don’t remember, hm?”

You wrack your brain in a panic, trying to recall the events of the night, wondering how badly you may have embarrassed yourself. Suddenly, it all comes back to you.

“You’re a big, handsome teddy bear.”

“Maybe I like danger.”

You suppose you could’ve said worse, with the amount of alcohol in your system, but a wave of embarrassment washes over you all the same. You set the yogurt on the coffee table and hold your head in your hands as you let out a groan.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, your voice muffled through your fingers, “it was just the alcohol talking.”

Sukunas lets out a low chuckle. “Too late,” he says, clearly enjoying your embarrassment, “it’s already gone straight to my head. Plus, alcohol only serves to make you more honest, if I remember correctly.”

You peek at him through your fingers at his statement, curious. If he remembers correctly? Is he referring to his past, as a human? You want to ask him, but the memory of how he reacted when you first saw a glimpse of his human years still lingers fresh in your mind. It’s enough to make you think twice, deciding it’s best to leave the question unspoken.

You stand up suddenly, a bit too fast as your head pounds from the movement, making you wince.

“I need more food, like a bagel or something. I don’t have the energy to make anything complicated.”

Sukuna watches you as you move back into the kitchen. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” he says, “otherwise, I’d be giving you more of a hard time for looking like you just crawled out from the underworld.”

You grab a bagel from the pantry, not sparing him a glance as you start spreading cream cheese on it.

“That’s rich, coming from you. Didn’t you like, literally crawl out from the underworld?”

Sukuna laughs then, his real laugh, and it forces a small laugh of your own in response. You take a bite of your bagel, the laughter still echoing faintly in the back of your mind. The kitchen feels warmer than it should, like the kind of warmth that comes from something shared—something pleasant. Sukuna’s voice drifts lazily from the couch, another dry remark thrown your way, but there’s no bite in it. Only amusement. You chew thoughtfully, glancing his way before turning back to the counter. You shake your head, a small smile making its way across your lips, and focus on your breakfast, letting the moment settle in the quiet rhythm of the morning.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It’s been a couple of days since you last spoke to your friends, and since the night at the bar, you’ve found yourself increasingly distracted by thoughts of Sukuna. You don’t want to admit it—not even to yourself—but something about that night lingers in the back of your mind, tangled up with the way his teasing grin had sent an uninvited warmth creeping through your chest. You take a breath, trying to focus as you move around the apartment, tidying up. The repetitive motion of cleaning helps steady your thoughts, or so you tell yourself, but even as you fold a blanket on the couch or rearrange a stack of books, the growing confusion over your feelings refuses to be pushed aside.

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, pulling you out of your thoughts. You wipe your hands on your pants before picking it up. It’s a text from Megumi.

Can we talk?

You know what this is about, and you feel a pit forming in your stomach. You’ve been dreading this conversation, but you knew it was coming. You head to your room, shutting the door behind you, and sit on the edge of your bed. You take a deep breath and type out your reply.

Yeah, sure.

A few seconds pass before your phone buzzes again, with an incoming call this time. Your hands feel clammy as you accept the call and press the phone to your ear.

“Megumi?”

“Hey,” his voice is calm, but you can hear the underlying tension. “I wanted to talk to you about your… about Sukuna.”

You sigh, a sense of heaviness settling onto you at the thought of the conversation ahead.

“Yeah, I figured.”

There’s a pause on the other end before Megumi continues.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I know it’ll be hard, but we need to find a way to get rid of him. It’s too dangerous for you to keep him around. You know that.”

You close your eyes, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say.

“I dont… I don’t want him gone, Megumi,” you confess quietly, feeling small.

There’s a longer pause, and you can feel the shift in the conversation.

“What do you mean?” His voice is sharper now, clearly frustrated. “You have to want him gone. He’s a literal demonic entity.”

Your teeth gnaw the inside of your cheek, and a quiet ache blooms in your chest, heavy with unspoken shame.

“I know. I know he’s dangerous. But… I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Megumi lets out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, you’ve said that before. What’s complicated about it? That thing is evil. You can’t seriously think keeping him around is a good idea.”

“I’m not saying it’s a good idea,” Your voice rises in defense, feeling cornered. “I just… I don’t think I can do it. I can’t get rid of him.”

Megumi is quiet on the other end, but his disapproval is palpable, lingering in the silence like an unspoken judgment.

“Why not?” he finally asks, his voice softer but still strained. “Why would you want to keep him around? This isn’t like some pet you can take care of. He’s going to hurt someone eventually, whether it be you, or someone else.”

You struggle to put it into words, grasping at fragments of meaning as the confusion churns restlessly within you.

“I don’t know why, okay? I just… I feel like things have changed. He’s not the same as when he first appeared. We’re… I think we’re friends.”

Megumi’s sigh is heavy, and you can tell he’s trying to be patient, even though it’s clear he’s not understanding.

“This isn’t like you. You’re not the type to get caught up in something like this. It’s not safe.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling torn. “Trust me, I know. But I’m not in danger. Not from him, at least.”

“You don’t know that.” His voice is sharp again, but it softens a moment later. “Look… I know I can’t force you to do anything. But this isn’t something you can just brush off.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of his concern. “I know, Megumi, but… I just don’t think I can get rid of him. Not right now.”

Megumi is silent for a long time before he finally speaks again, his voice resigned. “Alright. But if you ever change your mind… or if anything happens… you call me. Immediately. No matter what. Okay?”

“I will,” you promise, your heart heavy with your spoken confession.

“I just…” Megumi pauses, his voice quiet now. “I really do worry about you, you know. A lot.”

Your chest tightens at his words, your eyes suddenly filling with unshed tears. You try to keep your voice steady as you reply.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There’s another pause, and then he sighs. “Take care of yourself, alright? If you ever need anything, anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Please.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Alright. Take care.”

“Goodbye, Megumi.”

The call ends, and you sit in the stillness that follows, the echo of the conversation lingering in the air. You’ve said it now—admitted the truth you’ve been avoiding: you don’t want Sukuna gone. But even as the words settle, guilt coils tightly in your chest, sharp and relentless, knowing the toll this is taking on Megumi.

You drop your phone onto the bed with a sigh and rub your temples, trying to ease the headache that’s beginning to form. There’s a storm brewing inside of you—a mix of confusion, guilt, shame, and frustration.

You feel torn between your loyalty to your friend and this inexplicable connection to Sukuna. Maybe you could continue to push it all down, ignore it like you’ve been doing. But you know you can’t keep running from your reality forever.

Just as you’re sinking deeper into your thoughts, the door to your room creaks open without warning. Sukuna leans against the doorframe, both sets of arms crossed, his eyes focused on you. You glance up at him, feeling a mixture of emotions bubble to the surface. Part of you is frustrated with him—frustrated with the whole situation. And yet, there’s that strange feeling that creeps in when he’s near, the feeling you’ve been trying to ignore since that god forsaken dream.

“Brooding again, hm?” His tone is sharp, laced with mockery, but there’s something quieter that lingers beneath his words.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, turning your gaze away from him, unable to meet his eyes just yet. Sukuna doesn’t move from the door, his gaze careful.

“You’ve said that before, and it’s just as unconvincing now.”

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. “It’s nothing. Just… talked to Megumi.”

There’s a pause, and you feel Sukuna’s eyes linger on you. You can tell by his silence that he’s not entirely thrilled about the mention of Megumi.

“Oh?” His voice holds a hint of derision. “Let me guess—he wants to try to get rid of me. Again.”

You can’t help but scoff. “Of course he does. He doesn’t exactly love the idea of me being stuck with a cursed spirit.”

Sukuna grins at that, but it’s not a malicious grin—it’s more amused, as if he finds the whole thing ridiculous.

“He’s not wrong, you know. You should want me gone.”

You freeze at his words, another wave of guilt and shame crashing over you. You don’t respond at first, unsure of what to say. But the silence only seems to stretch between you. Sukuna raises an eyebrow, watching you intently, his smile fading.

“But you don’t, do you?” His voice drops, quieter now, softer, laced with inquisitiveness, though you’ve got a feeling he already knows the answer. You swallow hard, your throat tightening under his stare.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Sukuna steps closer, standing in front of you now, his eyes boring into yours. A playful grin tugs at the corners of his lips, tilting his head.

“Don’t tell me you’ve started to grow attached to me, now. Silly girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you can’t bring yourself to respond. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with an unspoken tension as Sukuna continues to watch you. After a moment, you stand abruptly.

“I—I just… need some time to think.”

You head toward the bathroom, feeling the sudden need to escape the weight of the conversation. As you brush past him and head into the hallway, Sukuna doesn’t follow or press the issue. But just as you’re about to step inside, his voice reaches you from behind—casual, almost indifferent.

“Don’t worry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

His tone is light, but you catch the subtle edge to it, as if there’s more he’s not saying. You pause at the door, his words hanging in the air between you. Without turning around, you nod once, acknowledging the truth behind his statement. Then, you step inside the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a sigh, relieved to have escaped his interrogation.

You turn the knob to the shower, needing something to distract yourself. As you stand there, looking into the mirror, the cool tile beneath your feet steadying you, your mind is racing. You grip the sides of the sink. Everything feels so confusing—your feelings for Sukuna, your guilt about Megumi, the strange sense of security you feel in Sukuna’s presence. But one thing is clear. You don’t want Sukuna to leave.

And that scares you more than anything.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

☰ Taglist: @nerdybouquetofkittens-blog