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[envy-of-the-apple]

Moon Starves Sun (FULL VERSION)

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Part one: Sun Eats Moon

Part two: Earth Kills Moon

(Warnings: forced relationship, implied nsfw content, implied noncon/dubcon, dark content, implied baby trapping)

When Satoru's close like this, he can hear your heartbeat. 

It's been a while. Ten years. An entire decade. Everything about this is different, yet so familiar. He feels like he's finally reached the shores, feeling the warm sands underneath his feet. Like he's been given his favorite food after being starved for years. Everything melts. Everything except for you. 

He'd like to stay like this forever, listening to your rabbit heartbeat, feeling your soft skin, but for your sake, he pulls himself off you. Lying on a wooden desk probably isn't that comfortable. 

Your eyes are shut. Your breathing is shallow. You're so pretty like this under the moonlight. Your clothes are barely hanging onto your body. He can see every mark he's left on you. Part of him wants to make more, but he'll let you off the hook for now. He's nice like that. 

"Still with me?" 

Your eyes flutter open. You don't respond, but at least you're not crying anymore. He can work with that. 

"C'mon, pretty girl," he says, voice soft, "let's piece you back together." 

The belt left lines on your wrists. He'll kiss them better later. For now, Satoru collects your clothes and heels from the floor, placing them on the desk. He helps you reclasp your bra, runs his fingers on your arms when you finish buttoning your blouse. It's a quiet affair. Every so often, he'd catch your eyes. You don't let yourself linger for long. Satoru finds that a little cute. 

You say nothing when he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you out of his office. Maybe you're still dazed, still gathering yourself back up, because you don't struggle as much as he predicted. You try to leave his grip when the two of you reach the lobby. He's quick to stop you. 

"Where, do you think you're goin'?" He grips your wrist when you take a step away. 

You look at him, eyes shimmering like water. 

You swallow. "My apartment. I—I need to go back—" 

He clicks his tongue, bringing you back in. 

"We can get your stuff later." He tells you with a grin. "let's just go home, tonight. I'm exhausted." 

You open your mouth. Satoru waits. You say nothing, and he thinks you're starting to get it. 

The moon is a dusky red tonight. Satoru thinks it's an ugly color. 

☾

If Satoru could describe you in one word, it would be: predicatable. 

Normal, boring, a speck in the crowd—none of these are bad things. Just like how much of the universe is nothing, you're an empty void, too. Not everyone can be like him. From the minute he was born, Satoru was destined for greatness—a prodigy, heir to a millionaire conglomerate, the Sun itself. His life isn't written on his forehead for everyone to read. 

You are the exact opposite. Completely unassuming. He practically knows everything about you without even having to ask. 

Like how Satoru can instantly tell you've never been over to a boy's room before. 

You've probably never even been in a relationship before him, either. Even before he managed to corral you into his arms, you were always so annoying about the other things like school and friends. Though, you don't really have much of the latter anymore. His fault, Suguru never fails to remind him. 

He watches as your eyes linger over his shelf: the numerous trophies and awards. You're still standing meekly in the corner, still garbed in your school uniform, clutching your backpack. He has to roll his eyes at how obviously you're trying not to look at him. 

"What're you waitin' for?" He finally asks. You jump, eyes flitting over to find him before you find the floor. He resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

It's not like you two haven't done shit before. You sucked him off twice now, and he's finger fucked you against the bleachers. You should really stop being such a prude. 

"C'mere, pretty girl." 

You comply, dropping your bag, making your way to the bed. When you look at him from beneath your lashes, warily expectant, Satoru feels a thrill rushing through his body. 

He's always been impatient. It's in his nature to take. He nips at your mouth, eager to taste your soul from your soft lips. Soft. Everything about you is so soft—Malleable beneath his fingers. 

Satoru didn't explicitly say what his plan was, but you aren't stupid. He can tell you know what's about to happen when you stiffen in his hold, turn to stone within his grip. He would've allowed it if you hadn't gripped onto his shirt, pulling yourself away from his feasting. 

"Satoru?" You whisper, still leaning away. "The door...?" 

Annoyed, he glances over. His room is open. It shouldn't really matter. 

"It's fine." Satoru tells you. "No one's here." No one's ever here. 

You still look panicked, hands gripping his shirt. Satoru finds that adorably pathetic. How helpless you are. How that's all because of him.

He's sure to make a big show of it. Satoru gives a dramatic sigh, slumps his shoulders, but eventually pushes himself off the mattress to push at the door. He even clicks it shut. He's too nice, sometimes. 

"Happy?" You nod, you don't look very relaxed but your shoulders have dropped a bit. 

Satoru doesn't feel too guilty pushing you down, not when you're already in his bed. He isn't known for his patience. He tastes your skin, leaving marks when he can: teeth bites. He pushes you down down down down so he can sink his teeth into your flesh.

You're asleep and under the covers by the time he's done. The moon's out too. Satoru watches it, largely unimpressed. It's so tiny, a sliver of glowing white. 

And then you shift, turning ever so slightly, enough to catch his attention. He should probably kick you out and send you home. That's what he usually does. When he gets into bed with you, draping his arms around your limp body, he convinces himself it's because he's tired and waking you up would be too much of an effort. 

He lets himself enjoy your warmth; it's nothing like the cold glow of the moon. 

☾

Sometimes, even Gojo Satoru wonders if he's dreaming. 

Sometimes, life is too perfect for him to realize it is real. Everything falls perfectly in place, fitting together like those jigsaw puzzles his caretakers used to distract him with halfheartedly. 

You're in his kitchen, chopping vegetables. 

It had already been a few weeks, but he still wasn't used to this. You, being in his home, in his kitchen, in his bed. Satoru thinks he's masking it well, but his mind is still reeling, it's a difficult adjustment. 

Not a bad one. 

It's like he's been drowning for years and he can suddenly breathe when he sees your toothbrush next to his. It's like he's been stabbed and waking up to your sleeping face is the aloe. It's like he's been suffering through a blizzard, and you cooking in his kitchen, humming a song he doesn't know, is the warm sunny day. 

Things have changed since he brought you home. His home doesn't feel incomplete anymore. As though the apartment itself has agreed that this is where you belong. There are more clothes in his closet, more shoes by the door. The space is ever so slightly less empty and it fills him with tangible relief. He can cook a meal, but it's still nice coming home to something warm already made. 

It makes Satoru wonder what things could have been like, had it not been taken away from him. 

You flinch when he wraps his hands around your waist, nestling into the space in your shoulder. You hadn't heard him come in, apparently. Regardless, you don't linger, fingers hesitating before resuming your task. He finds this part of you adorable. Ignoring the thing that makes your heart race, as though he'll just fade away into the shadows. 

It's his ego that makes him slink into your warm skin, making sure you know he isn't going anywhere. 

"Smells good," he says. 

You nod, pushing away the bell peppers in favor of the onions. Unlike him, you acclimated extremely well. It'd taken nothing to lightly push you to add more and more stuff from your apartment to his. You quietly moved from one setting to another. He remembered this trait of yours from high school. Go with the flow. 

Though, perhaps, it was less out of genuine apathy. Satoru doesn't have to say what will happen to you if you refuse him. He doesn't have to throw lectures about his family and the influence he has on you. He likes that you aren't stupidly brave. He likes that you're meeker, quieter. You pick your battles. 

But he thinks he'd like to see you crack, just one more time. 

"Hey," he says, "let's go out for dinner tomorrow night. There's this restaurant just out of town that has great shrimp cutlet." 

He expects you to nod, like you always do whenever he decides to do something impulsive and meaningless. Instead, you bite your lip. 

"I can't." You mutter after a minute of silence. "I have work. Mr. Higuruma just closed a deal and—and I think I'll be coming home later and later this week." 

Home. It's enough to make his heart flutter. It's the first time you've called the apartment that. Your words almost make him forget about the second thing you said.

Higuruma. The lawyer guy with dead eyes. Satoru remembers him. He always looked at Satoru like he was a child, too stupid to do anything. He never liked how the guy looked at you. Besides, he was way too old for you, never mind that you were taken. You were always taken.

"Oh, right." Satoru gives an exaggerated sigh, fully leaning on you. "Work. What a shame." 

You nod, clearly thinking the conversation is done with. Satoru wasn't so charitable. 

"Y'know, you don't really have to work. Not anymore, pretty girl." His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly as he pulls you towards his chest. Your hands freeze. The knife glints in your fingers. 

"I make plenty of money. You should just stay home. That way, you don't have to work shitty hours." 

You stiffen underneath his fingertips. He's disappointed when your skin turns frigid. When he peeks over your shoulder, intent to look at your face, there's a nervous smile twitching on your lips. 

"I don't think that's a good idea..." you trail off hesitantly. 

"Hm?" He tilts his head with faux confusion. "Why not?" 

The knife moves up and down, as though you can't decide whether to place it back on the cutting board. Satoru realizes it's your way of fidgeting. 

"It...it would just be unprofessional to leave when everything is so hectic." You finally decide on. 

Satoru scoffs. "So? Who cares. I'm sure everything will work itself out. Just rely on me, pretty girl." 

You don't like the answer, but you don't make a comment on it. Satoru just watches you rotate the knife in your hands. He wonders if you want to use it on him. Slice at his neck, leave him out to bleed on the pretty tile floor. Cut straight through his heart, ending it quickly. 

Or would you like to carve out his eye and keep it as a souvenir? He thinks he'd happily let you. It sounds romantic.

You don't do anything. Instead, you pull back your shoulders as if you're physically ready for war. 

"'Toru," you say gently, softly, and it works in his eyes, "I...can't let you support me like this. It's not right. It's not like we're married or anything." You laugh, like it's a joke. Satoru doesn't cave. 

"I mean, not yet." Satoru rocks you back and forth in his hold. "But gimme' some time to shop for a ring, okay? It needs to be perfect for my perfect girl." 

You follow his movements. He can see your mouth twitch out of the corner of his eye. Your eyes get glassy. 

He knows he's terrible, but he really wants you to crack. 

"You're right, Satoru." You say, "I'll put in my two weeks tomorrow." He grins in delight. 

"That's a great idea, baby." Satoru kisses you on the cheek.

Right, you pick your battles. 

☾

Satoru tells you he loves you, and you're gone, not even three days later. 

He breaks and shatters into pieces he'll never be able to put back. Each day without you is torture. He feels like a corpse, just going through the motions. His clothes feel looser. His skin doesn't feel like his own anymore. Every time he looks in the mirror, he sees someone he barely even recognizes. 

It's like you left with his heart. 

No, you ran away with his soul. 

One day, you were Satoru's, safely tucked underneath his arm...the next, you just weren't. 

His parents don't acknowledge it beyond casual disgust. Every time Suguru talks to him, Satoru can barely comprehend it. Days pass by. Everything reminds him of you. His bed feels emptier; he hates it when he reaches out to the space you used to take up and finds it cold. Your locker remains untouched. Nothing is ever the same. 

Satoru tries looking for you, but you're untraceable. No social media, no friends left to tell where you went, not even your fucking parents know where you are. 

You left him. 

You left him to rot. 

Denial comes first. It can't be. You wouldn't. You wouldn't fucking dare. Anger seeps in the next. For weeks, Satoru can only imagine what he'll do when he finds you. He'll break your legs this time. He'll squeeze your neck so hard that your head pops. He'll kill you over and over again until your corpse is begging to be forgiven. And he won't ever stop, because you're Satoru's. 

That doesn't stay for long. He feels himself get weaker day by day. Food tastes like dirt on his tongue. Any of his earlier vices are gone. 

He misses you. 

Why wouldn't he? You were his everything. 

Like all things, it passes. You aren't there to fuel the flames, so the fire wanes in his chest. The ache in his heart gets smaller and smaller. Things keep him busy. College. Then, his new position in the office. 

Ten years pass. He’s forgotten what you look like. But he remembers parts. Every so often, he sees a flicker of you within someone else. Your eyes are on another woman’s face. Your lips on a girl's smile. It irritates him to no end. It’s even worse when he starts seeking them out, keeping those parts of them for just the night. 

Sometimes, if he closes his eyes, he can still hear your voice—what he thinks is your voice—soft, needy Toru Toru Toru. 

“Gojo, sir?” 

He blinks. Ijichi stands in front of him. Satoru looks down at the meticulously crafted pages. 

“Mr. Higuruma needed you to sign this,” Ijichi lifts a paper filled with bureaucratic bullshit he pays other people to understand.

Why did Suguru take off now? 

“Sure sure,” Satoru says, “I’ll get it done.” 

Ijichi shifts nervously. “Well, it’d be best to finish it right now, Sir. His paralegal is just about to leave the building.” 

Oh, right. The lawyer’s assistant. Gojo could never get a good look at that person, but the assistant resembled a shaking deer to him at most times. He’s not even sure if they’ve ever talked to each other, but he always found the other a bit odd. Big eyes. A shaky expression. 

It was a little annoying to look at. 

☾

Some executive was throwing an office gala, and since he is Gojo Satoru, he needed to come along. 

And since you are Satoru's, you're dragged along too. 

Honestly, the only upside to this is you and that new dress he bought you. A velvet turquoise dress that he can't take his eyes off of. The gold jewelry draped across your neck makes you even more delectable. But his favorite part of the outfit is the shimmering diamond ring. 

The ceremony hadn't been anything extravagant. He'd just booked out one of his favorite restaurants, ordering lobster and sweet wine. He remembered hearing his heartbeat when he bent down on one knee, opening the elegant ringbox, like an oyster revealing its pearl. Looking back, he didn't know why he was so nervous: it's not like you'd say no. 

"What do you think of it?" He asked when you were back in his bed, bare from everything except that glistening ring. 

"It's pretty." You spoke, perfectly nestled in his chest. 

He feels in his heart when he hugs you, a small kiss in your hair. You say something, but he can't hear it; he is too preoccupied with feeling you in his arms. It's still so new, even after all these weeks. It's the anxiety, knowing at any second you could leave and he'd be nothing. He won't allow that, he can't. 

"I thought about something else, y'know?" He speaks quietly in your hair. "Ropes, chains, maybe. I could keep you here, forever. But—but then I realized how sad you'd get. I couldn't go through with it." 

You give no reaction. When he tilts your chin up to get a better look at you, your eyes are glassy. 

"You get that, right?" 

You nod. He's really too nice, sometimes. 

He spends the entire evening with you, tucked away in a corner, away from prying eyes. Just because he has to be there doesn't mean he has to be sociable. Every time someone walks up to him and you, a drink in one hand, he resists the urge to bite their head off, feigning politeness. He complains about their lack of decorum to you multiple times throughout the night, his head resting on your shoulder. You pliantly sit there, listening and nodding. 

About ten minutes after the last board member left, someone else walks up. By then, Satoru's patience has mostly declined. He peers over with disdain before he can really process who he's seeing. 

"Suguru!" He waves over. 

You stiffen, and Satoru remembers you haven't seen him in ten years. 

Suguru walks over with an easy smile on his face. He's nicely tanned, and Satoru is reminded of the pictures he sent over of the Maldives. Maybe that's where the honeymoon should be. 

"Had fun slacking?" Satoru asks with a grin; Suguru shrugs. 

When his eyes meet yours, he feigns delighted surprise. Suguru speaks your name with practiced shock. It's imperfect, only Satoru can see the amusement dripping from his fangs. 

"Long time, no see!" Effortlessly, Suguru corrals you into a hug. You follow, giving into the cold touch of affection before pulling away back to him. 

"Hello, Geto." You say when you're rightfully by his side again. "It's nice to see you again." 

Suguru laughs, light and airy. "You as well!" He looks at your hands, tilts his head. "Oh? Congratulations, you two! When's the date?" 

"Eh, we'll figure that out later." Satoru gives a quick kiss on your cheek. "Everything happened so fast, y'know? Us reuniting and everything: It feels like fate." Suguru's eyes flash. "Let's not rush this. We'll take our time." 

Suguru nods along thoughtfully. He's looking right at you, and you stare right back. Not used to feeling left out, Satoru is quick to intervene. 

The conversation is light, two long-time friends reuniting after a long spell. You stay quiet like decor, settling into Satoru's side. Suguru doesn't acknowledge you after that. 

"We gotta' go. It's getting late." He eventually says, tugging you along. 

Suguru gives a pleasant smile. "Of course, of course. We should catch up sometime." He directs this at you. You give a strained smile before Satoru leads you off. 

"Suguru." The man turns. Satoru grins. 

"I loved my gift. Thanks, man." 

Suguru's smile is catlike. 

"You kids have fun." He calls out right when Satoru's dragging you away all over again. 

You're silent. Not in the way you usually are, pliant and cute. You're thinking. He gives you a nudge. 

"What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours?" 

You shake your head. "Nothing." And then you say, "He's changed." 

From your view, Satoru supposed that's true, but really—

"Nah." Gojo shakes his head. "He's just dropped his act." 

Satoru's hand was wrapped around your waist when you two ran into him. You hadn't noticed him yet, eyes fixed on the floor. The lawyer hadn't changed since the last time Satoru saw him. That dead expression, those creepy eyes. Higuruma's eyes flit over your figure, before he finds Satoru's. 

He stares. Satoru stares right back. Something gives, and the lawyer calls out your name. 

"How are you?" His tone is cool, and this is another reason why Satoru can't stand him. The guy has no tells. He's just a talking robot. 

Unlike you, fidgeting by his side, practically vibrating with nerves. 

"I'm fine, sir." Your smile gets more painful to look at by the second. 

Your voice earns you a tired smile, a mild pinch of humor. Higuruma shakes his head, waving you off. 

"No need for formalities. We aren't at work." His smile drops just a bit, as he watches you for a bit more, eyes flickering to your hand. "I was...surprised when I saw the announcement. I didn't know you and Mr. Gojo were involved." 

Satoru grins, making himself known like a shark in the water. His grip on you tightens. 

"Oh, you didn't tell your boss 'bout us, baby?" He looks down at you with cruel mirth, pinching your cheek. You wilt. "We go way back—highschool sweethearts. Lost contact for a couple years. It's actually thanks to you we were able to find each other again. We'll send you the invites." He presses a kiss to your hairline. 

Higuruma hums at that. Satoru expected jealousy in his eyes; he's even more upset when he finds none. 

"I'll be sure to save the date." 

Then he shuts Satoru down completely. 

"I heard about your resignation. It's sad to see you go," Higuruma says. 

You nod, but you don't look at him. "Satoru and I talked about it, and we decided it's best if I focused on other things." 

"Very, very busy, this one nowadays." Satoru interrupts. "Between wedding plannin' and all that."

"Is that so?" Higuruma says dismissively, "in any case, you already knew this, but I've begun preparations to start a new firm." He reaches into his wallet, pulling out a card. "I always thought you were good at what you do. If you ever want to get back into the industry, call me." 

You take the laminate slip with a quiet thank you. Satoru feels blue turn into red. 

When Higuruma slips into the party, Satoru tightens his grip on you a little harsher than necessary. He's dragging you through the halls. Behind him, he can hear you stumbling over your heels, begging him to slow down. He knows he should care, but he doesn't. That damn lawyer. Those dead eyes. Mocking him. 

"Did you fuck him?" He asks when his anger has reached a high enough peak that he presses you against the wall. 

Your eyes are wild, flitting back and forth. He'd your expression a little cute if he wasn't feeling like a furnace, at the moment. 

"No. I—we never." You say. "Mr. Higuruma was my boss. And—and he's married—" 

"Really? 'cause you're precious 'Mr. Higuruma' was eyeing you up and down like he's already seen what's underneath." 

"'Toru." You plead. "Let's—let's just talk about this at home. Please? Let's just go home." Home. You said that word again. If he were a better man, he'd melt, but he's not. 

"Shut up." He spits out. "Hike up your dress." 

You stare at him. Then, you try to smile, like he's making a shitty joke. It wavers on your lips. 

"It's...we're still in public." You whisper and it's so cute you think he'd actually care about that. "We—we can't...we shouldn't—" 

"Baby." His voice drops, as he licks at your neck. "Pull up your dress, get rid of those panties. Otherwise, I'm just gonna take it off myself." 

He doesn't need to explain anything further. You already get what he's saying. Right now, Satoru doesn't care if you leave this building with your clothes intact. 

He thinks the worst part is that he knows he's being unreasonable. He's backing you into a corner where you'll have no choice but to surrender, and he knows that, but he keeps thinking about those man's eyes and how he looked at you and it was just all so much. 

He'll apologize to you later, with flowers and shiny gold earrings. He'd give you the world; just be good for him now. 

He just needs his fix. So just be good for him now.

☾

When Satoru discovers it's been you all along, he feels like an idiot. 

In a pathetic way of defending himself, he convinces himself there's no way he could have recognized you. You're so different compared to your high-school self. 18-years old, fresh-eyed, naive. The you now is all grown up: a mature voice, a new hairstyle, clothes he'd never even think you'd wear. 

It also didn't help that he couldn't even see your face since you turned away every time he looked at you. 

Embarrassing. He's just glad Suguru wasn't here to call his blunder. 

He thought about it a lot. He spent an hour in his office, pacing around, doing nothing but thinking and thinking and thinking. Part of him wants to corner you already. He can already feel your rabbit heartbeat on his fingertips, the look you always had in your eyes when he was right in front of you. Part of him wants to ruin your life the same way you ruined his. He wants to tear you apart, piece by piece. Leave you in tattered pieces. 

But he can't do that. Satoru still loves you. 

You left him a hollow shell. Broken. Tainted. There are pieces of him he still can't find. He should hurt you. He's hurt other people for doing less. But they weren't you. Even after all those years, he's never quite stopped loving you. 

But he wants to sate his bloodlust, just a tiny bit. 

His perfect opportunity comes where he, the lawyer, and you are all sitting in one of the waiting rooms. The lawyers explaining something, possibly about the ongoing case. Satoru doesn't really care. Besides, this is what Ijichi's here for. 

He waits until everyone is quiet. You're unassuming. By then, your shoulders have lowered, like you think you've gotten away with it 

"Hey," he says, "do we know each other?" 

The other two don't bother, but you stop completely. The pen in your grip shakes. Satoru resists the urge to laugh. 

You timidly glance up like you're still delusional enough to think there's a fifth person he's talking to. Satoru has always been told his eyes are like two suns: bright and intense. He lowers his glasses. You wilt under the solar flares. 

"Hm?" He prods, enjoying the way you shrivel. "Have we?" 

You swallow, glassy eyes flicking from side to side. Finally, you clear your throat. 

"No." You mutter, voice barely a whisper. "I don't think we have." 

"Are you sure?" To intensify the magnifying glass, he leans closer, like he's examining you. "'cause you look really familiar." 

To his delight, you chew on your bottom lip. He can imagine biting it until it's bloody and raw. He stops just when you're about to shatter completely. Breaking you too soon would take the fun out of it. 

"Oh, wait. I don't think that was you." He relents, pulling back and he can see the relief ooze over your face. "I think I got you mixed up with someone who interviewed here a couple months ago. My bad. Maybe you have one of those faces." 

You nod, eager to take the out. 

"Yes," you quickly say, "one of those faces." 

How adorable. You haven't changed since high school. 

He's usually not this obvious, but Suguru isn't here to berate him about it and it's not like anyone else will get on his ass. The women he brings in are his usuals: tall models with full lips and perfect bodies. Satoru parades them around like expensive jewelry. He wants to see you seethe in envy, stew in it. He wants you to see what you abandoned. 

But you don't do any of that. You just sit there, like the dutiful little workbee you are, right by your boss's side.

And then, you give one of them your jacket. Satoru can't stand it wrapped around her waist like she fucking owns it—own you. She wears it so flagrantly, like any token from you shouldn't be worshipped and coveted. He hates it. He hates it. 

"I've never done this in an office before." She squeals when she shuts the door behind her. "So, how do you—" 

"Get out." 

The girl pauses. What was her name again? Satou was too pissed to give a single shit. 

"Um, what?" 

"What, you deaf or something?" He waves her off as if he weren't seething. "Get out." 

"Oh," she says, blinks, and then she takes a step back. 

"Wait." Satoru stops her. 

"Take that off." He points to your jacket. She does it with zero complaints. When he tells her to drop it on the chair, she follows that too. Reluctant expectation. Kind of like you. Maybe that's why he was initially invested in her. 

He only takes the fabric after she's gone. It's soft underneath his fingertips. Nothing designer, but good quality. When you're finally underneath him again, he'll buy you better clothes, all the jackets you want. 

He needs you. He can't wait anymore. 

He needs you, whether you want him or not. 

☾

Satoru wakes up to something crashing. 

It's faint, obviously coming from the bathroom. Not the best way to be woken up. He remembers the first few nights he brought you home. He'd hear you crying in your sleep, choking on tiny sobs. It was the sweetest little thing, like a whimpering puppy. 

These noises are a little more concerning. 

He yawns, sliding out of bed. You didn't bother locking the door. You didn't even close it all the way, either. A sliver of light comes from the crack before he pushes it open. 

"Baby?" He calls. You don't answer. 

You had knocked over a caddy. Toothbrushes, hairclips, soap dispensers, perfume bottles were scattered all over the floor. You're curled up in the corner of the bathroom, huddled right next to the tub. You seem physically okay, no blood, no bruising, but he can't see your face. And you're shivering. 

Satoru's about to call out to you, when he steps on something. He looks down at the tiles. 

A positive pregnancy test. 

"I'm not keeping it." Your voice is hoarse, like you've been crying for hours. "I'm not keeping it." 

"Pretty girl." He coos, trying his best to keep the glee out of his voice and failing. "Let's not worry 'bout that, right now. C'mon, let's get you off the floor." He reaches for your hand. You smack it away. It stung. 

When you look at him, eyes bloodshot and brimming with angry tears, Satoru's heart skips a beat. He feels like he just trapped a wild animal, making it pace in a corner. Any wrong move could result in his hand getting bit off. It's scary. 

He's finally cracked you. 

"Fuck you." Your voice shakes and wobbles, but it's loud and you're clear. "Fuck you. You're a sick, twisted man-child. You ruined everything. You ruined my entire life and—and now you—" 

You're cut off by his giggling. It sounds psychotic even to his ears. He's beyond caring. You flinch when lifts your face up, forcing you to look into his eyes. He's smiling so hard it hurts. 

"Yeah, I did that. I ruined you. I ruined your entire fucking life. For me." He stresses, squeezing your face so hard you try to pull away. "But I had to. You—you wouldn't be here if I didn't." He sighs, pressing your body to his. "I need you."

You're both huddled on the bathroom floor, captive and lover. He's clutching you to his chest, smiling, nestling his face in your hair. You don't say anything for a while. 

"I'm not keeping it." You whisper. "I'm not. I wouldn't stand it if it ended up like you." 

It's spiteful. You're still in that phase where you think your venom can hurt him, as though he'd see your blows as anything but blessings. Satoru thinks to his own childhood. Where he was given everything, lathered in gold and silver. Yet, the house was always cold. But you were always so warm. 

"That won't happen." He tells you. "'cause you're here." 

Your anger has dwindled to smoke. Maybe you've finally realized how crazy he was for you. 

"Please let me go." It's not a beg. It's not even a request. 

"I can't," he honestly says. 

"You won't." You correct him. 

He smiles in your hair. 

"No baby," he says, "I can't." 

If you ran away again, if you escaped his claws, he'd probably die. Drop dead, rot on the floor. He needs you. Even more than he needs food, water, and oxygen. You won't understand that. You've never been in love before. 

You don't fight him. If anything, you sink into his hold. He's there to catch you, heart soaring. You lean into his chest 

"I hate you." You whisper. His heart beats a little faster. It's probably the first time you've ever been so honest with him. 

God, he loves you. 

"I hope our baby has your eyes," he says. 

"I hope our baby looks exactly like you." 

You say nothing, but when he leans down to kiss you, you finally kiss back. You're cracked, and your essence is ready to be molded in his image, just like he's always wanted you to be. 

If Satoru is the Sun, then you must certainly be his universe, the plane in which he rests, because there would be no existence for him if not for you. 

[jjscrybaby]

thinking about “who did this to you?” and frat!boy rafe 🤭 his girl is always at his frat house and one night at a party, he’s looking for her and can’t find her. He eventually finds her crying and maybe with light bruises on her wrists or something? protective frat!rafe 🥰

rafe cameron x fem!reader | hurt & comfort | (creepy guy, wrist grabbing, bruising, protective!rafe, mentions of anxiety, sort of shy!reader,)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The lights were giving you a headache. Topper thought it was funny to repetitively switch the main light on and off, to try and give the room a rave vibe. Most people inside were too fucked up to be annoyed by it, but you weren’t. You’d only had two vodka cranberries, and honestly all you wanted to do was crawl into Rafe’s bed and go to sleep.

During the majority of these parties you’d be glued to your boyfriend’s side, hanging off his arm like a trophy, but tonight was different. You were trying to branch out more, stop being so anxious at these things. Rafe loves a party, and being his girlfriend you should as well. So, for the last hour you’ve been roaming around; making minimal contact with him.

You left the main room with a huff, rubbing your temple as you walked out into the hall. There was no-one in sight, and you let out a sigh of relief that you had a moment alone. You sat down on the floor, leaning your head back against the wall. The door to the bathroom opened and a boy, one you hadn’t seen before, walked out.

“You alright?” He asked, looking down at you in amusement.

“I’m fine, just takin’ a break,” you explained. You didn’t want to speak to him, but it would be rude to send him away; especially with the mission you were on tonight.

“Mind if I join you?” He questioned. You didn’t even get to respond, he was already sitting down next to you. “I’m Parker, by the way.” You introduced yourself, shaking his outstretched hand. “Ah, you’re Cameron’s girl?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, just the mention of him had your mood lifting. Maybe you should just give up with the outgoing thing, maybe you should just go and find—

“You don’t seem like his type.” The statement caught you off guard, all thoughts leaving your head as you looked at him with furrowed brows.

“What does that mean?” You wondered, trying to sound calm.

He let out a hum, as if deep in thought, before shrugging his shoulders and giving you a smirk. “Rafe’s, like, into all this shit, y’know? Parties, drinking, drugs. You’re sat in the hallway alone.”

“Opposites attract,” you shrugged back, picking at the pink nail polish on your nails.

“That is the saying,” he laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “I just think maybe, a pretty girl like you, deserves someone that’s more like her. Someone that would sit with her in the hallway, for example.”

You thought he was degrading you, like the rest of Rafe’s fanboys usually did. But, you realised now that wasn’t the case. He was your fanboy. You let out an awkward chuckle, looking to the door that hadn’t opened since you stepped out. You prayed for someone, anyone, to need the bathroom.

“I’m gonna head back in—” you decided to screw the anxiety, and just do what was necessary.

“Why?” He interrupted. He didn’t sound quite so friendly anymore. “We’re hangin’ out, don’t go in yet.”

“I need to find Rafe.” You tried to stand, but his fingers gripped onto your wrist to stop you. You winced in pain, his hold only tightened. “Get off.”

“No—” your prayers were answered as the door opened, a drunken couple came stumbling through. The sudden interruption had him letting go of you, and you swiftly rushed away.

You ran upstairs, through the corridor of boy’s bedrooms, until you reached Rafe’s. With tears in your eyes, you pushed open the door and laid down in his bed.

It only took ten minutes for the door to open again, you flinched; thinking that maybe Parker had followed you up here, but you let out a shaky sigh of relief at the sight of Rafe.

“Hey, baby. There you are, been lookin’ all over— are you crying?” He interrupted himself, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No,” you blatantly lied through your tears, voice coming out muffled.

He wrapped his arms around you, wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Hey, what happened? It get a bit overwhelmin’? You could have told me, you know I’d much rather sit up here with you.”

“Not exactly…” you reached up to move your hair from your eye-line, you realised your mistake the moment that gentle look in his eyes dropped.

“What is that?” He grabbed your arm, not harshly but forcefully. Your wrist had turned a bright red colour, bruises would be forming soon enough.

“Nothing!” You squeaked out, trying to pull your arm away from him.

“Don’t bullshit me. That wasn’t there earlier. What happened?” He demanded to know. You knew he was serious, the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice.

You gave in, tears rolling down your cheeks as you explained to him what happened with the boy. He stroked over your wrist, a moment of silent going over the two of you before he leant forward and kissed your temple.

“Get changed, put on a movie. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” He murmured softly.

“Where’re you going?” You asked nervously, you were pretty sure you already knew the answer.

“To sort out that fuckin’ kid. No one puts their hands on you, get it?” He stated, pecking your lips before getting off the bed.

You didn’t argue, there was no point. Rafe was too in love with you, if someone hurt you he’d do just about anything to get payback.

[wo1fst4r]

The Gryffindor common room was alive with chaos as Sirius, Remus, and Peter huddled on the couch, theorizing about Regulus’ sneaky link. Sirius couldn’t sit still, Peter was suspiciously invested, and Remus already looked like he regretted being part of the conversation.

“So,” Remus began, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we know Regulus has been sneaking out more than usual, and he’s definitely seeing someone.”

“And I know it’s a Gryffindor,” Peter chimed in. “I saw him leaving the common room last week, looking all smug and suspicious.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, flopping onto the armrest. “Disgusting. My brother, with a Gryffindor? It’s betrayal!”

“You’re a Gryffindor,” Remus pointed out.

“Exactly! Betrayal!”

Then Peter, who had been doing Peter things (digging through the couch for no reason), pulled out a clue. “Wait, what’s this?” He held up a bright red jumper, his eyes widening.

“Is that… Regulus’ sneaky link’s jumper?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

“It has to be!” Peter gasped. “I saw him wearing it the other day!”

Sirius snatched it out of Peter’s hands, inspecting it closely. “Hang on… this looks familiar.”

Remus groaned. “Don’t—”

“THIS IS MY JUMPER!” Sirius declared proudly.

“Sirius, it’s not yours.” Peter said flatly.

“It could be.” Sirius argued. “Maybe I left it in the house, and Regulus gave it to his gross Gryffindor fling as a trophy. Ugh.”

Remus didn’t even bother responding.

Moments later, the portrait hole swung open and James strolled in, hair windswept. He froze when he saw the jumper.

“Oh, thank Merlin!” James exclaimed, snatching it from Sirius’ hands. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere!”

Silence.

Sirius, Peter, and Remus all stared, realization dawning in unison.

Sirius shot to his feet, pointing accusingly. “IT’S YOU. YOU’RE THE SNEAKY LINK!”

James blinked, confused. “What are you—”

“Regulus is hooking up with you?” Peter blurted out.

“Wait, REGULUS?!” James spluttered, the jumper still in his hands. His face slowly drained of color. “Oh… shit.”

*Sirius collapsed into hysterics*

James, telling Regulus later that night:

James scribbled a note in his messy handwriting and passed it to Regulus discreetly: “So… your brother knows. This is awkward.”

Regulus, reading it, completely unfazed: “And?”

James, pacing back and forth, chewing on his quill: “AND??? SIRIUS SCREAMED FOR TEN MINUTES.”

Regulus, casually flipping through a book: “Sounds like a you problem.”

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Winning chance

Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this one-shot of Lando winning Oscar's sister's heart. I'm thinking of doing 'Spooky Fridays' with Halloween-themed stories. What do you think?

Being Oscar Piastri’s sister meant that the paddock was as familiar to her as any childhood playground. She knew the rush of the garages, the hum of engines, the banter between engineers and drivers. It was her world, her brother’s world. But ever since Lando Norris had decided to make it his mission to occupy her life, it felt like the balance she once had was thrown out of place.

“Come on, just admit it, you had fun,” Lando grinned, standing a little too close as they walked through the McLaren motorhome.

“I didn’t,” she replied curtly, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice. He had a way of always being underfoot, in the most chaotic, annoying way possible. And despite that, he somehow managed to make her heart skip every time he smiled like that. But she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“You didn’t enjoy karting with me? Not even a little?” He tilted his head, hair tousled from the helmet he’d barely bothered to fix.

“You nearly crashed into me,” she shot back.

“I didn’t. Nearly.” He winked.

It took everything in her not to roll her eyes. There it was—the charm, the endless optimism, the recklessness. Lando Norris in all his glory. And that was precisely why she couldn’t allow herself to fall for him. He was unpredictable, wild, and seemed to thrive on making her life harder. Yet every time he was near, something inside her stirred. She hated it.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, crossing her arms as they stopped near her brother’s garage. Oscar was deep in discussion with his engineer, blissfully unaware of the back-and-forth happening just a few feet away.

Lando’s grin only grew wider, and he stepped closer, his voice lowering. “And yet you keep hanging around me.”

“I’m here because of Oscar,” she corrected quickly, but even she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Lando had this magnetic pull, one she desperately wanted to ignore, but it was becoming impossible.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he teased, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary. “But one day, you’re going to realize something. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her stomach flipped, and she hated how easily he got to her. With a frustrated huff, she turned on her heel and started to walk away. But she could feel him watching her, and worse, she knew he was right.

The paddock was buzzing with excitement after Lando’s victory. The orange sea of McLaren fans chanted his name, and the energy was infectious. As the celebrations raged on, she stood on the sidelines, watching Lando revel in the moment. His smile was broad, his face flushed with adrenaline, and his trophy gleamed under the lights.

He spotted her through the crowd and made his way over, still grinning like a man who had just conquered the world. “You see that?” he said, voice brimming with pride. “Winner, right here.”

She crossed her arms, smirking. “It was hard to miss. You’ve been shouting about it for the past ten minutes.”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, still beaming. “Well, I think I deserve a little prize for my hard work.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You already have a trophy in your hands, Lando.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Yeah, but I like the prize standing right in front of me a whole lot more.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she quickly recovered, rolling her eyes to cover up how his words made her heart race. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, stepping even closer, his eyes locked on hers. “You keep coming back, don’t you?”

She wanted to push him away, to brush off his words like she always did. But today, there was something in his gaze—something real, beneath the usual playful flirting. She felt her defenses start to crack.

“Go celebrate your win,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve earned it.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then smiled, softer this time. “Maybe I will. But remember, I’m not giving up that easily.”

It had been weeks since Lando’s win, and somehow, he hadn’t let up. Every chance he got, he would drop some flirty remark or throw her that smile, the one that made it increasingly difficult for her to ignore how she felt.

And finally, after much internal debate, she caved.

They were back in the paddock, the race weekend in full swing, but this time, Lando was unusually quiet around her. No teasing, no playful banter. It unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

Just before the qualifying session, she found him leaning against the McLaren motorhome, his usual grin absent, replaced by something more serious.

“You’ve been quiet today,” she commented, walking up to him. “That’s not like you.”

Lando glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I figured you needed a break from my ‘chaos,’ as you like to call it.”

She laughed softly, though something inside her twisted. The teasing, the flirtations—she had missed it, more than she should have. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop pretending she didn’t feel anything.

“Lando,” she started, nerves creeping into her voice, “about that prize you mentioned…”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What about it?”

“I was thinking,” she continued, trying to sound nonchalant, “maybe I could finally give you a shot. Just one. Don’t make me regret it.”

Lando’s face lit up in a way she hadn’t seen before. It was pure, unfiltered excitement, like he had just won another race. “Wait, are you saying—”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” she interrupted, fighting a smile.

“So…a date?” he confirmed, stepping forward, eyes locked on hers.

She nodded, feeling her heart race at the idea. “One date.”

“You won’t regret it,” he promised, his grin returning full force. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Just don’t be late,” she added, trying to keep her composure.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, winking. And for the first time, she felt the excitement she had been pushing down for so long finally surface. Maybe this chaos was exactly what she needed.

[roosterforme]

need to see how it plays out when darlin’ takes jake home to meet her parents ++ bonus points when she’s home for a high school reunion too

Check here and here for Jake meeting her parents.

The idea of them attending each other's high school reunion is so funny to me. Let's take a look at both of them!

Jake could hear the words "trophy wife" and "sugar daddy" being thrown around at his twentieth high school class reunion. He knew his former classmates were talking about him, and he was trying so hard not to laugh. He married you because he loved you, but that concept seemed foreign to everyone is his small hometown.

"I got you a beer," you said, kissing his cheek when you returned from the bar. "All they have is beer and white wine. In a box. That says white wine on the side of it."

You didn't seem to notice the way everyone was looking at you in your frilly little dress with your diamond rings on your finger. You looked beautiful and also a lot younger than most of the crowd.

"That sounds about right," he murmured. "Feel like getting out of here soon? We can go back to my parents' house."

"We've only been here for forty-five minutes! We didn't even eat dinner yet." But after a few sips of your white wine, three more people asked you how old you were. And then someone said you reminded them of their daughter. "Okay, yes. I'm ready to leave now, Jake."

----------------------

"Was he one of our teachers?"

You overheard a group of women you graduated high school with ten years ago talking about someone at your class reunion while you made your way toward the restrooms.

"I don't think so. I don't remember him. He's so hot, I would have remembered him. I wonder what he would do if I walked over and grabbed his aviators from his shirt and put them on."

You stumbled. The women were talking about your husband. You turned and looked at Jake where he stood with one hand in his pocket, sipping a drink with his sunglasses hanging from his shirt like the picture of cool confidence. He really was hot.

The bathroom could wait. You looped back around, tucked your hand in his other pants pocket and kissed him. He was sweet, never holding anything back, always affectionate for you.

"I thought you told me to stay here and behave for five minutes while you used the restroom," he murmured against your lips. "You were gone for ten seconds."

"I just wanted another kiss from my hot teacher."

"Excuse me?" he asked, looking around with shifty eyes. "We are not having one of our lessons here. You can wait until we get home."

You kissed him one more time and laughed as you headed back across the room.

[ktsumu]

A CHILDHOOD BEDROOM tw: allusions to divorce/his family dynamic, holiday comfort for the soul

Ushijima’s bedroom is nothing like the one you share. 

His walls are bare, save for a few frames with pictures that are older than the two of you. There’s a bulletin above his desk that’s naked down to the cork, a few tacks littering it at random.

He has his dresser, a small mirror on the wall hanging above it. The room is nearly devoid of colour aside from beige and navy, but the Christmas lights from the house across the street give it some red and green. Not much, but it’s good enough.

You walk along the perimeter of the room, the floors cold, hands tracing over his desk and chair. He watches you from the doorway, the door closing softly behind him as he does. You hear the same floor creak beneath his feet as he crosses to his bed, the frame sighing under his weight.

A print-out picture of him and a redhead (Satori, he’s mentioned) standing side-by-side in school uniforms is framed on said desk, thumbs up on all four of their combined hands. A team in maroon stands tall beside it, and he’s dead center. A three-person family — father, mother, boy — takes up the space beside that, the frame much more sophisticated than the others. He looks about ten.

The clock on his wall tells the time wrong; it hasn’t been reset since he graduated and moved out at eighteen. It looks like it’s a few hours behind, but it’s really telling you time six years back. 

“Your walls are so bare,” you comment, turning back to look at him where he’s sat. He offers an almost unnoticeable, lopsided smile. “Where are all the medals, huh? I’ve heard big things about Ushiwaka the Great, you know.”

You’re joking, but he answers, “In my drawer.”

(You check; it’s full of them.)

Ushijima watches you hold them, looking at all of the engravings before setting them back, the years stretching further back the deeper that you dig. It’s like your chest is swelling with pride over things he won before you knew him. 

“What is it?” he asks, eyes following you as you cross over to his bed, sitting down to face him. His brows furrow, leaning his back against the headboard that looks so comically small; then his lips tug up at the sight of gold around your neck. His teenage pride rests on your chest.

There is something so invasive about a childhood bedroom, about wearing what once was his entire life as he looks at it — a whole life you didn’t have the chance to watch lays itself out in front of you. This childhood doesn’t exist anymore (maybe it never really did) and yet you see it around you all the same. 

(It is invasive, but it is full of love. An empty room that feels so full.)

“Why doesn’t your mother display your medals in the house?” you ask, tilting your head. “Hell, my mom would’ve lined mine up in the window. And your desk is like a trophy factory.”

 “It’s not practical, I suppose.”

“So they just sit in here?”

Ushijima looks at you like he’s in thought. 

He shrugs. “Mostly,” he says, “my father has a few in California. My player portrait is on his office wall. My mother shows her affection in her own way.”

“Can we take some back home?”

“Why? They’re old.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll display them around the room for a bit, swap ‘em out when you rack some up this season.”

Ushijima just chuckles shortly, shaking his head as he moves down the bed, laying down flat. His feet hang off the end a bit, and the pillows are the same as they always were. “If you wish. You know I never stop you from anything.”

You hum. “God, does it echo in here?”

“Sometimes. It never used to.”

“When did it start?”

He knows when. “I’m not sure.”

You know, too. “That’s okay. Our room at home doesn’t echo, at least.”

“No, you won’t let it.”

“Never.”

Ushijima reaches out a hand, his left, and he twirls the medal you picked in his hand. You wear it still, and it looks like it gleams. His eyes flicker up to yours. 

“I love you,” you tell him. “You and your empty room.”

He sighs a laugh, one you taught him how to make, and he pulls you into his chest by the ribbon around your neck. He breathes, your head rises and falls with his chest, and the room comes alive; breathing with its maker, welcoming him home the best it can. You certainly help.

Ushijima looks at his bedroom walls, his broken clock; the house is not resetting, his parents’ old bed will always be half full and half made, but he thinks this is enough — coming back with you was enough. Now, when he leaves, he will remember a warm bed and leave to sleep in a warmer one. 

“Love?”

“Mm?”

“When we find a home we like enough to live in,” When. Not if, when. “I’d like to paint the walls with you.”

“Ooh, what colour?”

“Not white — or beige.”

You grin, angling your head up to see him. Ushijima is looking up at his clock, six years behind like he just got home from training camp, his boxes packed for the city.

(He meets you two years later.)

“Pick a swatch, baby. Just no neons.”

“Oh. I was thinking of a traffic cone orange.”

“Ha-ha.”

[brewed-pangolin]

Drunk Text

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI: Sexual themes.

Synopsis: You send Johnny a drunk text. It ends with a cop at your front door. (I'm teasing you all before the smut hits the literal fan). Unedited because I'm having way too much fun.

"You up?"

You press 'send'. Thumbs leisurely fumbling over the screen as your vision blurs and mind spins in a concoction of intoxicants.

You were sluggishly writing another message when he responds.

"Aye.

"Where are you?"

You question his inquiry for a moment. Eyes glazed and glancing up at the time on the screen.

2:36am.

Dammit.

"O'Reilly's."

He doesn't respond right away. But you can hear his deep brogue in your mind. Most definitely a stunned yet slightly intrigued 'Steamin' Jesus' escaping his lips.

"Need a ride?"

He's such a gentleman. Always has been. Yet with the sweet ethanol coursing through your veins and clouding your judgement, you couldn't help but give into your fiery and animalistic needs.

"You gonna be my saddle?

Again. No response.

After a few drowned out and muffled moments, his caller ID image popped up on the screen. Your lips curled into a devilish smile, swiping without hesitation to answer the call.

"Hi, Johnny.." You answer. Words slightly slurred. Languidly meandering together and your voice husky with an aire of whiskey fueled confidence.

"Yer a dirty little minx, y'know that?"

"What? You offered me a ride."

"Aye. I did."

There was a slight pause in your thoughts. Overtaken by the cacophony of sounds around you as your mind spiraled into a realm of provocative images.

"Well? Can I get a ride?"

He responded immediately with a rumbling growl. Even with the music blaring and sea of voices behind you, your ears easily picked up the subtle arousal bubbling within his throaty timbre.

"Be there in ten minutes."

You chase your victory with another shot. Hanging up with a triumphant slam of the glass on the bar as you close out your tab and walk out to wait for your drunken trophy at the front of the bar.

Two hours later, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment. Repeatedly apologizing to the officer in the hall and reassuring him there was most certainly not an altercation going on.

"I am so sorry, officer. Believe me, there's nothing going on."

You wrap the knitted blanket tightly around your chest and underneath your arms. Shielding your apparent nudity while the officer looks at you with a slightly gregarious grin.

"Just keep it down, ma'am."

"Yes, sir."

You both turn and part ways. He disappearing down the hall as you close the door and immediately march back into your bedroom.

And you can't help the sly grin curling into your lips as your eyes take in his overly confident expression. His hands resting behind his head, his muscular torso expanding as he takes in the sight of you.

"Oh, you're gonna pay for that, Johnny." You tease. The blanket around you effortlessly falling to the floor as your eyes lock into his dark and hungry gaze.

"Mmm. I'm countin' on it, bonnie."

If there was one thing that rang true that night, it was that your neighbors wouldn't get a moments rest. Because you were too busy riding a Scotsman like a whiskey possessed cowgirl.

The rodeo had definitely come into town.

(Omg, this last line is so stupid. But I had to.)

Part 2?

Drabbles Masterlist

@deadbranch @d3athtr4psworld @punishmepunisher @sofasoap @jynxmirage @homicidal-slvt @obligatoryghoststare @glitterypirateduck @kkaaaagt @mykneeshurt @shotmrmiller @astraluminaaa @macravishedbymactavish @haurasha

[bitchfitch]

After years and years of having a schedule that was more a halfhearted shrug than a neat itinerary, there was a certain peace to finally having a dinner time routine.

Rice in the cooker, wild game cuts in the oven with whatever vegetables hadn't gone off since his last trip into town. The timer set for ten minutes longer than the meal ever actually needed. His stomach couldn't handle meat still pink with a memory of life anymore.

While it cooked he'd place a tarp before the back door. The blue plastic wrinkled along the lines by which he always found it folded.

Then he'd step out into the cool evening to where his freshest trophy would be hanging just beyond the edge of the creaky porch. It a was a deer today, it's back hooves tied to the rafter so it's blood could drain from the dainty gash across it's throat. This wasn't a necessity, it just lessened the mess he would eventually have to deal with.

He untied it, and carried it to rest it in the center of the tarp before pulling the corners up to encase it in crinkly darkness. The bright green climbing rope being used to bind the package closed while he made a note to himself to dig out the hank of rope again so he could cut a new, less gnawed on, piece for tomorrow's meal time.

He could hear the thing coming up the staircase from the basement. Stairs were difficult for it, always had to crawl up them on its hands and knees. Stopping every few steps to gather itself against vertigo.

"What's cooking?" it called in a chipper voice, its bruise darkened fingers scrabling at the lower edge of the door. Its cracked nails adding to the deep gouges in the old wood. "What's cooking?" it repeated like a scratched record. Its clawing growing more frenzied as it got more and more excited at the prospect of meal time.

"Deer." he responded, dragging the bundle to the locked door.

"Einer!" it said, its voice being stolen from a long gone day at the lake, "Home," it whined with defeat borrowed from a day it never saw, then a garbled growl as it's limited repertoire of echos ran up against a concept it didn't have the words to express.

"You know that's not how it works," Einer sighs with some glimmer of fondness. "Who am I?"

"Einer!" a perfect echo of what it had said before.

"Where are we?"

"Home."

"Who are you?"

The growl came on its cue, exactly as it had every miserable day since Einer managed to trap it and establish this little test of whether or not it might be able to be reasoned with today.

"Good, good. To your spot please."

It scrambled back down the stairs, heavy thunks sounding as its excited crawling turned into more of a controlled series of falls.

Then a loud metallic racket bounded forth from the vent slats in the floor as it slapped at the ancient pipe that connected the furnace to the rest of the cabin's mostly defunct air ducts. Their way of signaling when it was well and clear away from the stairs where it might damn them both by attacking its caretaker.

He undid the bolts on the door quickly yanking it open before kicking the plastic wrapped deer down the stairs and slamming the door shut again. The unspoken race between them commencing as he rushed to get the bolts and locks latched once more before it could get up the stairs in an opportunity fueled bout of blood frenzy.

Einer won today. He's won every day so far.

Its fingers appear under the edge of the door again, its breath ragged and sounding wet with too much spit as it uselessly dug into the steel toe of his boot.

"You know where your dinner is," he took a step and waited to see if he'd be granted one moment of clarity as it came down from it's frenzy.

It churred, a soft animal sound he didn't think something so human looking should be able to make. Its fingers stilled, then disappeared back into the darkness beyond the door before returning. Its hand palm side up this time.

He was quick to crouch, carefully curling his fingers against it's. Its skin porcelain, smooth and cold against the callouses he had earned in his time caring for it.

"Einer," it said, this echo being taken from a gentle memory of two lovers in their wedding bed, before its touch disappeared and it began its clumzy trek back down the stairs.

He always stayed knelt there a little too long, wondering if it knew he lingered there. If it cared. Before standing and checking to see if his meal was over done to his liking.

[fourmula1]

winter warmers day 31: NYE countdown

max/daniel. 974 words.

-

Ten:

It’s been a long year. A rough year. There’s been more lows this year than any before and Daniel has spent the last few months trying to figure out how to process the emotions and feelings. The regret, the woe, the sadness of losing something he loves so dearly, and it not even being his fault. He was so close to having it all – the perfect end to his career, one more season back in the Red Bull and then he’d bow out gracefully. And it was yanked out from under him with no warning. It hurt.

Nine:

But it hasn’t been all bad. He’s had a few months, also, to do the things he loves outside of racing. Riding dirt bikes in the California hills. Hanging out with Josh in New York. Spending time in Australia that he hasn’t had the ability to do for over a decade. Connecting with old friends, spending so much time with his niece and nephew, strengthening family ties. He’s developed new concepts for his brand, met Scotty’s little baby, watched a best friend get married. These are all the things life is really about, and Daniel’s glad to have done it all.

Eight:

He's grateful for his family’s unconditional love and the pride his parents have always had in him, no matter what. On the top step of the podium, or being fired mid season, has never mattered to them, and Daniel is grateful for their support. Grateful to be reminded that none of it really matters, in the grand scheme of life. No one will care about how many trophies, or fastest laps, or pole positions he’s got. They’ll remember his smile, and the way he treats people, and how he loves his people. That’s what matters.

Seven:

But that little niggling feeling in his brain won’t stop getting to him. What’s next? Who is Daniel without a race seat? Without that passion and energy for achieving the best he can with the car he’s got? Racing has been his life for nearly 30 years at this point and imagining a life away from it is hard. These few months off haven’t been that unfamiliar – he’d spent the same time away from the sport during winter breaks. The next few months are what’s going to really challenge him, when he isn’t going back to the factory or the sim or Monaco.

Six:

There’s no reason to stay in this absurdly expensive country when he’s not racing, not needing to be in the mix. Packing up his apartment and saying goodbye to this life is hurting him in ways he didn’t imagine it would. Australia has always been home, and the call of Perth in his heart has been a constant longing for over a decade. But Monaco is a piece of his heart too. Leaving the home he’s loved for the last few years. Leaving the sunshine and the harbour and Jimmy’z and his apartment. And Max.

Five:

Max. Leaving Max. Leaving the ease of going upstairs to Max’s apartment and bothering him to come on a run with Daniel. Leaving the countless evenings of take-out and Max’s video games while Daniel scrolled on his phone, content to be in each other’s company. He’ll miss Max entering his apartment unannounced because he’s known the keycode for years at this point. He’ll miss Max dragging Daniel to play padel because he’s got – another – new racket to try. He’s going to miss the ease and comfort of sprawling out on opposite ends of his sofa and listening to Max talk and talk and talk about the races until Daniel starts to doze off, and Max lets himself out, and Daniel realizes he doesn’t want him to go.

Four:

Daniel never wants Max to go, on those easy warm nights. He never wants Max to go when they leave the padel court and part ways in the elevator of their building. He never wants Max to go when he leaves the Red Bull hospitality to go to his own race briefings. He never wants Max to go when it’s just for a moment to check in on the cats before he returns to Daniel’s apartment to hang out for the evening. He never wants Max to go.

Three:

Daniel looks up looks across the room for Max. It’s New Year’s Eve and the party is in full force and Daniel’s spent the last few moments thinking about regrets and hurt and sadness. And suddenly he’s thinking of the future and happiness and what he wants and it hits him all at once that it’s Max. It’s Max, and Max’s laughter and smile and stubbornness and quirks and all of Max. And he’s nowhere to be found as Daniel scans the room.

Two:

He finds Max in his sim room. Where everyone knows well enough not to go. But Daniel knew he’d be in here; quiet, alone, taking a moment to himself to recharge and grab another Red Bull from his mini fridge. He looks up when Daniel opens the door, his smile bright when he realizes who it is. His beautiful, happy, squinty eyes as his whole face scrunches with delight at seeing Daniel.

“It’s you!” Max grins as Daniel closes the door behind him. This is it.

One:

Daniel crosses the room in five steps, hand coming up to curl at Max’s jaw and pull him into a kiss as the party crowd on the other side of the door cheers for the stroke of midnight. It’s a new year. A new chance. A new life. A new love.

“It’s you,” Daniel says as he pulls back, Max staring back at him wide eyed and surprised and flushed; cheeks dusted pretty-pink.

Max leans in to kiss him again, and Daniel knows everything is going to be okay.

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR ONE

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni, excessive use of pet names (to annoy reader), excessive use of fuck (again, to annoy reader)

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

→ wc: 3.1k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

1:00 ─ㅇ───────────────── 24:00

HOUR ONE - 4:00 PM

You had a lot of regrets. You were a college student – it was hardwired in your psyche to make an endless stream of stupid decisions you would come to rue. 

There was that time you signed up for an 8 AM math class during your freshman year. There was the time your boss walked in on you spitefully gossiping specifically about him and his lack of leadership skills (you had been fired the next week, no surprise). There was that time Steve Harrington convinced you to get matching tattoos with him while drunk last summer, and now you had to explain to each new person you met why you had a ghost giving a thumbs down with a speech bubble stating ‘BOO’ on your ankle. 

You had made plenty of dumb mistakes, enough to last you a lifetime. 

But this? This had to take the trophy home for your worst impulsive decision yet. 

“I’m not going in there,” you huff, crossing your arms as you lean miserably against the wall across from the open door of apartment 2C. An apartment you’d avoided ardently over the last year. To the point of even braving severe FOMO after turning down hanging out with your friends, solely because they’d be hanging out here. 

“C’mon,” Steve stands in the threshold, waiting impatiently for your tantrum to end. You had to hand it to him – he had a way of being beautifully tolerant of your misbehavior over the years. All your sour moods, all your childish antics, all your moody mornings. Steve was there for them all the last three years, “Five hundred dollars, remember? You just have to survive a day, and then you’ll be rich.” 

There it was – the only thing that could possibly motivate you to make such a catastrophic agreement with alcohol and drugs out of the equation. Money. 

It had taken nearly an hour for everyone to agree on the terms the night before when the bet was first born, but in the end, it seemed fair enough to all involved parties. The wager was five hundred dollars for you and five hundred dollars for Eddie if you two managed, partially funded by your friends pooling their money and partially funded by the Harrington Inheritance. The two of you would set base in Eddie’s apartment, considering you were living in the dorms, and you were instructed to send hourly proof to the group chat. A group chat, that ironically, Eddie was not a part of.

You’re not sure why. You never cared to ask. 

Regardless, five hundred dollars was a lot of money to a broke college student. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d managed to keep more than one hundred dollars in your account for more than a few hours. It was the kind of money that could pay for a few months’ worth of groceries, that would give you the freedom to properly go out rather than settle for another night in with movies your friend group had already seen ten times over. The kind of money you would probably flounder with once it was in your hand. 

“And if I don’t survive?” you sigh dramatically, leaning further into the wall, your bag you’d packed for your time growing heavier in your grasp, “What if, he, like, murders me, Steve?”

“He’s not going to murder you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“If he was going to, he already would have.” 

“I’ve never been around him long enough to give him a chance! What if that’s the only reason he agreed? What if this was his plan all along? He gets me alone for twenty four hours, I mysteriously disappear, and next thing you know, they find my body in the local canal-” 

“While I’m flattered you think so highly of me that I would be capable of planning something so extensively,” the devil himself appears behind Steve’s shoulder, looking to be just as irritated as you, “Harrington’s right. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.” 

“Right. Cause that’s reassuring,” you snap in Eddie’s direction. 

Steve takes a deep breath, no doubt mentally preparing himself for whatever bickering is about to ensue as he sidesteps so he’s not stuck in the middle of your line of fire. 

“Listen, are we doing this or not? Because if not, I’ve got shit to do,” Eddie glowers at you, tapping his foot impatiently. 

You hate him. You really, really hate him. In the most earnest sense of the word. He was impossible, he was cocky, he was obnoxious. And it never helped that he hated you just as much, always adding fuel to the fire. From the moment the two of you had met, it was instant friction. You said go, he said stop. You wanted pizza, he wanted Chinese. Every time a small, mundane decision had to be made as a group, he’d be sure to announce his opinion, always the opposite of yours. 

You’re convinced he solely exists to be the bane of your existence. It’s probably the best part of his day. 

“Five hundred dollars,” you mutter under your breath, finally lifting your bag and leaving your spot against the wall. It was now or never. If you didn’t get this over with now, you’d walk away and be army-crawling financially through life again. You needed the five hundred dollars more than you care to admit. 

It had to be worth it. It had to be. 

The moment you enter the apartment, you’re hit with the scent of him. Something musky, something of subtle spice. It’s all tobacco and pot, cheap cologne and boy. It’s easily overwhelming, and you almost turn around to make a cheap shot at Eddie regarding it before Steve shuts the front door and engages him into conversation. 

Maybe you’d get used to it within the first few hours. 

The rest of the apartment is decorated exactly how you’d expect from Eddie. There’s a certain messy quality to it all without being dirty. The couch looks worn, probably having not been brand new to begin with when Eddie found or bought it. There’s a coffee table covered in random papers, joined by two empty beer bottles and a couple of random dice. He has a TV, albeit small, and the entertainment center that it stands upon is littered by various nerdy collector’s items. 

“Welcome to my palace,” he calls out from behind you, no longer distracted by Steve, “Sorry if it’s not up to your standards.” 

“It’s fine,” you gruffly reply, turning back around to look at him, “Where, uh, can I put my things?” 

The wicked grin that slowly spreads over his face can only spell out bad news, “Wherever. You’ll be sleeping on the couch.” 

“Dude,” Steve sighs. 

“What? It’s a one bedroom apartment, and I’m not giving her my bed,” Eddie explains as he brushes past the two of you and heads for his kitchen. 

If it were anyone else, you’d insist that it’s fine. Practicality tells you that he shouldn’t have to give up his bed. It’s his apartment, his room, his bed – in short, his rules. But it’s Eddie, so the fact that he’s made this decision without you only stokes the burning coals of disdain. Plus, the couch looked like the farthest thing from comfortable. 

“Whatever,” you scoff. You weren’t going to let him know he was already creeping beneath your skin. You were playing the long game here; you were going to start off civil, keep track of just how many offenses he committed against you, and then strike back. “It’s just one night. I’ll live.” 

“Unless I murder you!” his voice calls out to you and Steve from the kitchen. 

“Unless he murders me,” you agree with a scowl. 

Steve puts a caring hand on your shoulder, forcing a frown that’s completely insincere before he says, “What do you want on your gravestone? Also, what’s your preference for flowers at your funeral?” He breaks into laughter as you smack him roughly on his shoulder, “Sorry! Sorry, geez. Just want to have all my ducks in the row. I’ll be sure to ask him the same thing.”

Part of you is absolutely convinced this can only end in bloodshed. You can’t recall a single time you and Eddie have lasted more than ten minutes in a room together without escalating into a full blown screaming match. There was even a time you’d thrown a glass at him at one of Steve’s parties, narrowly missing his head as he’d ducked and let the glass shatter against the wall of the shared apartment with Robin.  You’d felt awful remorse towards Steve in the end. As for Eddie? You’d only wished your aim had been better. 

Steve disappears into the kitchen and you’re left alone once more, wandering as you inspect some of the collectibles more closely by the TV. Most items were from the Lord of the Rings franchise, a few Star Wars items, and an abundance of D&D figurines. All things that you went through phases of piqued interest for, but nothing terribly exciting. They had been just that – phases. Apparently, when it came to Eddie, such things didn’t exist. The apartment really just looked as if someone had taken a teenage boy’s room, and let it explode over more extensive square footage. As if he entered the typical phases for boys his age in high school, and never grew up.

Just as you reach out to grab one of the D&D figurines, a three-headed dragon, Eddie enters the living room with Steve at his side.

“Hey! Don’t fucking touch that!” Eddie shouts, making you jump back, finger no longer hovering over his glorified action figure. 

“Jesus Christ!” you shout back just as loudly, glaring up at him, “Ever heard of an inside voice?” 

He completely ignores the comment as his nostrils flare and he stands between you and the entertainment center, “We need to set some ground rules. Rule one, do not touch my shit, especially this stuff. They’re collectibles, fucking rare and crazy expensive. Keep your hands to yourself, princess.” 

The nickname is a match, striking against the roughness of your hatred, ready to burst into the flames of one of the classic screaming matches between the two of you. Steve can see it clear as day.

He clears his throat immediately, “Alright, alright. Calm down, children,” you open your mouth to argue against that nickname, but he doesn't leave pause for you to interject, “I’m leaving now. I know we joked about you two killing each other but…. Just, please don’t? It’s not worth it. Think of the money.” 

Eddie’s jaw clenches, his eyes unmoving from you as you muster up just as hateful of a glare. 

“Hey! Are you two listening to me?” he claps his hands, and the staring contest ends as you both reluctantly offer him your attention, “I’m serious. Who knows? Maybe you two can come out of this friends.”

Friends. The mere idea makes you cackle cruelly, Eddie balking immediately. 

“As if,” you sneer as Eddie spits, “Over my dead body.” 

Steve simply shrugs, “You say that now. We’ll see what changes over the next twenty four hours.” 

Nothing, you want to say. Nothing is going to change over the next twenty four hours, except I’ll be five hundred dollars richer. 

You join Eddie in walking Steve back to the door, even though you technically don’t have to because, technically, it’s not your apartment. But it’s still the polite thing to do, and Steve is still your friend, so you do. 

Eddie opens the door, and you stand a few steps away from them, shifting back and forth on your feet awkwardly. Steve pauses to check the watch on his wrist before turning and facing the two of you a final time.

“Alright, so, it’s currently four-fifteen. That means you-” he pauses and points directly to you, “-need to send proof of you both being alive, well, and still together at five-fifteen. You guys can leave the apartment, but you have to go with each other, and you can’t ditch each other wherever you might end up going. Capiche?” 

“Capiche,” you answer in monotone, Eddie not saying a word. 

“Good. Oh, by the way,” Steve already has one foot out the door, and you know it’s deliberate. Whatever he’s about to say, you’re not going to be happy about, “Expect randomized calls from all of us throughout it all. Including through the night. Cool? Cool! See you guys tomorrow, and keep your phones charged!” 

Both you and Eddie are already attempting to argue, immediately upset by this detail that was kept from both of you, but Steve is already jogging down the hallway, away from the chaotic outburst. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says in annoyance, his face twisted terribly, “I didn’t agree to be babysat during this. I just want my fucking money.” 

Even though you were also seething at the additional rule, you opt instead to make a comment to get under Eddie’s skin rather than complain in agreement. “I think you forgot an F-bomb somewhere in there.” 

“Oh?” he turns to you, letting the door slam shut as he swings his arm, “My fucking bad. I fucking guess I should fucking watch my fucking language, yeah? Fucking oops.” 

“Has anyone told you you’re fucking annoying?” you ask in contempt. 

“Yeah. You.” 

He stalks away from his entry way at that, clearly pleased at getting the last word in this argument. And it nearly kills you, because you have no choice but to follow him back into his living room.

It’s going to be a long twenty four hours. 

He’s clearly heading towards the couch to sit down, and you can’t fathom staying in close proximity for another moment, so you begin to veer towards the kitchen. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks suddenly once your back is turned to him. 

“The kitchen?” you glance over your shoulder, lifting an eyebrow, “Or is that not allowed?” 

“Why are you going to the kitchen?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Because it’s my fucking apartment.” 

Right. He has a point. You won’t tell him that, but he has a point. 

He’s rerouted himself from the couch towards the hallway you’re about to enter, towering over you as his lips settle into a predictable frown. 

“Can you go more than ten seconds without dropping an F-bomb? Seriously,” you question, crossing your arms, “I just want water or something. Is that a crime?” 

“To answer your first question,” he shifts around your body in the tight space, his hand brushing your hip. Both of you jump back at the contact as if even touching each other burns, “No. I fucking can’t. Not when I know it bothers you so much, sweetheart,” he’s once again using a nickname he knows will irritate you on purpose as he walks into what you assume the kitchen is. And once again, you’re following behind him like a lost puppy, having to swallow your pride like a jagged pill, “Secondly, one of my rules is to not touch my shit, so… Yeah. It is a crime by the law of the land.” 

“Law of the land?” you snort, rolling your eyes, “My God. What are you going to do? Call the police? ‘Hello, yes, 911? I’d like to report a crime. A girl I voluntarily let into my home got herself a glass of water.’” 

You choose to purposefully pitch your voice higher rather than lower as you clearly mock him. It gets the reaction you were seeking out - his entire body stiffens as he stops in front of a cabinet. 

“Congratulations,” he says slowly, turning at an agonizing pace to face you, “It’s a new record. It’s been less than five minutes alone, and you’ve already gotten on my fucking nerves.”

“Good,” is all you can reply. 

He huffs in response before he goes back to whatever he was doing before, opening the cabinet to expose a small assortment of glasses and mugs alike. None of them match – all of them were clearly either bought at different times, or gifts, in the mugs case. They’re the type you might find at Spencer’s, all pop culture references or character faces. He grabs one of the smaller, plain clear cups, turning around to hand it to you. 

Before your hand can wrap around it, he yanks it back momentarily, “Now, if you decide to throw this cup at my head like a raging bitch, it’s plastic. Minimal damage. Keep that in mind, yeah?” 

Once he’s gotten in his smart-ass remark, he lets you take the cup from him. 

So he’s also thinking of Steve’s party. Good to know. 

“That’s fine. I’ve practiced my throws since then. I’m aiming for your crotch next time.” 

If you two were friends, it might be funny. You would have said it in light-hearted cadence, he would have thrown his head back in laughter, and it could be passed off as a simple inside joke between two acquaintances. But you aren’t friends, and you say it in a convincingly serious tone, and he doesn’t even smile.  

“You can get water from the fridge,” he informs you flatly, “Try not to break it.”

“It’s a fridge that dispenses water. I know how it works, asshole. I’ve used one before.” 

“You never know,” he shrugs. You expect him to walk away, to leave you to it, but instead he leans against his counter and watches you. 

And he thought he was the one being babysat over simple phone calls? 

You choose to bite your tongue for once as you fill the cup half full of water, taking your time as you sip some down, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. 

It’s only been a few seconds of silence. Blissful, wonderful, divine silence. But of course, it’s Eddie, and the moment he notices you begin to relax, he has to speak up and ruin it. 

“If I knew all it takes to shut you up is to keep your mouth occupied, sweetheart, I would have done it sooner,” he comments, and it takes practiced patience to slowly lower the cup and swallow what water is in your mouth without bursting with rage. But he has to comment on even that, “Aw, and you swallow? Just full of surprises, aren’t ya?” 

You turn to him, face flooding a brilliant shade of red as your eyes narrow. In the most virulent tone you can muster, you only respond with, “I hate your guts.” 

He grins. It’s not friendly – it’s downright bellicose. “The feeling’s mutual.” 

Yeah. It’s going to be a very long twenty four hours. 

[envy-of-the-apple]

Moon Starves Sun

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Part one: Sun Eats Moon

Part two: Earth Kills Moon

Part three: Moon Starves Sun(Full part)

Synopsis: The aftermath of 'Sun Eats Moon' in Satoru's perspective.

(Warnings: implied sex, forced relationships)

When Satoru's close like this, he can hear your heartbeat. 

It's been a while. Ten years. An entire decade. Everything about this is different, yet so familiar. He feels like he's finally reached the shores, feeling the warm sands underneath his feet. Like he's been given his favorite food after being starved for years. Everything melts. Everything except for you. 

He'd like to stay like this forever, listening to your rabbit heartbeat, feeling your soft skin, but for your sake, he pulls himself off you. Lying on a wooden desk probably isn't that comfortable. 

Your eyes are shut. Your breathing is shallow. You're so pretty like this under the moonlight. Your clothes are barely hanging onto your body. He can see every mark he's left on you. Part of him wants to make more, but he'll let you off the hook for now. He's nice like that. 

"Still with me?" 

Your eyes flutter open. You don't respond, but at least you're not crying anymore. He can work with that. 

"C'mon, pretty girl," he says, voice soft, "let's piece you back together." 

The belt left lines on your wrists. He'll kiss them better later. For now, Satoru collects your clothes and heels from the floor, placing them on the desk. He helps you reclasp your bra, runs his fingers on your arms when you finish buttoning your blouse. It's a quiet affair. Every so often, he'd catch your eyes. You don't let yourself linger for long. Satoru finds that a little cute. 

You say nothing when he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you out of his office. Maybe you're still dazed, still gathering yourself back up, because you don't struggle as much as he predicted. You try to leave his grip when the two of you reach the lobby. He's quick to stop you. 

"Where, do you think you're goin'?" He grips your wrist when you take a step away. 

You look at him, eyes shimmering like water. 

You swallow. "My apartment. I—I need to go back—" 

He clicks his tongue, bringing you back in. 

"We can get your stuff later." He tells you with a grin. "let's just go home, tonight. I'm exhausted." 

You open your mouth. Satoru waits. You say nothing, and he thinks you're starting to get it. 

The moon is a dusky red tonight. Satoru thinks it's an ugly color. 

☾

If Satoru could describe you in one word, it would be: predicatable. 

Normal, boring, a speck in the crowd—none of these are bad things. Just like how much of the universe is nothing, you're an empty void, too. Not everyone can be like him. From the minute he was born, Satoru was destined for greatness—a prodigy, heir to a millionaire conglomerate, the Sun itself. His life isn't written on his forehead for everyone to read. 

You are the exact opposite. Completely unassuming. He practically knows everything about you without even having to ask. 

Like how Satoru can instantly tell you've never been over to a boy's room before. 

You've probably never even been in a relationship before him, either. Even before he managed to corral you into his arms, you were always so annoying about the other things like school and friends. Though, you don't really have much of the latter anymore. His fault, Suguru never fails to remind him. 

He watches as your eyes linger over his shelf: the numerous trophies and awards. You're still standing meekly in the corner, still garbed in your school uniform, clutching your backpack. He has to roll his eyes at how obviously you're trying not to look at him. 

"What're you waitin' for?" He finally asks. You jump, eyes flitting over to find him before you find the floor. He resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

It's not like you two haven't done shit before. You sucked him off twice now, and he's finger fucked you against the bleachers. You should really stop being such a prude. 

"C'mere, pretty girl." 

***full version of pt 3 is on a03 and account restricted. in the process of censoring the fic so it can be posted on tumblr**

[on-a-lucky-tide]

The best suit John Price owns is his No1 uniform and he wore it when he married Nikolai, but sometimes a man's gotta civvie it up. He wore an M&S off the rack number to his sister's wedding a few (read: ten) years back and thought he looked passable. You know, a tidy shave, haircut, cologne. Decent.

Nikolai is fucking mortified when he sees that polyester blend monstrosity hanging on the back of the wardrobe door a few days before Gaz and his fiancé's wedding (she requested no uniforms and you gotta respect a gal at her own nuptials).

Nik drags that working class lad by the fuckin' ear to his first ever tailoring appointment on Savile Row. No husband of his is going to look like a bedraggled secondary school teacher in desperate need of an in-line-with-inflation pay rise.

Price is reminded by every minute of the appointment that he has managed to land a highly wealthy international arms dealer as a life partner, from the way the tailor scampers around at Nikolai's every word to the discussion about breathable fabrics that he only half follows, and he's trying to work out whether that makes him the trophy spouse or not.

Still, he looks the bloody dog's bollocks in the finished suit (and feels it); Nikolai spends the service and reception chewing the inside of his cheek, thinking about stripping it off him.

[brain-usurped-by-bug]

Sugar and Smoke

King Candy takes advantage of the luxuries of his new life, while still longing for the simple pleasures of his old.

Characters: King Candy/Turbo, Sour Bill, Turbo Twins (mentioned)

Tags: Smoking, bubble bath, eating lots of sweets, angst

Completed on September 15th, 2024. 1476 words.

...

The new skin felt strange. It was softer than he was used to, higher definition. The flesh was unscared, the eyes bright, the cheeks jolly. The cadaverous pallor, the sunken eyes, the body he had carried his entire life was gone, phased out, banished into electric aether.

It wasn’t what he had before. He could smile again, but it wasn’t the same smile. He had a car again, but it wasn’t his red rocket. He didn’t have the simple pleasures of his home world; the gentle wave of the pixelated green grass, the earthy scent of the simple dirt loop, the reliable company of the twin racers…

Whatever. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need any of it. It was old software; untextured, primitive. The players had outgrown it, he had outgrown it. It didn’t deserve him. What he deserved was this! A castle, hundreds of subjects hanging off his every word, glitter graphics, high definition, a spotlight, a crown! It was the least fate could repay him for his suffering, rotting unknown in crawl spaces for ten years.

His honey brown eyes bounded over the walls of his new domain, cataloged it, let his mouth water. Pink cookie walls, rainbow sugar glass, sparkling white icing. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a taste of something sweet. 

At the urging of his tongue he dove in, flew through his castle, eager to see every room, sample every flavor. Devour it, all of it, literally and metaphorically. It was his, all of it, all of it! 

He admired the paintings of ice cream landscapes, chewed the corners off the nightstand in the cheesecake guest room, let the swirl of the lollipops hypnotize him, Let chocolate doorknobs melt in his mouth, ran his palms up the twisting licorice banister, broke peppermint decorations off the walls and sucked them to points. 

He was in the middle of licking the icing off a gingerbread headboard when he caught the movement of a stranger behind him. He leapt off the bed and hurried to make himself presentable. The stranger stared back, licking his lips, adjusting the cuffs of his purple suit. The stranger had that look on his face, the look of being caught in the act. 

He approached, cautiously. The stranger approached, cautiously. They lifted their hands, fingers meeting on the mirror’s glass. The strange reflection turned its head, ran it’s peach fingers over the wisps of gray hair above its ears, squished the soft cheek, pulled at the corner of the lip, ran a red tongue over white teeth. It stood back a bit, dusted itself off. The reflection wore a purple tailcoat, gold puff pants, caramel leggings, a lace collar, a gold crown and a shimmering red candy wrapper bow tie. 

Not a single color carried over, no textures, not a sliver of his old face. This was good. It was. No one would ever recognise him. Even he didn't recognise him. He left the room. The stranger moved to follow, then vanished as he shut the door.

…

His room…. His room…. Ooh… he couldn't make a decision on it. It was different. Very different from what he was accustomed to. There was a rug, a clean one. Gingerbread armoires, rock candy lamps, footstools, a fainting couch, a make-up desk, wallpaper, a four poster bed with satin curtains! All white and pink. There was no black plastic, no exposed wires, no oil, no rubber, no concrete, no trophy shelf. Just sugar. 

He wanted to fix it. Bring in the scent of tools and grease, rust, motor oil and gasoline, antifreeze, real dirt, real grime. Was there anything real in this world? 

He reached for the pocket of his jumpsuit. His fingers grazed gold silk. He chuckled nervously and moved a hand to the new pocket within the interior breast of his tailcoat. He removed the contents and laid them on the bed. His last cigarette. A nondescript lighter. The password to the code room written on the corner of a Tapper’s napkin. These three things were the only possessions he had deemed essential enough to take with him. His homemade beer bottle string lights, portable radio, cassette tapes, checkered flag pillow, the steering wheel of his old car, all had to be left in the bowls of GCS. They were too big. Too tied to his old name. They were useless anyway, he didn't need old junk dragging him down. 

He took the cigarette between his teeth, lit the end, and let the smoke ease his rattled code. Tabaco lifted his insides, wafted from his lips, overpowered the smell of sugar. He breathed, out and in, tapped the ash off and kicked it under the bed. His softened gaze fell on the door to the bathroom. His personal, private bathroom. A luxury the greatest racer ever had yet to experience. A smile pinched the corners of his mouth. He slipped his possessions back into his tailcoat and locked himself in the new room.

The bathroom was pink and white, same as the bedroom, but it had more of the later color than the former. The floor was tiled with sugar cubes and the windows were made from frosted sugar glass, but the pink clawfoot tub was remarkably normal looking. Finally. He turned the wheel atop the gold faucet and watched crystal water flow. He frowned. This wasn't some strange candy water was it? He wasn't going to bathe in soda. He parked his cigarette between his first two fingers and leaned over the edge of the tub for a taste. Alright, it was just sparkling water. He could deal with that. He put the cigarette back between his lips, tossed in a bit of soap that promised a perfect bubble bath and stood aside to remove his clothes. 

He found something to recognise once his model was striped to its base. The skin may be different, but he still had the same bones, the same basic shape. The oversized head, short limbs, long feet, pudgy belly. He shifted the cigarette from the right corner of his mouth to the left and stuck a familiar pose; chest lifted, right hand gripping a (nonexistent) trophy, left hand giving the thumbs up.

‘Turbotastic!’

He almost said, catching the phrase before it left his mouth. His arms fell to his sides. The cigarette drooped on his lip. 

Careful, careful. You can’t keep anything from your old life. It’s gone. You're not getting any of it back. You're above it anyway, you've grown beyond. Throw off the old rags. 

He breathed smoke from his nose, shaking his head and muttering nonsense. He tapped cigarette ash into the sink, turned the faucet off and eased into his bubble bath. The soap’s label had been honest, some of the bubbles were nearly the size of his head. It was probably scented like something sweet, but he couldn't smell it through the tobacco. The water was what he expected; warm, fresh. Cleaner than him, almost certainly. 

He lay back. Soaking. Smoking his cigarette down to its filter. He started to hum to himself. 

“Hmm… hm hm hm hm, hm hm hm hm, hm hm h-”

The trumpets of the Turbotime overture played between his ears. The cheer of the plywood crowd. The way his fingers gripped the wheel, the way he’d turn it at the south bend, the dust he’d kick up, the way the twins would curse him when it got in their mouths, the way he’d laugh. They would beat him up after the race sometimes, when he t-boned them or made them spin out, but they always forgave him in time. If they had lived, would they have forgiven him for-

No, no no no stop stop STOP. He had to stop thinking about it, it had to disappear, he had to forget. He needed a distraction. He should have brought his casetes, more cigarettes. He threw a bar of soap at the service button beside the door. He missed, badly. He threw a larger bar and hit it this time. A dreary voice crackled over the intercom. 

“King Candy?”

“Sour Bill! I need music brought to my bathroom!”

A long pause. “Like… a band?” 

“No no! A radio, a walkman, something along those lines!” 

“Mmmm… we have a record player.” 

“That will do. Bring it in.”

“Yes sir. What kind of music do you want?”

He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything, something… something energetic. I need cheering up.” 

“Yes sir. Is there anything else you need?”

He took a final drag, kept the smoke in his body as long as he dared, then let it escape. A ghostly tower, part of his soul fading into the air. He sighed. 

“No, that will be all.”

End

Author's notes: this was my first time writing fanfiction since like, 2019. It was fun to write something short and in a very different setting than what I normally write in. :)

[outsideratheart]

On a Night Like Tonight (Alex Scott x reader)

Retirement. A word that had been playing on your mind for a the past 12 months. After Australia, Team GB went on to win gold in the Olympics and it left only one trophy missing from your cabinet. The World Cup.

2027, Brazil. It was the day that you gave the fans the thing you promised 4 years ago. You lead your team to their first World Cup star and did so by beating the United States on penalties.

Unlike last year Alex was pitch side with Fara eagerly waiting for you to come over and when you did she welcomed you like the champion you now were or at least she gave you the PG version given you were live on TV.

You were overcome with emotion as Alex held you in her arms. To the outside world the tears you were clearly shedding were that of happiness but between you and Alex you knew they were sad tears too.

The celebration awaiting you back in England was unlike anything you could have imagined. It put the euros one to shame. The whole country showed up to celebrate you and you made sure to savour every moment.

Each player had their turn on the microphone and the fans loved it but when it was your turn to speak the fans took one look at your face and went silent. You could hear a pin drop in Trafalgar Square.

“You all know I hate being a bench warmer and I don’t want to be one of those players the play long after their time is up. It has been my greatest honour being your captain for over ten years but it is time that I pass on the torch and hang the boots up”

It was announced the following day that England’s match against Germany at Wembley in one month’s time would be you final game in an England shirt. The match sold out in minutes and it set the perfect scene for your send off.

The days leading up to it was hectic, you barely had a second to yourself and most of all it was extremely overwhelming. You questioned if you had made the right decision. You were still playing world class football, why stop now? Your question was answered one night at St George’s Park. It was the night before your final game and the entire team could tell you were having an hard time. It’s the reason Sarina allowed Alex to stay in your room even though it was against the rules.

“I don’t think I can do it”

Alex looked up from where she was laying on your chest.

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

“Football is all I’ve ever known Al, I’m not sure I can give it up”

“You’re not retiring completely. In a week’s time you will be back at Cobham with Chelsea”

“I’m going to be home a lot more”

“You make it sound like a bad thing. Remember the reason that made you consider retiring in the first place?”

It was a night you remember well. You and Alex spent over an hour talking about the future and what it could look like. You got so caught up in the hypotheticals that reality became disappointing. It made you want to skip the next few years so that you could start the next chapter of your life, the one where being captain was no longer the highest responsibility you had.

You feel asleep that night dreaming of the future and when you woke up you were ready to say goodbye to the team that you loved so much.

It was a bitter sweet feeling as the final whistle was blown. The entire England team, both the players on the bench and on the pitch, came running to you. It that moment you felt loved and appreciated. It was a moment that you would remember for the rest of your life. As you take a lap around the field you try to take in as much as you can.

“You know you don’t have to retire” Leah appears by your side.

“It’s my time. I have loved playing for this team and every time I wear this badge it is a great honour but this is my final curtain call Leah, my swan song” You pull the blonde into your side and kiss the side of her head.

“Don’t be getting soft. Save that for Alex because we need to go do media” Truth is Leah didn’t want you to leave, she had told you this much but your mind was yet.

“I know but before that there’s something I need to do”

You pull Leah towards the middle of the pitch, away from the shouting fans, the centre circle becoming your own little bubble.

“I have been captain of this team for almost ten years. I have lead them to the highest highs and the lowest lows. It takes a lot from you when you wear this band but it can also reward in the best possible way. I have spoken with Sarina about who I want to be my successor and that person is you Leah”

With a heavy heart you take the armband off and pull it up Leah’s arm. You were passing the torch, this was a changing of the guard and you were doing it for the whole to see.

By the time you reach Alex and the BBC team you are on the very line fine between keeping it together and breaking completely.

The world now knew about the two of you but with a camera pointed straight at you, you felt the need to stay professional but Alex soon changed that.

“We’re not rolling. It’s playing her career highlights” one of the camera men tells Alex.

“Come here” The BBC presenter pulls you into her arms and for a brief moment you allow yourself to feel, feel everything that you have been bottling up since you woke up.

“It’s over. I’ve played my last game as a lioness” you could feel tears falling down your face and you were aware that there were multiple people watching the interaction but no longer had to strength to bottle up your emotions.

The same man who told you that the cameras were rolling informed you that they would be live in 5, then proceeded to count down using his fingers.

As a way of regaining control of your emotions and in attempt of staying together you move away from Alex and closer to Jill and Fara. As if knowing that you still weren’t ready to answer the unavoidable questions Leah takes charge of the interview and the presenters follow her lead. It is when she is asked a question only you can answer do you need to get involved.

“Jill asked what’s next for you?” Leah nudges you.

“I go back to Chelsea. As for the next international break, well I have no idea. Maybe go on holiday, what do you say Al, fancy the Maldives?”

“Sure, why not. Fara can cover for me”

“Seriously though Y/N. What’s next? When asked about retiring you said that you have given over 15 years to your country and that it’s time to prioritise your personal life. I think I remember you saying it’s what our dear Alex over here deserves”

Leah switches places with you when Alex is mentioned. Sensing that being next to your person may bring you more peace and encourage you to answer the question without making jokes.

“If the song is right then I believe I hear wedding bells” Jills says.

You wonder what song she is referring to and upon turning to Alex you see that she is also at loss.

“You know the song. The one about kissing in a tree. I won’t sing it seen as though we are live on air and I am a professional”

With Jill’s clue you know exactly the song she is talking about although you think you may have been in high school when you last heard it.

“Since when are you a professional?” You scoff. You refused to bite.

“I get what you’re saying. I believe it says first comes love”

“Check” Alex plays along.

Before Leah continues you turn to Alex. Your hand sat on the small of her back and unknowingly to the women around, you tap you ring finger which was missing a very important piece of jewellery. Alex leans into you with her head on your shoulder and tells you to go for it.

“Then comes marriage-“

“Check” you were proud to finally announce that you had in fact married Alex but up until this moment it was only your immediate families that knew.

The faces of your friends were priceless. In that moment you wish you had a camera to take a photo but then you remember you are on live TV. Oh god, you were live on the BBC. Not only had you told your friends about your nuptials, you had told the entire world.

“Shit”

“Y/N” Alex playfully slaps your arm “We are live”

“I am now aware of this Al”

“I would like to apologise for the language made by Y/N Y/L/N”

“Don’t you mean Y/N Scott?” Jill asks.

“No she does not” you say rather defensively “Alex took my name, she is Alex Y/L/N”

“How about we discuss the details of our marriage when we are not live on TV.” Alex tries to get the interview back on track which you are happy to do.

You then proceed to talk all things football. Jill recalls your first training session as a lioness, Fara tells her favourite Y/N Y/L/N stories, Leah brings you to tears once again when she tells you about how you showed her what is possible and Alex grins ear to ear when she explains all the ways that you have changed the game and how a lot of people have you to thank for how far the game has come.

Almost an hour later you are in one of the hospitality suites at Wembley. The news of you and Alex had spread to rest of the team and the party that was originally planned for your retirement has now turned into a retirement / wedding party.

It doesn’t take much for you to get overwhelmed, how could you not. You escape to one of the boxes near the suite, the cold air grounds you and the silence is welcoming. Looking out at the pitch you are filled with nostalgia as memories flood your mind, it’s as if a highlight reel is playing.

“People are asking where you are?”

You feel your body relax upon hearing your wife’s voice. It is one of the things you love most about her.

“You found me. Any chance I can persuade you to stay here with me for a moment?”

“I can think of a few things”

“Can one of them be a hug? I could really use one”

Alex’s eyebrows furrow. You were a cuddler, Alex learned this very early on in your relationship but there is something about you asking now and the way you did it. You sound so vulnerable.

Your wife doesn’t say anything, instead she opens her arms and you melt into her hold.

“You know a lot of people are in there waiting to celebrate you, with you. Yet you are out here alone or at least you were until I found you”

“I want to celebrate with you though and everyone keeps stopping me from doing that. They want Y/N the England captain or I guess now it’s former captain but I just want to be —“

“Y/N, my wife”

Her wife. It sounds cliche like something that would be said in a movie or a line in a book but you loved hearing her say that and even now as you both wear your rings, you couldn’t believe that she had agreed to marry you.

“Can we go home?”

Alex knew that you liked to party and it didn’t take much to persuade to celebrate something no matter how small. It wasn’t like you to leave early and Alex knew that you might be feeling more than you are letting on if you want to leave a party that was honouring your international career.

“I didn’t tell you this but Ella and Alessia have wrote a speech. They read it to me and you’ll want to hear it. If after that you still want to go home then we will, I promise”

You stayed for the speech and boy are you glad you did. It was one of the most heartfelt yet hilarious speeches you have heard. You did end up going home but not till hours later. After hearing your plea, Alex stayed by your side the entire night and her presence allowed you to relax and have fun. A chapter of the book you called life was over and the chapters that followed would go on to be some of your favourite because each and every one of them included you wife Alex Scott.

[reidsaurora]

Can you do height difference + "one more kiss? please?" with Hotch? Pretty pretty please with Mick Mars on top? <3 - V

hmmm i wonder who this could be 🤔😉

"Coffee + Kisses" ~ A. Hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader

summary: "mornings were made for coffee and kisses. at least, that was aaron's philosophy."

word count: 740

warnings: a single swear word, mentions of food, that's literally it

genre: tooth-rotting fluff, quite literally with all the sugar references in this blurb

extra notes: the aaron icon in the collage is by @ssa-sapphic (edited to fit theme better!) and the dividers below are by @firefly-graphics

masterlist | kissing prompts | ask box

mornings were made for coffee and kisses. at least, that was aaron's philosophy.

most people looked at the stoic figure that was aaron hotchner and assumed he was brash and hubristic, emotions on a completely different plane of existence from his physical form. but you? his trophy wife? no, you got to see every hidden layer underneath his apathetic walls, your own little personal slice of heaven.

so while most people assumed aaron's mornings were spent with his nose buried in the newspaper, black coffee in hand, they couldn't be further from the truth. this man was all homemade iced lattes, sugary cereals, and good morning kisses.

that last one may or may not be how you ended up here, nearly ten minutes late for work, coat and purse still hanging up by the door, one shoe on and the other nowhere to be seen.

"i have to get up," you'd told him. "unlike you, i unfortunately have to work on saturdays."

but when he gave you that look, that sweet pout that made even a grown man look innocent, you couldn't say no. one kiss turned into two turned into three, kisses turned into five minutes of snuggles, and now you were here, rushing around the house and tracking down your missing heel like a modern day cinderella.

"aaron, have you seen-"

as if on cue, the man—still sporting his pajamas and bedhead, his chin dark with a five-o'clock shadow—rounded the corner, missing heel in hand. "sammy apparently needed a snack," he chuckled, bending down and putting the shoe on for you. he stood back up to full height, somehow still towering over you, even with your extra three inches of artificial height.

"sammy needs a stern talking to for stealing his mama's shoes," you kidded, tossing your arms over his shoulders. even you wondered how aaron, the seemingly heartless man that he was, fell in love with the tiny ball of fluff that had apparently stolen your shoe.

"i'll definitely be in contact with him," he joked, pulling you up for a soft kiss. he tasted like cinnamon toast crunch, a strange juxtaposition from the manly smell of his deodorant, but not an unpleasant one. suddenly, you worried about what your own breath tasted like, making a mental note to eat a couple tic-tacs on the way to work just in case.

you forced yourself to pull away, being met with a disapproving pout from the man above you. to anyone else, his height might've made him seem intimidating, but you knew aaron was nothing but a gentle giant, akin to a teddy bear in human form. "i have to go," you reminded him, still not having unlinked your arms from around him.

"just one more kiss?" he said, his bottom lip jutting out like a child in a toy store. "please?"

and who were you to deny him, the absolute love of your life, just one more kiss? despite the logical part of your brain telling you not to give in, the absolutely smitten part of your brain won, practically telling the other part to go to hell.

you leaned up once again, your lips locking with his for one last, sweet, good morning kiss. his palms settled on your hips, holding you as close as possible, a gentle gesture in hopes of changing your mind about going to work that day. and little did he know, you were close, oh so close, to calling in sick. to making up a fake family emergency. to just saying, "sorry, i simply don't feel like it."

but in the end, you knew it was for the best to suck it up and go to work anyway. after all, the time spent apart only made the moments together that much more special, that much more worth it. "i have to go, love."

he gave you one last peck, releasing his hold from your hips. "fine, i'll just be here," he said, falling back on the couch dramatically, "longing for you, my dear."

you giggled at the sight of this grown man acting like a character in a shakespeare play. "you're so dramatic," you commented, heading for the door.

not having moved from where he lay after his performance, he shouted, "love you too!"

"love you more!" you called back, closing the door behind you swiftly. you shook your head, giggling. what were you going to do with him?

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